"We're gonna try something else today." the doctor said, unpacking her briefcase and grabbing the audio recorder.

"And that is?" Darren asked as he leaned on the door to the Poslushi's cell.

"Well, I've looked over the recordings of interviews where Poslushi prisoners broke down, and they all have one thing in common: breaches in OPSEC."

"I'm sorry, do you want me to reveal classified information to her?"

"No, not like that. But smaller things, talking about the beauty of a city when that would compromise its architecture, things like that."

"Do you think that would work if you did it?"

"Oh no, not at all. It might work if you do, though. She knows I'm the one in charge of this, so she won't trust anything I say. But, and I mean no offense here, she wouldn't expect something so complex coming from you."

"None taken. What should I tell her?"

"Well, you grew up in Georgia, right? Talk to her about what Atlanta looks like, or the taste of peaches, or something. Then, when you think you've gotten her ready to accept it, give her this." the doctor held up a small plastic case full of moviephoto slips. The US' president shook hands with the Russian Commission's president on the 50th anniversary of the end of World War III. Delegates discussed how to lower grain prices at a UN summit. A crowd cheered and clapped as the first fusion plant in Texas came online. There were so many more, all of people building, cooperating, and creating together.

"Do you think she'll understand what it means?"

"She's probably more highly-educated than males of her species, but she's missing an outside perspective. If we show her that we're just as civilized, industrious, and capable of love as they are, the biases in her worldview might just come crashing down."

Darren nodded and took the case. It was a smart idea. The doctor smiled and clicked on the recorder, watching from behind the one-way window as Darren entered the Poslushi's room.

The Poslushi was furious, as always. Darren didn't really blame her; the cell was too small for her, after all. Still, she allowed him to sit down in front of her bed.

"Hello. My name is Darren Hardwell." Darren said to start things off. His translator worked his words into the raspy, clicking language of the Poslushi.

The Poslushi didn't answer.

"I wanted to talk to you, while I could. You seem like you would be friendly, if not for the circumstances."

Still, silence.

"Are you okay? Do you need extra food or water?"

Then, the Poslushi spoke.

"Water."

"Okay, then." Darren got up and filled his canteen at the cell's sink, then handed it to the Poslushi. She drank greedily, never taking her eyes off him. As a gesture of goodwill, Darren reached into his pack and retrieved a packet of beef jerky, placing it on the bed gently. The Poslushi shrank away from his hand.

"Do you want to tell us your name?"

"No."

"Do you want to tell us where you're from?"

"No."

"Do you want to tell us anything? Anything at all?"

The Poslushi considered this for a short while. "Kill me."

This caught Darren out of the blue. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Kill me. Spare me the dishonor of capture and of suicide."

"We can't do that."

"Then let me go!" the Poslushi howled suddenly, rising out of her seat, the elytra on her back folding out defensively. For a brief moment, Darren could see four vestigial, iridescent wings under her chitin. His hand moved slightly to the collar remote on his belt, but he couldn't escalate the confrontation, not if he wanted to get anything out of her.

"I'm so sorry, but we can't do that either."

The Poslushi stared him down. A bitter smell permeated the air and her eyes watched him with what he could only assume was a mix of superiority and utter hatred.

"However, I think we can be civil about all of this."

The Poslushi cocked her head to the side. Her antennae perked up. "What do you know of civility?"

"Sit down and we can talk about it."

Cautiously, the Poslushi seemed to collect herself, then sat on the bed. "What do you want?"

"I just want to talk. Like friends. Like how we would talk if we weren't fighting."

"Well, then stand up, look sharp, and don't speak unless spoken to."

Darren wasn't sure if the Poslushi was joking or not. "Like equals, I mean. I am not your servant, and you are not mine."

"But I am the one who is captured. Would I not be a slave?"

"No. Our laws do not allow us to do that."

This seemed to pique the Poslushi's interest. "Your laws?"

"The Third Geneva Convention dictates that no prisoner of war shall be used for any work beyond a few categories, none of them wartime. We would be committing a crime by, as you say, enslaving you."

The Poslushi narrowed her eyes. "You are not using your prisoners to their fullest extent, then."

"What do you mean?"

"Prisoners can be rehabilitated, taught the error of their ways, sent to become citizens of a nation. Instead, you keep them, spend resources on useless bodies. Why?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"It's wrong to take someone away from their home and force them to stay with you."

"It's just as wrong to fight you, if your cause is just."

"Well, two wrongs don't make a right, okay?"

This seemed to take the Poslushi aback, severely so. "What?"

"If someone hurts you and you hurt them back, aren't you both wrong? Hurting people is wrong, right?"

"If someone has hurt you, you hurt them, or have them hurt. How else can one find restitution?"

"Compromise? Reimbursement? I'm not going to say that we are perfect, but--"

This was even more surprising for the Poslushi, apparently. "You admit weakness before your enemy."

"Of course. How else can anyone get better?"

"You review yourself. Find the malignant thoughts, and cut them out."

"Seems like a good way to mislead yourself."

The Poslushi shifted in her seat uncomfortably. For a completely alien species, they were apparently quite psychologically similar. Darren sensed that it was coming time to change the subject, and took a page out of the doctor's playbook.

"I don't think you've ever had a peach before."

"Se-tkh?" the Poslushi asked, trying to approximate the sound of the word and failing because Darren had vocal cords and lips and she didn't.

"A peach. It's a little orange fruit we have where I'm from. It's sweet and soft and a little tangy. I think you would like it."

Then, the Poslushi noticed the case in Darren's hands. He hadn't even realized it, but he had taken it out of his back and was fidgeting with it.

"This is a gift. It's a collection of recordings for you to see. I wanted you to have it before I leave."

The Poslushi held out a single, copper-red hand. It was warmer than Darren expected as he gave her the case.

"I'll leave you to look at them." Darren said, getting up to leave. The Poslushi looked up at him, and then began to nod haltingly in an attempt to replicate what she had seen him do. Darren smiled, nodded back, and left the room. Only time could tell now.

---

The lights turned off shortly after Darren left, as was apparently customary whenever humans weren't in the room. Spatha was left in the dark with a translucent case of slightly-glowing slips made of some sort of plastic. Gently, she found the latch on the box and popped it open, retrieving the slips. As she held up one, it stopped shining and began to play some sort of recording.

A machine voice began to speak dubbed Founderspeak over the incomprehensible speech of the humans.

"Here, a human gardener tends his plants on a newly-settled world in the Hyuraxis Sector. The herbs he will harvest will be used to help feed his settlement."

Just as she suspected; the humans were omnivores. Nasty creatures, omnivores. Where predators evolved intelligence to get lunch and prey evolved intelligence to avoid becoming it, omnivores only ever evolved intelligence to more efficiently steal the scraps from the former two. Still, she kept watching. All to better spy on them from her captivity, right?

The next one started playing. "A religious leader presides over a mating ritual. Both parties here consent to become mates with one another, and are doing so due to emotional attraction."

Another oddity of their society. In matriarchically-oriented societies like that of the Poslushi, females selected male partners to mate from the best stock of their settlements, and in societies that espoused the other social form, males kept harems of females to facilitate rapid population growth. Surely they couldn't be efficient if they chose mates based on who wanted to be where. But if she kept watching, she could figure out how to cause them distress by breaking their partnerships, right? What could be a better, more subversive plan?

"A human male purchases a container of a luxury food known as ice-cream for his juvenile. This is a special day for the juvenile; she has just won an award for a contest of geographical trivia."

How soft of them, to rely on reward mechanisms for such small accomplishments. How much of a weak creature the juvenile was, to require ice-cream to do well. How incredibly naïve and short-sighted for a species to actually... care for... their children...

There was no point in lying to herself anymore. Spatha's antennae folded back against her neck and she emitted a quiet, ultrasonic whimper, holding the case tight against her body. In all her years, she never really knew why so was trying to become a Battlematron. Was it all just for a dead promise, the notion that if she outperformed every expectation put on her, she would get a compliment from her Broodmatron or someone would tell her that finally, she was good enough? Sure, she was respected by her soon-to-be subordinates, but with that came a gnawing pressure, that if she failed, it would all be on her. Suddenly, it seemed that when the father gave his juvenile some ice-cream, he was really giving her the world.

Spatha watched every film in the case that night, and then did so again and again until she had watched every one at least three times, and her favorites more than ten. When Darren and the doctor reentered the room that day, she was somber, but still somewhat jovial.

"Hello." the doctor said.

"Hello." Spatha replied for the first time. The doctor bared her teeth at Spatha, but it was done in a non-threatening manner, unlike many mammalian species.

"I see you're being more cooperative today."

"I am."

"Do you want to tell us your name today?"

For a moment, Spatha's old habits kicked in, and she was reluctant to say it to such a lesser creature. Then, her more rational self took over, and she blurted it out, like ripping off a wound dressing.

"My name is Spatha of the Oxilini Brood."

"I see." the doctor took a moment to transcribe this onto her tablet.

"And, before you ask, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Oh?" the doctor leaned a little closer.

"I'm just asking for a few things in return. I want more of these," she held up the case.

"That can be arranged."

"and I want a se-tkh."

The doctor seemed confused at this, but then Darren whispered something into her ear.

"Oh! A peach?"

"Yes. Your friend said that I would like one."

"Well, you're in luck. The next supply ship is coming in from Russellton, and they're well-known for those. I'll get you a bag of peaches."

"Thank you." Spatha said the two words no one ever said to her.

---

The headquarters of Standard Mineral in Houston was busy as always, being the largest mining and refining conglomerate in the entirety of human space. However, when an official from the United States Department of the Treasury appeared at the door, everyone sucked in their breath. The story was always the same: some high-level executive had wanted to save a couple of bucks by "miscalculating" their income for tax purposes, and the IRS was going to make an example of them. The sharply-dressed individual adjusted his government pin, then entered an already-packed elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. It was a wonder that nobody gasped aloud.

Warren Harrington looked up from his news broadcast as the elevator dinged and a man in a tuxedo exited, wearing the insignia of the federal government. He didn't react; if he was there to arrest him, what was he going to do, jump out of a fiftieth-story window? However, instead of brandishing a pair of handcuffs, the man simply pulled up a chair in front of Warren's desk and sat down unannounced.

Warren looked up from the stocks again. "I see you aren't a man of many words."

"No, not particularly." the fed replied.

"If you're here to charge me with something, it won't work. I'm just about the one clean man in this company."

"And we're not here to interfere with your business, sir. You've seen the news, about the new war?"

"Of course. Who hasn't?"

"Well, we've been in contact with our normal suppliers regarding equipment manufacturing, and they've been telling us about you. Namely, Northrop-Boeing has been saying that you've been stingy regarding supplies of the alloys used in F-49 armor."

"Supplying weapons manufacturers in peacetime isn't a very profitable venture, can't you agree?"

"But this is a war, as you've already agreed. Now, the federal government is prepared to make you an offer."

"And that is?"

"You sell materials to the military's suppliers at a reduced rate, and we'll cover the difference."

Warren leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Now, that's a fine offer, but our contract with General Fusion has been netting us huge profits, and you wish for me to focus more of our energies on a less rewarding market. I'm sure Northrop can produce all the F-49s you'll ever need with what we give them anyways."

The fed chuckled slightly, then fetched a manila folder from his briefcase. "With all due respect, Mr. Harrington, you might be a relatively clean man in your company, but that doesn't make you a clean man."

He opened the folder. There were photos upon photos of Warren, alongside a few women and men, in various... positions. It was a collection that, if made public, could ruin him, but that was just another hazard of the job. He leaned back a little. "Now, now, don't be too hasty. I'm sure we can work out a mutually beneficial deal."

The fed smiled, pushing up the bridge of his glasses. His eyes had a mischievous gleam in them.

"How about we talk business?"