Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [49]
“What’s it matter how we know?” asked Wolverine. “Like Ororo says, we wanna lend a hand.”
“Y’see,” Banshee explained, “these transformed … we feel a kinship with ‘em. We were like ‘em once, changin’ in ways we did nae understand.”
“Fortunately for us,” Shadowcat added, “we had Professor Xavier. He gave us a direction.”
Storm nodded. “But it is unlikely that there is a Charles Xavier on Xhaldia. The transformed will be scared, confused … and, unless I am very mistaken, hated and feared for what they have become.”
“Someone needs t’ reach out to ‘em,” Banshee elaborated. “I know I’m doing it back home.” He smiled in his charming, homey way. “Someone needs t’ give these kids a leg up, before they hurt someone or get hurt themselves. An’ since we’re here, it’d be a shame t’ give anyone else th’ job.”
“In other words,” Picard replied, “you would like to offer your services in dealing with the transformed on Xhaldia.”
“In other words,” said Wolverine, “yet darn tootin’ we would.”
The captain weighed the request. “You know,” he replied at last, “I generally depend on Counselor Troi in matters of empathy, and she has yet to fail me in that regard.”
Storm frowned. “No doubt. But there is a difference between knowing how someone feels and how someone is going to feel.”
“Tell ‘im, ‘Ro,” said Wolverine.
“We can deal with the transformed based on years of experience,” the silver-haired woman went on. “Your counselor may sense their initial shock, but she cannot know the despair that is likely to follow in its wake. Or the self-loathing. Or the bitterness.”
“And, the transformed could be dangerous,” Wolverine pointed out. “In a way yer not used ta dealin’ with. But we are.”
“That’s a fact,” Banshee agreed.
As Picard considered the X-Men’s comments, he eyed his first officer. “What do you think, Number One?”
“You know,” said Riker, “they have a point, sir. In all deference to Counselor Troi and our security team, they do have more experience with this sort of thing.”
The captain regarded the mutants. “Normally, I don’t allow my guests to take part in Starfleet business. In this case, however, you appear to have a genuinely unique insight into the condition of the transformed.”
“Just like I was tellin’ ya,” said Wolverine.
“Also,” said Picard, “I have seen you and your comrades in action—and in a situation as serious as this one, I would be foolish not to arm myself every way possible.”
Banshee grinned. “Then we’re partners?”
Picard shook his head. “Not nearly.”
Wolverine’s eyes narrowed. “But you said—”
“I will call on you,” the captain told him, “only if and when I deem it necessary—and even in that event, you will obey my every directive.”
The mutant didn’t look at all happy with Picard’s answer.
But Wolverine’s reaction didn’t faze the captain in the least. “I command this vessel,” he continued evenly, “and I will brook no other arrangement.”
Banshee’s smile faded a bit. “We’re used t’ operatin’on our own, y’know. That’s th’ way we’re most effective.”
Picard nodded. “I understand completely—but it doesn’t change anything. If you hope to participate in our mission, you must take your cue from me. There is no alternative.”
The muscles worked in Wolverine’s temples. Banshee’s smile disappeared altogether. But it was Storm who finally replied.
“If those are your terms,” she said with equanimity, “we accept.”
Chapter Eighteen
PICARD CONSIDERED THE tiny, blue-green sphere pictured on the viewscreen in front of him. The planet was hardly bigger than the pinpricks of light that served as a backdrop for it.
“Xhaldia,” said Riker, who was sitting in his customary position on the captain’s right.
Picard nodded. Then he looked to his left, where Counselor Troi was leaning forward in her seat, a tiny knot of concentration at the bridge of her delicately chiseled nose.
With the planet still a good several hours away at full impulse, the Betazoid would be unable to sense anything about the Xhaldians or their current situation. Her empathic talents simply didn’t extend that far.
Nonetheless, Troi remained