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“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” Trip said, interrupting as he stepped in close to her. He seemed to be considering grabbing her by the wrists, restraining her. She discouraged him with a cold, hard glare.

“Ych’a is in need of assistance,” she said. “Her vital signs are declining, as are Tevik’s.”

“Indeed,” Denak said. “But I was not aware that you possessed sufficient training in the Syrrannite disciplines to render aid.”

T’Pol did not withdraw her hands, but merely spread her fingers in an effort to access Ych’a’s mind. “She is my friend. I cannot stand by and do nothing.”

“This meld has become dangerous,” Denak said. “I cannot allow you to attempt to interpose yourself alone.”

“Then help me,” T’Pol said.

“Why don’t we just call a medic?” Trip said.

T’Pol glared again at Trip, who seemed to grasp her meaning immediately; despite the close genetic relationship between Vulcans and Romulans—a linkage of which most Vulcans were unaware—any medical scan of Terix would be all but certain to raise some very ticklish questions.

“Do what you have to do, T’Pol,” Trip said, backing away slightly. “Both of you.”

“It is true that I do not possess your training, Denak,” T’Pol said. She tried to focus all of her attention on joining in on the already initiated meld, but it felt as though some barrier stood in her way. “Therefore I require your help.”

“Very well,” Denak said, apparently unfazed by his recent ejection from the very same meld. He placed one hand on Ych’a’s forehead, and the other on Terix’s.

“My mind to your mind,” T’Pol intoned. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Behind her, she heard Trip mutter, “My God, it’s a telepathic orgy.” She ignored him, concentrating.

And the barrier that had stood between her and the meld abruptly vanished, dropping her headlong into infinity.

The images had come faster and in even more of a free-form, disassociated jumble than they had during her mating with Trip. The chaotic, hypersensory experience was a veritable high-pressure fire hose of thought and emotion, far more intense and vibrant than she had anticipated. Whether this was because so many individuals had attempted to link together simultaneously, or because one of the participants was a highly emotional Romulan, or because of her own shortcomings in the psionic disciplines—or perhaps a mixture of all of those reasons—the experience had left her by turns confused, exhilarated, and enervated.

Although T’Pol’s mind had all but shut itself down in what was doubtless an instinctual act of neurological self-preservation, consciousness slowly began to return to her, like a hla’meth leaf adrift on the relentless currents of the Voroth Sea.

She heard a voice that sounded impossibly distant. “She’s coming around.”

T’Pol opened her eyes. Trip’s face hovered before her. She was back in her mother’s home—her home—and it was morning, not long after dawn.

She tried to speak, but could barely muster a whisper. “Trip.”

Trip was kneeling beside the low sofa on which she lay, holding her hand gently. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “That’s Sodok, sweetie. Remember?”

She sat upright suddenly, as if jolted by a strong high-voltage current; she had momentarily forgotten that neither Denak nor Terix were supposed to be privy to Trip’s real name, nor even the fact that he wasn’t Vulcan.

“Relax,” Trip said. “Don’t strain yourself.”

She settled back on the sofa and saw that Ych’a and Denak, as well as the man called Tevik, now stood around her, each of them regarding her with apparent concern.

“You were very nearly lost to us during that mind-meld,” Denak said.

“I will recover,” she said. Casting her gaze toward Ych’a and Tevik/Terix, she said, “And I am gratified to see that neither of you seem to have suffered any ill effects either.”

“What do you recall from the meld?” Ych’a asked.

T’Pol shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I believe I may even have failed to achieve a meld. I was never trained in the Syrrannite fashion.”

Ych’a nodded,