Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [37]
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 space-going entity.”
“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,