"Operations, this is Miller on 842. Patch me to Gate Supervisor Henderson at B12. Direct patch, right now."
Karen didn't flinch. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and pulled her silver laptop from her bag, resting it across her knees as though the cabin were already cruising at thirty thousand feet. "Waste all the fuel you want, Captain. My brother is the vice president of station operations for this hub. By the time you get your paperwork sorted out, you’ll be answering to corporate dispatch, and this mechanic will be looking for a job on a different runway."
Corinne kept her hand resting on the radio, but her eyes flicked toward the ceiling cameras.
I looked down at the coffee soaking into the dark weave of the carpet between our seats. Beneath the damp puddle, lying wedged in the hinge where Karen’s seat met the metal floor track, was a small, white plastic card that hadn't been there when I sat down. It had a magnetic stripe and a black bar code, printed with the words: CREW COMPANION PASS - PRIORITY UPGRADE STANDBY.
Written across the back in thin blue ink was a single name: Corinne Miller-Price.
I didn't reach for it yet. I looked at Corinne's uniform nametag, where the second surname had been neatly covered with a strip of black label tape. She wasn't just accommodating a high-paying corporate executive. She was clearing the seat for someone else entirely.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"I am the pilot in command," Miller said into the receiver, ignoring her. "Henderson, confirm the seat inventory for ship 842. Seat 1B. I have passenger Vance sitting in the cushion with a physical slip showing 14:12 issue time."
A metallic burst of airport static crackled from the receiver’s earpiece, loud enough to bleed into the quiet aisle. "Captain, 1B was processed through the standby upgrade clearing engine at 14:10," Henderson’s voice came back, flat and overworked. "Positive-space bereavement displacement for mechanic Vance. He paid the standard company co-share differential at desk B12. The seat is paid and cleared."
"Check the cabin management system," Miller commanded. "Look at the current hold flag."
The pause from the gate lasted three seconds. "There's an administrative lock keyed from the cabin three minutes ago," Henderson answered. "Code 6-Echo. Wet hazard block. Entered by employee ID 44109."
Miller turned his head slowly. He looked directly at Corinne’s lanyard, where her plastic crew badge rested against her navy jacket. The printed number beneath her photograph read 44109.
Karen did not look up from her laptop, but her fingers stopped typing. The screen reflected cold white light across her jawline. "Captain, this internal squabbling is irrelevant. I was promised an empty adjacent workspace when I cleared my firm's corporate travel desk this morning. Your lead attendant recognized that agreement. You have an unruly mechanic in soiled clothes breathing over my working documents, and you are holding eighty passengers on the tarmac to run a union grievance."
I bent down before anyone could stop me. My wet knee touched the nylon runner. With two fingers, I reached under the corner of the first-class carpet where the spilled liquid had gathered against the seat-track anchor bolts. My fingertips caught the edge of the white plastic card wedged between the floor rail and the pneumatic seat adjustment cable.
I stood up and laid it flat on Karen’s tray table, right beside her corporate card and my smudged boarding slip.
The words CREW COMPANION PASS - PRIORITY UPGRADE STANDBY caught the overhead reading light. In the signature box, written in blue felt pen, was the authorization signature: Corinne Miller-Price. The traveler name line below it was filled out in the same handwriting: Arthur Price.
Davies leaned in, his mustache twitching as he read the names. "Who is Arthur Price?"
"Her husband," I said, pointing toward the forward galley. "He's sitting back in seat 24B right now. I passed him when I boarded. He was wearing an unbuttoned blazer with a standby lounge wristband, complaining on his phone that the gate agent wouldn't bump him into row 1 because an active company mechanic had positive-space priority over non-revenue family passes."
Corinne’s face lost its rigid composure. The tight, dismissive professional mask slipped, leaving her mouth parted and her neck flushed crimson. "That card has nothing to do with this flight. It’s an old slip from my wallet that fell during equipment check."
"The travel date printed on the thermal magnetic strip is today," I said, tapping the black border. "Flight 842. Departs 14:25. Your husband was listed as standby priority C-4. That's a family pass. Family passes only clear into first class if every revenue passenger and every positive-space operational employee is accommodated or denied boarding."
Miller took the white plastic card from the tray. He looked at the date, then at Corinne's uniform badge where the second surname had been taped over. His knuckles went pale against the hard edge of the plastic.