"Don't fear the clay."

"I fear nothing."

Of course not! Janeway sighed to herself. Encouraging Seven to allow her imagination to run free was a huge undertaking, she was beginning to see. Sculpting had seemed like the perfect choice, since Seven's engineering abilities suggested an ability to work in three dimensions without much difficulty. Plus, it was a very forgiving medium, permitting the imagination to take flight, yet easily modified because of the plasticity of the clay. Besides, Seven needed to free herself of inhibitions. What better way than making mud pies? she had thought. Now, the captain was not so sure.

Patiently, she tried again. "Let your hands and the clay do the work, Seven." Handing her a lump of clay, Janeway suggested, "Here. The nose of this head could be a little stronger. You try it. You can use me as a model."

After examining and rolling the lump in her hand with an air of distaste, Seven shoved it into the sculpture in the general vicinity of the nose. Half-heartedly, she poked at the clay with a single finger. Once. Twice. Finally, she mashed it firmly into place, deforming the center of the sculpture's face as she did so. Meeting the eyes of her teacher, Seven proclaimed coldly, "This is a waste of time."

"Seven, working with clay is a wonderful way to relax. Just give this a chance and . . ."

"As a Borg, my time was spent working at a specific task. When it was completed, I was assigned another. It was . . . efficient. I had no need for relaxation in the Collective."

"You're not part of the Collective now. You need to learn how to relax, even play, It's an important part of a human being's life. Imagination frees the mind. It inspires ideas and solutions and provides a great deal of pleasure. Human progress, the human mind itself, couldn't exist without them. Look around you at Master Da Vinci's workplace. He was one of my great childhood inspirations. I even built many of the items in his workshop when I was a child, to emulate the Maestro."

"He was a very busy man," said Seven.

"Oh, yes, a prolific artist and a scientist as well. Far, far ahead of his time. He created a model of an airplane four centuries before one was actually built."

Seven looked up to where the captain was pointing. She had noted the object before and dismissed it as irrelevant. The model didn't seem like it could actually fly from the way it had been engineered. Now, however, Seven felt herself pulled away from the workshop on the holodeck. In fact, she seemed to be pulled away from herself. Another Seven of Nine flashed before her, running. Pursued by Borg.

The hum of many synchronized voices resounded in her ear. "Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated."

She was running down the confines of a long ship's corridor with Borg cubicles and junctures spaced along the way. Her heart was pounding, her breath came in gasps. A huge bird with a wide wingspan flew at her, accompanied by a cry, sailing above the nightmare screeching of the bird. A human voice called out, "Annika! Annika!"

A strange prickling attacked her limbs as she tired of her flight. Why was she feeling like this? These were her own, the Borg. Why was she running away, not toward them?

After a struggle, the emotion strangling her with its power yielded up its name. She, Seven of Nine, felt it. Fear. Paralyzing, petrifying fear.

A quick uptake of breath, and Seven became aware of another voice. A woman's voice. "Seven, are you all right?"

A jumble of objects came into sight. Tables. Paintings. Tools. A lump of mud on a pedestal. Blinking at the light flooding in from the window, Seven finally could answer the one whom she now recognized. Captain. Captain Janeway. Captain Janeway had asked her a question. An answer must be given.

"What's wrong?" repeated the captain.

"I don't know," Seven whispered.


Wearing his usual "examination face," the Doctor peered at Seven. "Describe these visions you've been seeing."

Reluctantly, Seven related, "I have been subject to a series of disjointed images on three occasions. Each experience is similar - I'm pursued by the Borg. They want to assimilate me. I'm running from them, and then, each time, I see . . . a large, black bird, flying toward me. Shrieking at me. Attacking me."

"Hmm. I would say you're exhibiting classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder: dreams, flashbacks, hallucinations.

"That makes quite a lot of sense, Seven," seconded the captain. "You were assimilated by the Borg as a child. You've gone through an intense, prolonged trauma."

"I was not traumatized - I was raised by the Borg. I don't see them as threatening.
Why would I experience fear?"

"I can't explain it, Seven. Until I can, the Doctor's diagnosis is as good as any."

"Well, if you experience any more of these visions, notify me immediately. There may be some other tests to try, of course, if you stay here in Sickbay and let me examine you over time . . ."

"No." She was emphatic. "I do not wish to alter my routines in any way."

"Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to alter them somewhat. It's time that you commenced ingesting foods as well as liquids to supplement the energy you receive during your regeneration cycles. Here's a list of the nutrients you need to consume to maintain your health. I'm reluctant to impose this additional stress upon you, since Mr. Neelix will have to provide the food, but it can't be helped. Bring this list to the mess hall so you can begin your new menu immediately. And if you feel any visions after eating, relax. It's probably just a nightmare brought about by Mr. Neelix's cooking."

Seven looked at the list the Doctor plopped in her hand. Eating. Another step away from the Borg. What would be next?


::::Personal Log, Ensign Harry Kim, supplemental:

::::Captain Janeway's team has finished combing Seven's "quarters" in Cargo Deck Two, trying to find anything which might explain what happened to her after she attacked Neelix in the mess hall. Did the fact she was taking in foods again suddenly unbalance her metabolism in some way? Obviously, when her Borg implants started to grow again, it would affect her, perhaps causing her to return to a Borg-drone state. But what made them start growing again? What mechanism was operating? Is this something that will happen over and over again in the future, after we get her back? I refuse to think we won't get her back safely.

::::I hate to admit to myself how hard I'm taking this. I mean, I know we only had a working relationship, but spending time with her has helped me so much since Tom and B'Elanna were . . . since they aren't around any more. And I thought the two of us were learning to work so well together. Even confide in each other a bit. I guess it was all one way though. She never mentioned having any problems on board the ship to me. Maybe I could have helped. But now that she's attacked Neelix and stolen a shuttle, who knows what will happen if Chakotay and Tuvok do catch up to her? And with all of that B'Omar saber rattling, I just hope Chakotay and Tuvok manage to catch up to her first.

::::I told the captain that I would try to translate the Borg data-link, which appears to be a succession of log entries written in Borg alphanumeric code. I'm getting pretty good with the Borg language, so I think I can translate it okay. It's funny. That time we first talked about the Astrometrics Lab project - when I told Seven that I always wanted to learn Borg - it was a joke. I studied it anyway, and now, I find I'm really glad I did it. I guess the joke was on me.

::::And at least it gives me something to do while I'm off-duty.

::::End Personal Log::::

Harry replayed his log entry. For a few seconds he considered erasing it and starting over, but he decided to leave it as is. It was his personal log. You're supposed to record your personal feelings, after all. It's not as if he'd recorded anything inappropriate. Still, he hadn't realized just how dependent he'd become upon being with Seven. While working with her during the building of the Astrometrics Lab, he had concentrated so much on the task itself he'd been able to ignore (most of the time) the fact that he needed to be in her company. Now he felt at sea because he couldn't go find her to work on the "social skills training," as the Doctor and he had come to call it, which had replaced building the Lab as an excuse to spend time with her, helping her to explore human social customs so that she would fit in better with the crew. You'd think that with both of us working with her, she'd have come along farther than she has.

He had to admit to himself, however, that even if they had made more progress, it may all have been washed away under the influence of those implants. And he felt so helpless. He couldn't do anything about it.

First Tom and B'Elanna. Now Seven. Becoming my friend seems to be the kiss of d . . . No! I won't think that! Harry shook his head, as if to shake off the wave of loneliness that swept over him. He needed to occupy his mind with something constructive.

Harry returned to his studies of the data-link, trying to tease out some of its secrets, to see if there was some way he could help. With the B'Omar keeping them from doing a proper search for Seven, however, the ensign couldn't shake his feelings of dread - that it was already too late for them to get Seven back.


::::Captain's log, supplemental.

::::I've been trying to retrace Seven of Nine's footsteps . . . her actions during the last few days. But I'm still no closer to understanding what's happened.::::

Holding herself absolutely rigid, Janeway attempted to clear her mind of her individual thoughts, trying to imagine what it felt like not to be Kathryn Janeway, the captain of the Starship Voyager, but Seven of Nine of the Borg. One of many, with specialized tasks but one mind, her thoughts those of everyone - or perhaps, more properly - shared with everyone. Just thinking about what it would be like to be linked to the one hundred forty-six souls on Voyager made her head spin. No, make that one hundred forty-three, with Seven, Chakotay, and Tuvok off the ship. Finally, with a deep sigh, she gave up. Whatever it was that the Borg were to each other, it was beyond her comprehension. Jean-Luc Picard was the only one she knew who really understood. It nearly had destroyed him.

The ring of a pair of footsteps on the deck warned her that another was approaching, making her acutely conscious of the fact that she was looking rather foolish for a starship captain. Her eyes snapped open upon the friendly face of Ensign Kim, PADD in hand.

"Am I disturbing you, Captain?"

"Not at all, Harry. I think I've gone about as far as I can go in this exercise." She smiled slightly as she stepped down. Harry's hand twitched, almost as if he were about to offer her a hand as she left the cubicle but decided that he shouldn't, since she was the captain. Manners were engrained into the very fabric of the man, at war with his respect for her position as captain. It's something she'd noted Chakotay doing upon occasion.

As she stepped down, she noted that the ensign's smile never reached his red-rimmed eyes. "How are you doing?" she asked, a maternal note in her voice.

He stuttered, "Oh, I'm okay, I guess, . . . " before shrugging his shoulders. "I haven't been able to sleep very much. It's given me a lot of time to work on Seven's logs."

Nodding sympathetically, the captain gestured for the PADD he held. "Have you made any progress, Harry?"

"I've managed to decipher her log entries. There's nothing that indicates she was planning to leave the ship. The entries are pretty unremarkable. She describes her daily routines, the number of hours spent regenerating, that sort of thing. There were some personal log entries. Mostly observations about the crew's behavior." He shuffled his feet a bit and coughed before proceeding. "I'm . . . mentioned in quite a few of them. Apparently, she finds my behavior . . . easy to predict. Whatever that means."

"Don't take it personally. Coming from Seven, that's probably a compliment," the captain replied with a laugh. She was relieved when Harry eked out a wry chuckle of his own. The poor boy. His affection for her is so transparent. Our "prescription" for helping him get over the loss of his two best friends seemed ideal - until now. And if she's gone for good, this will be exceedingly painful for him. Realizing that anything she might actually say along these lines would probably only hurt him more, however, she merely held out her hand for the PADD. The Borg glyphs were in one column, while a Federation Standard translation was neatly transcribed in a second column to the right.

Harry's words broke into her consciousness. "The most recent entries are kind of strange. Descriptions of bizarre images - almost like a record of her dreams."

"Like hallucinations?"

"Maybe so. Sometimes she's in a Borg vessel running . . . or hiding behind a bulkhead. Falling down a shaft. Borg everywhere, chasing her. Nightmarish stuff."

"Have you seen any evidence of a 'bird'? Seven mentioned something about it in sickbay."

"She mentions it several times, Captain. It flies at her, shrieking. I don't know what it means."

The captain read from the PADD, " 'The feathers are black. Wingspan approximately one and a half meter. The eyes are yellow and it has a powerful triangular beak. When it looks at me . . . I am paralyzed. I cannot move. It seems to know me but I don't understand how that's possible. It's merely a bird, an inferior form of life. But the sight of it fills me with fear.' It sounds like she's describing a member of the corvidae family. Like a crow, or . . . or a raven . . ." The sudden image of a nightmare bird invaded her own thoughts for a moment, but a memory teased at her as well. Another connection between Seven and Nine and "Raven" suddenly clicked into her mind.

"She's describing a raven!" As the captain strode briskly out of Cargo Bay Two, Harry hustled to keep up with her.

"Why is that important?" asked Harry.

"Because now I know what to look for. Harry, we need to calibrate our long-range sensors to scan for any Federation signature other than our two shuttlecraft."

"Captain?" Harry asked in confusion.

"Yes, Harry. We need to bring the ship about and lay in a course for B'Omar space. I think I know what she's running to. Now, all we need to do is find out where that something is."


As she sped to the rendezvous point in the shuttle, she could hear him, species 3259, moving occasionally behind the force field she had erected around him. Her prisoner. Her mentor. She did not fully understand why she had decided not to assimilate Tuvok. He would be a great asset to the Collective. Yet, somehow, she knew she could not do it. Perhaps it was because he had tried so hard to help her understand the Others on board the ship. Tried to make her see how being an individual could have its rewards, as well as its limitations. With his own otherness, he had been able to help her recognize that her uniqueness was not necessarily a threat to Voyager.

But she had damaged the ship when she had escaped. She had damaged the shuttle carrying Commander Chakotay, leaving him adrift in the space of a hostile race. She had attacked Commander Tuvok. No, no, no. I must not think of it. I must rejoin . . . why must I rejoin . . . why am I doing this . . . wait. I am Borg. I am called back home . . .

An image of a shrieking black bird filled her mind, obliterating her view of the shuttle console. She could hear her captive ask her what was wrong. Her blood hammered so loudly in her ears, she was prevented from formulating an answer. Tiny needles seemed to be assaulting her scalp. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she had run a very long way, under conditions that were . . . she could not identify the emotion for a moment, but then she knew it for what it was. Terror. She was terrified.

Seven of Nine moaned softly to herself and ignored the queries of the man behind her. This man, who had acted a father's part to her, was not her father.

Why, then, did she want to call out, "Papa! Help me!" over and over again?