Page 19 of She Who Devours the Stars
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.
At the edge of the next building, a couple of cultists were drawing sigils in what looked like glow paint. They worked fast, hands moving with the kind of speed that came from either faith or fear. Every few minutes, one of them would look up, just for a second, and scan the skyline, searching for signs or portents or maybe just for a girl with a star inside her. I ducked lower, even though I knew it wouldn’t matter.
Further down, in the alley that used to be the main drag for the vending markets, a kid was chasing a ration-holo. It projected a perfect steak, fifteen centimeters off the ground, always just out of reach. The kid ran after it, bare feet slapping wet pavement, body so thin it barely cast a shadow. Every time he got close, the hologram glitched and flickered down the block, taunting him with a sizzle and a promise.
He didn’t give up. Not once. Even after he wiped out on the curve, skinned both knees, and left a smear of blood on the synthcrete, he got up and kept running. I found myself rooting for him, even though I knew the Accord set the holo parameters always to stay ahead.
“Every time it almost falls apart,” I said, mainly to the wind, “someone tapes it shut with hope and expired cheese rations.”
“Affirmative,” said Perc, voice crackling through the mug’s speaker port. “Citywide supplies of both are currently at record highs.”
I snorted, then drained the last of the coffee. The glow from my hand reflected off the cup’s metal rim, making the liquid look radioactive.
