Sporin Capwell held nine spore-pods in their cap and had to pick one, knowing eight of their kin would die on a moon that had never grown a single mushroom. The pods rattled in a wooden tray on the launch table. Sporin's big green eyes moved down the row. Each pod held a different fungal strain: red desert-clingers, blue frost-eaters, pale things that drank stone. Their colony had chosen Sporin for this. One strain might root in the barren moon. The wrong one would rot in the lifeless soil, and the whole colony with it. The moon's dirt sat in a jar beside the tray. A scout had carried it back last season. Gray, dry, and dead. No worm had ever turned it. Sporin pressed a cool palm against the glass and felt nothing living answer. Guessing meant gambling with kin. Sporin refused to guess. They pulled the portable analyzer from their satchel and screwed the pointed probe into the jar. The screen woke with a clean blue glow. Numbers climbed and settled. pH 8.9. Moisture 4 percent. Sporin read it twice. The soil was harsh and bone-dry. Most of their strains needed damp, gentle ground. Those pods would die within a day. Only the stone-drinkers, the pale ones, could hold in dirt this dry and bitter. Sporin's chest tightened. One pod out of nine. That narrowed the choice, but it did not make the dead soil ready to feed anything. A soft glow drifted over the tray. Sporin's pet cave moth landed on the jar's rim, wings pulsing faint blue. It had followed Sporin since the deep tunnels, drawn to warmth. Now it crawled toward a small clay dish at the table's edge, where a single green beetle sat waiting. Sporin watched the beetle. Their kin bred these creatures to wake dead ground. The beetle pulled nitrogen from the air and pressed it into the earth. One beetle could not fix a whole moon. But a beetle turned poison dirt into soil a hungry strain could bite. The plan clicked into place. Not one choice. Two, working together. Sporin chose the pale stone-drinker pod and set it apart from the rest. Then they lifted the clay dish with the green beetle and placed it beside the pod. The moth lifted off and circled, glowing. "You go first," Sporin told the beetle. "Then them." Sporin sealed the eight losing pods in a drawer. It hurt to shut them away. But the analyzer had spoken, and guessing would have killed everyone. The launch was set for dawn. Sporin now knew what to plant and how to prepare the ground. One strain. One beetle to break the soil first. But a single beetle worked slow, and the moon held whole plains of dead dirt. Sporin stared at the lone green shell in the dish and understood the next problem. One would never be enough.

Dawn came, but the launch did not. Sporin stood on the launch table with the pale pod in one hand and the beetle's clay dish in the other. The moon hung in the sky, gray and far. Sporin had a strain that would live there. They had a beetle to wake the dead soil. But they had no way to cross the void between the planet and the barren moon. Nothing here could fly that far. The pod and beetle stayed grounded, and the arc goal stayed a dream. Sporin searched the launch table's storage racks. They found old scout gear, empty jars, a broken probe. No ship. No pod-carrier. Their kin had sent scouts back with soil, but no scout had left a vessel behind. Sporin's chest went tight. A whole plan, ready, and no boat to carry it. The cave moth landed on Sporin's shoulder and pulsed blue, but a moth could not cross space. Then the gray dirt in the sample jar moved. Sporin froze. A small hand pushed up through the dead soil inside the glass. The hand was clear and hard, cut into tiny flat faces like a gem. A head followed, then a whole little body, no taller than the jar. Light bent through it in soft colors. Two large dark eyes opened, each holding a bright yellow spark. The creature had ridden back in the scout's soil, asleep in the dirt of its own moon. Sporin lifted the jar with both hands. "You're from the moon," they whispered. "You lived in that dead ground." The crystal being climbed onto the jar's rim and looked at the pod in Sporin's hand. It pointed one sharp finger at the pale spores, then at the sky. Sporin understood. It knew the barren moon. It knew the way home. "I'm Sporin," they said, kneeling low. "I want to grow these on your moon. But I have no ship." The little alien tapped its own chest. "Lumis Stellara." Its voice chimed, thin and clear. Then it hopped down and crossed the table, straight to a dusty crate Sporin had passed over twice. Lumis pressed both hands against the crate and pushed. Sporin helped pry the lid. Inside sat a sleek shell of metal and glass, small enough to carry, shaped to cradle a pod. Blue light ran along its seams. A clear chamber waited at its center, sized for spores. The scouts had brought it back and never opened it. Lumis had known it was here. Sporin set the pale pod into the glass chamber. The lights woke and glowed green around it. The beetle's dish fit in a slot below. The chamber sealed with a soft hiss. Sporin now had a vessel. They had a guide who knew the moon. The dead dirt in the jar had hidden a friend, not just poison. Sporin looked up at the gray moon and no longer felt it was out of reach.

The vessel sat sealed and ready, its green lights steady. Sporin reached for the launch switch. Lumis Stellara jumped onto their hand and pressed one sharp crystal finger against the glass chamber. The little moon creature shook its head hard. Its yellow eyes flared. Sporin stopped. "What's wrong?" Sporin asked. "The pod is loaded. The beetle is loaded. We can go." Lumis pointed up at the gray moon. Then it held both hands over its own crystal body, like a shield, and made a hissing sound. It pointed at the pale spores and drew a finger across its throat. Sporin's stomach dropped. They understood. The moon had no air, no cloud, nothing to soften the sun. Raw light would pour down on the ground. The spores would cook the moment they landed. Sporin sank onto the launch table. The whole plan, the vessel, the guide, and it all died at the finish line. "They'll burn," they whispered. "Before a single thread can root." Lumis tugged Sporin's sleeve and led them to the scout gear. It dug through a jar of moon dirt with both hands. Something moved inside. Lumis lifted it out and set it on Sporin's palm. A tiny creature, no bigger than a seed, walked in slow steps. Its shell shimmered in stacked bands of color, red into gold into blue, hard as cut glass. It had ridden back in the same dead soil as Lumis, alive after crossing the void. Sporin held their breath. This creature had already survived the moon's raw sun. Its shell had shrugged off the burning light. "You lived out there," Sporin said. "The radiation did