Notes from the author: Another short story. Or at least not too long. All characters except those created by me belong to Paramount.
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It waits. Has been waiting for a long time. The wind howls straight at It through the holes of the rusted shell that was their transport. Its organic symbiot is long gone to join the fine layer of dust on the floor, the only testimony to its existence the long-beaked skeleton strapped in the pilot seat. The transport methodically pushes out its distress signal. There is enough energy that the beacon will keep emitting its call for years to come, possibly centuries. Nobody ever comes through this sector of space.
It waits.
Eons, centuries, millenia, all are meaningless to It. It doesn't need energy to survive other than that created by the constant flow of electrons in the planet's organic matter. If It were on its homeland, It would join the ranks of those awaiting a symbiot. It may take years, possibly centuries, but It would find another symbiot for a full life. And when at the end It rejoins the ranks of the unassigned, unless the symbiot did something to destroy It, It would start all over again.
It waits.
It is alone. Nothing but the emptiness of the wind whistling in and around the broken hull. Nothing but the suns raising and setting on the empty land.
It waits.
Eventually something will happen. Someone will come. A transport out of the planet. Possibly a host, if It were so lucky. At least a transport. They won't even know It's there.
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