Star Trek The Next Generation: Planet X

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Counselor,” said the mutant.

  She smiled, because it was part of her job to make guests feel welcome. “That is what they call me. Is there something I can do for you?”

  He shrugged. “How about offering me a seat?”

  “All right,” Troi said. “Would you like a seat?”

  Archangel smiled, though it was a distant, almost condescending smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Pulling a chair out from under the counselor’s table, he turned it around and straddled it as he sat down. Troi imagined it was more comfortable for him that way.

  “I take it you’ve already made your visit to sickbay,” she said.

  The mutant nodded.

  He was extremely good-looking, the counselor noted. What’s more, he seemed to know it.

  “I’ve visited Dr. Crusher’s chamber of horrors,” Archangel told her. “Commander La Forge gave me a once-over, too. Of course, they didn’t find anything that would explain our being here in your universe. Just the same mutant genes the others have—and a little something extra.”

  He declined to say what that was. And as far as Troi was concerned, it was the mutant’s absolute right to keep the information to himself—whatever it was. Still, if he didn’t want to go into detail, she wondered why he had mentioned it at all.

  Archangel’s eyes seemed to lose their focus for a moment—to look right through her. He smiled.

  “You’re a rich girl,” he said.

  Troi returned his gaze. “Rich?”

  He nodded. “You know. Wealthy. Prosperous.”

  She felt compelled to explain. “On Betazed, where I was born, no one lacked for material possessions. That’s the case throughout most of the Federation. So the term ‘rich’ isn’t really—”

  Archangel held up a hand in surrender. “Okay. I’ll rephrase my observation. You come from a … privileged background. True or false?”

  The counselor frowned. “I belong to the Fifth House of Betazed. Some people would call that a privileged background, I suppose. But it’s really more of a responsibility than a prerogative.”

  The mutant chuckled softly. “That’s how the privileged classes have always described themselves—as the protectors of society. Noblesse oblige and all that. But you’ll notice that when there are wars to be fought, we’re always the ones in the strongest armor, on the fastest horses. And the devil take everyone else.”

  Troi shook her head. “Is that how it is where you come from?”

  “That’s how it is where everyone comes from. It’s a fact of life. If you don’t see it, it’s because you’re kidding yourself.”

  Stung, she lifted her chin. “And you’re part of this so-called privileged class as well?”

  “Absolutely,” he told her. “Born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Went to the Riviera in the summer and Chamonix in the winter. Wore the best clothes, attended the best schools, drove the fanciest cars. Nothing was too good for Warren Worthington III.”

  The counselor didn’t recognize any of the references, but she understood perfectly what Archangel was talking about. She was reminded of the song Banshee and Data had sung.

  “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs by my side … and of all who assembled within those walls, that I was the hope and the pride …”

  Troi found herself speaking the next verse out loud. “I had riches too great to count, could boast … of a high, ancestral name …”

  He nodded. “Something like that.”

  “Then,” she asked, “if you were so well off, why are you here? What made you decide to put your armor and your spoon aside and place your life on the line to help people?”

  He laughed carelessly. “I grew wings. It’s tough to lounge on the beach at St. Bart’s when you’ve got these … things sprouting from your back.”

  “No,” the counselor said. “That’s not what I mean.” And you know it, she added silently.

  The mutant gazed out the observation port. His strange, blue skin, unlike that of the Bolians or the Andorians, was absolutely flawless. And the contrast with his golden blond hair was … striking, to say the least.

  “Why did I decide to fight on the side of the angels?” he asked himself. He shrugged. “Hard to say. It was a long time ago.”

  Troi sensed bitterness in the man. Bitterness and pain and a hatred of himself she couldn’t understand.

  And he obviously liked to keep others at arm’s length. It was, no doubt, his way of protecting himself from further pain.

  But despite all that, Archangel was an honorable man. And a compassionate one as well. And he was as dedicated as any of the X-Men to the principle of helping those who needed it.

  The counselor smiled to herself. Perhaps, she thought, we have something in common after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GUINAN PULLED OUT a piece of cloth from under the bar and took a swipe at its polished surface. It reflected her image back at her.

  She wasn’t smiling, she noticed. But then, this place didn’t feel like home to her—at least, not yet.

  Ten-Forward, the lounge she had managed for Captain Picard on the Enterprise-D, had been her pride and joy. Through hard work and attention to detail, she had made it a place where anyone could feel comfortable, regardless of their rank or station.

  When Ten-Forward was ripped to shreds along with the rest of the Enterprise-D, Guinan hadn’t dismissed it as a loss of materials. She felt as if her heart had been torn out of her.

  After all, a lounge like Ten-Forward wasn’t just another venue on the ship. It was a place where friendships and love affairs began, where births and marriages and promotions were celebrated. As far as she was concerned, it was a living thing, with a spirit and a sensibility and a soul.

  Sometime after the death of the Enterprise-D, Picard had been given command of the Enterprise-E—and he had assumed the job of outfitting another lounge. The captain had done his best to pattern it after Ten-Forward, bringing in the same kinds of furnishings and even many of the same waiters and waitresses.

  Everyone seemed pleased with the results. It was only in Guinan’s estimate that the place didn’t feel quite right.

  Of course, she was just a visitor these days—someone who had hitched a ride with the Enterprise en route to Earth, where she had business with the Federation Historical Society. And it was only over Picard’s objections that she had taken a shift at the bar—for old times’ sake.

  Guinan sighed and took another swipe at the bar with her cloth. Maybe with a little time, the place would grow on her.

  Just then, Ben came over with an empty tray. He was one of the waiters Picard had brought with him from the Enterprise-D.

  “How’s it going?” Guinan asked him, stowing her cloth back under the bar.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I like it better when the place is hopping.”

  “It’ll be hopping soon enough,” she told him. “We’ve got a shift change coming in fifteen minutes.”

  Ben smiled. “In that case, let me get my order in. Lt. Sovar will have a synthale. Lt. Rager asked for a Gamzain wine, no spices. Lt. Robinson is in the market for—”

  “Now, why didn’t anyone tell me about this place?” someone growled all of a sudden. “I mighta come here insteada wastin’ my time in sickbay.”

  Turning, Guinan saw a powerful-looking figure in blue and yellow enter the place. Plunking himself down on a stool right in front of her, he gazed directly into her eyes.

  “Howzabout some service, Darlin’?”

  Guinan recognized the fellow as Wolverine, one of the visitors the Enterprise had taken on recently … friends of the captain, she reminded herself, so it wouldn’t do to disembowel one of them with a mixing spoon.

  “Service?” she echoed calmly. “Oh … you mean a drink.”

  The mutant looked at her askance. “This is a bar, ain’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” she told him.

  “Well
, I’m lookin’ fer somethin’ good an’ strong.”

  She nodded. “One good-and-strong, coming up.”

  It only took a moment to make the mutant’s drink. Pushing it across the bar to him, Guinan watched him slug it down. Wolverine frowned.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “Geez louise,” he said. “You call this a drink?”

  “Actually,” she replied, “It’s the strongest stuff we serve around here.”

  Of course, that wasn’t quite true. But Guinan didn’t want to start a riot in the place.

  Wolverine seemed to wrestle inwardly with his next remark. “That’s a cryin’ shame, then,” he said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the officers seated at the table behind him. “This may be fine for yer Starfleet types, but I’m in the market for something with a kick.”

  “A kick,” the bartender echoed.

  “Uh huh.” The mutant thought for a moment, then hit on something. “The sorta stuff yer friend Worf might cozy up to.”

  “Ah,” Guinan said. “You want a warrior’s drink.”

  Wolverine grunted. “Yer catchin’ on.”

  The bartender leaned forward, crooked her finger and beckoned her guest with it—as if she wanted to tell him a secret. He leaned forward as well.

  “I don’t want to embarass you,” Guinan said, in a voice so soft only the two of them could hear it, “especially in front of all these Starfleet types. But I don’t think you could handle the kind of stuff Worf cozies up to.”

  The mutant looked at her and smiled. “That sounds like a challenge, darlin’.”

  “Maybe it is. Do you accept?” Guinan asked, returning his smile.

  “Y’see, I got this mutant healin’ factor goin’ for me. Ask Dr. Crusher, if ya don’t believe me. Whatever kind o’ punishment I take, my body bounces back.”

  “How about that.”

  “I get beat to a pulp,” he told her, “I’m good as new before y’can rustle up some band aids.”

  “Impressive,” Guinan responded. “You can slug down a warrior’s drink and still feel fine—because of your healing factor.”

  Wolverine merely nodded.

  Reaching under her bar again, she produced a ceramic mug the size of her head and set it before the mutant. Then she made her way to the refrigeration unit, took out a jug of Worf’s favorite drink, and opened the top of it.

  Guinan poured the dark, pungent liquid into the mug, filling the thing all the way to the top. Then she replaced the top on the jug and watched her guest’s nose wrinkle up.

  He peered into the glass. “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Prune juice,” Guinan said, smiling. “A warrior’s drink.” She looked at Wolverine, feigning surprise. “Unless, of course, you’re not the warrior you say you are.”

  The mutant considered the stuff, then looked up. “You are feisty,” he told her, with just a hint of admiration.

  “Takes one to know one,” the bartender noted.

  She half expected Wolverine to mutter a curse and walk away. After all, a mug of prune juice was a mug of prune juice. But to his credit, he didn’t back off from his promise.

  Picking up the mug, he drained the whole thing, right down to the dregs. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

  “Hit the spot,” he rasped, unwilling to give even an inch.

  “It sure will,” Guinan agreed.

  “Yeah,” said Wolverine. “Well, see ya.”

  His responsibility fulfilled, he pushed back from the bar and made his exit from the lounge.

  Guinan shrugged. Then she collected the mutant’s empty mug, took another swipe at the bar with her cloth and surveyed the place. As she had predicted, it was starting to fill up.

  It wasn’t Ten-Forward, Guinan mused. But it was beginning to feel like home nonetheless.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CHANCELLOR AMON TURNED in his chair and stared out the oval window behind him. It was a remarkably clear day. He could see the fortress above Verdeen in the distance, cradled in the Obrig Mountains.

  But not well enough, apparently. Not nearly well enough.

  Turning back to the rounded monitor on his desk, Amon considered the strained visage of his security minister. “Could you say that again?” he asked in the calmest voice he could manage.

  Tollit frowned. “The transformed have escaped, Chancellor. Every last one of them.”

  Amon shook his head. “How can this be?”

  “They were more powerful than we imagined,” the other man explained. “Sometime before dusk, they overpowered Osan and his garrison and left the fortress a shambles.” His frown deepened. “If you could see this place, Chancellor …”

  Amon held up a hand, not wanting to hear the details. He had sincerely believed himself past the worldwide emergency. With almost every reported case of transformation plucked from society and segregated, he had seen himself—and Xhaldia—well on the road to a solution.

  Now it seemed he had only made the problem worse.

  “Fortunately,” said Tollit, “one of the guards managed to slip his bonds and get to a communication station. Otherwise, we might still not know what took place here.”

  The chancellor heaved a sigh. Perhaps it was time to let others take the lead in this area. “What do you suggest we do?” he asked.

  His minister stroked his chin. “The challenge, of course, is to find the transformed and recapture them. Mind you, they’ve had nearly a day to hide themselves, and they’ve probably split up in a dozen different directions. However, we’ve had no reports of stolen hovercraft, so they may still be in the vicinity.”

  “Near Verdeen?” Amon suggested.

  “Perhaps in Verdeen,” said Tollit. “Some of them, at least—though we haven’t gotten word of any sightings.”

  The chancellor nodded. “Do whatever you have to. And keep in mind, we are no longer dealing with a group of innocents. They have become capable of violence—even if it is we who are responsible for that change in them—and they must be treated accordingly.”

  The minister understood. “We will consider them dangerous.”

  Amon sat back in his chair. “Keep me informed of developments as they occur, all right?”

  Tollit agreed that he would do that. Then he signed off.

  The chancellor massaged the bridge of his nose with the fingers of one hand. Blood of the ancients, he thought. I hope Minister Tollit has better luck with the transformed than I did.

  * * *

  Captain Picard had meant to visit Dr. Crusher for the last several hours. However, it had taken him longer than he had expected—or wished—to record his latest round of captain’s logs.

  Now, his duties done, he emerged from the turbolift closest to sickbay and followed the bend in the corridor. Because of that bend, he failed to see Storm coming from the other direction until the silver-haired woman was almost on top of him.

  She appeared to be as surprised as he was. “Captain Picard,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

  “Stor—” he began to say in response … then remembered that she preferred he call her Ororo. “I take it you’re just coming from your appointment with Dr. Crusher?”

  The mutant nodded. “That is correct. Mine was the last such appointment.”

  “And did her studies turn up anything useful?” Picard asked.

  Storm shrugged. “Perhaps. The doctor told me it is difficult to say until she has had a chance to go over the data.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I just thought she might have—”

  Suddenly, the captain heard something—a loud whoosh, getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.

  He spun around just in time to see a red-and-white missile headed straight for him. By the time he realized it was Archangel, he had already ducked and watched the mutant sweep past him.

  “Stop right there!” Picard bellowed after his guest, his voice echoing commandingly from bulkhead to bulkhead.r />
  Archangel didn’t seem to have heard him at first. He simply continued on his way, speeding almost effortlessly down the hallway.

  Then, with a splaying of his large, white wings, the mutant slowed himself. Turning gracefully despite the tight quarters presented by the corridor, he came speeding back in the captain’s direction.

  This time, Picard resolved, he would not flinch. He would stand his ground, no matter how much it looked as if Archangel would plow right into him.

  As it turned out, the captain need not have been concerned. Before the mutant had covered half the space between them, he spread his wings again and landed on the floor.

  Picard felt a surge of anger. He tried to throttle it, but it resisted his best efforts.

  “You asked to see me?” Archangel inquired, a superior-looking smirk on his face.

  Picard regarded him. “You have been drawing attention to yourself with your antics since you set foot on this ship. And before that, you did the same on Starbase 88. I have seen enough of it,” he said. “I want it to stop!”

  The mutant looked at him as if he had just grown wings of his own. Then he turned to Storm.

  “Is he serious?” Archangel asked her.

  “You are having this conversation with me,” the captain declared. “And since you asked, I am very serious. Shadowcat and Nightcrawler don’t use their powers on the Enterprise— why must you?”

  The mutant shook his head. “Kitty and Kurt don’t have wings, Captain Picard. Do you know how it feels to be confined to this …,” his month twisted, “this ship of yours, when everything inside you yearns for a place to soar? To be free?”

  “That’s what holodecks are for,” Picard told him—more coldly, perhaps, than he had intended.

  “Holodecks?” Archangel echoed scornfully. “Do you think—”

  “Warren!” snapped Storm.

  He looked at her, his eyes wide with indignation. “Ororo, I can’t—”

  “You can,” she insisted, “and you will. We are guests here. You must not forget that.”

  Archangel continued to stare at her for what seemed like a long time. Then he glanced at Picard, as if measuring the man’s resolve.