"Mum?"

"Yes, Holly?"

"Who's that man on the TV?"

"That's the Secretary-General of the United Nations, dear."

"Oh. How come he has a cushion tied to his back?"

"Sweetie, I hardly think the Secretary General of the United Nations is likely to have a...hmm, so he does. How odd. I'm sure I don't know."

"And who's the other one? The one with the big shoes and the funny hat?"

"That's one of the Rigellians, dear. One of their high-ups, no doubt."

"He doesn't look very high-up. What are they doing?"

"I believe the secretary-general is officially surrendering Earth."

"Oh. Okay. Is that why he's wearing a 'Rigel Rules' T-shirt and doing that little dance?"

"Um. Well..."

"No, Holly." From the doorway of the room Holly and Samantha had been assigned, Spoonduckle Grenthar stood and frowned at the television screen. "That's not why. He's doing those things because Rigellians are small-minded tyrants who take pleasure in the humiliation of others. He's doing them because, quite frankly, Rigellians are arse..."—the little man caught sight of Samantha's disapproving frown—"...uh, asking Earth's leaders to abase themselves in a petty attempt to appear superior to them."

Unmoved by both the secretary-general's travails in particular and the often incomprehensible activities of adults in general, Holly turned from the screen and regarded the councillor with solemn eyes. "They didn't come. I thought they would. I thought the baristas would come and save us, just like they did last time. And that maybe Jess and me could help them. But they didn't. Why didn't they come?"

Grenthar pondered how best to answer. It had to be with the truth. An uncertain future faced them all, and this was no time for obfuscation or sugar-coating. "I'm afraid the Rigellians have them, Holly. Well, apart from Cam, of course. I've just had a dispatch from Galactic Central; Cora and Max were taken from a spaceport at Vanoo Prime and at last report Mel was surrounded by Rigellian forces on Blerg. So, I'm afraid we can't rely on the baristas this time."

In silence, they sat and absorbed this grim news.

"Well, what now?" asked Samantha, at length. "What's to become of us?"

"Oh, don't worry." The councillor gave them his best attempt at a reassuring smile. Samantha wondered if perhaps he had indigestion. "I have a plan. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration. It's perhaps more the beginning of an outline of a plan. In any case," he beckoned to someone standing out of sight beyond the doorway, "allow me to introduce Tiffany."

Fresh from the surrender ceremony, still regaled in his finest dress uniform, Xarnax Splurmfleen leaned back into the plush leather of the UN Secretary-General's former office chair and regarded the New York skyline through the expansive picture window of the UN Secretary-General's former penthouse office suite.

"Lower," he commanded.

The UN Secretary-General, crouched on all fours and acting as the admiral's footrest, scrunched down a little lower.

Having in one fell swoop achieved that which had proven so elusive on his last visit to Earth, now the undisputed master of the planet he had so long burned to conquer, the one and only world to ever have besmirched his otherwise flawless record of victory, Splurmfeen took a moment to savour the fruition of his long-thwarted ambitions.

And failed.

Unaccountably, he found himself feeling a little...unsatisfied. Unfulfilled. Perhaps even a touch—he could barely bring himself to even think the word—depressed.

It had all been so easy. Too easy. Not that conquering primitive Level One worlds was generally difficult—far from it. In the vast majority of cases, Earth last time around notwithstanding, they were literal pushovers, their laughable military forces no match for the might and technical superiority of their Rigellian conquerors.

But the thing was, they were usually satisfying pushovers. Fun pushovers. Noisy and explody pushovers, their primitive units charging into battle heedless of the overwhelming odds, to be summarily blasted into sub-atomic particles just as was right and proper and in the natural order of things.

Not this time, though. Because Earth had given up. Just like that. No noise, no explosions, no cathartic and therapeutic carnage. No fun, whatsoever. It was maddening.

Earth was conquered. The baristas were captured, or as good as. The billions of Earthlings he planned to subjugate, to punish and humiliate, were defenceless and at his mercy.

Which begged the question, why wasn't he doing precisely that? Why was he sitting here staring at a bunch of pathetic buildings the natives had the audacity to label 'skyscrapers' and contemplating—he was unable to suppress a shudder—his feelings.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"You there."

Unsure whether the parameters of his new furniture-based role stretched to speaking, it was a moment before the secretary-general replied. "Um, yes?"

"Tell me, what is it people on this planet do when they're feeling a little...you know, when they can't quite...uh, when they're in need of something of a..."

"A pick-me-up?" ventured the secretary-general, feeling distinctly in need of one himself.

"Yes," confirmed Splurmfeen. "Of course, I'm only asking for a"—he racked his brain—"for a friend. Yes, that's it. One of those. Obviously, I have one. Several, in fact."

"Let's see." The secretary-general considered. "How about a drink? I find a stiff brandy quite restorative after a hard day in the General Assembly. There's a decanter in the bureau if you...uh, that is, if your friend would like a glass or two."

Although just about recovered from the physical effects of his aborted duel with Earth's ambassador, Splurmfeen's mental scars still lingered. "Er, no." His stomach roiled at the thought of a drink—he'd rather die. And that was coming from someone who had actual experience being dead. "No, this friend of mine isn't a drinker. What else have you got?"

"Well," ventured the secretary-general, "my therapist is rather good."

"Your what?"

"My therapist."

Splurmfeen considered this. "What the fudge is a therapist?"

The secretary-general was surprised—but only for a moment. His brief experience with Rigellians did not suggest a people with a deep connection to their emotional side. Or even, for that matter, an emotional side with which to connect. "Well, ah...it's someone you meet with. Someone you spend time with in order to feel better."

"Oh." Understanding dawned on Splurmfeen's face. "You mean a prostitute."

The secretary-general blinked. "Uh...no. Not at all. You don't sleep with your therapist. Well, you're not supposed to, anyway. No, you see a therapist to deal with any negative feelings you might be experiencing."

"Right. By punching them?" hazarded the Rigellian.

"Punching them?"

"Yes," said Splurmfeen. "It's one of the ways I usually deal with negative feelings. I find it quite effective, for the most part."

"I, ah...I can imagine. But, no, you most definitely do not punch your therapist."

"Shooting them in the kneecap, then?"

The secretary-general sighed. "No. You neither hit nor shoot nor sleep with your therapist. You talk to them."

"Ah, I see." Splurmfeen nodded sagely. "And then you shoot them."

"For the last time, no. You just talk to them. You tell them all about how you're feeling and they give you strategies on how to cope with life and improve your mental wellbeing. You...um, your friend should really give it a try."

The Rigellian frowned. It all sounded like a steaming load of fruitcake to him, but then, what did he have to lose? "Fine. Have this...therapist brought to me."

"Oh, she has quite a long waitlist, I'm afraid. She's very popular. In fact, I'm not even sure she's seeing new..." The secretary-general's words trailed off as the pressure of the admiral's feet on his back increased.

"You know," said Splurmfeen, "I can't help but notice my new office lacks a doormat. How do you feel about a change of role?"

The secretary-general swallowed—and pulled out his phone. "I'll have her here within the hour, sir."

"Very good," rumbled the admiral. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"Lower."

"I've just spoken to the pilot, Ambassador. We'll arrive at Earth within the hour."

"Excellent, captain, excellent. Nothing quite like the green grass of home, hey?"

"I suppose so, Ambassador. I just not sure how pleasant a homecoming it's going to be, with the Rigellians in charge. I doubt they'll give us a warm welcome."

"Oh, warm schwarm. The Rigellians can stick their welcome up their tailpipes, old boy. The planet surrendered, which means we're not at war, so as Earth's ambassador I'm perfectly entitled to go back and swan about the place to my heart's content. You know, diplomatic immunity and all that nonsense. So, swan I shall."

"Yes, but to what end, Ambassador? With Earth already surrendered, what can you possibly hope to achieve by going back?"

"Oh, you know, captain. This and that. Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. Seeing the fam. Having a Moreton Bay bug or two. Catching up with old acquaintances. That sort of thing."

"Ambassador, surely—"

"Oh, and while we're at it, we might also see what we can do about getting the place un-surrendered. I'm thinking maybe something along the lines of an underground resistance movement."

"What? But, Ambassador—"

"That's just for starters of course. Then we'll probably need a bit of guerrilla warfare and a healthy dose of civil disobedience before we even start to think about an insurrection."

"An insurrection? Ambassador, I—"

"Yes, I think one of those should be just the ticket. Glad to hear we're on the same page. You special forces fellows are trained in all that kind of palaver, aren't you?

"Well...yes, Ambassador, but—"

"Excellent. You'll make a fine number two, then."

"Ambassador, I—"

"Right, that's settled. Now, be a good fellow and shut up, would you? I suspect inciting rebellion could well be a tad tiring and there's probably just time for a doze before we arrive."

Uva Kwoin raided the well-stocked bar of Zebular Prax's ship for supplies, parked herself in the pilot seat and watched the blue-green orb of Earth grow larger on the main viewscreen. Weaponless, friendless and lacking any kind of coherent plan, she was nevertheless determined to do everything in her power to help Earth—and stymy Rigel.

She had her formidable brain. She had an extensive list of contacts. She had the kind of experience only decades negotiating the cutthroat and labyrinthine GalCon bureaucracy could provide. And in her hand she had something that was—for her, at least—far more powerful than any weapon.

Her communicator.

Smile tight and grim, she made her first call.

"Nice ship, Sis." Lounging back in the pilot's seat, Chek clicked his fingers and glanced around the bridge. "Your drink droids are a bit slow off the mark, though. What's the deal?"

Kiko giggled. "Oh, Chekky, you big silly. I don't have any drink droids."

"Old school, huh?" Chek rolled his eyes. "Fine, I guess I can mix my own. Where's the bar?"

"I don't have a bar either, you big duffer."

He stared at her with a look of blank incomprehension. "What do you mean?"

"Well, a little  while back I had my aura read by this ever-so-lovely shaman on Sirius Beta, and she said drinking would impair my ability to reach a state of stellar alignment and harmony. Obviously, I couldn't have that, so I had the whole bar taken out and replaced with a meditation zone. It's just peachy in there, Chekky. You'll absolutely love it, I know. Once your essence gets a good dose of aromatherapy and womb-sounds you won't ever want another nasty drink again, I just know it. Would you like to give it a try?"

"Uh, maybe later, Sis. My stellar alignment is all good for now. Luckily, I have some emergency supplies in my escape pod, so, I'll be back in a—"

"Stay right where you are." Fresh from the shower, towelling her hair dry, Mel walked onto the bridge. "You're not going anywhere until I get some answers."

Half out of his chair, one look at the barista's expression was enough for Chek's proto-protest to die on his lips. Meekly, he sat back down.

"Right." Mel ceased drying and hung the towel around her shoulders. "First, how the hell did you get the Rigellians to let us go?"

Meekness gone in an instant, Chek grinned and puffed out his chest. "Well, you see—"

"Actually, never mind that. The more important question is why did you get the Rigellians to let us go?"

"What?" The grin faded. "Why? Because you two were surrounded, that's why. You would have had to smash your way through half the Rigellian forces on the planet to get out of there."

"Exactly," said Mel, "and that's just what we were doing when you showed up and ruined things. I had the short-arses just where I wanted them. What the hell do you think you were playing at? What do you even want?"

"I...uh..." Having anticipated amazed gratitude at his rescue act, Chek found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Inspiration struck. "It's the other baristas," he blurted.

Mel scowled down at him. "Cora and Max? What about them?"

"The Rigellians have 'em. Earth needs saving again, so I was on my way to round all you guys up, but the bad guys got those two first. The other Earth-dude is still AWOL, so that means we're kind of, um...it."

Mel glared at him for a few seconds longer—and then sighed. "I dunno, I turn my back for five minutes and everything goes to hell in a handbasket." She made a curt gesture. "Out of the driver's seat, bud. We've got some work to do."

Chek considered protesting this peremptory tone, but only in the way an amoeba might consider a hat—he was aware the concept existed but knew perfectly well it wasn't for him. In any case, he had some supplies to collect from his pod. He got to his feet.

"All yours, barista-babe," he replied, as he headed for the exit. "And, hey—what's the deal with your new friend? I didn't realise Blergians went in for hitchhiking."

"That's Roffa," replied Kiko. "Isn't he just a darling?"

"Roffa? Yeah, yeah, he's great, I guess. The question is, what's he doing on our ship?"

Kiko's sunny features formed into the closest approximation to a guilty expression they could manage. "Well, Mel...um, that is to say we kind of got his restaurant blown up on top of him. So, after we dug the poor thing out, the least we could do was bring him with us, rather than leave him behind with all those mean old Rigellians. He's ever so grateful, and to show just how much, he's whipping us up a scrumptious dinner."

"You nabbed us a Blergian chef? Sweet." Chek became aware of a faint but delicious aroma emanating from the direction of the galley. "I think this calls for some pre-dinner drinks."

"Ma'am?"

Back down on Blerg, the Rigellian commander turned from her perusal of the now empty and silent wasteland that used to be one of the planet's finest à la carte restaurants and with vacant eyes regarded the soldier who had addressed her. "Hmm?"

He held up a communicator. "I have high command on Rigel on the line. They'd like a status report."

"I see." Her movements slow and reluctant, the commander took the proffered device. "Tell me something, soldier."

"Ma'am?"

"What do you think I should lead with?" 

The soldier blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Which development should I start my report with? The fact that we are now the proud owners of a battlecruiser made of cheese? Or that we just allowed the barista Admiral Splurmfeen explicitly ordered us to capture—along with her accomplice—to waltz out of here without offering the slightest bit of resistance? Which tidbit should I go with, do you think?"

"Ma'am, I don't think it's my place—"

"Oh, never mind propriety, son. Now's hardly the time. Propriety is something of a luxury when you no longer have functioning kneecaps. I would genuinely appreciate the advice."

"Well, ma'am, in that case I would suggest opening with the cheese battlecruiser thing."

The commander nodded. "Because that leads into the whole thing about Chek Wandoo threatening to turn all of us into cheese, if we didn't let his sister and the barista go?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Right. And do you think I should omit mentioning that the weapon Wandoo was brandishing—the cheese-maker, as it were—looked remarkably like a hairdryer?"

"I think that would be wise, Ma'am."

"Yes. Yes, you're probably right. Thank you, soldier." She glanced down at the communicator clutched in her sweaty hand. "Oh, one more question."

"Ma'am?"

"Am I crazy, or do you think perhaps being turned into cheese might have been the better way to go?"