This world, this place called Earth, had become a bit of a dump really. As parched and brittle as a biscuit left too long in the sun. No longer the tiny blue dot of legend, more a rusty blemish. Most people, of course, had long since launched themselves off into the diaspora of space, endlessly frozen in cryo-cabinets until their vast transports finally arrive at the blue-green planet of their choice. Defrosted, they’ll be decanted to colonise, multiply and destroy. Parasites, that’s what the inter-galactic council classifies the bald monkeys as. And they’re probably right. Parasites every one. But back here, on Earth, Horace McNubbins was after a job. And not just any job. In fact, there remained only one truly desirable job: Archivist of the Last Tree, and Horace McNubbins intended to become that archivist.

The Tree stood in the middle of what had once been an ocean. Now, that ocean was a salt flat, clouded and stained with the remains of chemical pollutants, it is nevertheless dazzlingly pink-white in the blistering sunlight that occasionally managed to breakthrough the almost interminable cloud cover. The Tree was the only green thing left on Earth, and that meant it was precious. How it survived, nobody really knew, but survive it did. It was said that those who got close enough to smell its leaves either burst into tears or spontaneously composed poetry. Some shockingly profligate extrovert types did both.

“Desirable”, in job terms, was, of course, subjective. The Archivist’s role involved both ensuring the Tree’s survival and documenting the lives of those who visited it, which ranged from the pointless, but nasty, that is to say, politicians seeking inspiration for re-election speeches to the merely pointless ascetics wanting to absorb its mystical aura. There actually weren’t many other sorts of human left on Earth. But for Horace McNubbins, most importantly, the Archivist was allowed to sit in its shade and this was more appealing than immortality. Horace had strong views on immortality since, as far as he could tell, living forever meant having more time to regret your life choices. This in a time when almost every bald monkey was able, through longevity medimachines and cryo-cabinets, to live for multiple centuries. Shade, was something. Shade, especially the type of dappled shade The Tree provided, was a luxury. Shade was hope.

The job interview took place in the bowels of FoodSys Corp, the planet’s sole remaining food production company. FoodSys was not only a vast monopoly, but also owned the rights to the land the Tree stood on. FoodSys Corp made food for half the galaxy. Nobody was entirely sure what they made it from and nobody dared even ask. Horace was one of three finalists for the job. His competitors were Doris Flample, a no-nonsense bureaucrat who could calculate just about anything faster than most people could look it up through an AI implant, and Grogg M’Thrak, a seven-foot-tall humanoid, not a baseline bald monkey but something worryingly close. Saying his name out loud sounded a lot like a belch.

They sat in a semi-circle before the Interviewer, who was wearing the ceremonial robes of the Arboreal Order, although actually, he was just some HR twonk in a pointy hat, there having been nobody in the Arboreal Order for five hundred years. The robes and pointy hat were impressive though. Made of synthetic silk, obviously, because silk moths, like everything else, had gone extinct centuries ago. But still, very swishy.

The Interviewer cleared his throat. “Candidates, welcome. The position of Archivist requires diligence, wisdom, and the ability to resist the urge to hug the Tree. Do you possess these qualities?” He asked each candidate in turn.

Doris replied with a snappy, highly logical set of sentences which boiled down to “I’m immune to sentimentality”. Grogg boomed on at length, flexing his not inconsiderable musculature while he did so. His pitch, essentially boiled down to “I respect the Tree”.

Horace, who felt more than a little nervous said “I’ve never met the Tree, or even seen one, but I think I’d like to ask it some questions. About what it’s seen in its long years of solitude. You know.”

The Interviewer raised a rather supercilious eyebrow. “You are aware that the Tree does not speak?”

“Oh, I know,” said Horace, “obviously. But it listens, doesn’t it? I mean, I just think someone should listen back. We might learn something. We might understand enough to help keep the Tree alive. We might even, one day, be able to propagate more trees.”

There was a long silence. Doris had a face like someone sucking a lemon, not that there were any actual lemons in this spiral arm of the galaxy anymore, while Grogg just tilted his head, flexed a deltoid or two and looked perplexed. The HR twonk considered the implications for the bottom line of FoodSys Corp.

The Interviewer’s gaze lingered on Horace. “Curious. Very curious indeed,” he said.

Later that day, as Doris drank a glass of faux-bubbly with her circle of faux-friends to celebrate getting her new faux-job. Grogg moved some heavy things about and sweated. Horace sighed and wondered, not for the first time, why nothing seemed to make any sense.