“How did you even get a live pine tree onto the space station?”
“Uh… the Magic of Christmas?”
It was sixteen Standard Distance Units tall. It was coated in sparkling lights, then coated again in shiny metallic fronds of tinsel, then covered in small, shiny objects, then covered in bows. And then, to top things off, whoever covered it over in all of this thought that that wasn’t enough, and started all over with the lights.
But it was still recognisable.
Ax'and'l did his best to refrain from gibbering.
“Like it?” said Hwell.
Of course he did this. They’d been stuck in Hitizzy for a month and it was dangerously close to Silly Season. On the upside, it was also dangerously close to the Terran custom of Christmas.
Which kind of explained the tree.
“We’ve been trapped in a sealed environment for a month! We’re surrounded by deadly, arc'ing plasma, so nobody can go anywhere. No foreign biota is allowed. No airlocks exist big enough to even import that thing. How did you even get a live pine tree onto this station?!”
“Uh…” Hwell was a picture of innocence. A picture of dubious origin, forged by three-year-olds with crayons and finger paints. This would probably end with an investigation from Station Security. And fees, fines, and biological clean-up. “The Magic of Christmas?”
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