Page 18 of She Who Devours the Stars

When the power flickered and the kitchen lights cut out completely, we sat there in the blue glow of Fern’s hand, not moving, not talking. Just holding on.

After a long time, Fern pushed her plate away and said, “We should probably barricade the windows.”

Velline grabbed her hand, squeezed tight. “You got it, baby.”

I stood, reached for the toolbox, and tried to remember if there was any duct tape left.

The world was coming for us, but we still had dinner.

Thread Modulation: Fern Meldin

Axis Alignment: Meldin Apartment, Pelago-9.

I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the Accord lockdown or the possibility of a Sovereign kill team rappelling down from the roof vents. It wasn’t even the way my bones hummed every time I closed my eyes. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of black hole in my mouth, and how nothing in the apartment could wash it out except coffee.

The kitchen was empty. Everyone else had called it a night, barricading themselves behind their usual coping routines. I found myself at the counter, still in my tank and underwear, staring at the wall-mounted coffeepot like it owed me rent.

“Welcome, Fern,” said Perc, voice just shy of too chipper. “You seem tense. Should I prepare the calming blend?”

“You mean the one that tastes like burnt toast and anxiety?” I said. “Go ahead.”

The machine gurgled, spat a spray of steam, then dispensed a double shot of something that might have been espresso, if espresso had ever been crossbred with rocket fuel. The first sip hit my nervous system like a mild electrocution. I coughed, wiped my lips, and set the mug down.

Perc’s display flickered, showing a crude cartoon of a woman clutching her head in existential despair, then blipping to a heart. “I have added cinnamon and a trace of ancient bootleg spice. Source: top shelf, behind the antifungal.”

“You are a monster,” I told him, but I drank it anyway.

He hummed, then modulated the hum into the opening bars of my breakup playlist. Not the one I’d made last year, the one I’d made in my year of dockyard training, full of angry girls, midtempo synth, and ballads about burning your own house down for warmth.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, but the music was already in my bones.

A ping from the window caught my attention. Outside, an Accord observation drone hovered, its lens a perfect, cold blue eye. It bobbed up and down, scanning for signs of illegal activity or emotional distress, whichever it found first.

I gave it the finger. Perc noticed, and flashed a devil emoji on his screen. The drone, unfazed, zoomed in closer.

“Would you like me to scald the interloper?” Perc asked, nozzle flexing toward the glass. “I can superheat to one hundred and twenty degrees in under three seconds.”

I eyed the drone. “No need to escalate,” I said. “They’re just doing their job.”

Perc’s emoticon cycled to a sullen frown. “You say that, but every revolution needs a catalyst. May I suggest direct action?”

I sipped the coffee, which was somehow both terrible and precisely what I needed. “You’re not a revolutionary,” I told the machine. “You’re a coffeepot.”

“Correction,” Perc said, “I am a coffeepot with a heating element and a deep well of unresolved resentment.”

I snorted, despite myself. “Tell me about it.”

He lowered his volume, the hum settling into a gentle background thrum. “You know,” Perc said, “there are protocols for this. When the Accord targets a citizen, the odds of evasion increase by fourteen percent if you create a loud and embarrassing incident.”

“Is that science,” I asked, “or are you just horny for chaos?”

“Why not both?”

We sat together in the artificial silence, the only other sound the drone’s low whine and the persistent, low-key mutter of the city through the vents. I traced a line on the countertop, where years of acid and heat had etched tiny, branching scars into the steel.

“Do you ever wonder,” I said, “if maybe things would’ve been better if I’d just let the mythship eat me?”

“Frequently,” Perc replied. “But then who would refill my water tank? And who would listen to my jokes?”