Kestrel Bloom

The fans in the Kestrel Array never stopped. Their layered hum poured like warm syrup through the maintenance ring, a steady chorus behind every day of Jun Park’s life. He checked the mag seals on his boots, tapped heel to toe along the railing, and slid out over the open maw of Hydroponics B, where lettuce terraces curved like green commas beneath the station’s pale lights. A red dwarf coin—Sagan-882—burned through the shielding with a dull, comforting pulse.

Jun leaned his shoulder into a conduit housing and listened to the vibration. Something in the coolant pump’s voice felt rough, like sand under a tongue. He popped the panel, and a smell of mineral water and hot dust lifted from the coils. He liked that smell. It told him parts were alive, and that he could make them sing better.

“You’re going to fall in and become salad,” Zuri called from the crosswalk. Her curls were tucked under a cap with a cartoon kestrel stitched on the front. She carried a tool case covered in old mission stickers, scuffed silver and proud.

“I’d be the crunch,” Jun said. He withdrew the filter cartridge, thumbed the grit, and slid in a new one. The pump’s tone softened a fraction. “There. Now nobody has to chew their air.”

Zuri clicked onto the same rail, boots hitting the magnets with little kisses. “You see the meteor shower on the night cam? Looked like stray glitter. Arora said it stroked the shield like a harp.”

Jun closed the panel and took a breath, feeling the air easy in his chest. “I get the recorded version later. I’m on second shift until rotation. You here for the fan alignment?”

“Nah. I’m on quiet watch. It’s so quiet I volunteered to watch it harder. Who’d have thought security on a garden wheel would be dull?” She grinned, but her eyes lingered on the far hatch, the one that led to Hydroponics D. The hatch had a fresh polymer patch around its seam, a pale ring like a scar. “They’re still messing with D?”

“Selene’s team said a nutrient mix went rancid. That’s what, three times this month? Maybe the pipes don’t like the new peas.”

“Or the new peas don’t like the pipes.” Zuri made a face. “I heard somebody say comet dust got in. Full of microbes with attitude.”

“Rumor department again,” Jun said, but he filed it anyway. He always filed Zuri’s rumors. She had a knack for catching the edges of true things.

They walked together along the curved spine, rails under boots, palms brushing handholds. Beyond the transparent shielding, the star field was a salted sweep. The faint line of the station’s tethered antenna stretched like a hair. Jun’s reflection trembled in the polymer glass—sharp cheekbones, a narrow mouth that tried not to smile and often failed.

“Dinner?” Zuri asked. “Selene’s crew is making kelp dumplings. She swore they learned a trick from her grandmother, which means they’ll taste like science.”

“I’m not turning down free science,” Jun said. He let his tool belt settle against his hip, the weight familiar and grounding. The Array kept spinning, steady as breath.