Closing the door to her suite, Uva Kwoin pondered her summons to the control room. She also wondered why the poor fellow who had delivered the message looked so anxious. And was walking in that strange way.
In one respect, the summons was convenient, as she'd been planning to tear shreds off Splurmfeen over his treatment of SCOOP7. She'd had the battered and now lifeless journo-bot carried carefully back to her shuttle by a couple of Rigellian soldiers, in the hope that GalCom techs may be able to revive him, once she returned to Galactic Central.
So, it was convenient. But it was also impolitic and, she suspected, intentionally insolent. Mere admirals did not summon GalCom councillors, regardless of the firepower they commanded. They might respectfully request a moment of a councillor's time, if it was convenient, but they most certainly did not summon them.
Splurmfeen was up to something. Or possibly, even more worryingly, he suspected something. So, as much as it rankled to comply with the arrogant moron's instructions, she would do so. She had to find out what he was up to. Putting on her most diplomatic expression, she set off for the control room.
"Mr Fabulon, Mr Fabulon!"
The journalist resisted the urge to open his eyes, as his face mask still needed at least another ten minutes to fully set. He managed to growl a surly, "What?" at his aide, without moving his lips.
"It's the admiral, Mr Fabulon. He's changed his mind! He's agreed to be interviewed, and is offering you unrestricted access to the control room, for the next stage of the campaign."
Ah, so even that hard-headed military so-and-so can't resist the old Fabulon charm. Took him long enough. "Good," he replied, with minimal facial movement. "Mask off in half hour. Then do make-up. Then do interview. Now, go away."
The aide cleared his throat. "Er, the admiral would like you there now, Mr Fabulon. He was very insistent."
"Pfft," responded Fabulon, showering everything in the vicinity, including the aide and the two Rigellians with him, in a fine mist of Betelgeusean lunar mud. "Admiral wait. Me busy."
"I know, Mr Fabulon, and I told the admiral as much. So he sent along these two soldiers, to help you - er, clear your schedule."
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The Four Baristas of the ApocalypseScience Fiction
In the Earth's darkest hour, unexpected heroes are stirring. Stirring their coffee, that is. When aliens invade, four baristas on a camping trip hardly seem the most likely saviours of the world. But thanks to a hologram with no fashion sense, some...