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.