Taxes

There used to be a saying on Earth, "The only two sure things are death and taxes." Now there's only one sure thing and it isn't death.

I scanned through customs on Dranka after five months in hypersleep. The buzzers started pealing and I immediately raised both hands in the air. I figured they had me on a smuggling charge after what happened at the worm17b station. But I was wrong. The damned taxman had tracked me down.

A guy like me, I don't generally declare my income. After all, most of it isn't legit. Sure I run the occasional load of building supplies to throw off the dogs, but I don't search out those contracts. I prefer the high priced runs. Drugs, elements, fuel enhancers; that's where the real money is. When a customer needs an illegal product, and I can find a world where it's plentiful, then I'm the one they call. The Black Shipster's my call sign. It's in every back-alley codex. I pay the dirty bureaucrats to keep it out of the main databases.

The customs Walnax removed my weapon and slapped the bracelets on. The slim nano-circles track you through any corridor. I've tried to get them off, but it takes three distinct keys. They chafe like Halcillican sand in your pants too, but that's another story.

"We're confiscating your cargo," said the Walnax.

"I'm empty, returning for a reload."

"After five months asleep. What do you take me for, a newbie? We're authorized to take the ship if the cargo doesn't pay the bill."