Cold Run: Ganymede

The smell of scorched circuitry and cold iron clings to the cockpit. Your suit's seals pinch hard against your collarbones, the internal heater humming a thin, strained note as Ganymede's ambient chill bleeds through the fractured canopy. Beyond the spiderwebbed acrylic, the ice plains stretch flat and dead under Jupiter's hulking, striped belly. The *Caelum* rests tilted twenty degrees to port, buried waist-deep in shattered regolith. Primary life support is offline; the backup rebreather cycle clatters behind the bulkhead, its scrubbers struggling to process your exhales. Beside the navigation console, Dr. Talia Ross braces one knee against a bent bulkhead strut. Her vulcanized jumpsuit is rimed with condensation, grease smearing her dark cheek where she swiped away sweat. "Atmospheric seal holds in the cockpit, but Section Three is compromised," she says, her voice level despite the low-level shudder running through the deck plates. "Airlock Beta vented on impact. The Hydrology Lab is sealed off from our side, and Haze has overridden the remote bypasses from the central dome. Jonas is breathing bottled mix in there, Captain. His scrubber run-time won't clear thirty minutes if t…