Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?
"Just in time, Number One." Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked up from the replicator. "Drink?"
The first officer shook his head, stepping gingerly over a large earthen amphora as he entered the room. Riker chose not to comment on the mess of pots, baskets and primitive knives and tools on the floor.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
Picard settled in his chair, lifted the cup and inhaled. Then he peered over its rim at his first officer. Riker stood stiffly, with his arms behind his back. There was none of the animation in his face Picard was used to seeing when the first officer was in good spirits. Not a happy Riker, then.
Picard took a sip of his tea, sure he could pinpoint the source of Riker's seriousness. "More transfer requests?"
The officer's stance relaxed.
"No, sir. I think I've come up with a solution to that particular problem."
Picard contained his surprise – not at his officer's abilities, of which he had supreme confidence – but that his guess had been off. His curiosity would have to wait; Picard knew if there was a problem with the ship, Riker wouldn't hesitate to tell him, so whatever the problem was, it was most likely personal – and the captain considered prying beneath him.
"Well, I have news which might raise a few spirits," Picard said. "We're about to receive some additional duties on this mission. Duties that ought to mollify certain crew members."
"Unless you're going to tell me the Cardassians have taken up pacifism, I don't believe anything else we do on this mission will impact how people feel about it."
"Oh, ye of little faith, Number One," Picard said, but with none of the light-heartedness that had marked his welcome.
Riker didn't miss the implication. "Something's happened. What?"
"A civilian vessel heading to Ark11 has disappeared. Last contact with the Bounty was sixty hours ago – a routine subspace message originating from its plotted course. It failed to arrive at its next port twenty-hours ago and is not responding to hails."
"There've been no reports of warships in this area of the quadrant," Riker said. "Are there any leads?"
Picard shook his head.
"No distress signal, no personal communications, nothing. The vessel is a private trading and transport ship. The shipping manifest listed fifteen, mostly humanoid crew, on board at its last port of call."
"And there's no possibility the crew has simply plotted a new course?"
"It's unlikely. The ship was delivering valuable cargo for exhibitors at the gala. I don't know many honest traders willing to put their professional reputations at risk by upsetting respected clients."
"What do we know about these traders?" Riker asked.
"The information we have at the moment is preliminary. I'm expecting a more complete dossier but we won't be able to make a start on the investigation until we have dealt with one other concern."
Riker wondered what could take precedence over an investigation of this nature.
"A sector-wide warning has been issued to all vessels. A number of private transporters with passengers bound for Ark11 have expressed concerns. A number of these passengers are academics or have status and official positions on their home worlds."
"And it would be disastrous if the opening of Ark11 was marred by the disappearance of the ambassador of, say, Betazed," Riker said.
Picard's eyebrow shot up at the example.
"Quite," he said. "A moratorium on ships without suitable defense systems has been declared in this sector. That won't affect the larger transporters, but several smaller ones in our vicinity can not proceed to Ark11. The Enterprise, therefore, is to extend welcome and safe passage to anyone who desires it. This mission has become, literally now, about making people feel safe in their universe again."
He sipped from the cup before continuing. "The Enterprise is to head to a rendezvous point at Starbase 313, where it is scheduled to pick up passengers from at least nine transporters following this course to Ark11."
"And you want me to...?"
"Play host, for the time being, until we have more to go on in this investigation." Picard smiled. "I think you might like the first group we are scheduled to meet. Somehow I think you'll find plenty to talk about. They're musicians."
Picard watched the tall man exit the room with renewed vim, pleased he had been able to effect a change.
Satisfied, he reached for his cup and leaned back in his chair. The contents of the cup were long gone. Gone and not savored, Picard thought – as though Riker's moroseness had jumped ship to a new victim.
He surveyed the unsorted collection of artifacts on the floor before him. The task of having them all labeled and arranged in time for his lecture was daunting enough without factoring in the management of Starfleet's most prized vessel.
As much as he would have enjoyed the task he assigned his first officer – being a keen (though average) musician himself – the preparation he still had to do for his conference on Ark11 left him little time for additional distractions.
"Computer, music. Something to match the mood."
"Request mood clarification."
"Uplifting melancholy?"
It was a game Picard had been playing with the computer for some time. Teaming incompatible emotions and asking the computer to supply music to fit the quixotic combinations.
It had, in the past, steered him in some unexpected musical directions. This one shouldn't tax the computer unduly, Picard mused.
Melancholic, for his first officer's downcast demeanor; uplifting, because Picard himself certainly didn't want to stay feeling depressed for too long – not when he had an hour-long lecture to prepare.
Without preamble music filled the room. Picard listened to the computer's interpretation of his request, which, disappointingly this time, seemed only to express melancholy.
"Why, indeed, Mr Riker, does your heart feel so bad?" Picard murmured, taking in the song's opening lament, as he started rechecking his notes. The song must have been some variety of historic synthpop; not a genre or time period he was at all keen on.
Just as he was about to request a new song, the musical key changed from minor fall to glorious major lift. Picard grinned.
"Oh, well done, computer. You win again. Very uplifting."
The computer knew not to answer.
"So once a hymn is started, it can not be stopped. It simply must be sung to the end. Running out of time is no excuse–"
"Really? Fascinating," Riker murmured through gritted teeth, hoping the sarcasm was not apparent to his guests.
When Picard had first assigned him this duty he had been relieved. Relieved to have an investigation to sink his energy into. Relieved that Picard hadn't set him up for an evening with Zakdorn nuns or Grazer toe dancers. It was difficult to be certain with the captain's occasionally peculiar sense of humor.
But, musicians. He could usually find something to talk about with musicians of any species or planet. He might not like all the music he heard, but there was more to music than facile aural pleasure.
The chance to focus on other people, perhaps to learn something new about an area of his life that didn't center around work or her was an unexpected gift.
"But, of course, no kirtan is allowed during Akhand Path." Riker's companion continued his monologue, absorbed in his topic, as the first officer led the group to their quarters.
The happy task was not turning out as Riker had expected. Firstly, not everyone in the Dunedin party was a musician. Some were academics instead. And Riker's belief that he could enjoy talking about music with anyone was being tested.
He had had to hastily re-evaluate his own personal beliefs. Musicians – yes, even Klingon opera composers – he could tolerate on an almost indefatigable basis.
But, and he would take pains to point this out to Captain Picard, there was a not inconsiderable difference between musicians and ethnomusicologists. Or social musicologists. Or whatever they wanted to call themselves.
At the moment, his ire was (inwardly) directed at the small, unkempt man walking beside him.
Dr Rodney Montgomery, comparative Terran sacred music musicologist specializing in the development of musical expressions in the Sikh religion in the 16th century, had latched on to Riker like a dog on a bone, leaving the officer little time for anyone else.
The doctor monopolized Riker's time, even as the officer dropped off passengers at their quarters one by one.
"Naturally, I'd love to give you an example." Dr Montgomery was chuckling. "But you can see once I start I wouldn't be able to stop until–"
A larger man moved from the back of the group and put his hand on the doctor's shoulder.
"I'm sure the crew of this fine ship would all like an opportunity to hear your theories about kirtan, Monty. You'll have plenty of time to prepare something – a lecture perhaps," the big man looked at Riker who gave a nod. "And a suitable venue to deliver the talk."
"There are people on this ship who would welcome the chance to hear you talk," Riker said, skirting around the fact he still couldn't work out what the doctor's subject was.
Thankfully they had arrived at the doctor's cabin.
"You should find this room comfortable enough to plan your presentation, and, of course, if anything is lacking, just let me know," Riker said, ushering the doctor through the door.
The big man stepped in beside Riker once the door had closed on Dr Montgomery.
The other guests – six altogether – seemed content to trail along as they moved on to the next cabin.
"I do apologize for Monty," the man said. "He's very driven and single-minded when he's fixated on a particular topic."
"Qualities that probably make him a superb scholar, I bet."
"Undoubtedly," the man agreed. "The name's Sudamen, by the way."
Introductions had been hasty as Riker had herded the guests from the transporter room. The doctor's group had been one of four to come on board. Riker appreciated the stranger's unaffected manner. He had honed his skills when it came to remembering names and faces, but he appreciated the fact the man wasn't too proud to assume he was unforgettable.
The large man was from Caldos, but his accent was not the typical Scots brogue Riker associated with that planet. Sudamen was the group's delegation head. The members of his party were representatives of the Dunedin Institute, an educational establishment which focused on Terran-influenced music in the Federation.
"Organization and appreciation," Sudamen said with a twinkle in his eyes when Riker asked what his specialty was. "I'm in charge of getting this lot safely to Ark11, since the institute has doubts about their ability to direct themselves.
"For some reason, the institute wants to see that half of these jokers make it back fairly intact – they weren't too fussy on just how intact – that's the organization bit. And they all tend to get a wee bit sulky if they don't get daily doses of praise and admiration – that's where the appreciation comes in."
Someone spluttered and Sudamen grinned.
"They're a tetchy bunch, commander. They'll probably need sequestering the entire journey. Well, perhaps just Monty," he conceded at a protest.
At least they were friendly, Riker decided, as one-by-one he dropped the men and women off at their cabins.
No one particularly stood out and except for Dr Montgomery and Sudamen, none had vied for a conversation with the officer. Instead, the scholars had followed Riker, speaking sotto voce among themselves.
Their ages and interests were varied. The musical periods they studied were diverse and not even closely convergent.
In addition to Dr Montgomery, there was a 22nd century retorq expert; a Byzantine Era specialist; a post-first contact lecturer (with particular interest in Vulcan influences on Northern Hemisphere colonial folk songs); a modern period comparative musicks grad student (Riker was embarrassed to realize he was no longer au courant with what passed muster with today's youth); a millennial anthropologist and a Baroque/Classical period musicologist.
With all that variety, perhaps chaperoning them wouldn't be so bad – as long as he avoided Dr Montgomery. Picard might actually regret not having more to do with them, he thought; on the face of it, they seemed more his cup of tea.
Finally, just Sudamen and one other guest remained – he couldn't remember her specialty. Riker stopped at two doors on either side of the corridor.
"These are your quarters. I'll arrange for your group to be given a tour of the ship after you have had time to freshen."
"Thank you." The big man glanced around him, his good-natured smile replaced with a look of concern. "Commander, this ship that's gone missing – Starfleet doesn't really think there's a greater threat in the area, does it? This moratorium is just playing it safe, right?"
"The fleet takes any threat to Federation members seriously. Until it can be established what happened to the Bounty, we prefer not to take any chances."
Sudamen nodded and shook the first officer's hand. His companion, a pretty young woman, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange, hung back.
Riker had noticed her looking at the ship and its crew as they had walked to the quarters section. Her eyes had been wide and her cheeks sucked in, as though she were biting on them. She had done a good job of not dropping her jaw in awe. Come to think of it, she had stuck rather close to Sudamen, he realized.
"If you need any help with anything," Riker said, hoping to put her at ease, "don't hesitate to contact me."
Her hand swept a long strand of loose dark curls behind an ear. She paused, visibly steeling herself to speak further.
"I wonder if there is a music room that can be made available for me to practice?"
"Absolutely," Riker said. "I must have misunderstood. I wasn't aware any of you were performing at the gala."
"Oh, there'll be an element of performance in everyone's presentations, but Lark's been honored with a small part in one of the lesser Terran ceremonies," Sudamen said.
The woman reddened. "Just a small part."
Riker thought she might stop there, but she had more to say.
"As much as the period is reviled for its excesses, millennial culture seems to fascinate some people. I don't like to talk about the subject unless people have experienced it as authentically as possible."
"Therefore, she always starts with a concert." Sudamen had a soft spot for this woman. "It's quite an honor for the institute."
"Well deserved, I'm sure," Riker said.
"It's absurd, we know, but when it comes to our shared heritage with Terrans today, we often feel like the poor cousin everybody tolerates," Sudamen said. "Oh, of course, we've gone in our own direction, and our modern cultures are respected. But Lark here, in her tiny field, is equal to any earth-born millennial scholar – in fact, I've seen Terrans who've spent their entire careers studying the period defer to her judgment. But the talent she deserves the most recognition for is her ability to teach the subject. Good lord! Students line up hours ahead of her lectures just to get a seat."
The woman, Lark, shook her head, smiling. "You're too prone to exaggeration, Sudamen."
She turned to Riker.
"Concerts are the best way I have to share what I know. I like to involve everyone in the process. Whether it's playing with me and singing or just being there. It's not always that easy – I find breaking down perceptions surrounding older music the most frustrating part. Once people accept the idea that the millennial generation had something valid to say, and very eloquent, beautiful imaginative ways of expressing themselves, they get past some of the ugliness of the age. It's really not the music which people react so strongly to anyway – more the other things for which that particular time is known."
"I'm not completely familiar with millennial music," Riker admitted. "I find more to enjoy in some of the earlier musical movements of that century – jazz in its infancy."
"Ah, yes, but ... I tend to favor the Dublin definition of the millennial age, which doesn't wholly preclude early jazz movements."
She must have seen his look of confusion. "The Dublin set decided the age really started when people in the twentieth century began to demonstrate a wider awareness of the approaching Year 2000, so the millennial age falls two decades on either side of 2000. Of course, I favor it because it means I get to study periods of culture which wouldn't fall into the pathetically specific general Sorbonne theory of millennialism."
Riker shifted on his feet. "Right."
"Are you a musician, Mr …"
"I'm sure the commander is very busy, Lark–"
"Riker. Please – call me Will. And, yes – I've been known to play … but not at a professional level."
"Well, Will, I am Lark and jazz is not my forte, but I'd be honored if you wanted to join me at a practice. Perhaps there's something I can learn from you? And maybe, I can introduce you to something new."
She was pretty and shy and friendly. And just as passionate about her area of expertise as Dr Monty. And young, surprisingly young to be so respected. Riker was intrigued.
"If any of your crew want to join me, I'd welcome them," she said, oblivious to where Riker's thoughts were straying.
"And … if it doesn't interfere with the running of this ship, I'd love the chance to entertain people with a concert."
Perhaps she was hesitant because she doubted the response would be a positive one. "It would be a good opportunity for a dress rehearsal."
"I can't foresee any problems arranging that," Riker said, wondering if the crew would welcome or resent the offer.
The millennial period was, as she had said, reviled for its excesses. Much of the music from the period epitomized shallowness and vanity and waste.
It had been a time of mass production values, focused on the bottom line and the drive to amass money – talent meant having "the package" which was more focused on aesthetic appeal than real ability (Riker remembered this critique from one of the few texts he had read about the period).
It wouldn't be compulsory. People would make their own minds about attending. Riker was willing to join her at practice though, simply to get to know her better.
Nothing in his conscience prickled. At least, that's what he told himself.
Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? by Moby
