Dante Maxima Seven -- a world known to its inhabitants as Imprima. A world where Madragi -- huge social/economic entities wealthy beyond compare -- control the fate of millions..
Years ago, William Riker was part of the Starfleet delegation that opened Imprima to the Federation. Now the disappearance of an old friend -- Teller Conlon, who also served on that team -- draws Riker and the Enterprise across the galaxy, back to Imprima.
Because the jewel known as Fortune's Light -- one of Madraga Criathis's most priceless possessions -- has been stolen. And Teller Conlon stands accused of its theft. Now Riker must discover the truth behind the disappearance of both his friend and Fortune's Light, no easy task on a world where treachery and intrigue are commonplace...and where even an old friend's embrace may conceal the deadly bite of a dagger's blade.
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1 . Star Trek: TNG Fortune's Light
Posted October 28, 2008 by Trek Fan , DFW, TXI read this when it was released. As many of the Star Trek books available for my Reader I was excited to get it again in digital format. This is a great Riker book and captures all the characters from The Next Generation very well.
Riker has to go searching for the killer of an old friend on the cold Impriman world. Naturally, its not a simple mission. Its an engaging tale and a must read for any Star Trek fan.
Pocket Books/Star Trek
January 01, 1991
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Fortune's Light by Michael Jan Friedman
As he fed the holodeck computer all the information he had collected, First Officer William Riker found himself smiling -- grinning, in fact, like a little kid.
And why not? He had been waiting a long time for this. It had been nearly a full week since the idea popped into his head, and half his mind had been busy working out the details while the other half saw him through the routine functions of a starship second-in-command.
Of course, in a larger sense, it had been more than a week. He'd been waiting all his life for this moment.
Or at least since his seventh summer, when he'd taken that spill off Execution Rock and fractured his collarbone in three places. He still remembered all those summer days spent propped up among pillows, imprisoned in his parents' house while his friends swam in the river or hiked up into the highlands.
At first he'd been full of bitterness and resentment. After all, he was Kyle Riker's son. He had to be the best at everything, the leader -- even at the tender age of six.
Thank God for his mother. She had taken advantage of that sedentary time to instill a love for the quieter pursuits in the son who was so quickly growing away from her.
First there was the music -- all kinds, but mostly her beloved jazz, for her father had been a trombone player in a place called New Orleans. Will liked the happy music best, particularly during the endless rainy afternoons when it seemed there had never been and never would be any color in the world but gray.
Then there were the cooking lessons. What an absurdity -- a six-year-old learning to cook! But the payoff was the privilege of eating whatever they had concocted, and his mother had a knack for making even the humblest dish taste wickedly delicious. Perhaps the most amazing moment in his life, even through the present day, was when he realized he could make ratatouille as good as hers.
Finally there were the books. At the beginning he had thought it kind of strange -- who ever heard of reading books? There were tapes and such if you wanted to be entertained or -- heaven forfend -- learn something. The pictures came up on a monitor along with a voice that provided the narration. Simple. Easy.
In books there were no pictures. Most of the time, anyway. You had to come up with the images on your own, and that was a lot like work.
Still, he took to reading. It tickled his imagination, like the music. Like the cooking lessons, he had to put something into it to get something out.
And like both those things, the books gave him a window into his mother. He could see something incredible in her, something young and fresh and beautiful, every time she read out loud to him, and again when he read out loud to her.
Especially when they opened that certain book -- the one that had given him the idea to do what he was doing now. It wasn't the kind of book he would have expected her to have, or the kind of subject he'd have expected her to take an interest in. But then, his mother had not been easy to predict.