The cartridge seats with a clean click. Okonkwo bleeds the emergency loop, watches the CO2 number hesitate, then fall like a polite elevator. “Loop confirmed,” she says. “We still have air if the rest of this day goes ugly. That was the point.”

You both hand-over-hand to the bridge because the corridor is a slow blender. Captain Mira Chen is in the left seat, hair in a knot that has filed a complaint. The big window shows a smear of Earth and a lot of lies. Jax Rivera, the intern, has a laptop Velcroed to a knee. A tiny killer-whale sticker grins from one corner.

The main bus panel is dark except for the life-support slice you just respected. KILO is a quiet brick. Mira’s finger hovers and does not flick.

“Computer is in safe mode,” she says. “Safe mode means it dropped everything that was not a last resort, so a glitch would not cook the rest. We bring the command bus back slowly. We do not wake cameras because we miss the view. Star trackers are cameras that match stars to a map. This storm fills them with fake stars—particle hits, like rain on a lens.”

Jax swallows. “I can bring KILO up on the main bus, one breaker. Or we can force the star cameras and the window overlay and pretend we have eyes.”

The ship’s spin makes your stomach search for a floor that is not available.