Impact minus 6:56
Both men watched the tailings sample burn for a few seconds then Mac slapped the lid on the sauce pan he used as the test vessel. Lester just looked at the covered pan, stunned, still clutching his cigar lighter over his head where he'd recoiled from the burst of flame.
"Not much natural gas, more like kerosene, gasoline, maybe some methane," said Mac to the puzzled driller, "with some tars and crude mixed in."
"Oil? Here?" Lester shook his head in like a stunned boxer.
Mac watched Lester. "Yup. More than oil, though. Somehow, this rock is full of frozen petrochemicals, a crazy mix of refined products and crude. It's like the whole rock full of crude oil got cooked under pressure then cooled under a vacuum, like a natural still. I could probably run Gramps' old diesel tractor straight off what's in that hole. That's why the pressure is going up; the more we drill, the warmer the hole gets, and the more gas is released."
Lester spent a few seconds absorbing that, considering it with what he already knew.
"They knew."
Mac nodded. "They must have."
"Goddammit. The asteroid."
"Yup. They had to start the orbital changes a year or two ago. I hafta admit, using one asteroid to break another is a great idea. That asteroid is gonna split this rock in half like a pecan, thanks to the perforations we drilled. An artificial fault line."
"Hah. Nutcracker. And we the nut."
"Right," said Mac, and laughed harshly. "Then the company will just bulldoze up the profits. Lots cheaper than mining."
"And us?"
"I figure they didn't want the secret to get out, guess it might have depressed the market, or maybe get them in trouble for changing asteroid orbits. So they weren't gonna tell us, ever. I've been wondering why they bothered to ship an old rig like this out here. Now I know. Just give us the job, fix it so we don't know what's in the hole, not tell us why, pull us off soon as we were done and leave the rig for scrap."
Lester nodded his head then frowned at Mac. "Or not. Maybe they knew. Gave us too many holes. Meant for us to fail. Meant us to be here when the hammer falls."
Mac smiled grimly. "But we won't. This changes things. I just need something from you, Les, something important."
"Ok, hit me."
"I need you to rig a way to pump pure oxygen into the mud, from the oxy tanks in medbay. Can you do it?"
"Don't have to rig. Already can. Purge valve, both pumps, just need fitting adapters."
Mac's white-knuckled grip on the table relaxed. "Good. Then I want you to take a man, and torch off all the rails, and ladders, and the tube to the bunkhouse, anything else to make us lighter, ok? I'll start the oxygen going."
Lester grunted and stepped to the lock, resealing the suit he hadn't removed. Before he locked down the helmet, he turned back to Mac.
"You make a bomb in the hole?" His Cajun accent was very clear.
Mac nodded grimly.
"Tell the men?"
Mac shook his head.
"Thought so. Got balls, Mac. Glad to know ya."
Tears blurred Mac's last sight of Lester, sealing his helmet as the lock started its cycle.
Impact minus 5:13:43
Frantic preparations were still underway when the pressure indicator suddenly red-lined. Mac and Turtle were on the surface under the rig. They had tediously detached two of the four massive hold-down cables that kept the rig on the surface during operation. The plan was to cut the remaining two cables at the last minute, just before the pumps were shut down. Turtle was rigging the plasma torch at Cable Three when the emergency klaxon went off. Dissonant tones sounded and a small red indicator flashed in every helmet. Mac looked up, heart pounding.
A canned female voice began chanting. "Emergency. Emergency. All hands off the work floor. Emerg –”
Lester cut off the calm voice on the all-channel override.
"Everyone in the doghouse, NOW! MOVE IT!"
Turtle never looked up. With an actinic flash he ignited the plasma torch and held it steady on the cable. Mac gulped a breath, and tried to match the Native American's calm. The blowout was early, but if these cables weren't cut loose, they'd be stuck on the surface as the blowout ripped apart the rig and killed them all. After a calming moment, he touched Turtle's helmet with his own faceplate.
"Ok,” Mac yelled, “I got it, you head up!"
"Nope," Turtle answered, not taking his eyes from the cut, "much as I want to go hide with them white boys, I'm gettin' done here first." He cut his eyes at the tool box at Mac's feet. "Why don't ya grab that power saw there, go cut the retainin' nuts off that last cable? Reckon it'll pop loose on its own then, and we'll be done."
Impact minus 5:13:15
Mac snatched up the saw from the toolbox and leapt for the last hold-down cable. The weird light from the plasma torch behind him made it hard to judge the distance. He ended up plowing into the cable before his feet touched, forcing him to snatch it before he rebounded away. Working quickly, he attached his work harness to the giant metal eyelet of the hold-down pin. He crouched, set the harness tension to 150 pounds then straightened up, steady enough now to bring the saw to bear.
He was panting as if he'd already run a race, and sweat was beginning to tickle his stubble. The alloy retainer plates and triple bolts were even with his belly button. The cable, the two plates that held the cable loop on the hold-down pin, and the hold-down pin itself were of alloy far too tough for his reciprocating saw. However, the three bolts and nuts themselves were steel, something he could handle. He hoped. Grasping both handles, he thumbed the first blade into the chuck, steadied it on the top nut, and started cutting.
Impact minus 5:12:26
"Got it!" yelled Turtle.
"Go," said Mac, "I got this one, you go in now."
The first nut gaped apart then, letting the blade hit the plate behind and snap. Mac calmly thumbed a new blade in, and settled it on the next nut.
"Thirty seconds, Turtle. Leave the outer door open. I'll be right behind you."
Turtle answered in a language Mac didn't understand then said, "It is a good day to die. Oh Great Spirit, hear me, this day we die with honor. See ya'll in heaven, Mac."
Mac glanced up, in time to see Turtle's jump for the floor. Mac wryly recalled the rules against such jumps. Turtle soared the twenty feet to the floor, grabbed the edge with one hand, and used the momentum to cartwheel upright, throwing up his arms like an Olympic gymnast spiking a dismount. With a wave, Turtle disappeared toward the doghouse. Mac had to laugh out loud.
Impact minus 5:12:07
Struggling against the mounting pressure, Mud Pump One failed spectacularly, sending sparks and flames in a silent pyrotechnic flower. Mac saw the flash above him, but did not take his attention off the cut. Pump Two failed three seconds later, seizing with a huge shudder. At that moment the second nut shattered, sending shrapnel into Mac's right arm and faceplate, punching a tiny hole in the clear plastic.
For a long second the cable held then whipped through the eye and snapped upward, stripping the last bolt and driving one retaining plate flat into his chest. Mac staggered back, stunned momentarily by the sudden pain and violence, but quickly regained his purpose. He pulled the quick release on the harness and leapt for the floor above. More by luck than skill he grabbed the stump of one of the removed ladders and landed in a heap on the generator platform.
Impact minus 5:11:55
The back-pressure surge split the output pipe from Pump One and a tendril of hyper-oxygenated mud and petrochemical mix touched the other sparking pump. A wave of flame flashed back into the pipe, detonating the pipes all the way into the ground. The entire rig shook and jumped with the force of the exploding pipes. Shrapnel from the pumps and fittings sprayed across the floor, miraculously missing Mac. He braced against the shock then leapt straight at the doghouse airlock, ignoring the flames spewing up through the work floor.
Freed of restraint by the failure of both pumps and the destruction of the pressure collar by explosions, the string of fifty foot pipes shot from the hole. Accelerating upwards, the first length passed cleanly through the rig and into space, but the next buckled under the incredible forces and crashed into the tower. The work floor jumped and slapped into Mac just a few feet from the doghouse airlock. He skidded to a stop as more pipe struck the rig, driving it upwards. Sparks and flames were everywhere. His eyes stayed locked on the doghouse as he stubbornly struggled to gain a purchase and crawl forward on the bucking floor.
The first explosion from the well smashed into the floor even as the impacting pipes lifted the rig from the surface. The floor broke into three pieces: generator platform, mud pumps, and doghouse, held loosely together by the disintegrating tower. Mac went flying free, struck a giant blow by the floor and launched into space. The rig accelerated upwards more slowly.
Impact minus 5:11:51
A massive jet of gas and flame erupted from the well, cratering the surface and shattering the tower. The entire rig was enveloped in a ball of flame for several seconds, then reappeared in a cloud of debris, moving more quickly now. Mac waved his arms in small quick circles, the way he'd been taught to steady a zero gravity spin. His right arm pained him, but he was more worried about the hole in his faceplate. Incredibly, he seemed to be clear of the wreck without major injury.
In just a few seconds he was able to focus on the well as another explosion erupted, sending a cloud of rock and metal into the rising rig like a shotgun blast. Pipe still poured from the well, glowing red with the friction and fire. Mac could tell that the rig, or what was left, was free from the rock's weak gravity. Five hours from now, the guys would be miles from the impact; then all they had to do was survive until the relief ship showed up. Time to call them, he thought, and see how they were doing.
Something shot out of the darkness at Mac; he caught a glimpse of dully glowing pipe spearing toward his face, and his right hand reflexively rose to protect his head and helmet . . .
Cirrus Station
I woke up in terrible pain, but I knew what it was; a hangover. I didn't open my eyes, but I could tell by the familiar smells of vomit and pine cleaner, the retching groans around me, that I was in the drunk tank. Despite the stench and the cold concrete under me, I almost laughed out loud. It wasn't amusing, really, but the thought that this was the last time made me happy. I tried not to think too hard about how I'd gotten here, but I knew I'd never be back. My life wasn't hopeless, and I wasn't hopeless anymore, either.
It took most of my funds to pay the fine and get released. I usually didn’t do that, electing to spend a few days in the lockup instead so I’d have means to drink when I got out. I knew a med-tech at the public medstation who owed me some favors. I had occasionally loaned him my press pass so he could get into strip clubs free, in exchange for getting me through bad times with ‘medicinal’ treatments. I finally had to threaten to turn him in to his girlfriends before he would do it.
We brought the portable PET scanner to the bar before it opened. I had sixteen credits left after the bribe to the bartender, whose name was Zeke. While my medical friend scanned the hand in the jar, I pumped Zeke about it. He was a friendlier fellow with credits on the bar, but wouldn’t start until I admitted, in whispers, I’d seen the ghost. Then he talked like most professional listeners will when someone else will listen.
He told me how the station was struck by something a dozen or more years ago, punching through the surface and collapsing one of the unused tunnels. Impact and blowout caused some damage, but happily nobody was hurt. Zeke led one of the volunteer Search and Rescue teams and found the crudely amputated hand, frozen and battered in the rubble. Since there were no injuries and nobody claimed a wayward body part, Zeke had carefully pickled it, calculating that maybe someday it would be worth something, keeping it at the bar he had worked at and now owned. The tale of the ghost minejack had grown through the years.
He didn’t really remember what struck the station, or even if that fact was ever discovered, but he did recall that the hand was in some kind of spacesuit glove. After a few minutes of digging beneath the bar, he triumphantly produced the glove, but was very disappointed when I told him I couldn’t afford it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him all I’d needed to see was the corporate logo on the scorched back of the glove; I could tell he was beginning to think he’d charged me too little.
We left before the bar opened, leaving Zeke to examine his prizes for any subtle damage. I took the imagery record chip, even though the med-tech told me there wasn’t enough data to ID the hand, how that would require genetic work-ups or fingerprints. I told him thanks, it would have to do, then went to the library and rented one of their full-service computer terminals, ten credits for the hour. Sure, I didn't have fingerprints or gene samples, but the battered class ring came out quite nicely with the software the library had. The computer also coughed up class data for the University of Houston, including pictures. Pick a year, look at pictures, download a public record on the subject, one Lucas Ian McCool, M.A.
Time Magazine Mars Online was the first to offer a byline on the published story; oh well, it wasn’t newspaper, but it would do. Their advance money was welcome, too; I hadn’t eaten in a couple of days, having spent my last few credits on submitting the teasers to as many editors as I could. I found an Alcoholics Anonymous group as soon as I had eaten, then went out and bought a used computer with Netlink.
By the time my ship to Mars departed, I had tracked down three of the survivors. I even spoke briefly with retired Walter Turtledancer. Crippled by old injuries and too many years in zero-g, Walter would never return to his native Georgia. He was willing to go on the record with me, but only if I first promised to tell him before the story went to press; he needed time, he'd said, to ‘protect his investments.’
I never went back to that bar, but I know it's still there. I never told Time, or AA, or even my wife years later, that a vision from a ghost in a jar had given me the story that saved my life. Sometimes I have trouble believing it myself, but then I play back the recording I made that night at the bar.
My slurred voice is clear, the sound of minejacks and their ladies at the bar less clear in the background, but no other voice is there. Instead there is the distinct, rhythmic humming of pumps, a hiss of hydralics, all punctuated by the clash of metal on metal. . .
The End
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