Syllar glanced out the window and sighed.  Today was not going to be a great day for harvesting oil. Seeing that he was on Titan, 790 million miles away from Earth, harvesting a resource that nations had warred over for thousands of years, how could any day be a great day for harvesting oil? It wasn’t that Syllar came to be a great authority on the Oil Wars that had changed Earth into a one nation conglomerate. In fact, they had happened so long ago that none of Syllar’s generation could remember anything except for the nation of Jericho, and the one world government that they all were born into.

Syllar saw his work, and the reasons behind it, as pointless. Earth, the true home planet, was close enough to the Sun that an infinite amount of energy could be harvested from it.  Four billion years of light left, and we let the Drips convince us that we needed more oil to power, well, everything! Pah! Syllar wisely kept such thoughts to himself. No one dared utter a word against the One World Government, or the OWG. There were a few, hiding in pockets on Earth and each of the nine celestial bodies it had occupied, that planned to usurp the Drips. Syllar often dreamed of joining them, although in his more lucid moments, the Proles, as they styled themselves, received as much scorn as the OWG.  You could deride the Drips to your heart’s content, and yet there was no way to stop them. They had ignored science and reason and pressed forth with their radical agenda until it was clear that scientific progress would only be welcome if it benefitted the fossil fuel crowd.

The Great Oil Wars had shown how far they were willing to go. One third of humanity was wiped from the face of the Earth during the Great Oil Wars. Nations had allied with nations, until nobody was sure who was on which side. To simplify things, the forerunners of the Drips had taken the face of the war and turned it from a nationalistic form of puffery to an us-versus-them battle pitting the masters of hydrocarbons and religion against the ones that would use reason, and not profit, to press forth the human race. From a historical perspective, it was amazing how the profiteers had somehow managed to convince the masses that they were on the side of good. Instead of appealing to patriotism, they appealed to a skewed set of morals, all backed by religious leaders whose pockets were soon as well-lined as their oil patrons.  The masses became convinced that oil was their salvation, and to dream of any other form of power was blasphemy.

It was not uncommon for Syllar to think of what might have been if the Proles had won the war. After all, the Drips had yet to find a way to legislate thought. Resources had been spent on ways to harvest oil, and when all the resources from Earth had been depleted, the scientific focus had shifted to the outer reaches of the solar system.  Most of those working with Syllar on Titan had been born in space, on the ship that had carried the half a million humans responsible for colonization of the moon.  Syllar, however, was Earth-born. It had taken close to seven years to fly to Titan, and his birth had fallen a few scant weeks before launch. His inclusion in the mission was twofold.  His mother had been fertile enough to produce more children, and the scientists involved in the mission wanted to see how an infant would fare in deep space flight. He was, in essence, a lab rat, and that realization had been one of many to lead him to carry out his own secret war against the Drips, even if it was only within his own thoughts.

Syllar shook his head, the air tubes rattling against his helmet as he did. The engineers warned them daily against such reckless treatment of their equipment, as any slight impact could loosen fixtures, tear tubing, and lead to a thousand horrible deaths that only happened once. Syllar had pointed out before to the same snide engineers that most of those deaths had been caused by their own malfeasance and neglect, but he was in no mood for an argument today.  The doors opened, allowing Syllar and his comrades to move from the airlock onto the surface of Titan. A few yards of yellow-crusted surface lay before them, and beyond that lay The Sea.

Kraken Mare was her name, and Syllar took a moment to reflect on the somewhat silly tradition of referring to inanimate objects as “she.” It was incredibly degrading, in his view, but with the Drips having their way, most things pertaining to women, and civil rights in general,

were degrading. Syllar remembered from his readings that, at one time, women had held just as much right as men in certain parts of humanity, but with the rise of the Drips, those rights vanished. The religious establishment outlawed abortion under any circumstance. What followed was a population explosion that doubled what the Earth’s population would have been before the war. The press, even as censored as it had become, was so severe that the Drips were forced to look elsewhere for living space. The Moon had followed, then Mars, both of her moons, the Jupiter moons of Europa and Callisto, Mercury (of which the seeding and regrowth of organic life there was pointed to as a success for the Drips, although, in reality, the government had secretly allowed a small group of scientists to use alternative energy methods to make life possible), Titan’s sister moon Enceladus, and, finally, Titan herself.

Wind swept across Syllar’s visor, kicking up plumes of dust from the yellowish surface into his field of view. It was breathtaking, really. Kraken Mare sat against the backdrop of a hitherto-unnamed mountain range, surrounded by the purplish clouds that made up what were the beginnings of Titan’s new water-based atmosphere.  The Drips’s scientists were working on creating an artificial atmosphere for Titan, using the same methods that had proven successful on Mercury. It was taking some time. Mercury had been lacking an atmosphere, so using the solar energy to power the machines that spun one had been simple. Titan, on the other hand, had its own atmosphere. It was full of hydrocarbons, insomuch that oil rained from the sky. The conversion process was simple, yet once the atmosphere was converted so that it rained water, the reserves of oil would dry up. They would be forced to drill for oil then, in the same manner that was used on Earth. It was much easier to suction the oil from giant lakes and seas.

With a grimace, another engineer saddled Syllar’s back with one of the suction devices. The pack weighed closed to sixty pounds, with a fitting on the bottom that was attached to several miles of tubing.  In his right hand was a wand, one that Syllar would use to sweep over the surface of Kraken Mare. The oil was delivered to the pack, filtered of any impurities, and fed to the tube to barrels that stood off to the side of the sea. Fifteen hundred years of technology at their fingertips, and they were still cramming oil into barrels. The irony was not lost on Syllar. With a sneer, the engineer tapped his helmet twice, signaling for him to tread out into the great sea.

The term “sea” was used with the greatest of irony.  Any man, given the time and energy, could simply walk from one side of Kraken Mare to the other. It rarely reached any deeper than four and a half feet.  What it lacked in depth, it made up for in surface area. Kraken Mare spread over an area that was twice the size of Lake Superior. There were crews spread across the lake at great intervals; indeed, one could go hours without seeing a single one of his comrades.  Human contact was not needed for this job. It was a relatively dull one, with mining advances eliminating any real dangers. The only excitement that could be gleaned was when someone stepped in a pit, one of the several rounded holes that would send the walker a few feet below the surface.  Sensors on their gear allowed for quick recovery, and the sealed nature of their suits meant one could survive for several hours in a pit if needed.  The real danger lay in The Needles.

The Needles were evil little creatures. Humanoid in nature, they stood close to five feet tall and walked upright.  Evolution had led to their breathing of hydrogen, which was found in abundance in the hydrocarbons that made up Kraken Mare. Gills on their necks filtered whatever it was they needed to breathe from the oil, although they could surface for a short time. What made them dangerous, and gave cause to their name, were their arms. Instead of a hand with digits, their arms were conical, sharpened down to a fine point on their ends. The scientists had not discovered why they had evolved in such a manner, although it was theorized that their pointed arms made it easier for them to hunt a hitherto-unknown prey. None the less, when they encountered a human, the results were disastrous. A well placed blow to the head could kill them, as they were fragile little beasts, but they fought with a tenacity that belied their size and their fragility.  Their arms were made of hardened bone, which was almost impossible to break. If one were to be stabbed with a well-placed blow, say, in one of the vulnerable spots of the suit, death was all but certain.

Three walkers had been killed by The Needles, and in Syllar’s view, that was three too many. He trudged out into the lake with a caution that earned him mockery from coworkers.  In his view, to not have this caution was folly. If there was but a single danger to fear in Kraken Mare, he failed to see why one would not take the time to make sure they were protected from said danger. Soon, however, the thoughts of The Needles were gone, replaced by a skull-numbing focus on the simple repetition of suction, clear the line, and repeat. This went on for hours, until a point was reached where Syllar had to do something, lest he perish from boredom. Glancing about to make sure he was alone, he dipped the end of his sweeper into the murky oil and waited. More times than not, one could suction up tiny chunks of rock, clogging the line and giving the walker a much needed respite from his work.

Sure enough, the line seized. The motor in his pack strained with the effort of trying to suck in solid matter.  Grinning, Syllar pulled his wand up. Most times, one pulled up simple chunks of rock. Every now and again, someone would find a small piece that had fallen off of a piece of equipment.  As the wand cleared the surface, Syllar was filled with a sense of shock…and dread. He had recovered an artifact.

It was a bad omen to recover an artifact from the lake. Such finds were dismissed as superstition by the Drips; and the one that usually located the object was simply punished by way of wage garnishment for using time and government resources for leisure. A few pots, some crude primitive weapons, and even a few basic tools had been pulled from the water, but none of those fit what Syllar had recovered. It was a long, flat stone, thirty centimeters by fifty centimeters.  It was a piece of slate, out of place for this portion of Titan. Flipping his pack’s switch, Syllar quickly gathered the find into his hands, gently setting his wand aside to study it. The wand would be covered in oil once he was finished, but what did he care? So was everything else.

He pulled the tablet close, waiting for the haze to clear from his visor. By turning off his switch, the engineers would be alerted to an issue, and within a few short minutes, one would arrive to assess the problem.  If he was found slacking with a rock in his hand, his wages would be garnished. The loss of wages mattered less to most; in fact, the being labeled as a slacker was an embarrassment that few overcame. For Syllar, the embarrassment was negligible. It would not be the first time he was labeled as a slacker, nor would it be the last. As his view cleared, he saw that, much to his surprise, the piece of slate was covered in carvings, in a runic language that he could not begin to understand.  The Drips had been wrong! These were not simply coincidences; these were proof that, for the first time in recorded history, there was intelligent life beyond Earthly humanity!

Syllar took a breath, and calmed himself. There could be a thousand explanations for this. It could be the piece off of some ship used by one of the more superstitious companies that mined Kraken Mare. The Drips gave close to eighty licenses out for such missions, and cared little about the varied beliefs behind them, as long as there was a profit to be made. Rubbing his gloved hand over the rune, Syllar realized that this could not be the case. It tended to crumble a little, and Syllar stopped in horror. He could not let this be destroyed! Glancing around, there was still no sign of the boat. Grimacing, he tucked the wand in one hand, while sliding the tablet under his other, and began trudging towards shore. There was likely to be a reprimand for this, but he was willing to take the chance.

He took no more than three steps when The Needle burst out of the oil in front of him.  It stared at him for a moment, as if accusing him of some horrendous crime. It was thought that The Needles were no more than apes, unfinished and primitive, as if evolution had simply forgotten them once they reached a certain point.  The creature seemed to recognize what was under his arm, and it let off a shrill cry. It penetrated Syllar’s helmet, so vile and loud that he was tempted to reach for his ears. Ears, he realized, that were inaccessible behind his helmet. He gathered up his wand in his hand, hoping to keep the creature at bay long enough for the engineer to arrive.

To his horror, once the cry was complete, three more of the creatures breached the surface, all with oil-slicked eyes that devoured his every move. Syllar filled with dread. One creature he could perhaps keep at bay; four of the little fiends were akin to a death sentence. However, the creatures seemed content just to stare at him. They swam silently, coiling around one another like a bed of snakes, watching him as if they were trying to decide what to do.

If they were musing on a reasonable response, their thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of one of the engineers. He stood on his boat, staring in mute horror as the creatures ignored him and stared intently at the tablet that Syllar held. Moving quietly, the engineer, a fellow named Ray that Syllar barely knew, gathered up a crossbow from the deck of the boat. Syllar wanted to tell him to put the weapon down, but fear held him in place.  Ray took one of The Needles in sight, and fired.

It was a perfect shot. It struck the creature in the head, killing it instantly. The other three shrieked in rage. Two of them charged Ray, who was hastily reloading his crossbow, and the third headed for Syllar. It pulled itself from the water, leaping at him with a furor that belied its size. The needles on its arms were aimed directly at Syllar’s visor.  In a moment of desperation, Syllar dropped his wand and used the only thing he could to shield his face. The Needle, in abject horror, tried to pull its blow from the tablet, but it was too late. Needles slammed against the slate, breaking it into two clean pieces. The creature moaned, angry about missing its target and circled back around, leaping at Syllar once more. Bracing for impact, Syllar closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.

The creature never made contact. Ray, after having disposed of the other two, had reloaded his crossbow. Taking the shot, the arrow sliced through The Needle’s head, throwing his leap off-kilter, killing it instantly. Syllar stood, shaking, hands clutching the two pieces of tablet, when he became acutely aware of the sounds of laughter.

“Thought they had ye, aye, boy?” Ray was in serious danger of falling into the sea.

Syllar grimaced. “They would have, it if was been anyone but you that came out, Ray. I owe you my life.”

The engineer stared at him. “Aye, ye do, lad, and all that work be because ye felt like slackin’!” The words were trailed with particular venom; as if he knew of Syllar’s reputation and had no doubt that it was the cause behind such actions.

“Just help me up on the boat, old man.” The words were offered with a grimace. There was a plan forming at the back of Syllar’s mind, and the old man’s words of scorn had validated his intentions.

“It’s all rather well,” Ray began, pulling Syllar into the boat. “They send me out here to help ye with th’ Needles, and all because you decided…”

What Ray thought Syllar had been doing was never spoken. Picking up a wooden oar, one on board the raft in the event of an engine breakdown, Syllar clocked Ray right in the back of his helmeted head.  The engineers wore lighter, airtight leather versions of the metal helmet that Syllar had been wearing. More flexibility was needed, as an engineer’s work took him into tighter spots, yet such a helmet left him vulnerable to blows. Knowing this, Syllar took the opportunity to knock Ray out cold.

He started the engine, and unplugged his line, hauling one of the floating carcasses of the needles on board. The trip would be detoured so that he could hide the now-broken tablet, burying the two pieces in the sandy loam of the beaches that surrounded Kraken Mare.  There would be a great tale of how he and Ray had fought off the beasts, and how Ray and succumbed to a nasty fall on the deck.  Both would be hailed as heroes. New plans would be put into place to deal with The Needles. Syllar would enjoy the attention, and the leisure that came with it.

One day, in the very near future, he would recover the tablets, and find a way to slip them to the Proles. After all, each revolution began with a tiny spark, and truth be told, Syllar was tired of harvesting oil.

“Revolutionary” was a better job title.

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