You do not read the sticker longer. You want light. You want KILO. You sweep a whole row with the side of your hand.

The ship answers with a white snap. Every strip flares. Then everything dies harder than before. A bitter ozone smell, like a storm on a playground, fills the corridor. Somewhere a relay chatters like teeth.

“Main bus trip,” Mira snaps on the handheld. “Cadet. That was inrush. You asked every sleeping box to drink at once. The batteries just paid a fine.”

Emergency LEDs crawl back, dimmer. The spin has not gone anywhere. Your palms tingle.

Jax hugs the laptop tighter. “We can stop and do the one-at-a-time list,” they say. “Or we can keep punching and see if luck is a system.”