July 13, 2017

Author's note: I've finally got time (sort of) to come back to this story. I'm starting with editing what's already here. I'll finish the story before I post more chapters. The prologue introduces OCs ... but it's up to Riker and Troi to work out what the story is. Original story notes at the bottom.

Spoilers: Takes place just before Insurrection and references events from Imzadi, Triangle: Imzadi II and The Battle of Betazed.

Warning: Contains karaoke. Sort of.


Stars Like a River


Dedicated to anyone else amused (or insulted :) by the incredibly pat way Troi and Riker ultimately patch things up on screen.

The Highwayman (Prologue)

She concluded - after an hour - waiting for Yoko Ono's phone to ring was as pointless as hoping David would walk through her apartment door that evening and surprise her with flowers. Surprise her with marmite. Surprise her with life.

Bastard.

But it wasn't David doing the surprising today. She barely noticed the rumbling cough behind her until the cushioned seat she was sitting on puffed up when a greater weight sank next to her.

Even so she ignored the newcomer. She heard the oh-so-contraband crinkle of a cellophane packet, chewing, then more crinkling. Eventually, the crinkling became scrunching and she assumed the chocolate bar had been consumed.

She started at the deep, rich voice when it broke the silence.

"Once, I sat here for three and a half hours."

Her head didn't move. She kept staring ahead.

"I didn't want to leave when they started closing up," the voice continued. "I tried to reason with them - what if Yoko's forgotten the time difference between Japan and New York, I asked. What if she meant to ring and got delayed? What if the phone starts ringing just as we exit the gallery? Wouldn't she want someone - a fan - to be there?"

For a nasty second black spots swam across her eyes and she had to put a hand down to keep her head from spinning away. She shivered, feeling exposed.

For the first time since arriving at the museum, her attention was torn from the recess in the corner where the old-fashioned cream dial up telephone - Yoko Ono's phone to the adoring public - was set. She turned.

The voice belonged to a man, a large, shabby man. Even seated, he loomed over her.

Despite the reasonable weather and relative warmth of the building, a long brown coat covered him up to the collar under his ears. A button hung on a thread, and a tweed cap was crammed onto his head. It did nothing to tame a mess of wild salt and pepper curls, rioting underneath. From top to bottom, including a chunky pair of hiking boats to the man himself, looked freshly filched from a trash can.

As if her meanness was splashed across her face, she winced and rushed to appease her guilt.

"Did they let you stay?"

He laughed.

"In this country?"

She couldn't place his accent, but something in his posture, shoulders slumped forward, hand on chin, and a morose expression on his scruffy, unshaven face, made her think of a sad Russian performing bear.

"I was so certain …"

When he didn't finish, she turned back to the phone, its powerful compulsion at work again.

"Why shouldn't I be the lucky one?" she said. "That's what I think. I could just walk out this room and if it rang someone else would get all the luck. But if I just sit here and bide my time and pay my dues, couldn't fate reward me with this one thing to make up for everything else ..."

Too late she realized how melodramatic she must have sounded. A brick wall would have been handy just then.

As though he never heard her the Russian bear carried on. "I was so certain … I couldn't work out what went wrong - why she didn't call."

She searched for something to say.

"I should have been paying more attention," he said with a shake of his head.

She looked at him.

"Why? What happened?"

"I had my days wrong."

He looked her directly in the eyes. "She'd rung the day before."

"Oh."

Talk dried up. The young woman stole sideways glances at the man while he leaned over his knees to stare at his fraying bootlaces. Around the room individuals and couples drifted from artifact to artifact. White and full of geometric shapes, the room was as much an art piece as the exhibits on display.

Briefly the phone was forgotten as she let the music wash over her. She imagined that there was no heaven, no hell below us, above us only sky.

The man lurched, rocking her on the seat as the cushion rolled.

"Do you have time for lunch?"

Without thought she glanced at her wrist. "It's 3pm."

"A drink, then. Tea and scones in the café. You can tell me why you think a call from Yoko Ono is going to make up for the tragedy that is the rest of your life."

"But what if the ..." She gestured to the object of torment, which was now concealed by a group of tourists.

He shook his head.

"Not today … I just know," he said, putting his hands up, anticipating the obvious question.

She sighed. "I suppose it is a bit pathetic."

"Come, then. The John Lennon Museum has taken up enough of your time today, I'd say. What do you think? Tea? Coffee?"

She stared at him, wondering why alarm bells were not sounding. Hands sunk deep in pockets, coat pulled up under his chin, he wasn't exuding an air of trustability.

But there was something else in his face - a seriousness and intelligence, and a warmth, which she felt compelled to respond to.

He could have been someone's uncared-for uncle. Her heart ached.

Besides, he was the first person she had had a real conversation with in days.

And, he had smiled at her.

Banishing her last doubts she smiled.

"I think we can do better than crap coffee and burnt scones."

Ten minutes later she had led him away from the station plaza to a tiny izakaya, a small dilapidated building nestled impossibly between two five-storied affairs, pachinko and karaoke parlors, respectively.

Small, dark and decorated with traditional posters of scary, sharp-nosed aristocrats, Kitanoya was a firm favorite with an older set of Japanese. The paper corners of the posters had yellowed and cracked around their pins. A group of suited men sat on cushions around a low table on a platform off to one side. Uniform black shoes had been neatly arranged on the floor next to them; jackets lay cast aside and behind, and beer flowed freely at the table. Smoke hung suspended in a cloud around their eyebrows.

They elicited a few open stares as they took bar stalls at the counter which ran the length of the room, opposite the platform. At the farthest end of the bar was a tiny stage with a TV on a stand.

It was a mystery why the izakaya had its own karaoke machine when Karaoke Kan obviously did such a bustling trade. Clientèle probably made all the difference, the young woman mused, as she took in the bar. Enka probably wasn't as big with the bright young things who milled around next door as it was with the older generation who frequented slightly crusty izakaya. Actually, enka wasn't that big with her either - too much nasal warbling - but it set the scene for her tale.

Because, before she had even ordered her first beer, she had decided she was going to tell her tale.

So she did.

Two frothy beers later she and her new friend contemplated the bowls of edamame husks that were yet to be removed from the counter. He had listened quietly, eyebrow shooting up or shaking his head in appropriate places.

"So, here you are," he said.

"Yep." She poked one of the bowls, sliding it back and forth. Now that it was out - that she'd finally put words to the events - she wondered how it had sounded to the stranger.

"I wish I knew the right thing to say ... but I have to admit in all my travels I've never encountered a situation as-"

"Ridiculous? Tragically humorous?"

"Perhaps, 'needless' - if I am to be honest. If I ever run into this David of yours, I shall make it a priority to tell him exactly what I think of his antics."

She smiled and gulped back an unladylike burp.

"You don't listen too well, do you? In the realms of possibility, I'd say your chances of ever running into my partner are up there with the moon being made of cheese and humans propelling themselves as fast as the speed of light."

"A fifty percent chance then."

She stole a suspicious look at him but his face remained straight. Oblivious.

He didn't wait to let her go on. "Your job sounds glamorous - a lounge singer, eh?"

She shrugged. "It's a step sideways from hostessing. I suppose I could make more teaching."

"Why don't you?"

She paused, studying her fingers against the glossy stained wood of the counter.

"Never really considered it ... I don't really fit in with that sort of crowd."

He reached for a tooth pick. "Say the phone had rung."

She froze.

"Say you did answer it, and there was Yoko Ono on the other end. What would you have said?"

She relaxed.

"Naturally, I've wondered about that.

"D'you know something? I have absolutely no idea. I mean, what can you really say? Hi, how are you? Omigod. I can't believe this is really happening. What's the weather like in New York? How's Sean ..."

She ran out of breath and questions.

"Truthfully, I wasn't waiting out of some desperate desire to talk to John Lennon's widow. I just wanted to be somewhere at the right time and in the right place for once. I wanted something good and special to happen to me."

The background enka was cut off mid-flourish as a patron, a wiry, bespectacled salariman, took to the tiny stage. Other patrons clapped and called as the man said something and did a little bow. He keyed a number into the machine's remote.

The big stranger gave no sign he was taking any notice.

"I suspect I've got nothing better to ask her either. Maybe the phone didn't ring for us because we weren't the right people to take the call."

She frowned.

"If that were true, imagine if you were the person with the right question and not-"

The first notes of the karaoke man's song began. Recognizing the melody she stopped.

The salariman screwed up his face and started singing with more passion than talent.

At last the stranger swivelled round to pay attention. He leaned on the bar to watch the show.

On the final note, the singer bowed again while his companions applauded him.

The woman clapped too.

"It's such a beautiful song. I always try to imagine what it all means. Hito wa, nagarete dokodoko you ku no, hana o sakasoyo."

"Why don't you just ask?"

"Oh, no," she said as he reached around, preparing to accost a local for translation.

"No, it's something I try to imagine - I don't need to know.

"Sometimes I hear a song in another language, and I think how fabulous. I don't know what it's saying but I bet its got some beautiful, sublime meaning. And then I check the web for a translation and discover the words are just as trite as any shite canned Western pop song. So disappointing. Sometimes it's just better to stick with your own imaginings."

They slipped into another uncertain silence.

A slim song book had been left on the bar stall next to her. She picked it up and thumbed through it.

"Fancy a turn," she joked, breaking the levity.

His bushy eyebrows went up.

"I doubt they'd have anything I can sing in there."

She nodded.

"Most of it's fairly traditional stuff, I think - the English section's limited to Elvis and the Beatles pretty much."

He considered it. "Maybe not. None of those books ever have the songs I really want to sing, anyway."

"What would you sing?"

"Oh, plenty of stuff you've probably never heard of."

"Oh, really? I don't know whether to be offended by that or not. Singing, after all, is how I choose to make my living - no mean feat in this town, too, I should add."

He made a contrite face.

"Well, honestly - and this is embarrassing - I never really know the names to half the songs I like; I just remember certain lyrics."

"Try me."

"Umm, okay - but I'm not singing them." He did a sort of grimace, paused and despite his lack of enthusiasm about singing, launched half-heartedly into his first selection.

"Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak-"

She snorted.

"Cheek to Cheek. Next - and could you sing it with less monotone, please."

He chuckled and thought briefly. "How about I was a spaceman, I fly a starship cross the universe divide and when I reach the other side…I don't know the rest of it."

His confidence had risen as had his voice. The party of salarimen were looking up curiously. She could imagine their thoughts. Is the hairy gaijin going to perform?

She repeated his words, tapping her fingers as she did. She flashed him a smile. "The Highway Man."

"Stars flow like a river, carry me to you."

Her eyes went wide, her mouth pursed. He had stumped her. She couldn't deny it.

"No - you got me there. Can you remember anymore?"

He shook his head, and she grimaced.

"That one seems irritatingly familiar."

He shrugged, then brightened.

"There's this one song - it's special to me, sort of reminds me who I was and who I no longer am. I long to see the other side of things, hung on a bridge in search of something big-"

"I can't look down, I-I can only retreat. Who knows one day I'll dive into the sea," they ended together, ignoring the good-natured clapping that had erupted from the business party.

She grinned.

"I can't believe you know that song." Her face dropped. "David loved it - it was one of his favorites."

Bitterness crept into her voice. "So much for better the devil you know."

She fell silent again. As if sensing her mood, the man did not offer anymore song suggestions. He hadn't finished with the subject though.

"I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for that song."

He paused until she looked up.

"I realize we've only just met - you didn't ask my name, and I do not know yours - but I know I can offer you something ... something much better, much more special than a call from Yoko Ono."

She looked at him, bemused. Her gave a little shake of her head, her eyes holding a wild eagerness.

"There's only one thing I want …"

He nodded.

"David?"

"You have to understand, you'd have to trust me." There was warning in his voice. "There would be no going back and I can't explain how I will do it - not straightaway. I shouldn't even be offering you this. You can't know how many rules - some of my own making - I am violating."

For a moment, her face telegraphed her hope, but she forced herself to reign it in: to exercise caution. A caginess she hadn't felt all afternoon popped up. And confusion.

And anger.

"This is stupid. Why would you say something like that?" She reached down for her bag, nearly toppling off the stall in her haste "Who are you? What could you possibly hope to gain by this?"

The big man reached for her arm but not roughly.

"I can't make a full promise you'll see him ... but I can give you a fighting chance. You don't have that now.

"Believe me. Listen! The phone is ringing. This call's for you and there are only two ways you can answer it."

Hope battled fear. He watched the war play out in her eyes.

She swallowed slowly.


Note: Once upon a time readers could measure their education by how many sly (and not so) classical references they could identify and understand in a text. Sadly, I haven't read half as much as I should, so sorry, no literary bread crumb trail for you follow. Much as I want to believe in a world where people are still inspired by the promise of a mystery which requires a little research to reveal and revel in, I can not rightly claim the brilliance of others as my own and would not want any artist to go unacknowledged. Full song titles and credits will accompany each chapter. These artists have certainly enriched the characters' lives; maybe there's something here you might like, too. There's still something to be said for being sly, though…

Youtube's got most of these if you're looking for a way to while away some time.

Imagine, John Lennon
Hana, Sachiko Kumagai
Cheek to Cheek, Irving Berlin
The Highway Man, Jimmy Webb
The Devil You Know, Neil Finn


Original blurb: When her boyfriend ends his life, musician Liz Clark is devastated - until a chance meeting with a dubious exporter sets her on a collision course with a ship called the Enterprise. As her journey across time and space leads her closer to her heart's desire, her tale of love, loss and music slowly unravels. But when things turn deadly, Liz's plight draws Commanders William Riker and Deanna Troi into danger, which may not just kill any chance they have for a future together, but leave them apart forever.

Author's Note: I got sick of waiting for somebody else to write the story I wanted to read. Mary Sues, time travel, really, really gratuitous song refs, characters afflicted with painful, torturous nightmares – if that's your sort of thing, hope reading it gives you as much enjoyment as I'm having writing it.

Disclaimer: This story is written, respectfully and thankfully, but without the blessing of the official Star Trek brand owners. It is not done for pecuniary gain and is humbly offered in the spirit of an homage to the work of those who inspired it. An extra special doff of the chapeau goes to Peter David, without whose seminal work Imzadi, Stars would never have been conceived.