“If we overload the carriers,” I continue, “they don’t make the dunes. If they don’t make the dunes, none of this matters.” I tap the edge of the clipboard once. Final. “Put it back.”
He hesitates. Then his jaw tightens and he turns, tossing the bundle back toward the marked pile with more force than necessary. It lands with a dull thud. Not the first. It won’t be the last.
I shift my attention before the frustration can settle anywhere useful.
The staging ground stretches out in uneven lines—wagons, sled platforms, anything we could salvage or build to survive the crossing. Zmaj stand near the heavier loads, lifting what no human could manage, their movements efficient, controlled. They waste nothing. Not energy. Not time.
The Urr’ki move differently.
Faster in short bursts. Less concerned with neat stacks or balance, more focused on getting things moved at all. They adjust constantly—shift, carry, drop, reconfigure. It works, in its own way. Until it doesn’t.
“Stop.”
I step forward before the crate tips any further, one hand coming out automatically to steady it. An Urr’ki has already half-lifted the opposite side, trying to wedge it into a space that isn’t there.
“It doesn’t fit,” I say.
“It will,” he insists, already angling it again. “Weight distribution can be corrected later.”
“Later is when it breaks,” I counter, “and then we lose everything under it.”
He pauses, head tilting in that way they have when they’re recalculating. His grip tightens slightly on the crate. I don’t pull back.
“We fix it now,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Or we carry it ourselves when it fails.”
A beat. Then he exhales sharply through his teeth and sets it down. Not agreement. Acceptance.
I make a note on the clipboard without looking away from the stack. Rebalance left side. Reduce load by ten percent. Everything is trade-offs. Everything.
A shadow shifts at my right, larger, cooler.
One of the Zmaj steps closer—not crowding, not pushing, just there. His presence changes the space without effort. People adjust around it instinctively, giving him room even when they don’t realize they’re doing it.
“You are reducing too much,” he says, voice low, controlled.
“I’m reducing enough,” I reply.
“The crossing will be faster if we move with full supplies.”
“It will be shorter,” I correct. “Not faster.”
His gaze drops briefly to the clipboard, then back to me.
“You assume loss.”
“I plan for it.”
The words come easily because I’ve said them too many times before. He studies me for a moment longer, then inclines his head slightly. Not necessarily agreement, but respect. I’ll take it.
“Then we adjust the guard positions instead,” he says.
“Already did,” I answer, tapping the lower section of the page. “You’re rotating in pairs on the outer line. No single coverage.”
That gets a flicker of approval. Small. But there.
He steps back, not leaving, just shifting position as his attention moves to the next problem. There’s always a next problem.
I move with the flow of it, stepping between stacks, checking bindings, correcting placements, redirecting hands before mistakes become losses. This is the work. Not deciding what we have. Deciding what survives the journey.
