In the Federation, union funds mainly come from two sources.
One is social donations—like dock capitalists who want to maintain a close relationship with the union. The secret to keeping good relations is donations.
But this isn’t absolute; some companies feel no need to donate because they already provide jobs and believe they’ve done their part for society.
Not every company donates monthly. On average, dock capitalists donate about $1,800 to $2,000 per month annually.
The second income source is union dues from workers. Since dock workers earn relatively low wages, union dues are 2% of the base monthly wage.
For example, a ship cleaner earning $33 per month pays about 66 cents in dues.
Dues vary by industry and state; some allow more, some impose strict limits.
Generally, normal industries charge 2–3%, while higher-paid industries like automotive might charge 3–5%.
Golden Port City has two large ports: the main port where the union is based and a newer port nearby.
Together, they have 11 docks, with about 7,000 registered workers.
Lance holds over 3,000 work cards, plus others who got cards by other means, but these workers aren’t counted as union members since most card owners aren’t dock workers.
Even those who rent out their cards don’t pay dues anymore.
At 7,000 workers paying 66 cents monthly, the union’s income is about $5,000—a stable sum.
Sounds decent, but the union has multiple offices and departments, with a core team of 70+ people—and sometimes hires more temporarily.
Ordinary staff earn $42 per month, already equal to Golden Port’s per capita income.
Above them are supervisors, deputy supervisors, and several department heads, plus a president and three vice presidents, whose salaries total over $4,000.
This means after payroll, only about $3,000 remains each month.
This doesn’t include daily expenses, work costs, or worker club expenses, leaving a monthly surplus around $1,000.
If fewer worker activities or club days happen, the surplus grows; otherwise, it shrinks.
The union knows its income is insufficient due to low dues and undocumented immigrants.
The docks now employ about 12,000 workers, over 5,000 of whom are non-union or undocumented—most of these are undocumented.
If they paid dues, the union would gain $3,000 more monthly. Raising dues from 2% to 3% could add another $5,000 monthly.
But that’s very difficult.
President Scott glanced at the accountant. She was a slightly plump 36-year-old married woman.
“How much is left in the account?”
“Under $3,000.”
Scott frowned. “So little?”
He recalled, “Wasn’t there over $20,000 in the first-half summary?”
“Where did it go?”
The accountant’s tone was stiff—she felt questioned.
“Don’t forget the two-month protests. Many were injured, and with work stoppages, lost income. We spent the money helping them.”
“If you want, I can bring the ledger. But you’ll need two others to help me carry it!”
Scott tapped his forehead. “Sorry, I forgot.”
The anti-immigrant protests lasted about twenty days, but the chaos stretched over two months.
The docks were in turmoil; many injured workers weren’t compensated properly as capitalists refused to acknowledge workplace injury schemes.
Social insurance didn’t cover accidental injuries, so injured workers turned to the union for help.
Though expenses were small, they added up.
Thankfully, no major casualties occurred, but union funds were drained fast.
Keeping $2,000–$3,000 for emergencies was their best effort.
Only then did they understand why insurance managers refused coverage.
Some workers faked injuries, breaking fingers to get a $5 payout, then bandaging themselves and moving on. There were many like this.
Scott rubbed his temples. “What if the capitalists paid?”
He looked to Vaughn, the vice president who liaised with capitalists.
Vaughn shook his head. “With over 7,000 workers spread across many companies, we can’t persuade them.”
“It’d take at least $10,000. Do you think they’d pay?”
Scott’s head ached. “It’s all that damn… Lance’s fault.”
“Have you confronted him about the complaints?”
Vaughn nodded. “I was going to discuss it with you separately.”
Scott looked at him, then dropped the subject.
“We’ll talk later.” Turning to others, he said, “Think about solutions, or contact the dock capitalists.”
“See if they’d chip in.”
“After workers got uniforms, they look better.”
Some managers smiled faintly then sobered.
Looking better won’t make capitalists pay.
Scott seemed to realize this, waving irritably. “Meeting adjourned. Vaughn, come to my office.”
Once inside, Vaughn mentioned the $20.
Scott was surprised. “Given by Lance?”
Vaughn rolled his eyes. “I thought I told you.”
Scott rested on the chair armrests. “That’s tricky. I heard he also donated $300.”
Vaughn nodded. “That’s kept in a separate account.”
Lance said it was for those in need—not the union—so it’s not part of union funds.
No one but the leadership and a few vice presidents knew about this $300 separate fund, not even the accountant.
With this money plus the $20 nutrition subsidy, Scott found it hard to stay impartial regarding Lance and his company.
“Resolved the complaints?”
Vaughn nodded. “Yes.”
Scott patted the armrest. “If it can’t be pushed further, forget it.”
He felt sorry. City unions were the lowest tier. Above them were “State Dock Workers Union,” “Federal Dock Workers Union,” and “International Dock Workers Union.”
The international union was mostly symbolic with few supportive countries.
But the Federal Dock Workers Union had real power—it controlled dock work across the Federation.
If Scott got upper-level approval, he could call a major strike in Golden Port City.
The Federal Dock Workers Union president could organize a nationwide dock workers’ strike.
Scott was just over fifty and wanted to climb higher.
Many wanted the same—there were many port cities in the Federation—but he had an edge because this was Golden Port City.
Still, to succeed, he needed real influence.
If this matter went well, it might be an opportunity. But so far, no clue.
He knew capitalists wouldn’t fund new uniforms.
There was no law supporting the union forcing capitalists to pay.
He could only try to persuade—not coerce.
He wouldn’t risk a strike over this unless he wanted to be investigated.
Strikes were powerful weapons but had to be timed carefully. Otherwise, they were criminal.
While Scott contemplated his rise, Vaughn felt he’d done well by Lance’s donations.
Meanwhile, dock workers talked about the new uniforms.
“Did you hear about it?” one, tightening bolts, asked.
A younger man nodded. “Yeah, the agency that issues work cards is giving them, not the company or dock.”
“Agency? Is the owner a philanthropist?”
“Let’s ask if we can join!”
Free uniforms plus gloves would cost about $1.50 retail, but now given free.
They heard if they wore them out, they could trade them for new ones.
Why do some heavy laborers work nearly naked?
Not a joke—many industrial workers wore just shorts or sometimes worked bare-bottomed.
One reason is workshops were hot with steam and heat, quickly soaking clothes with sweat.
and another reason is frequent wear-and-tear. Especially on the docks or chemical-exposed areas, workers often replaced clothes every two to three months.
For the rich, a dollar was nothing—not even enough for a bar drink.
For the working class, saving a dollar mattered.
Interestingly, Federation workers would spend 40 cents on a drink but balk at buying even used clothes.
Their spending habits were strange.
Just then, a worker in uniform returning from the restroom was startled by a “Hey!”
He looked around and saw the group.
He wanted to leave. Dock locals often bullied them—pushing, punching, humiliating, even forcing them to crawl like dogs.
Never overestimate people’s morals. Never underestimate their cruelty.
The worker, named Jamie, hesitated. His fingertips pressed to his chest. “Me?”
The strong worker nodded. “Yeah, you. What’s your name?”
“Jamie.” He stood stiff, dread rising. He cursed himself for choosing that restroom instead of the shore.
He swore never to do that again.
“Hope I don’t get screwed this time!”
Johnny, the strong one, beckoned. “Hey Jamie, come here. Got something to ask.”
His crew was bulky and carried wrenches.
Jamie, undocumented and vulnerable, didn’t dare resist. He walked over with his head down.
Johnny touched Jamie’s uniform, surprised. “Good quality—like canvas, like denim. Should be tough.”
Others joined, feeling the fabric.
Maybe not comfy, but practical.
Toughness meant abrasion and corrosion resistance—and fewer injuries.
On the docks, injuries were common—being hit, scraped, or pulled—often causing bleeding wounds.
Such uniforms clearly offered more protection.
They gawked, rummaging pockets, stealing three five-cent coins.
Jamie looked saddened.
He earned just $16 a month—barely enough to live—and now robbed.
Though small money, it was his lunch and dinner.
Today, he might starve.
“Can I go?” he sighed, giving in.
As an undocumented immigrant, calling police meant more trouble.
His loss would be greater than theirs.
And calling police was pointless—their fuel for responding probably cost more than 15 cents.
Johnny cursed, pocketed the coins, then said something unbelievable.
“Take off your clothes.”
Jamie looked confused. “Sorry…”
“I said, take off your clothes.”
Jamie shook his head. “Johnny, this is…”
A punch smashed into his face, sending him staggering and falling.
Johnny’s crew laughed like school bullies.
“This is the third and last time. Don’t make me have everyone watch you run around the dock naked.”
“Now take off your clothes.” His face was grim, menacing.
Jamie acted deaf until someone approached and tried to undo his buttons.
He flailed, “I’ll fight you!”
The big men surrounded him, kicking until he couldn’t resist.
Then they stripped him, happily walking away.
Despite many kicks, the uniform was intact—good quality indeed.
Three or four minutes later, Jamie’s friends, worried he hadn’t returned, came to find him.
By a mooring post, they found Jamie wiping tears.
“Jamie, what happened?”
The concern broke him. Years of unfairness, discrimination, injury, and humiliation exploded.
He cried loudly, recounting everything.
His friends clenched fists, burning with anger.
But soon one grew resigned.
Getting bullied by local dockworkers was common.
It always had been.
Blocked and forced to empty pockets or humiliated.
It had become routine.
They helped Jamie, bruised and wearing only underwear, back to their core area.
Many came over, concerned, then grew angry or helpless.
No one talked revenge or solutions. Most thought, “Not worth it.”
Not the first time. Why bother?
But some refused to accept that.
“This can’t just end like this!” someone said through gritted teeth.
(End of chapter)