Mira cursed. Production was down five percent. The shareholders on Earth didn’t care about angry shale. They cared about the blue flame of fusion. “Increase mud pressure. Pack the fractures. Keep drilling.”
Mira looked at the data. The rig was spinning slowly, bleeding propellant from its station-keeping thrusters. They had two hours of power. After that, the heaters would die. Then the air scrubbers. Then the lights. Then them. astro offshore
“Report!” she screamed.
They waited. The heaters failed at T-minus forty minutes. The temperature dropped to -50°C. Frost formed on the inside of Mira’s visor. The crew huddled in the mess hall, breathing recycled farts and prayers. Mira cursed