"Dishonorable."
That was all Commander Worf seemed to have to say these days, thought Ensign Hayes as he picked through the rubble which comprised the bridge of the Defiant. That, and many short, snarling Klingon words which Hayes did not know, but which he was reasonably certain were epithets directed toward the creatures who had destroyed the ship. This ship, and so many others like it…the Admiral's flagship…the Bozeman…and, very nearly, the Enterprise-E, which was the biggest ship Hayes had ever seen. He considered the rumor that had been floating around subspace for the past few days—the wild assertion that the Enterprise had gone back in time and actually assisted Zephram Cochrane in First Contact.
Nah, not possible. Just a rumor.
"Dishonorable," growled Worf again, and kicked savagely at a beam lying across his command chair. "Khest!"
That one Hayes knew. He turned away and assiduously studied the patches of blood, human and alien, that blotted the floor and walls. Evidence of that last hit that had nearly blown them.
Worf let out another string of Klingonese and savagely turned over a sheet of metal from under which a dark-skinned wrist was protruding.
"Lieutenant Kwame," he growled, and spat.
Hayes felt his stomach curl as he viewed the damage an exploding console had wrought. Kwame's face—oh, God, he didn't even have a face anymore, did he?
Worf turned suddenly and fixed a fierce stare on Hayes from under his corrugated Klingon brow.
"Do not grieve, Ensign," he said tersely. "Kwame died an honorable death in battle. Much more honorable than being assimilated."
Hayes felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Nevertheless, he stood straight.
How to explain to a Klingon warrior the concept of human grief?
Geordi watched his friend out of the corner of his eye. Data was standing quietly at an assimilated console, patiently prying Borg circuitry from the internal mechanisms. To all appearances he appeared perfectly normal. Yet Geordi knew better. Since the implant of his emotion chip Data did give off very faint subliminal cues to those who knew him well. And Geordi could see the tension in the synthetic shoulders, the faint downturned mouth that was like a shout to him.
"Data."
Data actually stopped what he was doing and looked up. Bad sign. "Yes, Geordi?"
"Wanna talk?"
Data studied him for a moment without a flicker in those bright yellow eyes. Then he shook his head and went back to doctoring the console. Geordi could see the poison-green blotches of Borg blink across the displays, the reflected light turning Data's pale gold face a sickly green. He sighed and shook his head, then turned and went over to where three crewmen were attempting to repair the shattered plasma coolant tank.
"How's it going?" he asked conversationally.
One of the ensigns, a youngish woman with hair so pale it looked as though it had been bleached, shook her head dubiously. "We're attempting to rebond the transparent aluminum, but the matrix doesn't seem to be functioning properly."
Geordi took the padd from her and studied it intently, then pressed a few buttons and handed it back. "There you go."
"Thank you, sir." The ensign turned back to scowling at the shattered tank. Geordi didn't know whether she knew how the tank was shattered; everything had been so chaotic for the past few days, what with one thing or another. Being one of the senior staff, he of course was aware of what had caused the damage—Data. Data had done it, to kill the Borg. How he had managed to lose half the synthetic skin off his face and a good piece off his arm, Geordi still didn't know. Data had not told him—which was weird, because Data usually told him everything. Of everyone on board the ship, Data was the closest to him. Even before he had had emotions, he had still sought out Geordi's company. And the thought had warmed Geordi.
He turned around, back to the consoles, and caught Data staring intently at the ruptured tank before he became aware of Geordi's gaze and turned back to the console with that faintly machinelike quality of movement that always gave away his true nature: android.
But right now that wasn't on Geordi's mind: the all too human feelings within that titanium and silicon shell were. He strode briskly over to where Data stood bent over the console and laid his hand on Data's shoulder.
"Watcha thinking about, buddy?" he asked softly.
Data did not look up. His hands flew over the panel. "I am considering the best way to reroute the power from the Borg implants so that they can be removed. Never having had the opportunity to observe Borg technology this close, I am analyzing the extent of their technology. I would say that they are quite possibly the most technologically advanced race in the galaxy."
"They're a conglomerate. Does that count as 'race'? Besides, they couldn't assimilate you—and if they can't beat Noonien Soong's cybertechnology, then I'd say they're far from being the 'most technologically advanced race in the galaxy'."
"Their expertise does not extend merely to the technological." The console before him bleeped, then shut down. Data began methodically removing Borg circuitry from the tangle of wires. "It also extends to the mental."
"What's that supposed to mean? They stick a piece of circuitry in your head, and it controls you. That doesn't count as—"
"It is a mental control," said Data, turning to face Geordi. "It is the force of the Collective mind that controls you. It is like telepathy. How else do you think that the Captain, when once linked to the hive mind, could hear them in his own mind?"
"The Captain could hear them?" said Geordi, hearing the shock in his own voice and not bothering to hide it.
Data nodded, though his face remained composed. "He heard them…whisper to him. But he used it, utilized it to analyze their weaknesses. Thus, he was able to know where their shields were weak, and this enabled him to destroy the cube."
Geordi remembered that awful day, the Captain springing like an unleashed tiger at Data's console.
This is Captain Picard of the Enterprise. I'm taking charge of the fleet. Concentrate all your weapons onto the following coordinates; fire at my command.
He turned to Data. "He knew!"
"As I believe I said." Data had turned back to the console, was ripping circuitry from it. "To some extent I, too, was linked to the hive mind. I called him," he admitted, not looking at Geordi. "Through the link. I told him I was alive and unassimilated, and he came back to save me." His hands never paused in their activity, so fast they were pale blurs, his voice never wavered, but Geordi could see Data's shoulders getting stiffer and stiffer. "It is another way she brought me closer to humanity."
" 'She'? Hold on a minute," said LaForge, his voice more petulant than he intended. "Who's 'she'?"
Data did look up then, and there was anger in the sulphurous eyes, anger and other less obvious emotions that Geordi could not identify. He took an involuntary step back as Data said, "The Borg queen."
"There was a queen?"
"She brought order to chaos," said Data, as though he were quoting someone else. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pinched, and Geordi suddenly remembered that those long, seemingly delicate hands could bend titanium. "She was, in every sense of the the word, the Collective."
"Oh, my God." Geordi could hear the faint tremor in Data's voice, and it disturbed him more even than his first sight of Data after the crisis—the left side of his face stripped, the titanium skull plainly exposed, servo-motors and artificial nerves taut over the metal exoskeleton of his arm. "Data. What did she do to you?"
"She made me more human," said Data, with a faint smile which held irony that Geordi had never seen in his friend before. Data's eyes darted to the side, then focussed back on his friend. "Geordi. I would appreciate it if you would not pursue this conversation. If I am overwhelmed with emotions I will be unable to concentrate on my work, and I will have to deactivate the chip."
It was not a threat; simply a statement. Geordi nodded reluctantly.
"All right, Data. But listen. If you ever do want to talk, I'm right here."
The anger bled out of Data's eyes.
"Thank you, my friend," he said softly.
Picard went down to Engineering after five hours to see what progress had been made. He noted that many of the tubes had been removed from their interfaces in the ship's walls, although the regeneration alcoves still stood. A faint horrible memory of himself pinned in one such alcove flitted through his consciousness before he forcibly pushed it away. The Borg were dead, and his ship was his own. He had won.
He strode fiercely down the corridor—blessedly cool and dry, no swirl of humidity—and reveled in the emptiness of his mind, the emptiness that no longer droned and whispered and called, Locutus…
No servos. No sensorscopes. No laser beams piercing the murk of the Borg hive. The green panels above the alcoves were dark and without power.
He was just in time to see Commander Data rip an alcove from the wall in one smooth motion, lift it over his head, and walk across the room without apparent effort.
Despite his knowledge of Data's strength, Picard gaped. Those things had to weigh at least a kiloton, and Data just…walked off with them. Across the room various teams of crewmembers were easing the alcoves onto antigrav sleds and carting them off.
For a moment Picard just watched, arms folded, and then Data caught sight of him.
"Captain." He swung his burden down onto the deck and came forward, perfectly composed, not a hair ruffled.
Geordi, hearing him, broke off from where he was tugging at an alcove and came forward, wiping his hands on his uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, and his dark face was glossy with sweat.
"How goes it?" asked Picard.
Geordi caught the informality in the captain's voice and responded in kind, shrugging and rolling his eyes. "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it. I can't imagine how they managed to jam all this foreign circuitry into the boards without triggering a self-destruct mechanism."
"The Borg are, by their nature, easily adaptable," Data supplied helpfully. "Perhaps that is the key."
Geordi shrugged again. "Ah, I don't know. Everyone in here is so pissed off that I thought I'd give them a chance to work it off." He nodded to the teams wrestling with the bulky and recalcitrant alcoves. Loud swearing was heard.
Data was not giving them his full attention. He was staring at the table that had been—to use Will Riker's word—borgified. Picard remembered being slammed against the table, a rotating saw on the end of a drone pricking his neck, poised to slice through muscle and bone.
He still had not told the rest of the crew what had transpired in this room—more than the basics.
Who knew what had happened to Data on that table?
Locutus…A mental echo. Not her voice.
Next to him, Geordi cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. "Uh…guys?"
Picard brought his gaze back and noticed that Data had as well. "Excuse me. Well, carry on, Engineer. Let me know if you encounter any problems—any major problems," he amended, as Data opened his mouth. "In two hours a different shift will come in to relieve you."
"Very good, Captain," said LaForge.
As Picard turned to go he saw Geordi stretch his tired back. Data had already gone back to the alcove lying in the middle of the floor and hoisted it over his head.
In two hours the promised relief came. Geordi retreated with alacrity to find a sandwich and a drink. Data continued working. He did not tire as organics did, and the sooner Engineering was restored, the sooner they could go back to normal operation.
The transporter chief was ticked off. It wasn't enough that they had to battle the Borg and go back in time, now he had to be on double duty—since his relief had been assimilated. Thus he fought grief and was in no patience for nonsense, and was therefore extremely annoyed at having to spend his whole day at the transporter controls, beaming Borg junk down to labs on Earth, there to be taken apart and studied in an attempt to learn something more about the Federation's most lethal enemy.
He swore as he beamed more alcoves out of Engineering and fervently wished that all Borg and their appliances would go straight to hell—or wherever it was Borg went when they truly died.
Data stepped into his quarters and noted dispassionately that he smelled like Borg coolant—that alien mechanical smell. He decided that he would go down to the lab later and analyze the chemical components of this fluid.
For now, however, he was filthy. He stripped and stuffed his clothes down the recycler, then stepped into the sonic shower. After he came out he dressed in a new uniform—since he did not sleep, he had no need of sleepwear—and went over to where his easel stood, sliding paints out of their tubes. Spot came and rubbed against his leg, and he petted the animal absently while considering whether work did indeed serve to ease grief or the consciousness of guilt. Humans said so, perhaps because they did not have a multiphase brain. He could concentrate on twelve different things at once. Hence the fact that while he was down working in Engineering everything that had transpired a few days ago ran and reran itself through his positronic circuits. It was becoming harder and harder to reroute his awareness away from those disturbing memories—like a terrible Holodeck scenario that he was trapped in, the drama played itself out continually through multiple levels of his consciousness. Like a virus, it took over more and more of his circuits.
He shook his head as if to jolt the circuits back to their assigned duties and picked up his palette. As he painted his internal chronometer ticked off the minutes left before he had to meet Counselor Troi. It was not something he looked forward to—in fact, he discovered as he analyzed it, his unpleasant anticipation had combined with a tinge of fear to form the feeling the humans called dread. He did not want to talk about what had happened in Engineering.
His hand moved the brush with preternatural speed. It felt good, to do something. Finally. To have some power over something that happened.
His internal chronometer told him that he had three minutes left before his counseling appointment. He was on the verge of getting up and putting away his paints when the door chimed.
In a few nanoseconds he had decided what to do. The painting would smear if flung somewhere else, and he wanted to preserve it. He would answer the door himself, and talk to whoever wanted him outside.
Counselor Deanna Troi started slightly as the doors to Data's quarters slid open. He stood before her, a puzzled crease marring his brow.
"Counselor? Is there something…"
"I thought we could have the counsel session in your quarters," she said gently. "More familiar surroundings."
She reached out and felt indecision, hesitation—and fear. Fear so powerful as to be almost overwhelming, and a hot sense of shame.
Data shifted, apparently trying to shield her view of the room. "Counselor, I…"
"What is it, Data?" she said softly. He was actually trembling. Then, with a flash of insight, "Is there something you do not want me to see?"
He let out a sigh and bit his lip. "They will all hate me," he stated.
"Hate you? Hate you for what?"
"For what I did!" His hands clenched at his sides.
"Data," said Troi, not quite understanding, "you saved the ship. You saved the whole earth. The future of humanity."
"But…but the Borg captured me…"
"They captured the Captain, too. Does anyone hate him?"
He blinked. "No. But he had no choice. I did."
"Did you really?"
He blinked rapidly, processing. "No. Not really. That is what troubles me…I took the best course I could think of, and still my ethical subroutines insist that I did wrong."
"Call it a conscience, Data. Is that what you are so troubled over? The fact that you could not see a right way?"
Data glanced over her shoulder at the passing crewmen.
"I have worked very hard to perfect my sense of appropriateness," he informed her. "If I am correct, this is," he paused, " 'not the place' to discuss this."
Troi smiled. "You're right, Data. May I come in?"
Again the android hesitated.
Troi put a reassuring hand on his arm. "I'm a counselor, Data. I hear everyone's secrets. Whatever it is that worries you, I promise I won't judge."
For a moment longer he stared at her, then wheeled and walked back into his quarters.
Troi followed him. The first thing that struck her eye was the large canvas set up in the middle of the room. Though clearly unfinished, it was the face that held her attention. It seemed alive, straining to escape the confines of the paint.
It was a mesmerizing face. Hauntingly beautiful with a sharp, fiercely sculpted, finely planed face and full crimson lips standing out like human blood against the cold marbled flesh of the Borg, the three tubes protruding from its bald head only accentuating the sensuality of that face. Its eyes were metal-clouded silver, ancient and insatiable, alight with power, with erotic beckoning. It was a terrifying face, and those silver eyes stared directly at the viewer—at Troi—a sly, satisfied smile curling those scarlet lips.
Troi staggered back at the waves of powerful emotion coming off of the being beside her. Data caught her in those inhumanly strong arms and asked in concern, "Counselor…?"
"It's—it's all right," she said, righting herself. "It's just—Oh, God, Data."
His face was stiff with rage—but not at her. At the face in the painting and all she represented. There was acid in the golden eyes.
"Now do you know why I did not want you to see?" he said to her.
"Oh, Data." She put out a hand. He had one of his own clutching at his temples.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.
"I will, Counselor," he said. His eyes were back on the painting. Troi took him by the hand and led him over to the couch. He sat stiffly, without any of the artificial 'relaxed' mannerisms he had adopted over the years.
"What happened?" asked Troi softly.
He told her. Beneath his level voice an immense anger was seething. Troi had only felt this intensity of emotion from one being—and that was Lore. Misguided, violent, brilliant Lore, who had destroyed those around him until he had to be killed by his own brother.
What was Soong, to give the capacity for such rage to his creations?
"And then…" said Data, and stopped.
"Yes?" Troi prompted.
"Then I knocked the two Borg who were applying the human skin on my arm down, and entered the code into the control padd. When the devices released me I attempted to run for the door, but the drones were fighting me."
"What did you do?"
Data's face tightened at the memory. "I threw one down the warp core well. The others I damaged severely. I was nearly to the door, but a force field flashed in front of me. I attempted to turn and reach the other exit—but—"
"Yes?"
Data turned away. His fists were clenched tightly, shaking, on his knees. "She commanded a drone to scratch me."
"Scratch you?"
"Scratch the human skin on my arm." Data turned to face her again, his teeth clenched. "I had never felt pain before, not what organic beings would call pain. The shock of it immobilized me. She held up her hand, and the drones moved off."
"And then?"
He was looking away from her again. "I do not wish to tell you."
"You can tell me, Data. I won't tell anyone else."
"She said—" He stopped, and looked at her. "I will imitate her voice, so that you can understand. You must understand, Counselor."
"Very well, Data."
She could see the marks of the effort in his face. Had he been human, he would have been sweating rivulets. "She said, 'Is it becoming clear to you now?'"
Troi flinched. She knew all about Data's proficiency in voice-mimicry, but still it was uncanny. And that voice—sly, contemptuous—alluring.
" 'Look at yourself—standing there cradling the new flesh I have given you. If it means nothing to you, why protect it?'"
Data's eyes crimped with distress. "I said, 'I..am merely imitating the behavior of humans.'"
"And she said…" Troi prompted.
" 'You are becoming more human all the time, Data. Now you are learning how to lie.'"
Data's voice changed again. In it was pain and bewilderment, and fear. " 'My programming…was not designed…to process these sensations!'"
Troi could see it all too clearly—the creature from the painting circling Data, intent upon her prey, Data frightened and disturbed. "What did she say then?"
"She said…she said…" Data swallowed several times. Troi could feel the anger from him, getting stronger and stronger. "She said: 'Then tear the skin from your limb, as you would a defective circuit.—Go ahead, Data. We won't stop you.'"
His voice rose, cracked. "I tried to, Counselor! But she knew I could not. She stood there, smiling at me. She knew…"
"She knew that you had always wanted to know what it felt like to be human," said Troi softly.
Data simply stared at her, his mouth crimped into a thin line, and shook his head.
"What happened after that?"
"She asked me…if I was familiar with physical forms of pleasure. I told her that if she was referring to sexuality, I was fully functional; programmed in multiple techniques. She asked me how long it was since I used them. I told her…and she said…she said…she said it had been far too long. It was as if she knew about Tasha!"
Troi herself had not known about Tasha. "And?"
Data jumped from the couch and stood facing her, tense and ready to run. "I do not wish this to continue!" he said between clenched teeth.
"Did she kiss you?"
"No!" and then twitched as his ethical programming sent a quaver through his nervous system. Troi did not need that twitch to tell her he was lying—the waves of emotion assaulting her did that well enough. She asked very quietly, "Did you want her to kiss you, Data?"
"No! She was a monster."
"That was not what I asked. I asked you if you wanted her to kiss you."
"That is an invalid question. She would not allow me to deactivate my emotion chip. I could not reroute my awareness away from what she made me feel."
"Did she make you feel it? Or did you—"
"No!" Data shouted. "I do not wish to discuss it."
"What happened after you kissed?"
"No!" Data slammed his fist down onto the table and left a dent in it. Troi stared. That table was titanium.
Data stared too, first at the table and then at his hand. Then he stared at Troi, questioning in his eyes.
"I did not mean to do that," he said softly, wonderingly.
"It's all right, Data. Anger has to be let out. And I know for a fact that Worf has been smashing breakable objects in his quarters for the past few days."
He nodded, relieved, and gave her a brief smile. Then he went down on one knee and without apparent effort straightened the table back. Then, composedly, he walked back to the couch and sat down, folding his hands loosely in his lap.
"Do you feel better?" asked Troi.
He glanced at her quickly, then saw that she was sincere.
"Yes," he admitted, and then the brief lifting of the clouds faded and his mouth thinned again. He did not look at her. "Though I expect that what I will tell you next will make me angry again." He turned to her, sincerity shining in his eyes. "I do not want to be angry, Counselor. I do not want to be like Lore."
"You will never be like Lore, Data. You're the most gentle person I know. And it's natural to feel angry over a…rape."
He went very still. "Rape, Counselor?"
"Yes, rape," said Troi firmly. "Emotional and physical."
He did not use platitudes as a human would. He did nothing at all, just kept staring at the floor with that hurt, bewildered gaze. Troi put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, feeling the density and strength of the underlying structure, so different from an organic's.
Data sighed. "I suppose this is what humans mean when they say they 'feel as if they have been used'."
"Yes, Data. And you were used in the worst possible way. But we have to work through it if you want to get past it. Trust me, Data." She paused. "How did you feel with her in your arms?"
"How do you think I felt?" he flung at her.
"I don't know. I'm asking you."
He got up again, walked restlessly around the room, another mannerism he had picked up, probably from the Captain. "I do not know."
"Try to remember."
"No! I do not wish to!"
"But you didn't delete the memories. Did you?"
He didn't answer her, simply stared at her with his head cocked to one side. Troi knew he was not seeing her, but the Queen.
"I am going to smash something again," he threatened.
"Go ahead," said Troi coolly.
He stared at her for a moment, jaw working, before whirling and staring at the easel. The Borg Queen stared back at him, mocking him, triumphant even in death.
"Why did you paint her, Data?" said Troi's soft voice from beyond the Queen's alluring, deadly face.
He had to process for several seconds before finally coming up with a coherent answer—for Data, an eternity. "I wished to contain her. I heard that humans feel better when they—I believe it is called 'externalizing' one's feelings—and I thought…"
"Yes?"
He did not answer. He was too busy staring into those mesmerizing metallic eyes. Vaguely he wondered whether he was having a malfunction, because images of her were mixed up with other memories—other deaths. Tasha's, Lal's, even Lore's. Threaded through it was the emotion he had felt when he had failed Geordi on the Amargosa observatory.
"Data?" asked Troi. "I'm feeling a deep sense of guilt from you."
He said nothing. Was this how Lore had felt, all his life? Guilty, consumed with rage? Betrayed, even?
Poor Lore. No wonder he was so destructive.
"Data?"
He snapped back to the present, eyes focussing beyond the canvas. "Yes, Counselor."
"Why are you angry with Captain Picard?"
He actually flinched. He had not realized it himself until she had voiced it. He processed again. "I believe it is because…"
"Yes?" Troi prompted.
He flung all attempts at calm analysis to the winds and, for the moment, simply felt. He did not actually see a haze of red over his vision—that was yet another human trait he was denied—but he was acutely aware of every neuron, every impulse firing. Wanting to hurt something, anything, yet prohibited from doing so by his programming. The opposing urges actually shook him.
"He was going to leave the ship and blow it up!" he seethed, and took a few steps closer to Troi. He hated feeling this way. It was what he had felt in the Borg hive—vulnerable, confused, full of rage. "He was going to leave the ship and blow it up, and me with it. He was not there!"
"You felt abandoned," Troi said sympathetically.
"Yes! He was sitting on the bridge—which he had only because I locked the computers out—doing nothing except order others, while she had me and was using me. I was trying my best to isolate a way to regain control of the ship…in the end, I was the one who destroyed her. The fate of the whole galaxy was in my hands, and he wished to simply destroy them and me and run away! It was—" he scanned momentarily for a word—"it was disloyal."
"He did come back for you, you know, Data."
Data's shoulders sagged. "Only because I called him."
"What, Data?"
The yellow eyes were full of acute distress. "I was by this time linked to the Hive mind—as was he. I called the Captain through the link. I told him that I was still unassimilated. I tried to transmit full data to him, but the link was unreliable and an android brain cannot file-dump into an organic brain. So he was unprepared when he came to Engineering."
"What happened in Engineering?"
"I do not have full recordings, as I was in stasis for some of the time—"
"Stasis?"
"A Borg regeneration alcove," he said bluntly.
Troi shuddered involuntarily.
Data cocked his head to one side, seemingly puzzled by her reaction. Evidently he still didn't understand empathic abilities. "But I do have logs from the point when I was reactivated." His head twitched thoughtfully. "Wait."
Troi watched as he got up and activated the viewer on his desk and uncoiled a length of cord from a drawer. He turned to her, peeling back a strip of skin from his temple to expose the blue-glowing port underneath as he did so.
"I can download my visual logs to this screen," he explained, "therefore enabling you to better understand."
"Well, Data, I would prefer if you would tell me what happened…"
"I believe it will be necessary to show you," he said impassively, and without as much as a blink plugged the cord into the port on his temple, then plugged the other end into the viewer. His eyes darted from side to side as he sifted his memory banks for the right file.
"Ah," he said, "here it is," and then his eyes seemed to glaze over as a scene came suddenly into focus on the screen: Engineering, yet hideously changed. Black tubes hung suspended from the ceiling; glowing alcoves lined the walls. The atmosphere was dim and murky, pierced only by the the laser sensorscopes of Borg. In the swirling mist dim shapes moved with unsettling mechanical jerkiness: the Borg.
Data unsnapped the port from his temple and impassively smoothed the skin over. "I have downloaded the file." He leaned forward. "Computer, play current file."
The scene shifted to focus on two figures standing in the foreground. One was obviously Captain Picard, albeit sweatstained, begrimed and tense; the other—the other Troi recognized from Data's painting. The Borg Queen, even more vibrant and alluring in life than she was in a painting.
"You're free to go, Data," she said.
"Data, go," said Picard, without taking his eyes from the Queen.
"No," came Data's voice, sharp with a contemptuous note Troi had never heard before.
Picard turned to stare directly at the camera—at Data—in disbelief.
"I do not wish to go," said Data.
Troi chanced a glance at the being beside her. He was tense, his eyes riveted on the two figures on the screen. Waves of unsettling emotions poured off him. She took his pale gold hand in hers and squeezed. This seemed to comfort him; he squeezed back and gave her a brief smile that was meant to be reassuring, even as the Borg queen said with a sly smile that showed sharp white teeth:
"As you see, I have already found an equal.—Data. Deactivate the autodestruct sequence."
"Data, no, don't do it!" Picard shouted.
Data's hand flew over the panel on the wall. Troi could see the pink human flesh on his arm, unsettling against the synthetic flesh.
"Data, listen to me—" said Picard.
"Auto-destruct sequence deactivated."
The Borg Queen smiled, triumphant, and cast a malicious glance at Picard before saying, "Now enter the decryption codes and give me computer control."
"Data!" Picard leaped up on the platform, but he was too late.
"Data," he whispered.
Data moved to stand beside the Queen, and his voice was full of evil pleasure as he said, "He will make an excellent drone."
Picard gave him a look of pure furious betrayal as two drones grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to a table.
Through Data's eyes, Troi experienced the attempt to destroy the Phoenix, and the horrific unfolding of events afterwards. She saw the spray of plasma coolant, saw bits of blood and ragged flesh splatter across the camera—Data's one remaining eye—as the skin on the left side of his face dissolved. She saw the Borg Queen try to drag Picard into the coolant, saw her own arms—Data's arms—reach out to seize the Queen and hurl her into the coolant. When the sight of the Borg Queen's bubbling flesh and horrible screams filled the screen Troi convulsively covered her eyes and turned away from the screen, feeling her stomach heave. "That's enough!"
Data silently switched the screen off. When Troi didn't take her face out of her hands he put an arm around her shoulders.
"Oh, God, Data," Troi moaned. "I had no idea how horrible it was." She paused. "When the plasma coolant dissolved the human skin on your arm and face, it must have been agonizing."
"It was as I told her," he said. "My programming was not designed to process the sensations. My systems nearly went off-line."
"You nearly died, you mean."
"No. I almost," his eyes flicked back and forth. "I almost overloaded from the excess of sensory input."
"That's right. You can't subside into unconsciousness like humans. Oh, you poor man, Data."
"Counselor," he reminded her, "I am not a man. I am an android."
"Well, I think that everything you did in Engineering that day just about conclusively proved your humanity, Data. A mere machine couldn't have done all the things you did."
He smiled faintly. "Thank you, Counselor." He tipped his head to the side, consulting his internal chronometer. "I believe our time is up. Shall we have another session tomorrow night, same time?"
"Data. Data, I could stay a while longer."
"You need sleep in order to adequately function." He stood up again, the perfect gentleman, and offered his hand to her. "I will be available tomorrow night, however."
"All right, Data." Which it wasn't, of course, but Troi knew from experience that it was extremely hard to argue with Data. She went and walked to the door, deliberately avoiding glancing at the painting—she almost felt its eyes boring into her back. "Just—Data,if you want to smash things, I recommend that you do it on the holodeck. It'll be hard to explain to the Captain why every article in your room is destroyed."
"I do not think so," he said, and gave her a weak smile.
Troi smiled back, doing her best to look reassuring. "Well, Data, that's as may be. But please…"
"Yes?"
"Try not to blame yourself too much."
Golden eyes tracked her as she walked out the door.