The pneumatic door slid open and the shuttle pilot nodded toward her, indicating this was her stop. She stepped out onto the wooden platform, hesitating as the first wave of triple digit heat rolled over her. Not surprisingly, she had been the only passenger on the small campus transport. Few Vulcans would have seen the logic in traveling at midday and as she stumbled down the rough wooden stairs she silently concurred with their good judgment.

The pilot, no doubt, thought her crazy and she would wholehearted agree with that assessment. You can still turn back, the voice of reason coaxed eagerly as the blazing sun burned down on her and the hot winds seemed bent on pulling the very life out of her. But some curious force drew her from the small landing point and down to the ancient stone pathway.

It was a trip she'd made dozens of times in the past months, yet now it felt as if she had never walked this path before. The comforting aroma of highly spiced plomek soup and freshly baked t'ikh bread from the container in her bag did little to ameliorate the feeling that this journey was destined to end badly.

"Control"—she took a deep breath—"logic makes the way of all things clear."

The small red sandstone cottages that housed the junior faculty were only a few hundred meters down the path, and she found the level of her anxiety rising incrementally as she drew nearer to his quarters.

Summoning all of her courage, she took a deep breath and pushed the chime beside the small piece of polished stone inscribed with his name. He did not respond, but she knew with an inexplicable flash of certainty that he was inside. Tracing the spidery old Vulcan script lettering with her finger, she wondered how this could have seemed like such a good idea barely an hour ago. The door, of course was not locked; Vulcans simply didn't lock doors. It was unnecessary among a people to whom it was considered unseemly to enter the space belonging to another uninvited.

She studied her reflection in the viewscreen above the chime. Clearly a mad thing, she decided, her wavy dark hair styled by the hot wind into a tangled Medusan mess, her fair skin burned from the sun, and her eyes filled with apprehension.

Kroykah! That would not do. He would, no doubt, be displeased that she'd taken it upon herself to come here; she would not compound the perceived offense with uncontrolled emotionalism.

Centering herself, she pressed the chime again, but still he did not respond. It was beyond unthinkable that she would simply open the door and enter, and yet she now found herself contemplating doing just that. It had been five days since she'd seen or heard from him. Her unauthorized, and fortunately untraceable, entry into his personal files showed that he was on some sort of unspecified medical release and had not left his quarters in that time.

Vulcan sensibilities demanded that she honor his right to privacy and withdraw immediately. Yes, that was the only logical choice she told herself, even as she palmed the door open and entered the darkened hallway.

The apartment was quiet, the only illumination the flickering flame of the asenoi he used for meditation. For the barest of moments she felt the unmistakable flash of his presence within her mind. It was not the first time she had experienced this strange phenomenon; in fact it had been happening with an increasing frequency in the past few weeks.

It had been disconcerting each time, coming with no warning. Yet it was inexplicably pleasant, his thoughts flowing through her mind, so perfectly precise, so ordered, the affect a gentle amusement with her, a warm caring regard. Affinity, it was the closest word in Standard to express the unexpected spark of understanding that would flow between them in those few moments.

But now she sensed an unfathomable fury, and unconsciously took a step back toward the entryway.

A soft, barely perceptible sound came from the far corner of the room. Roughly woven fabric, sliding over skin and in the faint light she saw his dark, slender figure rising up in one strong, fluid motion.

"T'Kirk, you do not belong here." His voice was rough, and threaded with anger.

"I was concerned for you, Stovan—I've brought some soup." She struggled to keep her voice level, unemotional, but she could not mask the alarm she felt as another flash of his anger pierced her mind's shielding.

"Concern? Ah, yes, of course, another of your qomi emotions."

T'Kirk tensed at the slur and found reciprocal fury rising within her self. "I am Vulcan, a direct descendant of Surak. You know that, Stovan!"

Stovan moved toward her. In the flickering light from the firepot she could make out his unkempt appearance and the almost feral look in his eyes. Everything within her screamed to run, but she held her ground.

"You are not fit to speak Surak's name, ashu kan'nav."

T'Kirk felt the blow as if he'd physically struck her. It was certainly not the first time she'd heard the term, a derogatory remark which apparently referred to the fact that she had been born only two years after her brother, rather than the seven year space that seemed to be the norm for the majority of Vulcan families.

"Stovan, my friend, you are unwell. Is it not logical that you allow me to help you?"

"Logical?" He moved in on her like a Le-matra closing in on its prey. "What would qomi know of logic?"

"Perhaps… if you would eat something?" she said. Hesitantly, she held out the small package of soup and bread she'd brought with her.

Closing the gap between them, he snatched the bag from her hand and with an angry roar smashed it against the stone wall behind her. Before she could respond he captured her upper arm with his free hand and forcefully pulled T'Kirk to him.

"You dishonor yourself, qomi, bringing food to a man who is not yours. You dishonor us both. You claim the lineage of Surak, but your actions are those of a common whore." He slid his hand up her arm to her throat and shoved her back against the soup stained wall. He was strong, much stronger than she was, and T'Kirk realized that he could snap her neck with only the barest effort.

He pressed himself against her, pinning her as he moved his powerful body lewdly against hers.

"Is this what you have come here for, my little qomi?" His lips brushed her ear, they were hot even for a Vulcan, and his voice was raw. He moved his hand roughly over her breasts, then slowly traveled down the front of her robes and even more roughly, moved his hand between her legs and fondled her through the light fabric.

"Stovan!"

Abruptly he released her and moved back toward the firepot.

"Go, T'Kirk." The raspy edge was gone from his voice and he seemed almost himself again.

"What is happening to you, Stovan?"

"Go now, T'Kirk You do not understand the danger in which you have positioned yourself. Go, now, while I am still able to let you go."

He turned away from her and returned to his place before the firepot.

T'Kirk took a few moments to compose herself, then fled into the Vulcan midday heat.