Like most successful, or at least relatively long-lived, secret agents, Illya Kuryakin was not in the habit of giving out his address. And so the letter, found crumpled at the back of a post-box that typically contained only life insurance adverts, supermarket coupons, and bills, was far from expected.

Holding it cautiously, he took it inside and set it on the kitchen table. It had evidently had a hard journey on its way; the envelope was stained and wrinkled, as though it had gotten wet at some point, and a smear of what looked like engine grease marred the back flap. The return address indicated a P.O. Box in LaPlace, Louisiana. To his knowledge, Illya was not acquainted with anyone in such a place. Even if he had been, all unanticipated deliveries were deeply suspect. Never let it be said that Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin didn't learn from his mistakes. Letting the envelope lie, he threw open the window, then rummaged a moment in a drawer. Donning a pair of rubber gloves, he returned to the table and picked up the letter. Holding the envelope as far from his face as possible, he slowly eased it open.

Hey Big Man,

How's it hanging, shoreside? I know you said only to use this address if there was an emergency, but I just had to tell you. Me and Scotty and the boys got to talking the other day, about what you'd told us 'fore you left, about what to do if Capt. Morton gave us any more trouble…

Oh no. No no no. What had he told them?

The affair had been concluded with slaps-on-the-back and smiles all around. They'd docked in Hong Kong. It had seemed unfathomably rude to turn down a drink with the crew, with his comrades of the past several days. But the 'grog' in the filthy sailors' pub they'd taken him to had been stronger than he'd expected, and, the food on board being what it was, and the sea-air having never given him much of an appetite to begin with, he certainly hadn't had enough on his stomach to sustain a serious bout of drinking. And, he remembered, he'd been angry.

Napoleon had what Illya considered to be a particularly American optimism when it came to morality. To Napoleon, it was enough that a man do what was right at the final, crucial moment. He could have whatever foibles he pleased, as long as he made the right choice when it really, truly mattered.

But, didn't it matter, what a person fed and paid their workers, on all the ordinary days of their lives? Wasn't it a choice, each day, to let them toil on a rattletrap ship, far from help, with an engine that could blow at any moment? To intimidate the crew until they believed that nothing better was possible for them?

Illya loved Napoleon for his faith in humanity. His believe, however strained, that, given the opportunity, anyone could change for the better. He'd just never expected Waverly to share the same outlook. He grimaced, as long as the individual in question was English, upper crust, and, well, clubbable.

It was true, in the post-combat euphoria, that Illya had offered Morton the captaincy back. Naïvely, he'd expected it to be something of a farewell tour. He couldn't see any harm in letting the pompous ass steer them back to shore, before he traveled on to a peaceable retirement. However, they'd been met at the dock by Alexander, 'Oh, would you care to work for us?' Waverly.

So, he'd been angry, and more than a little drunk, and it seemed he'd given Hank and the crew some ideas. What had they done, blown up the ship? There was only one way to find out.

-about what to do if Capt. Morton gave us any more trouble, and about how the worker is the backbone of civilization, and about how the bosses are just uppity stuffed-shirts (although, beg your pardon, that wasn't exactly how you put it), about how and Morton needed us more than we needed him, and we was owed certain rights and dignities.

Anyhow, it took some doing, but I'm writing you now as the representative of Chapter 347 of the Seafarers International Union. We voted to organize last year, and now we're working out a new contract, with higher pay, and regular safety inspections, and no more tying folks to the mast just cause the Capt. don't like 'em. We even got the Capt. to buy Cookie a cookbook. Turns out he can't read any better than he can cook, but he's getting better every day.

Yours in brotherhood,

Hank

Title from 'Solidarity Forever,' lyrics by Ralph Chaplin:

When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run,
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun