Was It a Revolution?
October 3, 1779, Versailles Palace, office.
"That's what it says."
"The lyrics are utter trash. With skill like that, he'd get stones instead of coins."
Revolution to seize control of France? In the original timeline, it might have rallied fervent support from the people. But this France was different. My eyes and ears spanned not just France, but all of Europe—even North America.
"Shall we deal with him?"
"No."
Paradoxically, the more I-Myeonghun thrashed about, the safer France became. As long as foreigners saw France's economic boom as the opposite of social chaos, they wouldn't interfere. We'd keep up this charade until French hegemony was unshakable. Poke just enough to make my heart nearly burst, then hunt down the stabbers. That was the sweet spot.
The MEPO bills scam was part of it too.
"Just watch. If any cross the line, let the police nab them. Leave I-Myeonghun be."
"Understood."
Still, it grated seeing these impurities dare such antics.
*
Same day, afternoon, council chamber.
As the high ministers gathered, the first order of business was reassigning young generals like Lafayette to the south.
"There are far too many hot-blooded soldiers among them."
"I'll keep them in check."
"You should check yourself first."
The young faction generals, perhaps feeling the sting themselves, accepted without protest.
In my memory, France's southeast hugged the Alps, making surprise attacks on Austria or Switzerland impossible. They weren't Napoleon; crossing mountains to invade another country was out of the question.
"Breathe some sea air and cool your heads before you return."
"As you command."
I eyed the map at the chamber's center. To the right of Marseille and Toulon—vacation spots for the young faction troops—lay a filthy mess of a nation.
"This map is filthy."
"My apologies. I'll fetch a new one at once."
"That's not what I meant."
I wasn't an expert on 21st-century European maps, but I recalled a few big blobs. This era's map was different: dozens of fragmented enclaves, splinter states, fiefdoms... mostly Austrian marriage-alliance territories. I'd heard Austrian rulers had long titles, but I hadn't realized their lands were this shattered. Italy below was messy enough, but Austria was on another level. Dozens of shards?
"The military concurs, Your Majesty. It's just a loose confederation of duchies, counties, and kingdoms bound by the Eastern Army Alliance."
Tsk. The young faction couldn't help butting in.
"Later. Now's not the time."
Holy Roman Empire or whatever, France would walk its own path. Hardware-wise, it was sturdy. But with its tax system and class-obsessed culture, the software was woefully outdated. Average by this era's standards, sure. If I wanted an average-era nation, a constitutional monarchy would've been easier.
"How go the tax policies, household registries, and land surveys?"
"The first round wrapped up yesterday. Paris proper has 123,316 households and 628,821 residents. Satellites One through Three each hold standardized 80,000 households and about 300,000 people. Factoring vacancies, it's closer to 70,000 per. Satellite Four just finished construction and is taking residents. Total for greater Paris: 348,122 households and 1,695,510 souls. Men's average age: 23. Women's: 24. Eight percent are independent farmers, 31 percent their hired hands—mostly former serfs. Occupational shifts complete. The remaining 61 percent: two-thirds urban laborers. Unemployment at eight percent, but most are in public works—compost pits, lime quarrying, shunned construction and labor. True unemployment under two percent. With job training and population growth factored, it's full employment."
"Well done."
"Merely my duty, sire."
No, I was genuinely impressed. I never dreamed 18th-century public administration could hit this level.
"Expand it nationwide now."
"Pardon?"
"France's taxes should poll every Frenchman, no? This Paris run honed your skills; it'll be smoother."
Commoner bureaucrats had leveled up visibly from the census. Week Two paperwork was five times Week One's volume. Meaning veterans outpaced rookies fivefold.
"And at the August council, didn't you say Paris suburbs included over ten million? Papers show 1.7 million. Your past self contradicts your present claims."
Unlike pre-census bureaucrats' fears, revenues crushed costs. They'd uncovered 4,000 hidden acres alone. Paris Basin totals 100,000 acres; that was a four percent tax hike.
"Surveying all France is impossible, I presume."
"Indeed."
"Then just cities and villages."
Hm. Still impossible, eh.
"You look dissatisfied."
"Not at all. We'll do our utmost."
"Don't 'try.' Do it."
One thing that always bugged me in alternate history novels: bureaucrats slaving away to exhaustion. I hated that trope.
"If you can't, report why, draft support needs and plans, then update me. How long?"
"Next week, same time."
Bureaucracy's greatest strength is sustainability. Expect steady, if inefficient, output at a high floor. Overwork that? The system's broken. Better corrupt office-selling like old robe nobles—at least peaks were high. Sure, corruption risks ruin, but it bred true unofficial owners with skin in the game. Run it clean, and it outperformed bureaucracy. But I didn't want a nation hung on a few supermen. I wasn't immortal.
Modern folks gripe civil servants slack off. That's the goal. Bureaucrats and doctors mustn't be rushed. Just essential tasks, ample deadlines. Incumbents might disagree... Korea's system bloats with unskilled busywork. Pure skilled allocation? Workload drops. Korea's unfit for most eras. 21st century hates bureaucracy—flattens to horizontal orgs. Here? Disaster. Authority needs roots.
"New bureaucrats join in two months. Share this Paris experience aggressively. Tell veterans: better training means less work for them."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Mountains to climb. Good thing I'd weakened rivals early.
*
Saint-Denis, Paris Satellite One, police station.
Chief Claude was tearing his hair over surging thought-criminals. They were fathers, workers, loyal subordinates, stern bosses.
"What grudge makes you sing revolution?"
"Me, sing revolution? Prove it."
Culprits all denied revolutionary ties.
"Chief, seems like pawns or dupes."
"Can't just release subversives."
Claude fiddled with his World Collection of Subversive Terms from All Nations—counterintelligence manual issued to stations.
He tapped "revolution" under "Chosun," page 96 of 98.
"Folks are too well-fed."
"Agreed."
"I'd lock 'em all up if I could."
Claude pondered counterintel guidelines and arrest logs on his desk.
"Follow the edict. Release simple participants, warn them sternly."
*
"Rise and shine!"
Dawn: police rattled cell doors.
"Ears ringing. Roosters'd wake to that voice."
"Hahaha!"
"Laughing? Remember: arrested for reactionary crimes."
"How could we forget? But we knew nothing!"
"Right!"
"Me too!"
"Quiet!!"
Dozens in the cramped cells erupted; the station shook.
"His Majesty's mercy. Swear ignorance and no future subversive ties..."
"Done."
"Me too."
"Of course."
They pledged before he finished.
"Aigoo, my head. Line up, register, go. Next time? No mercy."
"Yes, yes. Understood."
They filed out, filling oaths.
"Name and residence?"
"Ordinary day laborer here in the city."
"Address and name here."
Standard form, deadly trap.
"Name and residence?"
"Ahem, small trader by the Seine."
"Sir, you know better."
"Hummed a street tune sans customers—habit bit me."
"Businessmen: scale and assets below address."
"Hm..."
The full-time merchant pondered business scale and assets long.
"Issue?"
"Dunno my worth exactly..."
"Tax evasion?"
"Not that..."
"Tax evasion."
"Mm."
Europe's real economy shattered, gold and silver skyrocketing, old traders melted hoards for use. They bypassed new francs with bullion networks—smuggler logistics, no taxes. Fees absent, unbeatable prices. Value preserved, no panic sales.
"Why merchants get called vulgar."
"Sorry. No excuse."
"Sorry to me? Apologize to France."
"Sorry..."
Louis XVI's ploy to them, but to normals: conservative remnants. France's bankruptcy stemmed from those reactionaries' fiscal games.
"Tax squad tomorrow. Cooperate. No hiding—aggravated penalties. What a mess. Joined subversives, now homeless overnight. Why sing that song?"
"Sorry... so sorry..."