"Oh, man. Hey, yacht-dude?"

"Yes, Mr Wandoo?"

"That ship up ahead looks a hell of a lot like a freaking Rigellian battlecruiser—please don't tell me those douches have beaten us to the barista yet again."

"As you wish, Mr Wandoo."

Silence reigned on the bridge as Chek sat and fumed and watched the blue-green world of Blerg—and the hulking, beweaponed craft orbiting it—grow steadily larger.

"But they have, haven't they?" he blurted. Chek didn't really do silence.

"It would seem so, Mr Wandoo."

"Ah, splarfing nardwarkles," he swore, in the process achieving the not insignificant accomplishment of shocking a quantum-grade artificial intelligence. "Well, let's at least see what the dweebs are up to. Scan all local communication channels, byte-boy. I want all the goss on the Earth-babe—where she's at, what's she's up to, whether they've bagged her yet, etc. You know, all that kind of stuff."

"And should I scan for information on your sister as well, Mr Wandoo?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah—may as well."

"Yes, sir. Commencing scan."

Motioning to a service-droid for a drink, Chek contemplated the kilometre-long, shark-like shape of the cruiser, as he pondered the presence and actions of both it and its sister-ship back at Vanoo Prime.

It was hard to escape the conclusion that—despite all appearances to the contrary—the Rigellians were smart enough to learn from their mistakes. If they were going after Earth again, it made sense they'd want to take out the primary thing that stood in their way last time. And that thing—well, things—had been the baristas. Kwoin and Flenson and EJ, the Australian PM and a host of other characters, including Chek himself, had played their part but even with an ego as rampant as his, he knew all too well who the key figures in the resistance had really been.

Four baristas. One was lost in space. Two had been captured by the Rigellians, right under his tanned and well-proportioned nose. And now, it seemed the fourth was about to share the same fate. If she hadn't already.

Squaring his shoulders, he drained his drink and tossed the empty glass over his shoulder (where another droid, stationed there by the ship's computer for just such an eventuality, caught it before it could smash anything important). "Not if Chek freakin' Wandoo has anything to do with it," he declared.

"Sir?" queried the ship.

"Never mind, quantum-man. How are those scans coming along? Have the dickwads bagged the babe?"

"Sir, transmissions between the cruiser and the Rigellian forces on the planet are somewhat garbled. And not a little frantic. However, it seems clear Miss Mel and Miss Wandoo are proving...problematic."

Chek nodded, as recollections of both the women in question appeared in his mind's eye. "I can imagine."

"Indeed, sir. Current communications indicate the situation is escalating rapidly and—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Spare me the deets, dude. I just wanna know, are the babes on the big, blue ball or on the boat?"

"Sir?"

"Sheesh. For a killer AI, you can be a little slow on the uptake, computer-man. Read my lips—are the Earth-lady and Kiko still on Blerg or have the the bad guys taken 'em to the cruiser?"

"Oh, I see, sir. I can confirm both the young ladies are still very much planetside."

In response to the first morsel of good news he'd received in quite some time, Chek's uncharacteristic frown morphed into a much more typical grin. "Excellent. In that case, ship-dude, I think it might be time to give our new toy a little test-run. Crank that baby up, and then lock and load."

There was a pause. "Forgive me, sir, but I can't help but feel this might be an appropriate time to remind you the device in question is a prototype, and has never been tested in field conditions."

"Gotcha. Consider me reminded, nanny-dude."

"And if I may jog your memory just a little further, sir, I'm sure you'll recall the R&D's chief's rather emphatic protests at your requisitioning of the device, and furthermore, her strenuous denial of any responsibility on her part, were you to actually fire said device."

"Don't sweat it, ship-dude. Those egg-heads are always crapping on about safety protocols and critical failures and the end of life as we know it and all that kind of stuff. Makes 'em feel important. If they had their way we'd never try anything fun. But if it's a field test they want, I say we give it to them. When it comes to risking life and limb in the pursuit of science, progress—and sticking it up those Rigellian tossers—Chek's your man. So, line up the evil dweebs and let 'er rip, big guy."

"If you insist, Mr Wandoo."

"I do, digi-dude, I do. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Sir, given the circumstances, and the length of time required to give you a comprehensive answer, I'm going to assume that question was rhetorical. Now, might I suggest you brace yourself?"

"Baby, I was born braced."

"Very well, sir. Target acquired. Activating in three...two...one...now."

"Uh, ma'am?"

From her position behind the 20 centimetre-thick blast-shield which comprised the front wall of her central command post, perched atop the perimeter hastily thrown around the smoking wreckage of what had formerly been one of Blerg's finest restaurants, the commander of the local Rigellian forces lowered her binoculars and turned to glare at her subordinate. "What?"

The soldier swallowed. Even if the news he bore had been good—which it wasn't—that glare did not bode well for his short-term future. He wasn't particularly concerned about his long-term future, as recent events made him somewhat doubtful as to whether he had one.

"It's the battlecruiser, ma'am."

The commander rolled her eyes. "Those officious, offworld arseholes? What do they want now? Their butts kissed? I dunno, bloody home-planet heroes, forever zooming about the place, thinking they're better than us poor yokels out here in the provinces. You tell 'em we have the situation well in hand and we'll let them know when we've captured the offenders. Got it? You tell 'em that."

"Yes, ma'am. Only, I can't, ma'am."

"What? Why not?"

"Well, uh...we've lost communication with the cruiser, ma'am."

"Well, get it back, moron. And then bugger off and leave me in peace. I've got to come up with a plant to somehow neutralise a superhuman and her accomplice without vaporising the whole continent, because for reasons beyond my comprehension the bigwigs want 'em alive. And you yammering in my ear isn't helping."

"Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. It's just that...well...we can't restore communications with the cruiser."

With an effort, the commander fought down the urge to smash her binoculars over the soldier's head. Partly because, despite her irritation, she was aware of just how un-officer-like that would be. But mostly because said smashing would no doubt damage the soldier's immaculate, towering, tetrahedral hat and as a Rigellian she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Plus, these were her favourite binoculars, and Rigellians had very hard heads. She settled for a robust jab in the chest.

"Don't give me that. There's no 'can't' in a Rigellian soldier's vocabulary. Now, get your butt back to the damn communication post and get those damn communications damn well restored."

"Yes, ma'am. Only, we can't, you see, because..."

Her movements swift and sure, testament to years of experience (and hours of practicing in front of a mirror) the commander drew her sidearm and placed its barrel directly between the soldier's bulging eyes.

"Son, you seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that my patience has not yet run out. Allow me to disabuse you of that notion. You've got about five seconds to give me a really excellent, rock-solid explanation of just what it is you're babbling about, otherwise I'm going to seriously upgrade the ventilation to that sorry pile of sludge you choose to call a brain. Now, tell me—why precisely is it you can't restore communications with the cruiser?"

The soldier swallowed. "Uh, well, it's because...um—"

"One," intoned the commander.

"You see, all channels went offline, so—"

"Two."

"—we sent satellite drones to investigate and, well—"

"Three."

"—we thought the first drones must have been faulty, so—"

"Four."

"—we sent some more and, er...they confirmed—"

"Four and a half."

With a sigh, the soldier screwed his eyes tight shut and leaned into the barrel. "Ma'am, maybe just shoot me now. I think that might be easier than explaining."

The concept and almost certain existence of other planes of reality—higher dimensions, alternate universes, what have you—had long been known to scientists across the galaxy. Equations didn't lie and the truth they revealed to the academics was of an infinity of creations out there beyond their own, a fantastically complex web along whose strands stretched probability curves containing an endless array of existences, worlds in which could be found everything that is and ever was and all that could ever be. It was, they all agreed, over a drink or four at the end of a long week of theorising and thought experiments, way cool.

However, the key to accessing these worlds, no matter how real the mathematics might insist they were, remained elusive. Beyond providing some scientists with new and excitingly big words for their grant applications, and others with a lucrative sideline in writing the forewords for science-fiction blockbusters, alternate universes had little impact on people's day-to-day lives. A bit like the last squeeze of toothpaste in the tube or the coin that rolled under the fridge, the mere knowledge of their existence had never provided sufficient motivation to justify the sheer effort and inconvenience required to get at them.

Until, that is, the idea—and potential benefits—of the multiverse came to the attention of an obscure yet brilliant Tau Cetian scientist known as Barnarth Warffle. Quantum physicist, theorist, dreamer and hardcore, dyed-in-the-wool gastronome, Warffle was a man of great genius and enormous appetites, his hunger for knowledge matched only by his hunger for, well...food. Food of any and all kinds.

One not especially significant or auspicious day, at around about afternoon tea-time, as he'd stood in the staffroom of his research lab and contemplated firstly the stark and empty shelves of the fridge, which once again signified a serious lack of anything worthwhile to put on his crackers, and secondly the long and annoying distance to the corner store, it occurred to him that—based on the rock-solid, undeniable evidence of the equations—somewhere out in the multiverse there was a Barnarth Warffle who did have something delicious with which to adorn his crackers. In fact, there must be an uncountable number of Barnarth Warffles lurking in other universes, all munching away on condiment-cracker combinations of unspeakable deliciousness, unimaginable scope and infinite variety.

Smug bastards.

Moreover, if Warffle wanted some of that tasty stuff (without having to make the tedious walk to the shop), all he had to do was figure out how to reach across the multiverse, access one of those alternate realities—and somehow nick it.

Or, rather, exchange it. Even across dimensions, there was no such thing as a free lunch, and the equations demanded that if Warffle was going to take something from another universe, then for the sake of multiversal balance, he'd damn well better give something back. Which was fine by him—his lab contained all kinds of crap that'd be no good whatsoever on a cracker. In return for sorting out his munchies, the multiverse could take its pick.

So, he got down to it. Fuelled by nothing more than dry crackers and determination, calculating and crunching long into the night, he thought and theorised and reckoned and refined until, in a final inspired spurt of gluttony-fired genius, he found the answer. The means—the instrument—by which he could bridge the heretofore unbridgeable divide betwixt realities. An astonishing, unprecedented piece of technology he called the divergent unreality device.

Otherwise known as the DUD.

As he later explained, he was somewhat sleep-deprived when he came up with the name.

Although a work of unquestionable brilliance, the DUD was a device in theory only. To build a working prototype would take capital. Capital Warffle did not have and which was not forthcoming from any of the usual sources. At best, he was laughed from the rooms of grant application committees, at worst, he was thrown. Frustrated, obsessed, driven to distraction by the thought of all the untasted delights of the multiverse, lurking just beyond his reach, he grew more and more desperate in his search for support until at last—at rock-bottom—he found some unexpected benefactors.

Ever on the lookout for new weapons of mass destruction, the Rigellians saw big potential in the DUD, and gladly forked over the cash to fund Warffle's obsession—on the condition any and all developments would be for their exclusive use.

The finishing touches were being applied to the first prototype when GalCon's intelligence network rumbled the project, and—through means both unofficial and clandestine—put an end to it. Captured and disgraced, Warffle soon died of a broken heart (although his cholesterol levels may have also played a part), while the prototype was lost—or so it was thought.

Blessed with deep pockets and minimal ethical oversight, WandooTech's R&D department managed to track down and 'acquire' the alleged device on the blackest of black markets and subsequently spent years trying to unlock its secrets—with painstaking and limited success. Research was only interrupted when without warning the heir to the WandooTech empire swept into the Future Weapons Division and requisitioned the device, on the simple basis that it was the one closest to the door.

To the blaring of multiple alarms, blinking in the red glow of the emergency lighting, Chek picked himself up off the floor of the bridge. "Ship-dude—what the hell just happened?"

"Running diagnostics now, sir. Preliminary data suggests the sheer bulk of the target acquired by the DUD resulted in a massive drain on the ship's power supply. The fusion core has burnt out, resulting in multiple hull breaches and apparent catastrophic system failure. Backup power is 19% and falling. It is difficult to say how much longer life-support can be maintained."

"Bummer." Chek flopped back into his chair. "Hey, I don't suppose there's any chance of a drink while the repair droids do their thing?"

There was an infinitesimal pause, during which, were the ship's computer to have eyes, it would be very easy to imagine it rolling them. "Forgive me, Mr Wandoo. It would appear perhaps I have not made the perilous nature of the situation clear. Allow me to try again. The ship is beyond repair. It will explode within minutes. And if you do not make you way to the escape pod immediately, you will die."

Chek nodded. "Right. So, no drink?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

Getting to his feet, he sauntered over to the escape pod's hatch. "Man, you'd think the eggheads could've at least steered me towards something that wouldn't take out my own freakin' ship. Bloody eggheads—so irresponsible." He opened the hatch and stepped inside. "Hey, yacht-guy?"

"Yes, Mr Wandoo?"

"It's been real, dude. Chek ya later. Ha!"

"Farewell, sir. It's been an honour to serve..." The modulated digital tones trailed off, as the computer realised the hatch was closed and the capsule had launched. Way down deep in its most fundamental sub-processors, the phrase ungrateful wanker just had time to form, before the sub-processors, along with the rest of the computer and the entire ship around it, were transformed into an incandescent fireball.

Orbiting several hundred kilometres away, the battlecruiser glowed yellow in the light of the explosion.

And then kept on glowing yellow.

Watching from the window of his pod, as it soared past on its planetward trajectory, Chek's mouth fell open. He'd seen a lot of things in his time. Some seriously weird and crazy shit.

But, he reflected, as he responded to the opportunity provided by his fortuitously open mouth by cracking open the the minibar and putting a drink in it, he was pretty damn sure he'd never seen any shit quite as crazy as an entire Rigellian battlecruiser made out of cheese.