White Flag
Dessert – amazingly – was right where she had left it. Only now it was a mottled brown, goopy soup. Not the scrumptious pyramid of chocolate drizzled ice cream she had ordered an hour ago. It took Deanna Troi several seconds to decide if the dish still looked appealing.
"At what point did it lose its power to captivate me?" she lamented, hands on hips, as a waiter approached.
"Alas," the waiter said, peering down at the bowl. "Brought forth in spirit of anticipation, destined only to join the leftover meatloaf and X'tulian stew in the ship's regurgita – oops, I mean recycler."
He gave her a swift and cheeky grin. "Unless you had other plans for a more fitting disposal–"
He broke off when he saw her glare. Plenty of people had peculiar food foibles – it confused Troi why hers in particular should be singled out for ship-wide amusement.
"I'll just leave you to it then, Counselor." The young waiter backed away. "Business may have gone light for the night, but it's just me so ..."
Troi did a double take. Except for the waiter, herself, and two Andoran officers, Ten Forward was empty. If all her senses had been available to her, she would have immediately registered it. Numbed, she had to draw on her simpler abilities. The room was empty. There were signs, however, it had been occupied – used glasses and plates on tables throughout the room lay waiting for collection.
"Where did everyone go?"
The Andorans were bent over their glasses deep in conversation. One nodded when she caught his eye then returned his attention to his companion. She guessed the topic of their conversation to be something serious, relying on their stiff postures and somber expressions to form her judgment.
"Don't you know?" the waiter answered. "Just about everyone on board – including half our staff – has gone mad about some traveling earth history specialist. She's giving a lecture or something tonight."
"You didn't want to go?"
"Heck, no." He shuddered. "Just the memory of it ... I spent years trying to avoid history classes at school – I'm not gonna willingly subject myself to further torture."
Troi smothered a smile, resisting a comment about youth – and – there it was: sense. His light heart, his stubbornness, his need to be liked and accepted. She knew what the young man was feeling. The realization unsteadied her and she put a hand out for balance.
The waiter didn't notice. He was already turning to leave. Adrenaline flooded her. Her heart racing, she backed into a chair. She wanted to scream for joy, relief, and several days of pent up stress.
But her elation was short-lived.
She closed her eyes to focus on the feelings of the officers on the other side of the room – and found herself in the same black space she'd been in since the attack in the corridor. She felt nothing – as though she was sitting alone in a cold, dank and lightless room.
Determined to focus on the positives, she forced herself to sit still, re-assessing what had just happened.
She and the waiter had been talking, and then suddenly, the connection had opened. Did talking trigger it?
The waiter had disappeared behind a counter. She tried to find him in her mind. With a little mental pushing – her forehead dampened at the exertion – she found a faint tingle of youthful emotion. He was there – a pinprick of light in the dark space.
The Andorans were still blank to her. She considered interrupting their conversation, but the intent on their faces hadn't changed and she concluded they wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. Instead, she concentrated on her one beacon of hope – the flickering sense of the waiter as he went about his duties.
As she sat, half-remembered images started to stir in her mind. She knew the memories were there – like tiny fish darting just below the surface of a pond. Almost visible if one knew where to look, but then moving too quickly for the eye to catch. She willed them to still and rise closer to the surface.
A voice startled her out of the trance.
She looked up to see Captain Picard, keeping the frustration from her face. She could see him, she could hear him, but she had no sense of him.
"Counselor?" Picard asked again.
"Captain," she acknowledged, indicating he should pull up a chair if he wished.
He smiled as he did so. With a casual glance about the room, he said, "Looks like I picked the wrong night to do a little socializing."
"You're welcome to join my party," Troi replied.
"What are we celebrating?"
She weighed up whether to tell him, then decided it couldn't hurt.
"For the briefest of seconds I felt like my old self just a moment or two ago."
Her grip tightened as she waited to feel anything from her captain. Surely, if her sense was returning, a friend's feelings should be easily picked up. There was nothing.
He must have seen the disappointment in her face.
"Beverly is confident things will be back to normal in a matter of days, Deanna. What gave you the impression you were on the road to recovery?"
She laughed it off. "I know it'll come back, Captain. Will was never gone, at least. My sense is just being selective. Moments ago I was talking to a waiter and, suddenly, there it was – his emotions. I can still sense him – he's feeling quite pleased with himself tonight – but for all I feel, other than Will, he might be the only person in the universe. I did wonder if talking might trigger the ability, but since I've been talking to you nothing seems to be happening. It's odd."
Picard leaned back. "I can only imagine how frustrated you must feel."
"Even more so, now that I know it's nearly back," she admitted. "You know, before you came in, I felt I was on the verge of remembering a bit more about the attack – or at least why I was where I was."
"Oh?"
"Alas," she said, with mock tragedy. "Whatever was verging has retreated. Perhaps all it needs is more sleep."
"Would you settle for the comforting presence of an old friend who can finally resurface after completing the rough copy of his eagerly anticipated speech on prehistoric Metexilan agricultural and hunting techniques?"
"Always," she said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say my other so-called old friends had abandoned me."
Picard glanced around the nearly empty room.
"Counselor, is something going on I don't know about?"
She grinned. "If I tell, you won't ditch me?"
"I make no promises."
"One of our guests has made an impression on the crew. I thought Beverly was free of it, but I suspect even she's succumbed."
Picard still looked confused.
"A sudden craze for Terran millennial music has swept the Enterprise, Captain," she said.
"A certain Caldosan musical specialist is, as we speak, no doubt introducing a new generation to the wonders of–" Here, she stumbled. "Actually, I don't know much about the specifics of music from that era – but you can understand what I mean."
"And all the crew are interested?"
"Most of the Terrans, at least," she said. "I don't know what she does – some kind of hybrid lecture-workshop thing – but apparently it involves audience participation."
The captain paused to consider the explanation.
"Well, if it's alright with you, Counselor – provided you have no plans to expand your repertoire of gangland hopscotch – I'll stay right here for as long as you want the company of a friend."
She laughed. "Gangland what?"
Riker's assumption about the Caldosan group leader was on the mark. He spotted the man seated at the front of the auditorium as soon as he and Dr Crusher entered.
The theater was filling quickly and Sudamen was surrounded with other members of the Dunedin Institute party. There was no chance to sit near him. Finding any free seat would be difficult, Riker realized as Beverly pulled him up the steps to the back.
The room was humming. A bright and catchy song about "poor old Johnny Ray" sounding "sad upon the radio" fed the mood.
The popularity of the event amused Riker. Crazes were not unheard of on starships – in fact, it was normal for ships to experience them. Health practitioners argued they provided vital stimulation – within reason.
It was the speed of this one which was breathtaking.
Who could have predicted this?
In the crew of the Enterprise, Lark had found a perfect audience.
The music spoke of turbulent years and strong emotions. There was something for everyone, and it transcended time. It was the perfect outlet for the powerful feelings the Enterprise's crew had been hiding under a rigid veneer of discipline and regiment.
Somehow Lark had tapped into a source, which being old, was actually new to many of the crew now encountering it.
Riker was intrigued but considered himself immune to the craze. He rated his knowledge of 20th and 21st century music, and he was a fair musician with more than a passing interest in early jazz masters. Lark's effective lecturing blasted away that belief.
And he had to admit her passion for the subject was infectious.
Riker stowed his trombone next to his chair and looked around again. Lark was talking with a group of musicians off to the side of the raised stage. Sudamen sat with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, but a grin sent Lark's way suggested his posture was an act.
Riker wondered what to make of Sudamen's gruff exterior. He was always polite – even jocular – but his posture didn't encourage conversation.
Not for the first time, Riker wished Troi was here.
No use wishing for what you can't have.
"Quite the gathering, isn't it?" murmured Doctor Crusher.
The background music softened and Lark took to a small podium.
"It's really exciting to see so many people here tonight," Lark said. "I'm always warned people don't want to hear about the millennial age. That it's just not cool enough. Or sophisticated enough."
People in the row in front of Riker were nodding. She was easy to listen to. Her style belied the control she was exerting over the audience.
Lark, Riker realized, posed some enigmatic quandaries of her own. Shy with some people; supremely posed in front of others.
"My own mother was horrified when I dropped my classical retorque studies in favor of the millennium. She told me not to come home. She relented – as good people do. Her reaction was the knee-jerk response parents have when they're worried their kids are about to do something really, really stupid."
Riker had an inkling where Lark was directing the topic.
"My mother tried hard to understand me, so I tried to help her understand what I liked about the millennial age. I guess I was lucky – she was a reluctant student, but she was a good one. I challenged her to learn one song. 'Learn one song, Mother,' I said. To my surprise, she did. A song I'd never even heard before by an artist I'd never heard of. A beautiful song called The Ocean. She was so chuffed she'd found a song she liked – and it was one I didn't know."
Riker didn't recognize the title.
"She never told anyone what she was doing. As I said, no one likes hearing about music from the millennium period. But one evening we had guests over. I guess they weren't keen on my field of study, and they let me know about it. I wasn't worried – you get used to it. But my mother got wilder and wilder as the evening went on, insulted on my behalf. At last she could take it no more; she got out her violin and asked me to play guitar along with her. And that's when it happened. Out of nowhere this glorious fiddle began to soar and our guests spent the rest of the evening asking how they could experience more.
"That's when I became interested in teaching the topic. Now, there's a wealth of songs to be rediscovered, unearthed, dusted off and played again."
Lark grinned.
"How about that task, hey? Anyone have any trouble with that one?"
A few hands halfheartedly rose and more than a few muttered murmurings traveled the room.
Lark spent the next hour going over some of the songs suggested. She talked about the instruments used in studio recordings versus live sounds, about the musicians, their lives, their views; politics was considered, the general success of the song commercially, the song's saturation in society, whether it left an indelible mark on a culture's psyche or had only localized success.
She talked about jingles, movies, anime, elevator music. Obvious influences on songs; how certain songs in turn influenced other artists. On a large screen behind her, she played samples to illustrate her point.
At all stages she invited people to ask questions. Eventually she called a short break, then she divided them into groups and sent them in various directions. The conference theater had a series of smaller chambers along the sides and front.
"Welcome. Thanks for coming," Lark said when Riker introduced her to Crusher. "I must admit – the number of people here is gratifying."
She looked Sudamen's way. "Sud primed me to believe the busy crew of a Starfleet vessel would have better things to do than talk about ancient music. He's a bit miffed really – such a snob."
"Oh?" said the doctor.
"Yeah. He thinks large crowds lead to a lower standard of music."
Crusher raised an eyebrow.
"He's a bit of a purist, actually," Lark confided. "He's not that fond of people tinkering with music he knows and likes."
The doctor's expression grew dark.
"Oh, don't worry. He acts all grouchy, but really he enjoys it ... there's just something about a live performance – however good or bad."
"So how does this work?" Crusher asked.
"Well, the good thing is, everyone gets to do something but nothing more than they can handle or want," Lark said. "No Christina Aguilera solos, I promise."
"Can't I just, well, just spectate?" Beverly asked.
"I wouldn't want you to feel left out. But I promise, it won't be anything too demanding and definitely not painful – I hope."
She ended up pointing the doctor to a door where a group of nervous junior officers were congregating. Riker started edging away, hoping to corner Sudamen while the others workshopped their songs.
"Actually, you can go with her too, Commander," Lark said. "And don't forget your trombone."
Riker didn't want to draw attention to his plans. He was stymied. Unable to come up with an excuse. He raised his trombone. "I came prepared."
"I'm fairly confident you'll hate what I've got lined up for you ... but never mind ... it won't hurt."
She waved him off before he could ask what she meant.
A quick look back told him Sudamen was still seated – apparently the only exception to Lark's participation rule. There would be time to have a casual word with the man before the evening was finished. Riker told himself not to worry.
The previous session he had attended had been much smaller; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect. He stepped through the door and found a young ensign arranging the people inside. Riker took his place with a euphonium player and a trumpeter. They eyed each other.
Lark's hands-on approach set nervous newcomers at ease. She moved around the groups with practiced efficiency.
Riker's group was working on a song chosen by Ensign Smith. The first officer had no idea where or what Data was doing.
Lark had been right about one thing. Riker grimaced as he studied the music she had assigned him – a cheesy brass chorus in a song about babies not crying. Sure, it was crass, but Ensign Smith, who wasn't a proficient singer, was having fun with it anyway.
The musicians had no problems with the music.
Buoyed by their backing group, the singers (led by Smith) settled, proving they were there to enjoy themselves – and damned be anyone who might crush that spirit.
Plenty of inhibitions had been discarded when the singers let rip on their final practice, Riker mused.
Baby don't cry repeated ad infinitum wasn't the deepest lyric he could think of, but the way it was sung gave it a sort of energetic pathos.
Even the brass backing, giving it an (undeservedly) epic feeling, wasn't so bad when heard in context. And for all the singers' apologies, the tune was not completely lost in their rendition.
When they were all comfortable with the piece, Riker sidled to the door to check Sudamen was still in the auditorium. Just when his chance to talk to the man arose, Lark called everyone back to start the third phase of the evening.
Riker stifled his annoyance. There was no way out of participating and once he resigned himself to it, Riker surrendered to the workshop. As they performed Baby Don't Cry, it was hard not to get caught up in the fun.
Riker was – well – proud of the crew. He knew this sort of spontaneity only happened because they were willing it to happen. The tide was turning on weeks of corrosive cynicism.
Theirs was the crowd-pleasing opener and while certainly not perfect, it was delivered with unrestrained gusto. The chorus turned out to be so catchy (and repetitive), and Ensign Smith excited enough to challenge their listeners, they had no trouble persuading the audience to join in.
Lark radiated whenever she stepped back on stage to talk to the audience. During the performance she had sat next to Sudamen taking no part in the proceedings, but she held nothing back from her praise.
Through the hour they were treated to a range of music which at times seemed to plumb new depths of millennial bizarreness.
Ensigns Sakiko Hasuda and Sachiko Hasuda (no relation) performed a strangely eerie piece (impossibly) about chicken bones, Sakiko making use of two short keyboards, Sachiko dwarfed by a bass nearly as large as she was which provided most of the rhythm. They had roped in a medic percussionist, and together they crooned in scarily childlike voices – the odd lyrics contrasting with the melody and harmonies they put to it.
Lark watched in a kind of horrified shock – Riker wondered if the women were playing some sort of musical joke, but before the piece had finished Lark was on her feet leading the clapping.
The audience may not have known what to make of the song, but the musicianship was undeniably worth admiration.
"Officially, ladies," Lark exclaimed, "that was the creepiest thing I've heard in forever. I loved it!"
She went on to explain the song's place in anime history and allowed the talk to digress into a discussion about strange lyrics (there was plenty of millennial fodder for this exercise). They brainstormed said strange lyrics for five minutes – Lark asking for contemporary examples and matching them with millennial oddities.
"Of course, some of what's strange to us would have been perfectly normal in millennial times," she said, by way of wrapping that topic up. "Although Mr Zebra – as perversely understandable you may be able to convince yourself it is while listening – really, at the end of the day, is a very strange song ... even by millennial standards."
Riker could only agree with a shudder. Ratatouille Strychnine – definitely not a friend of mine.
Beverly nudged him. "Data's up."
On the stage the android was assembling his musicians. When he had them just so, he turned to address the room.
"After some discussion and reflection I have decided against presenting my initial song choice ..."
Lark – perhaps a little rudely – broke in.
"I have to admit I'm still not convinced the song initially chosen by Mr Data is entirely appropriate. It's just ... you have to wonder at the wisdom of singing about going down with a ship ... when you're on one."
She looked apologetically at Data.
"Understandable, doctor," he placated her. "I have prepared another song which could be more pleasing than White Flag. You are familiar, I am sure, with the song Stars Like a River–"
"I'm not sure I ..." She looked stumped, and when she petered out Data tried to help her.
"Singer David Auden died–"
"Disappeared." Lark blurted the word out. As soon as she said it, a look of surprise overtook her. As if she had lost control of the words coming out of her mouth.
For the first time Riker could remember the woman looking less than happy.
"If that is a euphemistic way of saying he killed himself, then yes – he disappeared," Data replied.
Lark's expression twisted subtly. Riker would have said she now appeared puzzled. He had seen almost the exact expression on another face recently – Troi struggling to remember the events that had led her to the point of her attack the other night.
A rumbling cough from the seats prevented Lark from replying.
"Oh. Well. That's a bit morose, isn't it," Sudamen said, moving forward from his seat. "No, no. We can't have a pall hanging over us tonight. Let's have only happy music ... I insist. How about that duet you prepared for Mr Data? I seem to remember you rubbing your hands in anticipation at that one this morning, Lark."
Lark's face flowed from blank confusion to acquiescence. If she was about to say more about the subject, she had changed her mind.
"Okay."
She gave a little shake on her head and turned to a couple of the musicians who had shown particular aptitude for millennial rock.
"How about it? A little Whole of the Moon? – You had a quick practice, didn't you? Think you could handle that, guys, Data?"
She barely waited for a nod from the android or musicians before signaling the song's beginning notes.
"This should speak for itself, I think," she said, glancing at Data over the opening chords. "Mr Data this morning assured me he would humor me with a duet at some point. I thought of this song almost as soon as I met him."
"I pictured a rainbow–"
"You held it in your hands"
Lark and Data passed the lines between each other – creating an unbelievable musical comedy. One everyone could appreciate.
"I had flashes–
You saw the plans"
"I wandered out in the world for years–
while you just stayed in your room"
They shared a line: "I saw the crescent – you saw the whole of the moon"
It brought the house down.
What does Data make of it? Riker wondered.
Between human and android, which of them really saw the whole of the moon?
The performance earned a rowdy ovation. Even Sudamen got to his feet to applaud. Lark threw her arms around the ship's second officer as the music drew to close.
"Data, it's possible I've waited the whole of my life for just the right person to sing that with me."
"The pleasure was all mine," he replied.
The lesson ... session ... finished on a high note when a cryptobiology expert organized both her workshop group and the audience to sing along to the chorus of We Will Rock You followed quickly by We are the Champions.
No one seemed to find either song distasteful or offensive – and yet the brazen content of the lyrics could almost be said to epitomize the worst characteristics of the era.
Instead, put into context, the strutting cockiness of the first song and the lofty bombastry of the second suddenly made more sense.
The hours he had recently spent dissecting the turn of the millennium and its culture had softened Riker's stance on the music of that age.
There was food for thought, he decided, and a subtlety in melody previously he had not been willing to concede.
It would take, however, vast quantities of genuine alcohol poured down his throat before he would be ready to join with the raucous crowd stamping their feet and singing "we will, we will rock you" (whatever that meant) as they exited the theater and made for whatever destination on the ship they had in mind.
He was happy some of the crew didn't seem to have any qualms, though.
With the evening at a close, some were already leaving while others were milling around chatting. Riker stood up, scanning the room on the lookout for his prey. He had turned to take in the entire room twice.
"Damn."
Crusher stood up next to him. "He's gone?"
"Yes."
Sudamen was nowhere to be seen. Lark chatted with a group of baby-faced ensigns, but her minder was gone.
Riker considered tracking the Caldosan down, but hesitated.
After a second's indecision he decided it could wait. Somehow several hours of good company, good [translation: different] music and fascinating conversation had removed the sense of urgency he had felt before the evening.
Music might just about be the closest thing to magic, he thought.
Come on, Eileen, by Dexys Midnight Runners
Baby Don't Cry, by INXS
Chicken Bone, by Cowboy Bebop OST
Mr Zebra, by Tori Amos
The Whole of the Moon, by the Waterboys
We will Rock You, by Queen
