Page 57 of She Who Devours the Stars

Within a day, the religion started.

It began as a joke. Accord youth in the lower quadrants staged impromptu “Taco Vigils,” dressing in blue-and-white, lighting citronella candles, and reciting lines from the original tacotransmission. But the memes outpaced the skepticism. Someone turned my face into a vectorized icon, slapped it onto a halo of tortilla, and called it “The Nullarch of Nachos.” In less than a week, there were ten thousand shrines, and a minor planetary governor in the Deep Fringe had already submitted a formal prayer request to the mythship for “eternal salsa.”

The art came next.

First, holo-graffiti in the streets: my likeness, dripping with grease and starlight, tacos spinning in the background like sacred geometry. Then, the viral installations: a self-replicating vending machine that dispensed random taco flavors every time someone said “thank you,” and a monument built on the shell of an old war memorial, now rededicated to “the shared myth of honest hunger.”

What got me was the auction.

Nobles, actual, Accord-certified nobles, offered asteroid rights, rare minerals, even entire gene lineages in exchange for a single, authenticated taco. The prices climbed so fast that even the net’s auto-mods couldn’t keep up. At least one mid-tier baron threatened to invade a neighbor’s moon if he couldn’t have a taco by the end of the week.

I watched all of this from the mythship’s lounge, still numb from the journey, barely able to process the idea that the galaxy was literally tearing itself apart for a food I hadn’t even tasted myself. I’d spent my whole life eating the offcuts, the ration paste, the things so bland they erased your memory of ever wanting better. I’d never even seen real carnitas until I’d conjured them out of myth and trauma.

Across the lounge, Velline sat with her feet propped on the rail, eyes on the HoloNet, smirking.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, gesturing at the screen, “You destabilized five economies, started two new religions, and permanently destroyed the Accord’s ‘synthetic food pride’ initiative because you—” she checked her notes, “—were craving a taco?”

I shrugged, cheeks hot. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

Velline’s grin was sharp enough to cut me. “Sweetie, that’s taste-based class warfare in reverse. You brought flavor to the masses.”

On screen, the viral feed now showed a crowd of children, real, dirty-faced kids, sitting in a circle and passing tacos around like they were sharing air. They laughed so hard they almost choked. Their parents stood back, not trying to intervene, just watching and smiling like the world might be okay, if only for the time it took to finish a meal.

I glanced at the snack bar on the counter. The mythship had restocked it, and there, front and center, were six perfect carnitas tacos. Not glowing, not floating, just there.

I hadn’t touched them. I didn’t even reach.

Velline caught me staring, then leaned over and poked my shoulder. “You gonna eat one, or are you waiting for a miracle?”

I looked at her, then at the tacos, then at my own hand. I didn’t know how to answer.

On the HoloNet, the anchor was still crying, her mascara running down her cheeks in blue rivers.

Velline let the silence stretch, then said, “You ever gonna get used to being the disaster everyone wanted?”

I snorted, wiped my nose. “Not a chance.”

Velline grinned again. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to stop now.”

She slid a taco toward me. “For what it’s worth? You deserve it more than anyone.”

I took the taco, felt its weight. It was warm, and smelled like hope.

I raised it in a mock toast.

“To the Nullarch of Nachos,” Velline said, raising an imaginary glass.

“To taste-based revolution,” I replied, and took a bite.

It was everything the memes had promised.

And then, finally, I understood.

I hadn’t broken the universe.

I’d just made it hungry enough to want more.

Oops.