Before Isadjo’s second could get to his feet, the invader was on the move again. The Implementor saw a rib-cracking kick, followed by a backhanded swipe of the masked one’s claws, and Ettojh went skidding limply across the deck.
Then the invader turned to Isadjo himself. “Hey,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re the creepy crawler in charge. I mean, you are the biggest, fattest guy around.”
Isadjo trained his weapon on the madman and sent a bolt of green fury at him. A moment later, the masked one was gone, enveloped again by the billowing gas cloud.
There, thought the Implementor. That would teach him to take the Draa’kon lightly.
Suddenly, the invader came flying out of the cloud at him, all feet and claws and savage grin. There was no time to run, no time to fire again. There wasn’t even time for Isadjo to brace himself as the enemy’s boot heel smashed him right between the eyes.
* * *
Captain Picard eyed the image of the Connharakt on his viewscreen, waiting for a sign.
“The Onizuka is entering Shuttle Bay One,” Rager reported. “And the Voltaire is hailing us.”
“What’s the Voltaire’s position?” asked Picard.
“Off the port bow,” said Rager, “at a distance of half-a-million miles.”
“Open a channel,” the captain instructed her.
It was Worf’s voice that came to them. “How can we help?” he asked.
Picard explained the situation. “Right now,” he concluded, “the best any of us can do is stand by.”
The Klingon didn’t like the idea, but he bowed to it. “Standing by,” he agreed.
Almost a minute went by. The captain took a breath, let it out.
Then he heard a small exclamation from Suttles at tactical. “Sir,” said the ensign, “I have an audio message from the Connharakt.”
The captain frowned, preparing himself for anything. “Put it through,” he responded.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Picard heard a familiar voice.
“Captain,” it said, “this is Counselor Troi. I’m happy to tell you we have taken control of the Connharakt.”
Picard looked at Rager, then at Yeowell. “Taken control?” he repeated, savoring the moment.
“That’s correct, sir. High Implementor Isadjo and his bridge officers put up quite a fight, but in the end they were no match for us. Wolverine was particularly persuasive in that regard.”
“I see,” said the captain, supressing a smile. “May I assume, then, that the Connharakt will no longer be attempting to split us like an overripe melon?”
He could imagine the counselor grinning at his gallows humor. “You may indeed make that assumption, sir.”
Picard nodded. Once in a while, one of his officers performed a feat that simply astounded him. This was one of those feats.
“Good work,” he told Troi.
The answer had an undercurrent of pride in it—and fatigue as well. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter Thirty-two
PICARD TOOK NOTE of the tricorder in his chief medical officer’s hand as he followed her through the interlocking doors of Holodeck Two. When the doors closed behind them, he found himself in a large, well-lit room with the stark, sterile appearance of a laboratory.
At the far end of the room, hovering in some kind of antigravity unit, a man was peering into a microscope. Taking note of his visitors’ entrance, he looked up from his work.
“Dr. Crusher,” Xavier said, his voice calm and commanding at the same time. “I’ve been wondering when you would return.”
Then he turned his gaze on the captain, and a flicker of something like amusement crossed his features. Nor was it difficult for Picard to see why. As the doctor had warned him, he and the professor bore a passing resemblance to one another.
Xavier touched a button and his antigravity unit came closer to the captain and his colleague. He stopped it within a meter of them and studied Picard more closely.
“Mon semblable, mon frère,” the professor said.
The captain raised an eyebrow. “The Wasteland, I believe.”
Xavier nodded. “It pleases me that Eliot has survived into your twenty-fourth century. Indeed, now that I think about it, it pleases me that he exists in your continuum at all.”
“He and a great many others, I am sure,” said Picard. He came forward and extended his hand. “My name is Jean-Luc Picard, Professor. I command the vessel on which this holodeck is located.”
“Yes,” said Xavier, glancing at Crusher. “The doctor has spoken of you—highly, I might add. However, I imagine you came to speak of something other than poetry.”
“That’s true,” the captain told him. “On the other hand, I’m hardly qualified to assist you and Dr. Crusher in your research.”
His curiosity piqued, the professor tilted his head slightly. But he didn’t press. He waited for his visitor to go on.
“As Dr. Crusher has no doubt informed you,” Picard said, “your X-Men are my guests at the moment. In fact, they proved helpful when complications arose in our dealings with the Xhaldians.”
“I am quite pleased with them,” Xavier admitted.
“And they with you,” the captain replied. “In fact, that was what spurred me to speak with you. Not one of them has missed an opportunity to refer to you in the most glowing and reverent terms—even when the individual in question may not be reverent by nature.”
The professor grunted softly. “I believe I know of whom you speak—and, yes, he often surprises people on that count. But …”
“I just wanted to meet you,” said Picard. “And applaud what you’ve done. Given the X-Men’s disparate personalities, it cannot have been easy.”
Xavier took the praise in stride. “No more difficult, I imagine, than commanding a starship with more than a thousand people on board.”
The captain smiled. “Touché.” He looked at Crusher. “I suppose I should leave you and the doctor to your work now.”
“She tells me it’s of some importance,” the professor replied, clearly understating the case.
“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance,” said Picard. And with that, he turned to go.
“Captain?”
Just short of the doors, Picard stopped and looked back at Xavier.
“If I am truly a creation of your holodeck, as Dr. Crusher seems to think,” said the professor, “my program will be in residence here indefinitely. Is that an accurate assessment?”
“It is,” the captain confirmed.
“In that case,” said Xavier, “I invite you to access my persona whenever the spirit moves you.”
Picard smiled. “I will be honored to do so.”
Then, with a last glance at the man who fathered the X-Men, he left the holodeck.
* * *
Captain’s log, supplemental. Captain Stanley and the Venture have arrived in response to our call for assistance. While they are too late to take part in the conflict, Stanley has volunteered to tow the Connharakt to Deep Space Seven, where both ship and crew will await further investigation of the matter by Starfleet Command.
Meanwhile, we seem to have achieved a victory on another front. As I record this, Chancellor Amon is apprising the transformed of Dr. Crusher’s recent breakthrough regarding their condition—a breakthrough with which she had help from an unusual source.
It is the chancellor’s belief that this development will help heal the rift between the transformed and the rest of the Xhaldian population—a rift for which he feels personally responsible. Given the way the transformed have been treated, I can only hope his conclusion is a realistic one.
* * *
Lt. Sovar stood alongside Dr. Crusher in the cavernous, marble-walled Verdeen Auditorium, and studied the large, empty stage.
A moment later, Chancellor Amon walked out, his footfalls echoing. The chancellor was anything but eager to be there, as evidenced by his lack of haste in approaching the podium that had been set up for him.
He seemed humble, contrite, as he scanned the faces in the audience.
The faces of the transformed.
Erid and Corba—who had recovered from her exhaustion, and who seemed to like Erid very much. Energy-draining Nikti and toxin-making Cudarris, and three dozen others whose names the lieutenant didn’t know. All of them were intent on the stage, wondering what Amon might tell them that they could possibly want to hear.
There were more of the transformed—nearly a hundred—in other cities around the planet, watching the chancellor via a closed-circuit video system. Though they had escaped the horror of what had happened at Verdeen, they still had a stake in Amon’s announcement.
Even Rahatan and his cohorts had been allowed access to the event. Tessa Mollic, too, despite the man’s insanity.
As Sovar looked on, the chancellor took a deep breath. “Before I say anything else, let me say this. I am sorry. Very, very sorry.”
“Do you expect us to forgive you?” asked a youth with four arms, his voice vibrating with righteous indignation.
Amon looked at him. “No,” he replied after a moment or two. “I don’t expect that at all, to tell you the truth. I just thought you deserved an apology.”
He put the flats of his hands together and averted his eyes. “Please try to understand … I was concerned for the people of this world. So concerned, in fact—so terrified—that I deluded myself into thinking it was all right to strip you of your freedom and your dignity. But, of course, it wasn’t all right. It was a horrible thing to do, regardless of what was at stake.”
“Those are just words,” Erid responded, speaking so forcefully that his brother didn’t know it was him at first. “We’ve heard plenty of them since we became transformed. We know how easy they are to say.”
The chancellor shook his head. “No. These words don’t come easily, I assure you. But as I said, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know how I feel.”
“Isthatit?” asked Corba. “Isthatwhyyouaskedustocome here?”
It took Amon a moment to understand what she had said. “Not at all,” he told her. “I asked you here for a very important reason.” He gestured to indicate Dr. Crusher and the lieutenant. “As you may know, our friends from the Enterprise have been studying the genetic anomaly that triggered your transformations. And they believe they can reverse the process.”
Instantly, a murmur wove its way through the ranks of the transformed. They looked to Crusher and Sovar for confirmation.
“Is this true?” asked a youth who dwarfed the others.
The doctor smiled. “It’s true, all right.” She turned to Chancellor Amon. “If I may … ?”
The chancellor held his hands out in welcome. “Please do.”
The security officer watched as Crusher ascended the marble stairs at the side of the stage. Then he turned to see his brother’s reaction.
Erid seemed stunned more than anything else. No doubt, he was having a difficult time absorbing this turn of events.
Amon stepped aside and let the doctor take the podium. “If you want,” said Crusher, “I’ll explain the science behind our discovery. But I suspect what you really want to know is what will happen if you’re changed back.”
She noted that the process would take a few days. She noted also that there might be some side effects—but that they would be minimal and temporary.
“On the other hand,” the doctor continued, “the reversal itself would be absolutely permanent. Once your powers are gone, you’ll never get them back again. Never.”
The transformed looked at one another. The vast majority of them were grinning. Some even embraced each other.
But Erid wasn’t one of them. Neither was Corba. They looked as if they had already lost something precious.
Sovar was surprised. His brother had looked so miserable on the streets of Verdeen, so bitter about the way he looked and the discomfort he felt. How could he not jump at the chance to leave all that behind?
Dr. Crusher answered a few of the transformed’s questions, then returned the podium to Chancellor Amon. The chancellor thanked the transformed for coming and wished them wisdom in making their decision.
As the audience rose and moved from their seats into the aisles, there was only one topic of discussion—whether to accept Crusher’s offer. From what Sovar could see of Corba and Erid, they were discussing it as well. But they were also shaking their heads a lot.
The lieutenant’s initial inclination was to go to his brother and try to talk some sense into him. Then he remembered what it was like when he told his family he was going to join Starfleet.
They weren’t happy about it—Erid least of all. The boy had hated his older brother for the choice he made. He had tried to convince him not to go. And ever since, the security officer had felt badly about leaving. He had felt as if he let his brother down, as if he had abandoned him.
I won’t do that to Erid, he told himself. I won’t try to influence him. Let him make his decision—whatever it may be—and I’ll stand behind him a hundred percent.
Suddenly, he realized his brother was looking at him. Seeking his counsel, perhaps. Smiling, Sovar began to make his way through the crowd.
Chapter Thirty-three
THE HOLODECK DOORS opened with a familiar hiss. Peering inside, Worf saw the same steamy, jungle clearing where his calisthenics program took place. Even the white-stone altar was in evidence.
The Klingon turned to Wolverine, who was standing beside him. “I thought you said you designed a holoprogram.”
“I did,” the mutant told him.
“But this is the setting from my program.”
Wolverine shrugged. “What difference does it make where you fight? The important thing is who.”
The Klingon frowned. “And whom are we to fight?”
The mutant chuckled. “Keep yer shirt on.”
Worf was puzzled. “My shirt … ?”
“Be patient,” Wolverine translated, as he led the way into the holodeck.
Worf followed him, his batt’leth at the ready. As before, birds shrilled at them from their perches in the golden foliage. Frightened-looking creatures peered out at them from between the trees. And the place stank as badly as ever.
“You could at least have changed the smell,” he told Wolverine.
The mutant looked back at him. “What smell?”
The Klingon made a face. “You must smell it. It’s—”
And then he stopped himself. Wolverine’s sense of smell was even better than his own. The mutant had to be making a joke.
As if to confirm his suspicion, Wolverine grinned a mischievous grin. “You were sayin’, bub?”
Worf scowled. “Never mind.”
As they approached the altar, the lieutenant knew their adversaries weren’t far off. After all, the birds were shrieking more loudly, the trees bowing deeper under the press of the hot, tropical wind.
Worf could feel his heartrate speeding up. He looked about, jaw clenched, bracing himself for the attack he knew would come.
“Where are they?” the mutant whispered.
The Klingon glanced at him. “You are asking me?”
Wolverine shook his head. “They should’a pounced on us by now.”
Worf sighed. He had a feeling this was going to be a disappointing experience. But then, what did the mutant know about holodeck programs? Especially those in which—
Suddenly, he saw the branches part to the left of them. A powerful-looking figure in orange and brown garments moved like a cat out into the clearing. His pale blond hair was wild, the look in his eyes a feral one, and his clawlike nails were almost as long as Wolverine’s.
“Logan,” the man rasped hungrily, displaying his fangs.
“Sabretooth,” the mutant replied. “It’s about time.”
“Wait a minute,” came a slow, deep voice from an unseen source. “Don’t shred him till I get a coupla shots in.”
A moment later, there was a cr
ack and a tree fell down across the altar. Behind it, a gelatinous mountain of a man in a black tank suit stepped out from concealment.
He wasn’t alone, either. Another adversary followed. He was dressed entirely in black, dark hair slicked back across his head. To Worf’s eye, the man didn’t look particularly dangerous, but he was sure Wolverine had selected him for a reason.
“The Blob,” said the mutant. “And Unus the Untouchable.”
The living mountain cracked his knuckles and grinned. “I been itchin’ ta get my mitts on you,” he told Wolverine.
The one called Unus didn’t smile, but his eyes seemed to twinkle. “That’s right,” he said. “We owe you and your friends. Big time.”
He had barely finished speaking when there was a commotion to Worf’s right. A flight of birds took off screaming into the blood-red sky, followed by a pounding that made the ground shake beneath the Klingon’s feet.
A pounding that sounded oddly like … footsteps. And they were getting closer moment by moment.
Finally, another gigantic figure shouldered his way into the clearing. But this one wasn’t grotesquely flabby like the Blob. He was a mass of corded muscle encased in brown and crimson body armor, his headgear more a dome than an actual helmet.
Wolverine grinned. “Hey, Juggernaut. Glad ya could make it.”
The behemoth’s eyes flashed like blue fire. “You won’t be glad for long,” he thundered.
Wolverine glanced at Worf. “Looks like they’re all here, lieutenant. But don’t let ‘em fool ya. They’re actually a lot tougher than they look.”
Eyeing his adversaries, the Klingon shifted his batt’leth from hand to hand. “Tougher, you say?”
“Yup.”
Worf smiled. “Good.”
Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a disappointment after all.
Picard looked around the table in his observation lounge, which had never been so crowded before. Not only were Worf, Riker, Troi, Crusher, Data, and La Forge present, but all the X-Men as well.
“Thank you for coming,” he told them. “As I noted, we have a number of subjects to cover.” He turned to his first officer. “Commander?”
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