Improvised(?) Overtime Negotiation
About fifteen minutes later.
"So,"
the Touch Officer, barely calmed down, raised a hand while still gasping for breath.
"To summarize: a pilgrimage is coming from the South, and we're the ones being assigned to handle it. Is that right?"
"Correct."
"And it's at least a thousand strong, minimum."
"Yes."
"And included in that group is a Saint, and we're responsible for Her Eminence as well — but nobody knows when they're arriving. Is that it?"
"That's it."
"So they could show up tomorrow, or a week from now, and we have to prepare for it regardless?"
"You summarize beautifully, Touch Officer. Yes, that's correct."
Thank you for tidying up everything I said so neatly. Truly, my pleasure.
The Touch Officer lowered her hand calmly, then swept her gaze around the room with an expression wound tighter than a drum.
The Smell Officer, the Taste Officer, and the Hearing Officer met her eyes and nodded meaningfully.
Having secured the approval of the three, she posed a question of the utmost gravity.
"Then when do we get off work?"
The answer came instantly.
"You don't."
"Until when?"
"Until the pilgrimage arrives at the border."
"When is that?"
"No idea."
"So once they show up, we can go home?"
"No. Once every last one of them has cleared immigration."
I delivered the very same speech I'd given fifteen minutes ago to these little rebels.
"You may leave once the inspection of the entire pilgrimage — and the Saint — is complete. This is the top priority. Until then, you are all to remain on standby here."
In other words: indefinite overtime.
"Then... when does this emergency staffing begin?"
"Right now."
As of this moment, no one leaves this room.
I can't go, and neither can you.
Round two, begin.
"Why do we have to do this?! That's the Foreign Ministry's job — those insufferable bastards'!"
"What kind of dog-gone — no, what kind of nonsense is that?!"
"Central Officer, guarantee our right to go home! We demand a workplace free of forced overtime!"
"Send us home! Home, home, home, HOME!"
The Smell Officer began slamming his fists on the desk, and the Taste Officer flat-out lay down on the floor to throw a proper tantrum.
And the Hearing Officer — when did she even make a picket sign? Down With the Tyrannical Employer? She'd flipped over the Zero-Accident board and written it on the back.
Oh, so they can show this kind of solidarity when they feel like it. Wonderful.
"W-wait, everyone, calm down and hear this officer out! In exchange, the Foreign Ministry will provide commensurate compensa—"
"Central Officer, sir, I haven't seen my mommy in three whole days! I spent the whole weekend reading nothing but documents, waaaah! I wanna see my mommy!"
I miss my mom too, Taste Officer. You were going through retraining, remember? I couldn't go home either.
"I'm reporting this to the Foreign Ministry! I'll report that my boss is so obsessed with promotions he won't let us go home! This is an abuse of power! Species discrimination!"
Weren't you the one abusing authority with your early clock-outs? And putting that aside — 'you'? Is this wolf pup out of his mind?
At last, my patience snapped. I slammed my hand against the blackboard beside me and roared.
"ARGH, QUIET! All of you, shut your mouths! This officer wants to go home too! But you lot — no, you all — are the ones who shattered the Zero-Accident record! That's why I couldn't refuse the assignment!"
"We never did! Where's your proof? This is presumption of guilt!"
"Hear, hear! Hear, hear!"
Unbelievable. The sheer audacity of these brats.
Proof? Oh, I've got proof all right.
Immediately, seething, I pointed a finger at each of them in turn.
"Taste Officer — threatening to murder a fire spirit!"
"Urk."
"Touch Officer and Hearing Officer — a drunken scandal of public indecency!"
"Kgh."
"Smell Officer — unauthorized early departure!"
"Ngh."
"Every single one of these was YOUR doing! Want to get beheaded? Want to kiss your performance bonuses goodbye?!"
Now that I've said it, the rage is boiling over. Damn you all.
I want to go home too. But the higher-ups are the ones breathing down my neck.
"This officer has not gone home in four days running. And the official directive came down from above. We can't even refuse it! The Saint and the pilgrimage have already departed — what am I supposed to do, tell them to turn around?"
"Well, no, that's..."
"Then pipe down!"
"Mrrrgh..."
Confronted with their own indisputable blunders, the quartet's momentum deflated at once, their voices shriveling into grumbles.
Watching them wilt, I barely managed to smother my anger and continued in a low voice.
"We will be eating and sleeping here together for the time being. It won't be comfortable, but we enter emergency staffing until the pilgrimage arrives. No one goes home. Do I make myself clear?"
"Going hooome..."
Drooping tails, drooping ears, drooping tentacles, drooping shoulders. The picture of utter misery.
Anyone walking in would think I was some heartless tyrant browbeating innocent children.
"Haaah. Put on a brave face, at least. In return for your hardship, the Minister has promised compensation."
The four heads lifted again.
"Yes? What compensation?"
"A hundred days added to the Zero-Accident record's restoration. And if the pilgrimage passes through the northern border without a single incident, another hundred days on top. A total of 297 accident-free days."
The room erupted into murmurs at the staggering offer.
"T-two hundred ninety-seven? Then the performance bonus would be..."
"Three times our salary, that's what. Hey, Touch Officer — what was our longest Zero-Accident streak so far?"
"128 days. And that was back when the Sight Officer was still here."
Faith, wavering.
I could see their ironclad resolve to go home growing cloudy before my eyes.
Complete the mission, hold out just three more days, and the record hits 300. Triple-salary bonus.
No one alive would turn that down. Just look at those eyes, already knee-deep in mental arithmetic.
It was exactly the same as with the fire spirit.
These people wear everything on their faces.
"But still... I really do want to go home, though."
"Eating and sleeping at our own workplace. If that's not torture, what is?"
"A bonus that size might actually be worth toughing it out...?"
But they hadn't fully taken the bait yet.
Not a shred of patriotism, sense of duty, or even raw ambition among the lot of them.
What would it take to make these men throw themselves blindly into this mission?
An operation of this scale demands genuine passion and dedication. And passion cannot be wrung out by force.
It has to be given freely.
Freely, to the point of burning their whole selves for it.
And then — a flash of inspiration lit up inside my head.
Merchant Secret Technique of the Kell family, passed down through generations: One Plus One.
Give one, and then give more.
The Minister was already offering a generous package — so I would simply stack one more on top.
"Then how about this. On top of the Zero-Accident bonus, this officer will grant each of you five days of leave at my personal discretion. A proper, luxurious rest."
"O-OOOOOH!!"
The Five Senses Officers' eyes sparkled. Every face had already caved completely.
But I couldn't stop here.
A skilled negotiator drives the wedge home while the iron is hot.
"Don't be startled yet. There's more."
"M-more?!"
The four of them gulped, faces brimming with expectation.
And to them, I added in my gravest, most theatrical voice:
"The leave will be paid."
When you're giving things away, give them properly.
The first to bolt from the conference room was the Smell Officer.
"Attendant!! Go to the market and buy pillows and blankets!!! The thick, fluffy kind!!!"
Who says he's not a werewolf? The building shook with that bellowing roar.
"Hold on, wait! This officer goes first!"
"Mommy! I'm sending a letter to Mommy! Telling her I won't be home for a while!"
The Touch Officer and Taste Officer scrambled over each other in a noisy rush out the door behind him.
The only one who hadn't bolted — the only one left in the room — was the Hearing Officer.
"Ha. Still children, all of them. Falling for something like this."
"Hearing Officer. You don't seem very pleased."
"Pleased about what?"
She gave a hollow laugh and turned to look at me.
"You know as well as I do, Central Officer. For an elf, compensation measured in time means nothing. Have you got anything else to offer?"
"Oh-ho. Even though it's a paid holiday, you say?"
"I'd just be working a few more days. Hardly worth the fuss."
She folded her arms with finality, radiating an air of I am not so easily bought.
Fair enough. You never were as attached to money as the others.
And being an elf, your sense of time runs incomparably slower than everyone else's to begin with.
Ah, right — I'd forgotten. The Hearing Officer is a woman who finds her only pleasure in the drink that waits for her after work.
But I hadn't prepared just one card.
"Then it seems this officer owes you a separate reward."
Composing myself with deliberate calm, I reached under the desk and pulled out one very large bottle of liquor I had hidden there.
"A limited-edition Northern Tundra '24 — Frost Dragon's Wine. A gift from my father, some time ago. It's yours."
For the first time since she'd entered the service, the Hearing Officer let out a shrill scream.
"F-Frost Dragon's Wine?! The one they release once every twelve years — a single bottle only?!"
Merchant Secret Technique: Precision Targeting.
Present, with pinpoint accuracy, the very thing your counterpart desires.
"And these fine artisan glass goblets here are a bonus."
And there it was — Merchant Secret Technique, One Plus One, round two.
The Hearing Officer blasted out the door, half-shattering it on the way, and bellowed:
"ATTENDANT!!! Go buy snacks — no, drinking snacks, and make it snappy!!!"
Simple creatures, every one of them.
When the dust settled, the only souls left in the conference room were me and my direct attendant.
"...Sometimes you frighten me, sir."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
And so the revolt of the Five Senses Officers came to an end.
Right, then. Now that the word "going home" has been erased from my subordinates' minds — what comes next?
Assessing the current state of my department came first.
I turned to my attendant.
"Come to think of it — a thousand, minimum. Realistically two thousand will show up. How many staff do we have in total at the Central Immigration Office?"
"Including the lowest-ranked inspectors and attendants, and counting yourself and the Five Senses Officers — ninety-six in total, sir."
Ninety-six.
My brow furrowed before I could stop it.
"That's laughably short."
Few. Far, far too few.
The immigration officers of the Southern Border were me and the Five Senses, full stop. Everyone else was an inspector working beneath us.
If our only job were the inspections themselves, ninety-six would be plenty. But our work had never been just inspections.
Anyone who has stood at a border with their own eyes knows.
How endlessly the people and cargo queue up, day and night, to cross that long, unbroken line.
Keeping order along that vast queue — making sure no one brawls, making sure nothing escalates into a security incident — falls to us as well.
And that's not all. Cargo must be kept from mingling, outsiders trying to cut in line shooed away, illegal border-crossers intercepted.
In other words: queue management for two thousand, plus crime prevention, plus cargo inspection, plus smuggling interdiction, plus the immigration inspections themselves — all at once.
"I don't see how we manage on our own numbers alone..."
"You must account for the regular traffic as well, Central Officer, not only the pilgrimage."
Ah, of course. The pilgrimage isn't coming to an empty border. Ordinary travelers will keep flowing through as usual. That makes it even worse.
Ninety-six people handling all of it was impossible. We might be grinding at it three days and nights straight, at minimum.
And if one thing went wrong and the people in line started fighting among themselves... how would we ever pull them apart?
We desperately needed cooperating personnel.
I need more people. Fifty more, at the very least.
Reading my expression, my attendant offered a suggestion.
"Shall we recruit outside labor? With a reasonable reward on offer, they'd gather in no time."
"No. That won't do. Far too unreliable."
However urgent the situation, we could not simply broadcast a request for outside help.
This is the kingdom's border. A scandal — someone taking bribes and quietly waving travelers through — is the one thing that must never happen.
I still haven't forgotten the river of blood that flowed four years ago over almost exactly that.
If that happens even one more time, it's over. The Zero-Accident record dies for good.
I need people I can trust — people in state service.
Think. A department that works for the state and would never so much as waver at a bribe. Where would that be?
"The Foreign Ministry and Intelligence Department have both had staff seconded to the eastern and northern borders, so they're out. And there's no telling how long it would take examiners from the other borders to get here."
"What about the Ministry of Home Affairs? If they came from the Royal Castle, it would take about three days."
"Not a bad option, but..."
A sound idea. But I had no personal ties with anyone in Home Affairs, and I couldn't exactly demand favors out of nowhere.
Besides, the matter fell outside their jurisdiction — accountability would turn into a tangled mess.
And then, a name I'd briefly forgotten surfaced in my mind.
"The Border Guard."
Stationed at the border just like us — but a unit that moved only when violence or criminal acts broke out.
They dwell in the border-margrave's territory alongside us, yet hold independent duties and guaranteed rights, entrusted with the sacred state function of guarding the frontier. Of course. They were right here.
Every condition fit perfectly.
Not outsiders, too stolid to be swayed by bribes, and blessed with both blind loyalty to the kingdom and the raw strength that comes with a three-meter frame.
The only problem was their utter lack of flexibility. A very, very severe lack.
My attendant spoke up, worried.
"Will that be all right, sir? If the Border Guard intervenes, the pilgrims will surely take it as a show of force."
An entirely plausible concern.
Three-meter golems standing at attention with clubs in hand would make anyone feel the pressure.
From a certain angle, it could look like an outright threat.
But that much we could cover from our side somehow. At the very least, they'd listen to our administrative office.
Now was not the time to be picking apart fine details.
I made up my mind and spoke.
"Send a transmission to the Border Guard."
With a face that plainly said I'd rather not, my attendant breathed mana into the crystal orb — and instantly, a square-jawed face filled its surface, large as a barn door.
[State your business.]
"A pleasure, Border Guard Commander. This is the Southern Border Immigration Office—"
[State your business. Submit in writing.]
This one never changes.
"...Might I have some paper and a pen?"
I scrawled out a terse summary of the situation and our request for cooperation, held it up — and back came a reply every bit as rigid as that stone exterior.
[Request confirmed. Cooperation granted. Transmission ended.]
Who says he's not a stone golem? Terse doesn't even begin to cover it.
Barely four seconds, and the crystal orb went dark.
Just like that. Done.
"Good. One major worry off the plate. Let's focus on the inspections, then."
Yes — if anyone can keep order flawlessly, it's them. That alone will lighten our load considerably.
As for the rest, I'd let my head cool and think it through.
"Central Officer, sir. There is something you should know."
"Go ahead."
To me — finally slumping back into my chair and letting the tension drain away — my attendant handed over a single document.
It was a brief transcript of the Saint's personal details the Minister had shown us earlier.
"My wife is a follower of the Holy Church, and she's told me this more than once: Saint Erzena is... how should I put it — a woman of a personality unlike any Saint who has ever existed before her."
"Oh? In what way?"
"They say she is... tremendously intense, sir."
Tremendously intense. I had a fair idea what that meant.
Ah, the storm-and-stress of youth, is that it.
Chosen of God or not, she was, in the end, a woman who had only just come of age.
No dragon alive could hold back adolescence — and of course she'd hit it right on schedule.
What happens when a girl of barely seventeen is venerated as a living Saint?
Obvious. Drunk on her own divine authority, she grows up a spoiled, graceless little tyrant.
And dangerously susceptible to vanity and flattery.
If anything, a woman like that would make the work far easier.
A few well-placed nods, a little shameless flattery, and she'd settle down on her own.
Send up some jewels and fine crafts as gifts, and it would wrap up tidy and clean.
"Worry not. I'll have my family's trading company send over a few items, and it'll sort itself out. In the meantime, let's work out how to distribute the pilgrims once they arrive."
However strange she might be — how strange could she possibly be?