"Admiral, such a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine, Councillor. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Admiral Xarnax Splurmfeen sat at his imposing black marble desk, in the spacious great cabin of his quarters. Behind him, through a floor to ceiling window, the moon hung against the star-spangled inky blackness of space, the lunar terminator creeping slowly but perceptibly across its surface, as darkness and light engaged in their eternal battle. Forcing himself to smile warmly at the immaculately dressed woman seated across the desk from him, it was only a matter of seconds before his facial muscles began to ache from the unaccustomed exertion.

"Thank you for making the time to meet with me," said Councillor Uva Kwoin, returning Splurmfeen's smile with a much more natural one of her own. As if you had a choice.

"Please Councillor, no thanks are required. It is always a pleasure to see you." As if I had a choice.

"Tell me Admiral, how is your invasion progressing?"

"Flawlessly Councillor, flawlessly. What else would one expect from a lowly Level One civilisation? It's not as though a backwards, isolated, inconsequential speck of irrelevance like Earth was ever going to give the forces of Rigel any trouble. Honestly Councillor, I'm afraid the Galactic Conglomerate has wasted your valuable time in sending you to check on such a one-sided little war."

I love my job, thought Splurmfeen. I love the conquest, I love the authority, I love the insults and I really love the shouting. But if there's one thing I hate, it's having to play nice with the scum-sucking, parasitic, waste-of-space GalCon bureaucracy.

"Oh, you know the GalCon, Admiral. We bureaucrats have to justify our existence and keep busy somehow. Making sure that the correct forms have been filled out, checking that the regulations have been followed, reporting back to the ruling council and so on. All the little tasks and minutiae that keep the galaxy running."

Councillor Kwoin steepled her fingers and regarded the admiral. Oh, how I love my job, she thought. I love the travel, I love the authority, I love the clothes and I really love the expense account. But if there's one thing I really love, it's grabbing hold of the stick that high-end military boneheads like Splurmfeen invariably have stuck up their rear ends, and giving it a really good twist.

"And of course there are always those rare, unfortunate occasions when the invasion of a newly discovered civilisation fails to meet the conditions required by GalCon. Then of course there is no end of paperwork—organising reparations to the planet in question, recovering GalCon expenses, ensuring those responsible for the failure are brought to account." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. "But obviously Admiral, you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure an invasion conducted by such a capable, experienced officer will satisfy all of GalCon's criteria." And if not I'll be all over you like a Rigellian at a hat sale, you arrogant moron.

"You are too kind, Councillor." Smug hag. "Of course the criteria will be met. Earth's so-called armed forces have been crushed and their governments captured or destroyed. Complete victory is imminent and very soon you will be in a position to ratify Rigel's dominion over the Earth."

He's right, of course, reflected Kwoin, more's the pity. But she wasn't about to let the Rigellian know that she knew that. She batted her sculpted eyelashes. Let's at least see if I can wipe the fake smile off his cretinous face, before he strains something. "And what of the land mass known as Australia, Admiral? I've heard a little rumour that its leader remains at large and that it therefore technically remains unconquered. No doubt this is just a little hiccup and you have the situation well in hand?"

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.

"Excellent, excellent," enthused Kwoin. "Well done." And now let's take the bonehead's bone away. "And the habitable area?"

Splurmfeen's satisfaction disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. He cursed internally. Of course the evil crone would ask that next. He made a show of consulting a data screen on his desk. "Well Councillor, I'm sure you can appreciate that at times like this it can be a little difficult to be precise. The fog of war and so on. Nevertheless, while the current exact figure has yet to be confirmed, it is definitely in the vicinity of 99%."

"In the vicinity? Goodness me, you have been busy. But tell me Admiral, what percentage of the Earth's habitable area does this Australia constitute?"

There was a pause. "A small percentage."

"Can you be a little more precise, Admiral? We bureaucrats love our figures."

Splurmfeen sat and fumed. His trigger finger started to itch. One of the Councillor's kneecaps sat tantalisingly in plain sight, and he longed to blast it—just a little blast, just enough to wipe the smug, polite expression off her smug, immaculate face. With a significant effort, he fought down the urge. The consequences of harming a GalCon representative didn't bear thinking about. Disturbing her hairstyle would probably be enough to have him court-martialed, dishonorably discharged and then launched into the heart of the nearest sun.

"I believe it's somewhere in the vicinity of 5%," he grated, his smile now a death mask's rictus.

"5%? Hmm, let me see." Kwoin frowned in apparent calculation and then smiled brightly. "So if my arithmetic is correct that means you have at most conquered some 95% of the Earth's land area. Does that sound correct, Xarnax? May I call you Xarnax?"

Splurmfeen took several deep breaths, and with an enormous effort of will crushed down the almost uncontrollable urge to jump across the desk, grab the Councillor by her tailored lapels and toss her out of the nearest airlock. His smile became slightly demented. "Please do, Councillor. After all, we are old friends. And may I call you Uva?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Xarnax. Not unless you put a Councillor in front of it and a Kwoin after it. Even between old friends like us, it's important to acknowledge the complete and utter authority that GalCon holds over all its members. Including Rigel. Don't you agree? Besides, we bureaucrats are sticklers for protocol."

Splurmfeen felt his eyes actually begin to cross with the effort of not exploding. "Very well, Councillor. Yes, it is true that we have not yet officially conquered 99% of the habitable area. But we still have some two Earth days left before the deadline and even as we speak I have scouts closing in on the Australian leader. His capture and the subsequent surrender of Australia will see us achieve our target of 99%." As we always do, despite GalCon's meddling.

"We shall see, Xarnax, we shall see." OK, now let's see if I can really push you over the edge. "Moving on to other issues, what can you tell about these capsules Dr Bluxlspun sent to Earth?"

The Admiral's eyes bulged, as a vein on his temple began to visibly pulse.

Meanwhile, outside the great cabin, two low-ranked Rigellian soldiers stood guard.

"Do you think they're banging?" asked one.

"Who?"

"The Admiral and the Councillor, of course."

"Dunno. Maybe, I guess."

"I'd bet my new hat they are. They're probably bumping uglies right now, while they work out new ways to screw us little guys over."

The soldier half drew his gun. "Hey! Who you calling little?"

"Relax, my man. I meant little metaphorically, not physically. You know, in that you're irrelevant, unimportant, inconsequential, maybe even pointless—stuff like that. But not little."

The soldier holstered his gun. "Oh, OK then. So, you've got a new hat?"

"Yeah, you should see it. Pure chrome, wings, spikes—it's a thing of beauty."

"Big?"

"Big? Pfft, I don't mess around with big. This thing is enormous."

The other soldier whistled in appreciation. "Hello, ladies."

"Oh, yeah."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a signals officer, with a message for the Admiral.

"Enter!" bellowed Splurmfeen, in response to the knock on the door.

The officer hurriedly entered the room. "Admiral, I have an urgent message regarding the Australian theatre." She glanced questioningly towards the Councillor.

Finally, thought Splurmfeen. They've finally caught that bastard of a Prime Minister. GalCon needs to hear this, so that they know nothing stands in Rigel's way. "You may speak freely—the Councillor is a trusted friend. What is the message?"

"Well, sir—it seems as though we have lost a battle-tank."

"There, you see Councillor? I told you we—" Splurmfeen blinked. "What did you say?"

"We have lost a battle-tank, sir."

"Impossible! Nothing on Earth could destroy one of our battle-tanks."

"Er, I think you may have misunderstood me, sir. The tank hasn't been destroyed, at least as far as we know. It's been lost, sir. As in, we don't know where it is."

Well, well, well, thought Councillor Uva Kwoin. This little war just got interesting.