“One big shout,” Yuna says, and you can tell she has heard this idea from braver, wronger people.

You still want it. The clock on Sprat is a rude clock. A cathedral ping feels like effort.

Yuna does not grab your wrist. She sets the power where you asked and looks at you until you nod. The shack hops. The speaker pops. For a second the ocean is a slapped drum.

Then the screen fogs with returns from everywhere and nowhere: walls, plumes, the habitat’s own skids, a ghostly second terrace that TIDE politely labels UNRELIABLE.

Yuna takes off one ear cup. “Transducers are ears. You just clapped next to them. They need a minute to stop ringing. Paz needs minutes too. Minutes are not a warehouse.”

TIDE: “Source level exceeded search protocol. Recommend recovery delay, then grid at nominal power.”

You can wait, embarrassed and useful, or you can clap again because waiting feels like doing nothing and doing nothing feels like guilt.

Guilt is not a ranging tool.