"Wow, big." 

She settles near the base and reaches forward to grip the trunk with her smooth, round claws while harder edges on her foremost four feet come up to saw at the trunk. 

"Yeah, it's a big one, even for Bronzewood trees. There's probably... Twenty, thirty consignments of the good stuff in this. The rest gets used too, but it's less good."

The tree resists; Its whole body is as as tough as metal armor. But not forever.

She softens the stuff directly under her feet with a few well-placed murmurs of Correspondence. 

The tree shudders and surrenders its hold to the ground. Birds and other, more ground-bound creatures, flee the canopy as quickly as they can.

"Prince Albert's teeth, that would've taken a crew of six at least two weeks to fell and worn out a whole crate of tools. Bit less with explosives."

She grips it carefully so it doesn't fall and crush anything, lifting off. 

"Oh good, looks like I won't have to resort to pulling teeth for quick cash." 

"Do you still want to look for Hours to experiment with? We could probably - just buy some, at the Reserve. You, uh, might be kind of alarming if you go in all big, though."

"More or less alarming than if I go in looking mostly normal but also physically dragging this." 

"Well, we could core out a few timbers of the heartwood and be carrying that. A few spare Hours can be got for just ten Sovereigns, I reckon."

"How do we do that? Do we need tools? For anything more complicated than just cutting in a straight line or along a specific fault in the grain or whatever I don't think I'm going to be able to be very precise." 

"Our mining gear should be able to manage it. It's part the wreck we put on you instead of giving the Marauders. Mining rigs are valuable machinery."

"...It'd go faster with more people, though. I'd have to get the boiler up to enough steam to drive it. And a big part of me is worried that you won't - be able to get them back. 'M trying to be helpful, but. Yeah."

"I can fix them now that the marauders aren't around if they won't freak out at me being like this." 

"They probably will. I'm pretty freaked. Just - good at functioning through it? And I know you're nice."

"Okay." 

She lays them out so they won't wake up all piled up with elbows digging into kidneys, and then--

It's like flipping a switch. One moment she's crystal-clear, the next a gentle glow renders her opaque. A light like that suddenly happening so close to one's eyes ought to hurt, but it doesn't. 

Flesh knits. The dead wake. 

She rushes over and takes off the sky-suit helmet and starts babbling an explanation. The Tacketies are mostly stunned and confused - several seem to think that they're on the way to Heaven together at first. Her father hugs her in his bloody tattered shirt.

"June, I- That sounds really hard. And it seems like you kept your head. That's my girl. You okay?" June nods rapidly, crying into her father's collar. "And, uh... Miss Whitman, of course, I have to thank you as well."

She shrinks down, pulls on her dress, and curtsies. 

"You're welcome. I really really don't like people being dead." 

He winces a bit. "Seems a hard thing to dislike, but admirable. And our cause of independence is almost orthogonal to your cause, seeing as we're willing to fight for it. That's what makes a Tackety a Tackety, as opposed to just a homesteader or common worker."

"I mean I don't like death because death is bad, not because I'm like a devil but for alive people instead of souls. I also don't like suffering and oppression."

"Ideologists can be very particular. I didn't- Well, nevermind. Thanks again. I think we'll be able to cobble together something that flies as far as the main part of the Reserve from here, given time. But I understand you'd like most of this fine tree. We'll set to processing it. Shouldn't be but a few hours to get the whole thing gorged down."

"We'll need some odds and ends. And food and fuel," June interrupts. "Couple hundred Sovereigns should be more than enough to hire someone to bring it out if you don't want to alarm anybody, Lucy. And I promised to show you how Hours work."

"It'll take about an hour before we have a consignment of Bronzewood ready to go."

"That's fair. My ideology is 'I want people to be okay, or if possible better.' I don't think alarming people is going to be possible to avoid in the long run but it's usually good where possible. If you're going to be a while I might go off for a bit and come back, if you don't mind." 

"Not at all, not at all."

The rest of the Tacketies cheer and wave their thanks, before the captain starts waving them off to work on the salvage from their engine.

She changes back again and goes off to investigate the bees. 

The first swarm of chorister-bees she spots attempt to flee from the Messenger-like being that suddenly appeared. Their wariness of her is something deeply ingrained.

Each one bears a sigil scarred into its back - "A mistake, forged into a triumph."

Ignorance at the source of another's fear. Concern for the well-being of one displaying wariness, she calls. 

Fear caused by another's ancestry. An ancient injustice, still resented. Doubt regarding another's honesty.

An uncertainty as to which facet of one's ancestry is being referred to.