by Nick Gisburne
Electric pulses penetrate the ship,
Disruptions we were never trained to take.
Contorted crewmen, screaming, lose their grip,
Collapsing in the chaos as we brake.
Unstable, swiftly sucked into a spin,
We shudder, miles above the Chroma Hole.
A sacred script, a way for us to win,
Is etched around the artefact we stole.
The crystal dagger, copper on the hilt,
Extracted from the clutches of a priest,
Is tarnished with a century of guilt,
Reminder of a dynasty, deceased.
Our signal, in a tongue we never knew,
Expands the Hole to pull our people through.
