You keep sweeping rows. The second inrush is meaner. A breaker welds itself in a way the training poster promised was “rare.” The battery bus drops so hard the emergency strips become suggestions.

Dark is not poetic. Dark is a helmet without a visor display. The handheld dies after Mira gets out three words: “Masks. Stay. No jets.”

You hang on a rail and listen to the ship creak in the tumble. Okonkwo finds you by touch and presses a mask into your hands. The emergency oxygen is a timer, not a plan. Without arrays on the Sun, without a computer, without a pointer, the batteries cannot invent a morning.

You do not see the rescue. You hear it, much later, as a clang and a new voice in a suit lamp. The mission is over. The log will say bus trip, cascade, cadet at the panel. You will have to read that sentence in a room with gravity and live with it.

THE END

What you learned: sleeping electronics gulp current when they wake. Wake them together and the breaker trips. A checklist that says one bus at a time is not bossy. It is how you keep the lights.