Hard Luck Hermit

In spite of his uninvited arrival, Farsus had received a warm welcome at Ambassador Yìhán’s suite -mostly due to Yìhán herself. Her security detail had done some requisite whining about not needing a “vigilante’s” help to protect their charge, but Yìhán had overrode them all and invited Farsus to stay as a guest. The fact that he was an armed guest who did regular perimeter sweeps was purely coincidental.

All perimeter checks had turned up nothing so far, and Farsus felt comfortable relaxing on furniture he had rearranged to avoid line of sight from snipers. Yìhán didn’t exactly like the new layout of her living room, but she also liked not getting shot in the head, and Farsus had told her several ways that might happen. She kept her head down as she lounged on a couch, and made sure not to talk about security very much. Thankfully, Farsus had plenty of other things to talk about.

“So these people in red, they’re all on the same team?”

“Yes, and the other colors are all arrayed against them,” Farsus said. Yìhán had developed a habit of flicking through infonet videos and asking Farsus for context about any she found interesting.

“That seems unfair.”

“Well, you must keep in mind that only one of the seven other teams can win,” Farsus said. “They are competing with each other as well as the red team.”

“I suppose that does even things out,” Yìhán said. “I don’t know why they don’t just play two equally-sized teams against each other, though.”

“That is the standard across the vast majority of the universe,” Farsus said. “I can only speculate, but this sport might have been invented specifically to defy that standard.”

The hundreds of known species across the galaxy had each invented their own sports, but most were variations on a common theme of moving a ball between two teams. After noticing this pattern, some people had sought to defy it, inventing strange and esoteric sports just for the sake of it. While it was at least logistically interesting, Yìhán did not find the haphazard sport particularly entertaining, and she tried to find something new to watch. It felt strange to be sitting around watching TV while in a space station orbiting a distant star, but Corey had advised her not to take such things for granted. Even these seemingly innocuous television programs were a way to learn about life in space, especially with a partner like Farsus on hand.

“Only half of that planet is part of the Council at once?”

“Their religion obligates them to live in eternal conflict,” Farsus said. “If they were part of the same council, that council would have to be at war with itself.”

“These people have thumbs on both sides of their hands?”

“Contrary to what you might think, they are known to be clumsier than most species.”

“How do you invent space travel without inventing indoor plumbing?”

“They had strong immune systems and no cultural taboos regarding excretion.”

For everyone question Yìhán had, Farsus had an answer. Suspiciously quickly, sometimes.

“Farsus, do you actually know all these things, or are you making things up to mess with me?”

“Please, Yìhán, I would never,” Farsus said. “Not only are you a friend, you are an ambassador to your people. Knowingly providing false information would be tantamount to cultural sabotage.”

“Right. Apologies,” Yìhán said. “I simply find it hard to believe you know so much off hand.”

“Well, you are asking questions which largely refer to things on network video feeds,” Farsus said, gesturing to the screen. “This is not exactly uncommon knowledge.”

Yìhán looked at the screen and bit her lip in embarrassment.

“Of course. I’m sorry for accusing you. All of this is so new to me, I forget it’s day-to-day entertainment for some.”

“It is only natural for one so recently introduced to universal culture. Corvash once believed our silverware washer was a toaster.”

“They do look a lot like toasters,” Yìhán said. She had a similar device in her kitchen, and had someone not explained the function, she might have made the same mistake. “So, if all of this is common to you, tell me something uncommon.”

“Hm, a vague topic,” Farsus said. “But very well. Due to an unresolved conflict, the residents of the planets Tavarish and El-EthA have been at war for the past eighty-seven rotations. However, the leadership of both planets were eliminated in tactical strikes shortly after the pronouncement, and in the aftermath, none of the remaining leadership were aware of why the war was initially declared.”

“So they’ve been fighting nonstop for nearly a century?”

“The fighting stopped not long after the announcement, they have simply not bothered to declare peace,” Farsus said. “At this point it is more of a joke between the two planets than a conflict.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes the politicians of one planet will throw baked goods at the other in an act of ‘war’,” Farsus said.

“If only all wars could be fought with baked goods,” Yìhán sighed.

“I recognize your attempt at a joke, but multiple wars do include fatalities via baked goods.”

Yìhán felt a brief pang of curiosity, but decided not to ask. Farsus had already permanently altered the way she looked at interior design, she did not need her views on pastries to be altered the same way. She flipped to the next data stream, saw it was the local Centerpoint news channel, and then moved on to the next.

“Wait. Go back, please.”

Farsus did not usually try to exercise any control over what they watched (Yìhán liked that about him), so she did not object to this one request, especially once she paid more attention to what was actually on screen. They were talking about the killer.

The video of Quid’s torture had finally broken through to the media about a swap ago, and the rumor mill had already begun to grind. There were already whispers of hidden Horuk infiltrators, Morrakesh sleeper agents, or vengeful former bounty targets lurking in the shadows. Farsus thought it was entirely possible any one of those theories might be true, but certainly not in the way the news tended to suggest.

“I’m surprised you want to hear more of this,” Yìhán said, as one of the news hosts pondered the possibility of Morrakesh itself returning from the dead. “This is just sensationalist speculation.”

“Even the opinions of fools have some value,” Farsus said. “Understanding the mob mentality is the best way to avoid getting swept up in it.”

The talking heads gave way to an interview. Apparently the news anchors had dug up someone who’d “recently had a run-in” with the crew of the Wild Card Wanderer. Farsus leaned in with anticipation, and then slouched back again when the purple face of Kor Tekaji appeared on screen.

“From their baseless attacks on me alone, you can tell these people have a long list of enemies,” Kor said. “All they do is go on the offensive, make enemies of everyone and everything, typical of any male-dominated group. As a whole they’re dominated by testosterone and phallocentric logic.”

“Are you sure every opinion has value?”

“Well. Perhaps not this one.”