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T’Pau was staring off into the middle distance as she seemed to contemplate the latest wrinkle in an old argument.

“ ‘Where fear walks, anger is its companion,’” she said at length. Kuvak nodded and made noises of agreement.

Soval recognized the ancient, hallowed words of Surak immediately—and just as quickly understood the irony of the stance that both T’Pau and Kuvak had taken. But although pointing that irony out was surely logical, he did not know if doing so would be prudent.

A small, still voice in the back of his mind whispered to him, quoting another one of the great Vulcan philosopher’s many aphorisms: “What is, is.”

His decision made, Soval said, “Respectfully, it is the two of you who walk in fear,” he said. “It is the fear that Vulcan will forever lose its best self in the maelstrom of war. And I must further ask you to consider the fear that will soon sweep across Earth once news of the fall of Kaferia becomes known—the blind panic that could spread among billions of emotional humans who lack the discipline of Vulcan logic.”

Kuvak began to deliver what doubtless would have been a sharp retort, but T’Pau once again restrained him with a gesture before returning her full attention to Soval.

“You have given us much to consider, Mister Foreign Minister,” she said. “Please leave us now. We must seek... guidance.”

Soval nodded, then turned and exited the chamber. There was little to do now other than to await word from the administrator’s office, and begin making arrangements to return to his post on Earth.

Several weeks ago he had told Jonathan Archer that Administrator T’Pau’s absolutist stance on matters of war and peace was outside his power to change.

Now Soval permitted himself to grasp at a slender reed of hope that he had been wrong.

Outer ShiKahr, Vulcan

The crackles and hisses on the audio channel were a distraction, but they were also an unavoidable artifact of the security-scrambling process.

“I have a new task for you,” said the muffled, distant-sounding voice. “It is terrible, but it is also necessary.”

Necessary, the assassin thought dispassionately. More dirty work that the high and the mighty lack the courage to perform themselves. And over which they will no doubt experience considerable guilt, even though they will not wield the blade themselves.

Guilt was something that the assassin considered illogical in the extreme.

“I am listening,” he said, and awaited the instructions for his latest assignment.

EIGHTY-TWO

Mount Seleya, Vulcan

BREATHING DEEPLY of the rarefied air as he stood at the base of the great stone steps, the assassin took care to keep his voluminous, drab pilgrim’s robe gathered loosely about his body; it wouldn’t do for a chance encounter with a passing Kolinahr adept to reveal the presence of the tools of his grim trade in this ancient place.

Of course, he would have preferred at least a full day’s notice before beginning this job—that would have afforded him the option of preparing the terrain under the cover of darkness—but his employer had been very specific: the deed had to be done immediately, and orders were orders.

Surveying the ground in anticipation of his target’s arrival turned out to be a matter that was both simple and quickly handled; his actions were concealed by his robe, as well as by his apparent act of kneeling in meditational devotion on the broadest of the great stone steps. The scant handful of other robed, devout Vulcans he saw in the vicinity appeared to have taken no notice of him.

Not wishing to attract their attention, he completed his ascent of the steps and paid the expected obeisance before he descended into the shadows of a cave entrance at the great mountain’s base. The rocky concavity lay several mat’drih distant from the tactical center point of today’s operation.

The wait until evening was a lengthy one, but he was a professional, long accustomed to the giddying oscillations between rushing and abiding. Sitting cross-legged on the cave’s secluded threshold,