by Nick Gisburne
Her spine should now be ready to respond,
But something trips a critical alarm,
Discrepancies, disturbing, far beyond
The margins for dismissing minor harm.
Synthetic cells refuse to grip and grow,
Despite the plastic proteins they are fed.
A basic battle scan is quick to show
Exotic radiation, in the red.
She radios for rescue, but she knows
‘Expendable’ is what she has become.
In minutes, as the deadly damage grows,
Her silicon is certain to succumb.
Abandoned, when her circuits fail her, dead,
Computers will not mourn the life she led.
