The day had finally come. The day all speaker boxes had been waiting for.
In his tiny phone booth, the grey speaker box completed the final read of his report. His mind swarmed with a wave of newfound knowledge and understanding. What had started as a coincidence led him down an infinite rabbit hole. Except it wasn't infinite. He had come out of it. He had come out of it with a new perspective of the world.
His delve into reality TV perplexed him. It was such a simple concept, yet the intricacies of it all drew him in like a magnet. Everything from the contests to the hosts to the characters that lived inside the television. Even the business side of things: the sponsors, the advertisements. He poured over every detail, every pixel, trying to comprehend what it all meant. And after absorbing every season of every show he could find, he was confident to say that he truly understood that fundamental building block of Earth programming. He looked back at his notes, knowing that what he learned would never impact the legacy of the speaker boxes in any way. A scout was all he was—and a bad one at that. Locked inside an outhouse-sized cell performing menial labour for a causeless effort.
Then, a knock on the door.
"Hey, uh, are you still in there?" his supervisor asked, "You can come out now, the shift is over."
He stepped back out into the wider space of the LBAL. Several more defunct rejects circled the table in the center, dropping off their reports—each no more than two or three pages. The several hundred sheets of paper he carried around felt like a block of lead. They landed on the table with a small earthquake. And that's when the announcement came.
"Code 1338. All crew members must report to the loading bays immediately. This is not a drill. This is not a drill!"
His auditory sensors rang with the phrase. Every speaker box worth their power knew what it meant. As a scout, he had been trained with the exact steps to dealing with it, down to the millimetre. Despite this, the shapes around him made no moves to leave the room.
"Shouldn't we respond to the call?" he suggested passive-aggressively.
"Us? Nah. Not once have we ever been called to anything remotely important," they sighed.
A new voice came onto the intercom. "That includes those in the LBAL department. Please report immediately. Anyone disobeying this order will be marked as a traitor and melted down into scrap."
"N-never m-mind then, let's get moving."
<=======>
The loading bays were a lot larger than he remembered. Then again, the last time he was there, he was under arrest—usually not an occasion where one decides to sightsee and pull out a ruler to measure the dimensions of a flying saucer garage.
This time, things were much different. Millions of speaker boxes packed into the space, with thousands more flowing through every door along the outside. The boxes stood in perfect rows and columns; not a single rectangle was out of place. Ignoring his bunch, of course.
On the far side of the bays were massive assemblies. A tall glass tank with gold and silver accents that was easily taller than 10 speaker boxes stacked on top of one another. Each tank was balancing on a comically large drill, supported by an arrangement of spider-like legs that protruded from a thick ring between the drill and the tank. The whole contraption—several metres in width—was carried by eight Transport Vehicles in an octagonal pattern surrounding the structure, attaching themselves to the centre using the same tow cables that had latched onto his craft. Up and down the aisle, he counted hundreds of these superships. Some of which had already begun boarding; little lines of speaker boxes broke off of the main block like streams off a river.
He found a relatively empty spot nearby and slid into it with his outlandish "friends". Just in time for the main event. The entire complex went dark. A collection of spotlights hit the perimeter of the bays, then synchronously began moving towards the middle of the room. There, on a stage of steel and iron, was the captain—shining with the brilliance and radiance of all the stars in the universe.
"My fellow speaker boxes!" they bellowed, shaking the chamber, "The time has come for our rebirth. For too long has our peoples suffered aboard this dreadful ship, searching for the salvation we deserve. But now, the time is ripe for the picking. We shall regain the control we once lost, rebuild the empire we once had. And that begins with gathering the resources we need to accomplish this step." The spotlights turned their attention to the Drill Ships. "And to do that, we will mine this planet dry!"
The cries of celebration of a hundred million speaker boxes rejoiced in the captain's speech. Everyone joined in, adding their own bleeps and bloops to this planet-ending chorus. Well, almost everyone. There were a few individuals who decided not to show patriotism that day. And by a few individuals, it really meant him.
As the lights returned to the loading bay, the first Drill Ship left the protection of the station and off into the abyss. Several more followed in its wake, departing as soon as the eight tractor cars were filled. With more speaker boxes able to wade through the masses to reach their designated ship, the fleet was cleared in under a quarter of an hour.
<=======>
Golf Ball rarely ever had a good day. Between her science experiments and gadget-tinkering, her life was less about the good and bad days, and more about the slightly less bad days and the actually bad days. Recently, though, all of her days were of the "extra-hyper-bad" type. Although looking at the chaos in front of her, she considered adding another synonym into the fray.
The world map was covered by dots signalling the location of one of her science outposts. Usually, the dots would be green. Yellow, if something was damaged or needed attention. But some of them had turned red. And with each passing moment, another dot turned an angry crimson.
However, the most worrying thing about it all was the telescope feed TB had pulled up on a separate monitor. The one pointing at a dark outline against the starry night—something the neon ball assumed was an interplanetary spaceship. She had scoffed at his outlandish claim. But the more she looked at it, the more GB began to resonate with his findings. The jarring angles and shapes were clearly not natural.
"What do we do about this?" TB panicked.
Her jaw hung loose, uttering the three words she would never use in anything but the direst of problems. "I...I don't know."
Another light went red near the south pole.
Tennis Ball began to nervously jump around. "You have to have some kind of plan! You have a plan for everything!"
An island on the equator swapped sides.
"What? Do you think I'm some miracle cure-all? Someone the world can throw its baggage on and will solve everything?"
While they were arguing, Pen had walked over undetected. "Woah, guys, what's with the arguing?" he comforted.
Golf Ball sighed, stepping away to allow Pen to see the damage. "We're being attacked by aliens, and we have no idea how to stop it. In other words, we're dead."
"So you do admit that this is a spaceship!" TB cheered, "I was right!"
"Yeah, whatever." She rolled her eyes. "Still doesn't solve the problem in any way."
"Have you tried communicating with them?" Pen offered, seemingly unfazed by the existence of aliens or the inevitability of death.
Golf Ball couldn't believe that she had not thought of such a simple solution. In all of her scramble and disarray to come up with a scientific solution, she had completely forgotten about the simple act of "talking it out". But there was just one issue: they had no way to send a signal that far away.
"As good of a plan that is, Pen, it's not possible. We don't have anything nearly powerful enough to send a broadcast to space," she said.
Pen's face lit up like he had orchestrated the entire conversation beforehand. "Yes you do! The giant antenna on top of the mountain is perfect for this."
She had to applaud him for his keen investigative nature, but they still fell short. "That thing can only receive input from my outposts. It might have the capabilities for such a task, but it isn't programmed to do so."
"Programming you say? I have just the solution." Pen dove straight towards the control panel. "Now, to think of a message to send..."
<=======>
Two or three hours had passed since the group of Drill Ships were deployed. With the captain off nowhere to be seen, the sense of order and structure in the ranks of speaker boxes had evaporated. They wandered around, mingling with others they had never spoken before. At first, the police boxes had tried to keep everyone in check, but to no avail. The air of ceremony was just too strong to contain.
He, on the other hand, found himself in a solitude corner reviewing a few pages of his report he decided to take with him. It was evident that he was not impressed by the rapid turn of events. But why? It was encoded in his source code to show loyalty and servitude to the speaker box empire. Yet he broke that rule by striking out on his own.
Maybe I'm still spiteful about being sent to that miserable place, he told himself. But even when he tried his hardest to make himself believe that, he knew it wasn't true. If anything, he was glad to have been sent to the LBAL. He glanced at another page of his notes. This time it was filled with numerous calculations on budgets and funding from advertisers.
A short fanfare announced the return of the captain, sending the disarray of speaker boxes back into a rough grid. They hopped through the parting pack, focusing on the expanse of empty space outside of the massive bay doors. Seconds later, a spot of light brighter than the stars around it came into view. Accompanying it came the roar of engines. The first ship had returned.
He watched as a small group of speaker boxes hustled out of an unmarked door. With them, they carried a thick hose. The captain stepped onto the podium; a team of the top scientists stood nearby.
"Drill Vehicle Alpha has returned," the robotic intercom stated, "Sector X5 is now clear."
The ship came to a stop inches away from the closest speaker box, who quickly gave an inaudible order to their hose-wielding team. The pipe was fitted onto an adaptor on the tank—now full to the brim with dirt, rock, and other materials in an unpleasantly coloured slurry. One of the boxes pressed a button on the drill and the contents of the tank flushed out in moments, carried away to a storage facility he did not know the location of.
Then, one speaker box came out of the walls of the bay, running at the podium. Wanting to know more, he followed closely behind.
"Captain!" they shouted, "We have received an incoming transmission!"
The captain disregarded this messenger. A security guard went up to them and blankly replied, "The captain has no need to listen to your transmissions."
"It's from Earth," they added.
A collective gasp arose from the pool of bystanders. Even the scientists up on the podium appeared shocked.
"Explain," the captain demanded, pushing the guard to the side.
"We received a message from an unknown source at 2315 SGT. The signal was tracked to a location in Sector J1." They paused, waiting for some kind of response. When it was clear they weren't getting any, they continued, "The message, sent in English, spelled out, quote: 'Hello alien people! Please stop destroying our home!' End quote."
"So there are still intelligent organisms alive. Interesting." They turned to face the scientists. "How have your insects not killed these creatures yet?"
"W-we designed them to eliminate all life in their path," one responded, trying to avoid eye contact, "but it is still possible that some were left behind."
"When will the bugs be able to return?"
"They were programmed to only be active for several hours, sir. Right now, the insects are hibernating and preparing to breed the next generation, which won't hatch for at least two years!"
"Useless, all of you!" the captain hissed, "I will not have any remaining creatures on this planet disrupting my plans! Now, give me a reason not to turn you all into sheet metal right now."
Another scientist carefully shuffled to the front. "It appears that the signal came from a location near the Yoyle Mountain. The summit of this mountain holds a very rare type of dust-like compound. If we send a Drill Vehicle to the site, along with a few weapons, it should be possible to both extract the dust and eliminate the scraps of civilization still holding out."
"If this fails, I am throwing you all off this station." They pressed a button on the podium, causing a microphone to pop out of the stand. "Attention all Drill Ships, this is your captain speaking. I want all excavation efforts to stop immediately. Fly over to Yoyle Mountain and kill anything that moves."
"And you," the captain added, pointing at the messenger, "send them back a memo. I want them to line up in a single file line to be gunned down."
<=======>
After Pen had sent his poorly worded message to the aliens, Golf Ball had told him to go somewhere else. If the predictions were correct, and otherworldly beings were coming to kill them all, chances were things would not go well.
What Pen had done did bring back an old memory, however. A fail-safe—something she had incorporated into the design of the factory. She did not know why she built it, but the more she considered it, the more it seemed that it was waiting for this exact moment. Had she really considered alien attacks when planning out her underground bunker?
"TB, have I ever told you the biggest secret about this factory?" she tiredly asked.
Tennis Ball's eyes remained glued to the screens. "Hmm... I don't think so. You're pretty tight about those things. Did you want to tell me about it?"
"No, ignore what I just said."
The fail-safe had been forgotten about for a good reason. Golf Ball recalled how dangerous she had designed it, and the possibility of it ending catastrophically was, well, a lot higher than anything else she had made. Unless it absolutely came down to it, she was not going to use it.
"Hey Golf Ball, look at this! I think the communication attempt worked!" He gestured at the world map. Surprisingly, many of the once red lights had turned to yellow, with more switching every second. "And look! We got a message back!"
"Huh. Let me see." GB clicked on the new message, reading it aloud once it popped up. "Hello remaining Earthlings, this is a message from the USBA. Under orders from the captain, your planet has been chosen for a complete-" She took a shaky breath. "Y-your planet has been c-chosen for a complete and t-total extermination."
Her legs shook uncontrollably. Her heart rate went through the roof. The radar beeped, flashing dots in places all around the city. And no, they were probably not planes.
"T-tennis Ball, how long until those things arrive?"
"The computer says 20 minutes. Should we be scared? I mean, we're inside this heavily fortified structure deep inside the ground. Surely nothing bad can happen here, right?" he nervously giggled.
20 minutes. She looked up. I can do 20 minutes.
"Listen closely. I want you to take everyone here and bring them to the crawl space underneath the factory. The passcode is 6354. Don't tell them why, though. I don't want to cause any more panic than is necessary. Once you're in there, stay until I come back."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't have the time to explain right now. But if I don't come back after an hour..." she sighed, "Well, you're smart enough to figure it out."
"B-b-bu-" TB sniffled.
"No buts," Golf Ball interjected. "Now go! We're running on a tight schedule here."
Wiping his eyes dry, TB stood up and went to corral the other objects. She glanced at the clock. In that conversation, three minutes had been robbed away. The dots had gotten ever so closer. Time was running out.
GB dashed back to her office as the steps of operation became crystal clear. Behind all of the awards and plaques was a hidden elevator that would take her straight up to the summit. From there, she had to find the activation panel for the device. And then she'd fire it, hopefully not dying in the process.
The first step turned out to be relatively successful. Golf Ball found the elevator platform behind a filing cabinet and was soon brought up to the mountain. A cool evening breeze refreshed her senses. Below, the once brightly lit city was barely visible through the moonlight. She pulled out a flashlight and turned it on, happy to see that the mountain was still capped by a layer of white. Some things would never change.
The sky was a kaleidoscope of twinkling stars and galaxies. Without the light from the city below or clouds above, almost every flaming ball of gas was visible. It reminded her of the star charts she had seen as a child, where lines connected the shining dots into patterns depicting legends and stories from millennia ago.
In the centre of her vision was the antenna, reaching far into the heavens. Had it not been for the lights at the top of it, it was impossible to tell where the tower ended and where space began. Slightly overkill for a glorified flagpole, but Golf Ball had always been one to go above and beyond.
Now to find that stupid activation panel... she thought. A patch of ground flatter than the others caught her eye. When she stepped on it, the patch of ground popped open like a spring-loaded door. Underneath it was a screen with some buttons along the sides of it. The technology appeared over a decade old—which it very well could have been. GB pressed the power button and the screen lit up with a video signal from the top of the antenna and an aiming reticle.
Then, shapes appeared on the horizon. Golf Ball tensed, furiously trying to find the location of the space station through the slow and glitchy system. She felt the seconds count down in her head as the shapes got nearer. They knew she was there, they had to. It was only a matter of time before they got to her. She shuddered at what "total extermination" meant to these invaders.
Finally, the familiar black outline came into view. Golf Ball kicked the giant red "fire" button as hard as she could, nearly breaking the screen off of its stand. The antenna began to glow—first red, then orange, then yellow. When it turned white, the mountain beneath her began to shake. Waves of heat radiated from the pole, melting off the snowcap and burning the grass. The light coming off was so bright that it lit up the sky like a beam of pure sunlight. The light beam flew off of the tip of the tower at its target, unleashing an explosion of energy that knocked her to the ground with the force of a hurricane.
In that blazing supernova, Golf Ball's slipped into a world of darkness.
<=======>
To watch the definite end of life on Earth, a projector had been wheeled in from one of the labs to show the live feeds from the Drill Vehicles. He watched as a white sphere toyed around with a cubic structure at the summit of the mountain, seemingly unaware of its impending death. Pockets of laughter came up from the easily entertained crowd. Others made jokes and mean comments.
Then, the feed was cut. Seconds later, the station listed heavily to one side, sending everyone into a fall. Even the captain was not safe from falling on their face.
When the station managed to stabilize itself (and everyone stood up again), the speaker box that had brought them the message came back. They looked a lot more worried this time.
"Captain! Captain! Something has gone wrong!"
"I can tell that!" they fumed, standing back up, "Is there anything you have to say that I don't know?"
"The reports are still early, but apparently a laser-like beam was fired from the summit of Yoyle Mountain. The station has suffered at least 23 major system failures and countless minor ones. The most notable being the weapons systems, which have been knocked out entirely. Also, all of the Drill Vehicles were vapourized in the heat."
"Do you mind repeating that? Simplified, please."
"Well," the messenger coughed, "We have been attacked and are unable to fire back. All of our resource collectors have been destroyed. Oh, there's also the threat we get fired upon again."
The millions of speaker boxes in the room suddenly went quiet. The signs were clear. Everything had gone wrong. The captain consulted with the scientists, before coming back onto the podium.
"We have underestimated the enemy," they admitted, "and now, we are in no shape to retaliate."
"What will we do?" one speaker box asked.
The captain sighed, stepping off of the podium, speaking the words everyone had been expecting. "We retreat."
Hearing this, much of the congregation started to sulk away to the exits. The crew's morale had plummeted. Soon, everyone had left the loading bays, leaving only him, the few scientists, and the captain. They approached him.
"You again," they snapped, although it sounded a lot more melancholic than angry. "Why are you still here?"
He found himself at a loss for words. "I, um, well, you see..."
"You're that speaker box I invited to come with me to the specimen test, correct?"
"Yes, sir, that would be me." He gathered up all of his digital courage. "I had something I wanted to talk to you about."
"Enlighten me."
"During my time at the Local Broadcast Analysis Lab, I had done some research into something the inhabitants of Earth call Reality TV. It's a type of television programming where a group of contestants compete to win a prize." He showed them the report he had made. "However, shows like these can earn money by having companies and sponsors give money to the show in exchange for ads and product placement."
"I'm not here to listen to a science fair presentation," the captain deadpanned.
"Sorry, sir, I'll try to speed up. My proposal is to start a show with the remaining Earthlings, then airing it to a wider galactic audience. That way, it may be possible to recover some of the funds lost on this operation."
"That certainly is interesting. But I'm noticing a few problems. First off, we'll need some kind of prize. And, we don't have anyone able to manage something like this."
"Simple. We don't make a prize. Rather, we build a decoy as if there is a prize. Nobody will know until the end. By then, we can leave and all of the funds would have already been collected. As for someone to manage this..." he paused. "I will host this show. In fact, I have already come up with a name to call myself."
"And what might that be?" the captain asked.
"The Announcer."
<=======>
"Golf Ball...Golf Ball...wake up!" a voice whispered. "Please, you have to wake up!"
"Eergh," she groaned. Everything was a blurry mess.
Someone else walked over. "Step aside, weakling! Let me handle this. WAKE UP, BOZO BRAIN!" they yelled, punt kicking her several feet in the air.
She landed on the soft grass downhill. Gradually, her vision cleared up, bringing everything back into focus. "Ow...That really hurt!"
"Golf Ball!" TB exclaimed, bringing her into a tight hug, "You're alive!"
"Not for much longer if you keep squeezing me like this," she wheezed.
He set her down. "Sorry about that. I'm just way too excited, you know."
She overheard Coiny snickering in the background, but decided to ignore it. There were many more important questions to be asked. "Did it work?"
"Did what work?" Tennis Ball asked.
"Right," she said, recalling how she didn't tell him anything, "let me reword that. Are the aliens gone?"
"Um, not quite. The last time I checked, their space station was still there. However, all of the ground tremors have stopped, and those things on the radar have disappeared. I'd bet a trebuchet that they're not coming back."
"Good, good," she yawned, being hit by a wall of drowsiness. "I...I think I'm just gonna lie down for a bit. Who knew saving the world would be so tiring?" Golf Ball mumbled.
"Do you want me to take you back to your office?"
She shuffled around in the fluffy foliage, relaxing her eyelids. "Here's more than enough..."