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Ambassador.
Qapla’.”
    “Qapla’.”
Worf raised his own right hand and matched the gesture. It was uncomfortable, but the minister had done him the courtesy of a Klingon salutation. Worf could hardly do other than return the favor. “Live long and prosper, Minister.”
    At least T’Latrek isn’t human,
Worf thought as he left the office.
Then she would likely have insisted on shaking
hands.
No matter how long he lived among humans, Worf had never been able to think of that human ritual as anything other than silly-looking.
    Worf headed for the nearest transporter room in order to return to his parents’ home for what would probably be the last time for many months.

    In all his time as security chief on the
Galaxy-
class ship that bore the name
Enterprise,
Worf had escorted many people to the VIP quarters. They were the largest on the ship, almost embarrassing in their luxury. Worf— who had found his own, smaller rooms to be unnecessarily lavish—had never thought he would be in a position to stay in such quarters.
    Now, on the
Sovereign-
class successor to that ship, Worf found himself in accommodations even larger than those he had so disdained. Commander Riker himself had met Worf in the transporter room and escorted him here, and Worf came very close to requesting something smaller—but he knew that would not happen. He was, after all, a Federation ambassador.
    So he simply set down the duffel bags he had insisted on carrying himself (courtesy was one thing, but a warrior never let others carry his personal items), turned to Riker, and said, “Thank you, Commander.”
    “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Ambassador,” Riker said formally.
    “Please, Commander—I believe it would not be a breach of protocol for you to call me by name.”
    Grinning with his still-beardless face—Worf wished the first officer would grow it back; without it, his face looked just
wrong
somehow—Riker said, “Haven’t gotten used to the title yet, huh?”
    “No,” Worf said simply. “But even if I had, such formality between us would be—unnecessary.”
    “All right, but that means you’re going to have to start calling me ‘Will.’”
    Worf blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. Riker had been his superior officer for so long. . . . “I will work on that—Will.”
    “Good,” Riker said.
    Walking toward the food replicator, Worf asked the question he knew he’d need to know the answer to sooner or later: “How is Deanna?”
    “Fine,” Riker said with an ease that relieved Worf. “Not here, unfortunately—she’s on Betazed, helping with the reconstruction efforts there.”
    To the computer, Worf said, “Prune juice, chilled.” He turned to Riker. “Anything for you, si— Will?”
    “No, thank you.”
    The prune juice materialized in the dispenser, and Worf took a sip of it. “And you and Deanna are . . . ?” Worf let the question trail off.
    Riker broke into another of his trademark grins. “Doing just fine, thanks.”
    “I am glad to hear it.” Worf’s brief relationship withDeanna had been a source of tension, which was why, when Riker and Deanna had renewed their relationship on the Bak’u planet, Worf had made sure to give it his blessing.
    “Y’know, Worf,” Riker said, approaching the Klingon, “the first time I saw you, I said to myself, ‘That man is going to make a great diplomat.’”
    “Really?”
    “No, not really. Worf, the first time I saw you, you tried to blow a hole in the viewscreen because Q’s face appeared on it.”
    Worf took another sip of his prune juice. “I was young and rash.”
    “And what would you call yourself now?”
    Worf considered. “Old and rash.”
    Riker laughed. “It
is
good to see you again, Worf. Well, I’ll let you get settled in.” He headed toward the doors. As they parted, Riker turned and said, “Oh, there’s a reception for you in Ten-Forward tonight at 1800 hours.”
    Wincing, Worf said, “Comma—Will, I do not think—”
    Cutting him