Von

Data snapped his fingers. Soaring strings stopped. Flickering rainbow lights blinked out.

When the cubicle house lights came up, Data was examining the black gloves he had used to control his performance.

Geordi LaForge grinned. "Impressive – but do you need gloves? Don't you have some componentry that could do the same thing?"

Data made a theatrical bow to Geordi and Doctor Crusher, who had joined them on this trip to the Millennium Musical Hall exhibition. This particular interactive exhibit (itself an antiquated concept befitting for the time period) was tucked away in a small curtained-off cubicle – one of many – among stalls and stands in the large hall.

A small Tellarite child was peeking around the edge of the curtain, eyeing the gloves with the intensity of a phaser beam and impatient for his turn.

Data handed the gloves back to the demonstrator who was keeping a watchful eye on the boy. "That is true. I could replicate the effect –"

"Isn't that one of our former passengers?" Beverly had pushed aside the curtain and was staring at a knot of people over by a water fountain.

Although enclosed, the hall had a spectacular glass vaulted ceiling and atrium plants and water features were dotted everywhere.

Geordi and Data looked toward the fountain. A small man was speaking at its edge. He was too far away to be heard, but his hands moved expressively and his audience seemed captive. The people around him had the uniforms and upright bearing of peacekeepers. Security on Ark11 was visible but unobtrusive for the most part. Peacekeepers strolled among the tourists, just as curious and eager to explore the displays. These ones seemed very attentive.

"Dr Montgomery," Data confirmed. "The expert in 16th century Sikhism."

"You'd think he'd be over the millennium period," Geordi said, making Beverly grin.

Geordi had a way of disguising a cutting observation under the guise of an innocent or playful tone.

"Perhaps he came here to get away?" she said.

The millennial hall was definitely the quietest exhibition, in one of the quietest precincts, they'd visited in Londonville.

Their day had started with plans to check out the Baroque precinct but they'd changed their minds quickly when they saw the queues lining up to enter. Even arriving early, as they had, wasn't enough and they discovered they were better off wandering freely.

The millennium hall got their attention when they were lured in by a bored-looking greeter who'd called them over as they wandered down Coventry Lane.

"I understand – our experiences notwithstanding," Beverly continued, "the 16th century is usually considered more popular than this?"

"Perhaps you could ask Dr Montgomery?" Geordi said with a grin. Will Riker had filled them in on his first encounter with the musical doctor.

Beverly laughed off the suggestion and they resumed their stroll along the row of exhibits. As they passed another, a black screen lit up with a 21st century style hologram presenter. Nothing like holodecks these days. The set up was clunky. You could see the software and system running the show. Not like the immersive experience you could have now.

"O! M! G!, Lolcats! Smartphones changed everything for millennial humans."

Data paused.

"Follow along to find out–"

It took Geordi and Beverly a moment to realize they had outpaced their friend.

"Data?" Geordi called. "You coming? This is just early comtech. Basic stuff."

Data tipped his head to the side, studying the hologram – a cheerful human woman in a refreshingly modern jumpsuit. Geordi was glad this character wasn't wearing millennium clothes as well. There was a lot of overkill in this precinct. Geordi tried to puzzle out what Data was interested in. He could see the android's positronic network firing up.

"You go on, Geordi. I will catch up."

The hologram grinned.

"Technically the first smartphone was invented in 1992, but it wasn't until the smartphone met the internet, its real superpower was unleashed, launching social media platforms …"

The display was one of the more simplistic on offer. In front of the hologram was an assortment of replica smartphones. At least, Geordi assumed they were replicas. Genuine artifacts from the millennium were rare – with many being destroyed or rendered radioactive by World War 3 or scavenged for parts. But it didn't appear to be the phones that attracted Data.

"What is it?" Geordi examined the hologram again. There was nothing remarkable about the projection that he could discern. He let the program run to its conclusion, waiting for Data to make a move. Beverly had returned by now as well.

The hologram fell silent and a holographic jukebox popped up in her place.

Data peered at it. "I said I would apply a new lens to my analysis of the mystery of the Bounty and the attack on Counselor Troi."

"Now?"

"I have been looking for patterns, Geordi. I have forgotten that absence of pattern also has something to say."

"You got that from a presentation about old phone technology?"

"When I compare the millennial anthropologist Lark's speech patterns to our lexical libraries of known millennial languages, I have to conclude her commitment to authenticity is exemplary. Her use of language perfectly replicates speech patterns from the early 2000s."

"They do say she's a gifted scholar." Geordi liked to play a gentle game of Devil's advocate with Data.

Beverly put up the argument. "Gifted, sure, but how many scholars would commit to method acting their expertise?"

Data delivered his answer without removing his gaze from the holographic images in front of him.

"Her lexicon fits a specific timeframe, Doctor. For example, there are words that developed predominantly in use between 2010 and 2023 that she almost never uses. She appears to be expert in language for part of the millennial age."

"Perhaps she has a preference?" Geordi said.

The cascading images entranced Data. Geordi recognized them for music videos stills, a popular format for communicating in the millennium era. Data tapped one and the images stopped – on a performer wearing an elaborate mask with a black cape and glittering stars stitched into it. And the same gloves Data had played with in the previous exhibit. It was impossible to tell who – or what – might be beneath the costume.

The song started softly – layers building in response to the performer's tiny movements. The millennium hall didn't do justice to the sounds which evoked images of darkness, ice and vastness. Even the singer's voice, distorted to take on the same metallic drive of the guitars, sounded sharp and otherworldly. Around them the walls came alive with the blackness of space and the light of stars streaming by. There was even a prow of a small rowboat in front of them. If you made the leap you could believe you were standing in the boat, traveling into a starry night, rocking on the gentle surge of the music. Geordi had to re-adjust his impression of the display. It was still primitive – but it was somewhat more sophisticated than he'd given it credit.

Mesmerized, he and Beverly watched until the end. Only then did Data turn back to them.

"That was lovely, Data," Beverly said. "Moving, really."

"Yes," Data replied. "I felt it too."

Learning how to regulate his emotion chip had taken time. The chip had opened up a world of possibilities for him – but he had also learned that he liked some of the old things about himself – such as his preciseness with language. And he had learned how to keep his experiences – his feelings to himself. Not deliberately, but for any number of reasons. Too much emotion, he noticed, could be perceived as inappropriate.

Beverly looked at him curiously. "You could download and listen simultaneously to every symphony ever recorded. Do you feel something different when you listen to music at different speeds? Or at the speed it was originally intended to be played at?"

"How do you feel when you hear music speeded up?" he replied.

The doctor nodded. "It's not the same."

"That is how I feel. Tempo forms as much of a song's meaning as lyrics or sound. I find myself usually preferring the speed – or a range therein – intended by a composer. Mostly."

Beverly smiled. "Mostly?"

"I have found some pieces played at considerably slower rates produce startling and unexpected beauty. However, the effect is unpredictable. There's no discernible reason why some pieces played at different speeds remain pleasurable, yet others don't."

"Perhaps that's the magic of music."

"Or a mystery waiting for a scientific explanation," Geordi teased.

"If we talk about mysteries in music," Data replied, "the identity of the singer of Stars Like a River is, perhaps, one of the most enduring mysteries of the millennium musical age."

"Is that what that song was?" Like many of his friends, Geordi preferred his music to be classical. He thought the song was familiar but couldn't place it.

"Yes." Data swiped the hologram shut. "It was a marquee song – the first 'hit' delivered initially via gloves. Some say it marked a turning point in the production of popular music just prior to the war. The singer has never been identified, nor the writer. The song was released anonymously. Several names have been suggested; none proven conclusively."

"Don't tell me you've solved it," Geordi joked.

"No," Data said seriously. "But my analysis, Geordi. Looking for the things that break the pattern."

"And this song breaks the pattern?" Beverly asked.

"Lark appeared not to know it."

Geordi thought about what Data was saying. "Is that so unusual? Expert or not, no one can be expected to know everything about a subject."

Data looked troubled. "I have thought about that, Geordi. It is not impossible – but it surprises me."

"How so?"

"Precisely because it is a mystery. Would not an expert be the most curious about unanswered questions in their field? She knew every other song put to her."

Geordi became thoughtful.

"When did it come out? Perhaps there's a simple explanation. Perhaps it's not Lark's specialty?"

"It first appeared in 2019."

"That would fit – perhaps she never focused on that area of study."

Beverly exchanged a look with Geordi. "Or perhaps there's another explanation?"


"Having second thoughts?"

Will didn't miss Deanna's hesitation at the edge of the transporter pad.

"This is highly irregular, Will." Her voice was low so as not to carry. She gave herself a mental shake. Humans were unconsciously attuned to the pheromones of emotion. If Deanna was anything other than confident, she could jeopardize her mission.

She twisted her hands into the voluminous panels of her skirt. The motion was calming. She loved the texture of the chiffon and the tactile pleasure she got from crunching her hands into it. Clothing could be utilitarian – but it could also be so much more if you let it. Dr Crusher had updated her on the latest fashions in Londonville after her visit the day before. There was nothing subdued about her outfit – but that meant it should fit right in.

She stepped up beside Will. "I'm worried we'll only get one shot at this. If I alarm her..."

She shook her head at the prospect.

They had been going over their options for several days – first needing time to locate the Dunedin Institute and then refining their approach.

During that time, they had avoided talking about Riker's nightmares. She had her own thoughts about them, but until he was willing to bring the topic up himself again – and address the concerns he himself had raised, she wasn't sure he was in the right headspace to deal with them.

He hadn't had any more dreams – and he didn't seem to be deliberately shutting her out – but nor had he shown any signs of delving into why or how they had occurred. They had intrigued Deanna, and she contemplated contacting her mother to see if she could provide any insight. If she hadn't known any better, she would have said what Will had done – keeping her out – was impossible. But clearly not.

Oblivious to her thoughts (or was he?), Will brought her back to the problem in hand. "That isn't a chance you're willing to take?"

"I am – otherwise I wouldn't be here–"

The sound of the transporter cycling into life stopped her and she felt the familiar tingle of her skin dematerializing.

Finding the Dunedin Institute hadn't been hard but finding the millennial anthropologist had been.

The party from the institute had rooms in a hotel called Travelodge, a plain beige multistoried building that lacked any aesthetic qualities except soft lines and toybox windows.

Deanna struggled to identify any personality in the building from the sidewalk where she and Will had materialized. It wasn't like the brilliant, shiny Karma Soho nestled up next to it. Hotels ringed a square which was bright with tall palm-like trees and colorful blooms. She breathed in deeply the scent of primula blossoms.

"Remind me again how we're handling this?" she asked.

"Data says she had an early rehearsal this morning. The auditorium's just across the park. She's due to finish shortly. Apparently she likes to return this way – and she always heads back to the hotel straight away."

"You'd think she'd be out exploring." Deanna frowned. Ark11 was too neat, too clean and too fresh to appear natural, but it wasn't unpleasant. If she didn't have other things to worry about, she would enjoy wandering about the precincts of Londonville. She had heard good things about some of the other centers as well. Los Angeles sounded entertaining, and the Tokyo light show was quickly becoming a crew favorite.

"For whatever reason, that's not the case."

Deanna wondered if it had anything to do with the woman's invisible illness.

"Are you still sure you don't want me to help you with Sudamen," she asked, thinking about the next part of their plan.

Will shook his head. "No – not until I know more. Like you I don't want to spook him. He might speak to me – he seemed to be trying to tell me something. Let's test that theory first."

Deanna supposed it was a reasonable guess. Will had been insistent about meeting with the Dunedin man alone. She questioned if it was the safest approach, but if Will was certain, she was willing to trust his judgment.

They had wandered across the carriageway and into the park where a bench was conveniently placed. Deanna stopped.

"I'll wait here then."

"Good," Will replied. "I'll see you soon."

He walked away, not looking back at her.

"Good luck," she muttered as she sat.

"Lark?" Deanna steeled herself as she rose from the park bench. "It's Lark, isn't it?"

I am genuine. I am speaking from a place of honesty. I'm here to offer help if she'll take it.

The emotional storm was as loud as ever, stirring feelings as strong as a hurricane in Deanna's mind, but the feelings were trapped. A tempest corked in a bottle.

The young woman looked back, the surprise on her face turning into confusion. Her forehead creased as she tried to place Deanna. It was her only outward sign of perturbation. Troi marveled that the woman could remain upright with so much swirling inside her.

"We met – briefly – on the Enterprise?"

"Commander Trey?" Recognition briefly flickered on her face, but she was still struggling with the details. She looked around as if there might be more people with Deanna.

Does she expect to see someone else in particular?

For hours Deanna and Will had gone over what approach to take. Elaborate ruses, engineered meetings - none of it seemed right. Deanna's offer was going to be strange no matter what happened. She was opting for honesty – or revealing as much as she could. She just hoped Lark responded to it.

"Yes, Troi. Deanna Troi. I realize this is irregular but I'm hoping for a chance to talk to you–"

"Is this about the man who died?"

Deanna shook her head. "I'm not sure. It's really something more personal."

"Am I in trouble?" Lark's voice broke in a tiny crackle of fear and Deanna cringed in sympathy and shock.

When she and Christine Vale interviewed Lark the other day, the woman had seemed friendly, open and confident. In just seconds Deanna felt Lark waver as though she was on a pendulum.

Some part of her is expecting trouble. Why?

As quickly as the fear appeared, it disappeared, and the confusion on Lark's face was no longer for Deanna, but for something internal. She had seen her own fear and didn't fully understand it.

It gave Deanna a moment of hope. If Lark was aware, in some way, of a problem, it might make her job easier.

"No – no," she rushed to calm Lark. "It's ... complicated. Do you have a couple of minutes? It is important, I promise."

Lark's fear subsided. It didn't go away completely; just enough for curiosity to peep through.

Deanna let out a breath of relief. She waited until Lark was settled next to her.

"I'm not sure if you know, but I'm from Betazed. My father was from Earth. My mother is full Betazoid." Deanna waited to gauge Lark's reaction, which was … nothing. The woman stared at her, clearly expecting more.

"I understand it can unsettle some humans to know this," she continued.

Lark was apologetic. "I'm sorry – I'm not sure I understand."

"I can't read you telepathically like a full Betazoid," she said. "But I do have empathic abilities."

Lark laughed. "Ohhh. I have those too. My father calls it being highly strung. He says all the women in our family are – but what does he know?"

Deanna was amused. Being highly strung was an archaic and patronizing notion that belonged in the past. Perhaps getting the woman to listen to her would be the easy part.

This won't work if she doesn't believe me.

She couldn't remember the last time anyone had doubted her sensing abilities. More importantly, the woman's lack of knowledge was alarming. No Federation planets were so remote or detached from society that a child would grow up ignorant of the common peoples in the Federation, or their general characteristics.

The thought of even trying to prove her ability was crass.

Will she even believe me?

"I can read your emotions – tell what you're feeling. I surprised you – you had a moment of worry – but now you're just curious."

Deanna knew this wouldn't be enough. She preferred to start with the obvious since the alternative didn't thrill her.

Lark looked bemused. "I mean – sure – but also now I'm a little weirded out."

Deanna blushed, knowing this was true. The situation called for drastic measures. She screwed up her face in distaste as she attempted something every Betazoid child learned to avoid early on. She delved into Lark to see what sensations the woman was currently feeling that stemmed from the physical environment.

"The breeze keeps blowing a strand of hair into your eyes. It tickles. You love the sensation of the sunshine on your feet. Nice sandals, by the way."

Lark leaned over and wiggled her toes. It was her turn to smile. "Don't you enjoy the feeling of sunshine on your feet after months on a ship?"

Deanna went further. She had to reach this woman.

"There's a splinter digging into the palm of your right hand. Right under your index finger. It burns or it itches – you're not sure, yourself, how to describe the sensation."

At last, she got a reaction. Lark looked at her sharply, massaging her hand. "What are you?"

"An empath. I apologize. Usually only very small children invade personal space like that."

"Why did you?"

It was the opening Deanna needed. "I have an ability. I sense things. I need to tell you about something that happened to me several days ago because it involves you."

She had Lark's attention.

She glossed over her attack. News of it had never been made public and she was not about to reveal it now. "Unfortunately about a week ago I was ill. I temporarily lost my ability to read people's emotions."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Lark murmured politely.

"Thank you," Deanna said. "As I said, it was temporary. And when it returned several days later, it returned with a bang. I'm not sure how familiar you are with Betazoids" – privately she was convinced Lark was entirely unfamiliar with Betazoids – "but we can usually regulate our abilities so that we aren't overwhelmed by other people.

"The other day, when my abilities returned, I couldn't. It felt like a storm had been unleashed in my head. It was so powerful I had to walk through the ship to find it. I had to know what it was – who it was."

Deanna stopped but kept her gaze on Lark, who stared back with round-eyed innocence.

"It was definitely someone and not something?"

"Yes. I knew that much."

"Weren't you scared? What if you'd walked straight into a homicidal maniac or a serial killer?"

It wasn't the question Deanna had been expecting. She almost smiled. "Would it shock you to know I've met serial killers before? It's a totally different feeling. They're more about causing storms than having one live in them."

Lark's eyes widened. "This is sort of wrong of me, but that's kind of cool."

Deanna was stuck for words. Lark went on.

"Is that unusual for you? The thing you felt? How do you know it wasn't yourself? Or maybe your own senses going haywire?"

She's curious. Occasionally afraid, but curious. It's good.

"Reasonable questions. I suppose I initially relied on my own experience to interpret what I was feeling. And I don't yet have a reason to doubt that experience."

"But this was something unusual?"

"Very. I don't remember ever experiencing anything like it."

The millennial anthropologist stared at a fixed point in the distance. She rocked slightly. Thoughts and connections collected in the thin layer of emotion that was holding back the maelstrom underneath.

"You came into the bar. You were looking at me." Lark stiffened. "Why were you looking at me?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me," Deanna urged.

Lark gave a little shake of her head.

"My job is to see to the well-being of my crew."

"I'm not one of your crew."

"No, you're not. When I see someone in pain – even when it's concealed from them – my instinct is to reach out. To offer help. What I sensed seemed like a terrible burden. Something deep and hidden. I'm worried for the person carrying this feeling around with them. And it worries me even more that they're not aware of it."

"People bury emotions all the time. It's arguably how most of us cope."

"People do repress trauma," Deanna agreed. "It can be a coping mechanism. This … doesn't feel like that to me. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. If there was to be any chance of me helping, then I needed to explain. But I also have to admit, this is unlike anything I've experienced before. I can only make guesses."

"You think something's wrong with me."

"I don't fully understand it," Deanna admitted. "I only know, sitting here beside you, the storm rages as strong as ever."

"That's kind of ridiculous."

"Normally I'd agree with you."

"Are you playing with me?"

Deanna was losing her. She had made her gambit. Now she would leave, hoping she had done enough.

Thank goodness she's curious.

She reached into the bag on her shoulder. "Do you recognize this?"

Lark eyed the combadge. "Some sort of communicator?"

"I use it to communicate with the Enterprise, yes. But it also serves to beam me directly aboard, to any position on the ship. I want you to have it."

Lark snorted. "What? So you can transport me against my will?"

"No – no, well, technically yes if you're holding it …" Deanna was flustered. "Look. Throw it away, drop it in a fountain for good luck, do with it what you will. I just hope you'll hang on to it. If there comes a point where you think I might be able to help you, please … contact me."

She rose. She hated leaving Lark this way. Hated the pain and terror and sadness filling the woman.

"Deanna?"

Troi turned.

"It is Deanna?"

Deanna nodded.

"Do you know Commander Riker very well?"

"He's my best friend. Why do you ask?"

"I enjoyed talking to him. Sudamen kind of rushed us off the Enterprise so I didn't get a proper chance to say goodbye. I thought it might be nice to invite him to one of the concerts I'm staging. There were some other people as well. You've just made me think of it."

"That's a lovely gesture."

"It would be my pleasure. Honestly I should have thought of it sooner. People on the Enterprise made me feel so welcome. And, weirdly, I think they might have enjoyed having me as well. For some reason, when I met everyone they all seemed a bit sad."

Maybe Lark is an empath of a sort, Deanna mused.

"I heard good things," she said. "And you're right. The war took a toll on us, just as it did for many people. I think your music gave people a chance to feel things again."

"Did you come along at all? To any of my workshops? I don't remember you there."

"No, I had other commitments – but Commander Riker told me about his experiences."

"Then perhaps you'd like to come to the concert as well. It's in a couple of days?"

Deanna was touched.

"But if you do come," Lark laughed. "You'll have to do the homework. Do you know your song, Deanna?"

Deanna stood, pausing before she replied. "Come see me and I'll tell you."

"Seems like bribery." Rather than be upset, Lark was suppressing laughter.

Music is self-soothing. A shield. Faced with a difficult subject, she retreated to a place of safety.

Deanna felt a stab of personal pain. It hurt seeing someone suffering in such a way. On the surface Lark seemed fine, but the storm hadn't abated.

"I'll leave you now. Just … think about it. Please?"


Von, by Sigur Ros