Phoenix Rising: Chapter 3

Regina Williams practically ran back to sick bay, she was so frightened. The Captain and Dr. Crusher know she's a mutant. She wouldn't have done it except the rage and the animalistic desire to kill she felt coming from the briefing room had overwhelmed her. Her reaction was automatic. She had trained for ten years to use her powers to protect others. With that much training, her response was like a reflex.

When she entered the briefing room, she saw the short, heavily muscled man who was emitting rage in thick waves and simply reacted. Regina recognized him the instant she got a good look at him. Unfortunately, he was hanging from her TK hook on the wall of the briefing room when she made the connection. She had seen his portrait daily while she was in school. He was Wolverine, one of the X-Men and the only one still alive. He was a legend at the school.

"Williams?" Time to face the music.

"Dr. Crusher," she said as she turned.

"May I see you in my office?" Regina swallowed nervously and nodded.

Beverly lead the frightened girl into her private office off the main sick bay. Motioning her to take a seat, she walked around the desk and sat down.

"First off," Beverly began, "I have no intention of mentioning your abilities to anyone else. What is said in here is kept in the strictest confidence." Regina nodded, still very nervous. "What I would like to know is why you didn't tell me in the first place?"

"Dr. Crusher," she pleaded with her eyes, "I have been taught never to reveal my powers to anyone unless I can trust them with my life or if a life is in danger. Mutants aren't considered members of the Federation"

"But you were born on Earth and you're human," Beverly protested.

"No, I'm not. According to Federation Charter, mutants aren't human. We are specifically excepted."

"You're not kidding, are you?" Regina shook her head sadly.

"I'm not a citizen of the Federation and not entitled to its protection."

"But that doesn't mean that you're entitled to persecution!" Beverly was aghast at the treatment they had received. First the barbaric procedures Logan had been forced to endure, now the refusal of citizenship to an excellent nurse. "Regina, this leaves me with a dilemma. As a non citizen, you can't be commissioned in Star Fleet, but your skills are invaluable to this ship. People are going to start asking question about the attack. We have to find a way to explain without revealing your powers. I won't loose a good nurse simply because of other peoples' prejudices."

"Are you suggesting that I lie?"

"Well," Beverly said embarrassed, "maybe not lie. Just omit a few facts and suggest others."

"You have an idea?" Regina asked, intrigued. Beverly nodded, her eyes gleaming with merriment.

Worf and Logan stood in the middle of the empty Holo deck, arguing about what scenario they were going to use. Logan wanted to use one from the Danger Room he had used many years ago. Worf wanted to use a scout ship sim that he had been using for the past month. He felt they should train for terrain. Logan felt that they should plan for numbers and powers since they had no way of knowing the floor plan of the ship. Riker, who had followed them, finally ended the argument by suggesting a neutral setting.

"Fine," Logan barked. "Computer, Japanese dojo with a selection of katanas." The room shimmered as a dojo formed, a bamboo rack with six swords appeared. He lifted a plain blade with an ivory handle and tested the balance. "Ya know swords, Worf?" He discarded the sword and looked over the rest. His eyes lit up when he saw the blade at the end. A medium length, steel sword with a battered, leather wrapped handle. He hefted the blade and found its balance perfect.

"I have used bladed weapons many times," Worf said. "You have chosen the only katana that is of any value." Logan cocked an eyebrow at him. He looked at Worf thoughtfully for a short time then turned the sword around and passed it to the surprised Klingon, handle first.

"Riker, have someone go ta my quarters and bring my swords," he ordered. Worf grasped the handle and took the sword as Logan released the blade. "I prefer ta use my own anyway."

Five minutes later, a security guard walked into the Holo deck carrying a long black box embossed with gold characters. Riker recognized them as Japanese but couldn't read them. When Logan snapped open the box, Rikers' breath caught in his throat.

The Katanas were beautiful: gleaming silver blades with Ebony handles. Japanese characters marched down the blades of both weapons. They looked to be very old but in pristine condition. There was a square of cloth in a stasis container that appeared to be stained with blood.

"They're beautiful," Riker breathed. "Where did you get them?"

"They were a gift," Logan told them. He didn't elaborate. Thinking of Mariko still had the power to make his breath catch, even after over four hundred years. He lifted the long sword out of the box with care and closed the top.

Worf and Logan warmed up for what seemed to Riker to be a very long time. Finally, they were ready. Standing on opposite sides of the mat, they flicked their swords up in the traditional salute and bowed. They both took a defensive stance and began to weigh the strengths and weaknesses of the other.

Logan knew the Klingon had him in reach, but there was no way Worf could match his experience. Reach meant nothing without experience to back it up. Logan had been Samurai many years ago and was Ronin now. He had never stopped training with the katana. He knew his blade as well as he knew his own body. With the katana in his hand, it became part of him, an extension of his deadly claws. He knew he would win but the Klingon should give him a good fight.

Riker watched as they circled each other, their eyes watching for any sign of attack. He had spared with Worf many times and knew the burly Klingon was a master of the blade. Logan was an unknown but his balance and posture telegraphed his abilities with the sword. Riker believed that this battle would be worth watching. He made his way to the door and put in a call to the Captain.

Logan heard the murmured request by Riker and smiled to himself. He didn't usually like an audience but it appeared that he needed to prove something to Riker. He wants a battle, he'll get one. Logan flicked his katana slightly, drawing Worf in and forcing him to attack. The Klingon fell for the tactic and rushed in. Logan quickly parried the blade and launched his own attack, holding back, testing. He was good, Logan had to admit. Most Klingons were.

The door opened to admit Picard. The audience was assembled. Time to start the show. Logan jumped up and flipped over the surprised Klingon, reaching down with his katana to tag the big Security Chief on the shoulder. He landed several feet behind Worf in the perfect position to land a killing strike but held off. It was too soon. Worf glanced in surprise at the blood dripping from his shoulder.

"First blood ta me," Logan growled. "Are ya done playin?" Worf growled and renewed his attack. "Ya can't hurt me so go ahead and try ta kill me. I promise I won't hurt ya too bad."

Worf attacked with a series of viscous thrusts. Logan swept aside every one of them. He toyed with the Klingon for the amusement of his audience. Finally, after an hour of sword play, Logan saw that Worf was beginning to tire. Time to end the show. He moved in close and with a jab to his exposed stomach with the butt of his sword, brought Worf to his knees. Logan placed his katana on the back of Worf's neck and stopped.

"Do ya yield, Klingon?" he asked. Worf was panting with exertion.

"I yield to the master," he announced in a breathless voice. Logan nodded in satisfaction and lifted the blade.

"Yer good," Logan complimented Worf, "but no one has touched me with a blade in over a hundred years."

He helped his sparing partner up and shook his hand. Worf surprised him and bowed very low.

"I would be honored to learn from you," Worf said.

"Ya already know everything I could teach ya," Logan told him. "Ya just need more experience." He walked back to his sword crate, wiping his blade on his shirt.

"That is the most impressive show of swordsmanship I have ever witnessed," Riker said as he and Picard came over. "Where did you study?"

"I was taught by a Samurai master in Japan some time in the 1960's, I think," Logan told him as he replaced the katana in the box. "I don't have memories of the time but I met the man later in my life. I was forced ta kill him after he brainwashed one of my teammates and turned her inta an assassin."

"Why did you taunt Mr. Worf?" Picard asked. "If he had injured you, it could be some time before you could complete your mission."

Logan looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes and a half smile on his lips. He rolled up his left sleeve to bare his forearm and, popping a single claw on his right hand, brought it down and sliced the skin on his forearm deeply. Blood welled up from the laceration but before it could fall, the cut sealed over and stopped bleeding. In less than ninety seconds, there was a fading white line where once was a deep cut. He looked into Picards astonished eyes with mirth.

"I heal," he said simply and, picking up his sword case, left the Holo deck to return to his cabin.

"That's a handy mutation," Riker commented when he could speak. Picard could only nod his head.

An hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes, Logan found himself in the officers mess for lunch. He selected a steak, rare, and a baked potato. The food unit added a salad without him asking for it. He frowned at the greenery, disgusted. He found an empty table and sat down. He hated the processed 'meat' that was served in space. It was one of the main reasons he never went on long space flights if he could avoid them. His body needed meat from animal sources to function properly.

Most people were nauseated when they found out that he still ate meat and frequently hunted his own meals. He owned a small ranch in Alberta where he raised beef for his own consumption but would sell some of it to other carnivores. Most of the time, they were decedents of his that had mutations similar to his own. Feral mutants needed real meat.

He was nearly finished with his meal when he caught the scent of Lt. Williams approaching the table.

"May I sit?" she asked.

"Ya can do what ya want, darlin'," he told her. He leaned back in his chair and studied her. She was older than he first thought, maybe twenty-five. She had passed for normal long enough to build a career in Star Fleet and she appeared happy where she was.

"Where did ya learn control?" he asked.

"I went to a school in New York," she said after swallowing. "They taught me control over my powers and how to shield my mind."

"Xaviers?" he asked. She nodded. "I taught there a long time ago."

"I know," she said, smiling. "Your portrait hangs in the Danger Room corridor, snarling over us as we went for training."

"It's still there?" He was surprised. He figured that the headmasters wouldn't want to be associated with him. He wasn't what you would call a good role model.

"Mr. Wetzel used to tell us that if we didn't keep our minds on training when we were in the Danger Room, he would introduce us to you. Most of us didn't believe you were still alive until you sent a shipment of beef with a signed note saying it was to be given to the ferals. After that, we all believed."

"Wetzel called me and told me that the ferals weren't thrivin' like they should. Did he get a closer supplier?"

"He did better than that. He put aside 200 acres of his own land for grazing so we could raise our own. I loved working the ranch. It was quiet. Most of the time I had too many voices in my head to think. When I was on the range, I could hear myself think. The school is self sufficient now. They grow everything they need except cloth."

"Sounds like a good life."

"It was," she sighed. "I miss it. There are too many minds smashing against my shields all the time now. I try to go on as many away missions as I can just to get away from the noise."

"Ya shouldn't hafta do that, darlin'," he said. "Ya shoulda been taught how ta build stronger shields." He studied her closely with his eyes and his nose. "Charles Xavier one of yer ancestors?"

"Yes," she said surprised. "How did you know?"

"Ya have his eyes," he smiled. "Ya also have a mix of his scent and his wifes. It's not strong but it's there."

"You knew him?" she squeaked.

"I was an X-Man from the 1970's ta the mutant exodus of 2092. Chuck started the X-Men. He showed me a trick that shielded me from some very powerful telepaths, including him. If yer half the telepath he was, ya should be able ta do it. Like me ta show ya?"

"Would I ever," she exclaimed.

"When do ya get off duty?"

"1500 hours."

"Meet me in my cabin at 1600 hours and I'll show ya how a real telepath does it." He rose and took his tray to the wall unit. It disappeared in a fizzle of transporter effect before he was out of the door.

He spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the ship. He had never been on a Galaxy class ship before and was impressed with the amenities. It's not every ship that has an adequate substitute for the Danger Room.

He hadn't realized how much he depended on the fights in the Danger Room until he left the Institute. Desperation lead him back to cage fighting in Canada for about fifty years until holographic technology made its way to Earth. As soon as he could, he added a holographic training room to his home. Some of the programs he stole from the Institute during one of his many guest lecture trips. Kitty had taught him how to program holograms a few years before she died. He was able to program new scenarios thanks to her. He never got bored as long as he could maintain the equipment.

It wasn't a fight he needed now, it was a drink. The ship itself was very helpful and directed him to Ten Forward. Gotta love a star ship that has its own bar.

The scent that wafted through the door of the lounge was not alcohol. 'Crap,' he thought. 'Synthahol. There's gotta be some real stuff here somewhere. I can smell it.'

He found a seat at the bar. The room was light on company at this time of day. Most of the officers were on duty. Several of the tables were occupied but the one that drew his eye had a Vulcan female sitting at it, drinking what appeared to be tea.

"Gimme a beer," he told the bar keep. "And make it a real one. None of that Synthahol crap."

"I have to clear it with Guinan," the man said as he scooted behind the bar. He noticed the Vulcan rise from her chair and make her way over to him. He was a little surprised. Vulcans don't usually seek out company, especially the females.

"You are Logan," she stated.

"That's right darlin'," he said. "What can I do fer ya?"

"I am Dr. Solar," she introduced herself. "Dr. Crusher told me about your mutation. I am curious. What is the gene pair that resulted in your abilities?"

"Have no idea," he said. "You a scientist?"

"Yes," she replied.

"I don't like scientists," he growled. "Spent too much time as their subject."

"I meant no offense," she apologized. "I have a scientists curiosity."

"Wolverine?" a gasp came from behind him. He turned to find a short black woman staring at him like she'd seen a ghost.

"Do I know you?" he asked. He gave a discrete sniff: not human. He wasn't familiar with her race but her scent was vaguely familiar. She must be one of the orphan races that the Borg nearly wiped out.

"I'm Guinan. We met in Central Park in the early 21st century. Sentinels attacked a group of mutants who were camped in the park. Your team saved them. I was walking in the park with a friend and nearly got squashed by a falling robot. You pushed me out of the way and took the hit yourself. I was extremely surprised to see you crawl out from under the wreckage. We stayed to make sure no one was hurt and you introduced yourselves to us. I never forget a face, or a good deed."

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I don't remember the mission."

"I wouldn't expect you to. You went on a lot of rescue missions. You couldn't possibly remember a short tussle in the park with two Sentinels."

"Well, if no one got hurt, I usually don't remember the mission."

"But someone did get hurt," she told him. "The little Chinese girl was hurt bad. I didn't see her injuries but you carried her to the plane."

"Oh, I remember that mission," he exclaimed. "Jubilee got stepped on by one of those walking junk heaps. She had me worried fer a time but she was okay. Just a broken arm and a concussion."

Guinan drew him a beer from the tap and placed it before him. "The real stuff, as you asked." He downed it quickly.

"Keep em comin'," he told her. Guinan nodded to the barkeep. She moved out from behind the counter and took a seat beside him. Solar took the seat on his other side.

"The girl looked too young to be running with the X-Men," Guinan said.

"Jubilee was about nineteen during that mission," he said as he continued to drink the beers placed in front of him. "She joined up with us at thirteen."

"You allowed a thirteen year old child to go with you on dangerous missions?" Solar asked in a way only a Vulcan could ask. Her disapproval was clear.

"Even at thirteen, Jubilee was a very powerful mutant and an asset to the team. As she grew up, she grew into her power. Before she disappeared, she was classified as an Alpha level mutant. It's important that a powerful mutant be trained from an early age ta control their powers and ta face up ta their responsibilities. An Omega mutant can easily destroy entire worlds." Solar could feel the pain he was radiating. He cared for this girl.

"What could she do?" Guinan asked, fascinated.

"She was pyrotechnic. She could detonate matter on a subatomic level. She had to be careful not ta split atoms."

"She was a nuclear bomb?" Guinan gasped.

"Essentially, yeah," he said. "Most of the time, she manifested as fireworks but when she'd loose her temper, she could blow up buildings. She was a hell of a partner." His voice trailed off as he became lost in the memories, some of them good, some of them not so good..

Guinan noticed her bartender holding up four fingers, indicating the number of beers he had served to him.

"I have to cut you off, Wolverine," she said. "You've reached your limit."

"Not hardly, darlin'," he said draining his glass. "With my healin' factor, there ain't enough alcohol on this ship ta get me drunk. I clear it too fast. A lot of feral mutants need alcohol ta keep their bodies functioning. I need more than most ta clear the adamantium from my blood."

"Why is that?" Solar asked.

"Alcohol binds ta adamantium," he explained. "If I don't have several drinks a day, I begin ta feel slow and achy. I eventually clear it but the alcohol clears it faster." He saw the questions race across Guinan's face. "It's a long story. Give me two more then I hafta leave."

He returned to his quarters shortly before 1600 hours. He found Lt. Williams standing outside his door, waiting for him.

"Yer early," he said as he keyed open the door and led her inside.

"I had a bad day," she said, the strain clear in her eyes. "A crewman was hurt in engineering and the entire shift escorted him to sick bay. Their worry and confusion nearly paralyzed me."

"Let's see if we can't fix that problem," he told her. He pulled a small silver orb from a drawer and placed it on the floor. Sitting down next to it, he waved Regina down beside him and activated the unit. "This is a portable psi shield. I use it when I need absolute privacy. It'll block all telepathic intrusion no matter how powerful the telepath."

"Why don't you carry it all the time?" she asked.

"You'll see," he smiled. "It'll give ya a splitting headache after about an hour. We won't need it fer that long."

She curled up on the floor and made herself comfortable in her meditation pose. Taking three cleansing breaths, she cleared her mind. The noise was completely gone. She couldn't even feel Logan's mind and he was sitting beside her. She hadn't been this alone since her powers manifested at twelve. Her eyes flew open in fright.

"I don't much care for this," she told him. "I feel so alone."

"It's necessary," he said. "Ya need ta tear down yer old shields ta build new ones. Without the portable shield, the noise would drive ya insane pretty quick. I want ya ta take me in yer mind and let me see what ya built."

She closed her eyes and concentrated on his mind, pulling him into hers. She found him standing on the astral plane next to the fluttering fabric that represented her shield.

"This is what they taught ya ta build?" he asked. She nodded. "Pifft." He was disgusted. He'd seen better shields in nontelepaths. "Tear it down," he ordered.

"But that would leave me without shields," she protested.

"This is worse than no shields," he countered. "This is a false sense of security. No wonder the voices keep gettin' through. Trust me, darlin'. I've been dealin' with telepaths fer a long time. I'll help ya replace them with much stronger shields but ya need ta tear these down first. They'll be in the way."

"Okay," she said as she began to pull the fabric down. It didn't take long. The fabric was weak all over and in some places, there were holes in it.

"Someone's been in yer mind that shouldn't be," he remarked, looking at the holes.

"How can I stop them?" she asked, shaken.

He flicked out a claw. "Look closely at the metal." She leaned over and peered at the gleaming claw. "Set it in yer mind and begin ta build yer shield but this time, use the image of the metal. Use its strength."

Slowly, a wall began to form. "Adamantium is unbreakable. Use that property ta make yer shield strong." The wall began to climb upward. "Make a complete circle around yer mind." The gleaming wall spread out, moving faster. Soon, the circle was complete. The shield was strong and tall. She would never have to worry about anyone getting into her head again without her knowledge. "Now ya need ta build two ports in the wall. One is one way, so ya can use yer power. The other will be two way so ya can bond with yer mate."

"Is that necessary?" she asked. "The second port?"

"Telepaths naturally form a bond with their mates. Without it, ya won't be happy."

Two ports appeared in the wall. He was impressed with her ability to build the shield so fast. Most telepaths would have to work on it for several hours before perfecting the technique. She was well trained and very strong.

"We've been at this a while," he told her. "We need ta leave before the headache starts."

She relaxed her hold on his mind and they returned to the room. He reached over and turned off the portable shield. Silence greeted her. She felt the pulse of life around her but not the thoughts of her fellow crew members.

She launched herself at him with a small shriek of delight. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she said, raining kisses all over his face. The last one landed on his lips and lingered. She raised her head and looked at him with hooded eyes. Slowly, she lowered her face and reclaimed his lips. She felt his hand tangle in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding entrance. Her body began to heat. His hand brushed over her breast. She shivered in reaction as her nipple hardened. Her hand tangled in his hair and pulled him closer. His lips left hers to nibble on her shoulder.

"We shouldn't do this," he murmured into her neck.

"Why," she shivered as his tongue traced the hollow of her throat.

"Yer shields are too new. Ya don't want ta form a bond with me." He rolled her over and returned to her mouth. He could smell her arousal. The animal in him growled in anticipation.

"I can control it," she gasped.

"Not yet," he whispered. He reluctantly lifted himself off of her body and stood. "Ya better go now."

"But..." Her skin was still flushed with desire.

"Trust me on this. It's how I ended up with my fourth wife."

She most certainly didn't want to marry him so she nodded and left.

He watched with regret as her enticing backside went through the door. If her shields weren't so new, he probably would have indulged in her body but he couldn't take that chance. His fourth marriage was living hell and when she died, he went through a mental trauma he never wanted to repeat. If it weren't for the bond, he would have left her after the first week of verbal abuse. The sex kept him near. He had never in his life felt anything like it, making love to someone body and mind.

He needed a cold shower.