The Terror but every week is framed like an episode of Voyager: A shuttle rowboat is launched every week and destroyed but it’s okay they have an endless supply. Goodsir still can’t leave the infirmary but can sign perfectly, to everyone’s chagrin. Hickey’s been promoted, and demoted and promoted again. Blanky’s still on the Barge of the Dead in full Klingon boob cup. The Three Lieutenants whose names I’ve forgotten have cycled thru the Alt-Kims: to an alternate London where they’ve never left, an alternate future where they escaped at the expense of the crew and an another alternate future where they’re a sadder captain in sadder spandex. Erebus has split into 17 different time periods, unrelated to that Silna is convinced it’s 1940s Paris and she’s a lounge singer. Crozier is in caffeine withdrawal with an alien migraine crown around his head and wants to lose himself in some turn of the 20th Century Irish barman smut if he can ever get it back from Sgt Tozier who’s undergoing his own Pon Farr (The works of Lord Byron smuggled by Mr. Peglar don’t suit his interests any more). And Seska is there ready to steal Fitzjames’ sperm, again.