I don't know where I'm going
But I sure know where I've been
Hanging on the promises
In songs of yesterday
And I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time

Here I go again
Here I go again

Seated at a table in one of the station's cavernous dining halls, Cam put down the disappointing cup of not-quite-coffee that was the closest substitute to the real thing EJ's massive computational power and the station's hyper-advanced synthesising technology had so far been able to come up with.

"EJ, mate, as much as I appreciate the 80s vibe, I can't help but feel you might be trying to tell us something."

"Who, me?" asked the former hologram, raising his voice to be heard above the music. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

An' here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time

"Oh, you know—just a hunch. Look, it's not as though we don't want to go back to the Milky Way."

"That's right," agreed Flenson, draining his cup and getting up for a refill—real coffee or not, caffeine was still caffeine. "We're just keen to explore alternative, ideally safer means—you know, ones that don't involve throwing ourselves at a planet and hoping we'll miss. What else have you got?"

"Well," replied EJ, after a moment's consideration, "there is one other option. I suppose I could reinforce the ion drives, reroute most of the station's power into them, and then fly us home by conventional means—you know, without scrunching. That would be safer."

"Really? Cam's expression brightened. "That would work? Awesome, let's do that."

"Sure thing. Although, I should probably point out, there is one catch."

The brightness faded a little. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"Well, just that the trip would take something in the order of several billion years."

All remaining traces of brightness were extinguished. "Ah. Right. Well, that's not ideal."

Flenson took his seat back at the table. "How about a series of scrunches? You know, smaller, safer jumps?"

"Yeah," agreed Cam. "Smaller, safer and less explodey."

"Nah," said EJ. "Not an option, I'm afraid. If we wind up in intergalactic space, there won't be any planets for us to use for the next jump. It's one big jump or bust."

Though I keep searching for an answer
I never seem to find what I'm looking for

"EJ?"

"Yes, Cam?"

"Do you think maybe we could change songs?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure thing. How's this?"

Might as well jump. Jump!
Might as well jump
Go ahead, jump. Jump!
Go ahead and jump

The barista sighed. "EJ, once we get you sorted on sarcasm and idioms, remind me to give you a hand with subtlety."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Well, you could have at least played some of the verses."

The music stopped. "Fair enough. Look, given the subtle approach isn't really coming off, let me lay it out straight for you guys. There are only two options here. First up, we can take the chance, go with my plan, cross our legs—"

"Legs?" Flenson whispered to Cam.

"He means fingers," the barista whispered back, "or at least I really hope he does."

"—and scrunch our way back to the Milky Way, to Earth, to Mel and Cora and Max and, well...pretty much everyone and everything any of us have ever known."

"And the second option?" asked Flenson.

"Simple," replied EJ. "We stay here. Well, not right here. But in this part of the universe. We find a habitable planet and just accept we're now permanent residents of the Black Eye Galaxy. For the rest of our lives."

The Earthling and the Rigellian considered this in sombre silence.

"If it helps," went on EJ, "the ex-world leaders are already working on the colonisation plan."

Cam blinked. "They are?"

"Oh, yeah. They don't know about the mega-scrunch option, of course, but once you told them where we are they got right to work on divvying up the new world order. Well, the new galaxy order, I guess."

"But...but...there's nothing to even divvy up, yet!" protested Flenson.

"True. But don't forget these are politicians we're talking about. They tend to have a rather...unique world-view. Even when there's no world to view. Last time I checked in, they'd split into tribes and were, uh...debating who gets to be el presidente of New Earth. When there is one. Oh yeah, that and they're also competing to see which side can recruit the women judged most likely to be able to...um, help with repopulation."

Cam gave a low whistle. "Wow. I bet the women loved that."

"Yeah, not really. In fact, they've formed their own breakaway tribe and have the other two on the run. To tell you the truth, it's all gotten a bit Survivor-esque, down there. I've sealed off their levels while they sort things out—or kill each other off. Whichever comes first."

The two biological entities sat in silence, transfixed by the mental images this little tale conjured. Flenson shook his head.

"Right. Good. Well, at least that'll keep them busy while we work out what to do. So, Cam—what are you thinking?"

Staring into the middle distance, his expression faraway, it was a moment before the barista replied. "A lifetime without Mel? Can't say I like the sound of that very much." With a crooked smile, he turned to look at Flenson. "I vote we make the jump. How about you?"

The Rigellian considered, looking down into his cup. "A lifetime without coffee?" He met Cam's eyes. "I don't think so. Let's do it."

The decision made, they exchanged a nod and waited for EJ's response.

Oh yeah! (Chi chicka chickaaa)
(Oh-oh)
Oh yeah! (chi chicka chickaaa)
(Oh-oh)
Oh yeah! (Chi chicka chickaaa)

"Peace? Delightful, ever-so-scrumptious peace? Of what conceivable fruitcaking benefit to us is that?"

Not graced with the sunniest disposition even at the best of times, Xarnax Splurmfeen with a colossal hangover was reminiscent of nothing so much as a bear with a sore head. Or, even worse, given their penchant for big guns and pathological delight in using them at the slightest—sometimes non-existent—provocation, a Rigellian with a sore head. He dry-swallowed a couple more pain-killers.

"Well?"

Over the course of the admiral's career, the glare of those bloodshot eyes had sent many a brave soul scampering for the nearest door, window, cupboard or airlock, as the situation and/or architecture warranted. And although the throne room of the former Rigellian High Lords' palace offered at least some of these options, Kral Vanar was made of sterner stuff. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

"Temporary peace, my friend. Peace we can utilise to consolidate our position. To ensure we are ready for the total galactic war that is to come. And to allow you to remove those annoying chips from your shoulder, so you might focus your attention on weightier, worthier matters."

"Chips?" growled Splurmfeen. "What the heaven are you talking about?"

"Your ridiculous vendetta against those wretched baristas, of course. Them and the repellent planet they crawled from. Our forces are closing in on the three whose whereabouts are known, and now my deal with GalCon allows you to at last finish the job of conquering the Earth, unhindered and unopposed—without any annoying, time-consuming resistance. And once that primitive backwater has been pounded back to the stone-age we can move on to the minor, inconsequential matter of galactic conquest."

The Rigellian's expression was sulky. "My vendetta is anything but ridiculous. Those blessed baristas cost me my flawless record of conquest, my undisputed position as Rigel's finest warrior, my job, my honour, and—ultimately—my life."

"Well"—Vanar's smile grew mischievous—"I rather think I might be able to take some credit for that last one. After all, I did pull the trigger."

Splurmfeen glared at him. "I'm well aware. But you did so as nothing but a hired gun, a mercenary acting at the behest of my former masters, the so-called High Lords of Rigel. And they gave the order as a result of my failure to conquer Earth and my failure was entirely due to those...those...sweet baristas." The admiral's hands clenched into fists. "So, my need for vengeance is wholly justified. Your frozen mind cannot begin to comprehend the white-hot heat of such a vendetta."

Vanar's blue features darkened, any trace of amusement gone. "In that, Admiral—as in so many things—you are mistaken. Do not speak to an Ice Warrior of vendetta. Particularly not this Ice Warrior. Until fate led me to our alliance, vendetta was my life—my sole reason for existence. And while I may currently find myself...distracted by other matters, do not think for a moment that vendetta has been forgotten."

Now—despite the pounding behind his temples—it was the Rigellian who smiled. "What? The Flame Monk? That decrepit old-timer, in his absurd orange robes? That is the object of your vendetta? Oh yes, I can see how such a terrifying nemesis must keep you up at night. Just imagine—if you were to get too close, he might drool on you."

Vanar fidgeted, caught in the uncomfortable position of having to defend the individual he loathed most in the entire galaxy. "There is more to the last Flame Monk than his appearance would suggest. I should know, I have killed enough of his kind. As I will kill him, when the time is right."

Splurmfeen considered this. "Now that I think about it, isn't the old sweetie-pie actually on Earth? Could it be that perhaps my shoulder does not have a monopoly on chips? And that, just maybe, this arrangement with GalCon might also aid in the removal of one of your own?"

A sheen of frost bloomed on Vanar's forehead. "Nonsense. The presence of the monk on Earth is purely incidental, as will be his brutal murder at my hands, should we—entirely by chance, of course—happen to cross paths. Now, let us speak of that scum no more."

Splurmfeen shrugged. "As you wish; it is all the same to me. After all, there will be plenty of carnage to go around." He stood, managing by sheer willpower to supress a groan at the protests of both his head and stomach. Curse that lovely ambassador. "In any case, enough of this chit-chat. We have a planet to punish."

The Ice Warrior raised an eyebrow. "Punish? Don't you mean conquer?"

Already on his way out the door, the admiral didn't bother to turn around. "I know what I mean."

Chek watched as the Rigellian fighters encircled the spacewards section of the spaceport, while the battlecruiser loomed ever closer.

"Er, Earth-peeps, you might wanna move your butts. Like, right now. I dunno what those dickwads are up to, and I think it's best we don't stick around to find out. Get to someplace I can pick you up, and I'll...well, you know—pick you up."

Cora's brow creased. "But Chek, won't that be dangerous? With all those Rigellians zooming around, they're bound to see you."

"Meh. Don't sweat it, babe. It's a spaceport—ships come and go all the time. They're not gonna notice one more. Now, grab hold of the Earth-dude and get—" 

He paused in shock, as simultaneous beams of energy burst forth from every fighter and lanced into the port. He'd assumed the Rigellians would throw their weight around a bit, probably issue some threats and the requisite insults, and then board the station so they could stomp about the place like the domineering, short-tempered, arrogant arseholes they were. Not for a moment had it occurred to him they would attack in this way—guns first, questions (and insults) later.

The image of Cora began to break up. "Chek? Chek, what's happening? What's all that noise?"

"Er...nothing to worry about, little lady, all under control. Just...um, a bunch of cheering 'cause everyone realised Chek Wandoo is on the scene. Now, get to an exit—and fast." He terminated the call. "Ship-dude, have the drones track their position and let me know when they're ready to be picked up."

"Yes, Mr Wandoo."

"And give me a rundown on the bang-making stuff, big guy. What heat are we packing?"

"Sir?"

"Guns, digi-dude—guns. What kind of firepower do we have? In case things get, you know—interesting."

"Oh, I see, sir. The yacht is equipped with several medium-gauge plasma cannons and a quite extensive array of missiles."

"Cool. So if the forces of evil dweebery get out of hand, we can take 'em down, right?"

"Oh, no sir. While quite capable of dispatching fighter-class vessels, the uh...heat we are packing is not capable of destroying a capital ship."

"Seriously? Bummer. Well, let's hope those two get a move on, then. How are they doing?"

"Sir, the drones report the baristas making commendable progress."

"Awesome. How long until we can nab 'em?"

"Unfortunately, sir, it's impossible to say."

"Impossible?" Chek frowned at the bridge's main viewscreen. "Hang on. Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?"

As one, the fighters ceased fire, as a single vast beam emerged from the side of the cruiser—a beam which engulfed the attacked section of the spaceport in a vivid purple glow. And then, as Chek watched on in slack-jawed wonder, the entire section detached itself from the port, before—with remorseless, majestic grace—moving away under the impetus of the tractor beam.

"I'm afraid so, sir. It's impossible to say when we might collect the baristas, because while they are indeed making rapid progress towards the outer hull of their section of the spaceport, that section is now making even more rapid progress away from us."

Chek absorbed this. He considered. "Hey, yacht-guy?"

"Yes, Mr Wandoo?"

"What's the name of that other Earth-babe? You know, the more, um..."

"The more forthright young lady, sir?"

"Yeah, that one."

"That would be Mel, Mr Wandoo."

"Right. And were is she, again?"

"Blerg, sir."

"Okay." Chek swallowed. "Set a course for Blerg. But let's stop in at WandooTech R & D, along the way. I've got a feeling we're gonna need some bigger guns."