The Bitter Solution to Aging

The first spore was found clinging to a rotting log in the damp hollows of the Cascades, its cap a sickly gray-green, speckled with pinprick holes. Dr. Lena Voss, a mycologist with a taste for the overlooked, scraped it into a petri dish, expecting little more than another mold to file away. But when she fed it to the lab rats—half-starved after funding cuts left their cages barren—they didn’t just survive. They thrived. Their fur gleamed, their eyes sharpened, their lifespans stretched beyond the limits of rodent biology. Tests confirmed the impossible: stress markers evaporated, telomeres stood firm, aging itself seemed to pause.


She named it Mycovitae, the life-fungus. Word of its promise spread like wildfire: consume it, and you could halt time in your cells. But it came with a price—two, in fact. It tasted like ash and bile, a slimy bitterness that clawed its way down, and it only worked if you fasted for five days prior, purging every trace of food from your system. Then, every six months, you had to force it down again. Miss a dose, and time roared back, unforgiving as ever.


Fortunately, Mycovitae was tenacious. It sprouted on damp wood, in shadowed corners, even fractured concrete—anywhere moisture and neglect converged. By the time Dr. Voss published her findings, it was everywhere: basements, backyards, abandoned lots. It became as ubiquitous as weeds, its rancid stench a new constant in the air.


In the small coastal village of Greyhaven, Dirk Crane was among the first to try it. At fifty-three, his knees groaned from years hauling nets, and his hair had thinned to wisps, but he’d watched his mother wither under stress and time, and he’d be damned if he followed her into the grave. He fasted five days—water only, his stomach a hollow ache—then tore a fist-sized clump from the shed’s damp wall. It glistened, slick and uninviting, but he choked it down, retching as the taste coated his throat. For days, he felt only nausea. Then, one morning, he woke with a bounce in his step, his mirror reflecting a man a decade younger.


The ritual became his anchor. Every six months, he’d isolate himself, fasting until his ribs pressed against his skin, then shovel the fungus down, cursing its flavor. Greyhaven transformed around him. Fishermen worked with youthful vigor, grandmothers outran their grandkids along the shore. The fungus was free, abundant, a gift from the earth—but it demanded resolve. Some couldn’t bear the taste; others faltered at the hunger. They aged while their neighbors didn’t, a silent rift growing between the timeless and the ticking.


Dirk saw decades blur. At seventy, he looked forty, his hands deft as he mended nets. At ninety, he scaled cliffs with village teens who’d never known a world without Mycovitae. The fasting became routine, the taste tolerable with grit. But a question gnawed at him: was this living, or just clinging to existence? His memories stacked up—lovers lost, storms endured—yet his body bore no scars of them.


He might have stayed in Greyhaven, a fixture of its ageless rhythm, if not for a chance encounter. One evening, as he chewed his dose under a bruised-purple sky, a girl approached, no older than ten. “Why do you eat it?” she asked, scrunching her nose at the stench. “You’ve lived so long already.”
He paused, the fungus sour on his tongue. “Because I can,” he said, then tossed the rest into the waves. That night, he skipped the fast, letting time seep back in. The next morning, a faint wrinkle creased his face, and he smiled. But the girl’s question lingered, stirring something restless in him. He’d mastered survival—now he wanted more.


Dirk sold his boat, his nets, his shed overrun with Mycovitae. With the proceeds, he bought a ticket off-world, chasing rumors of opportunity in the asteroid belt. Earth was too small for him now, its damp corners too familiar. In 2087, at ninety-five but looking forty-five, he arrived at Ceres Station, a sprawling hub in the zero-g frontier. The belt was harsh—cold, airless, a maze of rock and metal—but it teemed with potential. Miners and haulers needed food, and Dirk saw his chance.


He started small, rigging a hydroponic tank in a derelict habitat module. Mycovitae thrived in zero-g, its spores adapting to float and settle on wet surfaces. He fed it nutrient slurry, coaxing it into thick, gray-green mats. It wasn’t just the life-fungus anymore—it was sustenance. Mixed with algae and protein paste, it became a crude but nourishing meal for belt workers, who cared less about taste than survival. Dirk fasted and ate it himself, keeping his body ageless as he worked.


Word spread. Miners called it “Crane’s Gruel,” a lifeline in the void. Dirk scaled up, leasing abandoned mining tunnels and flooding them with mist to grow Mycovitae in bulk. He hired drifters, taught them the fasting trick, and watched them join the timeless. His wealth grew—first in credits, then in influence. By 2092, he owned a dozen habitats, his aquaculture empire feeding half the belt. At a hundred and ten, he looked fifty, his hair thick again, his grip iron-strong.


He built a mansion on Vesta, a zero-g palace of steel and glass, its walls lined with Mycovitae vats. From there, he watched freighters haul his product across the belt, his name synonymous with survival. But the girl’s question still echoed. He’d conquered time, amassed riches, forged an empire—yet he felt hollow. Was this ambition, or just more stasis?


One day, a young pilot delivering supplies asked, “Why keep going, Crane? You’ve got everything.” Dirk stared out at the asteroid fields, the fungus humming in its tanks. “Because I can,” he said, but the words felt thin. That night, he skipped his dose, letting a new wrinkle carve his cheek. He smiled, wondering if time might finally teach him something wealth couldn’t.


Out in the belt, Mycovitae grew on, coating habitats and ship hulls, waiting for those who’d choose it—or wouldn’t.