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“Mind if I ask why, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I have—served the Federation in this post for almost four years. I believe that it is time for the position to be occupied by someone more—temperamentally suited to the task than I.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I’ve been reading up on the job you’ve done for the past four years, and if you ask me, you’re selling yourself and your temperament short.”

“That may be, Madam President. However, I do have an alternative suggestion in mind. Someone who has proven himself capable of handling the diplomatic tasks necessary to be the Federation’s ambassador to the empire. Someone who, like me, is immersed in the cultures of both nations.” He stepped back and indicated his son. “I recommend Alexander Rozhenko—my son—for the job.”

“What!?” Alexander said, his eyes growing wide, his jaw dropping. “Me? You want me to be ambassador?”

Worf looked down at his son, putting his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Years ago, I received a—vision of your possible future. You were a skilled diplomat, one whose service to the galaxy was worthy of song.”

“When was this?” Alexander asked.

Riker knew the answer, though he did not say so out loud. Worf had sworn Riker to secrecy on the subject, as he did not want it known that a future iteration of Alexander, who was indeed a politician, had traveled back in time to prevent a future tragedy.

“That is not important. What is important is that I can think of no one better suited to the role than you, Alexander.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t say anything yet.” Bacco folded her arms and stared at the two Klingons. “There’s no way I can talk you into staying on, Worf?”

His hand still on his son’s shoulder, Worf said, “My mind is made up.”

Picard put in, “It has been my experience, Madam President, that Klingons can be quite stubborn when they’ve set their mind to something.”

Riker thought he heard Scotty mutter, “That’s for bloody well sure,” but he couldn’t be certain.

“So I’ve gathered,” Bacco said. She unfolded her arms. “All right, then. Mr. Ambass—Sorry, Mr. Worf, please submit a formal report with your son’s qualifications by the end of the day, and I’ll review it. Mr. Rozhenko, we’ll speak again in a day or two.”

Alexander still looked stunned. “Of—of course, Madam President. And thank you.”

“Thank your father, it was his cockamamie idea.” Again, she folded her arms. “I think that’s all. Oh—Mr. Riker, congratulations on your impending nuptials and your equally impending command. They’re both well deserved. And sympathies on your loss—your father was a good man.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” Riker said, surprised and flattered that the president was aware of his recent fortunes, good and bad.

“Best wishes to you all.”

Picard inclined his head. “Thank you, Madam President.”

After Bacco’s face was replaced on the viewer with the image of Qo’noS slowly rotating below them, Riker turned to the prospective ambassador and said, “I guess now you’ll have the chance to play those jazz recordings.”

Grinning, Alexander said, “Yeah, I guess I will. Assuming the president accepts me, anyhow.” He turned to his father. “I hope I can live up to the example you’ve set, Father.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Worf said in an unusually quiet tone. “And I have no doubt of something else: Your mother would be proud.”

In an equally quiet tone, Alexander said, “I hope so.”

Riker then looked at his old friend. “Worf, I have to ask—why?”

“I was wondering that myself,” Ross said. Riker wondered if he heard a bit of menace—or at least confusion—in the admiral’s tone, since he had indeed been the one to recommend Worf for the post in the first place.

After a moment, Worf said, “Alexander asked Kahless the same question. That is appropriate—for my answer is the same. All my life, every action I have taken has been out of a sense of duty to others. I joined Starfleet in gratitude for rescuing me from Khitomer. I became security chief in part to honor the memory of Lieutenant Yar. I twice allowed myself to be