4338.212 · July 31, 2018 AD
Thirty Thousand Feet
No luggage. No laptop. Just a boarding pass and an object in his pocket that airport scanners will never detect. The security officer notices the anomaly — a man with nothing to check, nothing to carry, nothing to declare. Luke offers the right smile, the right story, the right amount of sheepish honesty about his mother's habit of keeping his childhood bedroom exactly as he left it. Tasmania disappears beneath the clouds. Adelaide waits. And somewhere between takeoff and landing, in a space no larger than a phone booth, Luke sees an opportunity that most travellers would never think to look for.
The taxi drops Luke at Hobart Airport before dawn, the winter morning sharp enough to catch in his throat. He's dressed deliberately unremarkable — the kind of clothes that say business traveller without inviting questions. The kind of man who passes through security checkpoints and leaves no impression behind.
Except he's carrying nothing. No bag, no laptop, no overnight essentials. The security officer notices. His eyes sharpen with professional interest, the look of someone whose job requires him to spot anomalies. Luke offers the cover story he's prepared: quick family visit, mum's place has everything he needs, probably still has his year ten biology notes in the desk drawer. The officer's suspicion softens into recognition of a dynamic he understands. Through you go.
The Portal Key passes through the scanner without a whisper. Composed of materials their technology has no framework to detect.
The departure lounge offers forty minutes of stillness — that rare liminal space between crises where Luke can simply exist. Coffee. Window seat. Tasmania unfolding below as the aircraft climbs, then clouds, then nothing but the steady roar of engines and the particular solitude of altitude.
Half an hour into the flight, watching passengers sleep and scroll and stare at seatback screens, Luke unbuckles his seatbelt and makes his way to the rear of the aircraft. The lavatory is absurdly small. Barely enough room to turn around. But that's not why he's here.
Aircraft don't fly single routes. They circulate through networks — Adelaide by lunchtime, Melbourne by evening, Perth by tomorrow. A portal registered in this lavatory becomes a door that opens onto any flight, any city. Board without a ticket. Land without a trace.
The key activates. Colours bloom against the door. Five seconds. Registration complete.
Luke emerges from the bathroom as though nothing has happened. Just another passenger. The flight attendant doesn't even look up.
