Page 10 of She Who Devours the Stars (The Astral Mess #1)

The Accord’s redline siren started up again, but only for a second, then a hissing pop from the hallway, followed by the telltale static of a dead relay.

I’d hardwired a kill switch to the main line, just in case, and it still brought me a tiny spark of joy every time the Accord’s intrusive thoughts got shorted out.

Velline, not missing a beat, threw open the kitchen door and dumped her stir-fry onto three plates. She made a production of slamming the plates on the table, then dropped into the seat across from me. Her elbows on the table, fingers locked together, she stared me down.

“We need a plan,” she said. “A real one. Not just hope the Accord gets bored and leaves.”

I poked at the pile of food. “Is this one of those times where you mean a literal plan, or the metaphorical kind where we all just… try our best?”

She didn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke, Dax.”

“I know.” I forced myself to look at her. The fuchsia streak in her hair was fading, but she still wore it with the defiance of a riot banner. I’d always loved that about her. Even when things went sideways, Velline Meldin never let go of the fight.

“I can talk to Fern,” I said. “I’ll do it before dinner.”

“She needs to know she’s not alone.”

“She’s never been alone,” I told her, trying to make it sound true. “Not even when she tried to be.”

Velline started to reply, but the bathroom door opened, and Fern padded out, hair wet and sticking to her face, tank top clinging to skin like she’d been in a downpour.

Her eyes looked different, less angry, more brittle, but the left hand still glowed, lighting the hallway with a weird, haunted shimmer.

Velline smiled, wide and too bright. “Food,” she said. “Sit.”

Fern sat, eyes locked on the plate. She picked at it, nudging the protein slices into little pyramids, topping them with syntheggs, and then eating them one by one. She didn’t say a word for the first few bites.

I cleared my throat. “Got a new batch of Accord spam,” I said, pushing the stack her way.

Fern didn’t even look at them. “Any offers on my soul this time?”

“Not unless you count the rations survey. I voted for less yeast, by the way.”

“Traitor,” she said, but there was a trace of a smile. “It’s the only thing that keeps the coffee edible.”

Velline reached out, touched Fern’s wrist for a second, then pulled back when the glow intensified. “How are you feeling, honey?”

Fern shrugged. “Better than the pipes. I think they hate me now.”

“Good,” Velline said. “Maybe they’ll finally stop leaking in the bathroom.”

We all pretended that was normal conversation. For a while, it almost was.

I set down my fork, leaned in, and met Fern’s eyes. “You know they’re not going to stop looking for you, right? The Accord, I mean. They never let go of anything they’re afraid of.”

Fern nodded, gaze steady. “I know. But I’m not afraid of them. Not anymore.”

Velline smiled, softer this time. “That’s our girl.”

For a moment, the weight in the room lifted. Just for a moment.

I looked around at my family, the world’s worst odds, and felt the old hope settle in my chest. We’d survived worse. Maybe not much worse, but still.

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?”

I rolled my eyes. “You have jokes?”

He flashed a cartoon coffee bean with arms and legs. “What did the Accord official say to the defective home appliance?”

“What?”

“Nothing. The Accord official had no sense of humor. That’s the joke.”

I groaned, then laughed, because it was either that or let the hum in my bones turn into a full-body spiral.

The drone outside lost interest, drifted away on a gust of ozone. I watched it go, feeling the heat from the mug seep into my hands. When it was gone, I slumped against the counter and finished the last of the coffee. The bitterness was almost soothing.

Perc’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “It gets easier, you know. Being what you are.”

I looked up, surprised. “What am I?”

He thought about it. “Statistically? A danger to the Accord. But also, someone who learns from mistakes.”

“That’s a first,” I said.

“Progress,” Perc said, with another heart emoji.

I rinsed the mug, put it in the sink, and patted the coffeepot on the top. The old metal was warm, almost alive.

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a good machine.”

He beeped, soft and pleased. “You’re a better human than most.”

The kitchen was still empty, but it felt less so. I wiped my hands on a rag, checked the lock on the window, and turned to go.

Before I left, I glanced back at Perc. His screen showed a sleeping face, eyes closed, at peace.

“Good night, Fern,” he said.

“Good night, Perc.”

I left the kitchen, almost ready to face whatever was coming.

Thread Modulation: Fern Meldin Axis Alignment: Apartment Roof, Pelago-9.

Sometimes, if you hit the roof at the right hour, you could catch the Glimmer Zone pretending to be alive.

Not just the sliver of day, or the gas giant’s afterburn, but the strip of half-night where the city sweated out all its secrets and let the bodies pile up for the next round.

I climbed the maintenance ladder with my left hand still glowing faintly, mug in my right, and the sensation of being watched by every camera on the block.

The rooftop was just as I remembered: a patchwork of old synthcrete, weird lichen, and the dead air units that the Accord stopped servicing when I was ten.

The wind up here always smelled like burnt dust and sour candy.

I dropped onto the ledge, feet dangling over the side, and took in the view.

Below me, the city’s veins pulsed in choked pink and blue: neon, always neon, trying so hard to convince itself it wasn’t dying.

I sipped the coffee, or whatever bootleg chemical Perc had managed to synthesize. It tasted like hope with a sharp undercurrent of wire insulation.