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,

smiling beguilingly.

“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.”