The Wind of Silence

The heavy plates slam down behind our backs. One. Then another. The system locks down the clinical block and purges the ventilation, condemning this section to asphyxiation. Jade stumbles against my side, both hands clutching her throat, searching for the oxygen that the extractors are greedily swallowing. I walk without breathing. The mechanics of my body ignore this biological alarm, fed by the Perflubron sliding under my skin. She is choking. I must break the circuit. The pressurization terminal glows at the end of the corridor. A console embedded in the wall. I smash the synthetic glass with a punch. I thrust my left hand, the one with already raw joints, directly into the control matrix. The flayed wires of my own flesh tangle with the installation's cables. The electric bite nails my boots to the tiles. I force the valve logic to reverse. The ducts go haywire. The Incohérence devours the network, force-feeding the pipes an absurd typhoon. Air rushes in like a torrent. The pressure swells the metallic architecture until the final fire door blows out under the gale. A storm of debris and freezing wind sweeps through the airlock. Jade drops to her knees. She swallows the air in huge gulps, eyes closed. Her cheeks lose their cadaverous pallor beneath the surgical grime. I pull her by the sleeve to force her up toward the breach. She stares at my pink mask. "You almost killed us." I ready the ideal comeback, the sarcastic jab meant to cap off the scene. My lips part behind the metal. My throat contracts to deliver the joke. There is no sound. The urge to laugh, the timbre of my voice, the momentum of the mockery have been ripped from my vocal cords. My payment to the machine. I shake my head in silence and point my finger toward the exit.