Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [59]
But Troi had not come here to make esthetic observations. Probing more deeply, she searched for the emotional residue that would normally accompany duplicity in a human—the shades of feeling that would tip her off to Asmund’s guilt.
“Tell me, Counselor,” said the blond woman. “Why are you here?”
The empath looked her in the eye. “It is obvious that you are having some trouble coping. I was wondering—”
“If there was anything you could do to help?”
Troi maintained her composure despite the interruption. “Something like that. I know how difficult it can be to finally close a wound—and then to have it opened again by people and circumstances.”
“Do you, Counselor?” Her voice was steady, giving away nothing. “With all due respect, I doubt it.”
“Contrary to appearances,” Troi responded, “I have had my share of heartaches. My share of loss. Of pain.”
For a fleeting moment, she thought of Ian, and her heart sank. Then she recovered.
Asmund must have noticed her discomfort, because her attitude changed rather abruptly.
“I did not mean to make this a competition,” she said. “I apologize.” She shrugged. “I have had this conversation twice now—once with my present captain and once with Captain Picard. Both times I managed to convince myself that they were right; both times I made an effort to meet the others halfway. Both times I was unsuccessful.” She shook her head. “Then I realized that the problem was not theirs, but mine.”
“What do you mean?” asked Troi, though she had a fairly good idea.
“They may have forgiven me my association with Gerda—but I haven’t.” Asmund straightened in her seat. “How much do you know about Klingon tradition, Counselor?”
“A little,” said the empath. “Mostly from my association with Lieutenant Worf.”
The other woman stared into her glass. “The ancient Klingons had a law that if a person was not available to be tried for his crimes, his siblings might be held accountable instead.” Her voice hardened. “Gerda was my sister. In human terms, I had an obligation to watch out for her. In Klingon terms, it was more than an obligation. It was a ‘Iw mir—a blood-bond.”
Troi leaned forward. “Are you saying that you’re in some way guilty of your sister’s crime? As if you had committed it instead of her?”
“I know,” said Asmund. “The Federation doesn’t see it that way. Neither does the human part of me. Over the years, I think, my human self managed to submerge the guilt—the implications of the ‘Iw mir.” She frowned. “I believe, however, that my reunion with my former comrades has awakened my Klingon sense of responsibility.”
“And that is why you cannot mingle with them? Because they remind you of the blood-bond?”
“That is my theory. Even if no one else will punish me for Gerda’s crime, I will punish myself.” She raised her glass and sipped. “What do you think, Counselor? From a professional standpoint, I mean?”
It sounded plausible. Troi was forced to say so.
“As I thought.” Asmund put her glass down again and smiled grimly. “So you see, Counselor, I don’t need to talk with anyone. I’m quite capable of diagnosing my own problems.”
The empath tried to frame her words carefully. “Diagnosis is only the first step, Commander. Now that you know there is something wrong, don’t you want to do something about it?”
Asmund stared at her. “From a Klingon point of view, Counselor, it is my responsibility to bear this guilt.”
It was a difficult situation. Troi had to concede that.
“Would it hurt,” she asked, “if we talked again?”
Asmund thought about it. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Good,” said the counselor. “Then let’s do that. As often as you like.” She returned the other woman’s piercing gaze. “And if I do not hear from you, I will take it upon myself to call.”
Asmund nodded. “Fair enough.”
Troi rose. “I am glad we had this talk.” She smiled.
The other woman tried to do the same as she got to her feet—but in all fairness, she wasn’t very good at it. Nor did