The rising sun breaks over the ocean horizon as a swollen, blood-red orb, instantly painting the humid sky in streaks of bruised violet and burning gold. Dawn does not bring relief; it merely ignites the sweltering heat that hangs like a sodden blanket over the docks of Ambustus. Work begins at first light. Along the wharves, the air is instantly choked with the heavy, competing scents of thick molasses, scorched earth, sea salt, and bitter human sweat. The three hundred and twenty earthlings, lined up alongside seasoned, sun-hardened sailors, are divided into loading teams that stretch from the cavernous brick warehouses all the way down to the water's edge.
From the cool, dark interiors of those massive brick structures, heavy burlap sacks of refined sugar, sloshing oak casks of aged rum, and oversized ceramic jars of thick, dark molasses are rolled out onto the wooden docks. They are loaded onto flat-bottomed barges, which groaned under the increasing weight as oarsmen row them out across the murky, green-tinted harbor to where the Amelia rides high on the gentle swell.
High, jagged mangroves fringe the coastal salt marshes just beyond the port walls, their tangled aerial roots twisting down into the brackish mud like clawed fingers. Among the dark, submerged roots, mudskippers flop and slide across the grey silt, while black-feathered marsh hawks circle endlessly in the thermal updrafts above, their sharp eyes tracking the movements below. A dense, hum of invisible life vibrates from the tall reeds—a heavy, rhythmic pulsing of cicadas and swamp insects that swells with every degree the sun climbs into the sky.
On the main dock, Comtois pauses mid-stride. With a single, fluid motion, he strips off his heavy, sweat-soaked linen shirt and tosses it onto a dry timber pile, exposing a chest and arms carved from years of relentless training. He bends down, wraps his thick fingers around the iron hoops of a hundred-pound barrel of raw sugar, and hoists it onto his bare shoulder with a broad, confident grin. Sweat glistens over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, catching the sharp morning light like liquid glass.
"Look at this!" Comtois calls out, his booming voice cutting effortlessly through the rhythmic creak of cranes and the splashing of oars. He turns to face Hano, who is currently doubled over, struggling to push a iron-wheeled hand-cart loaded with two smaller wooden crates. "This is real conditioning! Forget those cramped gym benches in Incheon; this tropical sun builds actual strength!"
Hano stops dead in his tracks. He lets the handles of the hand-cart drop with a metallic clatter against the stone pavers, straightening up slowly while wiping his sweat-soaked brow with his damp sleeve. His face is flushed bright red, his chest heaving as he gasps for air.
"Shut up!" Hano shouts back, his voice cracking slightly with exhaustion as he glares at the grinning Korean youth. "Easy for you to say, gymrat. My undershirt feels like a wet rag. How do you not care about this humidity?"
"Because muscle doesn't complain about weather!" Comtois chuckles, taking three heavy steps forward and tossing the hundred-pound barrel onto the deck of a waiting barge with a heavy, hollow wooden thud. The barge shifts beneath the impact, sending small ripples across the scum-topped water. "Come on, Hano, carry two at once! I'll give you ten coppers if you don't drop them."
Hano grunts, his jaw tightening as he grabs the handles of his cart once more, leaning his entire body weight forward to get the heavy iron wheels rolling again.
"Keep your coppers, I was paid by Aldo in Silvers!" Hano grumbles, his eyes fixed on the uneven stone ground as he carefully wheels his cart forward toward the barge ramp.
A few yards away, sheltered under the narrow shadow of a warehouse overhang, Aldo sits motionless on an empty, upturned wooden crate. A small slate resting on his knees and a piece of white chalk held firmly between his fingers, he methodically marks down every single barrel and sack as it is loaded onto the barge. His face is completely devoid of expression, his posture as rigid and upright as if he were sitting in a air-conditioned university lecture hall rather than a suffocating tropical port.
A dense swarm of large, dark tropical mosquitoes hovers around his head in a whining cloud, several of them landing directly on his exposed neck and forearms. Aldo does not blink. He does not flinch. His hand continues its steady, rhythmic movement across the slate, leaving neat white tally marks in precise, parallel rows.
[Movement requires kinetic energy. Energy demands metabolic consumption. Swatting an insect that withdraws a negligible fraction of a milliliter of blood is an illogical trade-off.]
Lourdes walks over, carrying a woven reed basket cradled against her hip. The basket is packed with local cassava roots covered in dry dirt and long, green plantains. She stops beside Aldo's upturned crate, looking down at the cloud of insects buzzing around his ears with a mixture of disgust and utter disbelief.
"Aldo, aren't those bugs driving you insane?" Lourdes asks, her raspy voice laced with genuine bewilderment as she shifts the heavy basket to her other side.
"The mosquito are annoying," Aldo says flatly, his quill-like chalk making another clean, dry mark across the slate without a single pause. "But swatting them wastes energy. Energy burns calories. Calories require eating more hardtack. It's an inefficient use of movement. Anyway, they don't target me, so I don't mind."
Lourdes stares at him for a long, silent second, her dark eyes wide as if trying to decipher whether he is truly human or merely a complex clockwork mechanism wrapped in skin.
"You are unbelievable," she mutters under her breath, reaching down into her basket. She pulls out a strange, spiky tropical fruit, its outer rind a deep, bruised purple covered in soft green spines. "Onaga bought these from a local farmer. He said it's sweet."
She holds the fruit up, examining its rubbery surface. Digging her thick, calloused thumb forcefully into the soft seam near the stem to peel it, the pressure builds within the overripe interior. A high-pressure spurt of sticky, milky-sweet juice shoots straight out of the tear, splashing across her left cheek, dripping down her chin, and soaking into the linen collar of her shirt.
Lourdes freezes instantly, her thumb still wedged inside the fruit, her jaw slack in sheer surprise.
Hano, who is just wheeling his empty cart back from the barge ramp, catches full sight of the explosion. He freezes mid-step, his eyes widening before he bursts into a loud, uncontrollable fit of laughter that echoes off the brick warehouse walls.
"Nice shot!" Hano roars, doubling over his cart and pounding his fist against the wooden frame. "The fruit fought back!"
Lourdes stands motionless for a second, the sticky purple juice dripping slowly off her jawline onto her chest. She slowly raises her sleeve, wiping her cheek with a rough, deliberate stroke, her dark eyes narrowing as she glares across the wharf at Hano. Yet, despite her best efforts to maintain a hard, stoic expression, a raspy, reluctant laugh forces its way out of her throat.
"Shut up, Hano," Lourdes growls, her lips curling into a wide, rowdy smirk as she raises the spiky fruit in one hand and points a heavy green plantain at him with the other, "or I'm smacking you with this plantain."