Iron Orchard Bloom

The sun hit the Iron Orchard like a hammer. It was Spring, or whatever passed for it up here. The orbital grid was a giant cage of silver and gray, catching the morning light in ways that made Barton's eyes ache. He squinted at the monitor. The sky wasn't blue anymore. It was a dirty, shimmering mess of old satellites, broken glass, and the thick mesh of the blockade. Everything looked like it was under water. A weird, heavy silence filled the bridge, the kind of silence that happens right before a balloon pops.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Peterson said. She was tapping her screen too hard. Her fingernails made a sharp clicking sound. "We have a burn. Lagrange point four. It's not one of ours."

Barton leaned in. A tiny orange dot was moving where it shouldn't be. It was a civilian transport, a clunky thing that looked like a bunch of shipping containers glued together. It was moving fast. Too fast. "They're trying to run the blockade," Barton said. His voice felt dry. He hadn't slept in two days. The air in the station smelled like old socks and burnt toast.

"Should I lock on?" Peterson asked. Her hand hovered over the red toggle. She was shaking. Just a little bit. "Orders say anything that moves gets the rod."

"Wait," Barton said. "Just wait. They aren't armed."

Suddenly, the comms unit on the wall hissed. It wasn't the usual static. It was a voice, wet and static-choked. It sounded like someone talking through a mouthful of gravel. Sergeant Andrews came running onto the bridge, his boots skidding on the metal floor. He was holding a handheld tablet, his face the color of a sour marshmallow.

"You need to hear this," Andrews said. He didn't wait for permission. He hit play.

"The April thaw is the deadline," the voice on the recording said. It was General Halloway, back at Command. "We call it Spring Cleaning. Once the ice melts, we drop the tungsten. We clear the sectors. All of them. Total culling."

Peterson stopped clicking. She looked at Barton. "Culling? My mom is in Sector Four. My sisters are there."

"It's a mistake," Barton said, but his stomach felt like he'd swallowed a bag of rocks. He knew Halloway's voice. He knew that tone. It was the tone of a man checking a grocery list.

"It's not a mistake!" Andrews shouted. He was sweating. "They're going to kill everyone to save the rations. They're using our rods to do it. We're the ones holding the trigger, Barton!"

Before Barton could answer, the whole station groaned. A loud thrum vibrated through the floor tiles. The lights flickered from white to a sickly, dim orange. The station's defense system had detected something. A railgun shot from a nearby rebel drone had clipped the outer ring.

"Incoming!" Peterson yelled.

Then, the gravity just died.

It wasn't like falling. It was like the floor disappeared and the world became a giant soup. Barton’s feet left the ground. He felt his stomach float up into his chest. Pens, tablets, and half-empty coffee cups began to drift through the air like lazy bugs.

"The centrifuge!" Andrews yelled, his voice echoing in the weirdly quiet room. "The hit took out the gravity ring!"

Barton tried to grab a handrail, but he missed. He was spinning. He saw Andrews pull a knife from his belt. The blade was dull gray, notched from years of use. But Andrews wasn't looking at the monitors. He was looking at Barton.

"I'm not letting you do it," Andrews spat. A glob of his spit floated away, a perfect clear sphere. "I'm not letting those rods drop."

"I'm not the enemy, Andrews!" Barton shouted, kicking off a console. He soared toward the sergeant.

They collided in mid-air. It was messy. There was no leverage. They tumbled over each other, a tangle of limbs and heavy fabric. Barton felt the cold sting of the knife blade graze his forearm. He didn't feel the pain yet, just the surprise of it. He grabbed Andrews’s wrist, pushing the knife away. They drifted toward the big observation window. Outside, the Iron Orchard looked like a giant, angry spider web against the black of space.

"Stop it!" Peterson was screaming, but she was stuck on the other side of the room, swimming through the air, trying to find a grip.

Barton slammed his elbow into Andrews's ribs. The sergeant gasped, and the knife slipped out of his hand. It spun away, end over end, glinting in the harsh spring sunlight. Barton didn't wait. He used Andrews's chest to launch himself toward the main override lever.

His heart was banging against his ribs. He could see the hangar display on the secondary monitor. The tungsten rods—heavy, black cylinders the size of telephone poles—were already being moved into the launch tubes. The computer was counting down. The 'Spring Cleaning' was starting automatically.

"Barton, don't!" Andrews yelled, trying to swim through the air. "If you stop it, they'll kill us all!"

"They're already killing everyone!" Barton roared.

He reached the lever. It was a heavy piece of steel, painted bright yellow. He grabbed it with both hands. His fingers were slippery with sweat. He looked out the window one last time. He could see the curve of the Earth. It looked so small. So fragile. The green of the new spring growth was just starting to show through the clouds.

He pulled.

With a massive clunk that Barton felt in his teeth, the emergency hangar vents blew open. He didn't launch the rods at the targets. He just dumped them. He let the air pressure of the station shove them out into the void.

Thousands of tungsten rods spilled out of the Iron Orchard like toothpicks falling out of a box. They didn't fall straight down. They tumbled. They bumped into each other. They caught the light of the sun, turning from black to brilliant silver.

Barton watched through the glass. The rods hit the top of the atmosphere. They didn't strike the cities. They didn't smash into the buildings. Instead, they began to glow. The friction of the air turned them into streaks of white-hot fire.

"Look," Peterson whispered. She had finally grabbed a handle and was staring out at the sky.

Across the dark curve of the Pacific, thousands of bright lights were raining down. They weren't beautiful. They were terrifying. They were the weapons of a world that had forgotten how to be kind, now burning up because one man had decided to say no.

"They look like shooting stars," Andrews said. His voice was small now. He wasn't trying to fight anymore. He just floated there, watching the fire.

"No," Barton said, his arm bleeding, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Those are cursed shooting stars."

The station was silent again, except for the sound of the emergency sirens. The fire below grew brighter and brighter, a jagged line of gold cutting through the night. Barton knew what would happen next. The blockade ships would be coming for them. The General would be calling. But for a moment, the sky was full of falling light, and the cities below were still there, tucked under the covers of the clouds.

Then, the long-range scanners started to howl.