The Four Baristas of the Apocalypse (sample)

Chapter 12

Splurmfeen's internal pressure began to rise.  I know what I'd like to do with my hand, right now. How the hell does she know about that?  "A mere technicality, Councillor.  Australia is mostly desert, largely uninhabited and completely insignificant in the context of the Earth's geopolitics—such as they are.  In any case, you can rest assured that the Australian leader will be found very soon."  And then I will personally barbecue whatever is left of him.

"Of course, of course—very reassuring.  Tell me, Admiral, what are the two primary criteria that must be met, in order for your invasion to be classified as successful?  The details seem to have slipped my mind for the moment."

Splurmfeen had once been to a cocktail party after a diplomatic event, at which Uva Kwoin had won a bet by reciting  entire sections of the GalCon rulebook by request, pausing only to knock back a shot of  Arcturan whiskey between sub-sections (diplomats really knew how to party).  A detail slipping her mind was about as likely as light escaping a black hole.  You really shouldn't play dumb Councillor—it doesn't suit you.

"The 99% rules, of course," he replied, fighting hard not to grit his teeth.  My face is killing me.  "99% of the population and 99% of the habitable area of the planet must be conquered, within three standard galactic days."

"Ah yes, of course.  Such charmingly simple little rules.  And the consequences of not achieving those targets?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you Councillor, as no force under my command has ever had that problem.  Possibly you could remind me?"  Two can play at this game.

Ah, so now you're playing dumb.  Or maybe you're not playing.  In your case, Admiral, it's hard to tell.  "Hmm, let me see.  I believe the regulations state that any Level One world which can hold off an attack from a Galcon member for more than three days, will be judged to have shown that they deserve reclassification as Level Two.  With all the benefits and protections that entails—automatic GalCon membership, immunity from conquest, representation in the Galactic Drinking Championship, access to GalaxyNet and the postal service, listing in the Guide, etcetera.  Quite a prize for a speck of irrelevance such as Earth."

"Indeed it would be, Councillor.  Unfortunately for Earth, it is a prize they will never attain.  Their future consists of working to further the glory of Rigel."

The "glory" of Rigel, thought Kwoin (as a highly trained diplomat, she was able to think in inverted commas).  Turning planets into sweatshops.  Some glory.

She had been one of the architects of the 99% rules, which had been designed, along with a host of other regulations, primarily to stem the seemingly endless Rigellian thirst for glory, shoes and hats.  So far they had been a dismal failure.  Rigel had simply picked easier targets and hit them harder.  Half a hundred worlds had fallen before them and the size of their empire was becoming a threat to the balance of the Galactic Conglomerate.

Rigellians were largely idiots, in her experience, with the Admiral being a prime example.  They were lacking in political skills, diplomatic finesse and social niceties.  But they were determined, capable, had big chips on their shoulders and loved a fight.  Idiots or not, they were unquestionably dangerous and their unrelenting growth had to be stopped.  Her greatest wish was that someday, somewhere a Level One planet would be able to hold them off—unfortunately, it didn't seem as though Earth was that planet.  It wasn't over yet, though, and she wasn't done needling Splurmfeen yet, either.  It was just too much fun.

"So tell me Admiral, what percentage of the population have you conquered?"  Let's throw him a little bone here.

"99.6%."  Splurmfeen replied with great satisfaction, a wolfish grin replacing his crumbling smile.  Stick that up your manicured posterior, you witch.