1.18-Gardens of Acid

Get the Soundtrack ⁠here⁠: [Transcript]Ugrians are a strange folks. Half descended from humanoids some six and a half million years ago and an earlier kind of Hemotripe, tall gymnosperms found at home over on Petrichor VIII. Arboreal world protected by stratis-palms, orbit breaching plants with sap caustic enough to eat through vitro-plastic. Valued in the Yontis medical community. Only thing that can get through Fetus Snail Shells for surgery.Transport is dangerous, though. Memkin VIII is a protected site for Ugrians. Tablet of sanctioned entry’s required for any off-worlders. The planet and its moon, Ichor, are under the eye of the Cornerstone Armada. Deceptively simple ships made of stone. BUt hidden in their ranks are the Spears of Rain. Long pillars made from enriched wedkitsite. Not a fierce deterrent. To the uninitiated. Ground level, the rich biosphere washes over you. Modrakeets and Zeteel Salamanders roam wild Besher grain fields, their iron red stems shaking in the chlorine rich air. Calls ring out from kell stalkers in the nearby woods and a line of chit bugs crawl over my boots. I can feel the soft give in the sulfuric earth as I follow my Ugrian guide to the fallen stratis-palm three kilometers from the landing site. I can already hear the music.Its fronds shade a third of the sky. Already decomposing, I can feel the static build up around the felled giant. I’m careful not to touch and tommil ferns as we walk, though I have my respirator and arc suit on for protection.The trunk of the palm looms up before us. 4 kilometers diameter, a swarm of other harvesters teaming around the contact point on the ground. Flashing fires dot the campsites as harvesters gather around sodium contact burners. I recognize Ketta across the way who waves back with a mandible. Good to see she’s back in the game this year.I set up my fluoropolymer tent and tap the trunk with my ceramic spike. Stratis-palm sap is thixotropic so the spike vibrates to increase the drip rate. It’ll take at least 76 hours to get a good pour so I take some seat by Ketta’s contact burner. She’s already got her stringed lyther out, strumming absently as a waxing Ich or crests the horizon. The moon silhouettes the Spears of Rain in orbit and I settle in.