You leave the doors closed. The computer bay becomes a kiln with good intentions.

KILO’s last clear sentence is “thermal shutdown.” Screens go to black with a fade that would be pretty in a movie. Fans spool down. The arrays still drink sunlight, uselessly, because the brain that points them is taking a nap it may not wake from.

Mira flies what is left with a backup analog needle and a handheld. She is very good. Very good is not KILO. Starling stays pointed enough that you do not immediately become a meteor. You also do not have a clean burn. You ride a wounded oval while Okonkwo reads temperatures off a stick-on sensor like a nurse in a basement.

Hours later—your stomach knows, even if the clock is a brick—a tug from a rescue craft matches you the slow way. Nobody cheers. The mission is a file labeled ABORT. You are alive. The avionics are a smell.

THE END

What you learned: in vacuum there is no air to dump heat into. Radiators shine heat away on purpose. Closing them “for the storm” does not block protons. It cooks the computers that were supposed to save you.