In the ice-cold vacuum of space, on the far side of the moon, out of the reach of any Earthly telescopes or satellites, a Rigellian battle-station lurked. Lurking was somewhat difficult for a craft that was about the size of Utah, but it lurked nonetheless. Deep in the heart of the station was the control room from which the invasion of the Earth was being orchestrated. In the centre of the control room, amidst clusters of display screens, and surrounded by junior officers, stood the leader of the Rigellian invasion forces. His name was Admiral Xarnax Splurmfeen. From the tip of his towering, solid crystal ceremonial war helmet to the bottom of his platform-soled, pyramidal, bejeweled battle boots, he cut a resplendent and imposing figure. Yet, despite all his finery, he was not happy.

This was no real surprise to his crew, as most of the them couldn't remember the last time Admiral Splurmfeen had been happy. This was mostly because it had been a very long time since he had been happy but was also partly due to his alarming tendency to shoot, blow up or launch into space any crew-member who happened to annoy him. Admiral Splurmfeen's low annoyance threshold resulted in very few of his crew enjoying long careers under his command. Although—to be strictly accurate—very few of them enjoyed their careers under his command, irrespective of their length.

The current source of his unhappiness was a screen displaying the remnants of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

"Who," bellowed Admiral Splurmfeen, "is the complete and utter moron who destroyed that bridge?" Rigellian is generally a harsh and graceless language, and his voice, hardened by a career of enraged rants, was particularly coarse, guttural and most of all, very loud. "Minimal damage to major infrastructure, you brain-dead blobs of rancid armpit discharge! Those were my orders! How are the scum-sucking Earth slaves going to meet their shoe quota if they're busy REBUILDING THE STINKING BRIDGE THEY NEED TO CROSS TO GET FROM THEIR STINKING HOVELS TO THE STINKING SHOE FACTORIES?" He drew a large and disturbingly spiky gun from a holster slung low on his waist and shot a passing junior officer in one of his kneecaps. The officer attempted to hop on his way, but hampered by his enormously high platform soles, soon fell over and was forced to crawl. The admiral glared at him. "Are you bleeding on my control room floor?"

"No, sir!" The officer guiltily clapped a hand over his wounded knee, before crabbing away awkwardly on one hand, one knee and an elbow.

The admiral turned his attention from the small screen displaying the infuriating bridge to the control room's main display screen, which thankfully was displaying much more gratifying images.

"Status report!" he barked. The images on the main screen refreshed and rearranged themselves as another junior officer nervously stood and began to speak.

"Admiral, all invasion objectives have been achieved, largely as planned and on schedule, with only"—he paused for a nervous swallow—"minor deviations from mission protocols." He edged surreptitiously to one side, so that his kneecaps were shielded by a convenient desk. The admiral glowered at him and didn't put away his gun, but refrained from shooting any of the officer's exposed areas, which he took as a signal to continue.

"One hundred and forty-two major cities have been attacked, with the damage mostly"—swallow—"limited to non-essential infrastructure and iconic landmarks, presumed to be of significant cultural and patriotic value to the Earthlings." Images flashed up on the main screen of a toppled Eiffel tower, a headless Statue of Liberty and a largely flattened Taj Mahal. "Casualties have also been kept to a minimum, in order to maximise the available slave population once the invasion and subjugation are complete. Most major world leaders have been captured, and although several are still on the run, we expect to have them all within another Earth day."

"And resistance?" rumbled the admiral.

"The so-called armed forces"—several of the Rigellian officers chuckled at this—"of the Earth's nation states have attempted to engage our units at many of the attack sites. They have of course been destroyed utterly. We estimate approximately 20% of the planet's military resources remain operational and these consist of small units scattered widely across the planet. They are being hunted down as we speak."

"And the insults?"

"Sir?"

"The insults, you fool! Call yourself a Rigellian? Were we able to satisfactorily insult the pathetic Earth warriors before destroying them?"

"Of course sir, forgive me. Unfortunately, the explosion in the traitor Bluxlspun's laboratory resulted in the loss of most of his team's translation work, so our access to insults in the languages of Earth was limited. However a new research team has been scanning the broadcasts of the planet's entertainment networks and they're confident they were able to supply our forces with appropriate taunts."

"Such as?"

The junior officer hastily consulted a portable data screen. "Well sir, let's see. Hmm—one particularly devastating taunt that was used quite widely was, 'Does Barry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?' and another was, 'Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.' They also utilised several particularly cutting 'Yo Mamma' taunts and said 'In your face' a great deal. Even without Dr Bluxlspun's work, the insults were all quite soul-destroying sir, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Possibly," replied the Admiral, grudgingly. "Speaking of Bluxlspun, that treasonous belch of fetid fungus-breath, what is the latest on the capsules he launched?"

The officer consulted his screen again. He'd now been conversing with the admiral for several minutes without experiencing any bodily harm, and spoke with increasing confidence. "Good news, sir. All eight capsules are reported as destroyed."

"What did you say?" asked Splurmfeen, quietly.

The entire control room fell silent. The admiral bellowing was one thing. The admiral speaking quietly was a whole other kettle of fish. Terrifying, demonic fish, with big teeth and poisonous spikes.

The officer edged further behind the desk. "Er—the capsules are reported as destroyed, sir," he replied, with distinctly less confidence.

"REPORTED!" roared the admiral, raising his gun. "REPORTED! Your HEAD will be reported as missing if you use that word again! Are they CONFIRMED as being destroyed?"

Frantically, the officer flicked through various reports on his data screen. "The wreckage of five of the capsules has been identified sir, while the other three are repor—...claim—...believ—...um. The Narguwullian units responsible for the destruction of the remaining three capsules have submitted that they were destroyed beyond any hope of recovery or identification." He consulted his screen again. "The final capsule was located and destroyed on the continent known to the Earthlings as Australia. The Narguwullian responsible was unusually emphatic about its destruction, sir. Its report reads 'The capsule has definitely bitten the farm, it is an ex-capsule, it is no more, you can kiss it's sorry posterior good-bye, it's been vapourised with a vengeance', etc, etc. There is quite a bit more in that vein sir, but there can be no doubt that the capsule was destroyed."

The admiral stomped over and placed the muzzle of his gun squarely between the officer's bulging, terrified eyes. "No doubt! No doubt! I'LL BE THE JUDGE OF WHEN THERE IS NO DOUBT, YOU SNIVELING CRETIN!" Without lowering the gun he leaned forward to glare directly into the officer's eyes. "You are now personally responsible for locating definite proof of those capsules' destruction. You will personally go to the Earth, you will personally assemble a team and you will personally confirm they are destroyed." He leaned in even closer. "If you fail"—closer still—"I WILL PERSONALLY MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE DEAD AND THEN I WILL PERSONALLY MAKE YOU DEAD, YOU DISGUSTING, RANK PIECE OF DRIED PUKE! IS THAT CLEAR?"

Finding that he couldn't seem to make his voice work, the officer tried to nod, but discovered that he couldn't do that either, due to the gun pressed firmly between his eyes. In the end his body solved the dilemma for him by fainting.

Snorting in disgust, the admiral pointed his gun at another nearby lackey. "You! Scrape up that worthless pile of dung and dump him on the first shuttle to Earth. And to think, that's supposed to be the future of the Rigellian Space Corps." Shaking his head, he stomped back to the centre of the control room.

"NOW!" he roared. "ANYBODY ELSE HAVE ANYTHING TO REPORT?"

In a dim, dark corner at the very back of the control room, a junior signals technician looked at a red light blinking on his display screen. He tugged on the sleeve of his immediate superior, who was standing just behind him. "Sir," he whispered urgently, "I'm picking up a distress beacon from a Narguwullian pursuit craft, located in the Australian theatre. Should we tell the admiral?"

The technician's superior gave this due consideration. "Are you out of your mind? I like my head exactly where it is, thanks very much. Send a couple of other Narguwullian units to investigate. Actually no, screw that—they've been acting weird. See if there's a battle-tank in the area you can send instead. That way, if they can't sort out whatever they find, they can blow it up instead."