I-Nnovation
January 10, 1780, Versailles Palace, Cabinet Meeting Room.
The tax revolution had ushered in yet another revolution in France. In the past, commoners had to fork over roughly 60 to 80 percent of their earnings in taxes. Tithes at 10 percent, land tax at 10 percent, income tax at 5 percent, poll tax at 10 percent. Direct taxes alone came to 35 percent. Before the purges, there was also a 15 percent estate management fee paid to lords. On top of that, indirect taxes like the salt tax meant that simply staying alive could cost you tens of percent more. No one could live without salt, after all.
The real problem was that these taxes weren't structured progressively, where higher earners paid more. Land tax? Bourgeoisie were urban professionals or merchants without farmland to tax. Estate fees? They lived in cities. Various indirect taxes? Their incomes were simply higher, so the burden scaled differently. Sure, they paid more in absolute terms than peasants, but their effective rate was around 40 percent. Even without the 15 percent estate fees, most commoners were still paying 50 to 70 percent.
People who loved me despite a 70-30 split in my favor? I couldn't just let that slide. It was every cliché from the estate management and possession novels I'd read in my modern life. Better to exploit the rich than squeeze beggars dry—it's more cost-effective and sustainable corruption. I agreed. So I flipped it: from 70-30 to 30-70.
"Your Majesty, no one among the people opposed this tax policy. We did receive letters from Spain and Austria fretting over fiscal instability from our low rates, but they were purely formalities."
As the Foreign Minister finished, a Treasury official chimed in. "Your Majesty, we can keep printing currency indefinitely to avoid bankruptcy. However, this will undoubtedly stall our economic growth for the next few years. Even in my humble position at the Treasury, I can see it. This is our golden opportunity to overwhelm the other nations. I beseech you: strike while the iron is hot."
I scanned the cabinet room. "Judging by your faces, you all agree."
The Treasury went without saying, but even Interior and the military nodded along with the call to seize the moment. Outwardly, they framed it that way, but really, it was about the budget. Slashing from 70-30 to 30-70 overnight meant revenues dropping by about 40 percent in one go. The lack of backlash just proved how ironclad my power was.
Their concerns weren't entirely baseless, truth be told. Pre-modern states just didn't produce much. No selective breeding, no fertilizers—nothing like high-yield varieties existed. The Rumpler potato was a fluke. I desperately wanted to push breeding programs, but in a country where 90 percent of the population was functionally illiterate, we lacked the scholars. At least the guy from England raising cattle was going through the academy's undergraduate program... But what I really wanted wasn't great scientists—it was smart citizens. And to make them smart, commoners needed disposable income.
Looking back now, every policy I'd enacted or planned consistently aimed to boost that disposable income. Not state-run giants controlled by a few elites, but fostering private ventures where ordinary folks could strike gold. I couldn't even explain why I shunned state enterprises and favored private ones. Back in the modern world, I'd been with a left-wing party, for crying out loud.
"I understand your views, gentlemen. But that's precisely why this is our only shot."
"Your Majesty, easing taxes might win hearts in the short term. But our freshly stabilized finances are deteriorating rapidly, and funds for state-led projects are drying up. At this rate, we won't even be able to pay tomorrow's public works wages. What's the point of people having more money if it just sits in their pockets?"
"That's exactly what I want."
All innovation springs from surplus. All innovation takes time. Could folks who slaved all day spot inconveniences? Even if they did, would they think to improve them? Conduct experiments? Have the energy left for it?
America's tech giants fear not Chinese rivals, but the kid tinkering in his Texas garage dad's garage. If surplus food underpins industrialization, surplus time fuels innovation.
"They'll scoff, 'What do people do with free time?' But idle time is waiting time—for something to emerge."
Entertainment grew from mere play. Humming under a tree while farming became folk songs. Jazzing that up for fun birthed beautiful dances. Modernity cranks it further with artificial thrills. Gaming—that ultimate surplus pastime—now moves hundreds of billions in the modern world.
I remembered. Around 2011, when 3D printers and printed meat were hot. On a school trip bus, I'd boldly claimed "fake idols" would elevate Korea. The stares—even from the teacher—pitying my foolishness. But before I came to this world, those "fake singers" went virtual, birthing a multibillion-dollar industry. The baffled looks from courtiers? I'd weathered that twenty years ago. This time, no backing down.
"Comptroller General, how much more can we print francs?"
"We've issued about 720 million francs so far. With all Europe scrambling to bail out France, we could hit 36 billion without issue. But print too much, and trust in the franc craters. We'd need to taper by around 1785."
"Five years left, then."
One year was all I needed. "If finances haven't improved by then, we'll raise taxes."
This wasn't compromise—it was conviction. I was certain France's pie would double this year. Nothing irks like give-and-take, especially taxes. Failed growth forcing hikes would burn more political capital than this cut earned. But that wouldn't happen. I was sure.
I wouldn't govern by squandering political capital honestly. Politics is attack power and stamina. I'd push policies without burning it. I'd make it so.
*
Lauren's Ironworks was complete. No grand ceremony—the modular design Louis XVI devised meant firing up sections as they finished. The moment the final one wrapped, dozens of workers shoveled coal and ore into the blast furnace.
The engineer studying from England directed French laborers to draw pig iron, which flowed into another hearth. Workers stirred it with long poles; as it cooled, it fed into rollers, spitting out sheet metal. What a blacksmith hammered all day was now routine.
True steel still needed the smith's touch. Under the academy student's guidance from England, he crafted clay molds. Charcoal mounds yielded steel ingots.
"Short break!"
"Brief rest!"
"Brief rest!"
Hundreds streamed out. Outside loomed black coal mountains and red ore piles. They passed familiarly to the woods beyond.
Workers claimed spots under trees, sitting or sprawling. "Paul, lying on cold winter ground after sweating? You'll catch cold."
"Yeah, don't care. Ugh, roasting here. Mouth's dry too... Got anything to tide me over?"
"Winter palate cleanser? Eat a potato."
"Tch, winter's the worst. Last summer we had grapes right here."
"Summer's brutal. I'd take winter work and potatoes any day."
"Fair."
"Where'd these come from anyway?"
"Boss gave 'em?"
"Boss? Oh, the Comptroller General? Isn't he in Paris?"
"Proxy, obviously. Potato prices crashed this year, so the state's buying to save farmers."
"Sheesh, that'll bankrupt us. His Majesty say nothing?"
"Beats me."
"Free grub? I'm in. Eat before they ask for it back."
They munched steamed potatoes, wistful. "Throat's clogged."
"Grab some milk then."
"You're blowing cash."
"I always buy—you're out of touch with prices. Your turn for milk."
"Ugh, hassle."
Paul hit nearby stalls. Vendors eyed his potatoes. "Customer! Potatoes? One kills the thirst. Here, free cheese slices—try it."
"Hey, poaching? Sir? Fresh Brittany milk, ice-packed cart—super fresh!"
"Cheese, milk—bah, bread's what humans need."
"Hold on, too much..."
Paul returned laden with free samples. "Cheap as hell, right?"
"Dunno? Got this before buying milk..."
"All free? Ah, yeah—you haven't been lately. Same happened my first time."
"No dinner needed."
"Feasting on your dime. Mix 'em up?"
His haul drew coworkers. "One bite?" Cheese on potato. Bread in bean juice. "Urk, inedible."
"Taste? Delicious."
French folk were learning to eat not just adequately, but tastily.
*
While surplus food bloomed culinary culture outside Lauren's Ironworks, a different culture flowered inside.
"Newbie, not resting?"
Development culture.
"Oh, foreman. It's nothing."
"Saw what you're hiding. Hand it over."
"Not really show-worthy..."
It was a miniature windmill with iron vanes forming a pinwheel.
"What's this?"
"You work nearby, so I made it to send greetings."
With time and money to spare, the curious tinkered.
"Huh. But you're from Rouen, right?"
"Well... long story..."
"Skip it. Who doesn't have one these days?"
"Thanks."
Young Rouen laborer Claude Sharp was one such.
"But what's the principle?"
"Big semaphore. This shape means a, that b. Telescopes spot it from afar."
He twisted the model into letters. The foreman peered closely, then added, "Model's small, though. Real one's windmill-sized building, yeah?"
"Remaking an abandoned one south."
"Buying trouble. Named it?"
"Simply télégraphe—far-signaling. Intuitive, no?"