With a wary Samantha watching on, Holly made her unsteady way over to the coffee table of their beachfront bungalow and—with a solid clank—dumped the lifeless orb onto it. Taking a seat on either side, they sat and regarded the grey, basketball-sized sphere.

"So, that's where Jessie-lott...Jesskay...um, the hologram-lady lives?"

"Jesskaylottia," corrected Holly.  "Although I just call her Jess. I guess so. Kind of. The capsule is where she's projected from. At least, when it's working."

"So, it's broken?" Samantha's brow creased. "You didn't try to take it apart, did you? Like with the vacuum cleaner? And the TV? And the goldfish?" Her daughter's desire to figure out how things worked could at times be a little over-enthusiastic.

"Of course not. Besides, I didn't have any of my tools. Jess says her capsule got shot by a Narga..."—Holly frowned in concentration, determined to get the word right—"...Narguwullian pursuit craft on the way to Earth and crash-landed on the beach here. It got buried in the sand and was too damaged to get back out. Until the typhoon washed all the sand off, that is. And then I found it. Or, I guess it found me."

"I see. How extraordinary. Of course, sweetie, you know you can't keep it."

Holly's eyes widened. "Keep it?" The concept of ownership hadn't occurred to her. Jess may be hologrammatic, curiously ignorant of a whole bunch of things she really should know about, prone to vanishing without the slightest warning, and—well, kind of—a grownup, but the thing was, Holly liked her. And, as best she could tell, between the random disappearances and odd mannerisms, Jess liked her back. She seemed to be a little out of place in this world. A little lost, a little baffled, but eager to find her way. Holly knew the feeling. So, despite both the strangeness and brevity of their acquaintance, Jess had become a friend. And given friends were not something with which Holly had ever been well-endowed, that made her precious. And not something to be owned. The capsule, on the other hand? That was just a thing. And if owning it meant keeping Jess around, Holly was all for it.

"Why can't I keep it? I found it." 

"Well, yes," hedged Samantha. "You did. And I know you made friends with Jess and everything, but I don't think that makes it yours. Not as such. I'm sure the government will have all kinds of scientists and engineers and very clever people who will want to examine the capsule and meet Jess too. That's why I called the local police and told them about her and, er...it."

"You did what?" Holly was mortified.

"Well, I would have called NASA or maybe some of those nice GalCon space-people, only I don't have their number. And I don't think off-island calls are working yet. But I spoke to a lovely officer who said she'd radio the mainland and make sure the right people were informed."

"But, Mum—"

There was a knock at the door.

"And in the meantime, she said they'd send somebody around to pick up the capsule, to keep it safe.  Isn't that nice?"

Holly got to her feet. "Nice?"

His Alpha Centaurian homeworld a dwindling blue-green disc in the star-yacht's rear viewport, Chek lounged back in the plush driver's seat and selected a drink from the tray offered by a service droid. He downed it, selected two more, put on some light music and called up the yacht's computer.

"Hey, ship-guy?"

"Yes, Mr Wandoo?" came the instant reply, the advanced quantum processor's tones crisp and efficient.

"GalNet sweep, digi-dude." Chek's extended bender had left him a little out-of-touch with current events. "Catch me up the goss, byte-boy. Scan all galactic media networks, news agencies, GalCon diplomatic reports and any other high-level stuff from whoever we do the comms security for."

Encryption technology was a lucrative—and often quite useful—component of the suite of services offered by the WandooTech corporation.

"I want the scuttlebutt, the lowdown, the inside story. Catch me up on what's been going down, big man. Particularly re those Rigellian dickwads."

"Yes, Mr Wandoo. Preliminary scans indicate Rigel has launched a flotilla of vessels, including two battle-ships, presumed by most analysts to be an invasion force headed for the planet Earth. However, the Chief Executive of GalCon has issued a stern warning to the Rigellians, advising that as a Level Two world, any aggression towards the Earth will be met with extreme disapproval."

"Extreme disapproval?" Chek drained one of his drinks. "Ha!  I bet that has old Xarny Splurmfeen quaking in his platform-soles."

"In addition," went on the computer, "GalCon has dispatched diplomatic envoys for high-level discussions with Rigel, however latest reports indicate the envoys have been taken captive and are in Rigellian custody. Their condition is unknown." 

As Chek took a sip of his third drink, his expression became uncharacteristically serious. "Whoa. Messing with GalCon bigwigs. So, Splurmfeen means business. Looks like we're in for galactic war."

While this would no doubt do be a boon for WandooTech's share-price, Chek found it hard to feel too enthused. The loss of billions of lives would be a high price to pay for a healthy bottom-line. 

"Okay, so that's what the forces of dickwaddery are up to. How about the good guys? Find me some baristas, ship-dude."

"Yes, sir. As I am sure you are aware, the location of the barista known as Cam remains unknown. Several unconfirmed sightings have placed Mel and your sister in the Blergian system. And spiking trends on social media indicate Cora and Max are currently located on a spaceport orbiting Vanoo Prime, adjacent to the Crab Nebula."

"Gotcha, yacht-man. And which one of those can we get to quicker?"

"Blerg is several thousand light-years closer to our current position than the Crab Nebula, Mr Wandoo."

"Right, right. And who's there again?"

"Mel, Mr Wandoo."

Chek nodded purposefully. "Right, gotcha." The nod slowed a little. "And which one is she again?"

The tone of the computer's reply contained just a little more resigned forbearance than a disembodied voice produced by a digital entity really should. "Mel is the somewhat shorter of the two female baristas, Mr Wandoo. And the possessor of the more...forthright personality."

The even a stupendously powerful quantum AI had to pause before coming up with an appropriate word to describe Mel told Chek everything he needed to know about which barista she was.

"Got it. Ship-dude?"

"Yes, Mr Wandoo?"

"Set a course for the Crab Nebula, baby."

"You still here, meatbag?"

Halfway through the door to the reception room of Admiral Xarnax Splurmfeen's central command, Strarl Fabulon pulled up short at the sight of SCOOP7, standing among the hustle and bustle of various Rigellian and Ice Warrior aides, staffers and assorted hangers-on. His eyes narrowed.

"Of course I'm still here. I'm PGN's war-correspondent. And there's a war coming. What are you doing here?"

"Me? Oh, just the usual, Fabulon. Scooping your sorry excuse for a journalistic butt. Again."

Fabulon's mind raced. Surely the wretched robot couldn't know about the duel? That information had cost him some serious frostbite, as a consequence of the numerous selfies he'd agreed to take with Kral Vanar's secretary. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you'll find out, Fabulon. You'll find out when you read my story, with all the ins and outs of the upcoming duel between Splurmfeen and the Earth's ambassador. Ha! Didn't think you were the only one with an inside source, did you? Turns out Vanar's worried about the admiral hogging all of the media spotlight, so he's agreed to give me exclusive access, in return for a profile piece on The Galaxy Today. He'll be out soon to fill me in on the juicy details. Go home, Hackulon—you've had your day."

Fists clenched, teeth gritted, Fabulon fought down the almost irresistible urge to wipe the smug smile off the robo-journo's face—preferably with a chair.  As satisfying as it might be, Scoop's armour-plating would render the exercise pointless. No, if he wanted to somehow turn this debacle to his advantage, he had to think fast. Particularly as he'd just seen a couple of reporters from the Galactic Broadcasting Corporation skulking in the corridor. If there was one thing he hated almost as much as rival journos from his own network, it was rival journos from another network.

"Oh, I'll go home, fridge-face. I'll go home to anchor The Galaxy Today again, with a healthy pay-rise to boot. Turns out Lullna's taken a job as media liaison for the Arcturan Chancellor, so HQ has offered me my old job back. Luxury dressing room, bucketloads of cash, non-stop pampering—I can't wait."

While the majority of this statement was true, the last three words were a complete lie. Since his coverage of Rigel's last invasion of Earth had exposed him first-hand to the rough-and-tumble life of a war-correspondent, Fabulon had discovered within himself a taste for adventure. For danger. For being on the front-line, in the firing-zone, and in harm's way. But most of all, in particular, he'd come to love the weather-beaten, world-weary appearance all this tended to facilitate. He rocked the rugged look.

The very last thing he wanted was to go back to being a pampered, molly-coddled studio journalist. Even the most skilled makeup artists just couldn't get the fatigue lines or the haunted, hollow eyes exactly right. He suppressed a shudder at the very thought. But he was counting on Scoop not knowing that—and also on him feeling automatically more entitled to any opportunity that came Fabulon's way.

And judging by the indignant look on the robot's metal face, he'd counted correctly on both points.

"What? That's an outrage! I'm twice the journalist you'll ever be! Ten times! Twenty! Typical bloody biological favouritism. Obviously I should be the new anchor. After all, I just had my charisma algorithms updated, and these chrome cheekbones are made for TV—literally."

"I agree."

"Besides, the public love me, and I've done the hard yards and...wait, what did you say?"

"I said I agree, Scoop. The job should be yours." With an enormous effort, Fabulon summoned up his best approximation of a modest smile. "You've shown that you're...that you're..."—through sheer force of will he managed to not grit his teeth—"the better journalist."

"Well...yeah. I am." The gleaming features radiated suspicion. "That's obvious. I'm surprised to hear it from you, though."

"Oh, I know how we both stack up, Scoop. All too well. But, listen—maybe we can help each other out."

The suspicious look didn't budge. "I'm listening."

"Look, clearly I'm out of my depth here." May as well lay it on thick. "But if you could maybe throw me a bone and count me in on your exclusive, then I'd be happy to put in a good word for you back at HQ. You know, for the anchor position. It'd be the least I could do."

The look lingered a moment longer before being replaced with a grin. "A joint-byline? Fine. Provided my name comes first, you've got yourself a deal, meatbag."

At EJ's bidding, Cam and Flenson made their way to the battle-station's central control room—still bearing the scars and blast-marks of Splurmfeen's last few maniacal minutes there, but more or less functional again. They both took a seat, their eyes instinctively drawn to the room's main display, upon which the enormous image of a yellow hardhat rotated slowly against a field of black.

For a moment, Cam was lost in recollection, thinking back to the last time he'd been here, watching on helplessly as EJ engaged in a digital battle of the minds with the hyper-advanced AI that had previously controlled the station. A battle he had come perilously close to losing.

Outmatched, overwhelmed by the AI's security protocols and a mere hairsbreadth from complete digital obliteration, in a strange twist of irony EJ had been saved by the primitive malware inadvertently incorporated into himself when he downloaded the Earth's internet.

Primitive, but devious beyond anything the AI had encountered before. Combined with EJ's quantum brain, this rogue Earthling code—viruses, trojans, worms and more—had proven too much for the AI's security, allowing EJ to hack into and co-opt its very own protocols, turning them back on their creator.

But not without cost. EJ's capsule, the little flying vessel that had housed his essence throughout his short but eventful existence, had been burnt out during the battle, leaving him victorious but trapped, housed within the confines of the station's central computer—albeit a computer controlling a vessel the size of a small moon.

Cam was roused from his recollections by the disembodied voice of the former hologram.

"Okay, you're both here. Good."

"Yep, present and accounted for," replied the barista. "Now, can you please tell us where we are?"

"Well, okay.  But you better brace your—"

"EJ!" snapped Flenson. "Don't start that again—otherwise when we get back to civilisation, I'll tell Marilyn you hooked up with half the vending machines on this station."

There was a moment of shocked silence. Marilyn—the stolen Rigellian battle-tank into which a lonely EJ had uploaded a compilation of digitised human female head-scans, inadvertently creating himself a girlfriend in the process—was the jealous type. And had big guns.

"You wouldn't!"

Flenson crossed his arms. "Try me. I'll even tell her some of the photocopiers got in on the act.  So, just consider us permanently braced, okay? Now, spill."

"Fine, fine. As you guys know, I've been running starfield scans ever since we got here, trying to match our position to the galactic maps in my database."

"Yep," agreed Cam. "But with no luck." Eyes widening, he sat up straighter.  "Wait—are you saying you've got a match?"

"No!" replied EJ, with what his audience couldn't help but feel was inappropriate enthusiasm.  "No matches, whatsoever."

Flenson and Cam exchanged a perplexed look. "So...you don't know whereabouts in the galaxy we scrunched to?" asked the former.

"Nope."

Cam slumped back again. "Well then, what are we doing here, if you don't know where we are?"

The enthusiasm became distinctly smug. "Oh, but I do."

"EJ," warned Flenson, "if you don't start making sense I'm going to find your nearest control panel and do something very inappropriate to it. You can't simultaneously not know where we are in the galaxy and know where we are!"

"Oh, but I can. Although, to be strictly accurate, what I actually know is where we're not."

Flenson got to his feet. "Right, I'm off to find that control panel."

Cam held up his hand. "Zlep, wait. EJ, what do you mean?"

"It's very simple. I don't know where in the galaxy we are, because I finally figured out where we actually are."

"Which is?" growled Flenson, raising the screwdriver he'd acquired from somewhere.

"Where we are," crowed EJ, "is not in the galaxy!"