The heavy morning sea mist, thick with the salt and rot of the mangroves, slowly dissolves under a brutal, unrelenting tropical sun that turns the sky into a sheet of polished brass. By the second day, the nature of the grueling labor changes. The sloshing oak casks of rum and the sticky, dark jars of molasses give way to dense, unyielding timber.
Down the white limestone plantation roads that slice straight through the endless, swaying fields of pale green sugarcane, long teams of slow-moving oxen drag massive hardwood logs and heavy, hand-sawed mahogany planks. The beasts move with slow, plodding steps, their broad snouts dripping with foam, their thick hides twitching as swarms of relentless black biting flies settle over their flanks. Heavy iron chains clink and drag through the powdery dust, scoring deep ruts into the sun-baked earth. These giant trees, harvested from the dark, impenetrable interior rainforests of Ambustus where ancient canopy trees shut out the light of the sky, carry the dark, rich weight of old growth.
At the export quays, the three hundred and twenty earthling slave-soldiers labor under the scorching heat alongside the crew of the Amelia. The air is thick with the sweet, sharp aroma of freshly cut wood, blending with the stagnant stench of low-tide mud flats where thousands of tiny fiddler crabs scuttle between grey mangrove roots. Using heavy iron cargo hooks, thick hempen ropes, and smooth, barkless wooden rollers, the young men strain against the massive beams. Muscle fibers stretch, shoulders bruise, and boots slip against the smooth, sweat-drenched ramps as they guide the gigantic mahogany planks up the ship's sides and maneuver them down into the dark, cavernous lower holds of the four-masted galleon.
Every inch gained is fought for with groans, calls, and the heavy creak of stressed timber. Overhead, a pair of red-tailed hawks circles in the blinding glare of the sky, their high-pitched, piercing cries echoing down over the humming harbor.
By mid-afternoon, the sun reaches its zenith, beating down so fiercely that the iron fittings on the ships' hulls become too hot to touch with bare skin. A brief break is called. Under the wide, cooling shade of a massive timber warehouse awning, where the air is slightly fresher and smells of cedar and dry straw, the four company leaders and Lourdes collapse onto stacked piles of heavy mahogany beams. They pass around cool clay jugs, taking long, eager gulps of freshwater that drips down their chins and splashes onto their dust-covered chests.
Hano rests his elbows on his knees, leaning his damp head back against the smooth face of a raw mahogany plank. He closes his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that rattles in his chest.
"Man," Hano sighs, his voice thick with bone-deep exhaustion as he fans his damp linen shirt against his ribs. "What I wouldn't give for an iced green tea from a Lawson in Tokushima right now. Or an egg salad sandwich. Those soft white bread sandwiches... absolute perfection."
[The soft bread... the cold tea condensation running down the plastic bottle... how did I end up so far from home, sweating blood on a pile of alien wood?]
Comtois, sitting two beams over with his broad chest exposed to the air, lets out a loud scoff. He tips the clay jug back, taking a long, noisy drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his massive forearm. He looks at Hano, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and outright disdain.
"Egg salad? Are you crazy?" Comtois chuckles, his voice booming effortlessly through the shadowy overhang of the warehouse. "If we're talking about Earth food, nothing beats Korean fried chicken and a bowl of hot, spicy tteokbokki after a heavy workout. That's real food. Japanese convenience store food is just snacks for kids."
Hano sits up instantly, his tiredness forgotten as his cheeks flush a deeper red. He glares across the timber pile at the Korean youth, his posture stiffening defensively.
"It is not just snacks!" Hano shouts, his hands gripping the edge of the mahogany beam. "It's culinary art! It's cheap, efficient, and tastes amazing!"
Comtois merely waves a broad, dismissive hand, letting out a hearty laugh that shakes his broad shoulders.
"What about you, German?" Comtois asks, turning his head toward the far end of the stack where Adelberd sits apart from the rest. "What silly food do you miss?"
Adelberd does not look up from his hands. He sits perfectly straight on a dry log, his long legs crossed at the ankles. In his hands, he holds a small, sharp pocketknife and a scrap block of dark hardwood. With slow, rhythmic, and incredibly precise movements, his blade shaves off tiny, razor-thin ribbons of wood that curl and fall into his lap. He is carefully carving an intricate, tiny wooden cogwheel, complete with microscopic, evenly spaced teeth along its rim.
"I miss simple dark rye bread with sausage from Bayern," Adelberd says calmly, his eyes remaining fixed on the tip of his knife as it makes another smooth, flawless cut into the dense grain. "And I do not appreciate being called 'German.' I am from Bayern."
Comtois shakes his head, waving his hand in a casual, sweeping arc through the humid air.
"Same difference," Comtois says, leaning forward and squinting at the tiny object in Adelberd's fingers. "Hey, what are you even making with that knife? Is that a toy?"
Adelberd stops his knife mid-stroke. He raises his bright blue eyes, looking directly at Comtois with deadpan, unwavering seriousness, his face completely devoid of humor.
"It is a gear," Adelberd states flatly, his tone as cold and structured as an engineering blueprint. "It is a one-to-four scale gear for a miniature water-driven mill wheel. I am calculating the tooth friction in my spare time."
Lourdes, sitting on an adjacent crate with her legs stretched out and her calloused hands resting on her knees, lets out a sudden snort of laughter. She shakes her head, her raspy voice cutting through the humid silence of the break.
"You boys are ridiculous," Lourdes says, a wide, rowdy grin spreading across her weathered features as her dark eyes move from one young man to the next. "One guy misses egg sandwiches, one guy wants spicy chicken, and the teenager is carving tiny factory parts in the middle of a tropical jungle."
Hano turns his head, his eyes landing on Aldo, who is sitting silently on a low wooden box nearby, resting his chin in his open palms as he gazes blankly at the busy harbour.
"What about Aldo?" Hano asks, pointing a index finger at the motionless Vietnamese youth. "What do you miss, robot?"
Aldo blinks slowly, his dark eyes shifting toward Hano without his head moving an inch. His expression remains entirely blank, his face a calm, unreadable surface despite the heat.
"Instant noodles," Aldo says flatly, his voice utterly devoid of inflection. "Three minutes in boiling water. Minimal cleanup. High sodium. Maximum efficiency."
Comtois roars with laughter, reaching down to scoop up a small wood chip from the ground. He tosses it across the space, bouncing it lightly off Aldo's shoulder.
"Unbelievable!" Comtois laughs, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "You really are a study robot."
Aldo doesn't react to the wood chip. He simply turns his gaze back toward the harbour, watching a massive barge loaded with timber glide slowly past the stone quay.
The sun climbs higher, beating down like a hammer on an anvil, scorching the stone wharves until the heat radiates upward in visible, shimmering waves. The air becomes so heavy with moisture and the smell of sweet molasses that every breath feels like drinking thick water. Across the harbour, high on the granite headlands, the fronds of tall royal palms hang completely motionless in the dead air. Below them, long-tailed iguanas lie sunning themselves on the red rocks, their scaly bodies frozen as they absorb the intense heat.
On the main pier, the work resumes with relentless intensity. The earthling soldiers, their undershirts drenched and clinging to their skins, haul the second batch of mahogany planks toward the Amelia.
Hano grips the rear handle of a long wooden hand-cart, his knuckles white with strain. The cart is loaded with three massive, square-cut timber joists. Beside him, Comtois pulls from the front using a thick hemp harness looped over his broad shoulders, his leg muscles bulging as his boots dig into the cracks between the stone pavers.
"Heave!" Comtois shouts, his voice echoing off the brick walls of the sugar mills. "Push, Hano! Don't let the cart roll back!"
Hano grunts, his teeth grit together tightly as sweat stings his eyes. He pushes with all his weight, his feet sliding slightly on the smooth stone before catching purchase.
[If I can survive high school entrance exams in Tokushima, I can survive moving three pieces of wood... but damn, I want that iced tea.]
Slowly, inch by inch, the heavy cart rolls forward, its iron-tired wheels squeaking in protest against the weight. They reach the wooden gangway leading to the Amelia's deck, where two veteran sailors stand ready with iron hooks to guide the load.
A few paces away, Adelberd works alongside a detail of five other soldiers, using a system of wooden rollers and thick ropes to maneuver a solid mahogany log—nearly two feet in diameter—up a steep timber ramp. Adelberd stands at the side, his blue eyes sharp and calculating as he watches the angle of the ramp and the tension in the ropes.
"Hold!" Adelberd commands, his voice crisp, clear, and ringing with absolute authority. The five soldiers instantly freeze, their arms trembling as they hold the ropes tight. "The left roller is binding. Shift it two inches to the right before we lift again. If it slips, the momentum will break the ramp."
The men obey without question, adjusting the wooden cylinder beneath the heavy log. Adelberd checks the alignment with a quick glance, his head nodding once in approval.
"Now... haul!" he orders.
With a unified grunt, the men pull in unison. The massive log rolls smoothly over the newly positioned roller, gliding effortlessly up the incline and onto the main deck of the vessel without a single stutter. Adelberd steps up, blowing a stray strand of hair from his forehead, his face calm and composed.
Nearby, Aldo stands beside a large wooden desk set up under the shade of a canvas tarp, his small slate held in one hand and his piece of white chalk in the other. He tallies each beam as it crosses the deck, his eyes scanning the timber for quality, size, and quantity. Every movement of his hand is precise, minimal, and completely devoid of wasted motion.
Lourdes walks up, carrying a heavy wooden bucket filled with cool freshwater and a single pewter ladle floating on the surface. She sets the bucket down near Aldo's desk with a dull thud, water sloshing over the brim and wetting the dusty planks.
"Drink, clerk," Lourdes says, leaning her hands on her hips as she looks at him. "Even machines need water."
Aldo pauses, his chalk hovering an inch above the slate. He looks down at the bucket, then up at Lourdes. He dips the pewter ladle into the water, lifting it to his lips and drinking deeply in three controlled, steady swallows. He sets the ladle back in the bucket, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Thank you," Aldo says flatly, his eyes already returning to the slate as he makes three more neat chalk marks. "The cargo loading is currently four percent ahead of schedule. At this rate, we will complete the timber transfer by nightfall."
Lourdes lets out a low, gravelly chuckle, shaking her head as she scoops up a ladle of water for herself.
"You really don't stop thinking about numbers, do you?" she asks, her dark eyes glittering with amused curiosity. "Doesn't your head hurt?"
"Numbers do not cause pain," Aldo replies, his voice smooth and cold. "Uncertainty causes pain. Numbers provide structure. Structure ensures survival."
He turns his head slightly, watching Comtois and Hano guide their loaded cart onto the main deck.
"Look at them," Aldo continues softly, pointing his chalk toward the two boys. "They complain, they joke, they dream of convenience stores and fried chicken. But they keep moving. As long as the structure holds, they will survive."
Lourdes looks at the two young men on the deck, her smile softening into something quieter, more reflective. She takes a slow sip of water, her gaze drifting toward the high volcanic mountains looming in the distance behind the town.
"Survival is one thing, Aldo," Lourdes says quietly, her raspy voice barely rising above the noise of the harbour. "Living is another. When we get to Heilop... make sure there's room in your structure for more than just survival."
Aldo does not answer immediately. He holds his chalk poised over the slate, his dark eyes staring at the wooden grain of the desk for a long, silent moment.
[Structure creates the vessel. What we fill it with... that is the question.]
He makes a single, crisp chalk mark on the slate.
"First we secure the land," Aldo says, looking up at her with an unblinking, steady gaze. "Then we discuss what fills it."
As the late afternoon sun begins its slow descent toward the ocean, the air turns a deep, bruised shade of indigo and copper. A gentle, cool breeze finally breaks off the sea, rustling through the high fronds of the coconut palms lining the shore and carrying away the suffocating heat of the day. Thousands of small sea swallows burst from the sea cliffs, swooping low over the harbor waters to catch swarming midges.
Down at the export quays, the work finally grinds to a halt. The last massive mahogany plank has been lowered into the dark hold of the Amelia, its heavy wooden hatch covers slid into place and secured with thick iron bars and canvas tarps.
The three hundred and twenty earthling soldiers sit scattered across the wooden decks of the four ships, their bodies exhausted, their muscles aching, but their faces bathed in the cool, soothing light of the setting sun.
On the quarterdeck of the Julia, the female captain stands beside the ship's wheel, her arms crossed over her leather vest as she watches the last of the loading equipment being stowed away on the pier below. She looks down at the group of young men sitting on the main deck—Comtois leaning back against a hatch cover, Hano resting his head on his arms, Adelberd carefully wiping his pocketknife clean on a piece of cloth, and Aldo neatly stacking his slates.
She pulls her tricorn hat low over her brow, a faint, rare expression of approval touching her hard, wind-burnt face.
"Good work today, recruits!" she calls out, her deep, raspy voice echoing across the quiet harbour water. "The Amelia is loaded to her gunwales! Rest up tonight. Tomorrow, we catch the morning tide for Lactuca Island!"
Down on the main deck, Comtois lets out a low groan as he stretches his long legs out in front of him, his knuckles popping in the cool evening air. He turns his head toward Hano, a small, weary smirk on his face.
"Hey, Hano," Comtois mutters softly. "If we ever find an egg salad sandwich in this world... I'll let you have the first bite."
Hano lets out a soft, tired laugh, closing his eyes as the cool sea breeze washes over his face.
"Deal," Hano murmurs. "Just make sure it's on soft bread."
Beside them, Adelberd carefully slips his finished wooden gear into a small leather pouch at his belt, pulling the drawstring tight. He stands up, brushing wood shavings from his trousers, and looks out toward the dark, open ocean where the first stars are beginning to glitter in the darkening sky.
The heavy iron anchors rest secure in their hawseholes, waiting for the dawn. Across the quiet bay of Port Ambustus, the towering chimneys of the sugar mills stop belching smoke, their red brick outlines standing like silent guardians against the fading light of the tropical sky.