War by Another Name #3: Time to Clean House First
I guess I need to start with some internal housekeeping. The stench of Britain was wafting from every corner of the house more than I'd expected. This bastard had left his traces all over the place behind my back as the homeowner. I'd anticipated something like this, but it was worse than I thought. In a way, though, it was inevitable.
Britain had been performing surgery to excise the Supreme Leader's demons—his dark side, the "Steel Secretary-General" lurking in his mind—for a long time now. If the Secretary-General of the Korean Empire, who wanted to cut the "British Empire" out of Britain itself, heard that, he'd probably clap in delight from his prison cell, hearts aligned and all.
That's right. While other Westerners turned a blind eye, dismissing it as "something for those Oriental types," Britain saw the Korean commune as a realistic alternative to capitalism. Workers who voluntarily cut their own wages to devote themselves to their companies, brilliant leaders obeyed and served by the masses, near night-watchman-state levels of local autonomy and laissez-faire, cooperatives merging and splitting at will. To the British eyes pioneering Korea's Juche-style communism, these folks looked like a dangerous challenge.
And their boss was none other than the Korean Empire's Secretary-General. That was a problem. We're stuck dealing with each other for the long haul, after all. Might as well have similar tastes. But Britain thought spicy food was a no-go.
These guys are taking the piss a bit too far.
As I flipped through the reports, a quiet rage built at Britain's persistent meddling. They kept trying to shoehorn a country that grew on domestic demand alone into their international trade network. Damn Brits. This won't do. Their karma runs deeper than I thought.
I stacked the reports neatly.
...Well, that's just how they are. Nothing new there. Britain was the country that exploited no one more harshly than its own people, after all.
But you guys shouldn't be doing this.
The ones who truly disappointed and enraged me deep down were my own family. They ought to be grateful for protection from Britain, yet here they were, cozying up to the enemy and shooting at us from inside.
Back then, I'd settled for sending a few ringleaders to study in London. But these current reports convinced me that wasn't enough. Real economy at risk? Then create demand.
"Semi-hour... no, one hour."
"Starting today, implement one hour of morning exercises at the morning assembly."
"It's the national health promotion plan. Proceed."
"Yes, sir!"
"Also, for election candidates, give extra votes to the healthiest comrade. Roughly 10% for first place, 5% for second?"
"Pardon!?"
"What."
...Wouldn't that turn us into Pure Muscle Korea—no, Pure Muscle Empire? Deciding elections by muscle?! 10% is a huge swing.
"A healthier comrade will tackle work with more vigor, right? Am I wrong? Or should we make votes proportional to bench press weight?"
"No, sir! You're right! 10% should suffice!"
In this country, if the Secretary-General Comrade says it's so, it is. We're a one-party democratic republic, after all. General elections, sure, but also intra-party primaries. So fiddling with votes a bit? Perfectly legal.
It's a primary, after all.
This wasn't bending the rules. Absolutely not.
"Do the exercises, comrades!"
"Yessir!!"
Anyway, thanks to someone's rule-bending, comrades now spent an hour each morning on calisthenics. A few sensed the warning embedded in it.
I can confiscate an hour of your time with a single cough. Can you?
Under that overwhelming authority, some felt fear—especially those who'd whined to the Secretary-General last time. He always saw through whether someone was truly struggling or just complaining, with those X-ray eyes.
So they had to do the exercises. It was a warning.
Thus, every morning, comrades did calisthenics—rich or poor, young or old, no exceptions.
But the trials awaiting them weren't over. Absolutely no rule-bending.
In my view, they needed personality reform.
"What the hell is that?"
"Prrrrrrrrrr!!"
Holy shit. Elephants and their Indian handlers. No matter how you sliced it, these weren't Manchurian steppe material.
"By order of the Secretary-General Comrade."
The abstract command: breed these shivering elephants well and use them for Manchurian development. Bonus threat: they're expensive, so no slacking if they die.
But feeding them? We'd starve. And it wasn't just one or two.
We'd been plowing with hydraulic cylinders and diesel tractor shovels (forklifts). This was like a midnight thunderbolt. But "Secretary-General Comrade!!!"
They sensed he thought this wasn't enough. Just following orders wasn't sufficient; they needed more sincere, self-critical effort. Who knew what came next? So comrades ramped up self-exploitation.
They all knew what the Secretary-General wanted. Self-reliance, right?
A skilled rancher like the Secretary-General couldn't tolerate his cows, sheep, and horses munching weird grass and ruining the milk taste. Capitalist pigs sensed it. So they did it.
The Secretary-General who gave leeway where due, but wouldn't allow freedom outside the ranch.
"Seabird guano production tripled!"
Coastal guano collection sites from the Joseon era. Back when he was a kid, never dreaming he'd end up at war with Britain like this, he'd built guano farms on seaside cliffs, dreaming of digging riches.
Lately eroded by British guano, they'd been returned to the birds. Now they spun up again.
"Stone alkali production tripled too, Comrade!"
Native Korean honey pushed out by cheap Chinese honey and sugar. It reclaimed market share. A Joseon-era business for self-sufficiency in beeswax and honey.
Grueling labor, time, effort—so comrades had just bought from Britain. Now, at "make your own" command, they did.
"Sheet glass production tripled, Comrade! Speed campaign on greenhouse construction underway!"
Greenhouses and pharmaceuticals. Heart of the pharma industry I saw as Korea's future. Sure, lots of coca trees imported from South America now—legal at this point. Problem: labor-intensive.
That very labor intensity had kept even me from pushing hard. But now I did. Comrades needed toughening up.
"Seed distribution complete!"
"Complete? What do you mean complete? No more new seeds?"
"..."
I shoved grad students back to grad school. Minor whining midstream, but with the Secretary-General Comrade back from recent Grand Leader mode—laser-focused on Britain—and cracking the whip after ages, grass-munching comrades launched speed campaigns.
New tech: electric fish farms multiplied. Tech: kelp, mushroom, salt farms using Chinese labor idled no more, fired up again.
Industries fading to obsolescence against cheap British goods reignited.
I'd banked plenty; no mercy. Comrades exploited me? Time they got exploited back.
Time to work, comrades.
At the leader's call, potbellied, back-scratching comrades mobilized. Housewives took pocket money and spun sewing machines furiously for clothing factories. Husbands, getting even less, worked carpentry and masonry for furniture factories.
In the lightly industrialized Empire, these flagship light industries were extensions of housework. No one could complain about Empire family heads telling mom and dad to "do chores."
Like all Britain did, their plot to put the Secretary-General to eternal sleep instead woke the winter-hibernating beast from light slumber amid harsh world.
Tightening comrade discipline, I now turned my gaze. The culprit corrupting my precious comrades: Britain.
With comrade self-exploitation poured into Britain's key exports, raising our guard, no more mercy.
The Leader might shrug "Britain being Britain," but the Secretary-General thought differently.
Exports, times 20,000.
Britain sold daily necessities here forever. But with the canal blocked—ironically from that very blockage—shipping indices for bulky, low-value goods skyrocketed. Britain lost competitiveness here.
Korea? We'd sold intermediates and luxuries to Britain like Italy. Handmade suits, furniture, jewels stuffed with labor; bearings, gyroscopes, razors. Slim margins, but they sold. Would sell again. Freight barely affected them—costs passed to firms and rich. Reason Korea's a semiconductor power: make 'em far away.
To Britain, distance to Korea was vast sans canal. To us? Not at all.
Make 'em regret regular routes.
"We'll send some ships too."
Britain, cargo-short from rounding the Cape—plus last shopping spree—cheerfully agreed.
In my speed campaign, Britain began screaming silently.