Mog and Gog Drill for Nibs

Mog and Gog injected the carbonate drill into the barren surface of Setti 8, humming a lively tune. The surveyor last week was good enough to point them in the right direction, and both of them needed the credits.

“Do you know anything about Setti 8?” Mog asked, rubbing away the acidic perspiration from its forehead. When the rag caught fire, Mog discarded it, watching the threads curl into a wire-frame of smoldering ash.

“Dunno,” Gog grunted. “Terran grave worlds don’t interest me. Nibs been dead for two hundred million years.” Gog fiddled with the pressure gauge and turned on the drill. Each of them let go at the same time, the pneumatic frame locking into the ground, and the hungry probe started eating its way, all the way down, into the moldy ground.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Gog grimaced. “Tha’ stinks!”

“They say the Terrans actually came from a different planet,” Mog continued. “The Empire, that came after all that…”

“Every alien has a home world,” Gog replied, stroking his slimy green skin. He ate the handful of mucus that was left over, approving of the taste. “Feh! Nothing new there.”

“Yes,” Mog agreed, leaning against the drill scaffolding. “No, my point it this: dem Nibs left for a reason. Last year, the archaeologist from Harmoon found a dead planet, full of smoke and carbon ash. He found fossilized Terran skeletons. So he goes and sells the planet for all the credits the Empire could spare. It was oil rich! Fields as far as the eye could see! It could power a war effort for thousands of years, if you’d believe that.”

Gog frowned. “So what? Nibs lived there? Big deal…”

“That archaeologist fella though, he said the skeletons were less evolved than the other ones. An’ working with geologists found that they smoked themselves out. Too much carbon in the atmosphere! Can you believe that?” Mog folded his arms and kicked the drill cage.

“What are you saying?” Gog asked suspiciously.

Mog patted the scaffold. “Dem nibs used oil they think. Just like us. It smoked them out!”

“You said that already,” Gog replied. He looked at the gauge; the pressure was too low.

“Fuck,” Gog cursed. “Fuck this place. No oil. Nothing!”

“Not enough Nibs then,” Mog surmised. “Come on then, off to the next place.”