Spinning languidly in a particle stream
forfeited to gravity and the final dead cold
lies a slender needle-ship
glinting against stygian space.
The hull rattles, floors jingle, tools clatter
air stales, power fades, gases escape.
And there with no escape
a lonely engineer
desperately thinking, finally, praying
for the engines to start.
She knows the slow stochastic ping of materials cooling
is her immanent death,
watches fuel vent with a sinking heart
as hope fades
the walls close in.
Clutching her belly, she whispers sadly
to the little life within.
And suddenly there stands
a little man, brightly dressed, before her
as he has done so many times before,
“I can be your helpmeet, your one salvation,
as I have been in cave and lonely tower.
I can spin straw into gold,
make fuel from waste matter
smooth hull breaches, blow new air,
get you home again.
Did you think to you were too far from me?
Let me re-taste your fear,
let me give you a future, just
give me what you hold dearest,
your unborn child.
A gift freely given has power.”
Spread the word!