“Dreadnought reclamation crew?” Zarrin repeated, the metallic tang of dried blood in her mouth suddenly sharp. The comm-link crackled again, a low hum of distant machinery now audible beneath the static. Bahram’s brow, still smudged with soot, furrowed. “The Khazarian Dreadnoughts. They patrol the Scourge-Wastes, sweeping up anything deemed ‘salvageable’ after a major skirmish. And by ‘salvageable,’ they mean anything that isn’t bolted down or hasn’t been utterly vaporized.” “Sector Four is ours,” Zarrin said, scraping grit from her teeth. “The raiders were just… clearing the path?” “Exactly. For the military. A clean sweep.” His gaze sharpened, meeting hers. “They’ll be here within the hour. Maybe less. These rigs, the weapons, the scrap from the bunker… it’s all fair game to them.” Her eyes scanned the ravaged landscape, the twisted metal carcasses of the raider rigs, the scattered munitions. A fortune, in Qizil-Kum currency. And it was about to be confiscated by the very forces that had allowed this sector to rot for years. “We move everything,” she declared, the words biting. “Now. Every last nut, bolt, and plasma slug. We turn these scavengers’ scrap into our ticket out.” Bahram gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Jiveh, help Zarrin with the crates.” The scaled hound, as if understanding the urgency, let out a short, eager bark and nudged a heavy weapons crate with its snout. The next hour was a blur of frantic, back-breaking labor. They stripped the raider rigs of their heavy repeater cannons, their power cells, their hardened plasteel plating. Zarrin discovered a stash of high-grade plasma charges, still humming with residual energy, while Bahram, with his solitary flesh hand and surprisingly agile peg-mount, expertly dismantled a precision targeting system from a wrecked transport. By the time the distant rumble of heavily armored treads vibrated through the ground, they had piled their loot, covered by tarps and camouflaged with rubble, deep within the hidden bunker. Zarrin wiped sweat from her brow, her muscles screaming in protest. “Well,” she wheezed, “that was a delightful morning stroll.” Bahram merely grunted, already sorting through a pile of salvaged power regulators. “The Grand Bazaar,” he said, his voice rough. “We need an ignition coil for the skiff’s primary thruster. High-yield, military grade.” “Got it,” Zarrin replied, picking up a heavy bag filled with plasma charges. “And enough Water-Tokens to buy out a small oasis. Let’s see what kind of ‘fair trade’ the merchants offer for these hot goods.” Two hours later, the Grand Bazaar of Qizil-Kum assaulted Zarrin’s senses. The air hung thick with roasted spiced grubs, cheap synth-ale, and the sharp, oily sting of diesel exhaust. Bellowing vendors hawked their wares – flickering comm-screens, refurbished sand-skiffs, stacks of dubious scrap, and racks of garish synth-fabric. Every few steps, a street urchin tried to pickpocket her, only to recoil from the glint of the knife she kept strapped to her forearm. Jiveh trotted beside Bahram, his snout low to the ground, occasionally snapping at a particularly persistent dust-beetle. Bahram, leaning heavily on his iron-banded cane, moved with a controlled, almost predatory slowness, his dark gaze sweeping over the crowds, missing nothing. He wore a heavy, hooded cloak that helped conceal his missing limbs, but his grim posture still bespoke a man who’d seen too much. “This place is a cesspit,” Zarrin muttered, shifting the strap of the heavy haversack on her shoulder, stuffed with their trade goods. “And I thought the Rust-Yards were bad.” “Survival of the greediest,” Bahram rumbled, his voice lost momentarily in the cacophony. “Keep an eye out for anything marked ‘Thrium-Core.’ The thruster needs it.” They pushed through a crush of haggling patrons, past stalls overflowing with polished chrome and repurposed circuitry. Then, a voice, shrill and utterly familiar, sliced through the din. “Oh, Kaveh, darling! This plot by the Obsidian Spire is simply divine. Imagine, three hundred hectares right on the edge of the Scourge-Wastes! So much potential for a private energy farm!” Zarrin froze. Parisa. And Kaveh. Her former fiancé looked pale, his usually immaculate robes rumpled, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool breeze filtering through the bazaar’s canopy. Parisa, however, glowed with self-satisfaction, her new, opulent synth-silk dress shimmering as she gestured grandly at a holographic map displayed by a smirking broker. The plots she pointed to were exactly where Zarrin knew the sand-tsunami would make landfall first. Parisa had future knowledge, but not the intellect to truly use it. She was buying a death sentence. “Parisa, perhaps we should discuss this privately,” Kaveh murmured, his voice tight, eyes darting nervously around. He caught sight of Zarrin, and his face hardened. “Well, well, if it isn’t the scavenger queen. Still rummaging through the trash, Zarrin?” Zarrin’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. “Unlike some, Kaveh, I know how to turn trash into treasure. Or perhaps, how to avoid buying a very expensive pile of mud.” Parisa scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, don’t be so bitter, Zarrin. You always were jealous of my superior foresight. Besides, now you have… Bahram. A truly fitting match.” She made a show of looking Bahram up and down, a sneer twisting her features. “A cripple and a pauper. How delightful.” Kaveh, emboldened by Parisa’s venom, reached into his own pocket and pulled out a single, gleaming Water-Token. “Here, Zarrin. For old times’ sake. Buy yourself a decent meal. You look… thin.” He held it out, a condescending smirk plastered on his face. Before Zarrin could respond, Jiveh, who had been sniffing around Kaveh’s expensive, polished boots, suddenly lifted a leg. A stream of yellow liquid arced through the air, splashing liberally across Kaveh’s left boot. The scent of canine urine instantly mingled with the bazaar's already potent odors. “Jiveh!” Kaveh shrieked, recoiling in disgust, his smirk evaporating. “You disgusting beast!” A hulking enforcer, a man built like a cargo loader, stepped forward, his hand reaching for a stun-baton at his hip. “Easy, worm. Watch your dog.” Bahram moved. Not fast, but with an economy of motion that belied his missing limbs. His remaining hand, wrapped in a jury-rigged contraption of scrap metal and reinforced leather, shot out like a piston. It clamped around the man's wrist before he could even twitch. A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden silence that had fallen around them. The hired muscle's jaw dropped, sweat breaking across his temple. The stun-baton clattered to the ground as his hand went limp, uselessly dangling at an unnatural angle. Bahram’s grip tightened, an almost imperceptible tremor running through his prosthetic leg. Kaveh stumbled back, pale and shaking, looking from his ruined boot to his incapacitated hired hand. “He has a name,” Bahram said, his voice low, a lethal current running beneath the calm. “And he responds to it, unlike some people’s pet projects.” His gaze flickered to Parisa, who had gone utterly still, her mouth slightly agape. “Perhaps you should train your own instead of trying to control others, cousin.” Zarrin watched Kaveh’s face contort, a mixture of outrage and terror. Parisa, for once, was speechless. The cracks in their stolen marriage were already showing, wide and jagged. This, Zarrin thought, was going to be more satisfying than any revenge she could have concocted. “Let’s go, Bahram,” she said, her voice brimming with mock concern. “Wouldn’t want to dirty our hands with such… unrefined company.” She gave Kaveh a sweet, mocking smile as they turned to leave, leaving the stench of urine and the hireling's whimpers behind them. They found a dealer in a cramped, oil-stained stall, surrounded by humming engine parts. The sign overhead read, “Rostam’s Reliable Rotors.” He was a squat man with grease-stained fingers and eyes that gleamed with avarice. Bahram pointed to a specific, heavy-duty ignition coil, glowing faintly with residual energy. “Thrium-Core. How much?” The dealer's eyes flickered from the coil to Bahram, then to Zarrin, sizing them up. He ran a greasy hand over his chin. “Ah, a connoisseur. That’s a military-grade pulse coil. Fresh off a collapsed Sky-Cruiser, they say. Not many left in Qizil-Kum with that kind of output.” He paused, his gaze settling on Bahram’s prosthetic leg. The custom-built, steel-braced limb, a marvel of scrap-metal engineering, pulsed faintly with integrated power cells. “For that,” Rostam said, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face, “I’ll take that leg of yours. The mechanical one.” Twenty-nine days left before the sand-tsunami. And the dealer was asking for Bahram’s only functional artificial limb. “Are you insane?” she snarled, stepping forward. “Supply and demand, scavenger,” the dealer replied, shrugging. “A Thrium-Core coil is worth more than a man’s walk in these times. Especially for a cripple.” Bahram stood still, his gaze unblinking. Zarrin looked from the gleaming coil to Bahram’s steel leg, then back to the dealer’s expectant, greedy face. This wasn’t just a trade; it was a sacrifice. And they needed that coil more than they needed air. “Fine,” Zarrin said, her voice barely a whisper, a cold dread seeping into her bones. “But you’ll give us a demonstration. Right here. Right now.” Bahram shifted his weight, and a metallic whine echoed in the small stall. The countdown to oblivion continued. They had to get that coil. But at what cost?

The Fool's Gold