Something is brewing in the galaxy, and it's not a double shot of espresso. With the dust barely settled after the last near-Armageddon, the four baristas are called back into action, even though the four have become three. With a little help from...
Across the galaxy, various pieces in the evolving interstellar saga were on the move.
In the Rigellian system invasion forces marshalled, preparing for their second assault on the promoted but still pathetic planet Earth. Two battleships were tasked to lead the fleet. In part, this was because that was all the battered little world was now deemed worthy of. Mostly, however (although nobody who valued their kneecaps would admit this), it was because the humans had a disturbing habit of springing nasty surprises and losing another battle-station didn't bear thinking about.
And in addition to the main force, two light cruisers had already set off on special missions of their own.
On Alpha Centauri's home-world, Chek Wandoo was finalising the preparations of his star-yacht prior to setting off on his Earth-saving mission. Or at least, to be strictly accurate, he was supervising the finalising of the preparations. Although, to be even more strictly accurate, his butler was supervising the finalising of the preparations. Chek was blow-drying his hair.
On a spaceport at the edge of the Crab Nebula, Cora and Max found themselves backed into a corner of the traveller's lounge, hemmed in by an ever-growing, enthusiastic crowd of barista-fans as they waited in desperation for either their shuttle to leave or the spaceport's security staff to stop asking them for autographs and instead do something about the chaotic scenes.
In the Blergian system, having just docked at a station in low-Blerg orbit, Mel and Kiko prepared to disembark.
On Earth, the United Nations was gathering together what military units it could muster. Given these consisted of less than 10% of the forces that Rigel had smashed the last time around, the exercise seemed to be somewhat lacking in a point, but being comprised of politicians and bureaucrats, the UN wasn't about to let a minor detail like that stand in their way. Besides, what else were they going to do? Challenge Rigel to a game of rock-paper-scissors?
At Galactic Central, in between shots of whisky and bouts of swearing, the Chief Executive of GalCon was putting her own peace-keeping forces—such as they were—on notice. Then, with a heavy heart, a sore head, and a serious temper, she set about contacting all of GalCon's ambassadors, scattered from one side of the 100,000 light-year wide disc of the galaxy to the other. Her message was simple.
Prepare for war.
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"Mum. Mum. Mum. Mum."
Dozing by the pool, Samantha sighed and half-opened an eye. Given her daughter keep this up for hours, there was little point in feigning sleep. "Yes, dear?"
"I think I'm a barista."
The woman considered this. Over the twelve years of her existence, Holly had at various times announced she was an astronaut, doctor, funeral director, teacher, veterinarian, engineer, taxidermist, tree, the letter G, a green llama, a bowl of bacon and leek soup, and a bus-driver called Bruce. All things considered, a barista didn't sound so bad. At least it was unlikely anything would wind up bandaged, buried or stuffed.
