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If Wu said it could not wait, then it could not. Worf inclined his head, indicating that he should proceed.

“Carl and Damir were both killed, and three other people resigned after the attack. Starfleet has sent replacements for the guards who were killed, but we’re still horribly short-staffed, and the aftermath of the attack has left us with little opportunity to search for replacements. In addition, you have to approve any new hires.”

“That task I will delegate to you,” Worf said, with a glance at Carl Murphy’s now-unoccupied desk.

“Thank you, sir, but that only solves part of the problem. We need at the very least to bring in temporary help to handle some of the more menial tasks, which are lying fallow and threatening to cause difficulties down the line.”

“Do so,” Worf said. “I will also see if there is anyone I can convince to work here.”

Wu smiled. “That would be appreciated, sir. Is there anything else?”

“No.”

“Very good, sir.” Wu took his leave.

After placing his duffel in the office, Worf then left the embassy and walked to the Great Hall, which was only a short distance away. Councillor Ra’ch’s words to him from two weeks ago had been buried in the back of his mind, but he recalled them—and the other words spoken to him by the Federation Council a few days ago—now.

The first time Worf set foot in the council chamber of the Great Hall was thirteen years earlier, when he challenged the High Council’s ruling that Captain Mogh, son of Worf, of the Klingon Defense Force was a traitor to the empire. The council had declared him guilty of consorting with the Romulans in the destruction of the Khitomer outpost, at which thousands of Klingons died—including Mogh and his mate Kaasin. Their six-year-old son Worf, named for Mogh’s father, barely survived, and was raised by humans on Gault and Earth. Although Worf’s challenge was valid, he was forced, for political reasons, to withdraw it, and accept discommendation from the empire.

The last time he was in the chamber was six weeks ago, when he was trying to convince Martok to let the Klingon fleet heading to Tezwa be under the command of Jean-Luc Picard and the Enterprise. Then, too, Worf’s actions were driven as much by political expediency as by honor.

That would seem to be the story of my life, he thought bitterly.

In between those occasions, the Great Hall had been destroyed by the traitor Morjod and rebuilt. As with every other time the hall had been damaged or destroyed over the centuries, the new hall was built as close to the previous one as possible. So, while the actual room was not the same one in which he had challenged the council’s judgment against his father, it looked just like the dark high-ceilinged space with directed light casting long shadows. The strongest light shone on the large raised metal throne that sat under the trefoil emblem of the empire, in which sat Martok.

This time, Worf was addressing the entire council for the first time since before Tezwa. Though the dim lighting made it difficult to make out the features of the councillors, the ambassador could sense the tension in the room. No one was thrilled to see Worf here these days.

Martok sat on the edge of his chair. Unlike K’mpec, who was chancellor a decade and a half earlier, Martok was not at all comfortable in the seat of power. He had always been one who preferred to be moving—a literal man of action—and he obviously hated being stuck in that chair for any length of time.

“So,” the chancellor said, “it would seem that the Federation has lost its leader.”

“Yes,” Worf said, and proceeded to give the cover story Ra’ch had provided.

As predicted, Martok asked why there was no warning of this, and Worf gave the planned answer. It was as if they were performing an opera, long rehearsed.

“And now, your people will choose a new leader by drawing lots.” Martok shook his head. “Madness. Elevation in status comes from the judgment of your peers and your betters, not your lessers. It is an insane system.”

“The Federation government has worked successfully for