Zoe's Tale Part 2

Fight the urge, the polite part of my brain said. the polite part of my brain said. Fight it. Just let it go. 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 this faux pas. If I leaned in, I could probably hear his frontal lobes go faux pas. If I leaned in, I could probably hear his frontal lobes go click click click click, click click click click, trying to reset. trying to reset.

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

But come on. 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 sp.a.w.n 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 a.s.sure you, I didn't look 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 sp.a.w.n 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 a.s.sure you, I didn't look seven. 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. 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 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 you like it here?" like it here?"

I opened my mouth to respond, and then shut it just as quickly. Because, well. There There was a question. 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 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. 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 own planet, I don't know how much you can really complain about not seeing a whole planet, I don't know how much you can really complain about not seeing a whole other other planet. planet.

But it helps to be on an interesting interesting planet. 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 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 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 you who's changed. 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 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 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, 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. 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 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 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. name. He'd gotten this far into my family life without actually saying who he was. 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 d.i.c.kory, 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 quite wet his pants. wet his pants.

Which was an accomplishment, all things considered. Obin-which is what Hickory and d.i.c.kory are-don't look exactly 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 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 drop ballast alert. You get used to them after a bit. But the point is it takes a while. 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 d.i.c.kory. 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 These are your friends." are your friends."

"Best friends," I said, with what I felt was just the right amount of brainless gush. "And they friends," I said, with what I felt was just the right amount of brainless gush. "And they love 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 d.i.c.kory. 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 d.i.c.kory.

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

"Please say h.e.l.lo to our guest," I said.

"h.e.l.lo," 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 sure you don't want me to come along?" Green man said. "I don't mind." 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 d.i.c.kory, 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 that's how you do studied casual. 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 s.e.x 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 a.n.a.logue to any human movement you might want to describe. The universe, it has aliens aliens in it. And they in it. And they are. are.

Hickory was on the roof with me; d.i.c.kory 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 obvious about it; when I was a little kid Mom or Dad would see d.i.c.kory 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. about it; when I was a little kid Mom or Dad would see d.i.c.kory 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. once. When I was ten. But there were extenuating circ.u.mstances. That doesn't count. When I was ten. But there were extenuating circ.u.mstances. 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. no kidding, genius. Then I saw the consciousness collar around its neck and was reminded that in addition to providing Hickory and d.i.c.kory 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. Then I saw the consciousness collar around its neck and was reminded that in addition to providing Hickory and d.i.c.kory 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 I was here, too. Still here, I mean. Alive. 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 was sorry. It's not easy being a funny, sarcastic thing when most of who you sorry. It's not easy being a funny, sarcastic thing when most of who you were were depended on a machine you wore around your neck. Generating one's own prosthetic ident.i.ty 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. depended on a machine you wore around your neck. Generating one's own prosthetic ident.i.ty 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 d.i.c.kory 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, 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. 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 easy for them. 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-c.o.c.ked 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 b.u.mps new colonies face, and for the human population to become too big for invaders to sc.r.a.pe 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 c.r.a.p 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 a.s.sumed 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."