Mycroft woke up to the insistent buzzing of his phone. He groaned and fumbled for it on the nightstand. It was Anthea. At three thirty in the morning.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, sir, but this is very important.”
“Oh God, it’s not Sherlock, is it?” Mycroft sat up, a sudden panic twisting his insides. The last time Anthea had woken him up like this was when Sherlock had overdosed. Mycroft had never felt so powerless in his life.
“No, sir, your brother is fine.” Mycroft suppressed a sigh of relief. “But we have a situation, and frankly, sir, you are best equipped to deal with it.”
Mycroft groaned aloud. “One of those? Again?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“All right, fine. Hail them. How far are they?”
“Still beyond the Kuiper belt, sir, but I though it best to deal with them as soon as possible.”
“You were right, of course, but I wish they would have had the grace not to show up until breakfast.” He sighed, got up, slipped his feet into dark burgundy slippers, and tied a matching silk dressing gown over his pyjamas. “Fine then. Give me a visual.”
Ambient light filled the room and one of the wall panels opposite his bed slid noiselessly away, revealing several monitors. One of the screens flicked to life, showing the solar system and the rapidly approaching dots that represented the invading fleet. Mycroft quickly estimated the fleet's size. It was ridiculously small, hardly worth his time, but it was best to nip things in the bud. Riots and full-blown panic were so inconvenient.
“Sir, I have the commander of the fleet on line.”
“All right, put them through.” Mycroft tried to pat down his hair in vain, hoping that it didn’t stick out too badly. Then he smoothed is expression as the connection was made and the screen showed an insectoid staring menacingly at him. It opened its mouth and emitted screeching sounds for a moment until the automatic translator recognized the galactic dialect. The screeching was replaced by an eerily polite computer-generated female voice, completely at odds with the content:
“Drone meatsack, relay the following message to your planet’s leader. Message begins:
This is the fleet of her highness, the empress Ka’ol Gruhl the Blessed. This solar system is being annexed to the glorious empire of the Kreeeax. We demand the immediate surrender of your species. Lay down your weapons and you will be allowed to continue your lives as slaves. Attempt resistance, and you will be annihilated to the last egg, larva, and pupa. You have one hour to decide.
Mycroft stared at the insectoid, momentarily at loss for words. Either the empress was grossly misinformed or extremely arrogant. Well. That really was not his problem. He cleared his throat, his expression showing mild distaste towards the banality of the thought of an alien invasion.
“My name is Mycroft Holmes. The Holmes family have been the protectors of this planet for centuries. If you have not heard of us, I suggest you rectify your oversight by conducting a search on the Galactic Information Network immediately.” To his mirth, the crew members working at the background all stopped in their tracks at the mention of his name. He didn’t let his amusement show, but instead continued:
“Relay the following message to your empress. Message begins:
I am Mycroft Holmes.
I am the British Government, I am the Secret Service. I am the White House, I am the European Union and the United Nations.
I am the Lord Protector and the God Emperor of this world.
I am Mycroft Holmes and this is my planet.
Now, kindly, fuck off.
The insectoid buzzed its wings in an extremely agitated manner before the connection was terminated. Mycroft's gaze turned to the other screen showing the green dots hovering just beyond Neptune’s orbit. Their progress halted for a moment, and then the vessels turned away and accelerated to full speed, disappearing back to where they had come from. Mycroft huffed, turned off the screens, and started to remove his dressing gown.
“The God Emperor of this world, sir?”
“When dealing with primitive species it is best to keep the terminology as self-evident as possible, my dear. Besides, it sounds much more impressive than ‘a minor civil servant’, doesn’t it?” He settled under his duvet with a sigh and turned off the lights.
“I still have two hours until I have to get up. Have my breakfast brought in at 6.30, Anthea.” He yawned and added: “And as I single-handedly managed to ward off an alien invasion before breakfast, I suppose it calls for a celebration. A blueberry muffin should be sufficient, I think.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”