Convoy
At the staging point, the convoy slowly moves into formation
like the dark, imposing buildings of a floating, moving town,
till they all are in alignment, the command to warp is given,
and each ship becomes a silent, skinless world unto its own.
At the center of the convoy is an armored deep-space transport;
it is filled with many thousand cubic meters worth of fuel
for the distant frontier station that will be their destination;
but the way that they will have to take is long and hard and cruel.
Somewhere along the way, a bloody battlefield is waiting
to well up from the depths of space and catch them unawares.
They all wait for it to happen, from their weaponless positions;
exchange smiles of reassurance, to alleviate their fears.
How far away it is, the distant safety of the harbor,
and how thin, the walls that shield them from the emptiness outside.
They can hear their own hearts beating, they can hear the next man breathing,
and they do their work in silence, each one pale and terrified.
They have lived through other journeys; staggered blind through smoke and gas leaks
over decks that were ripped open and exposed to empty space
while toxic fumes were leaking through the filters of their jumpsuits;
and each place where there was air to breathe, was already ablaze.
They've sat crammed in flimsy jumpcraft to escape the conflagration,
with nothing but a thruster drive to move themselves around.
They have wondered which comes first of suffocation and starvation,
while they've sent their distress signals, in the hope they will be found.
They are not in any navy. They're not warriors or soldiers.
They are ordinary people. They are only in the war.
They have only one desire as they step aboard their vessel:
To survive another journey, like they did the ones before.
An explosion! Are they hit? No - no, not they - the ship behind them.
Then the enemy's upon them, and explosions flash through space.
An escort frigate hurls itself against the first attackers,
letting loose with all its weapons as it savagely gives chase.
All the escorts know what hate is. They have orders to keep moving,
to fly past the burning wrecks, and leave survivors to their fate.
They have heard their call signs screamed in desperation on the comm-link;
and those dead men's voices drive them on, to hunt and kill and hate.
Then, in the very moment the attacker catches fire
And the escort captain signals to the convoy that they've won,
the torpedoes hit the transport, tearing through the hull amidships,
and the cargo catches fire. It is over. They are done.
And the convoy moves on forward. One more comm-link channel muted,
so that they won't need to listen to the final, horrid screams.
Instead, they all keep quiet, with their gazes fixed before them,
and a swift, unspoken prayer to the tired escort teams.
Till the next gate, and the next one, till their sleepless watch is over,
till they dock their ships and disembark as tired, haunted men,
till they drown the screams and whispers in the mercy of a bottle,
till the ship takes on new cargo, and they must embark again.
Author
Topic: Katlarhymes (Read 1529 times)