Star Trek - Planet X. Part 12

"Actually," the android replied, "I have several."

And he began to sing one, in a voice quite different from his own. It was higher-pitched, better suited to the music in question.

"I dreamt," he sang, "that I dwelt in marble halls, with va.s.sals and serfs by my side. And of all who a.s.sembled within those walls, that I was the hope and the pride ..."

Banshee's eyes opened wide. "I had riches too great to count, could boast ... of a high, ancestral name ..." He turned to Lt. Robinson. "But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, that you loved me still the same."

Again, there was a round of accolades and applause-Robinson's the loudest of all. But this time, the cheers were directed at the android as well as at the mutant.

Getting up from his seat, Banshee clapped Data on the shoulder. "Well done, lad. Well done indeed."

Data nodded. "Your performance was impressive as well."

"But tell me," said the mutant, "where did ye come across an ol' ballad like that one?"

"It was a favorite of Brian McGonaghy," the android replied.

Banshee shook his head. "The name does nae ring a bell."

"Brian McGonaghy," said Data, "was one of the colonists on Omicron Theta, where I was created."

"He was a friend?" the mutant ventured.

"I am afraid not," the android told him. "Shortly after I gained awareness, I was programmed with the logs and journals of all the colonists, in the hope that they would provide a reference for social behavior."

He paused, experiencing a pang of regret. Emotions were still a new experience for him.

"Unfortunately, Brian McGonaghy died with the other colonists ... when Omicron Theta was destroyed by a s.p.a.ce-going ent.i.ty."

"I'm sorry t' hear that," Banshee said.

Data nodded. "So am I. However, we should not linger here."

"And why's that, lad?"

"Dr. Crusher asked me to bring you to sickbay. She is waiting to examine you as she has examined your teammates."

The mutant hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of course she is. I completely forgot, Mr. Data, and that's th' honest truth." He turned to his listeners and shrugged. "Perhaps another time, my friends."

"Another time," Lt. Robinson agreed.

"See you then," said Lt. Rager.

As the android escorted Banshee out of the lounge, he turned to him. "May I ask you a question?"

"Anything," the redhead said, obviously in a good mood.

"Why do they call you Banshee?" Data asked. "Does that not describe someone who makes a wailing sound? And warns of approaching death?"

The mutant's smile tightened a bit. "Ye've not had th' pleasure o' hearin' me sing in battle," he replied. "Believe me, lad-if ye had, ye would nae have asked that question."

The android thought about requesting a more specific answer, but decided against it. Commander Riker had fought alongside Banshee. No doubt, he could shed some light on the matter.

When one wanted information, Data had learned, it was sometimes easier not to go to the horse's mouth. Or, in this case, the Banshee's.

Troi was sorry to see Banshee leave the lounge. She had enjoyed his songs, not to mention the sincerity with which he sang them.

Still, Data must have had a good reason for dragging the mutant off like that-more than likely, for another of Beverly's exams. Unfortunately, the Betazoid mused, ballads weren't a priority on the Enterprise as often as some of the crew would have liked.

Suddenly, she heard a whoosh and saw a red-and-white blur in the vicinity of the entrance-one which startled a couple of crewmen into ducking for cover. Troi needed a moment to realize the blur was Archangel.

The mutant circled the lounge in the blink of an eye, causing nearly everyone in the place to flinch. Only when he got to the far wall did he spread his elegant, white wings and stop himself. Finally, with fluid grace, he lowered his legs into a vertical position and floated gently to the floor.

The counselor shook her head. He'll be fine, she thought sarcastically, once he gets over his terrible shyness.

Seeming to notice Troi's disapproval, Archangel eyed her for a moment. Then, his wings folding up behind him, he made his way toward her through the maze of tables.

"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 onceover, 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 cla.s.ses have always described themselves-as the protectors of society. n.o.blesse 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 cla.s.s 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 va.s.sals and serfs by my side ... and of all who a.s.sembled 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 compa.s.sionate 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 EnterpriseD, 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 EnterpriseD, 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 EnterpriseD, Picard had been given command of the Enterprise-E-and he had a.s.sumed 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 EnterpriseD.

"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.