Dusk seeped over the desert, painting the horizon in bruised amber. At its edge, a patch of green erupted—cultivated cacti, stretching toward the infamous Wreck Village beyond.

  Camel bells jangled softly from behind the dunes. Children playing in the sand yelped and scrambled to their feet, dust clinging to their tattered clothes.

  "It’s the Green Ark caravan!" one shouted, eyes wide. "Mom’s gonna buy me sugar—loads of it!"

  "Night market! Candy! Candy!"

  They chased the white camels through low, splintered fences, spilling into the village’s widest street. At its center loomed something odd: the rusted tail of an ancient starship, most of it swallowed by sand over centuries. That’s how the village got its name.

  Merchants unloaded crates, twisted on biogas lamps that cast warm, flickering light, and spread their wares in the cool evening breeze. A crowd gathered quickly, voices rising in excitement.

  "Green Ark’s finest fruit! Don’t miss out!"

  "Foldable crossbow with infrared scope—takes down sand rats clean!"

  The village hummed with activity, but the real deals stayed off the main thoroughfare. Leading the caravan was a sharp-jawed man named Wood—tough, seasoned, the kind who didn’t survive desert runs on luck alone.

  He was hauling a crate when a voice cut through the chatter. "Well, well—if it isn’t Elder Wood. Half a year gone, and your crew’s only grown. Impressive."

  Wood turned, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Councilor Gore. Good to see you." He pulled a glass bottle filled with pale green liquid from his pack. "Green Ark rum. Figured you’d appreciate a taste."

  On a sand-choked planet like Earth Ring, food was scarce—rum was a luxury. Gore’s eyes lit up as he snatched the bottle.

  "You know me too well, old man." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Harvest’s abysmal this year. But there’s a kid—scrawny, quiet thing—who hit the jackpot. The Chief’s been trying to steal his mycelium for weeks, no luck. Find him. Name’s Rex. Lives in the wreck’s lowest level."

  Wood’s grin faded. "Lowest level? That’s a death trap. Where’s his family?"

  "You think he’d be down there if he had one?" Gore raised an eyebrow. "Remember the cave collapse five years back?"

  "Hard to forget. Cost me half my usual mycelium haul."

  "That’s when his folks died—one instantly, the other clinging on. He spent every credit he had to save his mom, ended up in debt. She didn’t make it. Now he’s stuck in the wreck’s depths, scraping by to pay what he owes. Everyone thought he’d croak. But he just brought back a mountain of special mycelium."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Gore emphasized the word, and Wood’s eyes sharpened—wild mycelium was nothing like the farmed stuff. Special mycelium? On Capital Planet, nobles would fight over it. Even with high taxes, it was a goldmine.

  Wood’s mind raced: thirty years of trading, all to escape this dust ball. This mycelium could be his ticket to a better planet.

  He composed himself, nodding. "Thanks for the tip, Gore. You won’t regret it." He jerked his head toward the starship. "The Chief’s waiting. We’ll talk later."

  "Good luck," Gore said, already twisting the rum bottle open.

  Wreck Village was a dump—even mycelium couldn’t fix that. Villagers knew it was valuable off-planet, but they had to sell cheap to caravans. Hardly anyone ever left Earth Ring. Their biggest dream? A trip to the nearest oasis.

  Wood and his men headed for the starship. After a thousand years of renovations, it was less a wreck, more a slanted skyscraper buried underground. Half the village lived inside, neighbors chatting under dim lights that flickered with every gust of wind.

  They walked a hundred meters, then took an elevator down to the village’s core. The Chief’s home was in the old ship’s dining hall—the fanciest spot in the wreck. Privilege existed everywhere, even here.

  Inside, a white-haired old man with retro glasses sat in the parlor. He was a tough negotiator—Wood’s men set down ten bottles of rum and five sacks of fruit before he even cracked a smile.

  "Wood," the Chief sighed, feigning weariness. "Farmed mycelium got wiped out by sand rats. Wild stuff’s scarce. These villagers don’t respect me anymore. Hard times."

  He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his gaze drifting to the rum. That Rex brat—paid off his debt and refused to sell to the village. My men got their asses kicked in the wreck’s depths. I should’ve lent him more five years ago, not pocket change from the relief fund. Who knew a kid could find special mycelium when grown men couldn’t? I’ve controlled this trade for years. If he breaks the rules, others will too.

  Wood leaned forward, his voice calm. "We’ll take whatever you have. Same rates: 120 credits a kilo for low-grade, 320 for mid-grade, 720 for high-grade. It’s late—we’ll finalize the trade tomorrow."

  The Chief fell silent. Then he leaned in, his eyes glinting. "What about special mycelium? We’ve got some. Not much, but it’s there."

  Wood’s eyes sharpened. He studied the Chief carefully. "Wreck Village hasn’t had special mycelium in seven or eight years. Other villages are overmined too—it’s priceless. I’ll pay five times the high-grade rate. 3,600 credits a kilo."

  "Five times?" The Chief’s grin widened. "Twenty percent more than seven years ago. Deal. Give me three days. I won’t let you down."

  "Good." Wood paused, his tone turning serious. "Heads up—times are rough. The Crimson Raiders are in the Ninth Sector. Capital Planet’s safe, but resource worlds are hiring mercenaries. They steal everything—women, kids, whatever. Green Ark’s not safe anymore. I brought my crew here to hide. You should prepare."

  The Chief laughed, loud and mocking. "Crimson Raiders? Please. Earth Ring’s a backwater. Wreck Village is poorer than a starship’s latrine. We’ve got nothing they want. They’ll hit the big oases, not us."

  Wood smiled. He’d thought the same. Earth Ring was in the ass-end of the Ninth Sector—3 million people, no development, no resources. The Raiders wouldn’t waste fuel coming here.

  They had no idea every word was being listened to.

  Deep in the wreck’s twisted lower levels, a black-haired boy set down a pair of headphones. He grinned, muttering to himself.

  "Fair price. Finally—enough to pay back the aunties and uncles."

  Rex stared at the mycelium sample in his hand—glowing faintly, rare, valuable. The caravan, the Chief, the councilor—they had no idea who they were dealing with.