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obscenity.

Four
On the ground, Star 475A
Mission time: 14.5 planet days and counting

    "That's an order, Jela. Prepare to embark." Chief Pilot Contado's voice was getting quieter, which was not a good sign.

    "We're not done here." Jela's voice also got quieter. He was standing on top of his den, half-facing the tree, what was left of his kit packed into his pockets.

    Contado stood beside the tree, towering over it, his permanent grimace accentuated by his squinted eyes in the shadows of the low sun. He was pointedly ignoring Jela's inclusion of the tree in the "we" of his intent.

    Around Jela were the remains of the hasty moist meal they'd given him, along with discarded med-packs—they'd hit him with doses of vitamins, inhalants of stim, sublinguals of anti-virals— and three empty water bulbs.

    Sated in many ways, refreshed naturally and artificially, shaded by his rescuers' craft, Jela felt stronger than he had in days, and as stubborn as the trees he'd followed to the ocean of sand.

    "I will take the tree with me," he said, very quietly indeed.

    "On board, dammit! Our launch window . . . " This was said loudly—meaning Jela had made a gain . . .

    "That launch window is an arbitrary time chosen by the pilot. You're working with guesses. There's nothing yet on the sensors . . . ."

    "Troop, this is not a biologicals run. I'm not . . . "

    "Chief, this tree saved my life. It and its kin fought off the sheriekas for . . . who knows how long . . . for dozens of centuries! There's no other reason I can think of that this system was left alone for so long, and why it's got so much attention now. We can't simply leave it unprotected."

    From inside the ship—off-com but still clearly audible—came Kinto's voice: "He wants to protect it, give him another gun and put him in charge. I told you it wasn't worth coming back for him . . . "

    There was a brangle of voices from within the ship and then:

    "Just moments to sundown, Chief. I've set a countdown, and Kinto's doing the pre-flights in case we need to boost directly to rendezvous."

    This new voice on the comms was Junior Pilot Tetran; and Jela bet himself that in addition to the pre-flights Kinto now owned either a bruise or a run of make-work when they got back to base— or both.

    Chief Pilot Contado looked at the tree, and at Jela, and then at the ship and beyond, holding a hand above his eyes.

    "Chief, as a bonus—I mean as recompense for being shot down while saving both the commander and the Trident , you can arrange it for me—" Jela murmured.

    There was a gasp at that, that he should so blatantly claim such a thing, but he pushed on, defiant.

    "And I promised, when I ate the fruit . . . I promised I'd save it if I could! All I need, sir, is . . . "

    Contado cut him off with a slash of the hand and a disdainful grunt.

    "Troop, if you insist on it, it's yours. You have until the ship lifts to take your souvenir. The quartermaster will charge carrying fees against your account—I'll not have that thing dignified as a specimen—and you'll report for trauma testing as soon as we arrive at an appropriate location."

    "I'd prefer to lift in daylight!" came the junior pilot's voice, merciless.

    Jela broke toward the tree, survival knife and blanket out, hoping he didn't kill the fool thing trying to save it!

    "We lift with or without you, Jela," said the Chief Pilot, and the wind carried his voice elsewhere, unanswered.
    * * *

    JELA WAS NOT A gardener, nor a tree surgeon, and if ever he'd felt a lack of training in his life it was now, on his knees on an alien planet, battle-knife in hand, facing the tree that had intentionally saved his life. His utility blanket was laid out beside it, and he fully intended to wrap the tree in that to carry it.

    "Thank you," he said, bowing, and tried to recall a life's worth of half-heard lore of those who had tread the forests on other worlds.

    And then, as there was absolutely