Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 882: Pride or Survival

Chapter 882: Pride or Survival

In Amsterdam, the crowds had gathered in the city square. On one side were disaffected liberals, who held signs supporting the transition away from colonization.

On the other were a group of imperialists who held signs that condemned the act of Parliament as one of cowardice and treason.

Both sides stood across from one another, shouting, yelling, and getting in each other’s faces. It was a common enough scene within the Netherlands these days.

And the police by now had learned how to prevent both lines from collapsing into mayhem and violence.

The eyes and ears of the Reich were embedded everywhere that was of strategic interest to them.

Naturally, the Netherlands was not exempt from this… curiosity. A whisper here, a sale of a firearm there, and soon enough protest ignited into war.

But today the agents of the Reich did not agitate, nor did they stir the pot. They simply sat back and watched the scene unfold.

Two men sat across from the protest, watching it unfold from the open-air table of a nearby café. The older of them had silver hair and a face weathered not by time but by experience.

He sat there sipping his coffee while his colleague jabbered on about his opinions regarding current events.

“Honestly, it’s a bit absurd is it not? One side is protesting the government’s decision to end colonization, despite the fact that they’re simply transitioning towards our model of control, and the other is counter-protesting their protest. All the while the Dutch government will do what it wants regardless of how much they scream and cry. It all seems so pointless doesn’t it?”

The older man didn’t respond. At least not right away. His gaze narrowed towards two protestors from both sides who were getting in each other’s faces. He knew what was about to happen between them, and sure enough, in the next second the counter-protester threw the first punch.

What followed was several other protestors from both sides jumping on one another as the whole affair threatened to turn into a giant melee.

That would be the case if it weren’t for the fact that the police quickly fired tear gas into the crowd and began to arrest everyone involved in the violence.

The older man shook his head and snorted in disdain.

“If democracies and republics were inherently stable forms of governance, I would have had to find a different line of work in this life.”

The younger man sighed as he stared and watched how quickly the police had completely interrupted and broken up the violence. Law and Order returned as quickly as it had faded.

“I wonder how much longer they have left… I mean, it would be a pity if things fell apart before the new Chancellor is appointed.”

Though there were no official documents stamped stating that Bruno would be taking over the position once the current term limits of the Reichstag came to an end. Men like them were all too aware of the changes that were coming.

“And that’s why we’re here, now, isn’t it? To make sure that things continue as planned… At this rate the whole damn country will be lit aflame in civil war by the time the Reichsmarschall returns from his visit to Constantinople….”

The younger man adjusted his coat collar against the cold and leaned back in his chair.

“They still think this is about morality,” he muttered. “About guilt, about empire, they don’t even understand what they’ve just amputated.”

The older man stirred his coffee slowly.

“No,” he said at last. “They amputated revenue.”

Beyond the square, church bells tolled the hour. The crowd had thinned considerably now that the police had asserted control. What remained were smaller clusters of men arguing in tight circles, their voices hoarse but determined.

Amsterdam had seen protests before, and it would see them again.

But this was different.

For generations, the Dutch economy had leaned quietly upon the East Indies like a man resting weight against a cane. Rubber, oil, sugar, tin, shipping contracts, insurance guarantees, and colonial administration posts for ambitious second sons.

This wasn’t some African colony that still in need of civilizing. This was a possession of the Netherlands that had existed for centuries. Previous generations had borne a great cost to see the lands built to the extent they were now.

And when the East Indies were at their most profitable, finally capable of paying back the cost sunk centuries prior. Parliament had voted to remove the cane.

The younger agent reached into his coat and withdrew a folded newspaper, spreading it across the table between them.

“Commodity markets opened down eight percent this morning,” he said. “Shipping futures are collapsing. Rotterdam’s port authority is already petitioning for emergency subsidies. And the banks—”

He tapped the page.

“—the banks are pretending nothing is wrong.”

The older man allowed himself a faint smile.

“Banks always pretend.”

Across the canal, a factory whistle blew. Workers poured from a brick building in gray coats, their conversations subdued. Some cast glances toward the square but did not join the debate. Their concerns were more immediate.

Jobs, wages, and security. When a nation was not in a state of crisis, only the privileged or the terminally unemployed could bother protesting when there were mouths to feed and bills to pay.

The older agent watched them carefully.

“That is where this will turn,” he said quietly. “Not in the square, not in Parliament, but in the factories.”

“Do you think labor will radicalize?”

“I think labor will demand guarantees,” the older man corrected. “And when the treasury cannot provide them, someone else will.”

The younger man’s eyes flicked toward him.

“Berlin.”

“Order,” the older man replied. “Berlin is simply where order happens to reside.”

A tram rattled past, its metal frame vibrating against the track. The café owner stepped outside briefly to clear away broken glass left from the earlier scuffle. Life resumed.

It always resumed.

But something fundamental had shifted.

Across the North Sea, investors had already begun quietly relocating capital. Insurance firms adjusted colonial risk models overnight. German banks, efficient, patient, and flush with liquidity, had begun offering restructuring consultations to Dutch industrial leaders.

Nothing official, nothing aggressive; on paper it was just assistance.

The younger agent folded the paper again.

“Do you think they realize how exposed they are?” he asked.

The older man took a slow breath.

“Some do.”

“And the rest?”

“They will soon enough….”

The older man went back to enjoying his coffee pretending what he had just witnessed never existed in the first place.

—

That afternoon, in a wood-paneled office not far from the Binnenhof, a small gathering of Dutch ministers convened behind closed doors.

The Minister of Finance removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“We avoided bloodshed in Batavia,” he said. “That was the objective.”

“At what cost?” another replied sharply. “You’ve seen the market reactions. Our currency is already under speculative pressure.”

“The Germans have offered stabilization mechanisms,” a third voice interjected cautiously.

Silence fell. That was the word none of them wished to speak too loudly: Germans.

The offer had arrived within hours of the vote’s passage. A formal letter, courteous in tone, expressing admiration for the Netherlands’ “mature and forward-looking decision.” It suggested bilateral talks on trade harmonization and infrastructure integration.

Harmless words.

But integration was never a neutral concept. The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair.

“We will not trade colonial dependency for continental dependency,” he said firmly.

“And what if that is not the choice?” the Finance Minister countered. “What if the choice is between integration and insolvency?”

No one answered immediately.

Outside the window, bicycles moved steadily along the street. Ordinary citizens pedaled home from work, unaware of the arithmetic unfolding above them.

The Minister of Industry cleared his throat.

“Our manufacturing sector relies on stable import chains. If the transition authorities in the East Indies falter—”

“They will falter,” another interrupted.

“—then production slows. If production slows, unemployment rises. If unemployment rises—”

“—the streets fill.”

Again, silence.

The Prime Minister closed his eyes briefly.

“We cannot allow instability.”

“Then we require capital.”

“And if that capital comes with strings?”

The Finance Minister’s gaze hardened.

“Everything comes with strings.”

—

Back in the café, the younger agent lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“You don’t seem concerned,” he observed.

“I am not paid to be concerned,” the older man replied. “I am paid to observe.”

“And if it tips too far? If radicals gain traction?”

The older man finally looked directly at him.

“It will not tip,” he said evenly. “The Dutch are merchants, not revolutionaries. They prefer compromise to catastrophe.”

He glanced toward the square again.

“What we are witnessing is not collapse. It is negotiation.”

“Between whom?”

“Between pride and survival.”

The younger agent absorbed that.

“And survival wins?”

The old man finished his coffee, placing the cup on the saucer as he looked over at the younger agent for the first time since they began discussing this matter.

“Has it ever not?”