A Klingon, a Vogon, and a Time Lord Walk Into a Bar...

The grizzled old fellow sat at a table in a dark corner of the bar room, brooding. A wide brimmed black felt hat lay among the litter on the table before him, composed mostly of empty glasses and cigar ashes that hadn't quite made it to the ashtray. His eyes, hard and squinting, nonetheless gave the appearance of two cherries floating in a bowl of buttermilk.

This business of being immortal wasn't all it was cracked up to be. More of a curse, really, than a gift. You had to watch everything around you die, and not a damned thing you could do about it. Life eternal could get very boring - if you can't die, couldn't even run that chance - because there WAS no chance for it - then where is the excitement in living?

That, of course, was something Joe would never have to experience. Good old Joe. Ninurta had just gotten the flash today that Joe had died. No details of how, of course, just a dry communique reporting the bare bones of the fact - and there weren't many bones to report. "He died" pretty much summed it up, short and to the point. What more than that really mattered? Another one bites the dust, the old man reflected, but at least Joe would never know the boredom of living forever. He had passed the test, Ninurta reckoned.

He took another drink, in celebration he supposed, but forgot to un-tip the glass until it had been drained. He pushed the glass to the edge of the table - maybe a passing waitress would rescue it by replacing it with a full one, before it hit the floor.

The bar looked like a scene out of the ancient Star Wars movies, aliens from every corner of the known galaxy were present, as were other aliens from some of the unknown corners of the galaxy. Melting pot, sewage pit - it just depended on the viewpoint of the observer as to how it was seen.

A strawberry blonde woman of indeterminate age entered the room, and looking around finally spotted the grizzled old coot hiding in the corner booth. She probably recognized the mess on the table before she recognized him, and made a beeline - as much of a beeline as could be made, considering the crowd - to the booth.

"So here he is, Ninurta, The War God, sulking in a darkened corner more fitting for a cockroach than a deity" the sniff she inserted to punctuate this point only reminded her how rankly stale alcohol could get.

"Nor' sulkin'! Imma remmin-- remmin-in-- recallin' stuff" responded the gent with his back in a corner of a corner booth, out of the way and in the shadows. "An' I ain't no god, dammit! Yer ever seen a 'god' pissin' drunk and contemplatin' a brawl jus' ter remind 'im he's still breathin', have ye?"

The woman plopped down next to him, not quite in his lap but not quite not in his lap before she responded. It was a situation she had adopted when accompanying him of late, because she knew that a full lap-plop would send him into paroxysms, flailing around and complaining of being "pinned down an' not able to move or even git a swing in if sumpin' were to break out 'ere!"

"Well, " she began addressing the question, "there was that Odin character and all his merry-gods and assorted rifraff in Valhalla among the Norse on Old Earth, and there were the Kritalla Gods on Zinchquall, every one of whom was always spoiling for a killing just like the culture that spawned them, and there was..." he cut her off before she could tick off the third finger listing various deities from around the known galaxy who delighted in a good brawl.

He fetched her a smack on the off side hip and said "Bad girl! Poppa spank! You know I was bein' rhetor- ... riter... facet... facetsh... a smartass. I ain't no blasted 'god', I don' care WHAT some little farts on a far off world or even a few far off worlds thought in the matter. I was born just like any other guy, and - "

"Now you can't die, which makes you at the very least 'god-like', does it not?" she responded, taking her turn to cut HIM off mid sentence, but being courteous enough to finish it for him, with her own version of ending. She preferred to think of it as "correcting" him.

He chuffed out a breath before replying "Nope. Jus' makes me older without bein' able to sport the wear for it. Always older" he half mumbled. "You got ANY idea what that's like?"

"Some notion" the strawberry blond lady-cyborg said, having something over 300 years under her belt herself with no signs of wear. All of her parts, even the biological ones, were replaceable, and her mind was the only "original equipment" at this point, the only part that was actually originally "her". It was a very old mind for a "human", all things considered. "Come on," she continued. "let's get you back to the suite and tucked in to sleep it off. It just isn't fitting for the Savior of the Universe to be sitting in the dark in a backwards bar drowning in beer."

"WE saved it, not me. The whole unlikely crew of us done it - I couldn't've done it all by muh lonesome. That don' matter nohow - that was prolly a whole 'nuther universe or something. Ain't no one here has any clue it were ever even in danger, and THIS universe might never have been - I have trouble gettin' all that straight in my head nowadays" he shrugged.

She smirked and started to lift him from his seat as she did so - cyborgs, especially the pretty girl ones, were pretty doggone strong for their looks, when it came right down to lifting and stuff. "I'm sure the beer isn't helping it get any straighter" she commented.

"Might be" he responded contrarily, but didn't resist the offer of assistance in getting in motion as he awkwardly grabbed the hat from the table top.

As they moved gingerly through the crowd towards the door, the couple was accosted by the proprietor of the bar - "Fantasies, Inc." - a squat, bulbous, tentacled alien of a thing. "There you are, Missy Maggie! Always a pleasure to see you in here, and the offer of... employment... still stands. have you given it any thought lately?" he hissed.

Ninurta responded to the tentacled being before Maggie could even draw an indignant breath. "Speakin' o' offers, I b'lieve I've already offered to kill you a couple a times now fer tryin' t' toll away muh missus, you walkin' seafood platter. Is today gonna be the day then?"

Secure in his sobriety, the proprietor responded saying "I hardly think you're in any sort of shape to do much damage at the moment, my good man."

Ninurta's eyes took just the barest hint of a hardened edge as he leaned in and said "We kin find out, now cain't we? I might not get ye killed... or I might. Only one way to find out. At the very least, I b'lieve I kin turn them tentacles of your'n into eighticles in muh present state. You know what 'calimari' is? Whose gonna own this place after ahm, pickin' you outta muh teeth?" he flashed his teeth to punctuate the thought.

The proprietor blanched a pale shade of purple, but gave way with a mumbled apology and scuttled across the floor, suddenly having other business to attend to. Some beings were just so uncivilized!

Ninurta snorted as they gained the door. "Some 'god', huh? See how they treat me 'round here? and you got the nerve to yank my chain about 'gods'!"

"Yes, dear" Maggie cooed agreeably as she simultaneously rolled her eyes. "it's just despicable. Scandalous is what it is! Now let's get you to bed and tucked in, shall we?"

"It's just the way they treat people around here..." Boy In A Dress said off-handedly as he lifted the big scandium-coated pipe higher for the robot to weld into place.
"...And it won't get any better" he sighed and watched the eye-burning glow from 'Davro's' soldering. In a normal situation, a humanoid would be blind for hours after due to the radiation and flash-burns, but BIAD didn't sport a pair of eyes and so, he just stared fascinated at the white-blue strikes.

Davro lifted the welding goggles and peered at the strange enigma that come aboard two years ago. Even if he was just a Droid, Davro had always been curious about the Man-girl that skipped around the ship and took on any crappy-job that came along.
Blind in so many ways -Davro thought to himself and went back to fusing the pipework together.

There had been trouble again up in the taverns on Sector VIII and during one of the fights, overhead lighting and ventilation trunkwork had been damaged.
Here in the bowels of the Spaceport, the repairs would take place and without a thank-you from the revelling drunks that frequented the bars, Droids and... well, Boy In A Dress would reconstruct the conduits and networks that kept the visitors from being starved of illumination and oxygen.

"Not that it would bother that big-bad guy" Davro mumbled to himself and clicked off the weld-gun. When he and another 'Bot were up there clearing out the damaged materials, there was a grizzled old guy that looked like trouble on legs. Davro had trundled by on his caterpillar-tracks and avoided eye-contact with the grumbling human. Something that BIAD could do without thinking -the automaton teased his mirth-chip with and climbed down from the scaffolding.

Far off in another part of the Supply Bay, the faint-sound of impact drilling could be heard alongside an automated warning voice and it was quickly followed by a muffled explosion. The Droid Repair Dept could expect a barrow-load of casualties later -Davro guessed and shook his head.
Ignoring the self-alarm buzzer on his chest, he wondered when the day would come when the clapped-out Spaceport would just give up and fall apart.
The main structure needed overhauling and most of the load-bearing frames were failing with age.
The generators were on their last-legs and it was only a matter of time before they went critical and the Maintenance crews were way-behind on technical data.
But out here in the boondocks of space, Parr-Mclean didn't give a rats-ass about an antiquated refuelling Base with sub-standard facilities.

The corridor walls flashed with orange lights as the Transport-Borgs arrived for their pick-up, so BIAD and his tin-man companion waited near a large selection of heating pipes.
"This one can go back up" he stated towards the Robot with the flatboard-trailer hanging from it's ass and set off towards the nuclear Generators.
Boy In A Dress looked around to see what else there was to do and when no Supervisor shouted his name, the naked-legged creature followed the widget with the goggles hanging about his neck. It's just another day in Maintenance Dept.

"Did you see him...?" Davro asked over his shoulder and turned down towards the Turbines. His sensors told him that the hermaphrodite was following him and knowing BIAD's penchant for useless knowledge, the question was guaranteed to draw the Man-girl down to where the Nuke vents came out near the belly of the ship. Davro didn't like it down there and he was sure ghosts inhabited the area.
"See who?" Boy In A Dress inevitability asked and quickly clip-clopped after the clicking Droid.

Davro didn't slow up his speed as he answered BIAD. "The old-guy in Fantasies Inc..." he replied with a bored tone "...they say he's an immortal" he added and swivelled his tracks along the grilled pathway. Approaching the turbo-lift that would take him down, Davro waved at Boy In A Dress to catch up.
"They say he fought Death and gave him a bloody nose!" he scoffed and pressed the button marked 'Basement'

The smile on Boy In A Dress faltered for a moment when a fleeting memory slipped across his usually-befuddled mind. He'd heard of something like this before. Shaking his long-fringed head, he focused on making it to the Turb-lift doors before they closed and said "Well, it takes all sorts to make up a..."

The doors swished shut, so we'll never know how the sentence ended.

Ninurta sat up on the edge of the bed with some effort, and set his head in his hands. Both hands, to make sure it didn't fall off. That would be embarrassing. He thought about scratching his hair, but decided that might hurt too much, and would certainly be too loud, and decided against it.

Maggie popped into the room from around the corner, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Ninurta thought that movement was rather too fast for his taste, but didn't mention it. "Going back to the bar now?" she chirped altogether too cheerfully.

The old man, feeling much older than would have been warranted even by an age well in advance of his own, belched one of those closed mouth belches that causes one's cheeks to bulge and eyes to pop out just a bit too far, and then grimaced, whispering "Nuuhhh... uh uh". He thought it was brilliant conversation, all things considered.

"Coffee, then?" Maggie chirped, still far too cheerfully.

Ninurta rubbed his stomach, probing for potential problems that may be involved in drinking anything at all, but then decided he'd have to man up anyhow, and nodded assent. Reconsidering, he thought the nod might have been a bit much, too, but it just wouldn't do for Maggie to see just how out of sorts he was.

Maggie handed off the coffee cup, and plopped down on the other side of the bed, still cheerful. That was just wrong, in anybody's book! "Could you plop just a little more ladylike, and somewhat less little girlishly, please" Nunurta growled around the steam rising from the cup. "Coffee's hot" he added. Some of it had splashed out and over his hand, making a - relatively - painless burn. that was ok, too. It was just that much less he'd have to try to retain in a rebellious stomach.

Continuing unabated, Maggie said "Well if you're not going to pursue your usual rounds, maybe we can go shopping later!"

Ah! the reason for the cheerfulness raised it's ugly head. Without looking up from his coffee, Ninurta responded "Fer wut?"

"Um, well, you could use some new clothes..." she started.

"Got clothes" he replied. "Don't need more. I got what I need."

"A man of your wealth doesn't need to dress quite so shabbily, if we're talking about needs" was the response.

"Wealth? I reckon you could say that - I got ever' thang I need. Got me a boat, got a good woman..." Ninurta started ticking off his blessings, but was cut off.

"You have an entire solar system of your very own! You can afford to dress better!"

"Hrumph!" Ninurta growled. "I got a solar system clean across t'other side of the Empire, an' it ain't got nobody there to work it. It's jus' a bunch of floating rocks that I kin go to iffen I got nowhere else to go. I reckon it's 'home' like that, but nothin' else there but potential." he reflected on that, and added "An' I got ever'thang I need right here - wherever "right here' is, wherever I go." Then, somewhat darkly, "and all of forever to roll around in it. Don' need more clothes. Jus' sumpin more to have to keep track of."

Crestfallen at the proposition of no shopping trip, Maggie mumbled "No shopping then, huh?"

Realizing his mistake, Ninurta rallied and said "Well now, I didn't say exactly that. I reckon a new purty frilly blue nighty or something might be in order."

Maggie, perking back up, took her shot, "You'd look silly in a frilly nighty of ANY color!"

Grinning as well as he could, given the circumstances, Ninurta took the bait and said "wal now, It'd be just fer me, shore 'nuf, but I didn't say I'D be the one wearin' it when all wuz said n done!"

"When 'all is said and done', I doubt ANYONE will be wearing it! Hurry up and finish your coffee!" Maggie grinned.

When the Parr-Mclean Coproration first set out to place Spaceports along the flight-lines that enjoyed
utilising the stop-overs, their goal wasn't originally so extensive. Of course, after the first encounter with
species from other worlds, Governments all around the Earth were looking to 'nudge' their way into being
a prominent component in setting out the ways of interacting with these races.
Obviously, a prime reason was to cash in on the new technologies and minerals available, but that can
only be said off the record.

Parr-Mclean had been around since the days of the Industrial revolution on Earth and with the progression
in telecommunications, transport, computers, robotics and quantum-mechanics, the Corporation had held
their fingers on the pulse of society and knew where-and-when to assist.

As time went on and other companies and countries focused on individual benefits to enhance their stock
and power, Parr-Mclean had always been there to provide whatever they could to help these gung-ho groups
acquire their goal.
And then they took them over.

Capitalism, mercantilism, free enterprise, call it what you will baby. But it's all about the Benjamins.

So accepting the cunning business-sense that The Parr-Mclean Corporation had displayed in their growing
greatness, the Space Station nicknamed 'The Claymore' that sat on the butt-end of a galaxy should be
something that is constantly exploited or at the very least, a machine waiting to spring into action.
Well, I'm sure something like that would have been in the brochure.

Don't get me wrong, at one time a visitor to this state-of-the-art facility would discover a massive craft floating
among the stars with amenities that would cater for any of the many alien species that used the flight lanes.
The ship was busy all of the time and business was good. Hell, The Claymore was even pencilled-in to hold
the famous Chronol-D Conferences.
From sin to prayer and from salt to silver, the huge rotating structure catered for all it's galactic-transients.

A few years ago, a chap from Dayton-Fern flew in with a chunk of crystal that would blink in and out of existence!
There was a phone-call and the mineral was purchased ten minutes later. It was just a shame the seller fell-foul
to the poorly-maintained Arrival Bay Doors and was sucked out into space.

The departments that were involved in commerce and trade are still open and sometimes, a traveller would
come in with something the company could apply in one of the many pies their fingers caressed.
Gold, Fulmion and even coal, are all commodities that once frequented the Holding Areas of the lower levels.

But the flurry of activity that The Claymore had enjoyed began to wane as further exploration took the pioneers
in directions that the Spaceport couldn't assist with. The celestial highways towards the financial and philosophical
goals took the craft's customers away and now, just like the motels slumped on the roadside of the ago-Route 66,
The ship watches from it's lonely position in space.

Now it seemed that only those on the outside of the Uni-Law and Astron Protocols came to The Claymore and as
seen in the many bar-brawls and slayings, it ain't what it used to be.

The crew of Droids and the few humanoids that bolted, soldered and duct-taped the metal hulk that they called
home -together, could certainly tell you a few good tales of hunted outlaws, ugly criminal-types and even the incident
with the belly-dancing commodity-broker.
As I said, it ain't what it used to be.

I suppose a typical description of a wormhole would go something like this and since
nobody has yet been seen one up close -let alone been through one, you will just have
to take my word for it.

By the way, most of what's written below is from confidential documents 'aquired' from
the offices of The Parr-Mclean Corporation and even as I write this, I'm beginning to
wonder if The Claymore Space-Station wasn't just placed in it's current location for
celestial-retail reasons only.
Hmmm, something to mull over later.

A wormhole is assumed to be a compact region of space that must -because of the
way we currently perceive the universe, must have two ends. Anything drawn into it's
gravity cannot be annihilated into nothingness because this would negate certain properties
of that universe.
So with a wink and a sigh, we believe that a wormhole has a 'mouth' and and opposite
that I won't call 'butt' However, the basic principles of these 'one-in, one-out' terms can
apply.
It's supposed to be a tunnel between two places in spacetime and it's 'throat' only consumes
mass-less energies. All else is rejected and the mathmatics bear this out.
Done, job-jobbed, sorted, end-of. Move along people.

But wait, there's more!
The outer-rim of a wormhole is a collection of material that is dense enough not to be
drawn into the black void of it's centre immediately and most of the huge chunks of asteroids,
small planets and matter that... well, just has strayed too close to the sucking mouth of the
wormhole.

They orbit around the wormhole for two reasons and even though it's been suggested
that the material may be -as said, too heavy to fall into the gravitational well, there's also
the fact of something called 'The Individuality Paradox'

All matter is comprised of atoms and energies. Real physical matter that is built in this
way is unique within this universe and so, cannot be TRULY duplicated.
It's a law and I'm sure there's a fine or something for breaking it.

There's a nucleus of protons and neutrons, and a cloud of orbiting electrons. These are
the exact signatures of any atom, molecule and energy and is held within the quarks of that
matter. No two are alike, a bit like snowflakes.

The energy level of anything that has mass is also a one-off, there's no way two chunks
of the same 'something' with exact energy designation can reside in the same universe.
Two similar or copies can, but not the exact-same 'something'

It's because certain rules of dimensional order, if one item of matter exists in a dimensional
plane as itself and certainly can't be in two places at once. Also, if the idea of 'multi-universes
is correct, a designated type of matter cannot leave that vector of space and arrive on another
plane. It's just not done, many-many problems arise that cannot be discussed here.

I can tell you it's connected to holonomic constraints and scribblings from a guy called William
Hamilton. So the stuff just sits there, wanting to enter the wormhole, yet cannot because of it
not having the right boarding-pass.
Or as Indiana Jones and Silent Bob said 'No ticket!'

Now light is a horse of a different colour. Light can be sucked into the wormhole and is
the main souce of it's life cycle. Because light is basically electromagnetic radiation that's
given off by any particle that has a physical state, usually through thermal sources.

So light is given off, it radiates and dissipates. It has no unique signature and is merely
result from a thermal function or reflection. A by-product, if you will.

Here's one you'll enjoy and this is written right at the back of the papers gleaned from
The Par-Mclean Coporation.
You know when you're doing something and you catch yourself letting your mind drift off?
It's that moment just before you realise you're staring blankly into space and sporting a
foolish 'duh'-look... yeah?

Well, within those few seconds of day-dreaming or whatever you wish to call it, there's
supposedly a tiny mini-wormhole appeared really close to you and it's sucking the electro
-magnetism and thermal radiation from your body.
It's true! It's even typed in bold letters on the document.

So with this in mind, it should be just a simple case of the chap called Ninurta and the...
well, you name it -called Boy In A Dress, these two individuals comprising of unique
atoms, one-time-only clumps of matter, this pair should be pulled towards the maw of
the wormhole and crushed within it's gravitational might.
And as the maths shows, they can't go anywhere.

However, that's not what happened.

Young Cable sighed in the early-morning air and wading quietly along the knee-deep
channel of water, continued to pick at the caw-caw flowers. The swaying fields of reed
-like plants rustled in the morning breeze and the dawn sky promised another fine day.

A Dory-dipper wriggled among a clump of reeds close by and in protest from it's rude
awakening, bubbled at the surface and swam away. The fish-like creature went out to
where the fens held less constraints

Cable's eyes flicked between the retreating fish and the swaying group of balloon plants
that shimmied their morning communal dance on the sandbank about a mile over.
These huge green and wart-covered bags of gas that pulled at their meagre stems and
seemed to yearn to float away into the cloudless sky had always made Cable wary.
They didn't seem natural, they seemed... alien?

The Meruvian in the hem-soaked tunic pondered what is late-Father's mother had told
him when he had first asked her about the weird plants that wished to fly.
Grammy always had an answer.

'Oh, yon greens were brought by the Fallen Ones many moons ago...' she had said
from her rocking chair on the balcony of their stilted-home. 'It's said that they long to
go back to them heavens and wallow in their own sun'
Grammy always had a way with words and even though the word 'heavens' came out
as 'hebbens' because of her lack of teeth, Cable knew she was as smart as the cleverest
of Meruvians that ever lived.

'I'll get you tomorrow' Cable promised the shadowy fish-shape cruising away along the
slow tideway and with another sigh, the adolescent went back to his thoughts and his
chores.

He had fished in the tidal-creek yesterday and for Cable, that task was something he
hated. His Mother had told him that the slightly-salty watercourse wound away out to
something called an ocean. but the fact was he had only-ever been told that it led to
a massive expanse of water... he'd never actually seen it.

The fat Chubbers and constantly-farting Dory-dippers that inhabited the thirty mile-long
river tasted bland and for the smooth-faced Meruvian making his away through the softly
-clashing reed beds in the early morning, it was a taste he didn't savour.
Added to the fact that the job was boring, fishing -could be said, was not Cable's metier.

He had seen the lights again over towards the horizon and even though his Mother had
told him the moving illumination were merely fire-bugs, Cable believed that something
else was happening over there, something that he was missing out on.

Maybe his Mom was right and the strange emotions he was feeling were things that
all juveniles of Meruvia had gone through, he wanted excitement and he wanted it now.
If his Father had still been alive, maybe some words of male-sageness would have
assisted. Still, Pa had passed over five years ago now and left the boy as the only
chance of carrying on his name and feed the family.
Grammy had told him that.

Cable's life had consisted of working among these hundreds of miles of shallow marsh
-lands and the occasional visit to the only truly solid piece of dry land that held the
markets where his family had sold the caw-caw seeds for the last six generations.

Julip Markets were an exciting place and held a myriad of eye-goggling scenes to sate
the five foot-high youngster's yearnings of wonder, but he and his ageing-Mother only
visited there twice every season.
It just wasn't enough.

Cable was tall for his people, most Meruvians reached four-and-a-half feet in height and
most of that was taken-up by their long necks. The rippling reflection in the cool water
around his skinny legs mirrored his slim body dressed in a simple faded-blue tunic.

I suppose for the reader of this, if one to was to look for an image of the creature
known as 'The Jersey Devil' then the horse-like features of this weird 'monster' would
offer the nearest description of what Cable and his kind looked like.

On Meruvia, technology consisted of a three foot-long canoe-like conveyance that
held the valuable bags of caw-caw seed. The wooden boat was seen as the most
prized possession, for it made sure that Cable could reap the grain in amounts that
assured he, his mater and Grandmother could trade enough to obtain their provisions
before the Clankers came.
I'll get back to them later.

The house that Cable, his Mother and Grammy called home, stood on stilts and sported
the only-other piece of technology that could be called machinery, the windmill.
It's high sails turned slowly in the morning air and unknown to the young farmer of
the rushes, in another world he would have seen the horizontal angle of the fabric-blades
used by a wondrous contraption call a helicopter.

The seeds of the Caw-caw rushes were crushed into fine powder and assisted in the
making of the delicious food that is known around these parts as Boggy-bread.
Apart from it being the staple diet of Meruvians, it also had the added-advantage of
being a currency that Cable's family could use to acquire other sustenance at the
Julip Markets.

Wood was a rare commodity. The nearest forests were over to the west and the
journey took months to complete. Granted, the supple wood could be purchased at
the Julip Markets, but the cost was high and most families that inhabited the wet-lands
couldn't afford the price demanded for the lumber.

No, the two hundred-mile around trip to the vast sways of tall trees, fruit-heavy orchards
and beast-hiding brush-land was the only way that the timber could be acquired reasonably.

So the small boat and windmill were something the young Meruvian knew he had to look
after. It was around that time on his musings of how to bring some excitement into his
rural lifestyle that he first saw the two giants watching him to his left.
Cable's breath froze in his narrow chest as he scanned the oddly-featured strangers who
were undoubtedly emissaries of the Clankers.

'Grammy help me now' Cable whispered under his breath and turned to run.