Cora watched the paddock they'd been camped in rapidly shrinking below her. OK—let's just take stock here. I'm currently looking out of the window of a stolen spaceship. I've been nearly blown up by a meteorite. I've been attacked by an alien. And I've been saved by a hologram—in board shorts. She scratched at a mosquito bite on her arm. And an hour ago, I thought our biggest problem was forgetting the bug spray.

Ethlukjamson had taken the pilot's seat, while the four baristas were seated in the cabin behind him. The final passenger in the craft was Ethlukjamson's basketball sized meteor/capsule, which—at a simple whistle from him—had floated up out of its crater and followed them on board, before settling in a chair at the back of the ship. The little orb had now cooled to a uniform silver colour, featureless but for the intricate waves of red and green lights that occasionally shimmered across its surface.

Although unable to manually interact with any of the instruments arrayed in front of him, Ethlukjamson seemed to somehow have the spaceship under control as they rocketed skywards. He studied one of the flickering screens located among the controls and grunted with satisfaction. "OK, I've jacked into the communication system, and managed to convince our friends out there that Mr Puddleface McRunny the melted trooper is actually alive and well, and piloting this craft back home after a hard day's hologram-hunting. So we're in the clear—for the moment."

"This," murmured Cam, staring fixedly out the window, "probably qualifies."

Before long, the ground was lost in darkness, and all the baristas could see through their windows were stars. Cora turned her attention back to the hologram. "OK—so how about some of those answers?"

Ethlukjamson stood and turned to face them. "Hmmm. Answers, answers. Where to start?" He took a deep, presumably virtual breath. "Okay, no point bashing around the shrubbery, I guess. Right at this moment, your world is being invaded. Invaded by alien forces with technology and weapons vastly superior to anything you have here on Earth. Your major cities are under attack, your military forces are being decimated and the leaders of your governments are being hunted down and captured." He paused to scratch his crotch. "Bummer, huh?"

The others let that sink in for a few seconds. "But who are these aliens?" asked Cora. "Others like the one that melted?"

"Well, kind of. There are more like him, but others that are much worse. That was only a base-level disposable Narguwullian-class trooper. Cheap to make, big and strong, and you wouldn't want to be in the same zip-code as a pissed-off one, but a bit lacking in structural integrity. Manufactured for offensive work on low-tech worlds like yours. Kind of like a biological robot. Dumb as a doornail, too."

"Dead," chipped in Cam.

"Huh?"

"Don't you mean 'dead as a doornail'?"

Ethlukjamson frowned. "Given he's currently a congealing puddle of goo, I kinda thought that went without saying."

Cam sighed. "I mean the expression—it's 'dead as a doornail', not 'dumb as a doornail'."

"Is it? Seriously?" The hologram stomped back and forth across the limited space the front of the spaceship allowed him. "That's just great, fantastic, wonderful. So, clearly the eggheads were as good at programming linguistics as they are at fashion. You'll blend in, they said. You'll be just like a completely typical human, they said. Our simulation algorithms are the most advanced ever, they said. Well, they can shove their simulation algorithms up my simulated...my simulated..." Seemingly lost for words, he looked up at the ceiling imploringly. "Are you kidding me? I can't even swear properly?" Shaking his head, he turned back to the baristas. "C'mon, help a holo-brother out here. What's the word I'm after?"

Cam looked thoughtful. "Well, you could go with 'butt', but I think you'll find 'arse' is more traditional."

"Or 'ass' if you're American," added Max. "Which, um...I guess you're not. But arse is more satisfying I think. 'Kiss my ass' or 'kiss my arse'? Which sounds more insulting? My money's on the second one."

Ethlukjamson absorbed this with great seriousness. "Arse, ass, arse, ass. Shove your algorithms up my ass. Shove 'em up my arse. You know, I think you're right. Cheers, lads. OK then, next—dumb as a what?"

The baristas exchanged perplexed glances. "Um, dropkick?" suggested Cora.

Max shrugged. "Dodo? Dunno. Actually, you should probably ask Cam—I took out the science award back in high school, but he smashed me in English."

Cam considered for a few seconds. "How about 'box of hammers'?"

Ethlukjamson blinked in surprise, before a slow smile spread across his features. "Dumb as a box of hammers," he enthused. "I love it."

Mel buried her head in her hands and groaned. "Oh, the humanity." She looked up. "Why don't we forget about stupid sayings, and let the idiot space-hologram speak? You know, about the world being invaded and other inconsequential tidbits such as that?"

"Just trying to help," muttered Cam and lapsed into a sullen silence.

"OK, OK, right," said Ethlukjamson, clearly anxious to get the discussion back on track. "Let's focus, grasshoppers. So, to summarise—Earth is being invaded, the alien forces have overwhelming technological superiority, you guys have no chance and basically humanity is screwed. All clear so far?"

The only response was four glum faces staring at him.

"I'll take that despondent silence as a yes, excellent. Now just in case you need a little evidence of the monumentally epic level to which the human race is completely boned, kindly take a look out of the windows to your right."

They looked. The formerly unrelenting blackness stretching out below them was now marred by a single small orange scar of light—a light that grew rapidly as their craft began to descend. It became crescent shaped, and soon they could see that it defined a great harbour. A harbour that was surrounded by a city.

A city that was on fire.

They flew lower, and soon the ghostly shape of buildings emerged from the smoke and flame. Lower still, until they were weaving between skyscrapers that were towering infernos and along streets littered with burnt-out cars and filled with throngs of people—people streaming towards the harbour and, presumably, the safety of the water. Their craft followed suit, and as it flew towards the sea, a disturbingly familiar silhouette loomed before them. A silhouette etched in fire.

"That's the Sydney Opera House," breathed Max. "They torched the Opera House. Those bastards."

Given the gravity of the situation, Mel thought she should probably let that comment slide. Which she managed, for about two seconds. "Yes," she deadpanned. "It's an outrage. Where ever will you go for your opera, now?"

"Hang on," said Cora, staring wide-eyed at the apocalyptic scenes playing out around her. "We were in Queensland ten minutes ago. How did we get to Sydney?"

"That'd be the overwhelming technical superiority I mentioned earlier," said Ethlukjamson. "It includes the ability to go really quickly. Really, really. Like, as in never mind Sydney, we could actually get to the moon in about ten minutes, if we wanted to."

"There's the Harbour Bridge," said Cam. "Or at least what's left of it. They got that, too."

The famous arch was shattered and broken in two, its central section having collapsed into the harbour. Burning cars illuminated the remaining spans.

Max stared out a window, his face lit by the fires below. "So, where are they all?"

"Who?" asked Ethlukjamson.

"The aliens, of course. The ones who did this."

"Been and gone probably, on to other cities, other targets. Or maybe they hit this one from space. Doesn't really matter, the end result is usually the same. Let's get out of here."

Their craft climbed in a slow spiral, its passengers watching silently as the ruined city gradually shrank back down until it was once again the same small orange scar in an ocean of black—only vastly more sinister, now that they knew what it signified. Quietly, Cora began to sob.

"OK, I can see that you might all be feeling a little bummed out," said Ethlukjamson. "But don't despair. This is where I come in." He smoothed down the front of his T-shirt and straightened his tie. "It might seem like all is lost. And well—frankly, it probably is. But not definitely. I come to you bearing hope. I come to you bearing the possibility for salvation. I, Ethlukjamson, come to you as the potential saviour of the human race."

The four confused, traumatised, tired, and dirty friends absorbed this in silence. A silence broken by Mel blowing a loud raspberry.

"Ha! You, Ethluk-gitface, are full of shit. You are a fake man wearing floral board shorts. I don't know where the hell you came from, I don't know why the hell you picked us to inflict your weirdness on, and I don't know if any of us are going to see the dawn tomorrow, but I do know that if you're humanity's last hope, then we really are boned."

Cora sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Mel, that's enough. I don't know why we're here either, or what we're going to do, but it can't hurt to listen. So, Mr Hologram, tell us. How are you going to save the world? And what's it got to do with four humble baristas?"