Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [38]
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 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