In the hushed embrace of the pre-dawn hours, the drill crew assembled within the bounds of a modest tent adjacent to the drill rig at the site of well number six. It was a simple thing, a canvas roof supported by four slender deadwood trunks open on all sides to allow the desert's capricious breezes to flow through while shielding its occupants from the sun’s oncoming relentless assault.

A briny scent wafted through those open walls, carried on the desert breezes that coursed over this sand swept land. It was the smell of the town’s lone restaurant, the ironically named “Fisherman’s Catch”. In this hallowed establishment they transformed the paltry supplies rendered by corporate headquarters into a soup which could at best be classified as palatable. Cubes of canned jellyfish boiled in the brine that packed them helped to rehydrate dried reeds of seagrass, the sum of these parts resulting in a concoction roughly resembling good food.

Deadwood was why they were here. When the climate changed it changed quickly, causing the forests which had once spanned the globe to burn then desiccate into dry lifeless expanses. At first deadwood was common. Cheap even. Because of this it had become a cornerstone of the company’s operations, used as a component in almost everything that made their industry possible. Most notably, it was the sole resource available for the ties that formed the very backbone of its endless railway lines granting them access to even the most far off lands.

But now? All of the easily accessible deadwood stands had been used up. Consumed by a world that had still not learned its lessons. A lifeless, non-renewable resource at the end of its run. This place though? This place sat at the edge of a deadwood stand like no other. An ancient forest so far off from humanity's last desperate grasp at existence that it had, so far, been left untouched. This place was important.

“Listen up,” Bernard’s voice cut through the desert's stillness, the crew's attention snapped to their foreman. His presence was a rarity out at the rig. “We are closing up shop on well six. We’re going to move the rig back to well number two and extend it to a depth of eight-hundred and fifty meters.”

Well number two had been selected for a myriad of reasons, but among them, the most pivotal was its proximity to the epicenter of Lily's experiment. If Bernard was going to risk his career, he was determined to reduce uncertainty to its bare minimum.

"What did you just say?" came a sharp exclamation from Carl, the team's most grizzled veteran. His weathered face, etched with years of desert toil, contorted in disbelief as he confronted Bernard's unexpected announcement.

Mo chimed in abruptly, his voice laced with concern, "But sir, we don’t drill to eight-fifty… and well six is only at one-thirteen! Didn’t you not read my report yesterday?!"

“Calm down!” Bernard's voice snapped, quickly shifting to a more composed tone. "I know it’s abnormal. But an experiment was performed the other day, as I’m sure you’re all aware, and it revealed a large quantity of water.”

“At eight hundred and fifty meters?” Mo interrupted, his disbelief evident. “Impossible. They wouldn’t authorize this! There’s too much risk.”

“I don’t know that the rig can even hold up to that, boss,” added Carl. His gruff voice carried a lifetime of experience. “I’ve been on a lot of rigs and even at depths within specification we still have issues when loads build up in the debris return. A run length like this could pose a huge problem.”

“I understand your concerns, I really do,” Bernard replied, his tone steady. “But I want you to know that I've sent the experiment’s results back to HQ, and they've issued special instructions to pursue the water at all costs,” he lied. “Moreover, let’s not forget that this job has already been far from conventional. We're breaking the mold here. Normally, a location gets one shot. A single crew who drills ten holes to code. If no water is found, the location is deemed dry, and the company moves on. Yet here we are, crew number three, standing over our sixth well, which is actually this location’s twenty-sixth!”

A brief hush fell upon the crew. Bernard's words resonated, hitting a nerve of truth. If they strictly adhered to the established protocols, they shouldn't even be standing here. Their predecessors shouldn't have ventured here either. Sixteen holes marred this patch of land like a canvas splattered with paint, defying convention just as much as their present endeavor.

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“I suppose…” Mo added, his voice laden with uncertainty.

"It’s true and you know it, Mo. Besides, I’m not asking you to break the rules. I’m not asking you to submit false reports. None of that. I still expect your report to be a completely accurate reflection of the day’s operation. If there is a problem, we’ll be informed before our next shift," Bernard assured, his words carrying a hint of deception.

Mo mulled over the implications of this statement, his mind weaving through its deeply cynical pathways. It checked out. Adherence to policy was crucial, but at its core, policy was maintained through the chain of supervisors submitting detailed operation reports to headquarters. If Bernard was willing to submit the paperwork and they still received approval, then it was beyond Mo’s station to object.

“True or not, that still doesn’t address the practical challenges, boss,” Carl interjected. His gruff voice cut through the conversation. "The equipment is engineered for depths of two-hundred and fifty meters. It might have some flexibility, but tripling that depth seems like a stretch."

“Yes, that's a valid concern," Bernard countered, his voice carrying a touch of reassurance. "But this is precisely why we were handpicked for this task. HQ had the option to replace us with a more specialized drill team, but they didn't. They recognized our crew's experience and trust that we can overcome the challenges and achieve the seemingly impossible.”

“Fuckin’ eh boys!” shouted Kimberly, the youngest member of the team. “We’re going to be celebrities!”

Carl chuckled, his voice carrying a touch of amusement. "Enthusiasm's good, no doubt about that. But now we've got the challenge of coaxing this old beast to perform beyond its usual tricks," he remarked, playfully tapping one of the steel girders that anchored the drill rig over well six.

"I'm counting on you, Carl. I believe you'll figure it out," Bernard replied with a note of hope in his voice.

Carl shifted his focus to the towering sentinel that loomed beside them, a hulking mass of machinery that had witnessed decades of unforgiving drilling. Its steel frame bore the scars of countless encounters with the earth's unyielding core, its once gleaming surface now etched with a patina of wear and weathering. As his eyes traced the contours of the rig, Carl's mind navigated a labyrinth of memories—endless days spent within its metallic embrace, deciphering its quirks, coaxing it to perform its duty. He could recite the litany of its components by heart—the massive borehead that gnawed at the earth's secrets, the rhythmic churn of the drilling machinery, the intricate network of gears and cables that orchestrated the delicate ballet of excavation.

Carl held an intimate understanding of the rig's inherent strengths and vulnerabilities. He recognized that the initial drilling process would likely unfold without hindrance, the drill bit's tenacity prevailing regardless of the depths it delved. However, it was the subsequent challenge of debris retrieval that gnawed at his thoughts. In this arid landscape, where liquid was a precious rarity, mechanical ingenuity had to be used. A corkscrew-like mechanism extended along the length of the borehole. Its purpose? To coax the fractured remnants of the earth upward. Yet, it wasn't immune to issues; its operation teetered on the precipice of obstruction, and the mounting weight of shattered rock along its path threatened to orchestrate a discordant symphony of forces which could quickly put the rig's integrity at odds with its mission.

"I guess it's possible," Carl conceded, his gruff tone softening slightly. "But it's going to be a slow and challenging process, even more so than our usual operations."

"Alright," Bernard stated in a no-nonsense tone, "Let's not waste any more time then. Your objective for today is to extract the rig from this well," he motioned towards well six, "and prepare it for drilling at well two by tomorrow morning."

"What's the plan for the drill head, sir?" chimed in Kimberly who was often tasked with the crew’s less glamorous responsibility of inventory management.

"Follow protocol," Mo interjected, "It still has about half of its operational life left. Extract it, box it up, and get it ready for the next train back to HQ for repurposing."

Bernard nodded in silent concurrence. He hoped that adhering to the smaller details of policy would help maintain a sense of order. "Any more questions?"

The team remained quiet in front of him, their subdued head shakes revealing their tacit acceptance of his instructions and their readiness to begin, "Alright, then. Let's get to work.. The sooner this rig is hovering over well two the sooner you can do whatever the hell it is you lot do with your free time.”