IF THERE BE SAVIORS

Kitara Manoru

Summary: A teenaged Spock accompanies his parents on a diplomatic mission to Iridean, a planet inhibited by a vulcanoid race, only to find himself in the middle of a political coup that hinges on racial prejudice against hybrids.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor intend to make any profit off of Trek or any of its characters or worlds, etc., so forth, and so on.

A/N: I've waited ten years to share any of my Trek fanfic and eight years to share this particular one. Be kind.

In addition, I formulated the entire Irideani world, its government, its religion, and part of its language when I had pipe dreams of writing a Trek novel. Please bear with the terminology, which I have done my best to explain along the way.


CHAPTER ONE: OBSESSIONS OF BLOOD

I.

Praxia stood in the top room of the Kulmult Temple's tower. From the tiny window, she could see all the way to the horizon: the purple flowers of the garden below, the high stone wall of the temple, and beyond the temple wall, the edge of the dense jungle and its thick vines and immense trees. In the far distance, Praxia saw a sharp mountain range cloaked in purple haze and the two setting suns. The sight was comforting to this woman who held the office of High Healer of the Kwaykadic religion.

Iridean, she thought, was the most beautiful planet she'd seen. She'd visited only two other worlds personally, but in the past twenty years since her people had taken their first warp flight, they'd returned with several pictures of other worlds. None could compare to the stunning blues and greens of Iridean's wild jungles, the intoxicating yellows and reds of its rampant wildflowers, or the blinding whites of its snow-capped mountains.

The people of Iridean seemed to reflect their beautiful surroundings: purple-tinted skin and hair, blood the lush green of the jungle, and ears pointed like the highest mountain peak, Radona. They were hot-blooded, like the jungles and deserts, but in their best moments, they were silent and still like the sands. In their worst moments, they raged like jungle storms and vicious corv. Such was nature.

Contemplating and gazing at nature was second only to prayer in comforting Praxia. Nature was the gift and artistry of the Supreme Being. It was wild and beautiful and as old as time. Or nearly so. And it would likely remain—unfeeling, neutral, ageless—long after all the people were gone.

But comfort alluded Praxia this evening. High Priestess Dania had contacted her and affirmed her worst fear. "The time is fast approaching when your voice will be needed on the Senate floor," Dania's electronic message had read. "My contacts have learned that General Cural is secretly amassing troops. We fear a coup."

And there it was: the turn of events she'd been fearing since she'd been elected to the Senate. General Cural despised democracy—that was no secret—but the world had been safe so long as he didn't gain control of both the army and the space fleet. Last season, however, he'd befriended the head admiral. And now . . .

"Now we may be damned," Praxia whispered to the silent walls.

The offices of high priestess and high healer had always held a special place in the hearts and minds of the Irideani people. But what could they do against the combined power of Cural, the army, and the space fleet?

If Praxia turned around and gazed out the opposite temple window, she would be looking at a far different sight than the jungle and mountains. Instead, she'd be looking at soaring glass and steel towers had arched toward the sky, small silver aircraft that darted between buildings, and a sea of sparkling blue lights as the capitol revved up for another music- and noise-filled night. But she didn't turn. Not because the sights of the capitol city, Rissen, weren't comforting, but because she feared she'd see something else, too. The massive hulk of a troop or space carrier, the sign of coming times and lost freedoms.

Praxia wrapped her arms around herself and prayed, but she didn't, yet, hear any answer.

II.

He sat upon a smooth boulder high upon the jagged ridge of L-Langon and stared across the heated sand of his desert homeworld. Even at sunset, the glare on the reddish sands was nearly blinding, but his attention was drawn to the violent oranges and reds created by the refraction of 40 Eridani A's rays in the atmosphere. The evening was silent save the eerie call of a katl'ta as it swooped low to catch its prey. Coming here had become automatic with time; he had begun frequenting these cliffs soon after his self-imposed Kahs-wan. Here, faced with the harsh aesthetics of the mountains and desert, he could meditate easier. He could be completely alone. Away from all the eyes and ears that watched and listened, with a Vulcan's intimidating patience, for him to slip, to show a vestige of humanity. Those enviable slips that logically must come from such a hybrid.

Alone, in the unassuming, blind, deaf cliffs beyond ShiKahr, Spock could sit, stare, and unconsciously allow some unacknowledged knot buried deep within his abdomen to unwind. A simple meditation aid every once and a while . . . yes, that's all. And the serenity produced was unequaled.

Today he needed such serenity. Being seventeen standard years old, Spock was facing a time of choices. Life choices. What, indeed, should he do for roughly the next 220 years of his life? Or, more simply, the next 50 or 60? That it would involve science was unquestionable, and Spock was leaning towards joining Starfleet. But the final decision was yet to be made, and he faced a father's wishes versus a son's.

Spock held back a sigh and focused on expounding upon the peace of which he'd caught a thread. Clear the mind. Attune to one's surroundings. Focus on breathing. Still the soul. Answers will present themselves.

This week had held more than the usual questions. The week, as his mother might have said, was all-around bad. He'd let some frustration show in his face during class when a classmate had severely criticized Spock's theory on inter-dimensionality and telekinesis. Specifically, that for a being to achieve the ability to shift between dimensions, it must first master telekinesis. The boy had stopped just short of calling Spock completely illogical. Then the slip was highlighted when their teacher warned him of his control and dismissed their topic as supposition.

When Spock reached home, he'd found that, in an amazing show of efficiency for a people given to logic and not gossip, his father had learned of the slip and the supposition. The resulting lecture on control—"Remember, Spock, due to your heritage your control must not be even average. It must be perfect."—Spock counted to be the 4117th lecture of its kind.

Now, the esteemed ambassador had declared (or rather decreed) that Spock should (meaning would) accompany him on his diplomatic mission to Iridean. An even harsher world than Vulcan, Iridean was a small planet of Vulcanoids that circled a blue star near the neutral zone. Contact had been made with the young warp culture by a Captain April a year earlier, and diplomatic talks with Starfleet had intensified of late. It was time for Federation ambassadors to step in and take control.

It was a rather routine diplomatic mission, really, with a race not so different than a few others in the Federation. The Irideani were short-tempered, high-strung, and deeply religious. Their rough desert and jungle surroundings had made them tough and fearless. Most were excited at the thought of a Federation of diverse aliens and had pushed for an official meeting with Federation diplomats, although apparently there were a few dissenters.

The detailed religion of the planet and the 128,761 violations one could commit were the deciding factor on which ambassadorial team was sent to take over the talks.

Spock swallowed another sigh. He supposed the race's aggression and violence, which the religion barely controlled, was to serve as a fresh reminder to Spock of why he should guard against his emotions. Now he had the first twelve tomes of the Kwaykatic Religious Imperative to memorize on the week-long journey to the small, desert world. Not that he couldn't accomplish such a chore—he simply had imagined his school break spent working on his current computer project and playing in the seasonal music competition.

Spock stood and stretched the remaining tension from his shoulders. Time to begin the walk back; otherwise, he would be late for their departure time tomorrow. He picked up his carryall, slung it over his shoulder, and picked his way down the first slope. Yet another lecture would be awaiting him when he arrived home. Sarek had given him endless lectures, asked many questions, and dolled out punishments over Spock's insistence upon going without permission or warning into the mountains. But this piece of himself, this need, Spock wasn't willing to reveal regardless of the consequences. Everyone had some bit—a hobby, a habit, a mediation ritual—that they kept to themselves. Spock didn't see why he should be any different.

He resolved to work through the rest of his irritation with his father during the walk. No use in getting two more lectures.

Why could he and his father never seem to communicate well? Could they never come to an understanding?

III.

"Welcome to the U.S.S Sakura," said the short and powerfully built woman standing by the transporter console. "I'm Captain Mary O'Malley."

Spock followed his mother off of the transporter pad and wondered if his father, who had already transported up an hour earlier, was already in a meeting. He could feel the ship accelerating through his boots, but he kept his attention on the woman before him. Her hair was a silver braid, and her eyes blue like his mother's. A scar split her bottom lip, and Spock wondered why it hadn't been properly fixed at the time of the injury.

"Thank you, Captain," Amanda replied with her usual graciousness as the two women shook hands. Spock found the action odd but reminded himself that since they were both human, he should not be surprised.

"Your husband is in the briefing room with my ship sociologist, who is going to share her notes. However, I wished to personally welcome you and your son to the ship. This there anything we may do for you to assure your comfort, Mrs. Sarek?"

"Call me Amanda, please." Spock's mother smiled her charming smile. "And no, I'm sure we'll be quite comfortable. Thank you for your hospitality."

Spock heard a sudden change in the sound of the engines and felt a slight jar as the ship jumped to warp. High warp, by the sound of it. He wondered about the urgency.

"My pleasure." Captain O'Malley gestured to the young man behind her. "Ensign Riggs will show you to your quarters. If you'll excuse me . . ."

Spock followed his mother at the respectful distance as they were led to their quarters. Her burnt-orange calasa, with its flowing sleeves, snug waist, and full skirt, accentuated both his mother's thinness and her grace. More grace even, he'd often noted, than most Vulcan women. Her hair, now shot through with silver, was pulled up off her neck into an elegant twist, and she looked quite noble. Adding to her beauty was her intelligence and eloquence, and Spock wondered how anyone could say she wasn't an equal match for his father. Even if she were human.

But then again, no matter how he excelled in school, Spock always found that his peers and teachers took an extra moment to respond to his answers. An extra moment to ensure his answers were logical.

IV.

"Church versus State. That is what we've discovered is the key issue."

Beside him, Sarek's aide quietly added to the mission notes as he listened to the Sakura's chief sociologist's observations. The conference room contained a small grey table surrounded by soft chairs currently occupied by him and his team as well as the senior staff of the ship. The grey floor and walls gave the room an aesthetically unpleasing look which Sarek wondered about given the ship designers' eye toward color, space, and psychology.

"We were able to finally determine that they have a uni-camel, two-party planetary senate that advises the planetary president," the young female sociologist continued. "The two parties are the Qui (the liberals) and the Senee (the conservatives). Only the priestesses and military personnel are allowed to run for office."

Sarek listened with mild interest and noted that the young officer did not consult her notes, but rather looked him directly in the eyes. Most unusual for a human.

"The tension is between the goals of the church, who wish to grant the people more freedom and rights, and the military, who are nearly reactionary in their attempts to keep the people under oppressive control. The issue quickly gets caught up in the Kwaykatic Religious Imperative, or rather the KRI, whose rules are constantly being challenged, bent, revised, upheld, and ignored. The church wants to enforce a 'pure' reading of the Scriptures in order to free the people. The military reportedly picks and chooses the Scripture it wants enforced so that it can use the KRI to control the people."

Sarek nodded. "I have seen similar situations."

"The two people we've found the most helpful are the Amolla, or High Priestess, and the Kana, or High Healer. Their names are Dania and Praxia, respectively. The Amolla is Head Orator of the Liberals, and the Kana is a senator considered to have a superior understanding of the Scriptures. On the conservative side, the Head Orator, General Cural, is beginning to lean anti-Federation."

"So my original briefing indicated." Sarek leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "My briefing also indicated that General Cural might have aspirations to be dictator. Have you learned any more about this possibility?"

Captain O'Malley entered the conversation. "We were able to learn that the general has been giving public speeches intended, apparently, to cause longing for the previous government, which two hundred years ago was a democratic monarchy that allowed slavery of the quie, one race of the Irideani. Also, he has paid off two conservative senators to be loyal to him. Our most recent information suggests he may be amassing troops; if so, we've got one sticky situation."

Sarek was inclined to somewhat agree with her assessment, but he knew logic and patience should bear out the problems. "Very well. Is there anything further?"

The captain glanced at her officers, who indicated they had nothing to add. "No, Ambassador."

"Then I shall retire to my quarters and rest." He stood, as did everyone else, and exited, his aides trailing him. Sarek reflected that he must, indeed, connect with the Amolla and the Kana; however, he must also attempt to forge a link with General Cural.

V.

Noon came angrily to the planet of Iridean—angry and hot, with stifling humidity. Market Square of the planetary capital, Rissen, surged with sweaty life nevertheless.

Cural watched his servants set up the speaker system upon the community platform. He had given many speeches to the Senate; he had wooed the elite business owners and corporate heads who leisurely gathered to spend their money at the Grand Square. He even had a coalition of military supports. Now it was time to address the common worker: the men and women who farmed, worked for factories, and performed other menial tasks unfitting for a man of Cural's heritage.

Waves of heat rippled up from the ancient stone streets, and Cural smelled the stench of curdled neue milk from cold summer desserts. Screaming kids, rumbling voices, general half-chaos. Filthy, common ret and quie. He felt dirty just watching them teeming about him, but he had to sway them as well.

Perhaps the task would not be so disgusting, except for the squalid quie and their spotted foreheads. Unlike the smooth-complexioned beauty of Irdeani race, the quie had that series of bright green, fat spots that ran straight up from the bridge of their noses to their hairline. Not to mention those creepy blue eyes. But time was running out, and Cural needed their support. He had been secretly amassing troops for months, ready to overthrow the current government by force if necessary, but the change would occur much more smoothly if he had the public's support.

"It is ready, Sir." The common ret that was his personal aide bowed to him. Cural didn't acknowledge him with a reply, merely climbed the stairs and thumped the podium in the traditional declaration for attention.

"My fellow Irideani," Cural began infusing his voice with energy and charm he didn't entirely feel, "I, General Cural, must speak to you about the situation now facing our planet: the threat of takeover by the Federation."

The crowd, unused to being addressed by such a celebrity, fell mostly quiet and began to gather around the platform. They gazed upon the handsome, muscular man of superior athletic build. His lavender hair and matching eyes, along with the slight tilt to his pointed ears, bespoke his noble letii heritage.

"The Federation would come and ask us to give up who we are. To make us give up our independence, to become part of their collective and follow their laws. They would make us over in their own image and demand the service of our young men and women in their Starfleet."

The crowd stirred with unease, and Cural smiled, knowing such sentiments had already been seeded in the population. "They would come and turn us into their slaves, and not in the time-honored tradition of our past. Not with the honor with which the quie served our ancestors." Blind acceptance there. Despite all the talk of racial equality, Cural knew that the quie still understood their place. "No, the Federation would come and bend us to their powerful will with their great ships and weapons." More stirs of unease from the crowd. Cural had to fight off a second smile. Winning the approval of the unintelligent masses would be easier than he'd hoped.

VI.

Spock walked the proper three paces behind and two to the side of Sarek as he and his family entered the Grand Senate Banquet Hall, which was perhaps the most magnificent building in the capitol city of Rissen. The Irideani, it seemed, believed in architecture and decoration as high arts. The vast hall was divided into three tiers with the massive oval banquet table on the middle tier. The far end of the hall was built high with sparkling stones over which a gentle waterfall ran. A series of oval, lilac-colored windows graced the length of the hall, and diamond and gold chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, which was covered with bright religious painting that—oddly to Spock—contained many well-endowed nudes. Intricate carvings decorated the walls, and the floor was a dark blue-grey polished stone that glittered under the lights.

The room was crowded with a Vulcanoid people. The up-slanted eyebrows and pointed ears were usual enough, but the lavender, auburn, and dark purple hair were not. Eye colors seemed to be lavender, indigo, and tawny gold. Complexions also contained more of a faint purple tint rather that the familiar green one, although a few of the servers had green spots on their foreheads. Spock found himself fascinated.

Amolla Dania, the senator who stepped up to greet them, was an elder lady with silver-streaked auburn hair and indigo eyes. Before introductions were complete, the Amolla stopped, her horrified gaze shifting from Amanda and Sarek to fix on Spock. She gasped in disgust. "Then you are a kiwtzkadi!" She whirled on Sarek. "I had heard a rumor, but I had dismissed it as untrue. You dare to insult us—contaminate us—by bringing with you a kiwtzkadi!"

The tiny translator affixed to Spock's robe squealed feedback as it tried to process the word. It came back as mutt/hybrid/beast/accursed/blood-drinker. Spock ruthlessly suppressed his shock and looked to his father, who raised an eyebrow.

Sarek held his hands out in a calming gesture. "I am sorry. I do not understand your reference." His voice was level, calm. "But I assure you, we mean no insult to anyone."

Spock forced himself not to frown. Had the Starfleet sociologists failed to observe some crucial aspect of the culture that would now ruin the negotiations—a crucial aspect that involved himself?

The Amolla pointed a bony finger at Spock. "That. It is a kiwtzkadi. You were given a translation of our sacred tomes to read. You should know its kind is not permitted to be born on this planet. Why would you bring one to visit us?"

A calm, young woman about twice Spock's age stepped up beside the Amolla. She appeared regal with her intricately braided, deep purple hair and indigo priestess's robes. "You should use the modern term kudwitz." She spoke Federation Standard with a soft, accented, but firm voice. "They would not recognize the word kiwtzkadi. Besides, a translation of tomes 13 and 14 has not yet been given to them. They have not yet learned of the Sularane and the prohibition against crossbreeding."

Even in the extreme heat, Spock felt chilled. The word Sularane didn't translate. But the word kudwitz translated as "mutt". As if it weren't already obvious where this discussion was headed.

The young woman placed her hand on the Amolla's arm when she started to speak again, then faced Sarek. "Ambassador, I am the Kana, Praxia." Her lavender eyes seemed to plead for patience. "I understand, and I hope everyone will see, that you did not know about the imperative against kiwtkadi. Besides, I can see his soul." Her voice grew soft. "And it is a beautiful soul." The Kana watched Spock closely. He knew his face was set like stone.

"Beautiful?" spat the Amolla. "Its soul would have to be split. Cracked."

The Kana gave her senior a steely look, and strangely the woman grew quiet. "You must trust my Sight." She turned to the crowd and began to make eye contact with several people. "He is not our kiwtkadi. Hybrid. He is not part of our people; therefore, he bares no relation to our prophecy. The Kitwzkadic Law is to protect us from the prophecy. From the Sularane. Since this child cannot be associated with the prophecy, there is no reason to hate or fear him. These people will honor our laws—when they know them—because they respect us and our people. But our laws are not binding to them in any moral sense. If they accept us, we must also accept them."

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The Kana faced the Amolla.

The Amolla hesitated. "He may remain at the banquet, but from now on, he must remain in their rooms. And so shall Sarek's wife. We must not be reminded of what we cannot abide." The Amolla turned and with chin high, walked away.

The Kana seemed apologetic. "It doesn't seem like much, but she was actually being gracious. Come, Ambassador Sarek, Lady Amanda, and young Spock. There is much you need to know about the Sularane."

VII.

Spock followed the Kana and his parents as they strolled along a bitzi-stone path outside the Great Senate Banquet Hall. The bitzi stones sparkled in the waning sunlight, and the effect was like glitter in Terran red clay. With the onset of the evening, the temperature had eased off to 100 degrees, and felt more like 95 with the breeze. The wind lifted Spock's short hair and feathered it; the breeze felt like gentle waves lapping over his skin. The suns brought out indigo highlights in the Kana's braided hair and caught a silvery glinting in the fabric of her purple robes.

"If you are going to spend any amount of time on Iridean," the Kana was saying, "you must understand the prophecy concerning the Sularane."

"Then, please, explain." Sarek held out two of his fingers to Amanda, who matched them with her own. They walked closely together.

Kana Praxia motioned for them to follow her into a garden and spoke as they walked. "Six thousand of our years ago, a great prophetess named Sani revealed to us a future event: a child of mixed blood will be born—a girl. She will set into action a string of events leading to the fall of both the Church and the State—or, rather, at the time, the tribal union. She will implement a new world order in which all will be genuinely equal and in which no tyrants will rein. She will be called the Sularane—Savior of The People." The Kana paused as they reached the fountain at the garden's center and gave Sarek a bitter smile. "Sani was executed by the tribal union for predicting something so terrifying. The Church implemented a series of laws making it a sin to marry or copulate outside of one's race or tribe. Later this became race or nation. The punishment for siring or baring a child of mixed heritage is death. In addition, the infant, regardless of whether it is female or male, is put to death as well."

Spock had joined his parents and Praxia at the fountain and had to hide his distaste. To his shame, he found that he suddenly felt vulnerable. Unprotected and in danger.

Amanda dropped her gaze, and Sarek's mouth bent ever-so-slightly as he murmured, "I see."

"Over the centuries, the prophecy has been twisted by both the Church and State into something terrifying and world-ending, and not even all priestesses truly understand the prophecy and what it says. As a result, few racial hybrids are born, and therefore, few infants are killed." A faint blush had colored Praxia's cheeks, and she kept her gaze strictly ahead. "In the last year, only one such execution has taken place. Intermarriage is illegal, and the matter is surrounded by so much stigma that few enter into those kinds of relationships. The few babies conceived in such a way are presumably aborted. After all, in modern times there are only three major races inhabiting our world: the lavender-skinned letii, who are divided into nobles and ret, or commoners; and the quie, who are sometimes green-skinned like yourself and who generally have a small cluster of freckles or spots on their faces." The Kana reached out and ran a hand under the water pouring from the fountain. "Of course, not all of us see the Sularane as a bad thing. Some of us would welcome a new world order of equality."

Sarek stepped up beside her. "Such as yourself?"

The Kana smiled. "Come. I would never admit to such a blasphemous belief."

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "So this stigma—prejudice—has extended to my son? And myself and my wife?"

The Kana nodded. "Yes. You will have to defend your marriage to various offended Irideani, no doubt. But your son will bear the worst of it. The mixing of two species in an individual . . ." Her tone grew sarcastic. "Truly terrifying."

Spock stepped back behind his parents and tried, for a reason he did not care to analyze, to be invisible. Suddenly his lofty peers and teachers didn't seem so intimidating, and he wished he were safely back in Vulcan's wilderness, sitting upon his favorite ridge. A small pain awoke in his chest as he thought of his place of solitude, and he wondered, not for the first time, why a hybrid should be such a terrible thing. Why difference should be so sinister.

VIII.

In the darkness of his living area, Cural sipped on a glass of iswish, the perfect finish to a well-laid supper. He smiled to himself—a feral grin. Senators, generals, admirals, and common people lined the walls of his scheme's labyrinth now. Who could stop him? Even the Supreme Being might not be able to. He chuckled. All his life he'd dreamed of the old ways, prayed for a return of the empire, imagined himself as ruler. Decades of work—calculated murders, building networks, poisoning minds, buying souls—had brought him to the precipice of victory. If the monarchy had not fallen, he'd be a duke. Now, instead, he'd be emperor.

A lilting series of chirps interrupted the silence. "Enter," Cural commanded.

The doors parted and a figure hesitated just inside the main door. "Come in, Senator Ritiz," the general said with much amusement. "If I meant you harm, I would not do it here and disrupt my home's flow of keemia."

The figure advanced, his feet coming to the edge of the moonlight shining upon the floor. Cural did not turn on the lights, but rather left the room and its soft cushions in darkness. Darkness better covered the deeds of planners and makers.

"Why have you called me here, General?" Senator Ritiz asked.

"You know why." Cural took a long drink of iswish, savoring the aged flavor. "You know, because you understand what will happen." Cural exhaled slowly, equally savoring the iswish's aftertaste. His mother had once told him he had a gift with words. "These Federation people are a threat to us, to our way of life. Independence and freedom are things to be worshipped, to never be taken for granted. We would be fools to allow this Federation control over us."

Ritiz was silent.

"Do you doubt my interpretation?"

"No, Cural. I just wonder about your motivations. I, like a few others, are well aware of your desire to become President and reinstate the slavery of the quie."

Cural smiled, although Ritiz could not see it in the dark. His father had once told him he had a way with persuasion. "I will never deny that the timing is excellent. But you once served with me, Ritiz. You know that I do not give mere lip service to the old ways of honor and nobility. I would rule fairly and promote justice as it was in The Golden Age. Democracy is all well and good, but some people have neither the intelligence nor the education to use it wisely. Our society is deteriorating. We of the ancient honor must step up now before we are too old and set our people's honor straight."

Ritiz grunted. Cural knew that grunt of approval. Yet another senior senator won over to his side.

"What do you plan to do?" Ritiz asked.

"I believe we have one honorable method: the ancient way of dealing with an enemy who tries to wear the face of an ally."

"Ah. The kudwitz child."

"Indeed. He is the key. And my supporters are ready to wrest control of the planetary defense system if the Starfleet vessel attacks. We will force them to leave, one way or another."


A/N: Come to think of it, this probably should be a novel and not simply a long short story. Ah, well. I don't have the time right now to crank out the 60,000 extra words to make this a novel. Please accept this fanfic in the spirit of fun I intended.