Flight 1247

It's strange how the most pivotal moments of our lives often begin in the most mundane places.

For me, it's the cramped bathroom of TransPacific Flight 1247, thirty-five thousand feet above sea level when the first tremor rips through the cabin. At this moment, I'm just another passenger with a spike of anxiety from the turbulence we just experienced –making the smart faucet in the bathroom require all of my focus, completely oblivious to the fact that fate has begun its countdown.

Why does everything always come down to timing? Five minutes earlier and I would've been safely strapped into POD_C. Connected to my assigned neural interface already synced to the emergency protocols.

The bathroom mirror catches my reflection as the cabin lights shift from institutional LED 2A to a pulsing amber hue. My heart stutters; I know that color.

HOW people used to fly in these things before EES came around, I'll never understand. They were basically flying in an airconditioned metal tub with wings.

Everyone that flies on TransPacific knows that color: Catastrophic System Failure and the emergency evacuation system has begun. In the old days this would have meant certain death. But in 2147 commercial aircrafts have evolved from their fragile predecessors. The Airbus Quantum Aeroline doesn't just fly–they adapt, transform, and when necessary shed their parts like a snake shedding its skin.

I lunge for the door. One of the only remaining places on board that doesn't have its own EES protocols. My fingers, slipping on the handle, slick from the soapy water that just cleansed my skin of any dirt, germs and other microorganisms that I collected while onboard.

"My savior might be my demise," I say out loud to myself. Spurring myself into hurried movements. Wiping my hands down my shirt hoping to gain more traction on the door handle.

"FUCK!" I scream as the handle and door refuse to move.

The status light begins blinking an infuriating red as the message "Door locked for catastrophic system failure protocol" scrolls across the ticker above the door lock. What usually tells passengers which water closet is in use, is now taunting me with my impending fate.

The first automated announcement over the intercom sends ice racing through my veins. My lungs are straining against my rib cage as I try to calm my panicked breathing.

"Attention passengers CSFP number 7 has been initiated. Please remain in your seats in your designated pod. Quantum separation will begin in three minutes."

THREE MINUTES! 

The word echoes around in my head like a ball bouncing through a pinball machine. Under normal circumstances, that would be plenty of time for the pods to detach cleanly, their individual gravitational fields engaging as they descended safely to the nearest emergency landing zone. But I'm not in my pod.

Trapped in my tin can coffin, in the one section of the plane designed to stay with the main hull–the section that goes down with the ship.

My mind whirs as I try to remember the schematics video they played at the beginning of our flight. The ones no one ever pays attention to because yada, yada, remain in your pods and stay secured to your neural link for the most secure flight, yada, yada. Trying not to think of how my sister had mocked me for even watching the video: "You're such a germaphobe, I am sure you can make it one flight without washing your hands. It's only an hour and a half flight, Novaaa." She had drug my name out just to grate on my nerves.

This bathroom is just between POD_C and POD_D. Only a sealed door and twenty feet separating me from my salvation. The neural link in my travel band is already buzzing frantically, trying to sync my pod.

Another tremor, stronger this time. From the tiny crevice of a bathroom window, I catch a glimpse of POD_A silently detaching, its edges alight with blue green fire as its gravitational field adjusts to the atmosphere around it. Beautiful, yet terrifying.

"Two minutes until quantum separation." The second automated announcement sounds over the intercom.

TWO MINUTES! Think. Think. Think.

There has to be a way out of here. My fingers trace the door's edge, feeling for–there. A manual release panel, disguised as a part of the trim. The kind of backup system engineers include but never expect anyone to actually use. I dig my nails into the seam and pull.

The panel snaps off with a crack that sends me stumbling backwards. Behind the handle is a simple mechanical lever, a startling piece of analog technology for this Quantum Aeroline. I pull it down, instinctually throwing my body against the door. It bursts open with a pneumatic gasp, nearly sending me sprawling onto the floor.

When my feet hit the smart-polymer floor I send up a silent prayer of thanks. The material has already started transforming, preparing for atmospheric reentry, its texture shifting from a sleek aesthetic design feature to a practical high-traction surface designed for an emergency. In the distance, I hear the hydraulic hiss of POD_B beginning its separation from the mainframe.

That's when I see it–my salvation, POD_C. I press my neural link band against POD_C's access panel, desperately hoping it will override the security protocols. Each buzz from the band feels like a rock dropping in my stomach. It rejects me once, twice–the authentication failures flashing across the display screen in angry red letters.

"One minute until quantum separation. One minute until quantum separation." The automated announcement taunts me over and over again.

Panicking, I run my fingers over the screen looking for anything to try. When in doubt, restart right? The thought flits through my mind.

I use my fingers to pry open the panel cover, revealing a simple glowing red button. Such an archaic solution hiding in plain sight–a physical reset in a world of AI and neural commands. Slamming my hand against it, I pray to whatever gods might be listening that the oldest trick in the tech world will work one more time.

"Thirty seconds until quantum separation." The announcement washes over me like a bucket of ice water.

The walls of POD_C begin to vibrate as the clamps begin to initiate their release sequence. The panel flickers from red to amber. The reset seems to have done something–not a full access grant, but a system reboot that might give me enough time…

"Emergency reset detected. System reinitialization in progress." The words flash across the access panel.

I run.

The door to POD_C slides halfway open, then freezes, caught between evacuation and reboot protocols. Forcing my body through the gap, ignoring the sharp parts of the door frame cutting into my clothes and skin. Willing my body to get as small as possible. The system blares warnings through the pod speakers:

"Unauthorized entry detected. Security breach in POD_C."

Inside, the other passengers stare at me with a mixture of shock and confusion–the woman they had written off as collateral damage amongst the wreckage of this impending crash, defying both protocol and probability. The flight attendant assigned to our POD makes to move towards me, then hesitates as another announcement cuts through the chaos.

"Ten seconds until quantum separation."

I dive into my seat. The neural interface recognizes my presence as soon as my hand hits the armrest. The familiar tingle of the neural link washes over me as the pod's systems integrate my biometrics into their separation calculations. For a moment, I think I can feel the algorithms adjusting, compensating for my return. My body sags with relief as my harness straps me into the POD.

Did I damn us all with my return?