Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire - By David R. George III

“I am Spock,” he said.

His name appeared to spark immediate recognition in Sorent, as well as in most, if not all, of her fellow officers. That did not surprise Spock, since his efforts—and all efforts—to unify the Vulcan and Romulan peoples had been deemed illegal long ago by the Romulan government.

“Remove your hood,” Sorent ordered. “Slowly.”

With care, Spock reached up and pulled the cowl of his robe backward, revealing his face. Once again, he saw recognition in Sorent, as well as in others. Behind him, he heard a faint trill, and he suspected that both the inner and outer doors had just been sealed. Four more security officers scrambled from behind the counters to join Sorent and J’Velk. Past the left-hand counter, Spock saw a door open and a uniformed man emerge, the colored rank strip on his arm identifying him as a protector, the highest field-office grade in Romulan Security.

“You are the Vulcan who preaches for the reuniting of Romulus with your people,” Sorent said. “Am I correct?”

“I advocate for such a reunification, yes,” Spock said. He watched as the protector stepped up to observe the proceedings.

“And this is?” Sorent asked, gesturing at Spock’s prisoner.

“I do not know,” Spock said, “but he tried to kill me.”

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ISBN 978-1-4391-6081-7

ISBN 978-1-4391-9165-1 (ebook)

To Marco Palmieri,

Who came into my life as an editor,

Plying his craft with artistry and optimism,

But who turned out to be something even more important:

A good man and a good friend

Inevitable as the dusk must fall,

The shadows gather beneath birds of prey;

The nightmare drops again, ensnaring all

Within the dark veil of ego and sway.

Covering the land in surrounding gloom,

Forces alight in the murky city,

And staring and waiting, they promise doom,

Seek weakness and vantage, offer no pity.

Their hour come around, slouching toward the throne,

They clamber over fellows, reaching ever higher,

Seizing all wealth and power for their own,

Battling each other, these rough beasts of empire.


notes accompanying

her painting Affairs of State


The Fell of Dark

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

What hours, O what black hours we have spent

This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.



The blade tore through his flesh with cruel ease.

Agony erupted in Spock’s midsection, a red-hot ember blazing at the center of an instantly expanding inferno. He grabbed for the knife protruding from his abdomen, for the hand that wielded it, but as he staggered backward a step under the assault, he reflexively threw his arms wide in an attempt to retain his balance. He knew he had to prevent himself from falling, vulnerable, before his unknown, half-seen attacker. Loosed from his grip, Spock’s handheld beacon clattered to the rocky ground, its narrow beam sending long shadows careering about the subterranean remnants of the ancient Romulan settlement. In silhouette, visage concealed by darkness, his assailant loomed above him, broad-shouldered and a head taller.

Spock struggled to concentrate, understanding on the heels of the ambush that he likely would have little time to defend himself. Seeking to rule the pain screaming through his body, he focused on the other details of sensation. He felt the cool metal of the knife against his now-exposed right side, even as his blood rushed warmly from the newly opened wound. He smelled the musty scent of age and