If you’re going to make a year-long agreement, you’d better be sure you know whose year you’re using.
“What do you mean I’m still under contract?” Terry demanded. She tried not to make a fist around all her vital documents. “It says five years. It’s been five years. And forty-eight hours, and that’s only because it took that long to get all the forms filled out.”
“I’m very sorry, but they’re not local years.” The clerk, a quiet and inherently nervous Lorraine, looked just about ready to cry in sympathy. “This codicil, here, stipulates that the contract is using the definition of ‘year’ according to the drafting lawyer’s planet of origin.”
“Okay… so where’s that lawyer from?”
Takatta takatta takatta. “Oh no. Oh, no… I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry… The company you signed on with? They exclusively use Ghiishemite lawyers.”
“Let me guess,” Terry braced herself for the inevitable, metaphorical impact. “Ghiishem has a really long calendar.”
Cogniscents waiting to gain access to the Visitor Help Centre flinched at the outraged scream of “SIX HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIVE DAYS?”
Terry waited once again for Lorraine to dawn over the cusp of her desk.
“Sorry. You still have three Standard years, two weeks and three days on your contract. If you’d like? I could help you contact the Cogniscent Rights Commission? They have a standing Class Action Suit against contracts like this one?”
Three more years. Three more flakking years. And two weeks and three Powers-cursed days. “Oh yes,” she said. “Oh yes please. I would love to talk to the Cogniscent Rights’ Commission about this one.”
[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
