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.