Of course, some fits seemed to take place without any provocation at all. Suddenly, one of the transformed would emit a web of electrical energy or grow twelve feet tall. And while they were trying to come to grips with what had happened, the guards would turn them into convulsing wretches.
Erid shivered at the thought. It had become almost as hard for him to watch such an event as to experience it.
Of course, not everyone was quite so sensitive to the feelings of others. Some seemed hardly to care at all. But then, the transformed at Verdeen were as diverse as any cross-section of the population.
The youth was reminded of that fact as he skirted the yard, watching his fellow prisoners meditate, or exercise, or talk in small groups. No two of the transformed were exactly alike.
There were shy, quiet types, and those who were loud and angry about what had happened to them. There were friendly, compassionate people, and those who hated everyone they looked at. There were young men and women who were frightened and wanted only to go home, and those who seemed to barely mind their imprisonment.
What’s more, they had all changed in different ways. Even with his enlarged, purple blood vessels and the loss of his blue-black skull brush, Erid was hardly the most grotesque of them.
Some of the transformed had grown an extra set of arms. Some had sprouted horns or some similarly peculiar appendages. Still others had seen an alteration in skin texture or eye color. Only a fortunate handful seemed to have undergone no outward change at all.
Their powers were unique as well. Where one had become immensely strong, another had become lightning-quick. Where one could draw energy from everything around her, another could turn solids into liquids or create illusions in the minds of others.
All of them different. And yet, all bound by a common destiny—to become something their world had never seen before, near the occasion of their twenty-second birthday.
No one knew why they had changed. No one knew how. They knew only that they had been altered, and for the time being—at the very least—there was nothing any of them could do about it.
As Erid’s eyes adjusted to the bright light in the yard, he picked out the transformed who had arrived only that morning. There were three of them, the smallest group of newcomers he had seen yet.
One was a small, slender woman named Denara, who spoke with a Mercasite accent. To look at her, one would never know she could grow a metallic exo-skin capable of withstanding the most punishing force. Yet Denara could do exactly that—or so she claimed.
The second of the new arrivals was a handsome young man named Paldul, the skin of whose forehead had become pocked with tiny, green craters. Paldul’s power, apparently, was a mental one—he could tell what others were thinking, in the manner of a Betazoid.
But it was the third of the newcomers who seemed to command everyone’s interest. His name was Rahatan, and like Denara, he looked much like any other Xhaldian. A little taller than normal, with perhaps a little more swagger in his step, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary.
The nature of Rahatan’s power? He had neither demonstrated nor described it, so Erid didn’t have any idea. However, he had a feeling the man’s talent was something formidable.
Perhaps it had something to do with influencing others. That would explain the small crowd that had gathered around Rahatan, hanging on to what he was saying. Curious, Erid came as close as he could without exposing himself to direct sunlight.
“You haven’t been allowed?” said Rahatan.
“That’s right,” replied a woman named Corba, who had been seen to move in amazing bursts of speed. “Notevenacalltoourfamilies,toletthemknowwhereweare. Theydon’twantanyoneontheoutsidetoknowaboutus.”
“Slow down,” said a man with luminous, red eyes, whose name Erid had forgotten. “We can barely understand what you’re saying.”
“I understood her,” remarked a transformed called Leyden.
Most of his skin had turned into something hard and translucent, like the armored shell of an insect, and he was reputed to have the strength of ten normal Xhaldians.
Leyden smiled bitterly. “Corba said we can’t make contact with the outside because the government doesn’t want anyone to know about us. It’s the truth, too. Osan hasn’t made an effort to deceive us on that point.”
Rahatan grunted. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not,” responded an attractive woman named Seevyn, who could create powerful illusions. In fact, it was said that her transformation had made her something hideous, and that her appearance was an illusion as well. “But there’s not a great deal we can do about it.”
Rahatan eyed her. “And why’s that?”
Seevyn jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the guards perched on the parapets above them. “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re the ones with the stun weapons.”
“And they’re not afraid to use them,” added the man with the luminous eyes.
Rahatan shrugged. “So what? We’ve got weapons, too, haven’t we?”
He looked up at the guards, his expression a defiant one. What’s more, they seemed to notice.
“Look at them,” Rahatan said softly. “It’s they who are afraid of us. That’s why they’re clutching those weapons so tightly. They’re scared we’ll climb up there and show them how powerful we’ve become.”
Erid found himself nodding. The guards were scared of them. He had seen it in their eyes, even as they raked him with stun fire. He had seen it in Osan’s face, as he stood before the administrator’s desk.
“Are you suggesting something?” asked Seevyn.
Rahatan looked at her. “All I’m saying—for now—is that they need to treat us better. And if I have anything to say about it, they will.”
Erid was impressed with the newcomer’s bravado … even if he didn’t think anything would come of it. Still, he resolved to keep an eye on the transformed called Rahatan.
* * *
Picard materialized in the large, well-lit transporter room of Starbase 88, flanked by Counselor Troi and Commander Data. He found Admiral Kashiwada standing beside the base’s transporter operator—waiting for Picard and his officers, as promised.
“Admiral,” said the captain.
“Welcome,” Kashiwada replied.
Picard indicated his officers. “This is Deanna Troi, our ship’s counselor. And Commander Data, our second officer.”
The admiral inclined his head slightly. “My pleasure.”
“The pleasure is ours, sir,” Troi responded.
“No,” said Kashiwada. “The pleasure is mine, believe me. For when you leave, you will take our guests with you.” He gestured to the door. “Follow me, please.”
Picard allowed the admiral to lead the way out of the transporter room. Once they had emerged into the corridor outside, however, he accelerated to catch up with Kashiwada.
“You must understand, sir,” said the captain, “it is not easy for the X-Men to be here. Their world is very different from ours.”
“I’m sure it is,” the admiral told him. “And believe me, Jean-Luc, I harbor no ill will toward them. In fact, I find them intriguing in many respects. It’s just that—”
Suddenly, Picard saw something red-and-white flash into view at the end of the corridor and come hurtling in their direction. Before he knew it, it was almost on top of them.
“Watch out!” he snapped.
The captain barely had time to duck before the thing flashed over his head in a loud, almost tangible rush of air. Whirling, he saw it disappear around a bend in the passageway.
He cursed. “What was that?”
“That was Archangel,” Data answered matter-of-factly. “I imagine he was in a hurry, or he would have stopped to speak with us.”
Picard straightened and made an effort to regain his composure. “No doubt,” he muttered.
Kashiwada sighed. “It’s been my experience that Archangel travels that way as often as possible. I think h
e enjoys startling my base personnel with his comings and goings.”
For all the captain knew, the admiral’s observation was an accurate one. But he kept his speculation to himself.
“Then again,” said Data, “as you yourself have pointed out, sir, a starbase is hardly the ideal environment for the X-Men—particularly one who is used to the freedom of an open sky. Perhaps this is simply Archangel’s instinctive response to being—”
“Cooped up?” the admiral suggested.
The android nodded. “Precisely, sir.”
Kashiwada shrugged. “No doubt, you’re right, Commander.”
He resumed walking. Picard and the others followed suit.
“Nonetheless,” the admiral went on, “understanding the stresses on Archangel’s psyche doesn’t make his mode of travel any less startling. Why, just a little while ago—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a sinister, dark figure popped into existence in the corridor ahead of them. The captain tensed, his nerves already taut from their encounter with Archangel.
Then he saw who it was—just another of the X-Men. Taking a breath, he forced himself to relax.
“Nightcrawler,” said Troi.
“In the flesh,” the mutant responded playfully, with a German accent. “Or the fur, if you prefer. You may take your pick, Counselor.”
“How did you know where to find us?” asked Data.
Nightcrawler grinned. “A little bird told me—the one that went rushing by you a moment ago. Fortunately, I’ve come to know some of these corridors pretty well by now.”
“Me, too,” said a youthful, feminine voice.
Tracing it to its source, Picard turned and saw the head of a young woman emerging from the deck behind him. It would have been a bizarre sight indeed had it not been preceded by the equally bizarre appearances of Nightcrawler and Archangel.
“Shadowcat,” the captain noted. “Remind me to instruct you in the use of a turbolift sometime.”
Floating the rest of the way up through the metal deck surface, revealing her blue and yellow garb, the girl appeared to ignore Picard’s comment. “It’s about time you got here. Storm and the others are waiting for you in the admiral’s office, and they are not happy with what’s going on.”
The captain turned to Kashiwada. “What’s … going on?” he repeated.
The admiral nodded. “You see, we had some trouble with your friend Wolverine last night. I was forced to incarcerate him.”
“You put him in the brig?” Picard asked.
“That’s correct,” Kashiwada replied. “Reluctantly, of course. However, it was necessary if we were to maintain order on the base.”
“I see,” said the captain.
“Can we go see Storm now?” asked Shadowcat.
“We are doing our best to make progress,” the admiral told her. “If people stop flying by and floating out of the floor, perhaps we will actually arrive at our destination someday.”
Shadowcat started to say something, but Nightcrawler held a hand up. “Admiral Kashiwada is right,” he said. “The sooner we leave him alone, the sooner he and our friends here—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw a blur of red and white. He knew what it was this time, but it was still disconcerting to see it bear down on him and then zip just over his head.
“—will get where they’re going,” Nightcrawler finished, as Archangel negotiated a bend in the corridor and sped out of sight.
“Okay,” said Shadowcat. Without another word, she walked into the bulkhead and vanished.
A moment later, Nightcrawler disappeared as well. In his place, he left a small implosion of air and a scent not unlike brimstone.
Kashiwada let the captain see his suffering for a fleeting moment. “A most stimulating group indeed,” the admiral said.
Picard didn’t answer. He just followed Kashiwada to his ready room. Without any further interruptions, it was a journey of but a few minutes.
As they entered the admiral’s sanctum, the captain saw that Nightcrawler, Shadowcat, and Archangel were there already. So were Storm, Banshee, and Colossus, as well as a dark-haired woman in a gold and black Starfleet security officer’s uniform.
The pips on the woman’s collar told Picard she wasn’t just any security officer. She was in charge of that function here on the starbase.
“Captain Picard,” said Storm, rising from her chair. “I am glad to see you.” She acknowledged the captain’s colleagues. “And you as well.”
Colossus and Banshee got up, too. The former was in his human state, so he didn’t tower over the others in the room by quite so much.
“There has been a problem with Wolverine,” Colossus noted, not one to beat around the bush.
“Aye,” said Banshee. “Or rather, there was a problem. But it’s over now, so there’s nae reason for him t’ be sittin’ in that silly wee brig.”
Picard knew the X-Men could have prevented their comrade from being incarcerated if they had wished to—or freed him any time they wanted. Yet they had allowed Wolverine to be taken to the brig and to languish there.
In a way, they were doing what the captain would have done in the midst of an alien culture. They were showing respect for their hosts by trying to obey the laws set out for them.
Picard turned to Kashiwada. “Admiral? Do you have any objection to Wolverine’s being set free at this time?”
“None,” Kashiwada said reasonably. “As long as the fellow doesn’t linger here on the base.” He glanced at his security chief. “Lt. Clark, would you be so kind as to see to Wolverine’s emancipation?”
The woman nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Archangel’s wings beat once, quickly.
Storm glanced at him with her blue eyes, seeming to know what the gesture meant. “What is it, Archangel?”
“Wolverine isn’t too fond of Lt. Clark. After all, she was the one who phaser-blasted him.” He turned his cold, almost haughty gaze on the security officer. “No offense.”
“None taken,” said Lt. Clark, though her expression said otherwise.
Storm turned to Picard. Her look was an appeal for help—a request that he not put her in the position of intervening.
“If it’s all right with you,” the captain told Kashiwada, “perhaps Counselor Troi could accompany the lieutenant. She has, after all, established something of a rapport with Wolverine.”
Not that much of a rapport, Picard knew. However, the counselor had been trained to defuse explosive situations, and this had the possibility of becoming one of them.
The admiral thought about it for a moment. “Lt. Clark,” he said at last, “Counselor Troi will go with you, as the captain has suggested. If a confrontation seems to be developing, you’ll defer to her.”
“Aye, sir,” the security officer responded dutifully.
Then she and Troi left Kashiwada’s ready room.
Picard turned to Storm again. “Don’t worry. The counselor will make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Storm.
But, judging by the glances the X-Men were exchanging, not all of them were quite so confident.
Chapter Five
AS TROI ACCOMPANIED Security Chief Clark along one of the starbase’s curving corridors, she used her Betazoid senses to locate Wolverine and probe the mutant’s state of mind. What she found in him was anger and frustration, in equal parts.
The anger was primitive, instinctual—what an animal might have felt at being caged. The frustration came from the restraint he had to exercise, lest he compound his offense by attempting to tear up his cell.
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Clark, “he did quite a bit of damage.”
Troi let her empathic contact with Wolverine lapse. “Oh?” she replied.
“Two tables, several chairs, and a replicator,” the security officer enumerated. “And, of course, one of the bulkheads.”
The counselor looked at her. “One of the bulk
heads?”
Clark nodded.
The counselor nodded. “I see.”
“He’s just up ahead,” said Clark. She turned to her guest. “You’re sure you can handle this?”
Troi nodded. “If the prisoner acts up, I’ll just use a few Mok’bara moves on him.”
The chief looked at her. “You’re joking, right?”
The counselor didn’t sense any real amusement on Clark’s part. “Trying to,” she said.
A moment later, they came in sight of the brig. Its forcefield was transparent except for an occasional white spark. As Troi got closer, she could see a pair of booted feet inside, one crossed over the other.
“Lt. Clark,” Wolverine said without turning around.
Troi took up a position in front of the brig, where she could get a good look at Wolverine. He was masked, as always.
“Counselor.” he acknowledged.
His anger was gone now. The frustration, too. A new complex of emotions was taking hold in the mutant—a mixture of happiness and relief, along with a hint of …
Troi blushed.
Wolverine grinned. “Ya don’t know how glad I am ta see ya, Darlin’. Whatever they say I did, don’t believe it.”
“They say you were acting disorderly,” the counselor told him.
The prisoner shrugged. “All I wanted was a glass o’ milk before bedtime. Izzat so much ta ask?” Troi didn’t answer his question. Instead, she said, “Captain Picard’s arranged for your release.”
“Huh,” Wolverine grated. “I knew he’d come through for us sooner or later.”
Clark glanced at the Betazoid. “Last chance to reconsider,” she said. “If I try real hard, I could convince the admiral to keep him here.”
Troi couldn’t help chuckling a little. “Orders are orders,” she said. “I think you had better release him.”
Reluctantly, Clark placed her hand against a plate set into the bulkhead. Then she tapped out a command on the pad below it.
A moment later, the forcefield was gone. Wolverine put out his hand and confirmed the fact for himself. Satisfied, he grunted.
Star Trek The Next Generation: Planet X Page 4
