There are three paths west taken by the meandering convoy, burdened with tons of the finest, hardest grains of sand known to man.

"We stop here for the day," Jon, the leader of this particular convoy, announces. Instantly, the group springs into action. Tents are stretched out with eager precision, people staking claims for the best spots, as they’ve done countless times before. The waste trenches are demarcated, watches are set, and scouts are dispatched to survey every direction—except backwards.

"We’ll rest for nine hours," Jon continues, "then we’ll be back on the sands. Sleep deeply while you can."

In no time, the camp settles into its familiar rhythm. Every tent fills, cooking fires flicker to life, and groups of families and friends gather, merging into a communal warmth. Up on the lookout, stationed at the dune crest, there’s a palpable sense of relief for the early end to the season. The mechanical equipment that lasted all day and the cycles that ran for weeks without breaking down signal a bountiful harvest—far exceeding expectations. S'bini, leader of the largest hold, is technically in charge of the convoy, but Jon is the pathfinder, navigating the treacherous sands with an instinct that doesn’t even require the stars.

"How much longer before we reach the first outpost?" S'bini asks as he joins Jon at the horizon's edge.

"Two more weeks to leave the deep Namib. After that, another two weeks to the first outpost, if things go smoothly."

"A month, then," S'bini says, hopeful.

"In a month, we’ll be richer than most middle-class citizens," Jon replies with a bitter smirk, "but we’ll have nothing new to buy and no one to bribe for passage out of this godforsaken desert."

S'bini snorts. "You’ve got a kid now. I thought you'd have given up on the dream of escaping this place long ago."

"It’s because I have a kid that I can’t stay here. This life isn’t the best I can offer him." Jon stares out into the desert, resentment heavy in his voice. His parents were exiled to this fourth-world prison isle after a corporate scandal, and he’s never forgotten the life before—the life he was supposed to live. He was meant to attend SpareSpace Academy and work for the SpareSpace Agency as a pilot, seeing the stars. But instead, he’s trapped in endless deserts.

The radio crackles. "Scout 1 reporting. Another convoy, about 20 people, is converging on our path from the northeast."

"Roger that," Jon responds. "Send someone to see if they want to join us. Strength in numbers."

"Copy that." The radio falls silent.

S'bini turns back to Jon. "How much sand did you collect this season?"

"Nearly a ton. It could set me and my family up for life—if we lived anywhere else. But here? I sell at the lowest prices and still can’t buy anything worthwhile, thanks to the import controls." Jon became a pathfinder with the dream of finding his own way out of this prison.

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"This is a prison colony, Jon," S'bini reminds him. "Your parents were sent here as punishment, but you grew up here. You don’t have to view it as a sentence. Life is simple here, but the corporations and the nobles don’t control us directly. We’re free to live as we choose."

"Free to live as we choose," Jon repeats, shaking his head. "As long as we mine tons of diamond sand for the corporations. Free to live in cities that are cesspools, barely able to sustain themselves."

The radio crackles again. "Scout 1 reporting. They’re desert ghosts. They request synth bags to collect sand."

The two men exchange a sad look. "Give them whatever they need," Jon says. "We’ve got extras."

"Copy that."

Jon exhales slowly. "See what I mean? We live like animals, and we throw our own to the sands to die just so we can hold onto the scraps this place allows us."

"I know you’ve got a plan brewing in that head of yours," S'bini says, watching his grandchild run toward him with a message from his mother.

"What plan could survive the trip across the ocean?" Jon deflects.

"If you’re going, you might as well take one of mine with you," S'bini says softly. "I’m going to have to expel Muhle next season. I'd rather not do it."

Jon chuckles. "He’s gotten too fat, hasn’t he?"

S'bini mutters, "Told him a hundred times to stop eating so much. The boy’s an eyesore."

Jon smirks, but the conversation is cut short as S'bini’s grandchild tugs at his hand. "Grandpa, mama says it’s time to eat."

"Coming, dear one," S'bini says, tousling the child's hair as they walk off together.

----------------------------------------

In the valley of sand between towering dunes, the convoy leaders, scouts, and planners gather in the central tent.

"There are three scavenger scouts on quad bikes here and here," the head scout, Dell, explains, pointing to the map. "Their main patrol will be further in, closer to Outpost Theta, like last season."

"Going around them would add five days to the journey," someone points out.

"If we take out their scouts, they won’t know we’re avoiding them," another suggests. "We can hit the outpost from the north gate."

"The moment we take out their scouts, they’ll know to look for us," Jon says grimly. "We have too many people to hide."

"We could split into smaller groups like last season. Let them chase one while the others slip through," a hold leader proposes. "They never have enough men to go after everyone."

"I won’t lead any group used as bait," Jon says, his voice cold, daring anyone to challenge him.

"I can kill the scavenger scouts," a calm voice interrupts.

All eyes turn to a middle-aged man wrapped tightly in fine fennec cloth, his lean muscles rippling as he grips a shock-staff. His presence is suddenly impossible to ignore.

"And who are you?" S'bini asks, breaking the tension. This man wasn’t part of the usual decision-making group, and his sudden arrival sets everyone on edge.

"I am Lisin," the man says, stepping forward. His short dark hair and deep, unreadable eyes make everyone uncomfortable. "I can kill the scavengers before they signal for help. Then my hold and I can ambush the rest when they come for the convoy."

The room goes silent as Lisin maps out his plan. Some leaders bristle at his arrogance, while others instinctively back away from the dangerous aura he exudes.

"Lisin is with the newcomers from the northeast," Dell clarifies. Implicitly, they are desert ghosts—survivors, perhaps sunmad.

"With no skinsuit, no rebreather?" one of the hold leaders scoffs. "You’re mad. We’ve never attacked scavengers first."

"That’s because you’ve never stood a chance before," Lisin replies, his voice cutting through the objections like a knife.

The room buzzes with angry murmurs, but Lisin only smirks and steps out. S'bini and Jon exchange glances, leaving Dell to continue the planning session.