Chapter 1

"Its never a good sign when the language converter fizzles.  Maybe fizzle 
is the wrong word for it though.  Its more of a beep or a blip that 
suffered from strangulation half way through its short bleeping existance.  
Maybe Blizzle is better.  Yes,  the converter blizzled itself silly."

All of this (and a little more, the rest mostly concerning the expense of 
Ketillian vodka in this particular establishment) pranced through the mind 
of the young officer seated at the bar.  It really is quite fantastic that 
anything at all could run through our young friend's mind while a standard 
issue language converter blizzled.  The blizzle in question is quite a 
strong blizzle, leaving most recipients clutching at their ear in frantic 
annoyance.  Much could be said about our young friend, but maybe nothing 
so complimentary as he could handle a strong blizzle with much grace.  As 
much grace as one could muster in a strong blizzle.  

The cause of the horrid blizzle stood in the form of a Nargolian in the 
entry to the bar.  He squealed a series of quick grunts and shook his 
upper left flange in anger.  To the casual listener, no translator was 
needed to understand that this particular Nargolian wasn't happy about 
something.  Cursingly irate one might say, upon the casual listening.  To 
the casual observer however, it looked like a large, wet, hairy lizard 
in the midst of a stunning orgasm.  Luckily for the only casual observer, 
the Nargolian was too incensed to notice him doubled over in laughter, 
which normally would have gotten him a thwapped with a wet hairy flange, 
or worse.   

Our young officer friend had finally concluded his mental debate on the 
importance of another Ketillian tonic versus his quickly dwindling credit 
and had turned his quite underailable thought train to the blizzling.  He 
learned early in his tour with the NPO that the standard issue language 
converter was horribly inadequate in regards to translating foreign curses 
and various other statements of pain or dismemberment.  This lesson was 
learned all the quicker due to the fact that usually, he was the target of 
the intended pain or dismemberment.  

Our young friend had the advantage for this encounter.  The bar was dark 
and smoke filled.  He pulled himself farther into his corner and checked 
his options for escape.  The front door was of course blocked.  There had 
to be a back way, or a storage area for the booze.  The place had no 
kitchen, but it did have the same swinging door leading to the same set of 
four intergalactically correct separate bathrooms.  There was the same 
antiquated spacial communication device, with years of stellar frequency 
digits scratched or burned into the wall above it.  And, there was the 
same thick metal door with a half removed label warning of "Instant 
Irradiation if Opened by a Non-Employee".  If our friend was lucky, that 
door would lead to the dark nether regions of the local waste removal 
system.  If he was really lucky, the waste removal system would not be a 
straight plummet to the core of the planet, but would be a nice leisurely 
conveyor belt to an unguarded incinerator.  Our young friend began to 
calculate his chances of survival with a calm born of experience and not 
just a little bit of good old fashioned ignorance.  He figured he had a 
37% chance of survival.  The casual observer would guess much much lower, 
had he not still been in the throes of laughter.  

The blizzle slowed to a healthy sounding blip.  The Nargolian had lowered 
his angry upper left flange and had begun to scan the crowd.  The casual 
observer realized he was flirting with danger and stifled his laughter.  
The barbot, early on realizing that trouble had walked in, had in a panic 
shut itself down.  In its haste to not be processing in the event of a 
messy deactivation, the barbot had shutdown in the midst of drawing a 
draft, slowly draining the keg into the overflow tray.  The token local 
drunk, having noticed the lack of cycles in the barbot, had begun to 
collect any spare container within reach and inch his mouth towards the 
escaping stream of ale.

And what of our young friend?  He had done well in avoiding detection thus 
far.  The smoke, the drunk, and the Nargolian's short stumpy peds had 
aided his concealment.  Perhaps the biggest boon to his continued 
livingness was the lack of eye contact, even the lack of any outward 
interest at all.  If our friend ever sat and thought about his stoic 
resolve in the face of danger, he would equate it to effective training 
and steadfast thought.  The casual observer would equate it to extensive 
idiocy and two full rotations past scatterbrained, or would equate it had 
the casual observer not become distracted by a frightful case of the 
hiccups.  

Our young friend, having just concluded the proper location to keep his 
glass safe from the clutches of the token drunk, turned his thoughts to 
plans for his escape.  Which, of course led him to think of previous 
escapes.  Which, in turn set his mind upon the memory of his first escape 
from danger.  That predictably took him back to the beginning.  The very 
beginning.  Well, the beginning as far as he knew it.

It all started back when...
*whiiirr -chunkchunk- whiiiiir*