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The Left Hand of Destiny Book 1

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Overview

"The Klingon Empire is dying...and I think it deserves to die."With those words, Lieutenant Ezri Dax propelled Lieutenant Commander Worf to the most fateful decision of his life -- to vanquish Klingon leader Gowron in honorable combat and install in his place a low-born, one-eyed soldier of the empire who might lead their people back to the path of honor.Under the weighty mantle of chancellor, General Martok led the forces of the empire to victory in the final Allied assault against the Dominion. Now, with Worf at his side as the newly appointed Federation ambassador to Qo'noS, Martok at last is coming home, bringing with him the hope of a bright new future for his people.

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Author Information

Bio of J. G. Hertzler

Best known for his portrayal of General Martok on the television series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, J. G. Hertzler was born into a family whose roots go back eight generations in the small Pennsylvania town of Port Royal. He was raised on various foreign and domestic U.S. Air Force bases, from El Paso to Casablanca -- which may explain his lifelong philosophical confusion. J. G. was a college football linebacker and an antiwar protestor; he has canvassed for McGovern and strongly supported the men and women of our armed forces; he feels he has a gentle Amish soul inside a short-fused temper. In other words, Martok is close to his heart, and J. G. expects he always will be.As an actor in the theatre, J. G. toured the rust belt with Roddy MacDowall in the 1996 National Tour of In television, J. G. has worked in countless episodics, mostly villains roiling with inner torment. A student of screenwriting, he's had three scripts optioned with no cigar... yet. Hope and rewriting spring eternal. <iThe Left Hand of Destiny</i represents J. G.'s first foray into narrative fiction. It's been one helluva ride thus far, with a little help from his friends, old and new.

Bio of Jeffrey Lang

Jeffrey Lang is the author of Star Trek: The Next Generation-Immortal Coil, the short story &ld"Dead Manrs"s Handrd" in the anthology Star Trek: Deep Space Nine-The Lives of Dax, and the coauthor (with David Weddle) of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine-Section 31: Abyss. He is currently working on a couple other projects, including more Trek and the graphic novel Sherwood. Lang lives in Wynnewood, PA, with his wife, Katherine Fritz, his son, Andrew, and Buster, who, no doubt, wants to go out for a walk right now.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Star Trek

Filesize

642.67 KB

Number of Pages

320

eBook ISBN

9780743423281

Excerpt from: The Left Hand of Destiny Book 1 by J. G. Hertzler

Chapter One

The general dreamt.

Martok knew he visited the twilight world of dreams, because he saw with both eyes. He saw the steaming cleaning solution sloshing around a rusting bucket near his right elbow and the quill-bristle brush in his left hand without having to move his head. He saw chech'tluth draining through the floor grates where First Officer HomQat had dropped his mug. He saw gnawed bones, greasy with fat, cast aside when the gagh had arrived. He also saw that much of the mess hall still required cleaning. So he crawled along the floor on his knees, dragging the bucket along with him, scrubbing the grates and the table legs and the backs of chairs.

Thick smells surrounded him, invigorated him. From the stench of engine lubricant to the overburdened waste processors and the sour sweat of too many bodies crushed in cramped quarters, he inhaled the essence of a warrior's life on a bird-of-prey. Only the deep woodflower tang of Sirella was more seductive than this! Soon he would be with her, presenting her an offering of power, of glory, of victory. For now, he would scrub. He scrubbed to the rhythm of a warrior's song, chanting the words as he worked.

He scrubbed until his scrub brush found smooth metal, glowing red in the half-light. He crouched low to the floor, eyeing his discovery: a bat'leth, forgotten amidst the kegs of flowing ale, the roasts, the gagh, the songs and stories. Martok ran a cautious finger over the tip, savoring the finely sharpened point. He jerked. A drop of blood drizzled down his finger. Throwing back his head, he laughed. A noble weapon, to be certain!

Gingerly, he lifted the blade off the floor, holding it on his forearms to admire the weight, the heft, the smooth perfection of each notch and curve. He flipped the weapon off his forearms, into his palms. Curling his fingers around the handle, he twirled it cautiously to the left and then the right, challenging his unseen combatant with a thrust-and-parry rhythm. He drew deep breaths, felt battle lust surge within him. Baring his teeth, he snarled, crafting a dance of spins and jabs. To the throat! And the belly --

A dull thud and a clank told him his bucket had tipped. A hot gush flooded the deck, soaking his boots before he could sidestep the filthy fluid.

"Come now, Ketha boy," came the mocking voice, speaking in the hated tones of the privileged class. "Startled by a little water? You'll have to do better than that if you expect a promotion -- to scrubbing the plasma conduits!" A deep, throaty laugh reverberated through the galley.