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so much?”

    Matthew grimaced. “It sounded word-for-word like the crap my dad spouts. ‘Before the rise of the bourgeoisie, Earth was a glorious garden.’ Such bull. I traced our family tree back. We’ve been living in cities as long as there’s been cities.”

    “Parks not parking!” I said, fist in the air. In university, I was sympathetic to the regrowth cause, but not because I wanted a forest to frolic in. It was the threat it presented to the powerbrokers that really interested me: valuable real estate turned into public land.

    We had time for a spirited debate on activism and a discussion about the attractiveness of a certain female in the orientation before 9/3 and Hugh finally arrived.

    We heard them before we saw them, the rustling. Then I saw movement, and the glimpse of 9/3’s eyelights, and then they emerged. 9/3 cradled the lunarian’s wisp of a body against him. Hugh was sleeping, one hand on 9/3’s chestplate. His mouth was slightly open. 9/3 was walking extra slowly so as to not wake him up. This was one strangely considerate roboman.

    We quietly walked up the ramp and into the shuttle.

    ***

    We were taking a break in the middle of the Emergency Situations seminar. A pretty good one, actually — this army guy described some pretty gruesome situations involving offworlders caught in the middle of wars, ecotastrophies and the like — the moral being, “Register with your planet’s consulate .” A bit dramatic, but effective.

    “How was your cultural history class? Edifying, I hope?”

    Hugh was standing beside me, sipping a cup of water.

    “Not too bad,” I said. “Not really specific enough, though. How was yours?”

    “Similarly inadequate,” he said, looking at his nails. “Everyone going to planets with dominant symbiotic species were thrown together. Very little was said about my planet, not that much is known about the exact relationship between the Unarmoured and the Armoured.”

    “Other than that the Unarmoured write better love songs than the Armoured,” I said, smiling a little. Hugh was obviously going out of his way to talk to me, but there was no need to make it overly easy for him.

    He looked at my face and seemed to be trying to see if I was making fun of him. “Yes. A lot can be gleaned from their art. In fact, most of my studies dealt with extrapolating societal norms from their verse.”

    “Huh,” I said non-committally, thinking about how many women would love to talk with Hugh about his poetical extrapolations. As if he read my mind, Hugh suddenly left.

    Later that day I sat with him during dinner. He seemed happy to see me.

    “Samuel,” he said with a nod. It was potatoes done lunarian style, with sweet onion bulbs, so Hugh had a huge plate of it.

    “No way you’ll finish that,” I said.

    Hugh shrugged and grinned, scooped his fork in.

    “So what interests you so much about the Unarmoured?” I said, determined not to let my petty jealously get the best of me.

    Hugh’s face lit up, and he set his fork down. “It’s the extremity of the situation. They’re given the choice between being stripped down to a cloud of nerve endings — the ultimate in vulnerability — or being strapped into a mechanical block, a suit of armour — the ultimate in defence.”

    “I find it amazing they co-exist peacefully,” I said.

    “Or do they?” said Hugh, pointing a finger at me. “There have been rumbles about the exact nature of their symbiosis ever since the part the Unarmoured played in the war. But to me their governance is less important than their symbolic value. Defenceless and free, or armoured and trapped? Isn’t it a delicious analogy for the social mask every sentient being chooses?” He lifted his hands up as if to frame the question.

    I shrugged. I doubted many people would enjoy being a delicious analogy.

    9/3 sat down, foodless of course. “That sounded interesting,” he said. Ever since Hugh had fallen asleep in 9/3’s