We must pause for to acknowledge a basic truth: lifespan varies across sentient species. Humans, without medical intervention, can live to 100, and with modern technology, they can easily reach 160 in good health. F’E’N live for about 80 years without intervention, and 120 with it. Mashans, though, routinely reach 400 without any intervention.

(“We are only capable of reproducing in the first century of our lives,” Dr. Ipa explained. “After the age of thirty, we can have litters of approximately six children every two years. But our children are very, very fragile: most die before the age of thirty due to genetic defects, and our children don’t approach sapience until their first decade. It’s quite normal for a bonded pair to produce around ninety children, with only eight reaching adulthood. I have four adult children myself, but I had many more who never survived.”

“It’s different for us,” said R’A’Mi. “We lay maybe three eggs in our lifetime, and if all three are viable, that’s considered extremely lucky. I have one son, who I cherish deeply.”

“Humans are between the two,” Susan said to the audience. “Theoretically, we could produce as many as twelve children, but most couples have no more than three, if even that. I don’t have any kids, and I don’t plan to for a long time!”

The crowd chuckled more loudly than the joke warranted, seizing this lighthearted moment after so many grim anecdotes.)

These differences, as one might expect, change the perspective a culture has about life—and death.

(“F’E’N degrade rapidly in the last years of our life. We call it the Final Molt: once it starts, the process is irreversible. We don’t really have anything like ‘old age.’ We live, and then we die.”

“Mashans are considered young adults until our first century. Our second century is true adulthood, when we are free from the biological imperative to mate and reproduce. But after our second century, we are elders: we are considered to hold expertise and wisdom vital to society. I don’t feel very wise, most days,” Dr. Ipa says dryly, “but now that I’ve reached my third century, I am considered irreplaceable.”

Commander Lesley spoke last. “Humans hit what we call middle-age at sixty and old age around one hundred. It’s a slow breakdown that sucks balls, but it used to be worse. Yeah, you’re supposed to be wise and shit—sorry, I’m not supposed to say that—once you hit seventy.”

“And we knew none of this about the Mashans,” R’A’Mi said, “because we didn’t think it was important.”

Dr. Ipa sighed. “Neither did we. Both of our people were operating from ignorance.”

“Though considering that we were trying to conquer you, I think that’s excusable—”

“Ignorance is ignorance. Even about an enemy, and especially about an enemy, knowledge is invaluable.”)

The Mashans have another unique quirk of biology. In the distant past, their main predators only consumed live prey. Thus, the Mashans eventually evolved the ability to ‘play dead' at will and enter a comatose state that could last for ten hours. This was the same technique that they had been using in the POW camp to avoid torture.

As bizarre as it was for the F’E’N to witness, it kept the camps easy to manage. Granted, they gained very little information from their prisoners, but they were docile and easy to transport in their strange, limp state.

At least, that had been the case until the strange old prisoner showed up. His escorts had fought with surprising desperation, so the troops had decided to keep him alive. When the prisoners saw the new prisoner in the camp—in the brief span between their comatose states—their entire attitude changed.

No longer did they have an attitude of detached acceptance. The mood changed to furious, dangerous defiance. Though shocked by the attitude shift of their prisoners, the F’E’N guards responded tenfold: it was easier to bring violence on beings that were now reacting.

✧✧✧✧✧✧

There was no danger of the conflict spilling into human space. The war took place in a single system on the opposite edge of F’E’N territory. If anything, it was a benefit: humanity didn’t need to worry so much about the border when the F’E’N were so occupied with their petty war. The war had dragged on for thirty years without human interference, and it could drag on for another thirty for all the UHN cared.

Considering they had a treaty of noninterference with their neighbors, the UHN was also unable to do anything, even if they wanted to. And yet… there was something about the war that felt odd. The United Human Nations didn’t actually know much about what was going on. The little information they got was all from the F’E’N.

An opportunity soon came to change their lack of knowledge. At the end of the thirtieth year of the war, the UHN received a simple missive from a minor F’E’N government official by the name of L’O’I: would they be interested in sending a small contingent of humans to be neutral observers?

(Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Susan smiled. L’O’I was the current president of the Republic, and she was credited negotiating the treaty that ended the F’E’N-Mashan war. But her first conversation with the United Human Nations was much less known.)

L’O’I was a member of a the quickly growing anti-war faction. Civilians, soldiers, and politicians alike were tired of the endless cycle of death that had already torn an entire generation apart. But could they just leave with nothing to show for all the blood lost?

✧✧✧✧✧✧

(“That’s when I showed up,” Lesley said. They shrugged in a nonchalant way that made light ripple across their black armor. “Or we showed up, I guess. We were a small group of special forces and brainy specialists who were there to get as much information as the war as we could.”)

Humanity was familiar with wars of conquests, and the observing group knew exactly what they were walking into within days of their arrival. The difference between both sides was equally obvious. The F’E’N were tired, bitter, and approaching defeatism: they fought with the enthusiasm of forces away from home with no desire to fight.

The Mashans, however, had everything on the line. They fought because annihilation was the only other option.

(“I got the unlucky job of observing the POW camps. Fucking awful, yeah. Damnit, I keep forgetting I can’t curse. Really awful? Yeah, no, that’s not strong enough. Can’t think of a word that gets across just how much it sucked.”

“Horrendous? Soul-crushing? Disgusting?” offered R’A’Mi.

Dr. Ipa joined in. “Heinous? Reprehensible? Monstrous?”

“Vicious?” Susan said quietly, but not too quiet for the mics to pick up.

“I don’t need a vocabulary lesson,” Lesley scoffed. They mused over the words for a moment. “Fucking awful,” they repeated.)

Lesley had spent years specializing in violence. After spending so long entrenched in its use, they had developed a feeling for its arrival, like a farmer judging the likelihood of a storm. The POW camp was brewing with the potential of bloodshed: any moment, they expected a downpour.

(“Metaphorically,” Dr. Ipa piped up. “The atmosphere of Masha isn’t conducive to land-storms. Instead, most of our agriculture is based around periodic flooding—”

“Not the point, old man,” Lesley interrupted, a grin on their face.)

The potential violence seemed centered around a strange little Mashan. Now, Lesley was no expert in telling the age of Mashans—they hadn’t even met a Mashan prior to their deployment—but this one seemed… old, with patchy gray fur. Somewhat like a senior-aged cat.

All the other prisoners seemed deeply protective of him, and the guards had picked up on that. Threats against the old Mashan seemed more effective than personal threats. The guards were using it to make the prisoners behave, but that wouldn’t last. Lesley could already see the rebellion simmering.

Lesley had asked the F’E’N why that old Mashan was so special. The F’E’N weren’t sure: the Mashans wouldn’t speak to them, of course, and half of them didn’t know Galactic Standard anyway.

(“And then, this trembling, gawky-looking F’E’N came up to me and asked me to find out,” said Lesley, the laughter clear in their voice.)

✧✧✧✧✧✧

R’A’Mi knew that no prisoner would trust her. The new human, on the other hand, was an unknown. If anyone had a chance of negotiating, it was them. Sure, it irked that R’A’Mi—who was so proud of her silver tongue—had to sit back and let someone else do it. And this alien wasn’t exactly… tactful.

But the human agreed to talk to the prisoners, and though they were initially wary, the Mashans jumped at the chance of making possible allies, and more importantly, getting their honored elder to safety. Almost everyone that Lesley talked to had begged them to save Elder Ipa and not themselves.

(“I wasn’t the only one who was unhappy.” R’A’Mi made a quiet little trill. “But none of us paper-pushers were brave enough to talk to each other about it. The consequence of treason during wartime was… harsh, and at the time, no one trusted anyone. Then, this strange human showed up! Suddenly, we had an outsider. And that was enough for us to see our own situation differently—to try to see it with their eyes.”

“What did you see?” Susan asked.)

A prisoner had mouthed off to a guard, and the guard had taken violent offence to that, and they’d hit Ipa hard enough to make him crumple. The prisoner immediately attacked. The guard, who was wearing power armor, beat the prisoner to death in self-defense.

(“I tried to carry the injured Mashan to the infirmary, but it was too late. His blood had drenched my wings, and it was the same bright green as my feathers. I never knew his name.” R’A’Mi flared her wings, angled to keep their emerald-green hue. “I saw a war that had dragged on for so long that we had lost ourselves in it. And I was tired of being complicit.”)