Voyager of the Stars

Dusk was falling when a tide of green appeared on the horizon—vast fields of cultivated cacti. Beyond that “jungle” lay the place known far and wide as Wreck Village. Clink, clank… The sound of camel bells drifted over the dunes. Children playing in the sand stopped at once, cheering and racing toward the noise. “Look! It’s the Green Ark caravan! Hooray, Mother will definitely buy me lots of sugar!” “Yeah! Night market tonight! Candy for everyone!” Chattering with excitement, the children followed the white camels through the low fences into the village’s broadest street. At the very heart of the settlement loomed its most unusual landmark: the weathered hulk of an ancient starship. Only its tail section jutted from the surface—the rest had long ago sunk beneath the sands. Wreck Village took its name from this buried relic. The traders unloaded their goods, lit up biogas lamps, and set out stalls in the evening breeze. Soon the streets were crowded with villagers, their shouts mingling with the calls of merchants: “Come see, come see! The Green Ark’s finest fruit! Don’t miss it!” “Folding crossbows with infrared sights! The ultimate sand-rat killer—step right up!” The caravan had brought life to the dusty village, though the true business would be conducted elsewhere. Their leader, a powerfully built man with a chiseled face, supervised the unloading himself. A man who could lead a caravan all the way to Wreck Village was no ordinary trader. “Why, if it isn’t President Wood himself!” a voice called out. “It’s been half a year—where have you been making your fortune this time? Your caravan grows larger every visit. Congratulations!” Wood turned with a smile. “Ah, Councilor Gore. A pleasure to see you. Here—Green Ark’s finest rum. I think you’ll find it to your taste.” He handed over a glass bottle filled with pale green liquid. Out here in the desert, where food itself was scarce, alcohol was a rare luxury indeed. “My dear friend, you’re far too generous! Rum—my favorite.” Gore accepted the bottle with a grin, lowering his voice. “Truth be told, this year’s harvest hasn’t been good. But there’s a boy in the village—quite remarkable. He’s managed a rich haul. The chief has tried to get his hands on the mycelium, but no luck so far. If you want results, you’d best find that boy yourself. His name is Lin Siso, and they say he lives at the very bottom of the wreck.” Wood froze in surprise. “The bottom of the wreck? That’s the most dangerous place! What about his family—would they really allow a child to take such risks?” “If his family were still around, do you think he’d be living there?” Gore gave a sly wink. “Remember the great cave collapse five years ago?” “Of course. That disaster ruined my trip—the harvest was barely half the usual.” “Exactly. The boy’s parents were caught in it—one dead, one crippled. To heal his mother, he spent every coin they had and went into heavy debt besides. She died anyway. With no choice left, the boy moved down into the wreck’s lowest levels, gathering mycelium in the caves to pay off what he owed. Frankly, everyone thought he’d die. But he didn’t. In fact, just recently, he’s been lucky—he brought back a haul of premium mycelium. And you know as well as I do: cultivated strands can’t compare to wild ones. This is an opportunity you don’t want to miss.” Gore lingered on the word premium. Excitement flickered in Wood’s eyes; the gift of rum had already paid off. Premium mycelium fetched outrageous prices in the capital—fashionable ladies prided themselves on smoking cigarettes laced with it. Even with the heavy trade taxes, profits were enormous. Wood thought to himself: Look around—who truly wishes to live forever on Dust Ring, with its endless sandstorms? Anyone with means has already left. I’ve fought for thirty years just to escape to a better world. Perhaps this batch of premium mycelium will be the key to unlock the Immigration Office’s gates. A seasoned leader, Wood quickly masked his eagerness, replying smoothly, “I’m grateful, old friend. Information is the lifeblood of a merchant. Once I find this Lin Siso, I won’t forget your tip. You have my word. But I mustn’t keep the village chief waiting. We’ll speak again soon.” “Of course. May fortune favor you,” Gore said with a satisfied smile. As one of seven councilors, he had no fear of rivals. A few scraps of information in exchange for real benefits—why not? After all, Wreck Village was still a backwater, its people trapped in poverty despite the mycelium trade. They knew the fungus fetched fortunes offworld, yet were forced to sell cheaply to passing traders. Few ever left Dust Ring. At best, they dreamed of trips to nearby oases—anything more was beyond hope. Leaving Gore, Wood and his men made their way deeper into the wreck itself. His generosity had earned him a good reputation here; he always paid the highest prices. The Green Ark Oasis, the largest on Dust Ring, had resources to spare, and trading a few bottles of rum or bags of fruit for information was hardly a loss. The caravan passed into the starship’s remains—a landmark turned dwelling after nearly a millennium of modifications. The wreck resembled more a slanted skyscraper or underground fortress than a ship. Half the villagers lived inside, neighbors close and familiar under the dim lights. Wood’s party moved with practiced ease, traveling a hundred meters inward before taking a lift down into the core district. The chief’s residence occupied what had once been the ship’s dining hall—the most luxurious space in the entire wreck. Privilege, it seemed, thrived everywhere. Inside, an old man with white hair and tiny antique spectacles sat waiting. Negotiations with him were never easy, but after ten bottles of rum and five bags of fruit, he was at last satisfied. “Alas, President Wood,” the chief sighed, “to be honest, the cultivated mycelium has been ravaged by sand-rats this year. We cannot meet your guild’s needs. As for wild strands, there are but few. My influence has waned with age—these days the villagers hardly listen. Times are hard.” Outwardly, he lamented. Inwardly, he cursed: That damned Lin brat. He’s repaid the public debt, yet refuses to sell his harvest to the village. My thugs took a beating trying to force him—those lower decks are too treacherous. I should’ve lent him more money years ago, instead of that token sum from the relief fund. Who could have guessed the wretch would strike it rich? For years I’ve monopolized the fungus trade, lining my pockets. Am I to lose it all now? If he breaks the ‘reasonable’ price system, others may follow. That cannot be allowed. Wood bowed slightly, masking his thoughts. “No need to worry, Chief. We’ll take whatever the village can offer—it wouldn’t do to return empty-handed. As per our agreement: one hundred and twenty credits for low-grade, three hundred and twenty for mid-grade, seven hundred and twenty for high-grade. It’s late today—shall we begin trading tomorrow?” The chief was silent for a long moment before suddenly asking, “And the premium strains? We’ve managed to collect a little.” “Premium?” A gleam flashed in Wood’s eyes. He studied the old man, then replied carefully, “It’s been seven, eight years since Wreck Village last harvested any. Over-extraction has plagued all the caves. Premium mycelium has no fixed price—it’s always seller’s market. I’ll pay five times the high-grade rate: three thousand six hundred credits per kilo.” “Five times… three thousand six hundred a kilo. Twenty percent higher than seven years ago!” The chief’s eyes lit with satisfaction. After some thought, he nodded. “Very well. Give me three days. I’ll have it ready. You won’t be disappointed.” “Excellent. I’ll look forward to it. And a word of advice—the times are dangerous. The infamous Red Storm has entered the Ninth Sector. The capital is safe enough, but resource worlds are hiring mercenaries at great expense. The Red Storm takes everything—women and children included. Personally, I think even Green Ark is no longer safe. I’m using this journey to relocate my caravan. You might want to make preparations of your own.” The chief blinked, then laughed heartily. “You’re too humorous! Space pirates, here in Dust Ring? Our village is poorer than dirt. Aside from a few wasteful women and mischievous children, there’s nothing here worth stealing. The Red Storm wouldn’t waste the fuel it’d take to reach us.” Wood chuckled, conceding the point. He’d been overly cautious. Dust Ring lay on the far northwest fringe of the Ninth Sector—an early colony world, with fewer than three million people now, its development and environment both near zero. Even if the Red Storm came, they would hit the big oases, never Wreck Village. Neither Wood nor the chief knew that every word they spoke was reaching a third listener. In a crooked little room at the very bottom of the wreck, a black-haired boy lowered his headset and muttered, “The price is fair enough. Looks like I can finally pay back Uncle and Auntie.”