Chapter 1
The Best Breaths of Our Lives
A grim silence hung over the office. The officials in uniform had just heard a report that was far from what they had hoped for.
— That’s it? — That’s it. — And the phytoplankton too? — That too.
What the hell…
The meeting was adjourned. Everyone dispersed into separate rooms—the committee members in one, the international botanical commission in another.
— Maybe we shouldn’t have pressed them so hard right away? — Nonsense! If we hadn’t laid out the facts, they wouldn’t have even paid attention… — And now what? — Are we certain? — Absolutely.
Riefenberg pushed his chair back with a grinding noise.
— Then we are authorized—obligated—to make an official statement, and we will do so, taking full responsibility for our words: We… humanity… have one year left. Not a single day more. Is that clear?
Riefenberg was acutely aware that someone had to do it. On one side, young greenhorns in white lab coats looked at him with reverence. On the other, uniformed officers, inherently skeptical of every word. Compared to him, they were innocent fledglings—brilliant scientists who had no clue how to convey the looming catastrophe to thick-headed bureaucrats.
— Alright. The break is about to end, and I will do the talking. Who has the statistics? — Ah, thanks.
Riefenberg grabbed the printouts midair, quickly skimming through them.
— Look, our job is to be as convincing as possible. Who compiled this data? — We did.
A scattered chorus of voices responded.
— Is the data accurate? — Yes.
— That’s all I need.
The break ended, and the parties reconvened at the negotiation table.
— Look, — Riefenberg tried to keep his tone steady. — As Minister of Health, I, like you, bear full responsibility for everything that happens here. The data before me is indisputable: at the current rate of vegetation loss—
— But… — one of the uniformed men objected.
— Including the phytoplankton! — Riefenberg cut in heatedly. — That’s right! According to the report and calculations, which I have no reason to doubt, humanity will be extinct within a year.
A heavy silence followed.
— In order… — Riefenberg coughed. — In order to make the last year of our existence as bearable as possible, we demand full cooperation from the armed forces with the scientific and civilian sectors.
— But how…
— There’s no one to fight! — Riefenberg slammed his hand through the air. — Can you, for once in your life, accept the truth that your artillery is useless? Or will you keep playing generals in your own labyrinth?
Four months ago, the first cases of mass plant die-offs were recorded worldwide. The primary symptoms included a white film on the leaves, rapid wilting, and desiccation. Green, newly sprouted leaves curled into dry brown tubes and fell off. Grass turned yellow at an alarming rate. Flowers withered the moment they bloomed.
Forests were vanishing at breakneck speed—even the lush Amazon rainforest had thinned by half in mere months. Two months ago, the scientific community began sounding the alarm—but it was too late. The suffocation had begun. That was when oxygen saturation levels started appearing in weather forecasts.
— So? — Riefenberg loomed over the documents, casting a grim look at the negotiators across the table.
A nameless colonel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe sweat from his forehead.
— Well… — the general-chairman drawled. — The situation is certainly… unprecedented, but what exactly do you need from us?
“Idiots, goddamn idiots,” Riefenberg thought. But out loud, he said:
— In light of the public health emergency, we require approval and signing of a protocol that guarantees military cooperation and the reallocation of a designated percentage of personnel to the Ministry of Health to ensure proper oxygen supply.
— Ah! — The general-chairman broke into a grin. — Well, if it’s coming from the top, that’s fine…
Something was definitely wrong. And that something was too new.
Ivan had overslept a little and was late for his first class, but instead of seeing his professor, he found a hastily taped notice on the lecture hall door instructing all students from his seminar to gather in Room B2-07.
"B" meant the basement.
The University of Bielefeld, where Ivan studied, looked like a bizarre cross between an aircraft hangar and an alien spaceship that had mistakenly landed in the middle of Germany. He had heard stories about the underground levels, but he had never been down there himself.
Even the elevators didn’t go that low.
Descending the stairs, he pushed open the massive double doors and was hit by a rush of filtered air mixed with the steady hum of ventilation fans.
— Ah, there you are!
Professor Moldor, a pleasant young woman who taught sociology theory, hurried over to him.
— Today’s class is a little… unconventional. A practical lesson, as you can see… heh-heh.
Ivan looked around in confusion.
This definitely wasn’t a dream.
Room B2-07 turned out to be a giant ventilated warehouse filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes. Along the entire length of the room—easily fifty meters long and thirty meters wide—rows of workbenches were set up, occupied by busy students. Some were his classmates, but many were complete strangers.
— What is this place? — He gestured around.
Moldor struck a dramatic pose.
— Today, we’re testing pulse oximeters. It’s an official assignment.