You let Jax’s hope drive for a second. The tracker thumbnail almost looks like a constellation you could name from a backyard.

KILO stamps it again. “False-star ratio still high. Particle hits on the detector. Do not command lost-in-space.”

The arrays are still hungry, still folded, still not a picnic. Attitude is holding on sun sensors and the IMU—the dumb honest lights and the counting-in-the-dark box. If you command off the pretty camera, you throw that hold back into a blender of fake stars.

Mira does not take the laptop. “Interns are allowed to hope. Cadets are allowed to say no. Wings still need the Sun.”

The almost-dipper winks, rearranges, and becomes a proton scribble. The battery voltage does another little sad step.