Part 1 (1/2)

Here There Be Dragons.

by John Peel.

Chapter One.

COMMANDER WILLIAM RIKER eased forward, gently pus.h.i.+ng 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 that they had heard him.

Nothing.

Then again, according to legend, you never heard a 'tcharian warrior unless he wanted you to-and that was as he delivered your deathblow. But it had 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 as fun. Alexander might only be a child, but he was a Klingon child, and they were born to fight. Riker had long ago come to the conclusion that he 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, he knew 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 ha.s.sle. 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 a ichkhari-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 pa.s.sages 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-he had to get away from it. Whirling his sword, he leapt toward the warrior.

It danced aside with astonis.h.i.+ng agility for a creature of its ma.s.s. d.a.m.n 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 bloodred 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 thras.h.i.+ng, but its blood was still gus.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.t.t 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 the Enterprise. 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 embarra.s.sed. ”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 cla.s.ses.”

Alexander's face fell. ”Aw, do I have 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 cla.s.s exercise in a Klingon school with other youngsters of his own age. But as he is the only Klingon boy on the Enterprise ...”

”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 what might have been a smile. ”I would have felt very embarra.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance standing?”