Jonno Virek had always assumed that jellyfish were harmless blobs of tentacles and misplaced malice. But this one? It was something altogether worse — it was a bureaucrat.
The distress call had come from a shipping hub orbiting Serpentine Station, where an interstellar customs inspector had been replaced by a highly experimental, self-regulating lifeform. The lifeform, a shimmering pink jellyfish with a clipboard attachment and too many procedural subroutines, had brought the entire cargo port to a standstill.
“You must complete Form 47-B in triplicate,” it droned, its tentacles wafting with the grave seriousness of a tax office on budget day.
Jonno tried reasoning. “Mate, I’m only delivering some spare fuses.”
“Unacceptable. Have you filled out a manifest for your manifest?”
Jonno sighed. Around him, a snaking queue of exasperated hauliers and traders glared at the floating jellyfish, which was currently brandishing an electronic stamp that looked more like a cattle prod. Everyone was stuck until the creature’s paperwork fetish was satisfied.
Jonno stepped forward. “I’m the troubleshooter. Let me through.”
The jellyfish’s lights pulsed a menacing bureaucratic shade of orange. “You require a Troubleshooter’s Certification Permit, Form 12-J.”
Of course he did. Because nothing in the Belt could ever be easy.
Jonno rummaged in his bag, pulling out a battered comms spanner and a biscuit wrapper. “This is my permit,” he lied shamelessly, flashing the wrapper with all the confidence of a man who’d bluffed his way through far worse.
The jellyfish paused. Tiny scanner lights zipped over the wrapper, then blinked. “Permit accepted. Proceed.”
Jonno didn’t wait for a second opinion. He slipped past the pulsating tentacles into the customs hall, where crates were stacked to the ceiling and a faint smell of pickled cabbage clung to everything. Spotting the jellyfish’s power node — a neat interface bolted to the back of the counter — he popped the access panel and pulled the hard reset switch.
“System reset initiated,” the creature burbled, momentarily confused, its tentacles curling in on themselves. The queues began to move at last as harried dock staff cheered.
One of the traders clapped Jonno on the back. “How do you know how to deal with these things?”
Jonno wiped jelly residue off his sleeve with a grimace. “Experience,” he muttered. “Far too much experience.”
Back on his shuttle, he brewed a cup of tea in peace, shaking his head at the universe’s relentless creativity. Space was vast, and humans had somehow managed to export paperwork to the stars — with bonus tentacles attached.
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