A/N: Again, blatantly admitting the influence of Star Wars, the Matrix, and Buffy on this story. Expect it. I'm fascinated by telekinesis.
CHAPTER THREE: SAVIORS
I.
General Cural smiled as he looked over the capitol city from his office. He'd had to use a little firepower to convince the President he meant business. Then he'd ordered her arrested and the citizens of Rissen to be gathered in the Grand Square to hear his upcoming speech—the speech in which he'd convince the people that the current President was incompetent, as the presence of the Federation proved, and that he, noble General Cural, must assume control immediately or all was lost. With the capitol conquered, the rest of the planet would be easy.
"I will restore the Golden Age today," he murmured to himself, wishing that history could record every moment of this glorious day.
Except one: the loss of the kudwitz. The child had obviously been rescued, but the Starfleet vessel equally obviously didn't know it. They'd contacted him not five minutes after the mutt had been reported missing and asked to speak with him on the issue.
"There is nothing of which to speak," he had told them. "If you withdraw, you'll get the child back. If you do not, the child will die."
Cural had cut off communication and ordered his soldiers to redouble their efforts. He even put Lt. Commander Natirin on it, and she was his top tracker.
Cural relaxed, dismissing the irritating topic of the kudwitz. Natirin would recapture him, and in the meantime, Cural would kill democracy with a sweet talk and a charming smile, promising the Irideani he was only protecting them and their way of life. And, to a certain extent, it was truth. He was protecting them from baseness and chaos by returning them to the Golden Age.
The door buzzer announced the arrival of the captain of the guard, and Cural admitted him.
"Sir?" The captain paused at the door. "I have brought the camera woman you asked for. The system is hooked up, and the people are gathered in the Grand Square."
Cural turned and smiled at the nervous, sweaty captain. "Excellent. Show her in."
The captain ushered in a tiny quie woman who looked even more nervous than the captain. The complex camera/broadcaster she held must have weighed nearly as much as she, but she wielded it expertly.
"Ready yourself, woman," Cural ordered. "I must address my people." He'd arranged for the speech to be broadcast primarily to the Grand Square but also on all Live Cast Feeds on the planet. Everyone on the planet near a computer or viewscreen would hear the first speech of their new "President" and the last speech of the democratic era.
II.
Praxia and Spock pushed their way to the front of the crowd that clogged Rissen's Grand Square. Troopers lined the sidewalks, and phaser tanks hovered the front and back of the Square.
"Something that would generate an electro-magnetic pulse," Praxia repeated, still processing Spock's idea.
"Yes," Spock said. "An EMP. If you have such a device, it would render all the phasers and phaser tanks useless. So unless your soldiers or tanks still carry projectile weapons . . ."
"No, all military weaponry was upgraded to phaser technology twenty-five years ago. Only private citizens would still own guns, and usually only the ret and quie, who are too poor to buy personal phasers." Praxia halted and stared at the tanks around them.
"What are you planning to do?" Spock asked.
Praxia pointed to the man standing on top of a tank. "That's General Weslien. He's been at Cural's side for a decade. I'm counting on his knowing something, and I'm going to read his mind."
"Read it?" Spock's tone betrayed a tint of horror. "Without his permission? That would be mental rape."
Praxia glanced at him, taken aback. "It is not something I do often; in fact, I was specifically trained to block out others' thoughts and feelings so I would not be overwhelmed. But in this case, do I even have another choice if I mean to save my people in time?"
Spock's brow furrowed, but he remained silent.
Praxia understood his discomfort, but she had no time for proprieties. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Weslien. He was a distracted man, and it helped her to enter the edges of his mind unnoticed. She skimmed the surface of his mind, learning Cural's plan and location. Then she quickly dipped deeper, scanning for some kind of weapon that could help her. She had to finish soon; the deeper and the longer she went, the more he would sense something.
When she opened, her eyes, Spock blinked as though startled; apparently he had been watching her intently or, perhaps, even tensely. "I've got it," she told him, and began walking to the west of the Square. "We've got to get to the Rewey Building. Cural's in his office. He has standing orders to use deadly force if necessary to instate himself as dictator. He's already arrested the President."
"What else did you learn?" Spock asked.
"There's an old weapon we might be able to use, if we can get to it. It generates an electro-magnetic pulse. Now, if I can only figure out how to make this plan all work together!"
"And preferably without bloodshed," Spock said.
"I agree. We must—" Praxia stopped suddenly—so suddenly that Spock bumped into her back. "There is it."
"What?"
Praxia had locked gazes with a beautiful young quie woman. A moment later, she shifted her stare to a red-headed quie man. Then another man. A woman. A teenage boy. She began walking again, quickly exchanging glances with quie after quie.
"Praxia?" Spock whispered.
"They're here to protect their interests," she whispered. "They've gathered up their guns and rifles. They're going to fight to stop this. They're just waiting for some kind of opening. That's what I'm going to provide."
"With the EMP I suggested," Spock surmised.
"Yes. And I have to take care of Cural. He's the focal point to all of this. The coup's not going to work without him, even if he has the backing of senators like Ritiz. Amolla Dania and the Counsel of Elders are putting up great resistance."
"Still, that is too much to handle in too little time," Spock said. "You are going to need help."
Praxia turned to look at him, and although Spock's mental shields kept her telepathy at bay, she needed no mind-reading powers to know his thoughts. "I can't let you go after the EMP. I can't let you endanger yourself, Spock. You don't live here; it's not your fight. You have a life to live elsewhere."
"And if your General Cural recaptures me and kills me I will not be able to live it."
"Trying to help me will not improve your chances."
"Let me help." The young Vulcan stood his ground. "Perhaps I can reach this EMP weapon since it is not something they plan on using."
"It'll still be heavily guarded. Besides—"
The viewscreen on the tallest building in the Grand Square flickered to life and drew everyone's attention. General Cural's enormous image stared down at the crowd of thousands. "Good people of Rissen, I address you to bring to you important news that will greatly improve all our lives."
Praxia returned her gaze to Spock. "All right. You can help. Using General Weslien's knowledge, I'll try to get you to the right building to reach the EMP. Then I'll go after Cural."
III.
The building in question was not heavily guarded after all. No guards stood at door, and no security devices were evident. The squat building was run-down looking; the windows were blacked-out. Junk parts and trash cluttered the surrounding area.
"I'm not surprised," Praxia whispered. "The EMP would be a last-scenario weapon. Too inconvenient. According to the general's memories, this place holds all the outdated military technology and projects-gone-wrong. But they'll still defend it. After all, even failed projects can be dangerous."
"I understand." Spock prepared himself for the violence. "I have a Vulcan technique I can use called a 'nerve pinch' that will render opponents unconscious."
Praxia smiled. "I have the martial arts training required of all priestesses and all nobility. More violent than your nerve pinch, I imagine, but not lethal if I don't wish it to be."
"Please do not wish it," Spock murmured, and Praxia nodded.
They approached the door and entered as though they were expected. The building seemed to have minimal staff, no doubt due in part to the coup. A young guard stepped forward from his security stall to meet them.
"May I see your pass?" he asked, his brow furrowed with suspicion.
"Certainly." Praxia whirled and delivered a roundhouse kick to his temple, knocking him out instantly. She immediately bent down and searched his pockets for his access card, then handed it to Spock. "You'll need this."
Spock followed Praxia to the building's turbolifts, all the while disquieted by the violence. When the doors opened to the second floor, Spock stepped out first and laid his hand on the sentry's shoulder.
The soldier turned toward him. "Who are—"
Spock pinched the vulnerable nerve at the base of his neck, and the sentry collapsed without a sound.
"Nicely done," Praxia whispered, then ran down the hallway to the last door.
Knowing that Praxia was following the mental map she'd stolen from the general's mind, Spock followed close behind her.
"This is it," she said, motioning for him to use the access card.
Spock nodded and swiped the card through the card reader on the door lock. The doors swished open, revealing a long hallway beyond.
"I must leave you now," Praxia said. "I must stop General Cural. If you'll allow me to briefly touch your mind, I'll pass on the necessary knowledge for you to complete this task."
Spock paused, then nodded. There was no other choice; time was of the essence.
Praxia brushed her fingers against his temple in a move reminiscent to a mind meld, but then with amazing speed, she stepped into the first layer of his conscious and delivered dozens of images. In what felt like mere seconds, she pulled away.
"Does it make sense?" she asked.
Spock reviewed the information. "Yes. I can complete the task. Please go ahead; your people need you."
Praxia bowed. "Thank you, Spock. You will save us today." Without further ado, she raced back toward the tubrolifts, leaving Spock to execute his half of the plan.
Spock turned to face the empty hallway and found, to his disgust, that his heart rate had accelerated and a slight dampness had even formed on his palms. Breaking into a military facility on an alien world was the last action Spock had ever imagined himself committing, and apparently the stakes were straining his emotional control.
The corridor was a uniform dark grey and was dimly lit with flickering florescent lighting recessed into the ceiling. Mustiness mixed with dust to tempt Spock to sneeze, but sound could be suicidal. Spock mustered a lifetime's of training in Vulcan martial and defensive arts to proceed silently past a series of doors. The silence, however, amplified the buzz of the lights—a broken buzz that jumped and spat as the lights flickered. To Spock, the low sound seemed deafening.
Finally, he neared the last door of the hallway, the one the mind meld had shown him he needed. He walked forward quickly, glancing continually over his shoulder. He expected to hear a shout at any moment—a shout he would be unable to understand since he no longer had his translator, but the motivation behind the shout would be clear enough. If he were caught and survived, he could only imagine what his father would have to say. Death was more likely, however; his father needed to be the least of his concerns.
Spock reached the target door and considered it. The lock was enabled with a card reader, but he doubted the security guard's card would access this particular door. Perhaps only military scientists were allowed to enter this room. And even if the card did open the door, there had to be a hidden security system of some kind. Even non-warp cultures could have superior surveillance, much less warp ones. Spock gathered his courage and reached toward the lock.
"Dok wien." A booming bass voice barked the command from behind Spock, and he halted. He turned his head slightly and saw the phaser-type rifle pointed at his head.
IV.
Apparently assured of his victory, Cural allowed Praxia to see him. The guards ushered her inside the building with a manner that suggested they merely humored her. As she rode the turbolift up to Cural's floor, Praxia retreated into prayer. She'd never been closer to death; she'd never done anything so ridden with meaning.
My Lord, Supreme Being over of All, I am unsure what to ask of You. I don't know whether to believe am I the Sularane or not. Perhaps it doesn't matter. I merely pray that I will be able to stop Cural and keep more violence from occurring. A pause of dignity that quickly shredded. Oh, please, help me!
But Praxia put her fear and uncertainty behind her as she was ushered into Cural's office. She'd been told to remain quiet, but she had no intention of doing so. "What are you doing?" she immediately demanded.
Cural signaled for the quie woman to shut down her camera before facing Praxia. She noted that the woman pretended to, but didn't actually, turn off her camera. Praxia didn't have to be psychic to know this woman was part of a resistance movement that the Council of Elders hadn't even known existed. Perhaps it was time for the Temple to connect more with the people of whom they believed themselves to be the champions.
"Ah, my dear Kana Praxia." Cural leaned against his desk. "You do know how to cut to the heart of the matter, don't you?" He grinned. "I'm delivering this planet from its twisted delusions of democracy and returning it to the Golden Age."
Praxia knew she didn't have long before Cural would be alerted that the camera was still on. She had to act fast. "You mean you're establishing yourself as dictator so you can levy your will like the Supreme Being."
Cural smiled whimsically. "How vicious of you, my dear. Hardly. I have no aspirations to be a despot."
Quickly, quickly! "But you've made clear your intentions to return the quie into slavery. And returning to the old ways means increased poverty for the ret as well."
"Well, that is tragic, isn't it?" Finally, sarcasm. "Has the Senate not beaten this topic to death? The quie—and the ret for that matter—have been assigned the role of servants by our Lord, haven't they? It's time to stop all this insufferable whining about rights and equality and return to the way things should be. That is the Noble Way, the way we've lived since the beginning of time."
The comm unit on the desk buzzed, and Cural punched it. "Yes, what do you want?"
"General . . . you're still on the air."
"What!" Cural glanced up, murder evident on his face. The terrified quie woman dropped her camera. Cural turned his gaze upon Praxia and must have seen a hint of satisfaction there. "Don't be so sure, Kana," he said. Cural smiled at her, and she knew what he was getting ready to do. She jerked up her hand with the thought of telekinetically throwing him away from his desk.
But his finger had already hit the botton on the comm unit.
Cural had signaled his troops to begin the final phase of the coup.
V.
Death.
Without any doubt, Spock knew he likely had only three seconds to live, and he was surprised at how calm he felt. Serene. At peace. He wasn't remotely afraid, and for the eternal span of a nanosecond he wondered why. Why was he so unafraid of the one thing that all living things instinctively fear? He had a hard time believing his emotional mastery was good enough to stop the fear. It was a fascinating philosophical problem . . ..
And then in the next nanosecond, martial arts training and millennia of animal passions took control. He jerked one arm up in front of his body and to the side, executing an outside block that knocked the weapon from the guard's hand as he fired. Pain shot through his left shoulder as the shot grazed it, but the pain barely registered. The song of sand, the howl of wild sehlats, exploded in his mind and rushed through the bending rails of logic and calculation: stay alive. Succeed. Spock lunged forward, weight on his right leg. He put his body weight behind his right arm for a punch to the solar plexus. He spun around the soldier even as the man's body jerked backwards. Fingers found and closed on a specific nerve.
Bent rails of logic straightened. A breath reined in dangerous shadows of emotion, and Spock watched the man slump to the floor, unconscious. Oddly, no people ran out of the rooms to investigate the shot. Still, there was no time to waste now. Spock turned and swiped the card through the lock reader, and to his relief, the door opened.
An empty room with flickering monitors and control boards greeted him. He rushed to the central board, flipped up a miniature access hatch, and slammed his hand down on the bright yellow button.
A strange sensation rushed through Spock, lifting the hairs on his arms, and then the world fell silent and dark. A heartbeat later, an explosion shattered the quiet. It took a moment to register, but Spock recognized the sound from history lessons: gunfire.
Yells and more gunshots from the first floor. Impulse punched Spock in the chest, and he didn't even try to resist. It wasn't fear; it was more like inexplicable knowledge. Whatever it was, it demanded action. For the first time since he was seven years old, Spock let emotion completely overtake logic and common sense. With a leap, he jumped through the blacked-out second story window.
VI.
Cural straightened. "Now, my dear Praxia—"
The whine and drone of dozens of electrical devices suddenly died; the lights shut off. Praxia grinned into the semi-darkness of the room. The light from the windows showed the shock on Cural's face.
"Checkmate," Praxia said, borrowing a concept from her contact with Spock's mind.
The quie woman left the camera on the floor and fled the room. Cural charged out from behind the desk. "What the hell did you just do?"
"EMP. Your troops have nothing left at their disposal except hand-to-hand combat against hundreds of angry quie and reh with guns."
"Vittih! You and your animals can't stop me." Cural leapt forward, only to have his jaw make violent contact with Praxia's fist.
Cural only took a moment to recover. He lunged forward again, blocking Praxia's second blow as he punched with the other fist. She blocked it and angled a chop at his neck. He parried and knocked her backward with an open-handed jab at her chest, then followed through with a round-house kick. However, Praxia dodged, then spun and landed a side kick to Cural's ribs, throwing him to the floor. He jumped to his feet and, blocking her second kick, caught her foot and threw her back. She backflipped and threw a punch the moment she landed. Cural ducked and ran to his display case. Snatching a knife, he whirled, throwing the knife with precision. To his utter amazement, she caught it.
"You can't defeat me." Conviction amplified her voice.
Cural grabbed and threw two more knives. She waved her hand, and the knives altered course and lodged in the wall. For a full half-minute, Cural froze.
"You're her," he whispered. "You're her! The Sularane. The madwoman who would destroy the world!" Cural's voice rose in pitch, apparently from panic.
"Not destroy!" Praxia threw down the knife she'd caught. "Save! Why do you people insist on twisting the prophecy or seeing equality as evil?"
Her words fell on deaf ears. Cural simply inhaled a choked breath and grabbed at his wall of weapons.
Soldiers burst into the room armed with everything from procured guns to steel rods.
"Stop her!" Cural screamed, then ran for the door, apparently forsaking all his dignity in his terror of the prophecy.
Praxia whirled and waved her arm before her. A spray of bullets bounced off of the air before her, and several soldiers cried out in both pain and fear. The glint of light reflecting off a steel club caught Praxia's eye; she struck out to deflect it. Not only did the club fly from the soldier's hand, but also the woman and the two men beside her flew back into the wall. Through what felt like pure instinct, Praxia circled her arms and hands toward herself and back out at the oncoming soldiers. They flew back and up into the wall and then fell unconscious to the floor.
Praxia stared at the heap of bodies and realized with horror that three were dead—pierced through the head or torso by bullets from the procured guns. Her gaze followed the trail of bodies to the corpse in the doorway. Cural, a bullet through his back.
Now was not the time for shock or horror. Praxia ran to the window and assessed the scene below. Grand Square was consumed with rioting: overturned vehicles, gunfire, stampedes. She had to stop them before the insanity spread and more people died. She had to get to the middle of the riot now—
A lightheaded, dizzying feeling jumbled her scenes. The vision before her smeared, the buildings and streets stretching sideways, then becoming streaks of color. A moment later, the streaks reversed and the scene righted itself, except she was no longer in Cural's office. She was on the street below. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or vomit.
Pride and terror vied for possession of her, but she dismissed them both. A wave of troopers was charging for a cell of rioting civilians. Praxia lowered her chin and glared at the troopers; they flew backwards and were unconscious before they hit the ground. She jerked her head toward a motionless tank and pointed her finger at it. Sparks flew upward from it as she permanently disabled it.
"Praxia!" A teenage boy's voice distracted her. She glanced over her shoulder as a cut and bleeding Spock ran up to her.
. . .
Although he wasn't sure how he'd managed to do so, Spock had picked Praxia out from the mob around him. She looked like a woman possessed, her glare bearing down upon the crowd, and he'd immediately run to her side to find out what was wrong. When he called her name, however, she immediately focused on him and seemed normal again.
"Are you all right?" Praxia grabbed his arms as he reached her.
He started to politely pull away, but her grasp was abnormally strong. She didn't seem to be broadcasting her emotions, so he stopped struggling. "I am fine." He knew he was covered in small cuts across his face, neck, and hands and a phaser burn darkened his shoulder.
Praxia raised one eyebrow.
"I jumped through a window," he explained. "Thought I had a better chance of surviving that way."
"I should like to hear about that later," Praxia said. "As for the moment—"
"Soldiers!" Spock interrupted, realizing two sets of troops were closing on their position.
Praxia let go of Spock's left arm as she whirled to face the danger, but she seemed to forget she still held the other arm. With her right hand she pushed slowly outward, spreading her fingers.
Spock watched with a feeling beyond amazement as time itself ground to a near halt. Sounds warped and plummeted to silence. Praxia moved gracefully in a dance of defense. At what seemed normal speed, she swung her arm to the right. The mass of troops seemed to be hit by a pulse of invisible energy. Slowly their feet left the ground, their faces caught in looks of surprise. A few twisted mid-air like acrobats. Praxia then stepped forward and swung her arm to the left. A slow, powerful wind seemed to pick up the other group of troopers and arch them through the air sideways.
Finally, Praxia took a second step forward and released Spock's arm. Time jolted back to normal; the disorientation knocked Spock off his feet. The graceful, flying soldiers sped up to land unconscious with a normal-time thud. Praxia turned to face the rioting Irideani and clenched her fists at her sides. She squeezed her eyes shut. The wind picked up, whipping her hair about her face. Clouds appeared from nowhere and rushed across the sky. Lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder.
Then Praxia raised her hand and commanded in a voice that seemed to be everywhere at once: "Stop."
Awe and fear descended on those around Spock, and the silence rushed through the streets. An entire city of angry people grew still and quiet.
Not another shot was fired.
VII.
Spock watched from the side of the stage as Praxia faced an ocean of cameras. Once power had been restored to the city and surrounding area, an emergency press conference had been called and the U.S.S. Sakura had been contacted. Spock's parents had transported down and had been reunited with their son; they now occupied a spot in the visitor's balcony.
Praxia, however, had requested that Spock stay closer by. Spock knew she'd had a taxing day: she'd first located and released the President, then used her abilities to help restore power and make the press conference possible. Now, it seemed, Praxia and the President needed to calm a great deal of terrified people.
"The world is not getting ready to end," Praxia calmly informed the cameras, and therefore the planet. She certainly didn't look like some she-demon come to end the world; she looked like an exhausted mortal. "In fact, I would like to present you with a live and well President Syralla." Praxia held out her arm, and the President joined her on the platform.
"First, I would like to assure everyone that everything is back under control." The President had a confident, soothing voice. "There is no cause to panic. General Cural was killed during the attempted coup; all the other generals and their troops have been taken into custody by loyal members of the army, navy, and space fleet. Investigation into the depth of the corruption has already begun. Therefore . . .."
Praxia sneaked off the stage and took Spock's arm. Spock glanced at his parents, but they weren't paying attention. Good enough. He allowed Praxia to pull him into the reception area where a victory party was being organized.
"Why did you leave the platform?" Spock asked as Praxia released him.
"Because my work here is done. Time for me to return to the Temple or perhaps go into hiding." Praxia stole a green cracker from the table spread.
"You mean you are not going to create a new world order now?" Spock would've never admitted to teasing her.
Praxia snorted. "I doubt it. The President and most of the quie seem to be coming to terms with the thought I might be the Sularane. Even Amolla Dania has taken it better than I thought. But the noble letii and some of the ret seem afraid. I may spend the rest of my life defending myself against assassination attempts. We'll see." Praxia ate another cracker in silence. "And maybe the Sularane was never meant to create a new world order in the sense people have believed; maybe she was meant to foster spiritual equality, not political."
Spock nodded. "Although I cannot say I agree with acts of violence, I must admit the quie and their underground rebellion seem to have forged their own destiny politically—or at least, they've begun."
"Indeed." Praxia smiled. "Maybe I need to work on equal access to the Temple and religion. That could mean many things, after all. Most of the quie still can't read, even though slavery was ended long ago, so how can they ponder the KRI for themselves? There's so much to address."
"These sound like wise questions. I imagine the people are in good hands." He cocked his head. "You might also consider working with Federation doctors and scientists who may be able to determine the source of your unusual abilities. If your 'powers' come from your being a racial hybrid, then more people like you may be born in a not too distant future."
Praxia inclined her head. "Possibly. Or perhaps the Supreme Being simply blessed me with a tiny part of divine power for a day so that I might divert a disaster. When I awaken tomorrow, I may be normal once again."
Spock raised an eyebrow in the gesture their species shared.
Praxia chuckled. "I thought you might say that. But yes, I'll consider your suggestion." She paused and watched him intently. "And what about you? Will you be returning to Vulcan now?"
"Yes. We will leave tomorrow morning. My father will return upon request after the political unrest abates, I am sure. But for now, we will leave you to yourselves." Spock hesitated. "I appreciate your . . . friendship. You've given me things to consider."
"As have you. I have benefitted from our friendship as well. I hope very much that I will meet you again someday."
"It is possible." Spock held up his hand in the Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper, Kana Praxia."
Praxia held up her hand, thumb and index finger extended in the Irideani fashion. "May peace and wisdom be yours, Spock."
She started to walk away, then paused. "There is one more thing I'd like to say. It's what I've learned is the lesson for both me and my people."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"
"We cannot deny our own destinies, and as hybrids, no one can truly dictate to us what that means."
Spock nodded, for he had realized that much himself. "Indeed, I will make my own way. I have already begun."
Praxia bowed and left him with his own thoughts.
A father's wishes versus a son's, he thought. I wish to join Starfleet, and there is no prophecy about my fate. Only my own life to live. I must do what I believe is best for my future.
Spock turned and headed back to where his parents mingled with the Irideani, but he did so with a heavy weight in his chest. Would his father be able to accept his decision? Would Spock be able achieve true communication with this man he respected so?
Time would shortly tell.
A/N: Thank you to isadax, Karen, Firewolfe, Darkhelmetj, Gunmage, Istoc, and Conscience's Coward!
