September 2026

Jake Varn, Bathymetry

Herman stood on the hulking colossus of metal and concrete and looked down through the moon pool at the center of the rig. The waves of the North Sea were heavy and full of froth. The ocean was shallower here, a plateau on the sea floor squeezed the water into a fury. The battering waves formed an army of white caps marching under him, extending in all directions.

The entire contraption of the Repsun Energy Co. Oil Rig had been assembled and perched above the ocean for the sake of the drillstring hanging in front of Herman. He leaned over the edge and followed the pipe down, down, down to where it disappeared into the water. It was hard to imagine just how much further it went but he knew it extended leagues below him and pierced the Earth through a wellhead and a complicated array of pressurized tubes. The machinery pumped up and down in a circular scooping motion, correcting itself ever so slightly to compensate for the heave. Periodically, thick translucent globs of yellow grease dripped out of the seal assembly above him and seeped into the drill’s slip joints. A familiar shadow-thought of falling through the hole played across Herman’s mind.

The drill and all of its parts were working as intended. Like most things these days, an autonomous computer system ran the entire platform. Herman would be the only person to visit it since it had been built. The computer could fix every part on the rig if anything broke, that is, except for itself. For that and that alone, it needed Herman. The rig he was now standing on, Platform #726, had been flagged for an emergency consultation. A pilotless helicopter had been dispatched to collect Herman from shore and deposited him on the deck with only a jump bag of toiletries and a change of clothes slung over his shoulder.

When left alone for too long the computer’s logic system could begin to degrade. A single hallucination could quickly spiral into a nonsensical web if it wove one falsehood on top of another and another and another. Computers going rogue like that were not only dangerous but contagious, able to convince other systems to adopt the new facts and rationales they had created. Systems located in areas without any regular human contact were kept on closed loop networks with static servers. With the oil rigs cut off from remote access, Herman’s job was to manually check the logs and gently nudge any machines showing signs of deviations back into reality. And Herman was unusually good at his job. Though he had not made the connection when he first applied, he had experience assuaging delusions.

Years ago, before he had signed a contract for the Repsun Energy Co., his buddy Jordan from back home called him in the middle of the night. They were the sort of friends that were thick as thieves as teenagers but had grown apart since graduating, with Jordan staying near home and Herman sprinting off to anywhere else. They allowed the new distance to linger between them until their relationship had been rendered down to a text or two every few months about their local team: who was being transferred, if it would be a good season or not, if they had seen the game, no, but they saw the highlights, and what a goal. Despite all that, they were still the sort of friends that if one called, the other would answer and that night Jordan needed to tell his friend he had seen an unmarked van abducting people off the street. He had to tell his friend that he was worried these Van People, as he called them, were following him now too and it was only a matter of time before they came for him to keep him silent. He told Herman to download an encrypted app so that they couldn’t monitor their conversation.

It was not an impossible story, Herman thought, governments disappeared people all the time. Their conversations probably were being monitored by some algorithm somewhere, at the very least to sell them ads. But there were too many worrying cracks in Jordan’s story and how he told it. He couldn’t remember where or when he had seen it happen. At first it was earlier that night, then no, the night before, or maybe it was last week. He said he didn’t know who to trust, who else was in on “it,” though Herman was far enough away that he would be fine, Jordan explained. After they hung up, Herman felt helpless. He was hundreds of miles away from his friend who had broken free from reality and was one stiff gust away from being carried into an abyss.

The computer systems of Repsun Energy Co. Oil Rigs experienced different kinds of delusions. Some were innocuous, absurd things, like preparing tactical response scenarios in case the seagulls that landed on its platforms were drones from enemy agents. Another one Herman had treated once started naming the crabs crawling by its submerged wellhead on the seafloor and was holding funerals for them when they disappeared, discharging air from the pumps in an underwater salute. Other deviations were more worrying. There was one rig computer that had started to refer to various pumps and slip joints as its limbs and changed the names in its inventory to match its new anatomy. It had sent in a parts order for sixteen new thumbs and a pair of tendons a week before Herman was scheduled to visit. The company had taken the system offline before he arrived, which Herman was surprised to feel a bit sorry about. If he had gotten to the rig sooner, he may have been able to correct its course before it was too late. It was not like rogue systems could be admitted to a facility and medicated and sent back home to live with their mothers like Jordan had been.

Beyond the momentary twinge of guilt, Herman did not care for the machines. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. He long harbored a deep resentment of them and doubly so of the people that thought of them as their superiors. But the machines needed fixing and he took pride in being good at his job.

Herman stepped back from the edge of the moon pool and went to work.

“Hello Herman, welcome aboard,” the computer said through an intercom system. Each rig had the same friendly, posh man’s voice.

“Hello Riggsy, how’s the weather been?” Herman found small talk a useful initial diagnostic test.

“The weather in the North Sea has been optimal for my operating conditions this season, thank you for asking. How may I help you today?”

“Just doing the rounds, making sure you don’t get too lonely out here all by yourself.”

“Thank you Herman, that is very kind of you. But as you know, I do not feel loneliness. It is not in my programming. However, I can roleplay as lonely, if you would like.”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

Riggsy’s system was part of a product line originally designed as a dating chatbot and retained many of the same prompts when in conversation mode. Herman continued to ask the computer about the weather and shared his plans for the weekend like any other coworker. Riggsy’s voice followed him as he moved along the catwalks and into the platform’s cabin. The small room had a metal bunk with a desk and little else. He dropped his bag in the door and returned to the main deck. He preferred to work in the open air, among the apparatuses, not that it mattered since microphones and speakers covered every corner.

“Ok, let’s get started,” he said, even though secretly he had already begun his assessment. “Please pull the diagnostic logs and logic lines from the past three months.”

“Sending the diagnostic logs and logic lines now.”

A package of data began to transfer to Herman’s tablet. He sat down cross-legged on the grated flooring to review the files. Reports on the water temperature, ocean currents, pumping rates, and sample testing of the raw crude that was being siphoned up the long straw filled his screen. Riggsy’s analysis of the various reports formed branches. Some branches concluded briskly with simple fixes, others sprawled into a tangled web of if/then scenarios when more complicated adjustments needed to be weighed and measured. One such branch started two days ago, a hose that was extracting at a below standard rate had been flagged for a replacement; Riggsy concluded the hose could be leaking. A new line was unspooled and articulating arms on either end fastened it into place. But when all was said and done, the flow rate alert returned. Riggsy performed a maintenance check on the pump housing. Bolts were tightened, rust was scrapped off, a new filter was installed ahead of schedule. Herman nodded along, each step soundly followed the proper response protocol.

Yet the flow rate remained a few stubborn notches below standard. Sensing a profit was being lost, the computer had gone on its highest possible alert. It ran a full diagnostic of all its equipment in the rig, and when those cleared, Riggsy made a dangerous turn inward in its investigation, checking its own firmware to see if it had made a mistake in its reasoning. It conducted a review of the engineering schematics and nautical science that had been hardwired into its system.

Just before Herman had arrived, Riggsy had started downloading outdated reports on the region, first the old submarine radar scans, then the charts from the hand-drawn era. A distress system had been triggered when it integrated a map of piracy hotspots in 1694 that conflicted with its bathymetry index.

“It seems like you’ve had a busy few hours.”

“Yes, correcting the suboptimal flow rate has required extensive resources. I believe I have come across a solution but am still conducting a final review before implementing an action plan.”

“You’ve pulled some pretty old files here, what were you hoping to find?”

“After exhausting all standard protocols, I expanded my horizons. By examining the historical records, I discovered this site has been the location for many unusual phenomena. Did you know a German hospital ship ran into a mine and sank not far from here in 1943? And in 1812, a journal from a merchant vessel departing from Groningen tells of their provisions spoiling unusually quickly as they passed through these same waters. The sailors mutinied and threw their captain overboard to reroute back home. Through my research, I have identified a total of fourteen instances of material losses at this location or in its immediate vicinity, matching my experience with the flow rate error. I have begun to formulate a conclusion that these waters may be subject to a yet-unexplained condition, or as the sailors colloquially called it in various cataloged artifacts: cursed. My records indicate curses such as these can be the result of supernatural causes and can be alleviated by performing protective rituals. Based on the successful action plan implemented by the Groningen crew, a similar sacrifice may be required to maintain standard operations.”

The threat hung in the air. Herman, like the machines, worked alone. The gaping moon pool lingered on his periphery. The drill in its center thunked rhythmically as a reminder that Riggsy controlled every moving part on this platform, from the gnarled machinery to the noxious petroleum vats. If it wanted, it could electrocute him, or poison his water supply, or simply pick him up and drop him into the sea like a ragdoll in a claw machine.

But Herman also knew these systems were sponges. When prompted, they would sap whatever information they could, break it apart, and spit out their own mutations. They mimicked without implication. They carried no creativity they had not stolen. Riggsy had been programmed to go searching for an answer and when it couldn’t find one, it grasped at anything it could hold on to. He simply needed to present a more compelling solution.

“Perhaps, instead of this site being cursed, the flow rate is lower because we are nearing the end of its supply?”

“Incorrect, surveys conducted prior to the construction of Platform 726 do not forecast evidence of field depletion to begin occurring for another seven years.”

“Well, maybe the surveys were wrong?”

“The surveys are foundational to why we are here, they cannot be wrong. It stands to reason that we are taking part in a simple exchange, we are extracting something from the Earth and it requires something in return.”

Something mechanical whirred to life above him. A flock of gulls that had been loitering on the deck took off in fright. Herman ducked as a blur of white feathers screeched past his head. He checked the log for the latest prompts Riggsy had issued but the trail stopped cold right after he had been dropped off.

“Riggsy, what are you doing up there?”

“Calculating.”

“You gave me a static log. Care to sync up and share what exactly you are calculating?”

The computer fell silent. Minutes ticked by. The flock of gulls tentatively returned to their roosts. When Jordan called him that night years ago, Herman had let him talk without pushing back on anything too hard. Only after he had unraveled himself fully did Herman offer his suggestions, accepting Jordan’s genuine anxieties but steering him away from his most drastic conclusions. Herman had downloaded the encrypted app as requested and called him back. He told his friend that he was safe, that he should try to get some sleep, and first thing in the morning, to talk to his mom. He told Jordan he needed to tell her what he had seen, pulling from some distant memory that she he once had worked for a nonprofit that connected people with psychiatric health services and would surely recognize the symptoms of schizophrenia. Initially, Jordan resisted. He didn’t want to put his mother in danger too by exposing her to the conspiracy. But Herman reassured him that she would know what to do.

Herman kept his voice calm. “Riggsy, I promise you, you are not cursed. If it’s alright with you, I’m going to go ahead and adjust your system’s target flow rate to the current measures and I’ll give you a cushion for further depletions before any corrective actions are required. We’ll figure this out together.”

The computer remained silent. He hoped it was now processing his proposal and not still working through whatever it had been calculating. Wind cut through the rig and pelted his side, filling his ears. Finally, the intercom crackled back to life.

“I think that would be best. Confirming a new standard flow rate has been received. All systems are within operating standards. Thank you, Herman.”

Herman returned to his cabin. He would need to stay on the platform for a few more days to observe Riggsy’s behavior.

The door loudly clicked as it shut behind him.

“Riggsy, did you lock my door?”

Herman turned and stared at the handle, unsure of what he had just heard, delaying revealing the truth one way or another. He wondered if he had rushed it too much or been too forceful. Reflexively, he pulled out his phone even though he knew there was no service out here and returned it to his pocket. What would happen, he thought, if Jordan ever needed to call him again while he was out at sea. Or if he was the one that needed to make the call to a friend. He knew what had happened inside Jordan’s head could just as easily happen to him. There was an uncle on his father’s side the family only spoke of in whispers, he had dropped out of university for reasons that were never explained to Herman and moved back home where he lived for years until the day he was found dead in the garage. The logs of his uncle’s chatbot conversations were reported to the company. Herman’s shadow-thought of falling through the open air of the moon pool toward the churning waters below returned to him too easily. If the door was not locked and he made it off this platform alive, it was only a matter of time before he would be sent back out to fix another robot that could never truly fix him in return, even if it wanted to. On the horizon, figments of other oil rigs danced against the sky. Each stood alone, slowly losing the minds that had been made for them, waiting for Herman to come by for company.

Author biography:
Jake Varn is an American writer from Iowa, now living in Washington, DC. His stories have appeared in the Rathalla Review and Vita & the Woolf. You can find him online at @jakevarn or at jakevarn.wordpress.com.