Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [58]
The empath was beginning to suspect the first possibility when the intercom suddenly barked out a single word: “Enter.”
She gathered herself as the doors opened, revealing one of the apartments set aside for guests. The decor was moderate and subdued—designed more to avoid offense than to delight, since the ship’s visitors had such a broad spectrum of tastes and preferences.
In special instances, of course, the apartments were completely redecorated—usually to impress a foreign leader or ambassador with the Federation’s respect for other ways of life. The captain’s guests, however, had no need of such special treatment. They were all used to Starfleet facilities of one sort or another.
Troi came in and looked around. No sign of Asmund.
“Commander Asmund?” she called politely.
“Be right with you,” came the answer from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
The empath nodded, mostly to herself, and took a seat on a small blue couch. Above it was a painting—a replica of Glosterer’s famous study: “The Molecular Structure of Certain Amino Acids.” She took a moment to appreciate the subtleties of tone and color.
And tried not to reflect on her ambivalence about her mission here.
On one hand, she was doing exactly what she’d aimed for when she set out to be a ship’s counselor. She was trying to help an individual who was having problems adjusting to her environment.
And Asmund was certainly having problems. One had only to witness her departure from dinner the night before to know that.
But she was also attempting to pin down a danger to the ship and its occupants. And while this was a part of her job as well, she was more used to gauging murderous intent in outsiders than in fellow officers.
Coming here under the guise of counselor was, in some ways, a subterfuge. A deception, if only by half.
That didn’t sit well with her. Her nature was to be sincere, honest. What’s more, her effectiveness as a counselor was based squarely on those qualities. If she were to obtain someone’s trust, she had to first be confident she was trust worthy.
Yet the threat had been so immediate, the evidence so solid that there was a murderer on board, that Troi hadn’t protested when the captain asked her to probe their guests’ emotions. Nor would she back down now.
“Counselor Troi,” said Asmund, bringing her out of her reverie. The woman was standing in the doorway that led back to her sleeping quarters. She was wearing a tight-fitting black jump suit of Starfleet issue; her hair, still wet from the shower, was combed straight back.
The empath started to her feet, and Asmund motioned for her not to bother.
“Can I get you anything?” asked the blond woman.
Troi shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
Asmund went over to the apartment’s food processing unit. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “if I have something myself.”
“Not at all,” said the ship’s counselor.
With practiced skill Asmund punched in a series of instructions. A moment later a glass of thick dark liquid appeared on a tray, along with a couple of cloth napkins.
At first Troi thought it was a Klingon drink. Then, as Asmund came over and sat on a graceful highbacked chair, the empath got a whiff of it.
“Prune juice,” she said.
The blond woman nodded, tucking back a lock of wet hair that had fallen onto her forehead. “You should try it sometime.” Taking a sip, she set down the tray and then the glass on the polished black table that separated them.
“Perhaps I will,” the counselor agreed, smiling pleasantly.
As they regarded each other, Troi got the same impressions she’d gotten before. Conflicts, uncertainties. The strain of maintaining a façade of humanity when her natural tendency was to be Klingon.
A mirror-image of Worf, she noted, and not for the first time. One was trying to reconcile his Klingon heritage with his human upbringing; the other was trying to balance her Klingon upbringing with her human heritage.
There was a strange symmetry there. An almost poetic juxtaposition of opposites