Passport
A neat bundle of paper
This story was written for The Halls of Pandemonium by Bradley Ramsey.
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Two lines to the boarding gate moved slowly past me. I knew why those people stood in line even before the airline employees showed up: when you’re going to spend a few hours sitting in a crowded plane, you grab every opportunity that would force you to stand a while. Yet, unlike them, I was in no hurry to stand up.
Huge windows right in front of me revealed a great view of arriving and departing planes, and seeing people in between the view and me made the experience more real somehow. The sun was beginning its downward path. The scent of fresh coffee coming from a kiosk nearby played with my nostrils. Constant announcements were barely audible, for they came from the speakers at other gates. The journey wasn’t going to be long. The day was wonderful.
TV screens on the walls flickered and started showing news or something similar instead of the usual ads. Have they briefly shown something familiar to me? Well, I’ve been in every country on Earth, and so it was possible.
Why was the zipper of that woman’s bag open? If she were to drop it, some of the contents could spill out. Was she so careless, or was she aware of the situation?
Thinking about such an important question, I finally stood up and joined the line at the very end. The airline employees in their sunny uniforms let the people through after scanning their passports. Soon came my turn.
The woman with a bright smile took my document and pressed it against the glass of the reader.
Pli-pli-pli!
A very unusual, unpleasant sound slashed my eardrums.
Still smiling, the employee raised my passport, then pressed it again.
Pli-pli-pli!
A red cross on the screen attracted the attention of both of us.
Still holding my passport, Jennifer, as the badge called her, looked at the screen of her computer. And just like that, her smile was gone.
She turned my passport in her hands and started reading it, hoping to learn something the computer failed to tell.
“What’s—” I started.
“I am so sorry,” her eyes regarded the floor for a moment before looking into mine. “It is too late.”
“Too late?” I frowned, looking at the clock on the wall. “Boarding closes in five minutes.”
Jennifer opened her mouth as her colleague came by, for he had already let the last person in. He, Michael, also glanced at my passport and then shut his eyes tightly while shaking his head.
“Don’t you watch the news, sir?” Jennifer asked, looking past my shoulder.
I followed her gaze towards those TVs I saw. The ads haven’t yet reappeared; the news was still going, and the places shown were so painfully familiar.
Moving in slow-motion, I approached the screens, reading the news ticker and gazing at the silent disaster.
The Republic of Irelia to dissolve effective immediately.
Martiarch Brown abdicates at 01:00, May 2nd.
Transitional government of former Irelia states to hold its first meeting.
Stock Market…
The sounds of the airport became muted and weird. Listening to the heavy drum of my heartbeat, I stood there, staring at the words but not really reading them, and tried to ignore the emptiness within me for I had to think.
How could it happen?
You know how.
How could it happen so suddenly and irresponsibly, leaving the citizens confused, hurt, and stranded?
Ha! Say “thanks” you’re not a paperless outlaw just yet! Or maybe you are already?..
Why had it had to happen?
“Sir!” a voice from somewhere far away startled me.
“Take your passport, sir.” Now-smileless Jennifer handed it to me. “I am so sorry about this. The computer doesn’t recognize your passport anymore, and so we cannot let you pass.”
My hand took the document, but my mind was still processing her words. How could a lifeless computer recognize or not recognize anyone? And how could a computer that cannot be held accountable decide whether I was allowed on the plane? It made no sense!
Finally, I nodded, for she still stood next to me, even though her colleague had to toil alone.
“Yes,” I said, unsure what I was agreeing with. “I understand.”
She was just doing her job and following the procedure. If the airport had a border guard person here instead of the computer, the result would’ve been the same.
“Please follow the markings towards the information desk,” Jennifer gave me her final advice. “I’m sure something can be done.”
And she left me to stand there, seeing the TV screen in one corner of my eye and a new passenger in the other. He sat on the closest bench, patiently waiting for the gate to open again, now for a different flight, and glancing at me with interest.
The stench of coffee and the cacophony of the airport noises squeezed me, pushing me forward. Forward, through the crowds of happy, unconcerned, ignorant people. Forward, somewhere deeper within the huge building. Somewhere dark, cool, deserted, and quiet.
Maybe this gate was unused; it didn’t matter. I just lowered myself on the closest bench, breathing and thinking about nothing, surrounded by darkness.
And the nothing penetrated me, washing away the smells, sounds, and images. My mind was clearer. I could think now, here, in solitude.
What’s next?
My hand still held my passport, turning the pages as I thought.
Screw the business! Screw the vacation I wanted to have after that. I had to get back home now! I had to be with my family until things were resolved. But how to get there?
As I reached the very last page, as I hit the dead end, I looked at the neat bundle of paper in my hand and saw a phone number.
Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Did the number still work? There was only one way to find out. What was I going to say? Something.
I dialed the number as my heart began pounding for some reason. The dial tones got replaced by hold music, and then by an automated voice.
An operator will accept your call shortly.
What was their day like? They probably didn’t need to return home without a valid passport, but they probably had an avalanche of calls today. And what if their loved ones were now stranded somewhere on top of that, just like I was?
“This is the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” a tired, somewhat hurt voice announced. “I am Emilia Wintrop, a help-desk operator. What can I do for you today?”
“Hello, Emilia.” I started, having no plan whatsoever. “I am stranded here at the Megenda airport. How do I get home with this passport of mine? Is there a procedure?”
“Thank you for contacting us…” Emilia’s voice was even more hurt, rising in pitch gradually. “If you have something to write on, please prepare it before I—” Her voice clipped. “Before I—” She sobbed.
“Fuck!” I almost jumped as my eardrum was punched by her sudden outburst. “Procedure? Is there a procedure?!”
Somehow, she was both crying and enraged at the same time. “No, there’s no fucking procedure! Those maggots never even considered what they were doing! They just dropped the country into an ocean of shit, opened a buttload of champagne, got drunk shitless, and then went home to hammer their hoes and sniff their coke!”
Somehow, it got even darker in here. I partly wanted to make sure no one was listening, and partly—
“Nobody knew shit!” The sobbings continued. “And you know for a fact they won’t—”
“Emilia!” I pleaded, gesticulating and jumping to my feet like she was in front of me. “Talk to me, please.” My passport fell to the floor, but I had no time to pick it up. “Tell me everything, and I’ll try to help. Do you have someone abroad? Maybe I can check on them…”
And there I was, calming, listening to, and consulting a help-desk operator over the phone, saddened I could not be there for her in person. And yet, glad to have an opportunity to help. Glad to have my phone. And the money in my bank. And my good health. Everything was fine, as far as I knew, and therefore, it was just the right time to live for others.
The End
Anton Anderson, 2026
