You fly it like a plane. There is no plane.

Rates go off-scale. Fuel goes to a number that is basically a shrug. The arrays, if they ever opened, wrap rates they cannot cancel. The IMU saturates, which is a fancy way to say it got dizzy too.

Battery voltage walks downstairs. Heaters lose their argument. The cabin gets the particular cold of metal that has stopped pretending.

Mira kills what is left of the jets with a command that is also a goodbye to the plan. You huddle in the emergency loop’s faint airflow, masks ready, and wait for the tumble to be someone else’s problem. A tracking radar on Earth, much later, finds a glinting tumble-dryer and sends a crew who still have fuel.

You watch them match spin through a porthole that keeps offering you floor, then sky, then floor. You do not help. Helping spent the tanks.

THE END

What you learned: thrusters work by Newton’s third law, not by gut. Firing without an attitude reference adds tumble. Never burn, jet, or “fly” while the ship is still a corkscrew. Detumble with sensors first, or you spend the fuel you needed to live.