THE BALLAST

The crew from Karl’s flight stood in a circle. Their luggage piled in a black mass. One was making bird shapes with his hands, another crumpled a paper plane against the splayed finger-wings. Karl beat back his wild imagination. 'They should know better,' he thought. Cancelled flights were stressful enough without that sort of imagery.

Karl circumnavigated the three gate kiosks. The air was filled with the hum of machinery and the chatter of countless voices. “Please wait for further announcements,” flashed on screens around the gate.

Other passengers milled about. Eager children tugged at their parents’ hands as they gawked at the airplane through the gate’s windows. Teenagers, their faces lit up with laughter, shared jokes as they waited. A family dressed in traditional Indian clothing huddled together, their faces etched with concern. A lone businessman paced nervously, his eyes glued to his phone. Karl envied the man’s suit.

He recognised most of the group from boarding, others he saw when they exited the plane. They were simply asked to leave their seats and wait in the bustling, impersonal hub, with no explanation given.

The Tannoy crackled. [Will the owner of a navy blue Samsonite suitcase, last seen performing unauthorised revolutions on Carousel 3, please report to the Baggage Reconciliation Office.]

Karl’s heart was pounding. His phone had no connection, and the Wi-Fi only led to a local hub with access to a map of services at the airport. His walk ended when he tripped over a discarded head pillow.

His worn briefcase split at the hinges on impact. As he fretted over the spilled papers and retrieving his phone from under the legs of a lady with an oxygen mask, a flight attendant approached him. There was something about her that put him at ease, soothing eyes, calm demeanour, pristine posture—Karl stared at her slightly longer than was strictly polite. She offered him a sympathetic smile. She didn’t, however, assist with his spilled papers.

“Were you on my flight?” Karl asked when he stood, holding his briefcase upside down under his arm. “What happened to the plane?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll make sure you get to your destination.”

“Do we need to collect our luggage?” He looked at her nametag. “Amerika?” A muscle spasmed over his ear. He put his briefcase on a small table between two Saudi passengers. They avoided eye contact when Karl nodded at them.

Karl pulled at his right earlobe, stretching the aching muscle.

She looked at her name badge. “Huh.” She turned her attention to Karl. “The bag was tagged?” 

“Yes.”

“It will find a way.”

“Is there an information booth or some forms I need to fill out?” He looked at her badge again. Her name was in a dark blue under the Aloha Airlines logo. “I’m Karl, business trip.”

Amerika cracked a tiny smile. “Let’s check on your luggage.” She led him through the bustling terminal, away from the Asian family in orange soccer jerseys that had sat next to him on the plane. The youngest, asleep with his arms wrapped around a foam rubber hand with “we’re #1” printed in cracked white ink. 

“Think of me as your guide to Neverland,” Amerika said with a wink, leading Karl through an unmarked door. “We’re stepping off the map now.”

“Officially, it’s not my job to do half of what I do. But in this place, if you want anything done, you just do it.” She winked conspiratorially. Amerika’s smile turned mischievous as she ushered Karl through another “Staff Only” door. “Rules are more like suggestions here. Mr business trip.” She wiggled her hand.

“Just call me Karl.” He adjusted his ill-fitting suit. A wave of impostor syndrome washed over him. He’d bought it second-hand.

“And sometimes, you need to adjust the ballast with a little shake.” She stopped in the dimly lit hallway, placing her hands on Karl’s shoulders. “Stand with your arms out,” she instructed. Karl complied, feeling foolish but too bewildered to refuse. Amerika tilted him gently from side to side, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Yes, you’d make excellent ballast,” she murmured, smiling. “Ballast is crucial for a smooth flight. Sometimes we need to use what we have on hand.”

[Code Vermilion in Terminal C. All available staff to assume retrieval positions.]

Noticing Karl’s discomfort she let him go. “Technically, I should respond.” She winked at Karl. “Azrael can handle it.”

As they resumed walking, Amerika’s tone became more clinical. “In this job, it’s sometimes easier to think of passengers as—well, not quite people. Just packages of dripping, farting meat to be moved from point A to point B.” Amerika mused, her eyes distant.

Amerika paused at a junction where two corridors met, seeming to consider their path. “Every journey is a transition, Karl. Some just take us further than others.” She shook her head. “We get you on the plane, then off, and there are always the anxious passengers and all that.”

Amerika leaned in close. “But don’t think we don’t notice the cute ones. Cabin crew always gossip about attractive passengers.” She straightened up, smoothing her uniform. “There’s a little game we play. If a cutie wakes up to find a banana and two apples on their tray table, well…” she trailed off, then winked.

As they approached yet another identical-looking corridor, Amerika’s demeanour shifted again. “But none of that really matters in the grand scheme of things. What matters is the system, the perfect dance of luggage and passengers and fuel and time.”

She pushed open another door. “Now, let’s find your gate, shall we?”

“I thought we were looking for my luggage.”

“Ah, yes, don’t worry about that. The guts of the airport are very sophisticated, full of arteries and veins. At the centre a big ol’ wet heart.”

Above them, a complex network of pipes and ducts twisted around each other, piercing walls and trailing off into the distance.

She wiggled her eyebrows. “We have nine and a half miles of belts in this section alone. On-ramps feed into primary arteries for screening and sortation. If a bag isn’t readable, it’s sent to an encoding station.” She stopped, sighed. “Robots. Too much ballast to spare us these days.” She hit Karl on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the heart of our operation,” Amerika said, gesturing to the complex network of conveyor belts. “Miles of arteries, pumping life through the airport.” She fixed Karl with an intense gaze. “What do you see when you look at it?"

Karl’s eyes darted from belt to belt, trying to make sense of the labyrinth before him. A chill ran down his spine as he realised he couldn’t tell where the machinery ended and the airport began. “It’s…alive,” he whispered, surprising himself with the words.

She led Karl to a viewing window overlooking a vast, mechanised sorting area. “Watch how they move, how they process. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Almost divine in its perfection.”

[Attention blue personnel. Immediate implementation of protocol Delta-Niner-Six is required in Concourse B section 4.]

“What does that mean?”

Amerika shook her head. “Brown spill.”

They entered a transition lounge through another staff door. The towering atrium, with its glass ceiling and intricate metalwork, echoed with the cacophony of announcements and the hum of countless machines. It was compelling, but too much for Karl to take in all at once. He ran his hand across the glass as they walked, trying to feel the airport’s pulse.

“Your plans, your identity - how tightly are you holding onto them?"

[Final boarding call Kalitta Air Flight 207] boomed through the terminal. Karl watched as an elderly passenger was gently led away by a crew member, their forms seeming to fade as they stepped onto the causeway. He rubbed his eyes, unsure of what he’d seen.

“What do you think they need most right now?” Amerika said softly, noticing his confusion. “Everyone reaches their destination—eventually. We’re just here to make the journey smoother.” Gesturing to the luggage belts beyond the window, she added, “We only ever lose one in a thousand, and then they are not lost, only misdirected.”

Amerika ran her hand along the wall, as if feeling a pulse. “Can you sense it, Karl? The rhythm of this place? It’s more alive than you might think."

“The Pilot,” she said, her voice dropping, reverent, “understands the true importance of these systems. Sees the bigger picture.”

She turned, her eyes searching his face. “If you see the Pilot, you must tell him about my ideas for improving the sortation system. The Pilot rarely speaks to us directly, but he might listen to a passenger.” She stopped abruptly, fixing Karl with an intense stare. “Promise me, if you see the Pilot, you’ll speak to him. Tell him about the changes I’ve suggested. The airport could be so much more efficient, so much more…perfect.”

Karl didn’t know what improvements she meant, but nodded all the same. ‘What am I doing here?’ he thought, fidgeting with his cheap tie. ‘A lowly clerk like me, pretending to be a businessman on holiday.’ Each glance from Amerika felt as if she could see through to the insignificant bureaucrat beneath.

Amerika paused, her brow furrowing as if wrestling with a profound thought. “Sometimes I wonder about the whole concept of travel,” she mused, gesturing at the bustling terminal. “All these people, rushing from one place to another. It’s so…inefficient.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Wouldn’t it be simpler if everyone just stayed where they were?”

Amerika leaned in close. “Ever wonder why people are so obsessed with going places? As if happiness is always somewhere else.” She gestured at the bustling terminal. “What if the journey is all there is?” She smiled, relaxed her posture, “If you see him, suggest this to the Pilot as well. As a favour.” She nodded, clearly pleased with her logic.

Karl mirrored the nod. He’d felt a pang of sadness about not making it to the black beach in the brochure he picked up. This was meant to be his first ‘real’ holiday out of the country.

“Imagine the efficiency!” She glanced around, as if seeing the human drama of the airport for the first time. “Isn’t it enough to know that somewhere, someone is enjoying a sunset or tasting exotic food? Why go through all this trouble?” She shook her head, looking genuinely perplexed by the inefficiency of human desires and experiences that lay beyond the terminal. “Just hurry up and get them out of their bodies already. That’s what I say.”

Karl’s stomach lurched, a wave of vertigo washing over him. He steadied himself against the wall, the solid surface anchoring him as his mind reeled. What did she mean by “bodies”? And why did part of him feel a thrill of understanding?

“What?” he asked, but his voice was drowned out.

[All agents and passengers are reminded to maintain clear walkways and ensure all liquids are contained in receptacles not exceeding 100 millilitres, properly sealed within a single, transparent, resealable plastic bag of up to 1 litre capacity per passenger.]

As the announcements continued to overlap and repeat, Amerika leaned in close to Karl. “Funny, isn’t it?” she said with a wry smile. “They’re so obsessed with controlling liquids, yet humans are basically walking bags of liquid.” She chuckled, devoid of any hint of humour.

She glanced around furtively before continuing in a low voice, “It’s all about maintaining the illusion of control, you see. These announcements, these rules…they keep everyone in line, even when they’re pointless. But you and I, Karl, we know better. We understand the true nature of this place.”

“What did you say about bodies?”

“Sandbags, ballast, bodies. It’s all very simple. Sometimes, to reach your destination, you have to leave something behind.”

The word ‘ballast’ echoed in Karl’s mind, conjuring images of ships and planes. But here, in this space, he could be the weight being shifted, balanced, used to keep this strange vessel on course.

The Tannoy crackled again. [Attention. Will passenger Karl Rossmann please report to Gate Omega? Your presence is required for immediate recalibration of the passenger manifest equilibrium.]

Amerika’s eyes widened. “Well, well,” she gushed. “It seems the Pilot has taken notice of you, after all. Shall we see what he wants?”

Karl shook his head.

Suddenly, the flight attendant stopped. “This is it,” she said, pointing to a small, unmarked door. “Beyond this door is Omega.”

Karl hesitated, but his curiosity overcame his fear. He pushed the door open and stepped into the empty terminal. The lights were dim, and the air was thick with silence.

“What now?” Karl asked.

Amerika smiled. “Just remember what I said when you see the Pilot.”

Intrigued, Karl took a few more steps. Amerika closed the door behind him.

He explored the deserted terminal, looking for the Pilot. Passing empty baggage carousels, and abandoned gates, Karl felt the deep panic of being late, but time bled grey and blurred like the indistinct horizon outside the windows.

Karl moved towards a nearby open gate showing ‘now boarding first class: ONA Flight 032’ on its information sign. He boarded the plane, eager to escape this strange, empty place. No one stopped him. He sat, fully expecting to be thrown out on his ear.

He pressed a call button, but no one came. Thinking about how he changed the balance of the plane, he moved from seat to seat; wondering if the act of people using the toilet caused the Pilot distress. He opened the window. No city, no horizon, just an endless expanse of concrete and metal.

He sat, even relaxed, eating from the pretzel bag he found wedged in a seat in First Class. He imagined himself being pressed into his seat, soaring towards the clouds, escaping the confines of the airport.

He imagined how the plane breathed through those tiny bleed-holes in the plexiglass. He imagined seeing the engine’s fire as the plane lurched. And how, beyond the porthole, the sky was a blank canvas. And how the horizon simply faded into nothingness as if rolled away to pack in a suitcase. And how the sounds of “brace brace brace” came before the rubber mask fell from the ceiling. Then the noise, such noise.

Karl left the plane. He walked around this small, enclosed space, waving at the ceiling mounted cameras, hoping that someone would see him.

It seemed the Pilot was busy elsewhere.

He spotted a familiar foam rubber hand discarded on a seat. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Where was the family now? Had they made it to their destination? The cracked “we’re #1” felt of an increasingly distant world.

Long gone were the businessmen, the Asian families, the lady in the oxygen mask. Karl sat hard on the seat next to his worn briefcase, full of his fake paperwork, placing the foam rubber hand atop it like a strange trophy.

He lifted the suitcase, then curled his arms around it and the rubber hand as if they were much-loved dolls. The paper was there to give the impression of weight, even importance, as insignificant as the foam rubber. The irony wasn’t lost on Karl—the empty pages within were as blank as he felt, as devoid of identity as he had become.

Karl shrugged off his aspiring businessman act. His shoulders slumped. Was he even the lowly clerk that spent all his savings for a once-in-a-lifetime holiday?

The airport breathed around him, its rhythms mirrored his heartbeat. Karl rocked in sync with the hum of the air conditioner. His heartbeat matching the clack of a worn section of conveyer belt.

In this vast, impersonal system, he had become merely a unit of weight, a piece of human ballast to be shifted and balanced at the whim of unseen forces. His individual hopes and fears seemed to evaporate, replaced by a strange comfort in anonymity.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “I could have pretended to be anyone.” He hugged his suitcase tighter, no longer a prop in his masquerade, but a failing life raft in the sea of his dissolving identity. The regret of not making it to the black sand beach faded.

The Tannoy crackled again, and Karl hoped it was instructions for him, eager to be useful, to be moved, to be anything the system required of him.

He ate his last pretzel in expectation. As the salt dissolved on his tongue, he reflected on the endless corridors, the humming machinery, the constant announcements as parts of a great, incomprehensible whole. And he, Karl—a necessary component, just like the sandbags Amerika had mentioned.

Karl understood now that the Pilot, like himself, was just another piece in this vast mechanism. Present or absent, seen or unseen, it made no difference.

A chime sounded, and Karl stood, ready to move, to be balanced, to serve his purpose. As he walked towards the gate, Karl thought he recognised himself: balding, mousy, dull. The feeling passed.

He felt a surge of compassion for the bewildered young man, remembering his own confusion not so long ago. And somehow, that felt right.

Karl felt a strange lightness. The anxieties that had plagued him - the ill-fitting suit, the fake business trip - seemed to belong to someone else entirely. He no longer feared being exposed as an impostor. He said, “get them out of their bodies,” just loud enough to turn the man’s head.

The young man read Karl’s badge. “Persephone, were you on my flight? Ural Airlines Flight 178?”

Karl looked at the badge on his chest. “Huh.” Karl put down his briefcase on a mass of black bags. In this liminal space, he had found his true purpose. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you to your destination.”