Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [110]
Guinan nodded. So that was it. Well, it wasn’t the kind of therapy she’d have wished for, but it seemed to have done the trick. Admitting that a problem existed was half the battle. But now that he had made the admission, there was no need for him to torture himself. “This isn’t the Lexington, was she reminded him as gently as possible. “You’re not in charge of security on this ship.”
“Doesn’t matter,” replied Joseph. “At the least, Ben Zoma was my captain. My responsibility.” He looked down at the bar. “The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of someone else’s death.” His emphasis on “else’s” sent a chill up her spine. “You mean this happened before?” she asked softly. “That’s right. A long time ago.” He raised his head until their eyes met. His were like black holes. “That’s what I carry around inside of me. That’s the reason I drink the way I do. Because I killed somebody, somebody who depended on me.” A pause, as he wrestled silently with his demons. “You don’t know what that’s like. No one does-except of Pugcom” His face twisted. “So what do I do? What does anyone do when he has that hanging around his neck?”
Guinan’s heart went out to him. She’d been right about this one, about his self-hatred. But like Troi,
she’d thought it was rooted in disappointment—with his career, with the way his life had turned out. She hadn’t had any idea how heavy his burden really was.
“You could start,” she said, “by talking abut it.” Joseph shook his head. “It’s not a real nice story.” His expression suggested that he meant it.
“No problem,” she insisted. “I hear all kinds.”
That was all he really needed-those few words of invitation. Slowly, painfully, he began to tell her. what had happened. Normally, she would have heard him out-listening ever so carefully, speaking only if he needed a push to keep going—comuntil he had purged himself of whatever was plaguing him. But this time was different. It was wrong. “Stopea[*thorn] she said. Joseph looked at her, a little shocked.
“I’m not the one who should be hearing this.”
The man’s eyes opened wide. He knew exactly what she meant. “No,” he told her. “I can’t.”
Guinan smiled her most serene smile—the one she used only when absolutely necessary. “You can,” she assured him. “What’s more, you have to. It’s the only
way.
Beverly wasn’t expecting any visitors, so she was more than a little surprised when she saw Pug Joseph in sickbay, heading in the direction of her office.
As he filled her doorway, the Lexington’s stocky security chief appeared uncomfortable. Fidgety. Or at least that’s how it seemed to the doctor.
“Pug.” She smiled. “Hi. Care for some coffee?”
He shook his head. “No. Thanks.” “How about a seat, then?” He nodded, pulled the chair out from the other side of the doctor’s desk, and sat. For an awkward moment or two he just looked at the floor. When he raised his eyes, they looked … what? Haunted? “How’s the captain?” he asked.
“Fine. He’ll be out of bed in no time.”
Joseph bobbed his head. “Good.” He glanced fiercely at something on the wall, and then at something else on her desk. But not at her-not exactly.
The doctor was acutely aware of sounds that she hardly ever heard otherwise … the murmur of physi-cians and nurses as they discussed some minor-injury case … the hum of an overhead light fixture that hadn’t worked right since Simenon squeezed them out of the slipstream … the sharp clatter of a tricorder as it dropped onto a tabletop.
And still Joseph looked around, not quite facing hex and not quite facing away—anger and hurt passing over, his face in waves. Beverly leaned forward. “Pug—is something wrong?” He looked directly at her now, and his mouth became a taut, hard line. “Yes. Something’s wrong,” he got out:” He swallowed. “It’s been wrong for a long time.”
She returned his gaze, not having the least idea what he was talking about. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t.” He sighed deeply. “You’ve heard the story about how Jack was killed, right? About the problem with the nacelle,