2951-04-26 – Tales from the Service: The Pale Tree 

Sagittarius Gate is a strange place. 

There are no worlds here. That means that no matter where your ship is, no matter what direction you look, there’s nothing green to look at. Spacers used to arriving at a port and seeing a green (or at least brown) planet dominating local space might find the main port here quite unsettling; it’s just floating out here, without even a large asteroid in the vicinity. 

As has been hinted at in this feed and covered by other people, the spaceport here is unique in other respects among military facilities. It grew out of a civilian installation and still has a number of civilian trade-station features, including a sizable population of civilian residents and refugees living aboard, not all of which is human. 

The admiralty has taken pains to construct a large low-gee garden habitat pod aboard the spaceport. Though the greenery is not fully mature (and some specimens may not be for nearly a decade), the facility remains a staple of the limited shore leave available to Navy spacers here. 

Unfortunately, this facility’s rapid construction means that its collection of plant specimens is as non-standard as the rest of Sagittarius Gate. Many sections were populated with xenobotanical specimens harvested before the war on Sagittarius worlds, and not all of these are fully understood. While most were generally regarded as safe, this account of events only a few months ago suggests that at least one supposedly benign species proved itself to be a source of unending trouble. It was removed from the public garden shortly afterward, and yes, the names and postings of the miscreants in this account have been scrambled to protect them from embarrassment.

Director Roland Vang glanced between the two red-faced spacers sitting in his office. The one on the left, a man who the station’s computer identified as Petty Officer Ogden from the fleet tender Annette Gabler, kept his eyes fixed on the window looking out over the steam-wreathed foliage of the station’s botanical garden. The woman on the right, one Technician Aritza from the cruiser Angeljay, was performing an in-depth study of the patterned carpet covering the office’s deck plating. Both were wearing botanical staff coveralls, though neither had any business doing so. 

“Where did you find them?” Roland looked up to the botanical technician who had brought them in, who was still holding his pruning hook. Perhaps, he considered, it was time to reconsider the rule that precluded his subordinates from carrying side-arms while on duty. 

“Sector Five, Terrace G.” The technician sneered at the backs of the pair of miscreants. “Put ‘em out an airlock, boss. They trampled almost half of the Ulora Sweetlilies.” 

Roland winced. He had no authority to perform summary executions, and the technician knew it, but the destruction of several dozen of such a rare and difficult-to-propagate xeno-specimen would certainly be felt for some time. Replacement seed-bulbs would have to be brought from Hegemony space, on the other side of the Reach, then shipped across the Gap, then painstakingly planted and encouraged. Terrace G would not be the same for nearly a full Terran year. 

“I’ll take care of them.” Roland waved to the botanical tech.  

The man tossed his pruning hook over one shoulder and went out. Within seconds of the door closing behind him, an autonomous vacuum detached itself from the wall and began collecting the clods of muddy dirt his boots, and the boots of the two troublemakers had shed. 

Roland clasped his hands behind his back and turned around, knowing this would further discomfort his already uneasy guests. “Did you know that our little garden was recently designated a war-critical facility?” He kept his tone carefully neutral, without a hint of the disgust for these spacer heathens. He’d spent nearly two years organizing the greatest Sisyphean task ever imagined, the construction of a living leisure-garden hundreds of light-years from the nearest safe planet, and all it would take was a few dozen idiots like these two to pull it all down around his ears. 

The man remained silent, but after a long pause, the woman dared to speak. “Can we go?” 

Roland shrugged. “If you are content that my report on this incident uses the word ‘sabotage’ for your behavior, Miss Aritza, then yes. You may leave.” 

The implications took a moment to sink in. The punishment for sabotage of a war-critical resource was decades in lockup, and as Navy spacers, both had only the stern mercies of a scowling drumhead tribunal to plead their innocence to. In that sort of court, intent meant very little, if not nothing. 

“Now wait a damned minute!” Petty Officer Ogden stood up from his chair, his stolen botanical-tech coverall stretching around a frame several sizes too large for it. “We’re not saboteurs!” 

“Oh?” Roland looked over his shoulder for just a moment, then turned back to study the art print mounted to the bulkhead behind his desk. The print was of a painting that had once hung, in original, in his father’s office in the Xianping Arboretum. “What other explanation is there for stealing uniforms? Entering unauthorized areas? Destroying valuable specimens? Attempting to flee from my staff when confronted?” He paused for a moment, but not long enough to let either formulate an answer. "You will forgive me for seeing no other motive.” 

“No other-” 

“Hans.” Aritza interrupted her erstwhile partner. “Sit down. Let’s just tell him about the tree.” 

Roland finally turned around to face the pair. The man, scowling and folding his arms, at first looked ready to protest, but he seemed to deflate and sat back down. 

Roland barely paid the man any attention as he flopped back into his chair. His eyes were on the woman. She was not yet twenty-five, and rather pretty, with dark hair, long eyelashes, and light-bronze skin that suggested an arid-climate upbringing even trillions of kilometers away from any natural climate. 

What had his attention wasn’t her looks, though. It was the way her face was flushed. It wasn’t mere shame that had reddened her cheeks and spilled color down her neck past her collarbone where it vanished into her baggy stolen coverall. No, this was something else. Something more complicated than miscreancy caught in the act. It almost seemed like – dare he think it – arousal. 

Roland pulled his chair out from under the desk and sat down, perching his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. “Do elaborate.” If the pair had wanted a simple tryst, there were hundreds of better places to find privacy on the sprawling station than the botanical garden. Only the most drunken spacers would try to find the privacy for sexual contact in the hydroponic terraces, and these two clearly hadn’t been drunk. 

“We’re sorry about the flowers.” Ogden muttered at length. “We were trying to get close to the tree behind them.” 

Roland called up the inventory system and pulled up a specimen map of Section Five, Terrace G. There were three tree-like specimens planted behind the Sweetlilies, positioned to arch overhead while the flowers dangled over the side toward the pathway. One was a weeping mulberry all the way from Earth, another a Red Zipthorn from Maribel, and the third was an unremarkable local Sagittarian specimen which had no name, only a botanical catalog number. 

“This tree, here?” Roland pointed to the unnamed species in the hologram. “The one with light bark and brownish foliage?” 

“Er... Yes.” Ogden nodded, still avoiding Roland’s gaze. “It's a nice tree.” 

“And?” 

“A really nice tree.” It was Aritza who answered, her blush deepening. “It has something of a potent effect... It kept us busy almost two shifts the first time.” 

Roland didn’t need it spelled out any more clearly. “Are you trying to tell me that tree emits some sort of aphrodisiac?”