"I feel the recording unit should be over there. After all, the photographer for the Ice-cool Bods of Acrux calendar insisted this is my best side. And perhaps I will change into my ceremonial uniform—the royal blue might better complement my complexion. What do you think?"

Despite their antipathy, Fabulon and Scoop exchanged a look of pure, journalistic accord.

"General Vanar, I can honestly say both your sides have an equal degree of appeal. And it's hard to imagine that any jacket would improve your current appearance. Don't you agree, Scoop?"

"Oh yeah, you're looking very...cool, Kral. No need to change, and with a face like yours, any angle will do. Now, for my first question, I'd like to know—"

"But what about the lighting?" demanded Vanar. "My iridescence only really comes out if the light is right. And I have not yet had a scrap of makeup."

"Because it would freeze, you moronic icicle," Fabulon made very sure not to say, regardless of the temptation. Instead, he went with the safer, if probably untrue, "Don't worry, General. I'm sure we'll make you look great in post-production. So, if you could just tell us—"

"Hold on, meat-bag," interrupted Scoop. "Let's not forget who the lead journo here is—the first question is mine. Kral, you and Admiral Splurmfeen must be all too aware of how GalCon will view your capture of their representatives, not to mention your launch of an attack force on Earth itself, which of course is now a Level Two world, with immunity from invasion. How do you expect them to react?"

Steepling his fingers, the Ice Warrior leaned back in his chair and gave the journalists a knowing smile. "Oh, the same way they usually do when presented with a problem that can't be solved with a new regulation or a tax audit. The will make some squawking noises and wring their hands and achieve very little beyond becoming even more annoying and pointless. We are not worried about GalCon, let me assure you."

"But surely you must see you're risking war? War on a galactic scale?" With uncharacteristic self-insight, Fabulon realised the question had been asked not as a journalist—but as a person. As a simple citizen, a humble member of the greatest organisation the galaxy had ever known. Well, not humble, but a member, nonetheless. A member noticing the first hairline cracks appearing in the foundations of the world in which he—and everyone and everything he knew—existed.

"We are not risking anything," replied Vanar. "We are simply righting wrongs. The Earth would have fallen to Rigel the first time around if not for GalCon's ridiculous regulations. Regulations we choose to no longer recognise. As for Kwoin and that fool from Earth, they were violating Rigellian airspace and as such we had every right to take them prisoner. If GalCon doesn't like it, well then—they know where to find us."

"And Admiral Splurmfeen? Does he share this cavalier"—Fabulon swallowed—"this frankly inflammatory attitude towards the might and authority of GalCon?"

Vanar blinked. "Have you met the admiral? 'Frankly inflammatory' could be his middle name. Besides"—he leaned forward, his cerulean feature becoming conspiratorial—"it hardly matters what his attitude might be. I'm sure it won't come as a surprise to either of you to learn that Splurmfeen is hardly the...brains of this partnership. I think we all know just whose hands are on the steering wheel."

Fabulon and Scoop exchanged another glance. "So, just to be clear," said the robot, "you're telling us you were behind the overthrow of Rigel's rulers, the conquest of the planet and the decision to once again attack the Earth? You, and not Admiral Splurmfeen?"

The ice warrior leaned back again, placing his hands behind his head. "Well, let me just say this; who killed—and then resurrected—who? In any event, it matters not. Our position is clear. Rigel and the Ice Warriors will no longer kotow to the spineless paper-pushers at Galactic Central. GalCon has had things its own way for far too long. It is time for those officious, overbearing bureaucrats to put up or shut up."

"Well, here we are, Captain. Back in our quarters at Galactic Central already. It's all rather disappointing, isn't it?"

"Disappointing, Ambassador? It was only by the greatest good fortune we escaped Rigel with our lives. Speaking as your head of security, I'd hardly call your arrival back here in the safety of GalCon's primary HQ—their best defended, most secure location—disappointing."

"No. No, I suppose you wouldn't. Still, my safety is hardly the most pressing matter at present, is it, old boy?"

"It is to me, Ambassador. After all, it's my job."

"Yes. But not mine. My job is to look after Earth's interests. And running away with my tail between my legs—and with old Admiral Thingummy still upright and with a serviceable number of functioning synapses—can hardly be called that."

"Yes, well...but you're, uh...an ambassador, Ambassador. It's not really your place to be in the frontline. Now that things have become more heated, surely the situation is best left to those who are more, ah...more..."

"Yes? More what, Captain?"

"More...um, do you still have that deck of cards, Ambassador? How about a quick round of Gin Rummy? Or perhaps I could even rustle up a set of Monopoly?"

"I hardly think this is the time, Captain—as tempting as the prospect might be. No, I rather feel that perhaps it's incumbent on us to take a more active role in the current situation—to exert a little of the old Aussie independence, you might say."

"Whatever do you mean, Ambassador?"

"What I mean, my good man, is that in this time of crisis it's high time Earth's ambassador stopped running around hither and thither like a headless chicken, at the direction of the no-doubt well-meaning but non-Earthling folk here at GalCon."

"But...what would you have us do instead, Ambassador?"

"Well, I should think that was obvious, old boy. I'd have us run around hither and thither like headless chickens at our own direction. Well, my direction, I suppose. Now, be a good fellow and collect your gun. We're going to requisition a ship, and if my diplomatic ID doesn't do the trick, the, uh...negotiations may become a little tricky."

"Come in, Uva, come in. Please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you back, safe and sound. Now, let me fix you a drink. Arcturan whisky? I have this rather intriguing liqueur from Tau Ceti, if you'd like something a little different. Or perhaps you're peckish after your trip—how about a snack?"

Uva Kwoin settled into one of the chairs arrayed before the Chief Executive's imposing desk, a slight frown creasing her aristocratic features. The CE was many things—officious, efficient, often rude and always impatient—but a fusser she was not. Something was up.

"No thank-you, ma'am. What I would like is an update on GalCon's response to the threat posed by Rigel and the Acruxian Ice Warriors. What forces have we marshalled? What plans are in place for the defence of Earth?"

Despite Kwoin's refusal, the CE busied herself at her office's well-stocked bar, not looking at her subordinate. "Oh, I shouldn't worry about all that, Uva. Especially not after the trauma you've doubtless been through. Listen, why don't you retire to your quarters for a well-earned rest? You must be exhausted."

"Thank you, ma'am, but I'm fine. Please, I need to know—how do things stand?"

The CE drained the drink she'd just prepared and started mixing another. "In fact, why don't you take some leave? I can't remember the last time you had a break. I hear the southern continent on Alpha Centauri's second world is lovely at this time of year, or the skiing on Bellatrix Prime is—"

"Ma'am!" snapped Kwoin, her patience and—given the usual consequences of interrupting the CE—sense of self-preservation wearing thin. "What the hell is going on?"

For a moment the CE stood in silence, her posture rigid—and then her shoulders slumped. With a sigh, cradling her drink, she sank into her chair. "Peace, Uva. That's what's going on."

"Ma'am?"

"I've not long since finished a hyper-sat linkup with General Vanar and am happy to report we've managed to negotiate a peaceful resolution to the, uh...tensions that had arisen between GalCon and the Rigel-Acruxian alliance."

Kwoin blinked. For the first time she noticed how haggard her superior looked. "Oh. Oh, I see. Well...that's good. Isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Peace is always a worthy goal. Don't you agree, Uva?"

"Of course, ma'am. Provided"—she leaned forward in her chair—"the price is not too high."

The CE became very interested in her drink. "Yes. Quite."

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, Uva?"

"What was the price in this particular case?"

"Oh, you now, this and that. Bits and pieces. Not so very much, when compared to the grand scheme of things."

Kwoin began to regret her refusal of a drink. "Would you care to elaborate, ma'am? Which particular bits and pieces?"

"Let me see. I suppose there might have been the pardoning of the odd past transgression. The, uh...massaging of one or two rules and regulations. The slight tweaking of a few disputed borders and frontiers. And, well...that was just about it."

"Just about?"

"Yes. Well, there might have been one other tiny, little concession."

The councillor's heart sank. "And what was that concession?"

The CE took a healthy swig. "I had no choice, Uva. The safety of the galaxy was at stake—the lives of billions. I did my best to rally our forces, but we just weren't ready, or"—the drawn features scowled—"willing, in many cases. This was the only way."

"What was, ma'am? What have you done? What have you given Splurmfeen and Vanar?"

The Chief Executive of the Galactic Conglomerate finished her drink, placed the glass onto her desk with great care and looked Councillor Uva Kwoin straight in the eye.

"Earth, Uva. I had to give them Earth."

"A Level One and a Half world?" Usually the most mild-mannered of individuals, as a rule Spoonduckle Grenthar wasn't much of an exploder. "What the hell is a Level One and a Half world?" Given the current circumstances, however, he felt compelled to give it a good try. With a deep breath, he fought down the urge to fling his communicator across the room and forced himself to instead listen to the aggravating nasal tones of GalCon's Secretary of Galactic Affairs.

"It's a new classification, Councillor. Put in place to recognise the wonderful diversity and exciting heterogeneity of our less developed and/or newer members. After all, not every planet—or individual, for that matter—fits neatly into a box. Increased flexibility in classifications will empower and facilitate the—"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Grenthar. "Spare me, there's a good fellow. What I need to know is what does this new classification mean?"

There was a pause—a pause which, as a fellow bureaucrat, the councillor realised was precisely calculated to convey the secretary's level of official disapproval at the interruption. "Ahem. As I was saying, the increased flexibility will empower—"

"Oh, cram your empowerment up your arse, you annoying little bum-belch. What does it mean for Earth, you officious cretin? Right now? With a whacking bloody great Rigellian armada breathing down our necks? And if I hear the word facilitate one more time, you might just find your secret fling with that pool-droid on our last junket to Betelgeuse suddenly not so secret."

Grenthar doubted whether the subsequent pause was at all calculated, but it nevertheless did a very good job of conveying the depths of the secretary's shock. "What? I never...I just kept losing my towel, is all...you wouldn't..."

"Try me."

"But...oh, very well. The change in classification means Earth is no longer protected by GalCon from attack by Rigel, or the Ice Warriors—or by anyone else, for that matter. They keep their access to GalNet, they can still enter the Galactic Drinking Championship, but when it comes to military matters, they're on their own."

"But, but—what is the justification for the reclassification? Earth defended themselves from invasion by a higher level world. That has always meant automatic classification as Level Two. And automatic immunity from invasion."

"Yes. But, that particular regulation has been...adjusted. And Spoony, you know as well as I do there are two main criteria that lump a world into Level One territory. Firstly, there is the development of sufficient technology to destroy said world."

"Yes," replied Grenthar, "without a sufficiently advanced civilization to prevent it from happening." He sighed. "Well, there's no doubt Earth qualifies there. But they now have us to help them with that. Surely—"

"And then," continued the secretary, clearly relishing his chance to interrupt, "there is the second criterion."

"Ah." Feeling the unfamiliar heat in his cheeks fading away, the councillor sank into the chair behind his desk.

"Which is, of course, the amount of reality TV they watch."

"Yes," muttered Grenthar. "Bugger."