First there were World Wars, and then a War on Drugs, which was followed by the "War Which No One Particularly Remembered Why there was a War." Next came the Global Energy Crisis, which started the Power Wars, and indirectly influenced the Resource War. After this, someone (no one knows which of the many angry survivor groups to blame), discovered some buried nuclear warheads and unleashed them on their petty rivals in a fit of nihilistic hubris.

And then, finally, it was quiet. The World was tired, hungry, and poor, or dead. But mostly dead.

That was when the Space People, the Others, the Aliens, They came down to gawk like tourists at the scene of a murder.

They had watched and waited to see what the Ithirlings did before They made contact, and They already had enough wars of their own. So that is why They waited until all the money and ammunition were spent, and everyone was burned or buried or disintegrated. After all, They didn't want to be shot for just saying "Hello."

When They finally landed on "Ithir," the human world, bringing food, blankets, and much needed soap, everything changed. Few of the minimal survivors wanted to live in toxic, torn up rubble fields. Not when you were a spaceflight away from the rest of the galaxy.

Under the Semi-Galactic Council Treaty of Ithir year 3,999, all willing Ithirlings were evacuated to the 345 planets of the Semi-Galactic Empire. The dump once known as Ithir dwindled, faded, rotted, and died. Most of it, anyhow.

In a tiny forgotten village in the northwest corner of a forgotten state with a forgotten name—a state shaped like a hand waving hello (or goodbye)—and surrounded by lakes, there was a coffee shop. It used to be called Lotsa' Lattes, but that was many centuries ago. Now it was known as The Shop (to locals), or, more grandly, The Last Coffee Shop in the World (to tourists). As far as anyone knew, it really was the only coffee shop operating in the burned-up world(1).

The Shop was run by the last barista, the last baker, and the last barista's grandmother. At this time, two hours before the sun rose on the smoggy, pitted morass surrounding Springs Village, Krill, the baker, a violently violet Andalarian girl, was baking oatmeal scones. Grandmere Heloise was rolling over on her lumpy mattress, dreaming about wine and cheese, and her dashing late husband. The manager and barista, Madeleine (informally 'Mads') was roasting the beans for the week's featured brews. It was an ordinary morning, quiet, cool, and dark, and you could almost taste autumn beneath the stale cigarette stench of burnt, scarred land.

Mads looked out at the pitted surface of that scarred land and sighed. The "Springs Village Union of Allied Tradespersons," or SVUAT, would be coming by to collect the monthly fee and do the yearly inspection. Mads had counted the money in every cookie jar, and they were still short.

It was the fifth time in the last three months, and the SVUAT wouldn't be happy. If it had been up to Mads, they wouldn't have been part of SVUAT at all. However, laws were laws, and Springs Village had survived many terrible times due to strict observance of laws. Mads knew what had happened to the outside world, and she was grateful to live in such a self-sufficient, isolated community.

Still, it wouldn't hurt them to give the Shop some more time. Interterrestrial voyagers would make a last pass through the area soon, followed by the aliens who wanted to see snow. Even second generation Ithirian expats were starting to show up to see the last "unaltered" human settlement.

The invigorating scent of coffee beans from the roaster made it harder for Mads to focus or be truly stressed. She could look at the plumbing in the last clean, three-stall restroom(2) with functioning toilets. She could also investigate the leak in the kitchen. At the very least, she could deep clean the kitchen before the inspection.

Mads dumped the freshly roasted coffee beans out of the roaster and into their basket. She'd start the daily grind, and then she'd make a list of tasks that needed to be accomplished pre-inspection. They'd all think better after a cup of coffee.

Mads hooked up the solar generator and flipped the switch. Lights flicked on in The Last Coffee Shop. Mads inhaled the buttery scent of pastry wafting out from Krill's brick oven as she went to open the curtains. Nothing brought in the locals like Krill's baking.

"Morning Mads! Beautiful morning," trilled Krill in her trademark singsong. She poked her head farther out of the kitchen door, "I'm making tarts. Your trees are loaded with pears and I'm afraid they'll go bad if I don't do something about it."

The scent of sweet pear baking in an out-of-this-world flaky crust grew stronger. Mads paused her routine a moment, savoring the aroma. "Sounds great Krill. You know inspections are today, right?"

A frown furrowed Krill's violet brow. "I forgot." She whacked her forehead with two of her six hands. "I also forgot to milk Bette. I'm so sorry!"

Mads sighed and started a pot of dark roast. "It's okay, I'll do it." Never mind her other pressing tasks. Bette would only keep giving them milk if they treated her right. Milk and butter were essential to an "authentic" coffee shop.

Mads ground some espresso and made herself a "Merica'no,"(3) as in no cream or sugar necessary, grabbed her mug and headed for the outbuildings. The Last Coffee Shop wasn't just a shop: it was a fully equipped survival complex. In addition to the two large greenhouses where the coffee trees, fruit, veggies, and more were grown, there was a bunker and a small barn. There were two fields of wheat and oats grown high and close to harvesting. There was also an extensive underground complex, containing potable water, food stores, and backup equipment.

The barn was home to Bette the natural-born cow(4) and Grandmere's small flock of chickens, as well as farm tools. It had a revolutionary grass floor, instead of the usual dirt, and Grandmere's father had devoted many hours to rehabilitating enough soil to grow so much grass.

The entire complex, excepting the shop and fields, was enclosed in a terra bubble—a revolutionary structure designed by Mads' great-great-great grandparents. Another larger, and more sophisticated, bubble surrounded the entirety of Springs Village. It was solar powered and designed to resemble the burnt, bombed wastelands on either side of the village from the sky. The combination of tech and ingenuity had preserved Springs Village for centuries, and now was used to preserve the town as a tourist destination. The semi-galactic Empire had stepped in to help, and now they provided a steady stream of aid and curious tourists that kept the town standing. In turn, SVUAC helped keep the town viable, passing on money and goods to their alien benefactors.

Mads rested her head against Bette's warm side and forced her mind to clear. Resenting the SVUAC, the tourists, and the aliens, would help no one. They all had to work together if they wanted to escape the fate of the countless billions whose corpses littered the earth.

Mads had only been outside the village once. She had been thirteen and experiencing the timeless adolescent frustration with her parents: her waiflike mother and the father who had disappeared before Mads was even born. Alan Dekker, her best friend and then-neighbor's son, and the only kid near her age who would venture outside, had gotten them the overlarge biosuits that would protect them in the Wastes. Mads had found the suit stuffy, itchy, and cumbersome, but the world outside was still too toxic to travel unprotected.

Alan had taken her to the shore of the great lake, and they had tried to imagine what it must have looked like so many centuries ago. Now it was a black morass, sluggish with debris and destruction.

Regardless, the trek outside had proved her mother right. There was nothing outside but death. Mads' mother would know; her frantic journey outside, in search of her missing husband, had given her the wasting disease that took her life before Mads' fourteenth birthday.

Bette's frustrated bellow yanked Mads out of her second morning reverie. "Sorry," muttered Mads, collecting the pail before Bette could knock it over. Mads gave the cow the expected treat of grain. Some days, Mads couldn't remember her mother's face. It had been thirteen years – thirteen busy years – as Springs Village Found its place in the universe.

Pail of fresh milk and egg basket in hand, Mads returned to the coffee scented back room of the shop. Krill was pulling the pot of Kolum'b off to join the row of carafes with their equally confusing and mysterious names: Khenyan, Sumatranianian, and so on. Mythical kingdoms, people, or places that were long forgotten.

Seeing Mads, Krill retreated to the kitchen with the milk and eggs. Mads flipped the door sign from "Closed," to "Open," and flicked on the last few lights. Another day just like any other.

However, Mads was quite mistaken.

She should have known something was up as soon as Alan entered the store. He had two men with him, strangers. 2Gen Ithirians, from off-planet, based on the look of them. They wore the sleek bodysuits that were so fashionable in space, a sharp contrast to Alan's perfectly sandblasted trousers and high-necked sweater, a nod to the Ithir that once was.

Mads started Alan's usual order (5) and snuck a look at his companions. Alan was apparently giving them a tour, and his voice carried loudly across the wooden room. "Here it is, the only place where you can get real Ithirian coffee. It isn't that cheap stuff they manufacture on Dural. These beans are grown here, in a carefully controlled terrarium that imitates their original habitat. And do you smell that? Best baker this side of the apocalypse is whipping up her sorcery."

Mads rolled her eyes at the exaggerated sales pitch. If Alan were alone, he would have had the morning news to give her, both local and galactic. He'd chat until his father paged him, calling him back to his duties as the only heir to the prestigious Galactic Dekker Corporation and related fortune, etc., etc. But Alan was someone else every time he came in with other people; it was something Mads had never liked about him.

"Here's Madeleine Capot le Roux herself," Alan boomed behind her, making her jump.

Mads turned the startled motion into a spin, and set his steaming latte in front of him with a practiced flourish. Not a single drop spilled.

"No one calls me that," she said to the newcomers, studying their strange faces and deciding what sort of coffee they would want, because that was her habit.

Alan continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Madeleine Capot, you might have heard of her? The Coffee Psychic? She can predict your favorite drink, even if you don't know it yet."

Mads felt her face heat up, and she turned back to the machine. But there was a grain of truth in Alan's claims. Mads was no psychic, and she didn't hold with such nonsense, but she'd always had a knack for matching customers with drinks. It was like people and pets. Sometimes it's just obvious.

"Well Mads, what about it?"

She plastered on a smile and turned back, hoping any lingering redness would be attributed to the machine's heat. "Alan is exaggerating," she murmured, stalling while she examined the two men. The taller one was bald with unsettling pale blue eyes. Mads didn't like the way he watched her, as if she was a commodity he was evaluating for sale. The other fellow was big and sweaty, not fat – muscular – with weedy brown hair combed over across his wide, square forehead.

A double espresso with a splash of cream and black a house blend, light milk, simple syrup, respectively. Mads made her choices in silence and placed them beside Alan's latte.

"Gentlemen," Alan grinned at all of them, as if he were bestowing a grand gift. "Bottoms up." He leaned forward, "Put that on my tab. There's a girl."

Best friend or not, Mads hated him when he was with people.

She flicked on the touchscreen register, adding the drinks to Alan's tab and watching his companions out of the corner of her eye.

The Tall One took a sniff, then a cautious sip. His eyes narrowed to pale blue slits. Mads tensed up, but he didn't spit out any coffee or complaints. Instead, he shifted his gaze over to the larger man.

Alan seemed hardly able to contain his glee, despite his companions' evident lack of enthusiasm. "Well, how did she do?"

Muscle-man's mouth split into a wide grin. "The little lady got it in one. And good coffee too." He winked at her.

Alan smacked the counter in delight, making Mads jump again. "I told you. Now come on, gents, there's more to be seen around here. You haven't tried any of Krill's pastries yet." Alan indicated the pastry tray, mouthing "Later," at Mads.

Mads was on edge the whole time the Offworlders were in the shop, which was ridiculous. Even the stream of regulars couldn't distract her from the feeling of vague unease. When Alan finally left, it wasn't soon enough.

Unfortunately, that was the moment the health and safety inspector showed up, one month early.

Bad things tend to happen at the worst possible moment. And as Grandmere always said, they usually happen in threes. For Mads, the third bad thing happened as she was taking the health inspector on the routine tour.

*Footnotes*

This fact was later proven by the galactic marketing giant, "SeeCore: If You've Seen It, It's SeeCore." SeeCore is a registered trademark.
This is, in fact, under dispute. But there is a plaque on the wall beside the restroom that attests to the toilets first being installed and established in Ithir Year 3, 989.
For the perfect Merica'no: Make two shots of pressed coffee and dump them in your favorite mug. Add 1/2 cup *nearly* boiling water. Add cream and/or sugar to taste. As to who or what a 'Merica' was, there were plenty of theories going around the net. Most of them involved exotic fish.
Not cloned, alien, imported, or hybrid: an original Ithirian cow
Double Skinny Vanilla Half Caf with extra foam

*TITLE TRACK*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For anyone who read this on WP or elsewhere and misses the chapter art -- I'm working on getting it up somewhere (not sure where yet) with the playlists and everything.

Kerning

The Last Coffee Shop in the World

1 Comments