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to anyone I am not duty-bound to inform.”
    The Klingon took a deep breath. “Very well. I appreciate your candor. And your Federation would surely find out soon enough. I suppose I have no choice.
    “Captain . . . Doctor . . . I must inform you that Chancellor M’Rek is dead.”
    Phlox exchanged a look with the captain, then spoke. “You, ah, have my sincere condolences on your loss, Commander. However, I don’t see what I can do for the chancellor at this stage. If you had come to me sooner—”
    “We do not ask you to save the chancellor, Denobulan. M’Rek was widely and justly despised, and the High Council has been fractious and par alyzed under his weak leadership. He did not even have the virtue of dying with honor—he grew ill and wasted away for months. No one could challenge him for leadership, for he was too weak to fight. Even Admiral Krell, who relied upon M’Rek’s patronage, agrees that he was holding the Empire back.
    “But that is the root of the problem. M’Rek had many enemies. The factions within the Council accuse one another of poisoning M’Rek—slaying him secretly and without honor. An Arbiter of Succession has been named, but none of the challengers can be affirmed until they are cleared of the accusations. Yet none will accept that M’Rek died of natural causes, for the very physicians who tended to him may have been his poisoners.
    “The only thing the councillors have been able to agree on, Doctor, is that they require an objective party to determine the cause of the chancellor’s death.”
    “But why me?” Phlox asked. “The Empire has no love for me, given my role in the creation of the Qu’Vat virus.” He declined to point out that the release of the metagenic virus, which was responsible for the cosmetic changes in the appearance of several hundred million Klingons, had been necessary to cure a more deadly form of the pathogen—and that Fleet Admiral Krell himself had arranged for Phlox to be brought to the Qu’Vat colony under duress and forced to engineer the cure. No point in antagonizing a Klingon who, for once, seemed reasonably civil toward him.
    “That is why the factions have agreed to seek you out, Phlox. There is no love lost between you and the Klingon people, and thus no reason why you would aid any of the factions.”
    “Well, I suppose that makes sense. Although I truly have nothing against the Klingon people, and have no wish to see them come to harm. If my assistance will prevent further strife, I’m willing to consider it. But I’d like to take a moment to discuss it with the captain, if you don’t mind.”
    “Very well. But waste no time!”
    The screen went dark, and T’Pol turned to him. “You are inclined to agree to this?”
    Phlox paced. “Believe me, I’m not eager to go off with the Klingons again. I’m sure many of them hold grudges against me—the QuchHa’ in particular.” T’Pol nodded, recognizing the term the Klingons had given to the population stripped of their cranial ridges by the virus. It was a rather mean-­spirited wordplay: QuchHa’ was the Klingon word for “unhappy,” but was also a homonym for “deprived of a forehead.” Phlox was reluctant to use it—or its counterpart HemQuch , meaning “proud forehead,” for unaltered Klingons like Nevokh—but the Klingons themselves had embraced the labels so thoroughly that there was little alternative.
    “But you heard Nevokh,” he went on. “The Empire is torn apart by factional strife, and that’s largely due to the conflict between the mutated and unmutated Klingon populations. I can’t help feeling that the situation is partly my responsibility.”
    T’Pol contemplated him. “I understand your desire to minimize loss of life. But what if you find that M’Rek was assassinated, and this leads to the execution of his killers? Or simply worsens the recriminations and sparks civil war?”
    Phlox paced the cramped room. “Believe me, T’Pol, I’m very