Zoe`s Tale

ONE

The flying saucer landed on our front yard and a little green man got out of it.

It was the flying saucer that got my attention. Green men aren't actually unheard of where I come from. All the Colonial Defense Forces were green; it's part of the genetic engineering they do on them to help them fight better. Chlorophyll in the skin gives them the extra energy they need for truly first-class alien stomping.

We didn't get many Colonial Defense Force soldiers on Huckleberry, the colony I lived on; it was an established colony and we hadn't been seriously attacked in a couple of decades. But the Colonial Union goes out of its way to let every colonist know all about the CDF, and I knew more about them than most.

But the flying saucer, well. That's novel. New Goa is a farming community. Tractors and harvesters and animal-drawn wagons, and wheeled public buses when we wanted to live life on the edge and visit the provincial capital. An actual flying transport was a rare thing indeed. Having one small enough for a single passenger land on our lawn was definitely not an everyday occurrence.

"Would you like Dickory and me to go out and meet him?" asked Hickory. We watched from inside the house as the green man pulled himself out of the transport.

I looked over at Hickory. "Do you think he's an actual threat? I think if he wanted to attack us, he could have just dropped a rock on the house while he was flying over it."

"I am always for prudence," Hickory said. The unsaid portion of that sentence was when you are involved. Hickory is very sweet, and paranoid.

"Let's try the first line of defense instead," I said, and walked over to the screen door. Babar the mutt was standing at it, his front paws up on the door, cursing the genetic fate that left him without opposable thumbs or the brains to pull the door instead of pushing on it. I opened the door for him; he took off like a furry heat-seeking slobber missile. To the green man's credit, he took a knee and greeted Babar like an old friend, and was generously coated in dog drool for his pains.

"Good thing he's not soluble," I said to Hickory.

"Babar is not a very good watchdog," Hickory said, as it watched the green man play with my dog.

"No, he's really not," I agreed. "But if you ever need something really moistened, he's got you covered."

"I will remember that for future reference," Hickory said, in that noncommittal way designed for dealing with my sarcasm.

"Do that," I said, and opened the door again. "And stay in here for now, please."

"As you say, Zoë," Hickory said.

"Thanks," I said, and walked out to the porch.

By this time the green man had gotten to the porch steps, Babar bouncing behind him. "I like your dog," he said to me.

"I see that," I said. "The dog's only so-so about you."

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"You're not completely bathed in saliva," I said.

He laughed. "I'll try harder next time," he said.

"Remember to bring a towel," I said.

The green man motioned to the house. "This is Major Perry's house?"

"I hope so," I said. "All his stuff is here."

This earned me about a two-second pause.

Yes, as it happens, I am a sarcastic little thing. Thanks for asking. It comes from living with my dad all these years. He considers himself quite the wit; I don't know how I feel about that one, personally, but I will say that it's made me pretty forward when it comes to comebacks and quips. Give me a soft lob, I'll be happy to spike it. I think it's endearing and charming; so does Dad. We may be in the minority with that opinion. If nothing else it's interesting to see how other people react to it. Some people think it's cute. Others not so much.

I think my green friend fell into the "not so much" camp, because his response was to change the subject. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think I know who you are."

"I'm Zoë," I said. "Major Perry's daughter. Lieutenant Sagan's, too."

"Oh, right," he said. "I'm sorry. I pictured you as younger."

"I used to be," I said.

"I should have known you were his daughter," he said. "You look like him in the eyes."

Fight the urge, the polite part of my brain said. Fight it. Just let it go.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm adopted."

My green friend stood there for a minute, doing that thing people do when they've just stepped in it: freezing and putting a smile on their face while their brain strips its gears trying to figure how it's going to extract itself out of this faux pas. If I leaned in, I could probably hear his frontal lobes go click click click click, trying to reset.

See, now, that was just mean, said the polite part of my brain.

But come on. If the guy was calling Dad "Major Perry," then he probably knew when Dad was discharged from service, which was eight years ago. CDF soldiers can't make babies; that's part of their combat-effective genetic engineering, don't you know—no accidental kids—so his earliest opportunity to spawn would have been when they put him in a new, regular body at the end of his service term. And then there's the whole "nine months gestation" thing. I might have been a little small for my age when I was fifteen, but I assure you, I didn't look seven.

Honestly, I think there's a limit to how bad I should feel in a situation like that. Grown men should be able to handle a little basic math.

Still, there's only so long you can leave someone on the hook. "You called Dad 'Major Perry,'" I said. "Did you know him from the service?"

"I did," he said, and seemed happy that the conversation was moving forward again. "It's been a while, though. I wonder if I'll recognize him."

"I imagine he looks the same," I said. "Maybe a different skin tone."

He chuckled at that. "I suppose that's true," he said. "Being green would make it a little more difficult to blend in."

"I don't think he would ever quite blend in here," I said, and then immediately realized all the very many ways that statement could be misinterpreted.

And of course, my visitor wasted no time doing just that. "Does he not blend?" he asked, and then bent down to pat Babar.

"That's not what I meant," I said. "Most of the people here at Huckleberry are from India, back on Earth, or were born here from people who came from India. It's a different culture than the one he grew up in, that's all."

"I understand," the green man said. "And I'm sure he gets along very well with the people here. Major Perry is like that. I'm sure that's why he has the job he has here." My dad's job was as an ombudsman, someone who helps people cut through government bureaucracy. "I guess I'm just curious if he likes it here."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I was just wondering how he's been enjoying his retirement from the universe, is all," he said, and looked back up at me.

In the back of my brain something went ping. I was suddenly aware that our nice and casual conversation had somehow become something less casual. Our green visitor wasn't just here for a social call.

"I think he likes it fine," I said, and kept from saying anything else. "Why?"

"Just curious," he said, petting Babar again. I fought off the urge to call my dog over. "Not everyone makes the jump from military life to civilian life perfectly." He looked around. "This looks like a pretty sedate life. It's a pretty big switch."

"I think he likes it just fine," I repeated, putting enough emphasis on the words that unless my green visitor was an absolute toad, he'd know to move on.

"Good," he said. "What about you? How do you like it here?"

I opened my mouth to respond, and then shut it just as quickly. Because, well. There was a question.

The idea of living on a human colony is more exciting than the reality. Some folks new to the concept think that people out in the colonies go from planet to planet all the time, maybe living on one planet, working on another and then having vacations on a third: the pleasure planet of Vacationaria, maybe. The reality is, sadly, far more boring. Most colonists live their whole lives on their home planet, and never get out to see the rest of the universe.

It's not impossible to go from planet to planet, but there's usually a reason for it: You're a member of the crew on a trade ship, hauling fruit and wicker baskets between the stars, or you get a job with the Colonial Union itself and start a glorious career as an interstellar bureaucrat. If you're an athlete, there's the Colonial Olympiad every four years. And occasionally a famous musician or actor will do a grand tour of the colonies.

But mostly, you're born on a planet, you live on a planet, you die on a planet, and your ghost hangs around and annoys your descendants on that planet. I don't suppose there's really anything bad about that—I mean, most people don't actually go more than a couple dozen kilometers from their homes most of the time in day-to-day life, do they? And people hardly see most of their own planet when they do decide to wander off. If you've never seen the sights on your own planet, I don't know how much you can really complain about not seeing a whole other planet.

But it helps to be on an interesting planet.

In case this ever gets back to Huckleberry: I love Huckleberry, really I do. And I love New Goa, the little town where we lived. When you're a kid, a rural, agriculturally-based colony town is a lot of fun to grow up in. It's life on a farm, with goats and chickens and fields of wheat and sorghum, harvest celebrations and winter festivals. There's not an eight- or nine-year-old kid who's been invented who doesn't find all of that unspeakably fun. But then you become a teenager and you start thinking about everything you might possibly want to do with your life, and you look at the options available to you. And then all farms, goats and chickens—and all the same people you've known all your life and will know all your life—begin to look a little less than optimal for a total life experience. It's all still the same, of course. That's the point. It's you who's changed.

I know this bit of teenage angst wouldn't make me any different than any other small-town teenager who has ever existed throughout the history of the known universe. But when even the "big city" of a colony—the district capital of Missouri City—holds all the mystery and romance of watching compost, it's not unreasonable to hope for something else.

I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with Missouri City (there's nothing wrong with compost, either; you actually need it). Maybe it's better to say it's the sort of place you come back to, once you've gone out and had your time in the big city, or the big bad universe. One of the things I know about Mom is that she loved it on Huckleberry. But before she was here, she was a Special Forces soldier. She doesn't talk too much about all the things she's seen and done, but from personal experience I know a little bit about it. I can't imagine a whole life of it. I think she'd say that she'd seen enough of the universe.

I've seen some of the universe, too, before we came to Huckleberry. But unlike Jane—unlike Mom—I don't think I'm ready to say Huckleberry's all I want out of a life.

But I wasn't sure I wanted to say any of that to this green guy, who I had become suddenly rather suspicious of. Green men falling from the sky, asking after the psychological states of various family members including oneself, are enough to make a girl paranoid about what's going on. Especially when, as I suddenly realized, I didn't actually get the guy's name. He'd gotten this far into my family life without actually saying who he was.

Maybe this was just something he'd innocently managed to overlook—this wasn't a formal interview, after all—but enough bells were ringing in my head that I decided that my green friend had had enough free information for one day.

Green man was looking at me intently, waiting for me to respond. I gave him my best noncommittal shrug. I was fifteen years old. It's a quality age for shrugging.

He backed off a bit. "I don't suppose your dad is home," he said.

"Not yet," I said. I checked my PDA and showed it to him. "His workday finished up a few minutes ago. He and Mom are probably walking home."

"Okay. And your mom is constable here, right?"

"Right," I said. Jane Sagan, frontier law woman. Minus the frontier. It fit her. "Did you know Mom, too?" I asked. Special Forces was an entirely different thing from regular infantry.

"Just by reputation," he said, and again there was that studied casual thing.

Folks, a little tip: Nothing is more transparent than you try for casual and miss. My green friend was missing it by a klick, and I got tired of feeling lightly groped for information.

"I think I'll go for a walk," I said. "Mom and Dad are probably right down the road. I'll let them know you're here."

"I'll go with you," Green man offered.

"That's all right," I said, and motioned him onto the porch, and to our porch swing. "You've been traveling. Have a seat and relax."

"All right," he said. "If you're comfortable having me here while you're gone." I think that was meant as a joke.

I smiled at him. "I think it'll be fine," I said. "You'll have company."

"You're leaving me the dog," he said. He sat.

"Even better," I said. "I'm leaving you two of my friends." This is when I called into the house for Hickory and Dickory, and then stood away from the door and watched my visitor, so I wouldn't miss his expression when the two of them came out.

He didn't quite wet his pants.

Which was an accomplishment, all things considered. Obin—which is what Hickory and Dickory are—don't look exactly like a cross between a spider and a giraffe, but they're close enough to make some part of the human brain fire up the drop ballast alert. You get used to them after a bit. But the point is it takes a while.

"This is Hickory," I said, pointing to the one at the left of me, and then pointed to the one at my right. "And this is Dickory. They're Obin."

"Yes, I know," my visitor said, with the sort of tone you'd expect from a very small animal trying to pretend that being cornered by a pair of very large predators was not that big of a deal. "Uh. So. These are your friends."

"Best friends," I said, with what I felt was just the right amount of brainless gush. "And they love to entertain visitors. They'll be happy to keep you company while I go look for my parents. Isn't that right?" I said to Hickory and Dickory.

"Yes," they said, together. Hickory and Dickory are fairly monotone to begin with; having them be monotone in stereo offers an additional—and delightful!—creepy effect.

"Please say hello to our guest," I said.

"Hello," they said, again in stereo.

"Uh," said Green man. "Hi."

"Great, everybody's friends," I said, and stepped off the porch. Babar left our green friend to follow me. "I'm off, then."

"You sure you don't want me to come along?" Green man said. "I don't mind."

"No, please," I said. "I don't want you to feel like you have to get up for anything." My eyes sort of casually flicked over at Hickory and Dickory, as if to imply it would be a shame if they had to make steaks out of him.

"Great," he said, and settled onto the swing. I think he got the hint. See, that's how you do studied casual.

"Great," I said. Babar and I headed off down the road to find my folks.

TWO

I climbed out onto the roof through my bedroom window and looked back at Hickory. "Hand me those binoculars," I said. It did—

(Obin: "it," not "he" or "she." Because they're hermaphrodites. That means male and female sex organs. Go ahead and have your giggle. I'll wait. Okay, done? Good.)

—and then climbed out the window with me. Since you've probably never seen it I'll have you know it's a pretty impressive sight to watch an Obin unfold itself to get through a window. Very graceful, with no real analogue to any human movement you might want to describe. The universe, it has aliens in it. And they are.

Hickory was on the roof with me; Dickory was outside the house, more or less spotting me in case I should trip or feel suddenly despondent, and then fall or leap off the roof. This is their standard practice when I climb out my window: one with me, one on the ground. And they're obvious about it; when I was a little kid Mom or Dad would see Dickory blow out the door and hang around just below the roof, and then yell up the stairs for me to get back into my room. Having paranoid alien pals has a downside.

For the record: I've never fallen off the roof.

Well, once. When I was ten. But there were extenuating circumstances. That doesn't count.

Anyway, I didn't have to worry about either John or Jane telling me to get back into the house this time. They stopped doing that when I became a teenager. Besides, they were the reason I was up on the roof in the first place.

"There they are," I said, and pointed for Hickory's benefit. Mom and Dad and my green friend were standing in the middle of our sorghum field, a few hundred meters out. I raised my binoculars and they went from being hash marks to being actual people. Green man had his back to me, but he was saying something, because both Jane and John were looking at him intently. There was a rustle at Jane's feet, and then Babar popped up his head. Mom reached down to scratch him.

"I wonder what he's talking to them about," I said.

"They're too far away," Hickory said. I turned to it to make a comment along the lines of no kidding, genius. Then I saw the consciousness collar around its neck and was reminded that in addition to providing Hickory and Dickory with sentience—with their idea of who they were—their collars also gave them expanded senses, which were mostly devoted to keeping me out of trouble.

I was also reminded that their consciousness collars were why they were here in the first place. My father—my biological father—created them for the Obin. I was also reminded that they were why I was here, too. Still here, I mean. Alive.

But I didn't go down that road of thought.

"I thought those things were useful," I said, pointing to the collar.

Hickory lightly touched the collar. "The collars do many things," it said. "Enabling us to hear a conversation hundreds of meters away, and in the middle of a grain field, is not one of them."

"So you're useless," I said.

Hickory nodded its head. "As you say," it said, in its noncommittal way.

"It's no fun mocking you," I said.

"I'm sorry," Hickory said.

And the thing of it was, Hickory really was sorry. It's not easy being a funny, sarcastic thing when most of who you were depended on a machine you wore around your neck. Generating one's own prosthetic identity takes more concentration than you might expect. Managing a well-balanced sense of sarcasm above and beyond that is a little much to ask for.

I reached over and gave Hickory a hug. It was a funny thing. Hickory and Dickory were here for me; to know me, to learn from me, to protect me, and if need be to die for me. And here I was, feeling protective of them, and feeling a little sad for them, too. My father—my biological father—gave them consciousness, something the Obin had lacked and had been searching for, for the entire history of their species.

But he didn't make consciousness easy for them.

Hickory accepted my hug and tentatively touched my head; it can be shy when I'm suddenly demonstrative. I took care not to lay it on too thick with the Obin. If I get too emotional it can mess up their consciousness. They're sensitive to when I get overwrought. So I backed up and then looked toward my parents again with the binoculars. Now John was saying something, with one of his patented half-cocked smiles. His smile erased when our visitor started talking again.

"I wonder who he is," I said.

"He is General Samuel Rybicki," Hickory said.

This got another glance back from me. "How do you know that?" I said.

"It is our business to know about who visits you and your family," Hickory said, and touched its collar again. "We queried him the moment he landed. Information about him is in our database. He is a liaison between your Civil Defense Forces and your Department of Colonization. He coordinates the protection of your new colonies."

"Huckleberry isn't a new colony," I said. It wasn't; it had been colonized for fifty or sixty years by the time we arrived. More than enough time to flatten out all the scary bumps new colonies face, and for the human population to become too big for invaders to scrape off the planet. Hopefully. "What do you think he wants from my parents?" I asked.

"We don't know," Hickory said.

"He didn't say anything to you while he was waiting for John and Jane to show up?" I said.

"No," Hickory said. "He kept to himself."

"Well, sure," I said. "Probably because you scared the crap out of him."

"He left no feces," Hickory said.

I snorted. "I sometimes question your alleged lack of humor," I said. "I meant he was too intimidated by you to say anything."

"We assumed that was why you had us stay with him," Hickory said.

"Well, yeah," I said. "But if I knew he was a general, maybe I wouldn't have given him such a hard time." I pointed to my parents. "I don't want them getting any grief because I thought it would be fun to mess with this guy's head."

"I think someone of his rank would not come all this way to be deterred by you," Hickory said.

A list of snappy retorts popped in my head, begging to be used. I ignored them all. "You think he's here on some serious mission?" I asked.

"He is a general," Hickory said. "And he is here."

I looked back through the binoculars again. General Rybicki—as I now knew him—had turned just a bit, and I could see his face a little more clearly. He was talking to Jane, but then turned a bit to say something to Dad. I lingered on Mom for a minute. Her face was locked up tight; whatever was going on, she wasn't very happy about it.

Mom turned her head a bit and suddenly she was looking directly at me, like she knew I was watching her.

"How does she do that?" I said. When Jane was Special Forces, she had a body that was even more genetically modified than the ones regular soldiers got. But like Dad, when she left the service, she got put into a normal human body. She's not superhuman anymore. She's just scary observant. Which is close to the same thing. I didn't get away with much of anything growing up.

Her attention turned back to General Rybicki, who was addressing her again. I looked up at Hickory. "What I want to know is why they're talking in the sorghum field," I said.

"General Rybicki asked your parents if there was someplace they could speak in private," Hickory said. "He indicated in particular that he wanted to speak away from Dickory and me."

"Were you recording when you were with him?" I asked. Hickory and Dickory had recording devices in their collars that recorded sounds, images and emotional data. Those recordings were sent back to other Obin, so they could experience what it's like to have quality time with me. Odd? Yes. Intrusive? Sometimes, but not usually. Unless I start thinking about it, and then I focus on the fact that, why yes, an entire alien race got to experience my puberty through the eyes of Hickory and Dickory. There's nothing like sharing menarche with a billion hermaphrodites. I think it was everyone's first time.

"We were not recording with him," Hickory said.

"Okay, good," I said.

"I'm recording now," Hickory said.

"Oh. Well, I'm not sure you should be," I said, waving out toward my parents. "I don't want them getting in trouble."

"This is allowed under our treaty with your government," Hickory said. "We're allowed to record all you allow us to record, and to report everything that we experience. My government knew that General Rybicki had visited the moment Dickory and I sent our data query. If General Rybicki wanted his visit to remain secret, he should have met your parents elsewhere."

I chose not to dwell on the fact that significant portions of my life were subject to treaty negotiation. "I don't think he knew you were here," I said. "He seemed surprised when I sicced you on him."

"His ignorance of us or of the Obin treaty with the Colonial Union is not our problem," Hickory said.

"I guess not," I said, a little out of sorts.

"Would you like me to stop recording?" Hickory asked. I could hear the tremble on the edge of its voice. If I wasn't careful about how I showed my annoyance I could send Hickory into an emotional cascade. Then it'd have what amounted to a temporary nervous breakdown right there on the roof. That'd be no good. He could fall off and snap his snaky little neck.

"It's fine," I said, and I tried to sound more conciliatory than I really felt. "It's too late now anyway." Hickory visibly relaxed; I held in a sigh and gazed down at my shoes.

"They're coming back to the house," Hickory said, and motioned toward my parents. I followed its hand; my parents and General Rybicki were indeed heading back our way. I thought about going back into the house but then I saw Mom look directly at me, again. Yup, she'd seen me earlier. The chances were pretty good she knew we had been up there all that time.

Dad didn't look up the entire walk back. He was already lost in thought. When that happened it was like the world collapsing in around him; he didn't see anything else until he was done dealing with what he was dealing with. I suspected I wouldn't see much of him tonight.

As they cleared the sorghum field, General Rybicki stopped and shook Dad's hand; Mom kept herself out of handshaking distance. Then he headed back toward his floater. Babar, who had followed the three of them into the field, broke off toward the general to get in one last petting. He got it after the general got to the floater, then padded back to the house. The floater opened its door to let the general in.

The general stopped, looked directly at me, and waved. Before I could think what I was doing, I waved right back.

"That was smart," I said to myself. The floater, General Rybicki inside, winged off, taking him back where he came from.

What do you want with us, General? I thought, and surprised myself by thinking "us." But it only made sense. Whatever he wanted with my parents, I was part of it too.

THREE

"How do you like it here?" Jane asked me, as we were washing the dishes after dinner. "On Huckleberry, I mean."

"This is not the first time I've been asked that today," I said, taking the plate she handed me and drying it.

This got a slightly raised eyebrow from Mom. "General Rybicki asked you the question," she said.

"Yup," I said.

"And what did you tell him?" Jane asked.

"I told him I liked it just fine," I said. I put the dried plate into the cupboard and waited for the next one.

Jane was holding on to it. "But do you?" she asked.

I sighed, only slightly dramatically. "Okay, I give up," I said. "What's going on? Both you and Dad were like zombies at dinner tonight. I know you missed it, because you were wrapped up in your own heads, but I spent most of dinner trying to get either of you to talk more than a grunt. Babar was a better conversationalist than either of you."

"I'm sorry, Zoë," Jane said.

"You're forgiven," I said. "But I still want to know what's going on." I motioned to Jane's hand, to remind her I was still waiting on that plate.

She handed it over. "General Rybicki has asked your father and me to be the leaders of a new colony."

It was my turn to hold on to the plate. "A new colony."

"Yes," Jane said.

"As in, 'on another planet' new colony," I said.

"Yes," said Jane.

"Wow," I said.

"Yes," Jane said. She knew how to get mileage out of a single word.

"Why did he ask you?" I asked, and resumed drying. "No offense, Mom. But you're a constable in a tiny little village. And Dad's an ombudsman. It's kind of a leap."

"None taken," Jane said. "We had the same question. General Rybicki said that the military experience we had would cross over. John was a major and I was a lieutenant. And whatever other experience we need Rybicki believes we can pick up quickly, before we set foot on the new colony. As for why us, it's because this isn't a normal colony. The colonists aren't from Earth, they're from ten of the oldest planets in the Colonial Union. A colony of colonists. The first of its kind."

"And none of the planets contributing colonists want another planet to have a leadership role," I ventured.

Jane smiled. "That's right," she said. "We're the compromise candidates. The least objectionable solution."

"Got it," I said. "It's nice to be sort of wanted." We continued washing dishes in silence for a few minutes.

"You didn't answer my question," Jane said, eventually. "Do you like it here? Do you want to stay on Huckleberry?"

"I get a vote?" I asked.

"Of course you do," Jane said. "If we take this, it would mean leaving Huckleberry for at least a few standard years while we got the colony up and running. But realistically it would mean leaving here for good. It would mean all of us leaving here for good."

"If," I said, a little surprised. "You didn't say yes."

"It's not the sort of decision you make in the middle of a sorghum field," Jane said, and looked at me directly. "It's not something we can just say yes to. It's a complicated decision. We've been looking over the information all afternoon, seeing what the Colonial Union's plans are for the colony. And then we have to think about our lives here. Mine, John's and yours."

I grinned. "I have a life here?" I asked. This was meant as a joke.

Jane squashed it. "Be serious, Zoë," she said. The grin left my face. "We've been here for half of your life now. You have friends. You know this place. You have a future here, if you want it. You can have a life here. It's not something to be lightly tossed aside." She plunged her hands into the sink, searching under the soap suds for another dish.

I looked at Jane; there was something in her voice. This wasn't just about me. "You have a life here," I said.

"I do," Jane said. "I like it here. I like our neighbors and our friends. I like being the constable. Our life here suits me." She handed me the casserole dish she'd just cleaned. "Before we came here I spent all my life in the Special Forces. On ships. This is the first world I've actually lived on. It's important to me."

"Then why is this a question?" I said. "If you don't want to go, then we shouldn't do it."

"I didn't say I wouldn't go," Jane said. "I said I have a life here. It's not the same thing. There are good reasons to do it. And it's not just my decision to make."

I dried and put away the casserole dish. "What does Dad want?" I asked.

"He hasn't told me yet," Mom said.

"You know what that means," I said. "Dad's not subtle when there's something he doesn't want to do. If he's taking his time to think about it, he probably wants to do it."

"I know," Mom said. She was rinsing off the flatware. "He's trying to find a way to tell me what he wants. It might help him if he knew what we wanted first."

"Okay," I said.

"This is why I asked you if you liked it here," Jane said, again.

I thought about it as I dried the kitchen counter. "I like it here," I said, finally. "But I don't know if I want to have a life here."

"Why not?" Jane asked.

"There's not much here here, is there?" I said. I waved toward the general direction of New Goa. "The selection of life choices here is limited. There's farmer, farmer, store owner, and farmer. Maybe a government position like you and Dad."

"If we go to this new colony your choices are going to be the same," Jane said. "First wave colonist life isn't very romantic, Zoë. The focus is on survival, and preparing the new colony for the second wave of colonists. That means farmers and laborers. Outside of a few specialized roles that will already be filled, there's not much call for anything else."

"Yes, but at least it would be somewhere new," I said. "There we'd be building a new world. Here we're just maintaining an old one. Be honest, Mom. It's kind of slow around these parts. A big day for you is when someone gets into a fistfight. The highlight of Dad's day is settling a dispute over a goat."

"There are worse things," Jane said.

"I'm not asking for open warfare," I said. Another joke.

And once again, another stomping from Mom. "It'll be a brand-new colony world," she said. "They're the ones most at risk for attack, because they have the fewest people and the least amount of defense from the CDF. You know that as well as anyone."

I blinked, actually surprised. I did know it as well as anyone. When I was very young—before I was adopted by Jane and John—the planet I lived on (or above, since I was on a space station) was attacked. Omagh. Jane almost never brought it up, because she knew what it did to me to think about it. "You think that's what's going to happen here?" I asked.

Jane must have sensed what was going on in my head. "No, I don't," she said. "This is an unusual colony. It's a test colony in some ways. There will be political pressure for this colony to succeed. That means more and better defenses, among other things. I think we'll be better defended than most colonies starting out."

"That's good to know," I said.

"But an attack could still happen," Jane said. "John and I fought together at Coral. It was one of the first planets humans settled, and it was still attacked. No colony is totally safe. There are other dangers, too. Colonies can get wiped out by local viruses or predators. Bad weather can kill crops. The colonists themselves could be unprepared. Colonizing—real colonizing, not what we're doing here on Huckleberry—is hard, constant work. Some of the colonists could fail at it and take the rest of the colony with them. There could be bad leaders making bad decisions."

"I don't think we'd have to worry about that last one," I said. I was trying to lighten the mood.

Jane didn't take the bait. "I'm telling you this isn't without risk," she said. "It's there. A lot of it. And if we do this, we go in with our eyes open to that risk."

This was Mom all over. Her sense of humor wasn't as deprived as Hickory's and Dickory's—I can actually make her laugh. But it doesn't stop her from being one of the most serious people I've ever met in my life. When she wants to get your attention about something she thinks is important, she's going to get it.

It's a good quality to have, but right at the moment it was making me seriously uncomfortable. That was her plan, no doubt.

"Mom, I know," I said. "I know it has risks. I know that a lot of things could go wrong. I know it wouldn't be easy." I waited.

"But," Jane said, giving me the prompt she knew I was waiting for.

"But if you and Dad were leading it, I think it'd be worth the risk," I said. "Because I trust you. You wouldn't take the job if you didn't think you could handle it. And I know you wouldn't put me at risk unnecessarily. If you two decided to do it, I would want to go. I would definitely want to go."

I was suddenly aware that while I was speaking, my hand had drifted to my chest, and was lightly touching the small pendant there: a jade elephant, given to me by Jane. I moved my hand from it, a little embarrassed.

"And no matter what, starting a new colony wouldn't be boring," I said, to finish up, a little lamely.

Mom smiled, unplugged the sink and dried her hands. Then she took a step over to me and kissed the top of my head; I was short enough, and she was tall enough, that it was a natural thing for her. "I'll let your dad stew on it for a few more hours," she said. "And then I'll let him know where we stand."

"Thanks, Mom," I said.

"And sorry about dinner," she said. "Your dad gets wrapped up in himself sometimes, and I get wrapped up in noticing he's wrapped up in himself."

"I know," I said. "You should just smack him and tell him to snap out of it."

"I'll put that on the list for future reference," Jane said. She gave me another quick peck and then stepped away. "Now go do your homework. We haven't left the planet yet." She walked out of the kitchen.

FOUR

Let me tell you about that jade elephant.

My mother's name—my biological mother's name—was Cheryl Boutin. She died when I was five; she was hiking with a friend and she fell. My memories of her are what you'd expect them to be: hazy fragments from a five-year-old mind, supported by a precious few pictures and videos. They weren't that much better when I was younger. Five is a bad age to lose a mother, and to hope to remember her for who she was.

One thing I had from her was a stuffed version of Babar the elephant that my mother gave to me on my fourth birthday. I was sick that day, and had to stay in bed all day long. This did not make me happy, and I let everyone know it, because that was the kind of four-year-old I was. My mother surprised me with the Babar doll, and then we cuddled up together and she read Babar's stories to me until I fell asleep, lying across her. It's my strongest memory of her, even now; not so much how she looked, but the low and warm sound of her voice, and the softness of her belly as I lay against her and drifted off, her stroking my head. The sensation of my mother, and the feeling of love and comfort from her.

I miss her. Still do. Even now. Even right now.

After my mother died I couldn't go anywhere without Babar. He was my connection to her, my connection to that love and comfort I didn't have anymore. Being away from Babar meant being away from what I had left of her. I was five years old. This was my way of handling my loss. It kept me from falling into myself, I think. Five is a bad age to lose your mother, like I said; I think it could be a good age to lose yourself, if you're not careful.

Shortly after my mother's funeral, my father and I left Phoenix, where I was born, and moved to Covell, a space station orbiting above a planet called Omagh, where he did research. Occasionally his job had him leave Covell on business trips. When that happened I stayed with my friend Kay Greene and her parents. One time my father was leaving on a trip; he was running late and forgot to pack Babar for me. When I figured this out (it didn't take long), I started to cry and panic. To placate me, and because he did love me, you know, he promised to bring me a Celeste doll when he returned from his trip. He asked me to be brave until then. I said I would, and he kissed me and told me to go play with Kay. I did.

While he was away, we were attacked. It would be a very long time before I would see my father again. He remembered his promise, and brought me a Celeste. It was the first thing he did when I saw him.

I still have her. But I don't have Babar.

In time, I became an orphan. I was adopted by John and Jane, who I call "Dad" and "Mom," but not "Father" and "Mother," because those I keep for Charles and Cheryl Boutin, my first parents. John and Jane understand this well enough. They don't mind that I make the distinction.

Before we moved to Huckleberry—just before—Jane and I went to a mall in Phoenix City, the capital city of Phoenix. We were on our way to get ice cream; when we passed a toy store I ran in to play hide-and-seek with Jane. This went smashingly until I went down an aisle with stuffed animals in it, and came face-to-face with Babar. Not my Babar, of course. But one close enough to him that all I could do was stop and stare.

Jane came up behind me, which meant she couldn't see my face. "Look," she said. "It's Babar. Would you like one to go with your Celeste doll?" She reached over and picked one out of the bin.

I screamed and slapped it out of her hand and ran out of the toy store. Jane caught up with me and held me while I sobbed, cradling me against her shoulder, stroking my head like my mother did when she read the Babar stories to me on my birthday. I cried myself out and then when I was done, I told her about the Babar my mother had given me.

Jane understood why I didn't want another Babar. It wasn't right to have a new one. It wouldn't be right to put something on top of those memories of her. To pretend that another Babar could replace the one she gave me. It wasn't the toy. It was everything about the toy.

I asked Jane not to tell John about Babar or what had just happened. I was feeling out of sorts enough having just gone to pieces in front of my new mom. I didn't want to drag my new dad into it too. She promised. And then she gave me a hug and we went to get ice cream, and I just about made myself throw up eating an entire banana split. Which to my eight-year-old mind was a good thing. Truly, an eventful day all around.

A week later Jane and I were standing on the observation deck of the CDFS Amerigo Vespucci, staring down at the blue and green world named Huckleberry, where we would live the rest of our lives, or so we thought. John had just left us, to take care of some last-minute business before we took our shuttle trip down to Missouri City, from where we would go to New Goa, our new home. Jane and I were holding hands and pointing out surface features to each other, trying to see if we could see Missouri City from geostationary orbit. We couldn't. But we made good guesses.

"I have something for you," Jane said to me, after we decided where Missouri City would be, or ought to be, anyway. "Something I wanted to give you before we landed on Huckleberry."

"I hope it's a puppy," I said. I'd been hinting in that direction for a couple of weeks.

Jane laughed. "No puppies!" she said. "At least not until we're actually settled in. Okay?"

"Oh, all right," I said, disappointed.

"No, it's this," Jane said. She reached into her pocket to pull out a silver chain with something that was a pale green at the end.

I took the chain and looked at the pendant. "It's an elephant," I said.

"It is," Jane said. She knelt down so that she and I were face-to-face. "I bought it on Phoenix just before we left. I saw it in a shop and it made me think of you."

"Because of Babar," I said.

"Yes," Jane said. "But for other reasons, too. Most of the people who live on Huckleberry are from a country on Earth called India, and many of them are Hindu, which is a religion. They have a god called Ganesh, who has the head of an elephant. Ganesh is their god of intelligence, and I think you're pretty smart. He's also the god of beginnings, which makes sense, too."

"Because we're starting our lives here," I said.

"Right," Jane said. She took the pendant and necklace from me and put the silver chain around my neck, fastening it in the back. "There's also the saying that 'an elephant never forgets.' Have you heard it?" I nodded. "John and I are proud to be your parents, Zoë. We're happy you're part of our life now, and will help us make our life to come. But I know neither of us would want you ever to forget your mother and father."

She drew back and then touched the pendant, gently. "This is to remind you how much we love you," Jane said. "But I hope it will also remind you how much your mother and father loved you, too. You're loved by two sets of parents, Zoë. Don't forget about the first because you're with us now."

"I won't," I said. "I promise."

"The last reason I wanted to give you this was to continue the tradition," Jane said. "Your mother and your father each gave you an elephant. I wanted to give you one, too. I hope you like it."

"I love it," I said, and then launched myself into Jane. She caught me and hugged me. We hugged for a while, and I cried a little bit too. Because I was eight years old, and I could do that.

I eventually unhugged myself from Jane and looked at the pendant again. "What is this made of?" I asked.

"It's jade," Jane said.

"Does it mean anything?" I asked.

"Well," Jane said, "I suppose it means I think jade is pretty."

"Did Dad get me an elephant, too?" I asked. Eight-year-olds can switch into acquisition mode pretty quickly.

"I don't know," Jane said. "I haven't talked to him about it, because you asked me not to. I don't think he knows about the elephants."

"Maybe he'll figure it out," I said.

"Maybe he will," Jane said. She stood and took my hand again, and we looked out at Huckleberry once more.

About a week and a half later, after we were all moved in to Huckleberry, Dad came through the door with something small and squirmy in his hands.

No, it wasn't an elephant. Use your heads, people. It was a puppy.

I squealed with glee—which I was allowed to do, eight at the time, remember—and John handed the puppy to me. It immediately tried to lick my face off.

"Aftab Chengelpet just weaned a litter from their mother, so I thought we might give one of the puppies a home," Dad said. "You know, if you want. Although I don't recall you having any enthusiasm for such a creature. We could always give it back."

"Don't you dare," I said, between puppy licks.

"All right," Dad said. "Just remember he's your responsibility. You'll have to feed him and exercise him and take care of him."

"I will," I said.

"And neuter him and pay for his college," Dad said.

"What?" I said.

"John," Mom said, from her chair, where she had been reading.

"Never mind those last two," Dad said. "But you will have to give him a name."

I held the puppy at arm's length to get a good look at him; he continued to try to lick my face from a distance and wobbled in my grip as his tail's momentum moved him around. "What are some good dog names?" I asked.

"Spot. Rex. Fido. Champ," Dad said. "Those are the cliché names, anyway. Usually people try to go for something more memorable. When I was a kid I had a dog my dad called Shiva, Destroyer of Shoes. But I don't think that would be appropriate in a community of former Indians. Maybe something else." He pointed to my elephant pendant. "I notice you seem to be into elephants these days. You have a Celeste. Why not call him Babar?"

From behind Dad I could see Jane look up from her reading to look at me, remembering what happened at the toy store, waiting to see how I would react.

I burst out laughing.

"So that's a yes," Dad said, after a minute.

"I like it," I said. I hugged my new puppy, and then held him out again.

"Hello, Babar," I said.

Babar gave a happy little bark and then peed all over my shirt.

And that's the story of the jade elephant.

FIVE

There was a tap on my door, a rat-a-tat that I gave Hickory to use when I was nine, when I made it a secret member of my secret club. I made Dickory a secret member of an entirely different secret club. Same with Mom, Dad and Babar. I was all about the secret clubs when I was nine, apparently. I couldn't even tell you what the name of that secret club was now. But Hickory still used the knock whenever my bedroom door was closed.

"Come in," I said. I was standing by my bedroom window.

Hickory came in. "It's dark in here," it said.

"That's what happens when it's late and the lights are out," I said.

"I heard you walking about," Hickory said. "I came to see if you needed anything."

"Like a warm glass of milk?" I said. "I'm fine, Hickory. Thank you."

"Then I'll leave you," Hickory said, backing out.

"No," I said. "Come here a minute. Look."

Hickory walked over to stand next to me at the window. He looked where I pointed, to two figures in the road in front of our house. Mom and Dad. "She has been out there for some time," Hickory said. "Major Perry joined her a few minutes ago."

"I know," I said. "I saw him walk out." I heard her walk out, too, about an hour earlier; the squeaking of the springs on the screen door had gotten me out of bed. I hadn't been sleeping, anyway. Thinking about leaving Huckleberry and colonizing somewhere new was keeping my brain up, and then made me pace around. The idea of leaving was sinking in. It was making me twitchier than I thought it would.

"You know about the new colony?" I asked Hickory.

"We do," Hickory said. "Lieutenant Sagan informed us earlier this evening. Dickory also filed a request to our government for more information."

"Why do you call them by their rank?" I asked Hickory. My brain was looking for tangents at the moment, it seemed, and this was a good one. "Mom and Dad. Why don't you call them 'Jane' and 'John' like everyone else?"

"It's not appropriate," Hickory said. "It's too familiar."

"You've lived with us for seven years," I said. "You might be able to risk a little familiarity."

"If you wish us to call them 'John' and 'Jane,' then we will do so," Hickory said.

"Call them what you want," I said. "I'm just saying that if you want to call them by their first names, you could."

"We will remember that," Hickory said. I doubted there would be a change in protocol anytime soon.

"You'll be coming with us, right?" I asked, changing the subject. "To the new colony." I hadn't assumed that Hickory and Dickory would not be joining us, which when I thought about it might not have been a smart assumption.

"Our treaty allows it," Hickory said. "It will be up to you to decide."

"Well, of course I want you to come," I said. "We'd just as soon leave Babar behind than not take you two."

"I am happy to be in the same category as your dog," Hickory said.

"I think that came out wrong," I said.

Hickory held up a hand. "No," it said. "I know you did not mean to imply Dickory and I are like pets. You meant to imply Babar is part of your household. You would not leave without him."

"He's not just part of the household," I said. "He's family. Slobbery, sort of dim family. But family. You're family, too. Weird, alien, occasionally obtrusive family. But family."

"Thank you, Zoë," Hickory said.

"You're welcome," I said, and suddenly felt shy. Conversations with Hickory were going weird places today. "That's why I asked about you calling my parents by rank, you know. It's not a usual family thing."

"If we are truly part of your family, then it is safe to say it's not a usual family," Hickory said. "So it would be hard to say what would be usual for us."

This got a snort from me. "Well, that's true," I said. I thought for a moment. "What is your name, Hickory?" I asked.

"Hickory," it said.

"No, I mean, what was your name before you came to live with us," I said. "You had to have been named something before I named you Hickory. And Dickory, too, before I named it that."

"No," it said. "You forget. Before your biological father, Obin did not have consciousness. We did not have a sense of self, or the need to describe ourselves to ourselves or to others."

"That would make it hard to do anything with more than two of you," I said. "Saying 'hey, you' only goes so far."

"We had descriptors, to help us in our work," Hickory said. "They were not the same as names. When you named Dickory and me, you gave us our true names. We became the first Obin to have names at all."

"I wish I had known that at the time," I said, after I took this in. "I would have given you names that weren't from a nursery rhyme."

"I like my name," Hickory said. "It's popular among other Obin as well. 'Hickory' and 'Dickory' both."

"There are other Obin Hickorys," I said.

"Oh, yes," Hickory said. "Several million, now."

I had no possible intelligible response to that. I turned my attention back to my parents, who were still standing in the road, entwined.

"They love each other," Hickory said, following my gaze.

I glanced back at it. "Not really where I was expecting the conversation to go, but okay," I said.

"It makes a difference," Hickory said. "In how they speak to each other. How they communicate with each other."

"I suppose it does," I said. Hickory's observation was an understatement, actually. John and Jane didn't just love each other. The two of them were nuts for each other, in exactly the sort of way that's both touching and embarrassing to a teenage daughter. Touching because who doesn't want their parents to love each other, right down to their toes? Embarrassing because, well. Parents. Not supposed to act like goofs about each other.

They showed it in different ways. Dad was the most obvious about it, but I think Mom felt it more intensely than he did. Dad was married before; his first wife died back on Earth. Some part of his heart was still with her. No one else had any claim on Jane's heart, though. John had all of it, or all of it that was supposed to belong to your spouse. No matter how you sliced it, though, there's nothing either of them wouldn't do for each other.

"That's why they're out here," I said to Hickory. "In the road right now, I mean. Because they love each other."

"How so?" Hickory asked.

"You said it yourself," I said. "It makes a difference in how they communicate." I pointed again to the two of them. "Dad wants to go and lead this colony," I said. "If he didn't, he would have just said no. It's how he works. He's been moody and out of sorts all day because he wants it and he knows there are complications. Because Jane loves it here."

"More than you or Major Perry," Hickory said.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "It's where she's been married. It's where she's had a family. Huckleberry is her homeworld. He'd say no if she doesn't give him permission to say yes. So that's what she's doing, out there."

Hickory peered out again at the silhouettes of my parents. "She could have said so in the house," it said.

I shook my head. "No," I said. "Look how she's looking up. Before Dad came out, she was doing the same thing. Standing there and looking up at the stars. Looking for the star our new planet orbits, maybe. But what she's really doing is saying good-bye to Huckleberry. Dad needs to see her do it. Mom knows that. It's part of the reason she's out there. To let him know she's ready to let this planet go. She's ready to let it go because he's ready to let it go."

"You said it was part of the reason she's out there," Hickory said. "What's the other part?"

"The other part?" I asked. Hickory nodded. "Oh. Well. She needs to say good-bye for herself, too. She's not just doing it for Dad." I watched Jane. "A lot of who she is, she became here. And we may never get back here. It's hard to leave your home. Hard for her. I think she's trying to find a way to let it go. And that starts by saying good-bye to it."

"And you?" Hickory said. "Do you need to say good-bye?"

I thought about it for a minute. "I don't know," I admitted. "It's funny. I've already lived on four planets. Well, three planets and a space station. I've been here longest, so I guess it's my home more than any of the rest of them. I know I'll miss some of the things about it. I know I'll miss some of my friends. But more than any of that . . . I'm excited. I want to do this. Colonize a new world. I want to go. I'm excited and nervous and a little scared. You know?"

Hickory didn't say anything to this. Outside the window, Mom had walked away a little from Dad, and he was turning to head back into the house. Then he stopped and turned back to Mom. She held out her hand to him. He came to her, took it. They began to walk down the road together.

"Good-bye, Huckleberry," I said, whispering the words. I turned away from the window and let my parents have their walk.

SIX

"I don't know how you could possibly be bored," Savitri said to me, leaning on an observation deck rail as we looked out from Phoenix Station to the Magellan. "This place is great."

I looked over at her with mock suspicion. "Who are you, and what have you done with Savitri Guntupalli?"

"I don't know what you mean," Savitri said, blandly.

"The Savitri I know was sarcastic and bitter," I said. "You are all gushy, like a schoolgirl. Therefore: You're not Savitri. You are some horrible spunky camouflaged alien thing, and I hate you."

"Point of order," Savitri said. "You're a schoolgirl, and you hardly ever gush. I've known you for years and I don't believe I have ever seen you involved in a gushing incident. You are almost entirely gush-free."

"Fine, you gush even more than a schoolgirl," I said. "Which just makes it worse. I hope you're happy."

"I am," Savitri said. "Thank you for noticing."

"Hrrrumph," I said, rolled my eyes for extra effect, and applied myself to the observation deck rail with renewed moodiness.

I was not actually irritated with Savitri. She had an excellent reason to be excited; all her life she'd been on Huckleberry and now, finally, she was somewhere else: on Phoenix Station, the space station, the largest single thing humans had ever built, hovering above Phoenix, the home planet of the entire Colonial Union. For as long as I had known her—which was for as long as she had been my dad's assistant, back in New Goa, on Huckleberry—Savitri had cultivated an air of general smart-assery, which is one reason I adored her and looked up to her. One has to have role models, you know.

But after we had lifted from Huckleberry her excitement from finally getting to see more of the universe had gotten to her. She'd been unguardedly excited about everything; she even got up early to watch the Magellan, the ship that would take us to Roanoke, dock with Phoenix Station. I was happy for her that she was so excited about everything, and I mocked her mercilessly for it every chance I got. One day, yes, there would be payback—Savitri taught me much of what I know about being a smartass, but not everything she knew about it—but until then it was one of the few things keeping me entertained.

Listen: Phoenix Station is huge, it's busy, and unless you have an actual job—or like Savitri are just in from the sticks—there is nothing going on. It's not an amusement park, it's just a big dull combination of government offices, docks and military headquarters, all jammed into space. If it weren't for the fact that stepping outside to get some fresh air would kill you—no fresh air, just lung-popping vacuum—it could be any big, faceless, dead-boring civic center anywhere humans come together to do big, faceless, dead-boring civic things. It is not designed for fun, or at least any sort of fun I was interested in having. I suppose I could have filed something. That would have been a kick.

Savitri, in addition to being insensibly excited not to be on Huckleberry, was also being worked like a dog by John and Jane: The three of them had spent nearly all their time since we arrived at Phoenix Station getting up to speed on Roanoke, learning about the colonists who would be with us, and overseeing the loading of supplies and equipment onto the Magellan. This didn't come as news to me, but it did leave me with not a whole lot to do, and no one much to do it with. I couldn't even do much with Hickory, Dickory, or Babar; Dad told Hickory and Dickory to lay low while we were on Phoenix Station, and dogs weren't really allowed the run of the station. We had to lay out paper towels for Babar to do his thing on. The first night I did this and tried to get him to take care of business, he gave me a look that said you have got to be kidding. Sorry, buddy. Now pee, damn it.

The only reason I was getting some time with Savitri at all was that through a clever combination of whining and guilt I had convinced her to take her lunch break with me. Even then she had brought her PDA and spent half of lunch going over manifests. She was even excited about that. I told her I thought she might be ill.

"I'm sorry you're bored," Savitri said, back in the present. "You might want to hint to your parents."

"Trust me, I did," I said. "Dad actually stepped up, too. He said he's going to take me down to Phoenix. Do some last-minute shopping and other things." The other things were the main reason for us to go, but I didn't want to bring them up to Savitri; I was moody enough as it was.

"You haven't come across any other colonists your own age yet?" Savitri asked.

I shrugged. "I've seen some of them."

"But you haven't spoken to any of them," Savitri said.

"Not really," I said.

"Because you're shy," Savitri said.

"Now your sarcasm comes back," I said.

"I'm sympathetic to your boredom," Savitri said. "But less so if you're just marinating in it." She looked around at the observation desk, which had a few other people in it, sitting or reading or staring out at the ships docked at the station. "What about her?" she said, pointing to a girl who looked about my age, who was looking out the deck window.

I glanced over. "What about her?" I said.

"She looks about as bored as you," Savitri said.

"Appearances can be deceiving," I said.

"Let's check," Savitri said, and before I could stop her called to the other girl. "Hey," Savitri said.

"Yes?" the girl said.

"My friend here thinks she's the most bored teenage girl on the entire station," Savitri said, pointing at me. I had nowhere to cringe. "I was wondering if you had anything to say about that."

"Well," the girl said, after a minute. "I don't want to brag, but the quality of my boredom is outstanding."

"Oh, I like her," Savitri said to me, and then waved the girl over. "This is Zoë," she said, introducing me.

"I can talk," I said to Savitri.

"Gretchen," she said, extending her hand to me.

"Hello," I said, taking it.

"I'm interested in your boredom and would like to hear more," Gretchen said.

Okay, I thought. I like her too.

Savitri smiled. "Well, since you two seem to be equally matched, I have to go," she said. "There are containers of soil conditioners that need my attention." She gave me a peck, waved to Gretchen, and left.

"Soil conditioners?" Gretchen said to me, after she had gone.

"It's a long story," I said.

"I've got nothing but time," Gretchen said.

"Savitri is the assistant to my parents, who are heading up a new colony," I said, and pointed to the Magellan. "That's the ship we're going on. One of Savitri's jobs is to make sure that everything that's on the manifest list actually gets put on the ship. I guess she's up to soil conditioners."

"Your parents are John Perry and Jane Sagan," Gretchen said.

I stared at her for a minute. "Yeah," I said. "How do you know?"

"Because my dad talks about them a lot," she said, and motioned toward the Magellan. "This colony your parents are leading? It was his idea. He was Erie's representative on the CU legislature, and for years he argued that people from established colonies should be able to colonize, not just people from Earth. Finally the Department of Colonization agreed with him—and then it gave the leadership of the colony to your parents instead of him. They told my dad it was a political compromise."

"What did your dad think about that?" I asked.

"Well, I just met you," Gretchen said. "I don't know what sort of language you can handle."

"Oh. Well, that's not good," I said.

"I don't think he hates your parents," Gretchen said, quickly. "It's not like that. He just assumed that after everything he did, he'd get to lead the colony. 'Disappointment' doesn't even begin to cover it. Although I wouldn't say he likes your parents, either. He got a file on them when they were appointed and then spent the day muttering to himself as he read it."

"I'm sorry he's disappointed," I said. In my head I was wondering if I needed to write Gretchen off as a possible friend; one of those stupid "our houses are at war" scenarios. The first person my age I meet, going to Roanoke, and we were already in different camps.

But then she said, "Yeah, well. At a certain point he got a little stupid about it. He was comparing himself to Moses, like, Oh, I've led my people to the promised land but I can't enter myself"—and here she made little hand movements to accentuate the point—"and that's when I decided he was overreacting. Because we're going, you know. And he's on your parents' advisory council. So I told him to suck it up."

I blinked. "You actually used those words?" I said.

"Well, no," Gretchen said. "What I actually said was I wondered if I kicked a puppy if it would whine more than he did." She shrugged. "What can I say. Sometimes he needs to get over himself."

"You and I are so totally going to be best friends," I said.

"Are we?" she said, and grinned at me. "I don't know. What are the hours?"

"The hours are terrible," I said. "And the pay is even worse."

"Will I be treated horribly?" she asked.

"You will cry yourself to sleep on a nightly basis," I said.

"Fed crusts?" she asked.

"Of course not," I said. "We feed the crusts to the dogs."

"Oh, very nice," she said. "Okay, you pass. We can be best friends."

"Good," I said. "Another life decision taken care of."

"Yes," she said, and then moved away from the rail. "Now, come on. No point wasting all this attitude on ourselves. Let's go find something to point and laugh at."

Phoenix Station was a lot more interesting after that.

SEVEN

Here's what I did when my dad took me down to Phoenix: I visited my own grave.

Clearly, this needs an explanation.

I was born and lived the first four years of my life on Phoenix. Near where I lived, there is a cemetery. In that cemetery is a headstone, and on that headstone are three names: Cheryl Boutin, Charles Boutin and Zoë Boutin.

My mother's name is there because she is actually buried there; I remember being there for her funeral and seeing her shroud put into the ground.

My father's name is there because for many years people believed his body was there. It's not. His body lies on a planet named Arist, where he and I lived for a time with the Obin. There is a body buried here, though, one that looks like my father and has the same genes as he does. How it got there is a really complicated story.

My name is there because before my father and I lived on Arist, he thought for a time that I had been killed in the attack on Covell, the space station he and I had lived on. There was no body, obviously, because I was still alive; my father just didn't know it. He had my name and dates carved into the headstone before he was told I was still around.

And so there you have it: three names, two bodies, one grave. The only place where my biological family exists, in any form, anywhere in the universe.

In one sense, I'm an orphan, and profoundly so: My mother and father were only children, and their parents were dead before I was born. It's possible I have second cousins twice removed somewhere on Phoenix, but I've never met them and wouldn't know what to say to them even if they existed. Really, what do you say? "Hi, we share about four percent of our genetic makeup, let's be friends"?

The fact is, I'm the last of my line, the last member of the Boutin family, unless and until I decide to start having babies. Now, there's a thought. I'm going to table it for now.

In one sense I was an orphan. But in another sense . . .

Well. First, my dad was standing behind me, watching me as I was kneeling down to look at the headstone my name was on. I don't know how it is with other adoptees, but I can say that there never was a time with John and Jane that I didn't feel cherished and loved and theirs. Even when I was going through that early puberty phase where I think I said "I hate you" and "Just leave me alone" six times daily and ten times on Sunday. I would have abandoned me at the bus stop, that's for sure.

John told me that back when he lived on Earth, he had a son, and his son had a boy, Adam, who would have been just about my age, which technically made me an aunt. I thought that was pretty neat. Going from having no family on the one hand to being someone's aunt on the other is a fun trick. I told that to Dad; he said "you contain multitudes," and then walked around with a smile for hours. I finally got him to explain it to me. That Walt Whitman, he knew what he was talking about.

Second, there were Hickory and Dickory to the side of me, twitching and trembling with emotional energy, because they were at the gravesite of my father, even if my father wasn't buried there, and never was. It didn't matter. They were worked up because of what it represented. Through my father, I guess you could say I was adopted by the Obin, too, although my relationship to them wasn't exactly like being someone's daughter, or their aunt. It was a little closer to being their goddess. A goddess for an entire race of people.

Or, I don't know. Maybe something that sounds less egotistical: patron saint, or racial icon or mascot or something. It was hard to put into words; it was hard to even wrap my brain around most days. It's not like I was put on a throne; most goddesses I know about don't have homework and have to pick up dog poop. If this is what being an icon is all about, on a day-today basis it's not terribly exciting.

But then I think about the fact that Hickory and Dickory live with me and have spent their lives with me because their government made it a demand of my government when the two of them signed a peace pact. I am actually a treaty condition between two intelligent races of creatures. What do you do with that sort of fact?

Well, I tried to use it once: When I was younger I tried to argue with Jane that I should be able to stay up late one night because I had special status under treaty law. I thought that was pretty clever. Her response was to haul out the entire thousand-page treaty—I didn't even know we had a physical copy—and invite me to find the part of the treaty that said I always got to have my way. I stomped over to Hickory and Dickory and demanded they tell Mom to let me do what I wanted; Hickory told me they would have to file a request to their government for guidance, and it would take several days, by which time I would already have to be in bed. It was my first exposure to the tyranny of bureaucracy.

What I do know that it means is that I belong to the Obin. Even at that moment in front of the grave, Hickory and Dickory were recording it into their consciousness machines, the machines my father made for them. They would be stored and sent to all the other Obin. Every other Obin would stand here with me, as I knelt at my grave and the grave of my parents, tracing their names and mine with my finger.

I belong. I belong to John and Jane; I belong to Hickory and Dickory and every Obin. And yet for all that, for all the connection I feel—for all the connection I have—there are times when I feel alone, and I have the sensation of drifting and not connecting at all. Maybe that's just what you do when you're this age; you have your stretches of alienation. Maybe to find yourself you've got to feel like you're unplugged. Maybe everyone goes through this.

What I knew, though, there at the grave, my grave, was that I was having one of those moments.

I had been here before, to this grave. First when my mother was buried, and then, a few years later, when Jane brought me here to say good-bye to both my mother and father. All the people who know me have gone away, I said to her. All of my people are gone. And then she came over to me and asked me to live with her and John, in a new place. Asked me to let her and John be my new people.

I touched the jade elephant at my neck and smiled, thinking of Jane.

Who am I? Who are my people? Who do I belong to? Questions with easy answers and no answers. I belong to my family and to the Obin and sometimes to no one at all. I am a daughter and goddess and girl who sometimes just doesn't know who she is or what she wants. My brain rattles around my head with this stuff and gives me a headache. I wish I were alone here. I'm glad John's with me. I want to see my new friend Gretchen and make sarcastic comments until we burst out laughing. I want to go to my stateroom on the Magellan, turn off the light, hug my dog, and cry. I want to leave this stupid cemetery. I don't ever want to leave it because I know I'm never coming back to it. This is my last time with my people, the ones who are already gone.

Sometimes I don't know if my life is complicated, or if it's that I just think too much about things.

I knelt at the grave, thought some more, and tried to find a way to say a last good-bye to my mother and father and to keep them with me, to stay and to go, to be the daughter and goddess and girl who doesn't know what she wants, all at once, and to belong to everyone and keep myself.

It took a while.

EIGHT

"You seem sad," Hickory said, as we took the shuttle back to Phoenix Station. Dickory sat next to Hickory, impassive as ever.

"I am sad," I said. "I miss my mother and father." I glanced over to John, who was sitting in the front of the shuttle with the pilot, Lieutenant Cloud. "And I think all this moving and leaving and going is getting to me a little bit. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Hickory said. "This journey has been stressful for us, too."

"Oh, good," I said, turning back to the two of them. "Misery loves company."

"If you would like we would be happy to try to cheer you up," Hickory said.

"Really," I said. This was a new tactic. "How would you do that?"

"We could tell you a story," Hickory said.

"What story?" I asked.

"One that Dickory and I have been working on," Hickory said.

"You've been writing?" I said. I didn't bother to keep the incredulousness out of my voice.

"Is it that surprising?" Hickory said.

"Absolutely," I said. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"The Obin don't have stories of their own," Hickory said. "We learned about them through you, when you had us read to you."

I was puzzled for a minute, and then I remembered: When I was younger I asked Hickory and Dickory to read bedtime stories to me. It was a failed experiment, to say the least; even with their consciousness machines on, neither of them could tell a story to save their lives. The beats were all wrong—they didn't know how to read the emotions in the story is the best way I can put it. They could read the words, all right. They just couldn't tell the story.

"So you've been reading stories since then," I said.

"Sometimes," Hickory said. "Fairy tales and myths. We are most interested in myths, because they are stories of gods and creation. Dickory and I have decided to make a creation myth for the Obin, so we have a story of our own."

"And this is the story you want to tell me," I said.

"If you think it would cheer you up," Hickory said.

"Well, is it a happy creation myth?" I asked.

"It is for us," Hickory said. "You should know you play a part in it."

"Well, then," I said. "I definitely want to hear it now."

Hickory conferred with Dickory quickly, in their own language. "We will tell you the short version," Hickory said.

"There's a long version?" I said. "I'm really intrigued."

"The remainder of the shuttle ride will not be long enough for the long version," Hickory said. "Unless we then went back down to Phoenix. And then back up. And then back down again."

"The short version it is," I said.

"Very well," Hickory said, and began. "Once upon a time—"

"Really?" I said. "'Once upon a time'?"

"What is wrong with 'once upon a time'?" Hickory asked. "Many of your stories and myths start that way. We thought it would be appropriate."

"There's nothing wrong with it," I said. "It's just a little old-fashioned."

"We will change it if you like," Hickory said.

"No," I said. "I'm sorry, Hickory, I interrupted you. Please start again."

"Very well," Hickory said. "Once upon a time . . ."

Once upon a time there were creatures who lived on a moon of a large gas planet. And these creatures did not have a name, nor did they know they lived on a moon, nor did they know that moon circled a gas planet, nor what a planet was, nor did they know anything in a way that could be said that they were knowing it. They were animals, and they had no consciousness, and they were born and lived and died, all their lives without thought or the knowledge of thought.

One day, although the animals knew nothing of the idea of days, visitors came to the moon that circled the gas planet. And these visitors were known as Consu, although the animals on the planet did not know that, because it was what the Consu called themselves, and the animals were not smart and could not ask the Consu what they called themselves, or know that things could have names.

The Consu came to the moon to explore and they did, noting all the things about the moon, from the air in its sky to the shape of its lands and waters to the shape and manner of all the life that lived in the moon's land, air and water. And when they came to these certain creatures who lived on this moon, the Consu became curious about them and how they lived their lives, and studied them and how they were born and lived and died.

After the Consu had watched the creatures for some time the Consu decided that they would change the creatures, and would give them something that the Consu possessed and that the creatures did not, which was intelligence. And the Consu took the genes of the creatures and changed them so that their brains, as they grew, would develop intelligence well beyond what the creatures would themselves achieve through experience or through many years of evolution. The Consu made these changes to a few creatures and then set them back on the moon and over many generations all the creatures became intelligent.

Once the Consu gave intelligence to the creatures they did not stay on the moon, nor shared themselves with the creatures, but departed and left machines above the sky, which the creatures would not see, to watch the creatures. And so the creatures for a very long time did not learn of the Consu and what they had done to the creatures.

And for a very long time these creatures who now had intelligence grew in number and learned many things. They learned how to make tools and create a language and work together for common goals and to farm the land and mine metals and create science. But although the creatures thrived and learned, they did not know that they among all intelligent creatures were unique, because they did not know there were other intelligent creatures.

One day, after the creatures had gained intelligence, another race of intelligent people came to visit the moon, the first since the Consu, although the creatures did not remember the Consu. And these new people called themselves the Arza and each of the Arza also had a name. And the Arza were amazed that the creatures on the moon, who were intelligent and who had built tools and cities, did not have a name and did not have names for each of their number.

And it was then the creatures discovered through the Arza what made them unique: They were the only people in all the universe who were not conscious. Although every creature could think and reason, it could not know itself as every other intelligent creature could know itself. The creatures lacked awareness of who they were as individuals, even as they lived and thrived and grew on the face of the moon of the planet.

When the creatures learned this, and although no individual could know it felt this, there grew within the race of these creatures a hunger for that thing they did not have: for the consciousness that the creatures knew collectively they did not have as individuals. And this is when the creatures first gave themselves a name, and called themselves "Obin," which in their language meant "The ones who lack," although it might be better translated as "The deprived ones" or "The ones without gifts," and although they named their race they did not give names to each of their individual number.

And the Arza took pity on the creatures who now called themselves Obin, and revealed to them the machines that floated in the sky and that were put there by the Consu, who they knew to be a race of immense intelligence and unknowable aims. The Arza studied the Obin and discovered that their biology was unnatural, and so the Obin learned who had created them.

And the Obin asked the Arza to take them to the Consu, so they could ask why the Consu had done these things, but the Arza refused, saying the Consu met only with other races to fight them, and they feared what would happen to the Arza if they brought the Obin before the Consu.

So it was the Obin determined they must learn to fight. And while the Obin did not fight the Arza, who had been kind to the Obin and took pity on them and then left the Obin in peace, there came another race of creatures called the Belestier, who planned to colonize the moon on which the Obin lived and kill all the Obin because they would not live in peace with them. The Obin struggled with the Belestier, killing all those who landed on their moon, and in doing so found they had an advantage; because the Obin did not know themselves, they were not afraid of death, and had no fear where others had fear in abundance.

The Obin killed the Belestier, and learned from their weapons and technology. In time the Obin left their own moon to colonize other moons and grow their numbers and make war on other races when those other races chose to make war on the Obin.

And there came a day, after many years, when the Obin decided they were ready to meet the Consu, and found where they lived and set out to meet them. Although the Obin were strong and determined, they did not know the power of the Consu, who brushed them aside, killing any Obin who dared to call or attack, and there were many thousands of these.

Eventually the Consu became curious about the creatures they had made and offered to answer three questions for the Obin, if half the Obin everywhere would offer themselves up as a sacrifice to the Consu. And this was a hard bargain, because although no individual Obin would know its own death, such a sacrifice would wound the race, because by this time it had made many enemies among the intelligent races, and they would most certainly attack the Obin when they were weak. But the Obin had a hunger and needed answers. So one half of the Obin willingly offered themselves to the Consu, killing themselves in all manner of ways, wherever they were.

And the Consu were satisfied and answered our three questions. Yes, they had given the Obin intelligence. Yes, they could have given the Obin consciousness but did not, because they wanted to see what consciousless intelligence was like. No, they would not now give us consciousness, nor would they ever, nor would they allow us to ask again. And since that day the Consu have not allowed the Obin to speak to them again; each embassy to them since that day has been killed.

The Obin spent many years fighting many races as it returned itself to its former strength, and in time it became known to other races that to fight with the Obin meant death, for the Obin would not relent or show mercy or pity or fear, because the Obin did not know these things themselves. And for a long time this was the way of things.

One day a race known as the Rraey attacked a human colony and its space station, killing all the humans they could. But before the Rraey could complete their task, the Obin attacked them, because the Obin wanted the colony world for themselves. The Rraey were weakened after their first attack and were defeated and killed. The Obin took the colony and its space station, and because the space station was known as a scientific outpost, the Obin looked through its records to see what useful technology they could take.

It was then that the Obin discovered that one of the human scientists, who was named Charles Boutin, was working on a way to hold and store consciousness outside of the human body, in a machine based on technology the humans had stolen from the Consu. The work was not done, and the technology was not something the Obin at the space station could follow, nor the Obin scientists whom they had brought along. The Obin looked for Charles Boutin among the human survivors of the space station attacks, but he was not to be found, and it was discovered that he was away from the station when it was attacked.

But then the Obin learned that Charles Boutin's daughter Zoë had been on the space station. The Obin took her from the station and she alone was spared among the humans. And the Obin kept her and kept her safe and found a way to tell Charles Boutin that she was alive and offered to return her if he would give the Obin consciousness. But Charles Boutin was angry, not at the Obin but at the humans who he thought had let his daughter die, and demanded in exchange for giving the Obin consciousness, that the Obin would make war on the humans, and defeat them. The Obin could not do this themselves but allied with two other races, the Rraey, whom they had just attacked, and the Enesha, who were allies of the humans, to make war on the humans.

Charles Boutin was satisfied and in time joined the Obin and his daughter, and worked to create consciousness for the Obin. Before he could finish his task, the humans learned of the alliance between the Obin and the Rraey and the Enesha, and attacked. The alliance was broken and the Enesha were made to war on the Rraey by the humans. And Charles Boutin was killed and his daughter Zoë was taken from the Obin by the humans. And although no individual Obin could sense it, the entire nation despaired because in agreeing to give them consciousness Charles Boutin was their friend among all friends, who would do for them what even the great Consu would not: give them awareness of themselves. When he died, their hope for themselves died. To lose his daughter, who was of him and who was dear to them because of him, compounded this despair.

And then the humans sent a message to the Obin that they knew of Boutin's work and offered to continue it, in exchange for an alliance and the agreement by the Obin to war on the Enesha, who had allied with the Obin against the humans, once the Enesha had defeated the Rraey. The Obin agreed to this but added the condition that once the Obin were given consciousness that two of their number would be allowed to know Zoë Boutin, and to share that knowledge with all other Obin, because she was what remained of Charles Boutin, their friend and their hero.

And so it was that the Obin and the humans became allies, the Obin attacked and defeated the Enesha in due time, and the Obin, thousands of generations after their creation, were given consciousness by Charles Boutin. And among their number, the Obin selected two, who would become companions and protectors to Zoë Boutin and share her life with her new family. And when Zoë met them she was not afraid because she had lived with the Obin before, and she gave the two of them names: Hickory and Dickory. And the two of them became the first Obin to have names. And they were glad, and they know they are glad, because of the gift Charles Boutin gave them and all Obin.

And they lived happily ever after.

Hickory said something to me I didn't hear. "What?" I said.

"We are not sure 'and they lived happily ever after' is the appropriate ending," said Hickory, and then stopped and looked closely at me. "You are crying," it said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was remembering. The parts of it I was in."

"We told them wrong," Hickory said.

"No," I said, and put up my hand to reassure it. "You didn't tell it wrong, Hickory. It's just the way you tell it and the way I remember it are a little . . ." I wiped a tear off my face and searched for the right word. "They're just a little different, is all."

"You do not like the myth," Hickory said.

"I like it," I said. "I like it very much. It's just some things hurt me to remember. It happens that way for us sometimes."

"I am sorry, Zoë, for causing you distress," Hickory said, and I could hear the sadness in its voice. "We wanted to cheer you up."

I got up from my seat and went over to Hickory and Dickory and hugged them both. "I know you did," I said. "And I'm really glad you tried."

NINE

"Oh, look," Gretchen said. "Teenage boys, about to do something stupid."

"Shut up," I said. "That couldn't possibly happen." But I looked anyway.

Sure enough, across the Magellan's common area, two clots of teenage males were staring each other down with that look of we're so gonna fight about something lame. They were all getting ready for a snarl, except for one of them, who gave every appearance of trying to talk some sense into one guy who looked particularly itchin' to fight.

"There's one who appears to have a brain," I said.

"One out of eight," Gretchen said. "Not a really excellent percentage. And if he really had a brain he'd probably be getting out of the way."

"This is true," I said. "Never send a teenage boy to do a teenage girl's job."

Gretchen grinned over to me. "We have that mind-meld thing going, don't we?"

"I think you know the answer to that," I said.

"You want to plan it out or just improvise?" Gretchen asked.

"By the time we plan it out, someone's going to be missing teeth," I said.

"Good point," Gretchen said, and then got up and started moving toward the boys.

Twenty seconds later the boys were startled to find Gretchen in the middle of them. "You're making me lose a bet," she said, to the one who looked the most aggressive.

The dude stared for a moment, trying to wrap whatever was passing for his brain around this sudden and unexpected appearance. "What?" he said.

"I said, you're making me lose a bet," Gretchen repeated, and then jerked a thumb over toward me. "I had a bet with Zoë here that no one would start a fight on the Magellan before we actually left dock, because no one would be stupid enough to do something that would get their entire family kicked off the ship."

"Kicked off the ship two hours before departure, even," I said.

"Right," Gretchen said. "Because what sort of moron would you have to be to do that?"

"A teenage boy moron," I suggested.

"Apparently," Gretchen said. "See—what's your name?"

"What?" the guy said again.

"Your name," Gretchen said. "What your mother and father will call you, angrily, once you've gotten them kicked off the ship."

The guy looked around at his friends. "Magdy," he said, and then opened his mouth as if to say something.

"Well, see, Magdy, I have faith in humanity, even the teenage male part of it," Gretchen said, plowing through whatever it was that our Magdy might have had to say. "I believed that not even teenage boys would be dumb enough to give Captain Zane an excuse to kick a bunch of them off the ship while he still could. Once we're under way, the worst he could do is put you in the brig. But right now he could have the crew drop you and your family at the loading bay. Then you could watch the rest of us wave good-bye. Surely, I said, no one could be that incredibly dense. But my friend Zoë disagreed. What did you say, Zoë?"

"I said that teenage boys can't think beyond or without their newly dropped testicles," I said, staring at the boy who had been trying to talk sense into his pal. "Also, they smell funny."

The boy grinned. He knew what we were up to. I didn't grin back; I didn't want to mess with Gretchen's play.

"And I was so convinced that I was right and she was wrong that I actually made a bet," Gretchen said. "I bet every single dessert I'd get here on the Magellan that no one would be that stupid. That's a serious bet."

"She loves her dessert," I said.

"It's true, I do," Gretchen said.

"She's a dessert fiend," I said.

"And now you are going to make me lose all my desserts," Gretchen said, poking Magdy in the chest. "This is not acceptable."

There was a snerk from the boy Magdy had been facing off with. Gretchen wheeled on him; the boy actually flinched backward. "I don't know why you think this is funny," Gretchen said. "Your family would have been thrown off the ship just like his."

"He started it," the boy said.

Gretchen blinked, dramatically. "'He started it'? Zoë, tell me I heard that wrong."

"You didn't," I said. "He really said it."

"It doesn't seem possible that anyone over the age of five would be using that as a rationale for anything," Gretchen said, examining the boy critically.

"Where's your faith in humanity now?" I asked.

"I'm losing it," Gretchen said.

"Along with all your desserts," I said.

"Let me guess," Gretchen said, and waved generally at the clot of boys in front of her. "You're all from the same planet." She turned and looked at the other boy clot. "And you're all from another planet." The boys shifted uncomfortably; she had gotten their number. "And so the first thing you do is you start picking fights because of where you used to live."

"Because that's the smart thing to do with people you're going to spend the rest of your life living with," I said.

"I don't remember that being in the new colonist orientation material," Gretchen said.

"Funny about that," I said.

"Indeed," Gretchen said, and stopped talking.

There was silence for several seconds.

"Well?" Gretchen said.

"What?" Magdy said. It was his favorite word.

"Are you going to fight now or what?" Gretchen said. "If I'm going to lose my bet, now's as good a time as any."

"She's right," I said. "It's almost lunchtime. Dessert is calling."

"So either get on with it or break it up," Gretchen said. She stepped back.

The boys, suddenly aware that whatever it was they were fighting about had been effectively reduced to whether or not some girl would get a cupcake, dispersed, each clot headed pointedly in a separate direction from the other. The sane boy glanced back at me as he walked off with his friends.

"That was fun," Gretchen said.

"Yeah, until they all decide to do it again," I said. "We can't use the dessert humiliation trick every time. And there are colonists from ten separate worlds. That's a hundred different possible idiotic teenage boy fight situations."

"Well, the colonists from Kyoto are Colonial Mennonites," Gretchen said. "They're pacifists. So it's only eighty-one possible idiotic teenage boy fight combinations."

"And yet still only two of us," I said. "I don't like the odds. And how did you know about the Kyoto folks, anyway?"

"When my father was still thinking he'd be running the colony, he made me read the reports on all the colonists and their original planets," Gretchen said. "He said I was going to be his aide-de-camp. Because, you know, that's really what I would have wanted to do with my time."

"Comes in handy, though," I said.

Gretchen pulled out her PDA, which was buzzing, and looked at the screen. "Speaking of which," she said, and showed me the screen. "Looks like Dad's calling."

"Go be aide de camp-y," I said.

Gretchen rolled her eyes. "Thanks. Want to get together for the departure? And then we can go have lunch. You'll have lost the bet by then. I'll get your dessert."

"Touch my dessert and you will die in horrible ways," I said. Gretchen laughed and left.

I pulled out my own PDA to see if there were messages from John or Jane; there was one from Jane telling me that Hickory and Dickory were looking for me about something. Well, they knew I was onboard, and they also knew how to reach me by PDA; it's not like I went anywhere without it. I thought about giving them a call but I figured they would find me sooner or later. I put the PDA away and looked up to find the sane boy standing in front of me.

"Hi," he said.

"Uh," I said, a testament to my smoothness.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that," he said.

"It's okay," I said, only a little flustered.

He stuck out his hand. "Enzo," he said. "And you're Zoë, I guess."

"I am," I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," he said, and then seemed to realize he was back where he started. I smiled.

And then there was about, oh, 47 million seconds of awkward silence. It was only actually a second or two, but as Einstein could tell you, some events have a way of stretching out.

"Thanks for that," Enzo said, finally. "For stopping the fight, I mean."

"You're welcome," I said. "I'm glad you didn't mind we stepped in on what you were doing."

"Well, I wasn't doing a great job of it anyway," Enzo said. "Once Magdy gets himself worked up, it's hard to get him to back down."

"What was that all about anyway?" I asked.

"It's kind of stupid," Enzo said.

"That I know," I said, and then wondered if Enzo would take it the wrong way. He smiled. Score one for Enzo. "I mean what caused it."

"Magdy's pretty sarcastic, and he's also pretty loud," Enzo said. "He made some snide remark about what those other guys were wearing as they passed by. One of them got upset and they got into it."

"So you guys nearly had a brawl over fashion," I said.

"I told you it was stupid," Enzo said. "But you know how it is. You get worked up, it's kind of hard to think rationally."

"But you were thinking rationally," I said.

"That's my job," Enzo said. "Magdy gets us into trouble, I get us out of it."

"So you've known each other for a while," I said.

"He's been my best friend since we were little," Enzo said. "He's really not a jerk, honest. He just sometimes doesn't think about what he's doing."

"You look out for him," I said.

"It goes both ways," Enzo said. "I'm not much of a fighter. A lot of kids we knew would have taken advantage of that fact if they didn't know Magdy would have punched them in the head."

"Why aren't you much of a fighter?" I asked.

"I think you have to like to fight a little," Enzo said. Then he seemed to realize this was challenging his own masculinity a bit, and this would get him kicked out of the teenage male club. "Don't get me wrong. I can defend myself just fine without Magdy around. We're just a good team."

"You're the brains of the outfit," I suggested.

"That's possible," he allowed, and then seemed to figure out that I'd gotten him to make a whole bunch of statements about himself without getting to find out anything about me. "What about you and your friend? Who is the brains of that outfit?"

"I think Gretchen and I both hold our own pretty well in the brains department," I said.

"That's a little scary," Enzo said.

"It's not a bad thing to be a little intimidating," I said.

"Well, you have that down," Enzo said, with just the right amount of offhandedness. I tried very hard not to blush. "So, listen, Zoë—" Enzo began, and then looked over my shoulder. I saw his eyes get very wide.

"Let me guess," I said, to Enzo. "There are two very scary-looking aliens standing directly behind me."

"How did you know?" Enzo said, after a minute.

"Because what you're doing now is the usual response," I said. I glanced back at Hickory and Dickory. "Give me a minute," I said to them. They took a step back.

"You know them?" Enzo said.

"They're sort of my bodyguards," I said.

"You need bodyguards?" Enzo asked.

"It's a little complicated," I said.

"Now I know why you and your friend can both work on being the brains of the outfit," Enzo said.

"Don't worry," I said, and turned to Hickory and Dickory. "Guys, this is my new friend Enzo. Say hello."

"Hello," they said, in their deadly monotone.

"Uh," Enzo said.

"They're perfectly harmless unless they think you're a threat to me," I said.

"What happens then?" Enzo asked.

"I'm not really sure," I said. "But I think it would involve you being turned into a large number of very small cubes."

Enzo looked at me for a minute. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said. "But I'm a little afraid of you right now."

I smiled at this. "Don't be," I said, and I took his hand, which seemed to surprise him. "I want us to be friends."

There was an interesting play across Enzo's face: pleasure at the fact I'd taken his hand, and apprehension that if he showed too much pleasure at the fact, he'd be summarily cubed. It was very cute. He was very cute.

As if on cue, Hickory audibly shifted its weight.

I sighed. "I need to talk to Hickory and Dickory," I said, to Enzo. "Will you excuse me?"

"Sure," Enzo said, and took his hand out of mine.

"Will I see you later?" I asked.

"I hope so," Enzo said, and then got that look that said his brain was telling him he was being too enthusiastic. Shut up, stupid brain. Enthusiasm is a good thing. He backed off and went away. I watched him go a little.

Then I turned to Hickory and Dickory. "This had better be good," I said.

"Who was that?" Hickory asked.

"That was Enzo," I said. "Which I already told you. He's a boy. A cute one, too."

"Does he have impure intentions?" Hickory asked.

"What?" I said, slightly incredulous. "'Impure intentions'? Are you serious? No. I've only known him for about twenty minutes. Even for a teenage boy, that would be a pretty quick ramp-up."

"This is not what we have heard," Hickory said.

"From whom?" I asked.

"From Major Perry," Hickory said. "He said that he was once a teenage boy himself."

"Oh, God," I said. "Thank you so very much for the mental image of Dad as a teenage sack of hormones. That's the sort of image that takes therapy to get rid of."

"You have asked us to intercede for you with teenage boys before," Hickory said.

"That was a special case," I said. And it had been. Just before we left Huckleberry my parents had gone off on a planetary survey of Roanoke and I was given tacit permission to have a good-bye party for my friends, and Anil Rameesh had taken it upon himself to sneak into my bedroom and get naked, and upon discovery, to inform me that he was giving me his virginity as a good-bye gift. Well, he didn't put it that way; he was trying to avoid mentioning the whole "virginity" aspect of it at all.

Regardless, this was a gift I really didn't want, even though it was already unwrapped. I told Hickory and Dickory to escort him out; Anil responded by screaming, jumping out my window and down off the roof, and then running all the way home naked. Which was a sight. I had his clothes delivered home the next day.

Poor Anil. He wasn't a bad person. Just deluded and hopeful.

"I will let you know if Enzo presents any problems," I said. "Until then, you leave him alone."

"As you wish," Hickory said. I could tell it was not entirely pleased about this.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" I asked.

"We have news for you from the Obin government," Hickory said. "An invitation."

"An invitation for what?" I asked.

"An invitation to visit our homeworld, and to tour our planets and colonies," Hickory said. "You are now old enough to travel unaccompanied, and while all Obin have known of you since you were young, thanks to our recordings, there is a great desire among all Obin to meet you in person. Our government asks you if you will not accede to this request."

"When?" I asked.

"Immediately," Hickory said.

I looked at them both. "You're asking me this now?" I said. "We're less than two hours from departing to Roanoke."

"We have only just now received the invitation," Hickory said. "As soon as it was sent to us, we came to find you."

"It couldn't wait?" I asked.

"Our government wished to ask you before your journey to Roanoke began," Hickory said. "Once you had established yourself on Roanoke, you might be hesitant to leave for such a significant amount of time."

"How much time?" I asked.

"We have sent a proposed itinerary to your PDA," Hickory said.

"I'm asking you," I said.

"The entire tour would take thirteen of your standard months," Hickory said. "Although if you were amenable, it could be extended."

"So, to recap," I said. "You want me to decide in the next two hours whether or not to leave my family and friends for at least a year, maybe longer, to tour the Obin worlds by myself."

"Yes," Hickory said. "Although of course Dickory and I would accompany you."

"No other humans, though," I said.

"We could find some if you wanted," Hickory said.

"Would you?" I said. "That would be swell."

"Very well," Hickory said.

"I'm being sarcastic, Hickory," I said, irritated. "The answer is no. I mean, really, Hickory. You're asking me to make a life-changing decision on two hours' notice. That's completely ridiculous."

"We understand that the timing of this request is not optimal," Hickory said.

"I don't think you do," I said. "I think you know it's short notice, but I don't think you understand that it's offensive."

Hickory shrank back slightly. "We did not mean to offend," it said.

I was about to snap something off but I stopped and started counting in my head, because somewhere in there the rational part of my brain was letting me know I was heading into over-reaction territory. Hickory and Dickory's invitation was last-minute, but biting their heads off for it didn't make much sense. Something about the request was just rubbing me the wrong way.

It took me a minute to figure out why. Hickory and Dickory were asking me to leave behind everyone I knew, and everyone I had just met, for a year of being alone. I had already done that, long ago, when the Obin had taken me from Covell, in the time I had to wait before my father could find a way to reclaim me. It was a different time and with different circumstances, but I remember the loneliness and need for human contact. I loved Hickory and Dickory; they were family. But they couldn't offer me what I needed and could get from human contact.

And besides, I just said good-bye to a whole village of people I knew, and before that had said good-bye to family and friends, usually forever, a whole lot more than most people my age. Right now I had just found Gretchen, and Enzo was certainly looking interesting. I didn't want to say good-bye to them even before I properly got to know them.

I looked at Hickory and Dickory, who despite everything they knew about me couldn't have understood why what they were asking me would affect me like this. It's not their fault, said the rational part of my brain. And it was right. Which was why it was the rational part of my brain. I didn't always like that part, but it was usually on point for stuff like this.

"I'm sorry, Hickory," I said, finally. "I didn't mean to yell at you. Please accept my apology."

"Of course," Hickory said. It unshrunk itself.

"But even if I wanted to go, two hours is not nearly enough time to think this through," I said. "Have you spoken to John or Jane about this?"

"We felt it best to come to you," Hickory said. "Your desire to go would have influenced their decision to let you go."

I smiled. "Not as much as I think you think it would," I said. "You may think I'm old enough to spend a year off touring the Obin worlds, but I guarantee you Dad will have a different opinion about that. It took both Jane and Savitri a couple of days to convince him to let me have that good-bye party while they were away. You think he'd say 'yes' to having me go away for a year when there's a two-hour time limit attached? That's optimistic."

"It is very important to our government," Dickory said. Which was surprising. Dickory almost never spoke about anything, other than to make one of its monochromatic greetings. The fact Dickory felt compelled to pipe up spoke volumes in itself.

"I understand that," I said. "But it's still too sudden. I can't make a decision like this now. I just can't. Please tell your government I'm honored by the invitation, and that I want to make a tour of the Obin worlds one day. I really do. But I can't do it like this. And I want to go to Roanoke."

Hickory and Dickory were silent for a moment. "Perhaps if Major Perry and Lieutenant Sagan were to hear our invitation and agree, you might be persuaded," Hickory said.

Rankle, rankle. "What is that supposed to mean?" I asked. "First you say you wanted me to say yes because then they might agree, and now you want to work it the other way? You asked me, Hickory. My answer is no. If you think asking my parents is going to get me to change my mind, then you don't understand human teenagers, and you certainly don't understand me. Even if they said yes, which, believe me, they won't, since the first thing they will do is ask me what I think of the idea. And I'll tell them what I told you. And that I told you."

Another moment of silence. I watched the two of them very closely, looking for the trembles or twitches that sometimes followed when they were emotionally wrung out. The two of them were rock steady. "Very well," Hickory said. "We will inform our government of your decision."

"Tell them that I will consider it some other time. Maybe in a year," I said. Maybe by that time I could convince Gretchen to go with me. And Enzo. As long as we were daydreaming here.

"We will tell them," Hickory said, and then it and Dickory did a little head bow and departed.

I looked around. Some of the people in the common area were watching Hickory and Dickory leave; the others were looking at me with strange expressions. I guess they'd never seen a girl with her own pet aliens before.

I sighed. I pulled out my PDA to contact Gretchen but then stopped before I accessed her address. Because as much as I didn't want to be alone in the larger sense, at that moment, I needed a time out. Something was going on, and I needed to figure what it was. Because whatever it was, it was making me nervous.

I put the PDA back in my pocket, thought about what Hickory and Dickory just said to me, and worried.

TEN

There were two messages on my PDA after dinner that evening. The first was from Gretchen. "That Magdy character tracked me down and asked me out on a date," it read. "I guess he likes girls who mock the crap out of him. I told him okay. Because he is kind of cute. Don't wait up." This made me smile.

The second was from Enzo, who had somehow managed to get my PDA's address; I suspect Gretchen might have had something to do with that. It was titled "A Poem to the Girl I Just Met, Specifically a Haiku, the Title of Which Is Now Substantially Longer Than the Poem Itself, Oh, the Irony," and it read:

Her name is Zoë

Smile like a summer breeze

Please don't have me cubed.

I laughed out loud at that one. Babar looked up at me and thumped his tail hopefully; I think he was thinking all this happiness would result in more food for him. I gave him a slice of leftover bacon. So I guess he was right about that. Smart dog, Babar.

Image

After the Magellan departed from Phoenix Station, the colony leaders found out about the near-rumble in the common area, because I told them about it over dinner. John and Jane sort of looked at each other significantly and then changed the subject to something else. I guessed the problem of integrating ten completely different sets of people with ten completely different cultures had already come up in their discussions, and now they were getting the underage version of it as well.

I figured that they would find a way to deal with it, but I really wasn't prepared for their solution.

"Dodgeball," I said to Dad, over breakfast. "You're going to have all us kids play dodgeball."

"Not all of you," Dad said. "Just the ones of you who would otherwise be picking stupid and pointless fights out of boredom." He was nibbling on some coffee cake; Babar was standing by on crumb patrol. Jane and Savitri were out taking care of business; they were the brains of this particular setup. "You don't like dodgeball?" he asked.

"I like it just fine," I said. "I'm just not sure why you think it's an answer to this problem."

Dad set down his coffee cake, brushed off his hands, and started ticking off points with his fingers. "One, we have the equipment and it fits the space. We can't very well play football or cricket on the Magellan. Two, it's a team sport, so we can get big groups of kids involved. Three, it's not complicated, so we don't have to spend much time laying out the ground rules to everyone. Four, it's athletic and will give you guys a way to burn off some of your energy. Five, it's just violent enough to appeal to those idiot boys you were talking about yesterday, but not so violent that someone's actually going to get hurt."

"Any more points?" I asked.

"No," Dad said. "I've run out of fingers." He picked up his coffee cake again.

"It's just going to be that the boys are going to make teams with their friends," I said. "So you'll still have the problem of kids from one world staying with their own."

"I would agree with this, if not for the fact that I'm not a complete idiot," Dad said, "and neither is Jane. We have a plan for this."

The plan: Everyone who signed up to play was assigned to a team, rather than allowed to pick their own team. And I don't think the teams were entirely randomly assigned; when Gretchen and I looked over the team lists, Gretchen noted that almost none of the teams had more than one player from the same world; even Enzo and Magdy were put on different teams. The only kids who were on the same "team" were the Kyotoans; as Colonial Mennonites they avoided playing in competitive sports, so they asked to be the referees instead.

Gretchen and I didn't sign up for any teams; we appointed ourselves league managers and no one called us on it; apparently word of the intense mockery we laid on a wild pack of teenage boys had gotten around and we were feared and awed equally. "That makes me feel pretty," Gretchen said, once such a thing was told to her by one of her friends from Erie. We were watching the first game of the series, with the Leopards playing against the Mighty Red Balls, presumably named after the game equipment. I don't think I approved of the team name, myself.

"Speaking of which, how was your date last night?" I asked.

"It was a little grabby," Gretchen said.

"You want me to have Hickory and Dickory talk to him?" I asked.

"No, it was manageable," Gretchen said. "And besides which, your alien friends creep me out. No offense."

"None taken," I said. "They really are nice."

"They're your bodyguards," Gretchen said. "They're not supposed to be nice. They're supposed to scare the pee out of people. And they do. I'm just glad they don't follow you around all the time. No one would ever come talk to us."

In fact, I hadn't seen either Hickory or Dickory since the day before and our conversation about touring the Obin planets. I wondered if I had managed to hurt their feelings. I was going to have to check in on them to see how they were.

"Hey, your boyfriend just picked off one of the Leopards," Gretchen said. She pointed at Enzo, who was playing in the game.

"He's not my boyfriend, any more than Magdy is yours," I said.

"Is he as grabby as Magdy is?" Gretchen asked.

"What a question," I said. "How dare you ask. I'm madly offended."

"That's a yes, then," Gretchen said.

"No, it's not," I said. "He's been perfectly nice. He even sent me a poem."

"He did not," Gretchen said. I showed it to her on my PDA. She handed it back. "You get the poetry writer. I get the grabber. It's really not fair. You want to trade?"

"Not a chance," I said. "But he not's my boyfriend."

Gretchen nodded out to Enzo. "Have you asked him about that?"

I looked over to Enzo, who sure enough was sneaking looks my way while moving around the dodgeball field. He saw I was looking his way, smiled over at me and nodded, and as he was doing that he got nailed righteously hard in the ear by the dodgeball and went down with a thump.

I burst out laughing.

"Oh, nice," Gretchen said. "Laughing at your boyfriend's pain."

"I know! I'm so bad!" I said, and just about toppled over.

"You don't deserve him," Gretchen said, sourly. "You don't deserve his poem. Give them both to me."

"Not a chance," I said, and then looked up and saw Enzo there in front of me. I reflexively put my hand over my mouth.

"Too late," he said. Which of course made me laugh even more.

"She's mocking your pain," Gretchen said, to Enzo. "Mocking it, you hear me."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," I said, between laughs, and before I thought about what I was doing gave Enzo a hug.

"She's trying to distract you from her evil," Gretchen warned.

"It's working," Enzo said.

"Oh, fine," Gretchen said. "See if I warn you about her evil ways after this." She very dramatically focused back on the game, only occasionally glancing over and grinning at me.

I unhugged from Enzo. "I'm not actually evil," I said.

"No, just amused at the pain of others," Enzo said.

"You walked off the court," I said. "It can't have hurt that much."

"There's pain you can't see," Enzo said. "Existential pain."

"Oh, boy," I said. "If you're having existential pain from dodgeball, you're really just doing it wrong."

"I don't think you appreciate the philosophical subtleties of the sport," Enzo said. I started giggling again. "Stop it," Enzo said mildly. "I'm being serious here."

"I so hope you're not," I said, and giggled some more. "You want to get lunch?"

"Love to," Enzo said. "Just give me a minute to extract this dodgeball from my Eustachian tube."

It was the first time I had ever heard anyone use the phrase "Eustachian tube" in common conversation. I think I may have fallen a little bit in love with him right there.

"I haven't seen the two of you around much today," I said to Hickory and Dickory, in their quarters.

"We are aware that we make many of your fellow colonists uncomfortable," Hickory said. It and Dickory sat on stools that were designed to accommodate their body shape; otherwise their quarters were bare. The Obin may have gained consciousness and even recently tried their hand at storytelling, but the mysteries of interior decoration still clearly eluded them. "It was decided it would be best for us to stay out of the way."

"Decided by whom?" I asked.

"By Major Perry," Hickory said, and then, before I could open my mouth, "and we agree."

"You two are going to be living with us," I said. "With all of us. People need to get used to you."

"We agree, and they will have time," Hickory said. "But for now we think it's better to give your people time to get used to each other." I opened my mouth to respond, but then Hickory said, "Do you not benefit from our absence at the moment?"

I remembered Gretchen's comment earlier in the day about how the other teens would never come up to us if Hickory and Dickory were always hanging around, and felt a little bit ashamed. "I don't want you to think I don't want you around," I said.

"We do not believe that," Hickory said. "Please do not think that. When we are on Roanoke we will resume our roles. People will be more accepting of us because they will have had time to know you."

"I still don't want you to think you have to stay in here because of me," I said. "It would drive me crazy to be cooped up in here for a week."

"It is not difficult for us," Hickory said. "We disconnect our consciousnesses until we need them again. Time flies by that way."

"That was very close to a joke," I said.

"If you say so," Hickory said.

I smiled. "Still, if that's the only reason you stay in here—"

"I did not say it was the only reason," Hickory said, interrupting me, which it almost never did. "We are also spending this time preparing."

"For life on Roanoke?" I asked.

"Yes," Hickory said. "And how we will be of best service to you when we are there."

"I think by just doing what you do," I said.

"Possibly," Hickory said. "We think you might be underestimating how much different Roanoke will be from your life before, and what our responsibilities will be to you."

"I know it's going to be different," I said. "I know it's going to be harder in a lot of ways."

"We are glad to hear that," Hickory said. "It will be."

"Enough so that you're spending all this time planning?" I asked.

"Yes," Hickory said. I waited a second to hear if anything else was coming after that, but there wasn't.

"Is there anything you want me to do?" I asked Hickory. "To help you?"

Hickory took a second to respond. I watched it to see what I could sense from it; after this many years, I was pretty good at reading its moods. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. It was just Hickory.

"No," Hickory said, finally. "We would have you do what you are doing. Meeting new people. Becoming friends with them. Enjoying your time now. When we arrive at Roanoke we do not expect you will have as much time for enjoyment."

"But you're missing out on all my fun," I said. "You're usually there to record it."

"This one time you can get along without us," Hickory said. Another near joke. I smiled again and gave them both a hug just as my PDA vibrated to life. It was Gretchen.

"Your boyfriend really sucks at dodgeball," she said. "He just took a hit square on his nose. He says to tell you the pain isn't nearly as enjoyable if you're not around to laugh at it. So come on down and ease the poor boy's pain. Or add to it. Either works."

ELEVEN

Things to know about the life of Zoë, on the Magellan.

First, John and Jane's master plan to keep the teenage boys from killing themselves or others worked like a charm, which meant I grudgingly had to admit to Dad he'd done something smart, which he enjoyed probably more than he should have. Each of the dodgeball teams became their own little group, counterpointing with the already-established groups of kids from former colonies. It might have been a problem if everyone just switched their tribe allegiance to their teams, because then we'd have just substituted one sort of group stupidity for another. But the kids still felt allegiance to their homeworld friends as well, at least one of whom was likely to be on an opposing dodgeball team. It kept everyone friendly, or at least kept some of the more aggressively stupid kids in check until everyone could get over the urge to pick fights.

Or so it was explained to me by Dad, who continued to be pleased with himself. "So you can see how we weave a subtle web of interpersonal connection," he said to me, as we watched one of the dodgeball games.

"Oh, Lord," Savitri, who was sitting with us, said. "The self-satisfaction here is going to make me gag."

"You're just jealous that you didn't think it up," Dad said to Savitri.

"I did think it up," Savitri said. "Part of it, anyway. I and Jane helped with this plan, as I'm sure you recall. You're just taking all the credit."

"These are despicable lies," Dad said.

"Ball," Savitri said, and we all ducked as a runaway ball ricocheted into the crowd.

Whoever thought it up, the dodgeball scheme had side benefits. After the second day of the tournament, the teams started having their own theme songs, as team members riffled through their music collections to find tunes that would get them riled up. And this was where we discovered a real cultural gap: Music that was popular on one world was completely unheard of on another. The kids from Khartoum were listening to chango-soca, the ones from Rus were deep into groundthump and so on. Yes, they all had good beats, and you could dance to them, but if you want to get someone wild-eyed and frothy, all you have to do is suggest that your favorite music was better than theirs. People were whipping out their PDAs and queuing up their songs to make their points.

And thus began the Great Magellan Music War: All of us networked our PDAs together and furiously started making playlists of our favorite music to show how our music was indisputably the best music ever. In a very short time I was exposed to not just chango-soca and groundthump but also kill-drill, drone, haploid, happy dance (ironically named, as it turned out), smear, nuevopop, tone, classic tone, Erie stomp, doowa capella, shaker and some really whacked-out stuff alleged to be waltz but critically missing three-quarter time or indeed any recognizable time signature at all as far as I could tell. I listened to it all with a fair mind, then told all their proponents I pitied them because they had never been exposed to Huckleberry Sound, and sent out a playlist of my own.

"So you make your music by strangling cats," Magdy said, as he listened to "Delhi Morning," one of my favorite songs, with me, Gretchen and Enzo.

"That's sitar, you monkey," I said.

"'Sitar' being the Huckleberry word for 'strangled cats,'" Magdy said.

I turned to Enzo. "Help me out here," I said.

"I'm going to have to go with the cat strangling theory," Enzo said.

I smacked him on the arm. "I thought you were my friend."

"I was," Enzo said. "But now I know how you treat your pets."

"Listen!" Magdy said. The sitar part had just risen out of the mix and was suspended, heartbreakingly, over the bridge of the song. "Annnd right there is when the cat died. Admit it, Zoë."

"Gretchen?" I looked over to my last, best friend, who would always defend me against Philistines.

Gretchen looked over to me. "That poor cat," she said, and then laughed. Then Magdy grabbed the PDA and pulled up some horrible shaker noise.

For the record, "Delhi Morning" does not sound like strangled cats. It really doesn't. They were all tone-deaf or something. Particularly Magdy.

Tone-deaf or not, however, the four of us were ending up spending a lot of time together. While Enzo and I were doing our slow, amused sizing up of each other, Gretchen and Magdy alternated between being interested in each other and trying to see just how low they could cut each other down verbally. Although you know how these things go. One probably led to the other and vice-versa. And I'm guessing hormones counted for a lot; both of them were good-looking examples of blossoming adolescence, which I think is the best way to put it. They both seemed willing to put up with a lot from each other in exchange for gawking and some light groping, which to be fair to Magdy was not entirely one-sided on his part, if Gretchen's reports were to be believed.

As for Enzo and me, well, this is how we were getting along:

"I made you something," I said, handing him my PDA.

"You made me a PDA," he said. "I always wanted one."

"Goof," I said. Of course he had a PDA; we all did. We would hardly be teens without them. "No, click on the movie file."

He did, and watched for a few moments. Then he cocked his head at me. "So, is the whole thing shots of me getting hit in the head with a dodgeball?" he asked.

"Of course not," I said. "Some of them are of you getting hit in other places." I took the PDA and ran my finger along the fast-forward strip on the video player. "See, look," I said, showing him the groin shot he took earlier in the day.

"Oh, great," he said.

"You're cute when you collapse in aching misery," I said.

"I'm glad you think so," he said, clearly not as enthused as I was.

"Let's watch it again," I said. "This time in slow motion."

"Let's not," Enzo said. "It's a painful memory. I had plans for those things one day."

I felt a blush coming on, and fought it back with sarcasm. "Poor Enzo," I said. "Poor squeaky-voiced Enzo."

"Your sympathy is overwhelming," he said. "I think you like watching me get abused. You could offer up some advice instead."

"Move faster," I said. "Try not to get hit so much."

"You're helpful," he said.

"There," I said, pressing the send button on the PDA. "It's in your queue now. So you can treasure it always."

"I hardly know what to say," he said.

"Did you get me anything?" I asked.

"As a matter of fact," Enzo said, and then pulled out his PDA, punched up something, and handed the PDA to me. On it was another poem. I read it.

"This is very sweet," I said. It was actually beautiful, but I didn't want to get mushy on him, not after just sharing video of him taking a hit to his nether regions.

"Yes, well," Enzo said, taking back the PDA. "I wrote it before I saw that video. Just remember that." He pressed his PDA screen. "There. In your queue now. So you can treasure it always."

"I will," I said, and would.

"Good," Enzo said. "Because I get a lot of abuse for those, you know."

"For the poems?" I said. Enzo nodded. "From whom?"

"From Magdy, of course," Enzo said. "He caught me writing that one to you and mocked the hell out of me for it."

"Magdy's idea of a poem is a dirty limerick," I said.

"He's not stupid," Enzo said.

"I didn't say he was stupid," I said. "Just vulgar."

"Well, he's my best friend," Enzo said. "What are you gonna do."

"I think it's sweet you stick up for him," I said. "But I have to tell you that if he mocks you out of writing poems for me, I'm going to have to kick his ass."

Enzo grinned. "You or your bodyguards?" he asked.

"Oh, I'd handle this one personally," I said. "Although I might get Gretchen to help."

"I think she would," Enzo said.

"There's no think involved here," I said.

"I guess I better keep writing you poems, then," Enzo said.

"Good," I said, and patted his cheek. "I'm glad we have these little conversations."

And Enzo was as good as his word; a couple of times a day I'd get a new poem. They were mostly sweet and funny, and only a little bit showing off, because he would send them in different poem formats: haiku and sonnets and sestinas and some forms I don't know what they're called but you could see that they were supposed to be something.

And naturally I would show them all to Gretchen, who tried very hard not to be impressed. "The scan's off on that one," she said, after she had read one I showed to her at one of the dodgeball games. Savitri had joined the two of us to watch. She was on her break. "I'd dump him for that."

"It's not off," I said. "And anyway he's not my boyfriend."

"A guy sends poems on the hour and you say he's not your boyfriend?" Gretchen asked.

"If he was her boyfriend, he wouldn't be sending poems anymore," Savitri said.

Gretchen smacked her forehead. "Of course," she said. "It all makes sense now."

"Give me that," I said, taking back my PDA. "Such cynicism."

"You're just saying that because you're getting sestinas," Savitri said.

"Which don't scan," Gretchen said.

"Quiet, both of you," I said, and turned the PDA around so it could record the game. Enzo's team was playing the Dragons in the quarter-final match for the league championship. "All your bitterness is distracting me from watching Enzo get slaughtered out there."

"Speaking of cynicism," Gretchen said.

There was a loud pock as the dodgeball smooshed Enzo's face into a not terribly appealing shape. He grabbed his face with both hands, cursed loudly, and dropped to his knees.

"There we go," I said.

"That poor boy," Savitri said.

"He'll live," Gretchen said, and then turned to me. "So you got that."

"It's going into the highlight reel for sure," I said.

"I've mentioned before that you don't deserve him," Gretchen said.

"Hey," I said. "He writes me poems, I document his physical ineptitude. That's how the relationship works."

"I thought you said he wasn't your boyfriend," Savitri said.

"He's not my boyfriend," I said, and saved the humiliating snippet into my "Enzo" file. "It doesn't mean we don't have a relationship." I put my PDA away and greeted Enzo as he came up, still holding his face.

"So you got that," he said to me. I turned and smiled at Gretchen and Savitri, as if to say, See. They both rolled their eyes.

In all, there was about a week between when the Magellan left Phoenix Station and when the Magellan was far enough away from any major gravity well that it could skip to Roanoke. Much of that time was spent watching dodgeball, listening to music, chatting with my new friends, and recording Enzo getting hit with balls. But in between all of that, I actually did spend a little bit of time learning about the world on which we would live the rest of our lives.

Some of it I already knew: Roanoke was a Class Six planet, which meant (and here I'm double-checking with the Colonial Union Department of Colonization Protocol Document, get it wherever PDAs have access to a network) that the planet was within fifteen percent of Earth standard gravity, atmosphere, temperature and rotation, but that the biosphere was not compatible with human biology—which is to say if you ate something there, it'd probably make you vomit your guts out if it didn't kill you outright.

(This made me mildly curious about how many classes of planet there were. Turns out there are eighteen, twelve of which are at least nominally humanly compatible. That said, if someone says you're on a colony ship headed to a Class Twelve planet, the best thing to do is to find an escape pod or volunteer to join the ship's crew, because you're not going to want to land on that world if you can avoid it. Unless you like weighing up to two and a half times your normal weight on a planet whose ammonia-choked atmosphere will hopefully smother you before you die of exposure. In which case, you know. Welcome home.)

What do you do on a Class Six planet, when you're a member of a seed colony? Well, Jane had it right when she said it on Huckleberry: You work. You only have so much food supply to go through before you have to add to it from what you've grown—but before you grow your food, you have to make over the soil so it can grow crops that can feed humans (and other species which started on Earth, like almost all our livestock) without choking to death on the incompatible nutrients in the ground. And you have to make sure that earlier-mentioned livestock (or pets, or toddlers, or inattentive adults who didn't pay attention during their training periods) don't graze or eat anything from the planet until you do a toxicology scan so see if it will kill them. The colonist materials we were given suggest this is more difficult than it sounds, because it's not like your livestock will listen to reason, and neither will a toddler or some adults.

So you've conditioned the soil and kept all your animals and dumb humans from gorging on the poisonous scenery: Now it's time to plant, plant, plant your crops like your life depended on it, because it does. To bring this point home, the colonist training material is filled with pictures of gaunt colonists who messed up their plantings and ended up a lot thinner (or worse) after their planet's winter. The Colonial Union won't bail you out—if you fail, you fail, sometimes at the cost of your own life.

You've planted and tilled and harvested, and then you do it again, and you keep doing it—and all the while you're also building infrastructure, because one of the major roles of a seed colony is to prepare the planet for the next, larger wave of colonists, who show up a couple of standard years later. I assume they land, look around at everything you've created, and say, "Well, colonizing doesn't look that hard." At which point you get to punch them.

And through this all, and in the back of your mind, is this little fact: Colonies are at their most vulnerable to attack when they're new. There's a reason humans colonize Class Six planets, where the biosystem might kill them, and even Class Twelve planets, where just about everything else will kill them too. It's because there are a lot of other intelligent races out there who have the same habitation needs as we have, and we all want as many planets as we can grab. And if someone else is already there, well. That's just something to work around.

I knew this very well. And so did John and Jane.

But it was something I wonder if other people—either my age or older—really understood; understood that Class Six planet or not, conditioned soil or not, planted crops or not, everything they've done and worked for doesn't matter much when a spacecraft shows up in your sky, and it's filled with creatures who've decided they want your planet, and you're in the way. Maybe it's not something you can understand until it happens.

Or maybe when it comes down to it people just don't think about it because there's nothing to do about it. We're not soldiers, we're colonists. Being a colonist means accepting the risk. And once you've accepted the risk, you might as well not think about it until you have to.

And during our week on the Magellan, we certainly didn't have to. We were having fun—almost too much fun, to be honest about it. I suspected we were getting an unrepresentative view of colony life. I mentioned this to Dad, while we watched the final game of the dodgeball tournament, in which the Dragons were raining rubbery red doom on the previously undefeated Slime Molds, the team Magdy was on. I was perfectly fine with this; Magdy had gotten insufferable about his team's winning streak. Humility would be a good thing for the boy.

"Of course this is unrepresentative," Dad said. "Do you think you're going to have time to be playing dodgeball when we get to Roanoke?"

"I don't just mean dodgeball," I said.

"I know," he said. "But I don't want you to worry about it. Let me tell you a story."

"Oh, goody," I said. "A story."

"So sarcastic," Dad said. "When I first left Earth and joined the Civil Defense Forces, we had a week like this. We were given our new bodies—those green ones, like General Rybicki still has—and we were given the order to have fun with them for an entire week."

"Sounds like a good way to encourage trouble," I said.

"Maybe it is," Dad said. "But mostly it did two things. The first was to get us comfortable with what our new bodies could do. The second was to give us some time to enjoy ourselves and make friends before we had to go to war. To give us a little calm before the storm."

"So you're giving us this week to have fun before you send us all to the salt mines," I said.

"Not to the salt mines, but certainly to the fields," Dad said, and motioned out to the kids still hustling about on the dodge-ball court. "I don't think it's entirely sunk into the heads of a lot of your new friends that when we land, they're going to be put to work. This is a seed colony. All hands needed."

"I guess it's a good thing I got a decent education before I left Huckleberry," I said.

"Oh, you'll still go to school," Dad said. "Trust me on that, Zoë. You'll just work, too. And so will all your friends."

"Monstrously unfair," I said. "Work and school."

"Don't expect a lot of sympathy from us," Dad said. "While you're sitting down and reading, we're going to be out there sweating and toiling."

"Who's this 'we'?" I said. "You're the colony leader. You'll be administrating."

"I farmed when I was ombudsman back in New Goa," Dad said.

I snorted. "You mean you paid for the seed grain and let Chaudhry Shujaat work the field for a cut."

"You're missing the point," Dad said. "My point is that once we get to Roanoke we'll all be busy. What's going to get us through it all are our friends. I know it worked that way for me in the CDF. You've made new friends this last week, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Would you want to start your life on Roanoke without them?" Dad asked.

I thought of Gretchen and Enzo and even Magdy. "Definitely not," I said.

"Then this week did what it was supposed to do," Dad said. "We're on our way from being colonists from different worlds to being a single colony, and from being strangers to being friends. We're all going to need each other now. We're in a better position to work together. And that's the practical benefit to having a week of fun."

"Wow," I said. "I can see how you weaved a subtle web of interpersonal connection here."

"Well, you know," Dad said, with that look in his eye that said that yes, he did catch that snarky reference. "That's why I run things."

"Is that it?" I asked.

"It's what I tell myself, anyway," he said.

The Dragons made the last out against the Slime Molds and started celebrating. The crowd of colonists watching were cheering as well, and getting themselves into the mood for the really big event of the night: the skip to Roanoke, which would happen in just under a half hour.

Dad stood up. "This is my cue," he said. "I've got to get ready to do the award presentation to the Dragons. A shame. I was pulling for the Slime Molds. I love that name."

"Try to make it through the disappointment," I said.

"I'll try," he said. "You going to stay around for the skip?"

"Are you kidding?" I said. "Everyone's going to stay around for the skip. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Good," Dad said. "Always a good idea to confront change with your eyes open."

"You think it's really going to be that different?" I asked.

Dad kissed the top of my head and gave me a hug. "Sweetie, I know it's going to be that different. What I don't know is how much more different it's going to be after that."

"I guess we'll find out," I said.

"Yes, and in about twenty-five minutes," Dad said, and then pointed. "Look, there's your mom and Savitri. Let's ring in the new world together, shall we?"