"Tell me again where we're going tonight, and why exactly it is that I have to go?"

Torias stood scowling in front of the full-length mirror, yanking at the tiny fasteners of his dress shirt. Nilani moved behind him and caught his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from the hopelessly askew collar tab and trapping them against his belly.

"We are going to a recital during which the Silau Antiphonal will be attempted at the Temple for the first time in nearly thirty years. You, darling husband, are going because we have been invited by my mentor and because I would like to show him that, contrary to popular Institute belief, you do indeed walk fully upright and can sometimes refrain from beating me into submission between flights."

He made a face at her in the mirror, watching while she adjusted his shirt. "Forcing me practically at disruptor point into this straitjacket and making me listen to some screeching freak is going to prove that I am a serenely suave and civilized individual?"

"You're beyond hope for that. But you can at least look decorative and make polite noises at Noren. There, that's much better."

Nilani let her hands drop around his waist and nuzzled into the side of his neck. Together they peered at his reflected image. The formal tunic though seldom worn was nonetheless superbly tailored, draping its silver-shot charcoal over Torias' broad chest. The stark white shirt peeking out beneath it emphasized sunbrushed cheekbones and made a startling contrast for the leaf-green eyes.

"Not bad," he said grudgingly.

"You do scrub up rather nicely. Now, will you promise to behave tonight?"

The dark head dipped as he feathered a kiss on her bare shoulder; she closed her eyes with a small sigh and turned inside the gathering circle of his arms. "Can't." His mouth, warmly searching out the sensitive places along her collarbone, came to rest at the the suddenly leaping pulse at the hollow of her throat. "Not with you... sitting next to me... in that dress... "

The crowd buzzed restlessly. For once nearly everyone was seated on time, and Nilani and Torias' last minute arrival necessitated a litany of "Excuse me"s and "Pardon"s as they snaked their way past resentfully shifting knees toward the pair of unoccupied seats in the center of the row. Noren Garet, long ensconced, merely nodded as they settled in beside him.

"Traffic," she murmured succinctly, a small lie she hoped would serve as both excuse and apology. It was partly true; by the time they had hastily rearranged their clothing and she had straightened her hair and makeup, the streethopper they finally managed to catch had had to drop them off a quarter kilometer away because of the throngs outside.

"Who's that?" asked Torias, indicating the roped-off section a few rows in front of them.

"Critics." They were present in full force; evidently even the outlying colonies had sent representatives. "They'll have spent the last few weeks sharpening their knives."

His curiosity heightened visibly. "Are they expecting it to be that bad?"

"On the contrary," said Garet, leaning over. "I'd wager that most of them are hoping it will be that good."

"Mm. What's so damned special about this piece? They've been playing it endlessly on all the arts nets. You can't even go to a restaurant these days without having it piped in."

Nilani was mildly astonished that he would even recognize it. "At home, he listens only to slam fusion at a volume guaranteed to shatter the neighbors' eardrums," she told Garet. "If he really likes a song, he'll play it on a continuous loop for hours at a time. Even worse, sometimes he sings along."

Garet quirked an eyebrow at her but spoke to Torias. "Of course you realize that's a studio recording made in an acoustically controlled holographic environment."

"Same thing, only more precise; surely that's better."

"Hardly, darling. See up there," Nilani pointed at the two deep alcoves, recessed into the walls at angles to one another, that flanked the stage just below the curve of the high-arching domed ceiling. "The piece was written specifically for this hall. When this was still a place of worship thousands of years ago, those were the chancels from which the cantors sang the summonses. Nowadays they're box seats for royalty, distinguished guests, anyone who's more interested in being seen than in actually listening to the music. Silau was the first –- and so far only –- composer to incorporate them into a performance. The Antiphonal calls for a full chorus in each of those alcoves as well as a solo soprano onstage."

Scrolling through the program notes in the armrest reader, Torias whistled softly. "8.5-second echo from center stage without the acoustic baffles. Must be a nightmare to coordinate all that."

Garet nodded. "Exactly. Neither chorus nor the soloist can hear one another until the various echoes have bounced back. Every performer has to know when the sounds from each part will dissipate at what volume, and everything must be timed precisely so that the echoes don't simply cancel one another out or summate into deafening cacophany. It takes months of rehearsal to prepare the chorus alone. Whether Silau was a genius or a madman is widely debated; in my opinion he was more than a little of both."

" 'This evening's performance marks the return of Chi'pah Na'Rel of the Vulcan Conservatory to the Temple Auditorium for the first time since Silau's Antiphonal was last mounted here in 1245,'" Torias read. "He was the one? What happened?"

"Ah." Garet took his time in replying. "Hard to say, as he has consistently refused to speak about it in interviews. Quite a disaster, really, from both the artistic and professional standpoint. Na'Rel was an immensely popular performer and the critics' golden son, a rare combination of charisma and true musicality; his coming here was a highly publicized event.

"In the performance he twice called for the piece to be started over. The third time, things seemed to go better, but then the parts began again to go out of synch and the remote conductors signalled frantically for the choruses to stop. But of course Na'Rel couldn't hear, at least at first, and he must have been so intent on going on that he kept singing, even long after he had to have known the other singers were no longer with him. He finished the opening movement on his own, bowed to the audience, then simply left."

"The critical dissection afterward was merciless," added Nilani. "He hasn't sung in public until now, as far as I know. Frankly, I'd be amazed if he were still capable of the technical demands of the piece."

"Mm." Torias fell silent and went back to reading the program notes until the house lights flashed, then faded. Nilani settled into her seat and briefly squeezed Garet's hand in anticipation, but before she could say anything the onstage entrance was sliding open and without any fanfare Chi'pah Na'Rel emerged.

Tall and slender, as was typical of the Vulcan castrati, he seemed to glide rather than walk in the floor-length green robe that shimmered about him. Yet the ethereal impression was belied when he halted and bowed his head: the posture emphasized the breadth of his abnormally developed chest, and such was the gravity of his demeanor that it was as though his concentration alone were anchoring him to the stage.

The burst of applause that had greeted his appearance spattered out. Furious hsssts instantly suppressed the usual assault of coughs and hawking throats and the audience again subsided into a reverently strained silence.

Eyes closed, the chi'pah lifted his head in what looked like a gesture of either pain or ecstasy. Because of the sound delay it was not immediately clear that he was the source of the pure wordless simplicity, devoid even of vibrato, that unfurled softly and billowed to fill the confines of the hall. Dissonant notes from one chorus and a slow ostenuto from the other rose to meet it in a rough caress of clashing sound, establishing in the opening section the conflict that segued seamlessly into the fugue.

Asserting themselves, the three parts chased one another and claimed dominance in turn: a fusillade of hard trumpetlike phrases from the first chorus, which itself fragmented and then at times recombined with a shout; the insistent repetition, as though in complete disregard for meter or harmony, from the second chorus; and above it all the magnificent voice that refused to be subsumed by the assault which it seemed alternately to elude and to challenge.

Now whispering, now ringing, the voice cast its siren spell. Subtly, discord resolved into euphony as first one, then the other chorus was seduced into a beckon and call that was a gently mocking reflection of the earlier confrontation. Back and forth the voices quested until the many followed and then joined and then submitted to the one, burnishing a final chord into rapturous silence beneath the triumphantly soaring swell. Na'Rel burst into a fiendishly difficult coloratura passage, made even more demanding by its decrescendo into a sustained pianissimo. The last impossibly long-held note ended almost imperceptibly, leaving its author as he had begun, with eyes closed and head bowed.

The audience was utterly still for a good ten seconds after the echo wisped into evanescence. And then a sound ferocious as ripping canvas tore through the auditorium as two thousand people who had been holding their collective breath for the past hour arose in thunderous waves, applauding and shouting, many of them weeping with release.

Bowing, the Vulcan departed the stage. For long minutes the applause went on, then finally organized itself into the rhythmic clapping that was the time-honored though vulgar demand for an encore, but still he did not appear. When it was clear Na'Rel did not intend to return, the house lights came up at last; reluctantly, even a bit uncertainly, people moved to leave.

Nilani found her neck and shoulders stiff with tension and rolled her head to loosen them. Stealing a glance at Torias, she was struck by the intensity in the half-lidded eyes that still stared at the vacated stage.

"Would you like to meet him?" Garet asked. He smiled at their inquiring expressions. "Privilege granted to those who donate astronomical sums in order to get their names inscribed on a little plaque in the atrium."

"Yes," answered Torias unexpectedly; he began shouldering his way through the crowd toward the front of the auditorium. Exchanging a glance and a small shrug, Nilani and Garet followed.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she murmured into his ear.

Garet looked at her sideways, clearly bemused. "I think your young man might surprise you."

She blinked. But then they were swept up into the backstage chaos and there was no opportunity to question him further.

Everywhere around them were chorus members, their robes flapping in various states of disarray. Most jabbered animatedly, raising their voices in order to be heard above the din but succeeding only in adding to it; here and there, small groups erupted into bawdy song –- fueled no doubt by the beer they were downing in reckless quantities. Stage crew breaking down lights and other equipment ducked in and out among the merry singers, dodging here a sweeping emphatic arm, there a hand balancing a drink and a tiny plate overloaded with food.

In the confusion Nilani and Garet caught up with Torias, who had managed to secure a generous portion from the buffet as well as a place in line among the other well‑wishers. Conversation was impossible, so they stood patiently and shuffled forward until the doorman admitted them at last.

The anteroom rang with quiet after the din outside. "Thank goodness!" said Nilani, working her jaw to relieve the tightness in her ears.

"Indeed." Garet picked his way around the flowers already piled on every surface, finally leaning carefully against the edge of a table. "So. Not quite like a holorecording, was it?"

Torias laughed easily and without resentment. "You were right. I'm no musician, but even I could tell that that was damned impressive."

"What did you find most 'impressive' about it?" Garet's voice was noncommittal but, Nilani realized, he was watching her husband with much the same look of intense concentration he reserved for crucial experiments.

"Mm." Torias' gaze seemed to turn inward. "I guess... partly because of the technical aspect; I've enough of an engineering background to appreciate just how difficult it must have been to fit everything together. But no, that's not it at all. What impressed the hell out of me was that this man opened the deepest part of his heart like he was daring the world to reject what it saw in there, and it was fucking beautiful."

Garet cocked his head. "You don't subscribe to the accepted notion, then, that Vulcans are a dispassionate, stoical people?"

"Anyone who says Vulcans don't feel emotion –- or anyway that Vulcan," Torias said belligerently, "is deluded. If he didn't feel anything there'd be no way he'd be able to do... " he waved in the general direction of the stage, " ... that."

"In a way you are correct," a slightly husky voice interjected.

Like guilty schoolchildren, they spun to face the celebrated singer who was watching them from the entrance to the private dressing room.

Garet cleared his throat. "How do you mean, Chi'pah?"

"It is not entirely true that Vulcans do not feel emotion; instead, we have learned to utilize emotions as tools rather than to be ruled by them."

"Bullshit," Torias insisted. Three sets of eyebrows flew up. "Er... I mean, without emotional investment, without personal risk, it'd be like that holorecording: technically perfect but dead boring. You can't tell me that what you did tonight was merely 'utilizing a tool.'"

The Vulcan regarded him impassively for a long moment. "Tell me, Mister... "

"Dax."

"Mister Dax, what is your profession?"

"Test pilot for experimental craft."

"I see. By its very nature, your calling entails great risk. Do you not worry that a single mistake could have catastrophic consequences?"

"I can't think about that. If I concentrated on the potential dangers rather than on the task at hand, I might be paralyzed by fear or indecision. Hell, if I thought too hard about it, I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning."

"You are good at what you do?"

"Yes. When I am up there, in a totally new, untested bird, I feel as though no one else in the world could fly it better."

"Overconfidence can be dangerous."

"False modesty can be just as dangerous, and even more egotistical."

"When did you learn to fly?"

Torias grinned. "Can't remember –- I probably drove my parents crazy asking for lessons when I was a kid. Spent every moment I could in the family 'hopper. I was instrument rated when I was 13, qualified for multicraft rating at 15."

"And when you first started, your instructors proceeded in a stepwise fashion, did they not?"

"Sure. Months of learning nothing but the principles of lift, or engine trim, or shield configuration, and so on."

"But when you actually flew on your own, you did not consciously break the motions down into each step."

"Of course not. By then it was as though all I had to do was think where I wanted my ship to go, and it would."

"In other words, the tools you began with have been so fundamentally integrated that flying became an extension of yourself, operating effortlessly and smoothly as though with its own freedom and wisdom and revelation. And not to do so would be to sever the best part of yourself."

"Right," Torias said slowly. "So that's why you did it, why you risked your career and your reputation to come back here." The Vulcan merely inclined his head. "Funny."

One dark eyebrow hitched into a circumflex. "What is funny?"

Ignoring the faintly amused tone, Torias said, "That a eunuch would have more balls than most people I know."

The black-on-black eyes narrowed, and for a brief second matched the hard glitter of intense green in what Nilani would later swear was a smile. Then the Vulcan bowed again, and without another word turned and swept back to the private dressing room.

Thanks to Macedon (aka Joe) for letting me borrow his concept of the Vulcan chi'pain, which he invented for a marvelous trilogy of stories featuring Jake Sisko. Unless someone out there knows how to unearth the old a.s.c. archives, though, I'm afraid they've been lost to time.