Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [37]
The Daa’Vit regarded him for what seemed a long time. “No,” he said finally, his lip curling. “I was speaking in anger. Gods, the very thought of being a dignitary-it makes my skin crawl.” He looked away from Picard and grimaced.
“Why?” asked the human. “Because dignitaries are notorious for ignoring what we captains know are best for them? Because they insist on endangering their lives for no good reason?” He nodded. “Yes, you are right. Those are things of which you could never be accused.”
Morgen’s head came up and his eyes locked again with Picard’s. At that moment he looked like a prototypical son of Daa’Veryone whose edges had never been softened by the Federation. Then, slowly, a begrudging smile spread across his face. “You are a master, sir. I salute you.” He shook his head appreciatively. “In all that time I spent captaining the Excalibur, I never developed that knack you have for making a point.”
“Just as well,” said Picard. “Then you would have been completely insufferable-not unlike Ben Zoma.” A beat. “You’ll cooperate?” The Daa’allyit’s nostrils flared. “Up to a point,” he agreed. “I’ll make myself … how did you put it? Scarce?” “That is indeed how I put it.”
“But if trouble presents itself, don’t expect me to run. I am still quite capable of handling myself, you know.” The captain had no doubt of it. “Fair enough,” he said.
Toi waited in the corridor outside the doors of Commander Asmund’s apartment. Inside, she knew, her presence was being announced by a beeping sound. Nor could Asmund fail to hear the signal; it was audible in every part of her quarters, and the computer had confirmed that she was home.
Of course, the commander could ignore the beeping-indicating that she didn’t want to be disturbed. Or she could simply say so via ship’s intercom.
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 trustworthy.
Yet the threat had been so immediate, the evidence so solid that there was a murderer on board, that Troi
hadn