She lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been living in her lungs for a decade. “I know.”
But we talk anyway.
Not about the war. Not about Meld. Not about duty or duty rosters or mech diagnostics or proximity syncs.
Stupid things.
“What’s the worst food you’ve ever eaten?” I ask, mostly to get her to laugh.
She snorts. “A protein bar labeled ‘steak’ that tasted like wet cardboard soaked in soy sauce.”
I laugh. “Was it at the academy?”
She nods. “Had this weird aftertaste, like synthetic regret.”
“Synthetic Regret,” I repeat, mock-serious. “Great name for a band.”
Her laugh is soft, real. “Or a failed cologne.”
We’re quiet for a while, but it’s the kind of quiet that has weight but not discomfort.
I tell her about Vakutan childhood meals—how we’d roast slabfruit on plasma grills and smear it with crushed glowroot paste until our faces were painted neon. She tells me about tamales. Her grandmother’s recipe. The way they’d wrap the dough in corn husks, the steam filling the house, the way the smell would cling to her hair.
“My hair would smell like chili and cumin for days,” she says.
“Sounds delicious.”
“I was ten.”
I hum. “Still delicious.”
She rolls her eyes, but her voice’s softer now. She’s loosening.
“You ever eat gravity gum?” I ask. “Back on Sernuul, there was a vendor—old guy with one eye and no sense of hygiene—used to sell these sticks of gum that had temporary grav-shifts in them.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You chew it, and for like twenty seconds, you get lighter. Like, floaty. Makes burps sound like music.”
“You made that up.”
“Swear on my tail.”
She laughs again, a little breathless. “I don’t even know if that’s impressive or horrifying.”
“Bit of both,” I admit.
We sit there as the storm screams above, ripping across Rhavadaz like it’s trying to claw the skin off the planet. The vibrations rumble through the metal around us, but in this little bubble, it’s just us. Back to back. Breathing. Talking.
She tells me she used to draw star maps on her bedroom ceiling with glow paint. That she had a pet lizard named Newton. That her mom used to work long shifts at a data farm and she’d sneak into the old university libraries to read tech manuals for fun.
“I was a weird kid,” she says.
“You were a brilliant kid,” I correct.
She doesn’t argue. Just sits with it.
I tell her about Vakutan war chants—how we sing before every major battle, not just to honor the dead, but to remind ourselves we’re still alive. That the rhythm is everything. That we don’t carry weapons before we carry sound.
