The Silent Scream

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say…

Four years of Maruchan’s instant ramen noodles followed by six years of premeditated, high-intensity interval depression, and self-denigration buttressed by decades of neglecting an amalgamation of mental illnesses, and a few gray hairs later, you find yourself drifting in -wait for it- the vacuum of space with nothing but an umbilical cable, a couple minutes of oxygen, and your life decisions.

How did you get here? Not patriotism. Not a romantic sense of adventure. Just serendipity. Imagine jumping off the conveyor belt of life and landing in the Grand Central Terminal on the stroke of midnight; except, the destination is your future. The golden clock is ticking. The dread of missing the last train is setting in, and the sign says, “No Loitering.” You’re not certain you’ve boarded the correct train, but it beats staring at infinity across the hall of indecision. Oftentimes, the soothing winds of progress uphold your wings in its absence.

Now imagine those same wings lead you into an ostensibly virgin forest, yet you unwittingly follow the natural trails left by your predecessors. In that sense, the depth of your choices are no different than those of a migrating bird. Your motivations are so undefined, you would need a Taylor’s series just to approximate the point of your existence.

Even now, the wiser might opt to surrender and appreciate the collateral beauty of fading into the void, but your mind sees a way and it must be explored. Most of the umbilical cable was decimated during the explosion, but its remains contained valuable materials, such as long precious bundles of copper wire, which you have been tightly winding around the iron latch the instant you became a projectile. A feat made possible by ultra-thin mechanical counterpressure (MCP) spacesuit technology.

Unlike conventional spacesuits, the MCP suit’s elastic skintight material uses mechanical pressure to compress the body. This design reduces the total required volume of pressurized air (and, therefore, the power to pressurize it) by localizing the air where it’s needed: The head. The umbilical cable connects to the battery with a bulkhead, for long Extravehicular Activities (EVA), and a safety latch.

The latch is like a toroid. The linkage mechanism creates a discontinuity, which lowers the effective permeability, but the absence of atmospheric air mitigates that defect. If we’re being honest, you’re kind of enthralled by the elegance of your solution. If you die, and you will, at least you got to stroke the ego one last time.

The O2 gauge taunts you through the visor’s reflection. The BPM gauge increases. You’re out of time. Unfortunately, even an optimized MCP suit and slow diaphragmatic breathing with six breaths per minute have limitations. The somber truth of your impending death infiltrates the unassailable redoubt sheltering your psyche. Your resolve ebbs in the face of your aimlessly stubborn grip on life as your eyes blear over the ad hoc ferrite core.

It’s college all over again. The midterm has befallen upon you and all you can do is hope that what you’ve built is enough. The culmination of every decision you’ve made is about to unfold in a last-ditch effort to eke out a fighting chance.

Close your eyes. Steel your nerves. In moments, you will suffocate, but the job is not done. The oxygen may be depleted, but your battery is the linchpin that will consummate your beacon long after your mind gives way. With one last breath and one final resolve, you disconnect the power and insert the copper leads into the terminals. Under the shade of your arm, the wires cold-weld into the power supply and give birth to an electromagnetic pulse…

Drifting in the vacuum of space. Insulated from all sound. The most silent of screams can be heard the loudest.