"You want to turn us into weapons?" exclaimed Max.

"What does that even mean?" asked Cora.

"Sounds interesting," murmured Mel.

Cam's eyes became dreamy. "I think I'd be nunchucks. Or maybe one of those big jousting sticks."

They all turned to look at him. Self-consciously, he shifted in his seat. "You know. If I was a weapon."

Mel snorted. "Cameron, you are many things. But a weapon you are not. Well, maybe a Nerf gun."

"People, people," said Ethlukjamson, impatiently. "You wanted the short version, so if I may continue?" The others fell silent. "Thank-you.

"Time was short. Flixl and his team set to work on making the plan a reality. He spent every possible hour researching, formulating, experimenting and reformulating. He spent so much time on the human problem that his official work began to suffer. Suspicions began to arise among his military superiors.

"But finally, he found the solution—the means to turn lowly homo-sapiens into awesome homo-kickassiens. He also had to deliver the treatment, and that was where I came in—hologrammatic AIs like me would infiltrate the human population and pick out the best candidates for weaponisation.

"But then, on the very day before the invasion was due to start, disaster struck. Flixl was betrayed. Barely escaping arrest at his quarters, he managed to make it to his secret lab and began the process of launching the delivery capsules, even though the final weaponisation formula hadn't been fully tested, and the holograms"—Ethlukjamson looked down at his shiny black shoes and sighed—"still needed a little work."

"He managed to launch eight capsules before the military police tracked him down. When he saw there was no escape, he punched the chief MP in the face, called them all steaming piles of rancid Betelguesian monkey-puke, triggered the bomb he'd installed in the lab for just such an occasion and blew the lab, the remaining capsules, the MPs and himself into sub-atomic particles. He was a Rigellian, after all." Ethlukjamson shook his head. "What an assemblage-fornicate."

This one took Cam a few seconds. "I've got it—what a clusterfu-"

"Yes, thank you Cam," interjected Cora. "I think we all get it."

"Anyway," continued Ethlukjamson, "my capsule was one of the eight."

"So," said Max, slowly. "That means there's seven other badly-dressed holograms out there recruiting seven other groups of—baristas?"

Ethlukjamson grinned. "Surprisingly, baristas actually weren't the first choice for world saviours. No, the plan was to track down the best warriors on Earth and convert them into the super-soldiers your planet would so badly need to kick some Rigellian bottom. Er, butt. Actually, ass. No, sorry, sorry—arse. Yeah, kick some Rigellian arse." He beamed proudly at them.

"Which brings us back to the question," interjected Cora. "Why us? We're not exactly the arse-kicking types. Well, except maybe for Mel."

"That's a bit complicated. The Rigellians dispatched a fleet manned by Narguwullians to capture or destroy the eight launched capsules. With copious discrimination."

"Extreme prejudice?" hazarded Cam.

"Precisely," confirmed Ethlukjamson.

"So," said Cam, "the Narguwhatsits' ships were the fireballs that got us up in the first place?"

"Yep," replied Ethlukjamson. "Those fireballs were a bunch of non-liquefied Narguwullians looking to toast my curvy little non-corporeal arse. They were patrolling the stratosphere looking for me and my compadres. Speaking of which—" He paused and his eyes took on a faraway look for a few seconds, before coming back into focus. "I can't make contact with any of the other capsules. We should be able to communicate, but I'm getting zilch."

"Do you think the Narguwullians got them?" asked Cora.

The hologram nodded glumly. "'Fraid so. There was a lot of those big, dumb suckers. My capsule was supposed to aim for the largest population centre it could safely get to, with the best chance of a strong human military presence—the fact that it landed in Nowhere-ville, population four baristas, shows just how hard it was to get through. I suspect the other capsules are cooked bread."

"Landed?" scoffed Mel. "Most landings I've seen don't involve making a crater."

"Yeah, the capsule did bring us down pretty fast and hard—which is probably the only reason we got through. Still, any landing you can be hologramatically projected from is a good one."

"Tell that to Marcia," grumbled Max.

"Marcia?"

Cora rolled her eyes. "Marcia is his car. The one you totaled when you 'landed' your capsule. Right now Max is probably trying to work out which is the biggest disaster—the end of the world or the scratches on Marcia's paintwork."

Max opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. He had been wondering whether any body shops had survived the apocalypse.

"Anyway, speaking of landing," said Ethlukmjamson. "We have."

"We have, what?" asked Cam.

"Landed. We're back at your camp." He got up and headed for the door, which opened silently at his approach. "So, you basically have your answer as to 'why you?'.

"I'd love to say that you've been selected because it's your destiny to save the world, or that it's because you're all secretly genetic mutants with alien-repelling powers, or it's because you were born under the sign of the gerbil on a full moon or some other fairy tale crap. But you weren't selected for any of those reasons. You basically weren't selected at all.

"Flixl Bluxlspun's plan to save the Earth got screwed up. It looks as though seven of the surviving capsules have been destroyed. The best my capsule could do was crash in a paddock. And you four were the unlucky randoms who happened to be in that paddock. Congratulations.

"So, just to be totally clear, there is nothing special about you four. At least not in the planet-saving stakes. Maybe you make a mean cappuccino, but when it comes to world defending, you've got nothing." Ethlukjamson looked at each of them, in turn. "But we can change that. If you let me."

He gave a whistle and his capsule, which had been sitting forgotten at the back of the craft, obediently hovered into the air and followed him as he stepped outside. "Mind you don't step in the Narguwullian, on your way out," he called.

"If he's a hologram," said Cam, watching his departure, "why do you think he uses the door?"

"Guys," whispered Mel. "Now's our chance. Let's ditch the weirdogram and nick the ship. If the world is as screwed as he says, then a spaceship just might be a handy thing to have."

Max looked towards the intricate variety of controls and indicators arrayed across the front of the ship. "Nice idea, Mel. I can only see one little flaw. None of us know how to fly a spaceship."

"Plus," added Cora, "if there's a chance that we can...if we can somehow help to—you know, sort of save the world—well then, I think we should at least hear the rest of the story. I know all this," she gestured around interior of the spaceship, "is truly bizarre and hard to believe, I know the hologram is a bit on the unusual side, but we all saw Sydney burning, we all saw those people running from the flames. That was real. Real people who need real help and if we can possibly give them that help, then we should at least hear how."

"Oh, what a load of crap," snapped Mel. "We are four people who own a coffee shop and that thing outside, whatever it might be, can't even count to three. The five of us are gonna save the world? Oh, please." She stomped to the front of the ship and stood in front of the control panel. "I did see Sydney burning and I know that it'll take more than the likes of us to put out the flames. And as for flying this thing"—she selected a button at random and pressed it—"how hard can it be?"

A little red light started to wink on the control panel, and a few seconds later, Ethlukjamson ran back inside. "What the hell? Who activated the distress signal?" He glared at Mel, who was trying to subtly edge herself away from the accusatory blinking light. "I should have known. We've now got about ten minutes before we're up to our armpits in Narguwullians, or possibly even worse.

"Right, everyone outside. As one of your planet's fictional characters once very nearly said, "It's time to either get busy turning into awesome, weaponised, potentially planet-saving human freaks or," he looked at the blinking red light and then glanced upwards, "get busy dying."