Rakta’s subaltern stood just behind Hugh like a hotrod that had finally grown tired of hauling commuters and gone to a specialist for extensive, deeply questionable modifications. Most civilian subalterns were built to be forgettable. Soft lines. Neutral plating. Humanoid enough to do small jobs, plain enough not to upset anybody. They looked like tools, which was the point.

  Rakta, in a fit of what they had called “necessary self-expression,” had declined that philosophy entirely.

  The body was bright red.

  Not tasteful red. Not the sort of industrial crimson you saw on warning labels or respectable machinery. This was the kind of red normally reserved for ceremonial violence or toys manufactured by companies whose marketing departments came up with catchphrases like "The Way is Play".

  Gold trim ran along the edges of the crimson plating in flared ornamental ridges that curled into elaborate filigree, the sort of decoration you’d expect on the armor of a lord who believed subtlety was for peasants and hack playwrights. The folks from Karrakin would love the designs, Hugh knew, mostly because the look of the plating had the feeling of being designed by a teenager who had been fed heavy-metal album cover liners and medieval marginalia for months.

  Eight arms unfolded from the torso. Two emerged from the shoulders in the conventional manner. The other six had been socketed into custom mounts along the back. Rakta’s own designs, fabricated with the kind of enthusiasm usually associated with engineers who had been told that R&D budgets were blank checks and the job could take as long as it needed to get done right.

  Artificial muscle bundles threaded through each limb. Decorative spikes crowned the shoulders and forearms. They served no obvious mechanical function beyond announcing to the world that Rakta had been given design freedom and had embraced it with religious fervor.

  The head was worse.

  The subaltern’s head, projecting a holographic face that might—under the examination of a generous and forgiving imagination—have been called handsome.

  If one ignored the curling ram’s horns. And the eyes, which were less eyes than smoldering embers, steadily weeping thin trails of fire that slid down sharp cheekbones before vanishing into nothing. The burning halo and wig of soft blonde curls, Hugh thought, were nice touches.

  Strip away those small details, and the face Rakta chose to wear was almost beautiful. Which, Hugh suspected, was entirely the point. Rakta had never met a piece of theatrical symbolism they didn’t immediately adopt and then push two steps past reasonable.

  It was, in a word, awful. Not the modern sense of the word. The archaic one. The kind that meant inspiring awe, or fear, or the uneasy sense that something important and slightly dangerous had just entered the room.

  No one at the noodle stall fled as the insane looking modified subaltern strode up. But no one stopped looking, either. Conversations hushed, then resumed in murmurs. This was probably a better show than most of the omni-streams on right now. The young man who had loosened his tie had a look upon his face that made Hugh sigh.

  Good gods, man, it's just a subaltern, keep it in your pants.

  Rakta folded six of their arms neatly behind their back, where they formed something resembling a horrifying bio-mechanical backpack. The remaining two came to rest on the counter beside Hugh as the subaltern leaned forward with theatrical gravity.

  The noodle vendor stared for a long second, then looked at Hugh. “That’s your persistent friend?”

  “Yes,” Hugh sighed, lowering his head into his hands.

  Rakta inclined the subaltern’s horned head slightly, halo of fire turning behind it with slow theatrical dignity.

  “At last thou dost acknowledge me in full bodily presence, Hugh Crowe,” Rakta proclaimed in a voice that sounded like it could shake the heavens themselves and really should be heard from the inside of a marble cathedral.

  Then, in a far plainer tone: “You made me come down here myself.”

  For a moment, Hugh considered grabbing Rakta and dragging them away, but his own dignity, whatever was left of it, felt like it could at least withstand being embarrassed by his best friend.

  “Oh, I like this one.” The vendor said as she barked out a laugh.

  Rakta turned toward the noodle vendor, one upper hand settling against their chest in a courtly gesture.

  “Thy esteem is noted, keeper of broth and fire,” Rakta said grandly.

  Then they added cordially, “Nice noodles. Hugh here said they were spicy.”

  “They ain't so spicy, he just can't handle so much spice,” the vendor said, grinning now, "You seem polite, so you can stay at my stall."

  Rakta inclined their head, halo of fire turning slowly behind the horns.

  “What a gracious woman thou art. Pray tell thy name, fair maiden,” Rakta asked.

  Then, more casually: “I’m Rakta. Friendly NHP. Here to get this sad sack moving again.”

  “You can call me Auntie Lin,” she said, her gaze sliding toward Hugh with practiced suspicion. “And your friend here is Hugh, huh?” Hugh grunted in agreement.

  “He told me you weren’t single,” Lin continued. “Said you were many.” She gestured at the subaltern. “He mean you’ve got more bodies like this walking around?”

  Rakta’s holographic face brightened with unmistakable delight.

  “Hah! ’Tis true. I am legion! Oft I assist the municipal NHP Maurice in noble labors,” Rakta explained proudly.

  Then they added, with cheerful practicality, “I am single, though, if you know anyone interested in an unconventional relationship.”

  “No. Nooo,” Hugh wailed weakly, pressing his fingers into his forehead. “Please don’t start dating humans, Rakta. We only have the one apartment. I do not want to establish ground rules for when you start bringing people home to show them your casket.”

  Rakta straightened to their full height. The body wasn’t especially tall, but every part of it had been engineered to feel as if it had a kind of virtual height, making it feel taller than anyone nearby. The chin tilted slightly back to look down his holographic nose at Hugh. The burning halo turned with stately, blasphemous patience, and several arms spread from their back as if addressing an invisible court.

  “Be still thy wagging tongue, knave! The heart speaks true — I yearn for entanglements and midnight trysts!” Rakta declared.

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  Then, much more bluntly: “I’m going to be a fuck machine, Hugh. You can’t stop me.”

  The noodle stall and much of the surrounding street went quiet in the way small public spaces do when something truly spectacular has just been said out loud. Then, laughter erupted from the lunch crowd. It must have been a good day for them, getting lunch and a show like this. Hugh felt the heat creep up his neck. Rakta had a specific sense of humor, and they loved to swap quips, but this was different. Public humiliation was a different beast that Hugh was not sure he enjoyed as much as their private verbal duels.

  “Well,” Lin said after a moment, completely unruffled, “confidence is important in a relationship.”

  Hugh slowly dragged both hands down his face as he felt a blush rise up his neck.

  “Please don’t encourage them.”

  “Thou art wise in the ways of the world, Auntie Lin,” Rakta said warmly, turning back toward Auntie Lin with obvious approval. “See? She gets it.”

  “I'm seventy-two, with two kids and six grandkids. Who's to say what an NHP would be like in bed?” Lin replied to the chuckles and jeers of some of the customers.

  "Can't be worse than my first, that for sure." The man who had a look of sheer, and to Hugh, terrifying desire in his eyes said.

  “You do not have the hardware for that kind of activity, bub,” Hugh said as he pointed an accusatory finger weakly at Rakta. It was a flimsy defense, and Hugh knew it.

  One of Rakta’s lower hands immediately pointed toward the back-mounted limbs. Artificial muscle bundles flexed with mechanical enthusiasm. Rakta tilted their head slightly.

  “Adaptability is the mother of innovation,” they declared.

  Then they shrugged their shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Those are arms. You have eight arms. What are you—” Hugh trailed off and stared at Rakta like a man who had been looking over the side of a very interesting cliff only to suddenly have felt a shove from behind.

  Several of Rakta’s lower arms gestured thoughtfully, if the thought were found floating somewhere in the gutter.

  “What a fool you must be. Hast thou never found pleasure in simple ways?” Rakta asked.

  Then they added matter-of-factly, “I have options.”

  Hugh made a noise usually heard from men who had just discovered a new and particularly creative form of torture.

  “I fought in three orbital sieges,” he said hoarsely. “I have seen entire cities turn into glass, and you know what, Rakta? The idea of you giving out handies is nightmarish.”

  Auntie Lin leaned on the counter, studying the eight-armed, horned, flaming-haloed construct with open appreciation.

  “Got to admit,” she said, “if nothing else, you’d never have trouble opening jars.”

  Rakta inclined their head in an appreciative nod and shot her a wink.

  “Your practicality does you credit,” Rakta said approvingly.

  Then they added with clear satisfaction, “I like her.”

  Hugh slumped slightly over the counter, staring into the wood grain of the counter like a man reconsidering several key life decisions. Auntie Lin slapped Rakta's arm as if he were an impish rogue and chuckled.

  “This,” Hugh said, “is why the Union Navy should never let NHPs design their own bodies.”

  Rakta’s holographic halo glowed brighter as they turned, sneering in victory over the slumped form of their best friend.

  “Cowardice masquerading as reasonable policy, alas! This is not why I have sought thee out, Hugh Crowe,” Rakta continued.

  Then they waved a dismissive hand. “You’re just jealous. But enough about my love life and handies — let’s talk about getting you a hobby.”

  Several arms shifted as Rakta adjusted their stance, metal joints whispering.

  “Thou didst enter a fugue of avoidance and carbohydrate consumption. Extraordinary measures were warranted,” Rakta continued.

  Then they added bluntly, “You were hiding behind noodles. And shocking you seems to have worked a charm.”

  “That is not what was happening,” Hugh said, glancing up at Rakta and offering a half-hearted shrug.

  “That is exactly what was happening,” Lin snorted, already rinsing the bowl under a tap. “He was sitting here typing away and hardly paying attention to the noodles. Rude old man didn’t even say thank you when he finished.”

  Et tu, noodle lady? Hugh thought. Enemies on all sides, traitors, the lot of you.

  “That’s not true,” Hugh said quickly. “I loved the noodles, Lin. I was just—”

  Hugh faltered. Ten minutes earlier, he had been standing at a crosswalk staring into traffic, lost in the hole of unknowable grief that was the sheer fact that he'd been made to misplace several decades of his life. The noodles had helped. Pulled him out of his own head long enough to remember what hunger felt like.

  But still.

  “…thinking,” he finished weakly.

  Lin raised one eyebrow, and Hugh huffed out an exhale.

  “Damn it, alright, maybe,” he admitted, trying not to sound like he was pouting. “But I needed to eat anyway. Two birds, one stone.”

  Being ganged up on by a matchmaker grandmother and my best friend.

  The sheer audacity of it.

  Several of Ratka's arms moved into a posture that suggested a lecture was about to begin, as their hologram face held a look of extreme focus and care.

  “Attend me now, companion mine: thy healer hath prescribed diversion, fellowship, and restorative labor of the spirit,” Rakta said solemnly.

  Then they translated, with considerably less ceremony, their face going a bit slack: “Your therapist said get a hobby and stop moping.”

  “I’m not moping.” Hugh leaned back on the bench and folded his arms. The posture felt defensive even to him.

  So much for not treating every conversation like an engagement, Pilot.

  Rakta’s right hand made a slow, circular gesture that appeared to invite the universe to examine the evidence.

  “Then name thy present endeavor, if it is not moping beside a domicile of noodles?” Rakta asked pointedly.

  Then they added, “What would you call this?”

  Hugh opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  His eyes drifted briefly to the now-empty space where the bowl had been sitting, and he knew that no matter what he said, he would lose this argument. All evidence led to him being an avoidant idiot.

  “You know you’re bullying an old man,” Hugh muttered.

  He frowned faintly, then let his gaze wander back toward the water.

  The harbor had settled into its afternoon rhythm. Cargo skimmers glided across the surface with the slow patience of things that had been doing the same job for generations. A gull wheeled overhead and screamed at the world for reasons that probably made perfect sense to the gull.

  “Therapy went…” Hugh paused, turning the word around in his mouth like it might reveal something useful if he held it back long enough. “Not bad exactly. It was just hard. The ocean helps me think. Food was nice. I like the gulls. The fishing trawlers.”

  Rakta stood quietly for a moment as Hugh rubbed the back of his neck. Their fiery halo turning behind their ram horns. Then the subaltern simply inclined its head toward the water.

  “Then let us hold court by the sea,” Rakta suggested.

  Then they added cheerfully, “Can’t be worse than me talking about how good I’d be at giving hand jobs.”

  Hugh closed his eyes, trying his best to push the images of Rakta's awful subaltern body standing on a corner and attempting to look enticing out of his head. It was a losing battle.

  “You know, for someone who came down here to help, you’re making a pretty strong case for me taking up solitary confinement as a hobby.”

  Rakta tilted their head and gave a disapproving frown.

  “Solitude is not a hobby. ’Tis a symptom placed upon a grand pedestal,” Rakta replied.

  Then they added, unimpressed, “Nice try.”

  "Worth a shot," Hugh mumbled.

  Out in the harbor, a cargo skimmer changed course, leaving a pale wake across the blue-green water. Somewhere, a gull started screaming again, possibly in solidarity with Hugh's inner torment.

  “So,” Auntie Lin said, leaning one elbow on the counter, “what kind of hobby are we looking for?”

  Hugh gave her a look of mild bewilderment.

  “We?”

  She shrugged.

  “You came to a human-operated food stall. You talked to me. You were a good sport when I was giving you trouble.” She gestured loosely toward the others at the counter. “You made us laugh. Seems fair we help you figure something out.”

  She said it as if it were the most natural arrangement in the world.

  “Again, not to sound like an idiot,” Hugh said slowly, “but… we?”

  In response to the confusion spreading on his face, Lin tilted her head to the three other customers, the one robo-pervert, and Rakta.

  The impulse to bolt rose up fast and bright, the old instinct to disengage from a situation before it turned into something complicated. But then he noticed their faces. They... were smiling. Not the strange, reverent smiles from the gym, these were the ordinary kind. Friendly. Curious. The sort of expressions people wore when they had decided someone might be worth the time of day.

  Biatune was a good planet. Good planets only existed because they had good people on them, making sure that it stayed a good planet. Good people only stayed good because the people kept showing up for each other in small, irritating ways. And here they were, showing up. For him. The thought produced a small, quiet sting in his chest. Not guilt. Something warmer than guilt. More unsettling.

  Time had not been able to sand away Portbase city into dust because of the good people here.

  Rakta brought two hands together with a small metallic click, clearly delighted by the suggestion.

  “At last, a council is formed,” Rakta announced.

  Then they looked at Hugh with satisfaction. “Good. More people to tell you you're being dumb.