Security Feed from a Planetary Customs Station Facility

Item Description: Orbital Customs Offices are the primary points of contact between planetary and interplanetary economies. These facilities, resembling massive hangars in space, provide high-volume, high-frequency cargo transport services between a planet’s surface and orbit.

Security Camera Feed, Sometime in YC 120: Excerpt One.

A slightly built man sat at his neat desk in the utilitarian gray corridor. His grey eyes studied the datapad in front of him. A peck of the fingers, another transaction processed. The bureaucrat’s skeletal face bore no expression of delight or dismay, the transaction simply was.

Suddenly, the holo interface in front of the desk shimmered as a call to Customs Office No. 3, Raa System was placed.

The avatar of the holo caller took form: a lithe True Amarr appearing female wearing a shimmering, almost translucent (but not completely so) dress with sparkling stars and constellations. Her dress was floor length and spilled out like a puddle of molten silver around her feet. The female’s long hair was platinum white and braided and held together by a series of small clasps that look like planets.

The bureaucrat shifted his balding head to gaze expressionlessly at the caller.

“I have a request” said the woman, earnestly, “a man named Nauplius is using your facility to generate isk proceeds to fund his inhumane operations. I want you to bar his access to the facility.”

“Madam” responded the man calmly, yet firmly, “I am proscribed by precise regulations as to how this Customs infrastructure facility operates.”

He continued blandly, “Amarr Prime Customs Agency regulations, section 17, subsection 4, paragraph 8 specifically provides that the following items may only be imported or exported with the express prior approval of the Imperial Underscrivener for Commercial Affairs. To wit, narcotic substances; handheld firearms; slaver hounds (except as personal property); Mindflood; live insects; ungulates; Class 1 refrigerants and aerosols; forced laborers/personal slaves (or other sapient livestock); animal germ-plasm; biomass of human origin; xenobiotics; walnuts.” He gave the woman a severe look “You have not alleged that this ‘Nauplius’ is illicitly transporting such materials in contravention of Amarr Prime Customs Agency regulations.”

“Furthermore,” he continued remorselessly “usage of this customs structure is set according to the following parameters, ‘all access’, ‘fees the same regardless of standings.’”

He concluded “Your request, Madam, is denied.”

The platinum blonde woman looked displeased. Her light blue eyes met the bureaucrat’s grey gaze. “Standings can be adjusted and access blocked based on standings”, she responded.

The bureaucrat looked back at her: “I operate under the parameters set by the Amarr Prime Customs Agency regulations and the owners of the structure. Madam, you are not the boss of me.” He concludes, with a severe look. “Again, Madam, your request is denied.”

The platinum blonde woman’s lips twisted in anger, her eyes suddenly turned black with swirling red colors. “Bye then”, she responded curtly. Her avatar shimmered out into a cascade of stars and then the holo connection ended.

Security Camera Feed, Sometime in YC 120: Excerpt Two.

A slightly built man sat at his neat desk in the utilitarian gray corridor. His grey eyes studied the datapad in front of him. A peck of the fingers, another transaction processed. The bureaucrat’s skeletal face bore no expression of delight or dismay, the transaction simply was.

Suddenly, loud alarm klaxons went off, and the light in the corridor switched to flashing red lights. The bureaucrat shifted his balding head to gaze expressionlessly around him, then proceeded to return his attention to the datapad in front of him.

A man frantically entered into the corridor. “Sir! Sir! We must evacuate! The structure is going to blow!” After the older bureaucrat did not respond, the younger man starting tugging his sleeve. “Sir! Sir! We must evacuate! Or we will die!”

The bureaucrat closed his datapad, looking confused, looking around him at the flashing red lights as it registered on him that the structure was, indeed, under attack. The younger man ushered him to an escape pod which ejected from the structure into space, along with other escaping baseliner staff in their escape pods.

Looking out the window of his floating escape pod, the bureaucrat’s otherwise expressionless face showed confusion as he saw the spectacle unfolding in the space above the plasma planet serviced by the soon to be demolished structure. Golden plated battleships and bombers fired on Customs Office No. 3, while above, even larger vessels, plated in gold fired lasers at other capital ships in dark metallic colors who fired back with missiles.

Security Camera Feed, Sometime in YC 120: Excerpt Three.

A slightly built man sat at his neat desk in the utilitarian gray corridor. His grey eyes studied the datapad in front of him. A peck of the fingers, another transaction processed. The bureaucrat’s skeletal face bore no expression of delight or dismay, the transaction simply was.

Suddenly, a chime signaled that a physical visitor had arrived at the recently re-anchored Customs Office No. 3. The bureaucrat shifted his balding head to gaze expressionlessly as a platinum blonde woman in a red dress and high heels walked down the corridor towards his desk.

The bureaucrat recognized the woman. The bureaucrat’s otherwise expressionless face showed beads of sweat that formed on his forehead as she approached his station.

The platinum blonde woman’s gaze met the bureaucrat’s. Invading his space, his desk, she took a seat on the desk, her slender legs dangling. Her bright blue eyes glowed, as she leaned over close to the bureaucrat as if prepared to give a lover’s kiss. She spoke in a low voice: “Guess who’s your boss now?”

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