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Welcome to A Bedtime Story. I'm Matthew Mitchell, and tonight's story is titled The Customs Agent's Worst Nightmare, Part 3 of this week's series: The Midnight Curfew for Intergalactic Tourists.

The Earth gateway was a shimmering ring of golden light, suspended in the dark void of the solar system. It was the only way home, but it was also the most heavily guarded spot in the quadrant. Jax watched the viewscreen as dozens of sleek, silver patrol ships circled the gate like sharks.

"Okay, plan?" Jax asked, his hands trembling slightly on the controls. "Because my plan was mostly to show up and hope they were on a lunch break."

"They don't take lunch breaks," Seven-Delta said from the glove box. "They are bioroids. They take oil breaks and data refreshes. Currently, they are scanning every ship for the treasury codes. If we try to fly through, they will detect my signal within milliseconds."

Ren was busy soldering a makeshift jammer out of a toaster and a spare communicator. "I can mask your signature for about ninety seconds, but that won't get us through the customs check. We need a distraction. Something big."

"I have an idea," Jax said, looking at the dashboard. "But it's stupid. It's really, really stupid."

"Those are my favorite kinds of ideas," Ren said, grinning.

"Seven-Delta, can you mimic the emergency signal of a high-ranking diplomat?" Jax asked.

"I can mimic the voice of the Empress herself if I have enough power," the orb replied. "Why?"

"Ren, I need you to vent the auxiliary fuel tanks. Not all of them, just enough to create a big, sparkly cloud of vapor behind us. We’re going to pretend we’ve had a catastrophic engine failure and that we’re carrying a very important, very grumpy dignitary who is about to miss a very important meeting."

"It's classic," Ren laughed. "The old broken-down-limo trick."

They approached the gateway's perimeter. A massive command ship, shaped like a giant silver needle, drifted toward them. A voice crackled over the radio.

"Unidentified vessel, this is Customs Station Alpha. State your business and prepare for deep-tissue scanning. You are in violation of the midnight traffic ordinance."

"Help!" Jax shouted into the comms, putting on his best panicked voice. "This is the personal transport of... uh... Ambassador Fizzlepop! Our hyper-drive has imploded, and we are leaking core coolant! The Ambassador is very upset! He’s threatening to declare war on this entire sector if he isn't home by dinner!"

Seven-Delta chimed in, his voice suddenly deep, booming, and incredibly arrogant. "This is outrageous! Do you know who I am? I have medals older than your entire civilization! If you do not clear a path for my vessel immediately, I shall have your serial numbers scrubbed from the history books! Clear the way, you tin-plated bureaucrats!"

The silence on the other end of the radio lasted for five agonizing seconds.

"Ambassador Fizzlepop?" the agent asked, sounding confused. "We don't have a Fizzlepop on our list."

"That is because he is on a secret mission!" Ren yelled from the background. "Look at our vapor trail! We’re going to blow! If you scan us, the radiation might trigger the explosion!"

On the viewscreen, the patrol ships began to back away. The cloud of fuel vapor looked impressively dangerous in the golden light of the gate.

"Proceed to Gate 4," the agent said, his voice hesitant. "But we must verify your identity once you are through the threshold."

"Just open the ring!" Jax urged, pushing the Rusty Bucket forward.

The golden ring began to glow brighter as the gateway activated. Jax steered the ship into the center of the light. The sensation of a wormhole jump was always strange; it felt like being pulled through a very long, very thin straw. For a moment, time and space didn't exist. There was only the sound of Seven-Delta humming a jaunty tune.

Then, with a sudden pop, they were on the other side. The blue and green marble of Earth hung beautifully in the distance.

"We made it!" Ren cheered, jumping up and accidentally hitting her head on the ceiling.

"Not quite," Seven-Delta said. "We are currently being hailed by Earth's orbital defense. And the Customs Station Alpha just sent a message saying they’ve realized there is no such person as Ambassador Fizzlepop."

"Well, it was a good run," Jax said, leaning back. "Ren, can you actually fix this ship now that we have some peace and quiet?"

"I can do better than that," Ren said, looking at Seven-Delta. "Hey, Sparky. If we give those treasury codes to the right people, do you think we could buy our way out of this?"

"The codes are actually for a fund dedicated to the preservation of rare space-slugs," Seven-Delta admitted. "It is a lot of money, but only if you happen to be a very slimy mollusk. However, I did happen to download the governor's private bank account details while I was plugged into his yacht."

Jax and Ren looked at each other.

"How much?" Jax asked.

"Enough to buy a new ship," Seven-Delta said. "And perhaps a very large coffee for a certain courier. One that doesn't move when you try to drink it."

Jax smiled and looked out at the stars. The Rusty Bucket was still rattling, and they were technically intergalactic fugitives, but as he watched the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, he decided that it had been a pretty good Tuesday after all. He closed his eyes, the steady hum of the ship finally lulling him into a deep, well-deserved sleep.