algorithm
Three rescue missions and still they didn't find me. It's been ten years; I keep the com link on, just in case another message comes in, those endless requests for a reply.
They usually go like this:
And of course they don't know that my SEND REPLY button has malfunctioned. The only way they know I'm still alive is through the telemetry electrodes implanted on my chest, loyally broadcasting the fact that my heart is still beating. (Maybe they'll start doubting it, after all, ten years.)What if I regulated the beating, would they listen to the algorithm and know that it is code? I don't know. But I do know that I am too important to leave in exile.
Meanwhile, I have terraformed half a continent (although the results are not visible under this planet's cloud cover), compiled a dictionary and basic grammar of one of the four dominant species, and stumbled on an artifact left by the Panglossians, ten million years ago.
My body has turned purple, fed by the microbe-rich wind. My hair is a crown of diadems, an after-effect of bathing in mineralized waters. It seems I can live here forever.
Oh no.
Okay.
I think the electrode on my chest is about to fail.
Ba-bump.
