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Choosing his words carefully, Worf said, “He was—content. He had found a mission, a—purpose. It gave him strength.”

They arrived at the landing pad. Lwaxana smiled and patted Worf on the biceps. “Thank you, Worf. I needed to hear that.” She extricated her arm. “I need to get back to my room and meditate before my ship leaves tonight.”

“Tonight?” Worf’s heart almost sang. She’s not coming with me?

“No, I’m not coming with you. I’m just waiting for these idiot engineers to finish repairing the matter interflux broomihator or some other such thing on my personal transport. Then I can go on to Khitomer. I’d offer you a ride, but I suspect you’ll find your companion on the St. Lawrence more—entertaining.” She smiled enigmatically. “I look forward to seeing you at the reception, Ambassador. And good luck to you. I’m sure you’ll continue to serve the Federation with honor.”

Worf blinked. It was the nicest thing Lwaxana had ever said to him. In fact, it might have been the nicest thing Lwaxana had ever said in his hearing. “To you as well, Ambassador Troi. Betazed could have no better advocate.”

Lwaxana’s smile widened. “See, Woof, you just proved my point. You lie like a diplomat. You’ll do quite well.”

And with that, she turned and continued down the corridor, laughing.

Which raised the question of who it was that Worf was sharing the runabout with.

The landing-pad door slid open to reveal the inside of a standard Starfleet runabout. Two humans in Starfleet uniforms sat at the fore of the vessel, going through the preflight checklist. One turned around and said, “Ah, Ambassador Worf, good to have you aboard. I’m Lieutenant Matthew Falce, and this,” he indicated the person to his right, “is Ensign Hilary McKenna.” He indicated one of the side chairs. “Have a seat—we’ll be taking off within five minutes or so.”

Worf was about to ask if the other ambassador had reported or not when a surprisingly familiar voice came from the entryway to the aft compartment. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ambassador.”

The last time Worf had heard that voice, it was in a corridor on Deep Space Station K-7 a hundred years ago. The Defiant had gone after an elderly Klingon spy who had traveled back in time to assassinate CaptainJames T. Kirk and restore his own lost honor. They had succeeded in stopping the spy without altering the time lines—which meant, among other things, that the person in the St. Lawrence had not known of Worf’s clandestine trip to the past.

They had encountered each other on several occasions besides that, of course, but this was their first meeting as colleagues.

Inclining his head respectfully, Worf said, “Ambassador Spock. It is an honor, sir.”

And he meant it. Like Worf, Spock had become an ambassador after serving in Starfleet, but both his military and diplomatic service were the stuff of legends—admittedly, as much due to the sheer volume of them by comparison to Worf’s own much shorter career in both fields.

Indeed, the man standing before him seemed to carry the weight of his years. He was dressed in an austere black robe that covered him from neck to foot; his face—the features of which displayed only his Vulcan heritage—was heavily lined, his black hair thinner than Worf remembered it being in the long-ago corridors of K-7.

Then he spoke, and his lips rose in the tiniest of smiles—the first betrayal of the human half of his lineage. “The honor is mine, Ambassador Worf. Your accomplishments have been quite noteworthy.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all. You have had perhaps more impact on Klingon politics over the past decade than any other individual. And I speak as one who has some passing familiarity with the vicissitudes of Klingon politics.”

Worf took a seat on one of the rear chairs of the runabout. “That is something of an overstatement of my accomplishments, Mr. Ambassador.”

One of Spock’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he took the seat opposite Worf. “Indeed? Given that your actions were directly responsible for the ascents of the last two chancellors, not to mention