"Geez louise," he said. "You call this a drink?"
"Actually," she replied, "It's the strongest stuff we serve around here."
Of course, that wasn't quite true. But Guinan didn't want to start a riot in the place.
Wolverine seemed to wrestle inwardly with his next remark. "That's a cryin' shame, then," he said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the officers seated at the table behind him. "This may be fine for yer Starfleet types, but I'm in the market for something with a kick."
"A kick," the bartender echoed.
"Uh huh." The mutant thought for a moment, then hit on something. "The sorta stuff yer friend Worf might cozy up to."
"Ah," Guinan said. "You want a warrior's drink."
Wolverine grunted. "Yer catchin' on."
The bartender leaned forward, crooked her finger and beckoned her guest with it-as if she wanted to tell him a secret. He leaned forward as well.
"I don't want to embarass you," Guinan said, in a voice so soft only the two of them could hear it, "especially in front of all these Starfleet types. But I don't think you could handle the kind of stuff Worf cozies up to."
The mutant looked at her and smiled. "That sounds like a challenge, darlin'."
"Maybe it is. Do you accept?" Guinan asked, returning his smile.
"Y'see, I got this mutant healin' factor goin' for me.
Ask Dr. Crusher, if ya don't believe me. Whatever kind o' punishment I take, my body bounces back."
"How about that."
"I get beat to a pulp," he told her, "I'm good as new before y'can rustle up some band aids."
"Impressive," Guinan responded. "You can slug down a warrior's drink and still feel fine-because of your healing factor."
Wolverine merely nodded.
Reaching under her bar again, she produced a ceramic mug the size of her head and set it before the mutant. Then she made her way to the refrigeration unit, took out a jug of Worf's favorite drink, and opened the top of it.
Guinan poured the dark, pungent liquid into the mug, filling the thing all the way to the top. Then she replaced the top on the jug and watched her guest's nose wrinkle up.
He peered into the glass. "What is it?" he demanded.
"Prune juice," Guinan said, smiling. "A warrior's drink." She looked at Wolverine, feigning surprise. "Unless, of course, you're not the warrior you say you are."
The mutant considered the stuff, then looked up. "You are feisty," he told her, with just a hint of admiration.
"Takes one to know one," the bartender noted.
She half expected Wolverine to mutter a curse and walk away. After all, a mug of prune juice was a mug of prune juice. But to his credit, he didn't back off from his promise.
Picking up the mug, he drained the whole thing, right down to the dregs. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
"Hit the spot," he rasped, unwilling to give even an inch.
"It sure will," Guinan agreed.
"Yeah," said Wolverine. "Well, see ya."
His responsibility fulfilled, he pushed back from the bar and made his exit from the lounge.
Guinan shrugged. Then she collected the mutant's empty mug, took another swipe at the bar with her cloth and surveyed the place. As she had predicted, it was starting to fill up.
It wasn't Ten-Forward, Guinan mused. But it was beginning to feel like home nonetheless.
Chapter Fourteen.
CHANCELLOR AMON TURNED in his chair and stared out the oval window behind him. It was a remarkably clear day. He could see the fortress above Verdeen in the distance, cradled in the Obrig Mountains.
But not well enough, apparently. Not nearly well enough.
Turning back to the rounded monitor on his desk, Amon considered the strained visage of his security minister. "Could you say that again?" he asked in the calmest voice he could manage.
Tollit frowned. "The transformed have escaped, Chancellor. Every last one of them."
Amon shook his head. "How can this be?"
"They were more powerful than we imagined," the other man explained. "Sometime before dusk, they overpowered Osan and his garrison and left the fortress a shambles." His frown deepened. "If you could see this place, Chancellor ..."
Amon held up a hand, not wanting to hear the details. He had sincerely believed himself past the worldwide emergency. With almost every reported case of transformation plucked from society and segregated, he had seen himself-and Xhaldia-well on the road to a solution.
Now it seemed he had only made the problem worse.
"Fortunately," said Tollit, "one of the guards managed to slip his bonds and get to a communication station. Otherwise, we might still not know what took place here."
The chancellor heaved a sigh. Perhaps it was time to let others take the lead in this area. "What do you suggest we do?" he asked.
His minister stroked his chin. "The challenge, of course, is to find the transformed and recapture them. Mind you, they've had nearly a day to hide themselves, and they've probably split up in a dozen different directions. However, we've had no reports of stolen hovercraft, so they may still be in the vicinity."
"Near Verdeen?" Amon suggested.
"Perhaps in Verdeen," said Tollit. "Some of them, at least-though we haven't gotten word of any sightings."
The chancellor nodded. "Do whatever you have to. And keep in mind, we are no longer dealing with a group of innocents. They have become capable of violence-even if it is we who are responsible for that change in them-and they must be treated accordingly."
The minister understood. "We will consider them dangerous."
Amon sat back in his chair. "Keep me informed of developments as they occur, all right?"
Tollit agreed that he would do that. Then he signed off.
The chancellor massaged the bridge of his nose with the fingers of one hand. Blood of the ancients, he thought. I hope Minister Tollit has better luck with the transformed than I did.
Captain Picard had meant to visit Dr. Crusher for the last several hours. However, it had taken him longer than he had expected-or wished-to record his latest round of captain's logs.
Now, his duties done, he emerged from the turbolift closest to sickbay and followed the bend in the corridor. Because of that bend, he failed to see Storm coming from the other direction until the silver-haired woman was almost on top of him.
She appeared to be as surprised as he was. "Captain Picard," she said, smiling pleasantly.
"Stor-" he began to say in response ... then remembered that she preferred he call her Ororo. "I take it you're just coming from your appointment with Dr. Crusher?"
The mutant nodded. "That is correct. Mine was the last such appointment."
"And did her studies turn up anything useful?" Picard asked.
Storm shrugged. "Perhaps. The doctor told me it is difficult to say until she has had a chance to go over the data."
"Of course," he said. "I just thought she might have-"
Suddenly, the captain heard something-a loud whoosh, getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.
He spun around just in time to see a red-and-white missile headed straight for him. By the time he realized it was Archangel, he had already ducked and watched the mutant sweep past him.
"Stop right there!" Picard bellowed after his guest, his voice echoing commandingly from bulkhead to bulkhead.
Archangel didn't seem to have heard him at first. He simply continued on his way, speeding almost effortlessly down the hallway.
Then, with a splaying of his large, white wings, the mutant slowed himself. Turning gracefully despite the tight quarters presented by the corridor, he came speeding back in the captain's direction.
This time, Picard resolved, he would not flinch. He would stand his ground, no matter how much it looked as if Archangel would plow right into him.
As it turned out, the captain need not have been concerned. Before the mutant had covered half the space between them, he spread his wings again and landed on the floor.
Picard felt a surge of anger. He tried to throttle it, but it resisted his best efforts.
"You asked to see me?" Archangel inquired, a superior-looking smirk on his face.
Picard regarded him. "You have been drawing attention to yourself with your antics since you set foot on this ship. And before that, you did the same on Starbase 88. I have seen enough of it," he said. "I want it to stop!"
The mutant looked at him as if he had just grown wings of his own. Then he turned to Storm.
"Is he serious?" Archangel asked her.
"You are having this conversation with me," the captain declared. "And since you asked, I am very serious. Shadowcat and Nightcrawler don't use their powers on the Enterprise-why must you?"
The mutant shook his head. "Kitty and Kurt don't have wings, Captain Picard. Do you know how it feels to be confined to this ... ,"his month twisted, "this ship of yours, when everything inside you yearns for a place to soar? To be free?"
"That's what holodecks are for," Picard told him-more coldly, perhaps, than he had intended.
"Holodecks?" Archangel echoed scornfully. "Do you think-"
"Warren!" snapped Storm.
He looked at her, his eyes wide with indignation.
"Ororo, I can't-"
"You can," she insisted, "and you will. We are guests here. You must not forget that."
Archangel continued to stare at her for what seemed like a long time. Then he glanced at Picard, as if measuring the man's resolve.
Finally, he moved away. And in accordance with Storm's wishes, he didn't take to the air again. He walked.
The captain watched him go. Part of him sympathized with the mutant's point of view. However, another part of him remained stubbornly opposed to Archangel's thoughtless behavior.
And yet another part, he realized, simply didn't like the man. He couldn't deny it. Sometimes, a person just rubbed one the wrong way-and Archangel was such a person.
Storm turned to Picard. "You were harsh on him," she noted.
He took a breath, then let it out. "Perhaps."
"If you understood Warren a little better ..." she began.
"I understand him all too well," the captain told her-again, more dispassionately than he would have liked.
"I do not think so," the woman persisted. "You believe he flies about your vessel because he hates confinement. And that is true-he hates it with a passion. But that is not the reason he flies."
Picard pulled down on the front of his uniform. "Then why does he fly? Why does he go around startling my crew at every opportunity?"
"What he's doing," Storm explained, "is pushing the envelope."
The captain turned to her. "Pushing ... ?"
"The envelope," she repeated. "Trying to see how far he can go."
"I'm familiar with the phrase," Picard told her. "What I'm having trouble with is the application."
Storm frowned. "You have to understand something about the world we come from, Captain. As long as any of us can remember, we have been hunted and feared by so-called 'normal' human beings. Being accepted for what we are ... it has always been a dream to us, a goal we could hold up but never realistically hope to attain."
"So I've been apprised," said the captain.
"Yet in your reality," she continued, "prejudice and race-hatred seem to have been eliminated. Had we not seen it with our own eyes, we would never have believed it. And yet, here it is."
Storm's voice trembled ever so slightly. Her eyes took on a surprisingly liquid cast, as if they looked upon something precious and holy.