Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [38]
“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 liq-uid 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 impres-sions she’d gotten before. Conflicts, uncertainties. The strain of maintaining a fagade 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-what the Betazoid musi-cians of two centuries earlier would have called aieannen baiannen. Literally, wind and water. But Troi had not come here to make esthetic observa-tions. 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 wonder-+-was “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—comb 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 7w mir—a blood-bond.”
Troi leaned forward. “Are you