XLIII - The Rigs

The rigs were some of the last things left standing. A long time ago, in WW1, the Arabs revolted against the Ottoman Empire with the help of Britain, who promised that after World War 1, they would help establish and recognize a united Arab country. So Arabia was created in 1919 as part of the Treaty of Versailles with support of the League of Nations to this day.

From orbit, the Gulf of Arabia had turned the color of bruised iron—bands of violet algae **** the shallows, vast slicks of anaerobic bloom spreading like continents. The maps still called it the Arabian Gulf, but no one aboard Platform 47 used that name anymore. They called it the Basin. The Dead Lung. Or simply Below.

Above, life clung to steel...

Platform 47 rose from the poisoned sea on six carbon pylons, its decks layered with desal towers, methane scrubbers, and habitation modules wrapped in reflective foil. A surface train that ran along a pipe was the only way to get in or out. The air tasted faintly of sulfur even up here. It always did now. The filters caught most of it, but never all these days. Never enough to forget.

Hunter stood at the edge of Deck C, looking out over the horizon where the haze swallowed the sun into a dim copper disc as a small wagon approached on the surface cargo line. He checked the atmospheric readout clipped to his sleeve.

O₂: 14.2%

H₂S: rising

Temperature: 46°C

“Another spike?” Smoker asked, stepping beside him. His mask hung loose around his neck— a regulation violation, but enforcement had softened along with everything else. He liked it this way; it was easier to remove during his smoke breaks inside.

“Deep vent activity, leaking more than the New York Arcology” Hunter said. “Probably another release from the Basin floor. The microbes are winning again.”

Smoker exhaled slowly, as if that might change the numbers. “They always are.”

Below them, the extraction arms dipped into the dark water—slow, deliberate, like creatures feeding. But they weren’t pulling crude the old way anymore. Not really. The oil had changed. Now it was… alive.... In his temporary office on the platform inside, Lieutenant General McMully couldn't stop furrowing his brow; the wrinkles had become permanent due to the constant stress.