"What do you mean you want to steal their battle-tank?"

"I mean," replied Max, swaying slightly and looking intently at the more in focus of the two EJs he could currently see, "I want to steal their battle-tank. Seems pretty clear to me."

EJ was momentarily speechless. But only momentarily. "Are you insane? Any minute now, that battle-tank you want to steal is going to blast us into microscopic particles. I'm amazed it hasn't already. We need to get out of here!"

"Fine, fine—whatever. But not until we steal the tank. 'Kay?"

In desperation, EJ turned to the other three baristas. "Can you lot please talk some sense into him?"

"I'm up for a bit of tank stealing," replied Cam, from where he was sitting on the ground beside Cora. "Sounds like fun."

"Woo-hoo!" cried Cora, lifting her arms up in the air. "We're with you, Maxie! Let's steal that sucker like a boss!"

"Aw, yeah," chanted Mel, doing a little war dance.

EJ stared at them, speechless. He hadn't known exactly what to expect from the Baristas, post-weaponisation, but it was fair to say that this apparent state of slight euphoria, moderate drunkenness and serious foolhardiness wasn't it. He really hoped that it was only temporary and that a good night's sleep would sort them out. The only complication was working out how to keep them alive for that long.

Meanwhile, Mel's dancing was starting to make apparent an issue that darkness and scrambled brains had previously obscured.

"Er, Mel?" said Max, somewhat hesitantly. He seemed to be looking very intently at the ground, the sky, the trees and pretty much everything in the vicinity—everything apart from Mel, that is.

Mel was really getting into the swing of her war dance. "What?"

"Um. Can you please stop jiggling like that? It's making it hard to concentrate."

"What, you don't like my dance?"

"No, no," said Max hurriedly. "Your dance is awesome, just great. Not that I'm looking at them...er, I mean it. It's just that you're kind of well...topless."

"Huh?" Mel stopped dancing and looked down. "Well, would you look at that. Those short-arses completely trashed my T-shirt. Bloody aliens." She quickly divested herself of the tattered remnants and inspected her exposed skin. "Not a scratch on me, though. That weaponisation stuff is the business. Seriously guys, have a look—blasted by two alien space-guns and not so much as a sunburn. Check it out."

"Er, no—that's OK Mel. I'll take your word for it." Max was in serious danger of dislocating something in his efforts to avoid copping an eyeful. Fried synapses notwithstanding, his personal code of chivalry was very clear on the issue of mates looking at the breasts of mate's girlfriends.

"Cam, give Mel your shirt," said Cora. Cam—who had been staring, transfixed—dragged his gaze away and did as he was told.

With Mel's modesty restored, Max's attention returned to the next most pressing matter at hand.

"Right, EJ—you were a military AI whatsit thingy, before you got all humanned-up. How do we steal that tank?"

"We don't!" shouted EJ. "We run away from that tank, very quickly, before we get barbecued! That is a highly sophisticated military machine, equipped with awesome destructive power, while you are a bunch of possibly brain-damaged baristas, equipped with unknown and possibly non-existent power!"

Max crossed his arms. "We are stealing that tank. S'only fair. They trashed my wheels, so I'm stealing theirs."

"It doesn't even have any wheels!"

"Ok, wings then." Max peered at the battle-tank. "Although it hasn't got any of those, either. Rockets? Fins? Fuzzy dice? Whatever, doesn't matter. That's my new ride. I can do some custom mods, later."

On the bridge of the battle-tank in question, another heated debate was under way.

"Fire the plasma cannon!" yelled the XO.

"Countermand that order!" bellowed the first lieutenant. "Launch an anti-matter missile!"

"Countermand that order," shouted the XO. "I'm in charge here!"

"Rubbish!" roared the first lieutenant. "The regulations clearly state that in the absence of the captain I'm in charge!"

"And I'm clearly stating that you are an idiot! The regulations state that if the captain is killed then I'm in charge!"

"How do you know the captain is dead, you cretin?"

"Because he's got a car parked on his head, you moron!"

"That doesn't necessarily mean he's dead!"

"Well he's not absent either, is he! We know where he is—under that bloody car!"

"He's absent from the bridge!"

"Your brain is absent from the bridge!"

"At least I've got a brain, you monumental dimwit!"

They both paused for breath. The gunnery officer, who had been watching this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, hesitantly spoke up. "So, do I fire something?"

"Yes!" yelled the XO and the first lieutenant, simultaneously.

The gunnery officer waited expectantly for further clarification. None came. "So—plasma cannon or anti-matter missile?"

"Plasma cannon!" yelled the XO, at exactly the same time the first lieutenant yelled, "Anti-matter missile!"

"COUNTERMAND THAT ORDER!" they roared, in unison.

Breathing heavily, the XO and the first lieutenant regarded each other from across the bridge.

"Right," said the XO. "There's only one way to settle this."

"You mean...?" queried the first lieutenant.

"I do," growled the XO, rubbing his hands together and advancing towards the first lieutenant. "Brace yourself—physically and emotionally."

Back outside, a plan was developing. Or at least a plan to develop a plan. Kind of a plan-ish.

"Okay, okay," said Max, decisively. "Here's what we need to do. Three steps—number one, we get in the tank. Number two, we kick the Rigellians out of the tank. Number three, we get our weaponised arses somewhere that we can get some sleep, some food and some coffee."

Cam yawned. "I like the sound of step three. Can we do that one first? We could just take the spaceship we already stole."

"That piddly little piece of crap? I think not. Firstly, it didn't pancake my car. Secondly, I can't imagine that battle-tank is going to let us swan off home after dropping a car on one of their guys. Thirdly, if I get the tank, you can have the spaceship. It's not as though your car is looking showroom fresh either. Deal?"

"My own spaceship? Deal."

"OK, geniuses," said Cora. "Now that you've divvied up the spoils, perhaps we'd better work on step one. How do we get in the tank?"

"Easy," replied Max. "Follow me."

On the bridge of the tank, the XO and the first lieutenant stood facing each other, an arm's length apart. Each bore a bright red, livid handprint on one of their cheeks. The XO blinked and shook his head.

"Is that the best you can do?"

The first lieutenant rubbed his cheek. "It beat your little love tap. But I'm just getting warmed up."

"Is that so? Too bad it's my turn."

"Ooh, I'm quaking in my battle boots."

"You should be." The XO looked thoughtful for a moment and then grinned. "You're so stupid," he said, stretching his right arm behind himself, as far as he could, "they had to set fire to the academy to get you out of first grade." Insult delivered, he swung his arm around, putting his whole body into the blow, delivering an enormous, meaty slap to the side of his opponent's face.

The first lieutenant staggered and his eyes crossed momentarily, but with an enormous effort of will, he stayed on his feet. After a few seconds of unsteadiness, he straightened his conical officer's hat, spat out a tooth and fixed the XO with a steely glare. "You think that's enough to make me yield?" He drew back his arm. "Your face looks as though it caught on fire," he yelled, unleashing a mighty slap, that sent the XO lurching across the bridge, "and someone tried to put it out with a hammer!"

The XO clung to a chair, trying desperately to stay upright. Through a haze of pain, he looked at the first lieutenant with a hint of new-found respect. "Slapping mid-insult. Nice move."

"Do you yield?"

The XO's grin displayed two rows of bloodied teeth. He staggered back towards the first lieutenant. "Yield? I can do this all day."

"Uh, excuse me, sirs," interjected a petty officer. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but you should probably see this." He pointed to the screen he was monitoring, which showed four people, one of whom was shirtless. They all had their hands up. "I think the humans are trying to surrender."