Xu Mingzhe's office had become a war room. Three desks pushed together held drafts, precedents, and bilingual law books. Wang Chengli and Lin Qichang, both fresh from British universities, worked beside him—sharp, unsentimental, and efficient.
"The challenge," Xu said, scanning the latest draft, "is building contracts that stand in both Chinese courts and British treaty port courts. Dual validity—or nothing."
Wang looked up from his notes. "Why British courts? These are Chinese workers on Chinese soil."
"Because some franchises operate in treaty ports under foreign jurisdiction," Xu replied, his pen marking corrections. "And because British recognition gives us institutional cover. It tells everyone—especially skeptical merchants—that we're playing by rules even foreigners can't dismiss as improvised Chinese reform."
Lin nodded slowly, understanding the strategic layer. "So we're writing hybrid law. Chinese backbone for legitimacy here, British teeth for enforcement there."
"Exactly." Xu tapped Zhao's detailed notes about workforce demographics. "And each contract speaks to its specific audience. Dock workers get protection and an immediate wage bump—something concrete they can hold. Junior clerks get promotion paths based on merit, not family connections. Mid-level managers get real operational authority and bonuses tied to measurable performance. We're not preaching reform theory—we're buying cooperation, group by group, with tangible benefits."
Lin's pen scratched across paper. "Dock workers—simple language, fixed wages, tight limits on arbitrary dismissal. Five percent raise, effective immediately upon signing. No complexity, no legal jargon they can't understand."
"Good," Xu said. "Something they can believe in without needing a lawyer to interpret."
Wang was already drafting the next tier, his British legal training evident in the precise phrasing. "Junior clerks: 'After twelve months of satisfactory service, as documented by written performance records, eligible for promotion examination and pay increase.' Mechanical criteria. No room for favoritism or nepotism."
"Exactly." Xu's tone sharpened with approval. "Merit replaces patronage. Performance replaces connections. We're not just changing terms—we're changing the entire logic of advancement."
They moved to the hardest part—mid-level management, where the real operational power resided. Xu read aloud as Lin wrote: "Independent operational decisions within defined budget limits. Quarterly performance bonuses tied to measurable departmental results—cargo turnaround times, dispatch efficiency, paperwork clearance speed, cost management."
"That," Xu said with satisfaction, "aligns their personal interests with system efficiency. Make the institutional machine reward those who keep it running smoothly, and they'll defend the machine against sabotage."
By dusk the office smelled of ink and sweat. The contracts weren't elegant—they were blunt instruments designed for specific purposes. Weapons disguised as paperwork—plain enough for workers to trust, precise enough for courts to enforce, and quietly subversive in how they undermined patronage networks.
Lin finally asked the question they'd been avoiding: "And the senior staff? The ones currently running departments through personal networks?"
Xu's voice went cold and calculated. "They'll receive contracts too—higher pay, clearer authority definitions, explicit performance metrics. But they won't sign. They've lived too long off chaos and informal power. These papers aren't for persuading them—they're for creating a record. When they refuse, we'll have documented proof of who stood against reform when offered reasonable terms."
Silence followed as the implications settled. The sound of pens resumed. Somewhere outside, the city kept breathing, unaware that in this cramped office, a new order was being written line by line.
Yang's office became the strategy center. Morrison had brought tea and the preliminary contract drafts. Tan Wei joined them to discuss financial implications and rollout logistics.
"We can't roll out all contracts simultaneously," Yang said, studying the employee roster with its color-coded departmental breakdowns. "Different groups need different approaches, different timing. If we overwhelm everyone at once, we lose the ability to build momentum."
Morrison agreed, his commercial experience evident. "Start with dock workers. They're easiest—clear immediate benefits, minimal legal complexity, no complex authority negotiations. Success there builds visible momentum and demonstrates we're serious about improving worker conditions, not just management restructuring."
"How many dock workers total?" Tan asked, making notes for budget calculations.
"About two hundred across all CMSNC facilities in Tianjin," Yang said. "If we get ninety percent to sign within three days, that's a powerful signal to other employee groups. It proves the contracts aren't traps."
"Then junior clerks," Morrison continued, thinking through the sequence. "Maybe one hundred fifty people. They'll be more cautious than dock workers—they have slightly more to lose. But the promotion pathways should appeal strongly. They're stuck in dead-end positions under the current system with no advancement prospects except through family connections they don't have."
"Mid-level managers are the real test," Yang said, his expression serious. "Seventy to eighty people who currently have some authority but could have significantly more. They're the ones who can make operations work smoothly or ensure operations fail through passive obstruction. We need at least half of them, ideally more."
"And senior staff?" Morrison asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Yang's expression was grim. "Thirty senior managers. Maybe we get ten if we're lucky. Most are too deeply connected to Sheng's faction or too invested in traditional patronage methods. They profit from chaos and informal power. The contracts for them are more formal than genuine expectation—we're creating a record of refusal, not actually expecting acceptance."
Tan did quick calculations on his abacus. "The total workforce is around four hundred sixty employees. If we get all dock workers, most junior clerks, half the mid-level managers, and a few senior staff... we're looking at maybe sixty percent adoption overall?"
"Sixty percent would be a victory," Morrison said firmly. "That's enough critical mass to operate effectively while isolating the opposition. The forty percent who refuse become increasingly irrelevant as the sixty percent demonstrate the new system actually works and delivers results. It's not about converting everyone—it's about reaching the operational threshold."
"But we need to move fast," Yang added, his strategic thinking showing. "Before Sheng's people can organize coordinated counter-pressure or start threatening employees who want to sign. Three days for dock workers, two days for junior clerks, two days for mid-level managers. One week total for the entire rollout."
"That's extremely aggressive," Tan said cautiously.
"It's necessary," Yang replied. "We can't give the opposition time to coordinate resistance. We overwhelm them with speed and clear immediate benefits. By the time they organize a response, we'll have accomplished facts on the ground."
Day One: Dock Workers
The dock workers gathered in the cargo warehouse, confused about why they'd been called together during working hours. Zhao and Chen stood on a raised platform, looking at two hundred weathered faces—men who moved cargo, loaded ships, and did the physical labor that made shipping possible.
Zhao spoke first, his voice carrying across the warehouse with practiced authority: "You all know me. I've worked these docks, negotiated with you as a merchant, watched you do the jobs that keep this port running. I'm not management. I'm not a bureaucrat. I'm telling you directly—this is a good deal. I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true."
That got their attention. Zhao wasn't known for empty promises or management propaganda.
Chen stepped forward, holding up a contract document. "You're being offered new employment contracts. I'm going to explain exactly what they contain, in plain language, and then you can decide whether to sign. No pressure, no tricks, no hidden clauses."
He held the contract higher so everyone could see. "First: five percent wage increase, effective immediately upon signing. Your current daily wage goes up, starting next week. This isn't contingent on performance reviews or seniority rankings—everyone who signs gets the raise, no exceptions."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Five percent was meaningful money for dock workers—an extra meal per week, better clothing, small savings.
"Second: job protection. Under these contracts, you cannot be fired without documented cause. Theft, violence, consistent failure to show up for work—those are grounds for termination, clearly specified. But you cannot be fired because a manager doesn't like you, or because someone with better connections wants your position, or because you refused to pay a bribe. Your job becomes protected by contract, not dependent on personal relationships."
More murmurs, these ones distinctly interested. Job security was rare and valuable.
"Third: clear working hours and conditions. The contract specifies your schedule, your break periods, your overtime compensation rates. Everything in writing, everything legally enforceable. No more arbitrary schedule changes, no more supervisors demanding extra hours without pay."
An older dock worker with gray hair and scarred hands called out: "What's the catch? Nobody offers wage increases and job protection for free. There's always a catch."
"The catch," Zhao said honestly, meeting the man's eyes, "is that you're expected to work competently. Show up on time, do your job properly, follow basic safety procedures. That's it. That's the entire expectation. If you do that, you have job security and better pay. If you don't, you can be terminated—but only with documented evidence reviewed by management, not just supervisor discretion or personal grudges."
"What if we don't sign?" another worker asked suspiciously. "What happens to us?"
"Then nothing changes for you," Chen said firmly. "You keep your current wages, current conditions, current lack of protection. This is completely optional—nobody will be forced or threatened. But I'm telling you as someone who knows this industry, as someone who's negotiated labor terms for twenty years—this is the best offer dock workers have received in two decades. I strongly recommend you sign."
Zhao added: "Contracts are available in the administrative office. Anyone who wants to review them carefully before deciding can do so—take your time, read every word, ask questions. Anyone who wants to sign today can do so immediately. Your choice entirely."
The dock workers dispersed to discuss among themselves in small groups, voices rising in debate. Zhao and Chen returned to the office to wait, knowing this moment was critical.
Two hours later, workers started arriving to sign. Not all at once in a rush, but steadily—individuals and small groups, having discussed among themselves and decided the terms were legitimate and trustworthy.
By evening, one hundred forty had signed. By the next morning, one hundred seventy. By the end of the third day, one hundred eighty-five of two hundred dock workers had signed new contracts.
"Ninety-two percent," Yang said, reviewing the signature pages with satisfaction. "That's substantially better than we projected. We estimated eighty-five percent maximum."
"They trust Chen," Morrison observed. "And the terms are straightforward and generous. No complexity, no hidden catches, no legal traps. Just clear immediate benefits in exchange for clear reasonable expectations. When workers can actually understand what they're signing, they sign."
Days Four-Five: Junior Clerks
Junior clerks were more cautious, more educated, more aware of potential complications. Yang met with them in smaller groups of ten to fifteen, explaining the promotion pathways carefully and answering detailed questions.
"Under the current system," Yang said to one group of fifteen clerks in a conference room, "how does someone in your position advance to senior clerk or administrative positions? What's the actual mechanism?"
Awkward silence filled the room. Everyone knew the answer but nobody wanted to say it directly in front of management.
Finally, a young clerk named Zhou Wei spoke carefully: "You need patronage. A senior manager who recommends you, usually because you're related to them by family, or because you've given them substantial gifts over time, or because you've done extensive personal favors that create obligation. Merit and competence are... secondary considerations."
"Exactly correct," Yang confirmed bluntly. "Merit doesn't matter. Competence doesn't matter. Only connections and patronage matter. How many of you have been junior clerks for more than three years despite doing consistently good work?"
Most hands went up, some reluctantly, some with visible frustration.
"These contracts fundamentally change that system. Promotion criteria become explicit and mechanical: twelve months of satisfactory performance, basic literacy test, supervisor recommendation based on documented work quality. No gifts required, no family connections necessary, no political maneuvering. Just competent work for a specified time period, documented in writing."
"But supervisors can still block recommendations," another clerk pointed out skeptically. "They can claim our work isn't satisfactory even if it objectively is. We're still dependent on their goodwill and subjective judgment."
"Which is why we're implementing mandatory performance documentation," Yang replied, anticipating this concern. "Your supervisors must maintain written records of your work quality—specific examples of tasks completed, problems solved, responsibilities handled. If they claim you're unsatisfactory for promotion but can't provide written documentation supporting that assessment, their evaluation is invalid and will be overruled. We're removing subjective discretion and replacing it with documented evidence."
He could see them processing this—the radical possibility that advancement might actually be based on merit rather than favoritism, that their work might actually matter more than their family connections.
"What about salary increases?" Zhou Wei asked. "The contract mentions raises, but what's the actual amount?"
"Five percent immediate raise for all junior clerks who sign, regardless of tenure," Yang said. "Plus additional increases with each promotion level. Senior clerks earn fifteen percent more than junior clerks. Administrative positions earn thirty percent more than senior clerks. The pathway is clear, the compensation is defined, the criteria are explicit. You know exactly what you need to do and what you'll receive."
Over two days of meetings with different groups, one hundred twenty of one hundred fifty junior clerks signed. The twenty percent who refused were mostly those already connected to senior managers in Sheng's faction—they believed their existing patronage networks would serve them better than merit-based systems, or they feared retaliation for accepting reform contracts.
Days Six-Eight: Mid-Level Managers
Mid-level managers were the critical test—the people who actually ran daily operations, who could make the franchise system work or ensure it failed through passive obstruction. Morrison and Xu handled these negotiations personally, meeting with small groups in Yang's office.
"You're currently trapped in an impossible position," Morrison said bluntly to one group of five operations managers. "You have responsibility for results but no real authority to make decisions. You're blamed when things go wrong but not empowered to fix underlying problems. You spend half your time seeking approvals from senior managers for routine operational decisions that you should be able to make yourself."
Several managers nodded with visible frustration. This was their daily reality.
"These contracts fundamentally change that dynamic," Xu continued, laying out the specific terms. "You get defined decision-making authority within clear boundaries. Operations managers can make decisions involving up to five thousand taels without requiring senior management approval. Administrative managers can implement procedural changes within their departments without headquarters approval. You have real power to actually do your jobs effectively."
"And real accountability," one manager named Liu Guangming said skeptically, his tone sharp. "If we have authority to make decisions independently, we also have direct responsibility when those decisions fail. Currently, we can blame senior management for bad directives and poor strategic choices. Under this system, failures become personally our fault. We're accepting more risk."
"Yes," Morrison said simply. "That's exactly right. You get authority and accountability together, inseparably. That's how competent management actually works in successful organizations. You can't have power without corresponding responsibility. That's the basic principle."
"What's the incentive for accepting that increased risk?" another manager asked practically. "Why would we voluntarily take on more personal exposure?"
"Performance bonuses," Xu said, showing them the detailed compensation structure. "Quarterly bonuses based on measurable metrics directly tied to your department's operational results. Good performance means significant additional income—twenty to thirty percent above base salary annually. Poor performance means no bonus. Your personal compensation directly reflects your actual contribution to organizational success."
Liu Guangming was clearly the influential voice in this group, the one others looked to for guidance. He studied the contract document carefully, reading the fine print. "This also means you can terminate us for documented poor performance. Currently, civil service protections make it nearly impossible to fire government employees without extreme cause. These contracts explicitly remove those protections."
"They replace civil service protections with contractual protections," Xu corrected precisely. "You can be terminated for documented poor performance—but poor performance must be documented according to specific quantitative metrics specified in your contract, not based on supervisor opinion or political considerations. And you have appeal rights to an independent review board, not just supervisor discretion. It's more transparent and fair than the current system."
"An independent review board that you control," Liu said flatly.
"An independent review board that includes representatives from multiple departments, including mid-level managers like yourself elected by your peers," Xu countered. "We're not asking you to simply trust our fairness—we're building institutional checks on arbitrary authority. The system protects you better than the current informal protections do."
The meeting ended without commitments. Liu and his associates wanted time to consider the implications and consult with their allies.
Two days later, Liu returned—but not for negotiation or questions.
He arrived at Yang's office with two other managers, his expression hostile and his voice deliberately loud enough to carry into the corridor. Xu Mingzhe and Morrison were both present, reviewing franchise applications.
"Director Yang," Liu said with formal aggression. "I'm here to formally protest the employment contract process on behalf of concerned managers."
Yang looked up carefully, his expression neutral. "What's your specific concern?"
"My concern is that you're systematically dismantling civil service protections under the cynical guise of reform," Liu said, his accusation clear. "These contracts convert secure government employees into disposable contract workers. You're destroying job security that took decades to establish through bureaucratic tradition."
"The contracts provide job security based on documented performance rather than political connections," Xu replied calmly, refusing to match Liu's aggression. "That's an improvement for competent employees, not a destruction of protection."
Liu's attention snapped to Xu with visible anger. "You. A foreign-educated lawyer who spent three years in Britain learning Western legal theory. You come back and presume to tell us our traditional system is wrong, that we need to adopt foreign employment methods."
"I'm telling you that merit-based employment produces better organizational results than patronage-based employment," Xu said, his tone remaining level and professional. "That's not foreign theory—that's observable reality demonstrated across multiple countries and industries."
"Observable in Britain, maybe," Liu shot back. "But this is China. We have different traditions, different administrative cultures, and different social structures. You can't just import British employment practices wholesale and expect them to work here."
Morrison had been watching quietly, assessing the situation. Now he spoke, his voice carrying the particular British authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed: "Mr. Liu. I've worked in Chinese commerce for fifteen years. I understand your concerns about foreign influence and cultural compatibility. So let me be very clear about what's actually happening here."
He stood, walking around the desk to face Liu directly—not threateningly, but with the confident bearing of someone who knew his position was unassailable.
"The current system rewards incompetence systematically," Morrison said with devastating precision. "Promotions based on family connections rather than demonstrated ability. Operational decisions made through patronage networks rather than commercial logic. Employees are protected not by job performance but by political relationships. That system is why CMSNC has been losing money consistently for a decade while foreign shipping companies operating in the same markets generate substantial profits."
"That's your opinion—" Liu began defensively.
"That's financial reality documented in account books," Morrison interrupted, his politeness remaining intact but his tone brooking absolutely no argument. "Which you would understand clearly if you examined the financial records rather than defending a system that benefits you personally at the company's expense."
Liu's face reddened with anger. "You're directly accusing me of corruption?"
"I'm observing that you're opposing reforms that would require you to justify your position and salary through competent performance rather than political connections," Morrison replied with clinical precision. "If that observation offends you, perhaps you should examine why it provokes such a defensive reaction."
The other two managers with Liu looked distinctly uncomfortable. This wasn't going how Liu had planned—Morrison was systematically dismantling his arguments.
"Furthermore," Morrison continued, his British accent somehow making the criticism sound almost polite while remaining utterly devastating, "your protest is noted and will be documented in company records. You have every right to refuse the contract. You also have every right to continue operating under the old system. What you absolutely don't have is the right to obstruct those employees who have chosen to participate in reform."
He returned to his desk, picking up a document with deliberate casualness. "Now, if you have specific contractual concerns—particular clauses you find objectionable, legal language that needs clarification, or terms you believe are unfair—Mr. Xu and I will address them professionally. But if you're here simply to protest change itself without offering constructive alternatives, then I'm afraid this conversation is concluded."
Liu stood there, visibly angry but unable to articulate a response that wouldn't sound like he was defending incompetence and patronage. The British dismissal was complete—polite, professional, and utterly devastating.
"We'll see how your reforms work in practice," Liu finally said, trying to recover some dignity. "When franchise operations start failing, when your foreign ideas prove impractical in Chinese reality, we'll see who's proven right."
"Indeed we will," Morrison said pleasantly. "Good day, Mr. Liu."
After they left, Yang exhaled slowly. "That was... impressive. And probably made us a permanent enemy."
"He was already an enemy," Morrison said pragmatically. "Now he's an enemy we've documented as choosing obstruction over reasonable accommodation. When we eventually remove him for incompetence, we'll have clear written evidence that we offered him fair alternatives and he refused them publicly."
Xu was making detailed notes. "I'm documenting this entire exchange with witnesses present. If Liu later claims he was unfairly dismissed or discriminated against, we have multiple witnesses to his refusal to engage constructively."
"It's not just about Liu specifically," Zhao said, entering the office—he'd been listening from the corridor intentionally. "It's about everyone else watching. Liu made his protest publicly and loudly. You defeated it publicly and decisively. That sends a clear message to other potential resisters—opposition will be met with a professional but absolutely firm response. Most people will choose cooperation over confrontation after seeing that."
Morrison smiled slightly. "Welcome to how institutional reform actually works in practice. Not through winning everyone over with persuasion, but through isolating those who refuse to adapt and demonstrating clearly to everyone else that adaptation is both safer and significantly more profitable."