"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."

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.