STAR TREK - TNG - 28 - Here There Be Dragons

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For my wife, Nan
Historian’s Note
The events in this story take place before the sixth-season episode “Rascals.”
Chapter One
COMMANDERWILLIAMRIKEReased forward, gently pushing aside a handful of the huge swamp
weeds as he did so. Even this slight motion sent ripples through the dark green water and released
bubbles that broke with noxious effect by his legs. Fighting back an urge to cough his lungs up, he
strained his ears for the slightest indication thatthey had heard him.
Nothing.
Then again, according to legend, younever heard a’tcharian warrior unless he wanted you to—and that
was as he delivered your deathblow. But ithad to be just a legend, or else how would anyone know it
and remain alive?
Riker tightened his grip on the hilt of the double-edged sword he carried, then shifted his other foot
forward. More disgusting bubbles broke on the surface of the water in front of him. For his money, this
holodeck simulation was getting much too uncomfortably real. It was harder to restrain the cough building
up inside his raw throat.
Behind him, Alexander moved with greater ease. The water came up to the Klingon boy’s stomach, so
he didn’t cause as many ripples as he walked. The bubbles of swamp gas didn’t seem to bother him; to
his Klingon nose, Riker thought, they might even have the fragrance of perfume. He held his smaller
thrusting sword over his head to keep it dry. There was a faint smile on Alexander’s dark face. He was
enjoying himself.
Typical, Riker thought. Only a Klingon would think of this asfun . Alexander might only be a child, but
he was aKlingon child, and they were born to fight. Riker had long ago come to the conclusion thathe
was a lover, not a fighter. And there was nothing in this benighted swamp to love. Another step and he
stopped to listen. Still nothing but the gut-searing stink and the icy water, up to his thighs to make him
uncomfortable. Despite this, heknew the’tchariani had to be around here somewhere. Three
experienced warriors couldn’t have been put off their trail this easily. Riker reviewed what he knew of the
species as he edged his way through the weeds and around the thick treelike growths. Each branch
seemed to trail a sticky liana, and avoiding them was a major hassle. He couldn’t afford to get caught on
one, though. It would shake the trees and alert the’tchariani for certain.
The warriors were a grim bunch of characters who loved to fight more than anything. Their idea of a
pleasant evening was to sit around a blazing campfire and toast someone’s feet. If that person screamed,
he was immediately killed for displaying less than warriorlike behavior. If he didn’t, he had to learn to get
through life minus his feet. The’tchariani were so humorless they made even the Borg look like a race of
stand-up comedians. Their favorite food was the heart of aichkhari —a kind of armor-plated lionlike
monster—which they ate not merely raw, but freshly torn from the chest of a dead beast they had
personally slain seconds before lunch. And here I am with three of these warriors tracking me, Riker
thought. Maybe Beverly Crusher was right, maybe I am way overdue for a mental checkup.
Riker cast a quick look over his shoulder to make certain that Alexander wasn’t falling behind. It must
have been the slight loss of concentration that the warriors had been awaiting.
The reeds beside him exploded outward as a’tcharian hurled through them. The warrior scream howled
from its double throat as it raised its weapon for the kill. This was not just to terrify its prey but to let the
other warriors know it had located Riker—and warn them to stay back until one of them was dead.
Riker threw himself to the left, heedless of the stench and frigid waters. As he did so, he swung his
sword up in a backhanded blow that intersected the downward sweep of the’tcharian spear. The force
of the impact almost broke his arm.
Hissing in fury, the warrior leapt back several paces to ready another attack. Riker was half-submerged
now, thin, puke-green weeds trying to cling to him. He pushed down at the cloying mud to right himself.
Another bout of noisome bubbles shattered on the surface of the swamp. Their stench burned his nasal
passages as he gasped for breath.
The’tcharian balanced on its four legs and held its spear flat in both hands. It wasn’t simply a stick with
a point—instead, the pole was capped with a curved edge, like part of a sickle. The idea was to catch
your prey with the thrust, then twist so as to disembowel it. It made the prey’s death much more
agonizing and therefore more entertaining for the warrior. It was looking for an opening to gut Riker.
Now what?Riker thought. Should he wait for it to attack again—and hope he could defend himself? Or
should he attack and try not to leave himself open for a thrust? Which was better? Another clutch of
bubbles erupted behind him as Alexander drew closer. Their stench helped Riker to decide—hehad to
get away from it. Whirling his sword, he leapt toward the warrior.
It danced aside with astonishing agility for a creature of its mass. Damn those four legs! As Riker halted
his charge, he realized he was in a bad position. Then the’tcharian struck. It didn’t have the time to
reverse its spear and use the cutting edge, but it made do. The hard wooden edge slammed across
Riker’s ribs, knocking him from his feet and back into an even harder tree trunk. A sharp dagger of
agony buried itself in Riker’s side, and his back was a searing fire of pain. His sword hand slumped
numbly, and great red flashes filled his vision.
Sensing victory and death, the’tcharian threw back its lizardlike snout and keened the deathsong.
With all of his remaining strength, Riker jerked back his arm and threw his sword.
The warrior had time for a startled look of astonishment as the blade ripped out its throat. It coughed up
blood. Its legs spasmed in agony, then it fell lifeless into the water.
That was the good news; the bad was that Riker’s sword fell in a tangle of tree roots with a loud splash.
There was no way for him to find it again in time. . . .
The second warrior whipped from the reeds, its own spear at the alert. Riker tried to move aside, but he
stumbled over something in the dark waters. He twisted as he fell, and fresh pain whipped up his entire
side. The fall saved his life. The blade of the spear slashed through his jacket, leaving a foot-long
blood-red trail across his back, and adding fuel to the fires of his pain.
Riker fought to remain conscious. The body of the first’tcharian had stopped thrashing, but its blood
was still gushing into the filthy swamp waters. It was bound to attract predators, most of which had
mouths overfilled with long, sharp teeth. And he wouldn’t be able to see them coming. . . . Ignoring the
pain, he grabbed the dead warrior’s spear and wrenched it from the lifeless grip. Then, with as much
speed and agility as he could muster, he turned to fight.
Alexander had beaten him to it. The warning he wanted to cry died unuttered in Riker’s throat. It was
too late and would only distract the Klingon youngster. His thrusting sword held firmly and proudly,
Alexander darted in for the’tcharian before it could take advantage of Riker’s clumsiness and finish him.
The warrior twisted to meet the new foe. It let go of the spear with one hand and swung it in a lethal arc
toward Alexander’s head.
Possibly the warrior was unused to striking at so small a victim. Possibly Alexander was faster on his
feet than Riker had ever imagined. Either way, Alexander shot forward, ducking under the darkness of
the foul swamp waters, and the spear blade missed him by several microseconds.
The’tcharian reared back slightly, obviously puzzled by this maneuver. When Alexander failed to
surface, it began stabbing at the water with the nasty end of the spear. Riker took advantage of the
distraction to get the butt of his spear into the mud and use it to lever himself to his feet. Pain zigzagged
up his side. It felt as if his back had been snapped in at least two places. Fighting down a wave of
nausea, he stumbled a step forward. His vision wavered and it took every ounce of concentration he
could summon up to make his other foot slurp forward through the mud and water.
The sound made the warrior snap around to face him. It hesitated in mid-thrust, wondering which foe to
tackle. That second of uncertainty was sufficient.
Like a dolphin leaping from the sea, Alexander shot out of the filthy swamp, his sword held firmly in front
of him. His whole body was as part of the weapon, and he lunged below the guard of the’tcharian . The
blade of his sword struck home below the creature’s breast-bone. There was the scrape of metal on
bone, and the warrior reared back, its forefeet flailing wildly. The spear fell with a splash from its
nerveless fingers. It screamed and then fell, dead, into the water.
And then there was—
A wild howl filled the air as the final warrior hurtled out of hiding. Alexander was too startled to react in
time. The sword was wrenched from his grip by the falling’tcharian , and he was left defenseless before
the onslaught of the final warrior.
Riker pushed himself into action. With a primeval yell of his own, he staggered forward, grimly ignoring
the pain. He lifted the spear and thrust as hard as he could. The point lanced home in the’tcharian’ s
side, slicing a great gash that fountained blood onto the weapon. Gritting his teeth, Riker threw his
remaining strength into twisting the blade.
The warrior screamed as the weapon dug in and eviscerated it. Riker screamed, too, because his ribs
were a blaze of agony from the effort he had made. Completely drained, he fell forward into the embrace
of the cold, disgusting waters.
“Terminate program,” came Worf’s voice, apparently out of nowhere.
Instead of breathing in the fetid swamp waters, fresh air filled Riker’s lungs. His face hit the padded floor
of the holodeck. He barely felt the extra pain it caused. With the termination of the program, all of the
physical aspects of the battle vanished. The swamp was gone, replaced by the dark walls of the
holodeck and the faintly glowing golden squares set into the walls and ceiling. The stench of the swamp
was replaced by the scrubbed air of theEnterprise . The noises of water and combat gave way to the
subdued humming of machinery.
It was a shame that none of the aching and stiffness went with the rest of it. It was almost impossible to
tell the difference between the holodeck’s environment and reality while a program lasted. Once reality
was restored, however, the energy spent was real.
Riker was absolutely exhausted. He managed to roll over onto his back, gasping in lungfuls of cool, clear
air.
“Did you see me, Father? Did you see me?” Alexander was almost hopping up and down in his
eagerness.
“Yes, my son,” Worf said with a grim smile on his lips and unmistakable pride in his voice. “I saw all.
You acted very bravely and fought as a Klingon should.” Then he glanced at Riker, almost embarrassed.
“You fought well, too, Commander.”
“That was my first kill!” Alexander beamed with pride and self-confidence. “I took him well!”
“Very well,” agreed Worf. “You are progressing well. But now it is time for you to prepare for classes.”
Alexander’s face fell. “Aw, do Ihave to? I want to fight some more.”
“Yes, you have to.” Worf’s stern tones couldn’t mask the affection he felt for his child. “A Klingon must
be prepared for his duty mentally as well as physically. Go and take your shower now. I will be along
shortly.”
“Yes, Father.” Alexander gave Riker a big grin and bolted from the room.
The ceiling was finally slowing down its wild gyrations now. The ache in Riker’s side was almost down
to being simply unbearable. Any year now he’d be able to get back on his feet again. Riker frowned as a
dark blotch floated across his vision. Then he managed to focus his eyes a bit and saw that it was Worf’s
face, gazing down at him.
“I am very grateful that you agreed to help my son with this simulation, Commander,” he said.
“Normally, it is one that Alexander would undertake as a class exercise in a Klingon school with other
youngsters of his own age. But as he is the only Klingon boy on theEnterprise . . .”
“Think nothing of it, Worf,” Riker said with some effort. “I’m glad to be of help.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Worf’s face twisted slightly into whatmight have been a smile. “I would
have felt very embarrassed had I been forced to be his partner in this program. It is of a level reserved
only for children. No offense intended, Commander.”
Please don’t rub it in any more,Riker thought. “None taken,” he said aloud.
Worf inclined his head slightly. “Do you require assistance standing?”
“No, no.” Riker waved his hand feebly. “I kind of like it down here.”
“As you wish.” Worf turned and left the holodeck.
Riker rolled his eyes. Only a Klingon could make athank you sound like an insult. Though he was happy
to help Worf with Alexander’s education, he rather doubted the use of a combat simulation like this. The
Klingons placed a great deal of stress on hand-to-hand combat, but it was an outdated mode of fighting.
Nowadays starships and phasers were the more customary weapons to use. A man with a phaser could
stun a’tcharian warrior without mussing his hair. Why bother with obsolete arms like swords and
spears? He sighed. No matter how hard he tried, he never really understood the Klingon mind.
The computer chimed softly. “Do you require medical assistance?” it inquired in its pleasant but
unemotional tones.
“Don’t you start!” Riker groaned.
He had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be his day. . . .
Chapter Two
CAPTAINJEAN-LUCPICARDsat back in the command chair, his fingers inches from the cup of tea
(Earl Grey, hot), a feeling of deep satisfaction within his soul. Moments like these never failed to remind
him why he had applied to join Starfleet in the first place. On the huge viewscreen that dominated the
main bridge of theEnterprise was perhaps one of the most beautiful sights in all the universe.
The ship was cautiously approaching an interstellar cluster, and the screen showed the view ahead in all
its majestic glory. The cluster was an immense cloud of gases, all tendrils and thunderheads, like some
cosmic Rorschach test fresh-dripped from the fingers of God. It was out of matter like this that stars
were born, as gravity and other forces acted upon the microscopic particles that made up the dust. The
tiny particles and molecules would be drawn together, layered, and shaped until in one blinding instant
they would explode with light and energy—the microsecond of stellar birth. Picard felt like an expectant
father, waiting in the wards for news of a fresh arrival.
Dozens of stars had already begun their lives within the cloud. Light streaming from them danced and
diffused off the particles of gas, casting strange and exotic hues into the cloud. Salmon pinks, intense
magentas, glowing ochres, startling chartreuses, vivid sapphires—they all swirled and streaked and
demanded attention. Rarely did such violent and savage forces as existed here come together to result in
so much beauty. The individual particles were caught in the grips of fields of such strength that they were
snatched from their paths and dragged into the embrace of their fellow particles in a process that was
almost a flicker on the cosmic scale. Yet the view that now entranced him would barely change in the
next thousand or even ten thousand years. The cloud was so huge, the forces so slow by human
standards that only their most delicate instruments could detect any changes at all.
Picard wasn’t the only one affected by the sight on the screen. Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge, standing
beside Picard, murmured softly: “Man, oh, man, oh, man.” Picard couldn’t resist a smile—and a flicker
of envy. Geordi had been born blind, but the VISOR he wore over his sightless eyes more than
compensated for his lost vision. Its technology enabled Geordi to “see” far more of the electromagnetic
spectrum than the normal human eye. If the cloud looked this gorgeous to Picard, how much more
wonderful did it appear to Geordi?
“When I was a boy,” Picard said softly—to speak any louder would be unforgivably intrusive in the
presence of this scene—“I was given a book by an aunt. It was some text on astronomy that my father
said was far too advanced for a boy my age. He was right, too. But it had a section of color photographs
that stole my heart. I loved looking through them and dreamed of being out here, amongst objects of such
rare elegance.” He looked again at the screen. “And here I am.”
From his station at Ops in front of Picard, Data glanced around, an expression of childlike innocence on
his face. “Maintaining our position, sir,” he reported. “Scans confirm that the shields can easily withstand
the forces we are now experiencing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Data.” Picard sighed slightly. Data could always be relied upon to bring even the
grandest vistas down to practical reality. Lacking human emotions, the android tended to respond
inappropriately at times.
Geordi shook his head ruefully. “Data,” he said softly, “it’s a shame that view out there doesn’t mean
anything to you.”
Data looked back at the screen, then at Geordi, a slight frown on his face. “Itmeans a great deal to me,”
he replied in all seriousness. “It means that proto-star formation is entering a scientifically interesting
stage. It means that we are in an excellent situation to check Zingleman’s Theory of Beta Tachyon
Decay. It means that we must keep our shields raised as long as we are this close to the formation zone.
It means—”
“Mr. Data,” Picard broke in before the android could list every pertinent fact, “I think Mr. La Forge is
referring to thebeauty of the view.”
“Ah.” Data glanced at the screen once more. “Itis aesthetically interesting.”
Seated beside him at Navigation, Ensign Ro Laren snorted. “Trying to discuss beauty with an android is
like trying to discuss business ethics with a Ferengi,” she said. “No common ground.”
“On the contrary,” Data replied. “I have a great appreciation of aesthetics. I merely do not have an
emotional response to beauty.”
Knowing Ro’s own appreciation of a good argument, Picard broke in. “Thank you. Mr. La Forge,
perhaps you’d be kind enough to let the science teams know that they can begin launching their probes
as soon as they are ready.”
“Aye, sir.”
As the turbolift door to the bridge hissed open, Picard glanced up. His first officer, Will Riker, entered.
“Ah, Will,” Picard called in greeting. “Come to enjoy the sights?”
Riker looked up at the screen, and his face creased into a smile. “It’s certainly worth a long, hard stare,”
he agreed. He seemed to wince momentarily as he took his seat at Picard’s right hand.
“Are you all right, Number One?” asked Picard, concerned.
Riker shot him a pained look. “It’s just a . . . twinge,” he replied. “Nothing to worry about.” Before
Picard could ask for details, Riker called out to Data: “What are the tachyon levels like out there?”
“Within predicted parameters,” the android replied. “At this distance we will have no problems. Shields
are holding at five percent carrying capacity.”
Riker nodded. “And if the science teams want us closer in?”
Data cocked his head slightly as he performed the calculations in his positronic matrix. “We could go
another light-year closer before the shields begin to show strain,” he reported. “Two light-years would
definitely overextend their capacity.”
“Well, there’s little chance we’ll have to worry about that,” Picard said. “This is a nice, routine
examination, and science section will just have to be happy with whatever they get from this distance.”
Riker couldn’t resist a grin. “Aren’t you at all interested in getting some answers to the mystery of beta
tachyon decay?”
“I might be, Number One, if I knew what it was!” Picard was willing to let him have his fun at the
captain’s expense.
Riker stroked his beard. “Data’s been explaining it to me,” he said. “Apparently a maverick scientist
named Zingleman from Benecia has this theory that the forces at the heart of a stellar cluster like this are
sufficient to funnel not merely alpha tachyons but the beta version as well. And beta tachyons seem to
undergo some form of decay that nobody’s been able to measure or explain exactly. Theyshould have all
evaporated or something when the universe was half its present age.”
Picard was intrigued despite himself. “And yet they haven’t?”
Riker nodded at the android. “Data?” he prompted.
Data swung about in his seat to face them. “No, sir, they haven’t. There are a number of hypotheses that
might account for this, but Professor Zingleman’s theory is the most intriguing. He posits the idea that they
may create a kind of space-time tunnel that leads from their moment of creation to their eventual
destruction—a form of very localized distortion that allows them to live on far after they theoretically
should have decayed.”
Struggling to grasp this, Picard asked: “You mean a kind of time warp reaching back to the instant of the
Big Bang itself and then forward to the eventual end of the entire universe?”
“Precisely.” Data raised an eyebrow. “An intriguing possibility, is it not?”
“Think of the ramifications,” Riker urged. “If such corridors through timedo exist, it might be possible to
actually send probes back through them to the very instant of creation itself—and to the other end of time
as well. . . . “
Ro had stayed silent longer than she liked. Ever practical, all the talk of theory rankled her. “Except that
weknow that tachyons can rip normal matter apart in seconds,” she pointed out. “If theEnterprise tried
to enter a tachyon funnel, we’d be annihilated instantly and our atoms scattered from the Big Bang to the
Last Flicker.” Then, recalling herself, she added: “Sir.”
Picard and Riker exchanged smiles. When she had first been assigned to theEnterprise , Ro Laren’s
records had labeled her a malcontent and habitual troublemaker. Picard, however, considered her a
valuable addition to the crew—not at all the problem that her previous commanders had rated her. What
some officers had considered to be her weaknesses—questioning orders, offering unasked-for
recommendations, and sometimes simply acting without proper authorization—Picard felt were strengths
that simply needed channeling in the right directions. She had proved her worth many times over.
“Then we had better be certain that our shields remain at full strength for this survey, hadn’t we?” Picard
said mildly. Then he noted that Data had swung back to study new readings on his board. “Mr. Data?”
“Sir,” the android reported without turning his head. “I am receiving some very anomalous information
from sensors.” Ro busied herself checking the incoming data.
“Clarify, please.” Picard leaned forward. What could possibly be happening out there that would register
on the sensors? In a stellar cloud such as this, events took place over cosmic periods of time, not
minutes.
“It appears to be another vessel, Captain,” Data replied.
Riker frowned. Starfleet didn’t have any other ships in this sector—which was why theEnterprise was
taking these readings in the first place. “Where is it, Data?”
“Inside the stellar cluster, sir.”
“What?”Pieard jumped to his feet. “But that’s impossible.” He moved to stand behind Data at Ops,
scanning the incoming readings with his own eyes.
“Nevertheless, itis there,” the android insisted.
“On screen,” Picard ordered.
As Data obeyed, the image of the cloud focused down tighter to a section of the wispy matter. Nothing
was visible except the stellar matter.
“Confirmed,” Ro announced. “I’m reading a distortion in the space-time fabric ahead of us at two oh
three mark seven.”
“Butnothing could survive inside there,” Riker objected.
“Somethingapparently can, Number One,” Picard replied. “Intriguing, isn’t it?”
Geordi had returned to stand beside them all. The five of them stared from the screen to the instruments,
waiting. “There she is,” Geordi said.
A small shape appeared on the screen, flitting out from an arm of the stellar gas. Data instantly magnified
the view, and the shape leapt into sharp focus.
Picard was stunned. Had the vessel been a Klingon bird of prey, or even a Cardassian science ship, he
would have been puzzled, but it would have made some sort of sense. A ship like thatmight have been
built and tested on the quiet. Or if the ship they saw emerging from the lethal cloud was some new and
previously unidentified alien vessel of mysterious technology, that would have been fascinating but
explicable.
What they were looking at literally made no sense at all.
“Itcan’t be,” Riker said, shaken.
“Confirmed,” Data announced, the only one of them incapable of being shocked. “The vessel is an Earth
pleasure cruiser, Damascus class.”
“There’s noway they could have survived that,” Geordi complained.
“A blastedtourist vessel?” Picard growled. “Gentlemen, I want some answers! Who are they? How did
they survive? What the blazes are they doing here?”
“Presumably sightseeing,” said Ro, straight-faced.
From his station toward the rear of the bridge, Worf called: “Captain! They’re firing on us!”
Chapter Three
“THEY’RE WHAT? ” demanded Picard, incredulously.
Worf looked up from his board, a savage smile on his face. “They’re firing on us,” he repeated. “Phasers
only, two of them.” Even as he spoke, the ship gave a slight—barely noticeable—judder as the bolts hit
theEnterprise ’s screens. “No loss of shield strength,” he added.
“They’ve got to be kidding,” Riker ventured. “A pleasure cruiser trying to take on a starship?”
“A one-sided fight like this is hardly going to put them in the history books,” Ro muttered. “They don’t
stand a chance.”
“Precisely,” agreed Picard, frowning at the screen. “That much should be obvious even to a Denebian
slime devil. So why are they firing on us?”
Geordi scratched the back of his neck. “And what’s a leisure vessel doing equipped with phasers
anyway?” Another blast hit their screens as they conferred.
“No loss of shield strength,” Worf called out.
Picard sighed. “I think we can take that for granted, Mr. Worf,” he replied. “This situation is getting
more baffling every moment.”
A happy gleam filled the Klingon’s eyes. “Shall I fire back, sir? Phasers are on line.”
“I’d feel rather like a bully, Number One,” Picard muttered to Riker. A starship firing on a pleasure
cruiser . . .”
“We can’t let them keep this up, though, Captain,” Riker pointed out.
Picard nodded. “Noted.” To Worf, he ordered: “Open hailing frequencies, Mr. Worf.”
Worf nodded and bent to his work. After a moment he announced: “No reply on any channel, Captain.
Theyare receiving our message but refuse to respond.” The ship rocked slightly once again. “No loss
of—” Worf cut himself off.
Shaking his head in despair, Picard said: “All right, Mr. Worf. One shot across their bow.” To Riker, he
added: “Maybe that’ll knock some sense into their heads.”
“Firing,” Worf reported. On the screen they saw the searing ray of their phaser flash past the craft. It
was a hundred times stronger than the ones the pleasure ship was using. The other ship promptly changed
direction but continued to fire.
“All right, Mr. Worf,” Picard decided. “Take out their engines.”
Worf smiled eagerly. “Aye,Captain.” He tapped the figures into his panel.
On the screen they saw the small ship rocked by two beams that passed through their shields without
pause. The phaser fire sliced off both engine nacelles and then vaporized them. The inertial dampers on
the vessel stopped it dead in space.
It continued to fire at them.
“Captain,” Data said. “I have been scanning the vessel since we first saw it. I am now recording seven
life-forms aboard the craft. When I began my scan, there were nine.”
“Did we kill them?” asked Riker, concerned. None of them liked having to kill, even though the other
ship had commenced hostilities.
“No, sir. The two fatalities occurred within their lower decks, not near the engine room.”
Riker’s puzzled frown matched the one on Picard’s face. “What is going on over there?”
“Maybe their captain doesn’t take failure lightly?” suggested Ro.
“Then they should never have begun this insane attack,” snapped Picard. “Mr. Worf, that continuous
phaser fire is getting on my nerves. Can you take their cannons out without injuring anyone?”
“I believe so, Captain.”
“Then—”
“Sir!” Data broke in. “I am now registering further activity on the lower deck.” He looked up. “They
have launched a life pod, with a single being inside it.”
摘要：

Formywife,NanHistorian’sNoteTheeventsinthisstorytakeplacebeforethesixth-seasonepisode“Rascals.”ChapterOneCOMMANDERWILLIAMRIKEReasedforward,gentlypushingasideahandfulofthehugeswampweedsashedidso.Eventhisslightmotionsentripplesthroughthedarkgreenwaterandreleasedbubblesthatbrokewithnoxiouseffectbyhisle...

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