Venting

"Quick and concise — how did we drop from 71% to 54% overnight?" Reifenberg asked.

The question was on everyone’s mind, but no one had a coherent answer.

"The labs are silent — ours included," Myagkova said.

"What about Birmingham and Fukuoka?"

"They didn’t anticipate this. Thought they had more time…"

"Right."

Nothing was clear. Reifenberg had been caught off guard by the call — who rings at 5:30 AM? — and barely managed to throw on a shirt and tie, maintaining the illusion of professionalism. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the oxygen saturation had plummeted to a pitiful 54% overnight. He joined the call as he was — shirt on, pants off.

"The ‘Airhole’ project is underway," came the report over the secure line.

"That’s hardly the issue now," Reifenberg grimaced. He hadn’t put much stock in it to begin with.

"Nature outplayed us." He glanced out the window — hot air shimmered like an open oven. Adjusting his tie, he set up the camera, ready to deliver an official statement. No pants needed; the frame wouldn’t show below the waist anyway.

***

Rodrigo walked slowly toward the university. Halfway there, Ivan caught up with him — unexpectedly energetic.

"Morning!"

"Yeah… morning," Rodrigo nodded.

"I owe you from last time — barely saw you all week." Ivan pulled three euros from his back pocket and handed them over. "For covering me that time."

"Oh, right." Rodrigo pocketed the change. "They finally installed you the hyperventilation?"

Ivan nodded.

They approached the main building in silence. Rodrigo pulled an oxygen canister from his backpack and took a hit.

"So… how’s Linda?" Ivan ventured cautiously.

"Haven’t seen her since." Rodrigo shrugged.

Rodrigo wasn’t the long-term relationship type — Ivan had gathered that much. He didn’t press further, and they walked the rest of the way without another word.

"Lunch later?" Rodrigo asked.

"Sure," Ivan nodded.

"See you then." Rodrigo waved and disappeared inside.

Ivan pulled out his own canister and inhaled deeply. He, too, had seen the 54% on the weather app that morning. And he, too, was pretending nothing was wrong.

***

"Why panic?" Akemi thought, staring gloomily at the forecast as the tram carried her to the lab. "This was inevitable."

"But this fast?" her inner voice jabbed.

She avoided the bewildered faces of the other passengers, stepped off at her stop, took a quick hit from her pocket canister, and hurried toward the lab.

***

"Stifling today — morning, everyone!" Thomas strode into the lab, waving. "Feels like Bolivia up in the highlands. Back when I served —"

Akemi rolled her eyes. Not the army stories again. Before university, Thomas had volunteered a year with the Bundeswehr because he’d had no better post-school plans. He’d never actually been to Bolivia — his "Bolivia" was a training exercise in thin-air conditions, running drills in full gear until breathing felt like a luxury.

"Seriously, I’m about to pass out — gimme a hit," Thomas collapsed into a chair.

Akemi nodded and tossed him a spare canister from her bag. He inhaled sharply.

"Jokes aside, even the army wasn’t this bad. Stepped outside today and nearly suffocated. You?"

Akemi shook her head and glanced at the wall monitor. 54%. The drop was sharp, yes, but she wasn’t gasping —yet.

"Maybe it’s just me," Thomas wiped his forehead.

"You hear Reifenberg’s speech?" Akemi asked, eyes fixed on her screen.

"Yeah, caught some of it while getting ready."

"And?"

"Fine." Thomas took another drag. "Don’t believe him, but he’s smooth."

"Meaning?" Akemi’s chair screeched as she turned.

"I told you before… back when you —" he hesitated.

"When I cried?"

"Yeah." He paused. "He’s the minister. What else could he say?"- he recited his own words from before.

"So you don’t trust him?"

"It’s not about trust," Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice. "It’s about him keeping people from losing their minds."

"A necessary lie?"

"Something biblical." He smirked. "Didn’t believe in God before. Sure as hell don’t now. He’d never allow this."

Thomas turned away and booted up his computer.

***

The lilac branch saved Reinhardt from suffocating the moment he woke. He coughed as usual, then saw the 54% on his oxygen monitor and bolted upright in horror.

"How long was I out?"

Eight hours — the clock confirmed. Impossible.

He flung open the garden door and immediately gagged. Slamming it shut, he rushed to the storage room, where emergency oxygen tanks and canisters waited. He tore open a mask, connected it to the largest tank, and inhaled deeply.

"In case of emergency, secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others." The pre-flight safety briefing flashed in his mind.

Easier now. Reinhardt gave himself a grim nod and stepped outside.

They were all dead. He released the oxygen button. Whatever had happened overnight, not a single plant in the garden had survived. Not one — except the lilac. He cut a few branches, just in case, and retreated inside.

***

The university cafeteria buzzed with theories about "54%." Ivan noted they hadn’t been called for pulse oximeter checks in weeks — production must’ve met demand. He picked at his potatoes and meat until Professor Moldor appeared at his table.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Not at all," Ivan mirrored her words from their last meeting.

She nodded and sat without another word. They ate in silence.

"Thanks for the consultation. Might drop by again Thursday — if that’s alright?"

Moldor nodded again. She clearly wasn’t in the mood to talk. So why sit here at all, then?

A nervous energy hung thick in the air — Ivan could easily picture himself walking over to the students at the next table and pouring fuel on their debate. What could be simpler? Approach them and drop a line like "The authorities are hiding everything!" Or the opposite —"Why the panic? The people in charge aren’t fools —they know best!"

Ivan winced at the very thought of such manipulation. Instead, he said aloud to the professor (who looked exhausted, even her long blonde hair having lost its cool metallic sheen):

"Sometimes I get scared."

"Of what?" Moldor lifted her head.

"How easy it is to vent people’s fear and rage onto each other. And I’m no exception."

Professor Moldor nodded silently for the third time, skimming a layer of grease from her soup with her spoon.

***

Reifenberg peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and stepped into the shower, tallying the damage:

Project "Airhole" — dead in the water, if not dead altogether. "Heimlich"—out of his hands. Public morale —bottomed out. The chancellor had put it bluntly at the briefing: this was no longer about political lies.

"Prevent panic," he told the mirror, drying off. "Do whatever it takes. Vent off the pressure. Even if it means lying. History will justify us."

"Only if anyone’s left to justify you," the mirror shot back.