Flynn struggled with the customs forms for Gemini Station. Gemini was a large, Alliance hub just shy of the Core worlds, which meant it funneled in travelers and trade from all over the Alliance. As such, they had a lot of rules and regulations, and at least four forms for everything, none of them equal and each required under a specific set of circumstances. But only a clerk could inform you as to which one to use.
Flynn’s hand tightened on the data slate, and he barely suppressed an urge to break the device over his knee when Connor Reese snatched it from him.
“Allow me, Captain. I have some experience with customs.”
Flynn opened his mouth, then understood where the experience came from.
“Right. I think you’ve done a lot in the import and export business.”
“Oh yes. You think this is tedious, but until you fly into Consortium space you will not truly know. They have a type of attorney in the Consortium, specifically to deal with the customs laws for commercial goods. The laws alone could fill cargo crate of memory tabs.” Reese’s fingers flew over the slate, entering in data.
“I’ll bet. Would you recommend such a trip?”
“Under the current market, no. The Brokers have decided to levy yet another fine on non-Consortium traders that make it difficult to make a profit.” He paged through, looking only at the form’s color before moving to the next, filling out the ones in yellow.
“You’re still keeping up with international news, then?”
“Of course, Captain. I consider it part of my job as your Calypso’s cargomaster.”
“I haven’t assigned you as cargomaster.”
Reese’s finger paused over the slate. “Oh? Well, then I suppose I should void out these forms?” He displayed the completed forms to Flynn.
“Carry on, Cargomaster,” Flynn said.