skimming the ceiling. Its sheet metal is perfectly rounded—and he thinks of the word
kettledrum
. But he’s not sure what the word means. What does a kettle have to do with a drum?
Just ahead, there’s the first set of pink filters, tautly drawn, like a dense fixed curtain, blocking his way. Partridge is surprised that the filters are so pink, pink as a tongue, and that everything here is now so brightly lit. He wonders why. For maintenance purposes?
He pulls out the kitchen knife and thinks of Lyda, her voice counting to twenty slowly in the dimly lit room, his finger running over the blade. He starts sawing through the filters. The fibers are tough with thick strands running through them, like muscle in meat. The fibers begin to break loose. The particles spin and rise, reminding him again of something else from his childhood, but he can’t think of what—something like snow?
Partridge has heard the fibers are barbed and can settle into your lungs, starting up an infection. He doesn’t know if this is true or not. He’s come to mistrust everything presented as fact. Still, he doesn’t want to take unnecessary risks. He pulls out his scarf, ties it around his mouth.
He gets enough of the filters perforated and shoulders his way through. His hooded jacket now dusted pink, he sees the series of monstrous fans in front of him, the fan blades sharp and still.
He runs to the first set of blades and without touching them finds a low triangle between the blades, and he dips through. His boots slip on the slick surface, and he falls on one hip with a thud that echoes, the clumsiness of coding. He scrambles to his feet quickly and takes the next fan and the next, finding a rhythm. Has the tech already figured out that his body cast is empty? Has someone sent out a shrill alarm? Has Special Forces been alerted? Partridge knows that once word gets out that Willux’s son—his only
living
son—is missing, there will be no end to the search.
He moves faster through the series of tunnels and fans as if it were an obstacle course. He remembers a backyard, maybe his own backyard from his childhood or maybe someone else’s. There was a green lawn with blades of grass that you could rip right out of the ground, and trees with bark that wasn’t smooth or polished. There was a dog even. His older brother and someone else, a tall girl, had set up a course with ropes they were supposed to swing on and hoops to dive through and a ball that they had to shoot into a bucket at the end. There were drinks in boxes with tiny straws. The necks of the straws were like little accordions, and they bent to fit in your mouth.
His head feels suddenly heavy, and his body shifts. He grabs one of the blades to steady himself. It’s so sharp that the edge draws blood. His blood dots the floor. He’s only seen himself bleed a few times, at the dentist’s office, for example, when the machines were too forceful and his foamy spit turned pink. His vision narrows to a white seed of light and then comes flooding back.
He glances at his watch. Thirty-two seconds left. It hits him that he might not make it. He could die here, chopped to bits, and now because he’s broken through the filters, his body will be sent out, his blood carried by the strong current of air with the other smaller fibers. They’ll turn red with his blood. The operators will have to shut things down. Some people will have to be moved to temporary housing. Rumors will spread. The real story will be buried. They won’t mention a word about a problem with the air filtration because everyone would assume that the wretches had risen up, organized biological warfare. They might even think that OSR , that flimsy militaristic regime, had made a hit. There would be mass panic. They’d come up with some other rationale, and, as for Partridge, they’d make up some story, hopefully something noble. Poor Willux, his father would be given condolence cards. There wouldn’t be a real
kettledrum
. But he’s not sure what the word means. What does a kettle have to do with a drum?
Just ahead, there’s the first set of pink filters, tautly drawn, like a dense fixed curtain, blocking his way. Partridge is surprised that the filters are so pink, pink as a tongue, and that everything here is now so brightly lit. He wonders why. For maintenance purposes?
He pulls out the kitchen knife and thinks of Lyda, her voice counting to twenty slowly in the dimly lit room, his finger running over the blade. He starts sawing through the filters. The fibers are tough with thick strands running through them, like muscle in meat. The fibers begin to break loose. The particles spin and rise, reminding him again of something else from his childhood, but he can’t think of what—something like snow?
Partridge has heard the fibers are barbed and can settle into your lungs, starting up an infection. He doesn’t know if this is true or not. He’s come to mistrust everything presented as fact. Still, he doesn’t want to take unnecessary risks. He pulls out his scarf, ties it around his mouth.
He gets enough of the filters perforated and shoulders his way through. His hooded jacket now dusted pink, he sees the series of monstrous fans in front of him, the fan blades sharp and still.
He runs to the first set of blades and without touching them finds a low triangle between the blades, and he dips through. His boots slip on the slick surface, and he falls on one hip with a thud that echoes, the clumsiness of coding. He scrambles to his feet quickly and takes the next fan and the next, finding a rhythm. Has the tech already figured out that his body cast is empty? Has someone sent out a shrill alarm? Has Special Forces been alerted? Partridge knows that once word gets out that Willux’s son—his only
living
son—is missing, there will be no end to the search.
He moves faster through the series of tunnels and fans as if it were an obstacle course. He remembers a backyard, maybe his own backyard from his childhood or maybe someone else’s. There was a green lawn with blades of grass that you could rip right out of the ground, and trees with bark that wasn’t smooth or polished. There was a dog even. His older brother and someone else, a tall girl, had set up a course with ropes they were supposed to swing on and hoops to dive through and a ball that they had to shoot into a bucket at the end. There were drinks in boxes with tiny straws. The necks of the straws were like little accordions, and they bent to fit in your mouth.
His head feels suddenly heavy, and his body shifts. He grabs one of the blades to steady himself. It’s so sharp that the edge draws blood. His blood dots the floor. He’s only seen himself bleed a few times, at the dentist’s office, for example, when the machines were too forceful and his foamy spit turned pink. His vision narrows to a white seed of light and then comes flooding back.
He glances at his watch. Thirty-two seconds left. It hits him that he might not make it. He could die here, chopped to bits, and now because he’s broken through the filters, his body will be sent out, his blood carried by the strong current of air with the other smaller fibers. They’ll turn red with his blood. The operators will have to shut things down. Some people will have to be moved to temporary housing. Rumors will spread. The real story will be buried. They won’t mention a word about a problem with the air filtration because everyone would assume that the wretches had risen up, organized biological warfare. They might even think that OSR , that flimsy militaristic regime, had made a hit. There would be mass panic. They’d come up with some other rationale, and, as for Partridge, they’d make up some story, hopefully something noble. Poor Willux, his father would be given condolence cards. There wouldn’t be a real
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