Picard stared out the window of his quarters. Strange, to see stars in fixed positions. He was more used to them streaking by in prismatic stretched-out colors while the Enterprise sped off on some mission. Though he didn't consider himself a man of action—not precisely—nevertheless just sitting here doing nothing made him irritable. Space battles, saving worlds—those left his nerves intact. But sitting around picking up the pieces after the world had been saved—that grated on him.

Still, he supposed he shouldn't be too angry. After all, the Earth was still there, unassimilated, a swirling vivid jewel in the velvet blackness of space.

Commander Worf was still on the Defiant, no doubt still crawling through consoles. When Picard had paged him he had been answered with a restrained growl. Worf was not in the best of tempers, and who could blame him? Neither was anyone else, except for Riker, who hadn't had to fight Borg hand to hand. Secretly, Picard almost envied his first officer—Riker had remained planetface, assisting Doctor Cochrane in humanity's first warp flight, actually getting to fly in the tiny cramped cockpit of the Phoenix. And Picard? Had to fight for his ship, his home, the very future of humanity. Deep down he knew that this feeling was unreasonable, that he himself had assigned Riker the task of being in charge of the away team.

But since when had human nature ever been reasonable?

This reminded him of Data. Feeling a sudden need to check up on his second officer, Picard paged Data in his quarters. "Picard to Data."

"Data here," came the instant reply. "Captain, is there some emergency?"

Which reminded Picard of how late it was. He was still putting off sleep. He wondered whether the android knew this.

"No, Data. I was just wondering how you were doing."

"Oh." A pause. "All systems are functioning within normal parameters."

Good heavens. Was Data being evasive? Not that Picard could blame him. "No, I mean how are you doing?"

A long pause, and then: "Adequately, Captain."

Picard sighed and leaned against the wall. "Data?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Data…it isn't going to be easy for any of us."

"Understood, sir. Is there anything else?"

"No, Data, there isn't."

"Sir…have you been sleeping?"

Picard rubbed his forehead. So even Data knew about his dread of sleep. "I was about to go to bed."

"Understood, sir. Data out."

The comlink cut out. Picard went and had a cup of tea before dimming the lights and sliding into bed. For a long time he lay and stared at the ceiling. When he finally subsided into sleep he dreamed about his assimilation and woke up screaming, for the third night in a row.

He kicked off the tangled blankets and got up, cursing, to stare out the window again. He could see a spacedock in the jewel-studded blackness beyond the transparent aluminum, rotating slowly on its orbit around the earth.

He wondered when the Vulcans were going to come and patch them up so they could get the hell out of here.

In the ready room next morning Troi could feel the exhaustion and sleep-deprivation radiate off the others around her. She had sensed Picard's nightmare, but had decided not to go to him: if he had wanted to talk he would come to her. Geordi had been up late last night wrestling with the wiring the Borg had stuck in the walls; Worf had spent most of his sleeping-time working on the Defiant; Riker had had night-shift—being the most capable and least occupied of them all—and Beverley Crusher had still not returned from monitoring the patients in one of Earth's most advanced hospitals. When Picard had balked at this theft of his ship's doctor, Command had pointed out that Doctor Crusher was one of the few currently available medicos with working knowledge of Borg wounds. As for Data, right now he was currently assiduously studying the fish tank in the wall. As the others took their seats he turned and joined them.

The plan of action was basically the same as yesterday's: repair the ship, clean out the Borg gadgetry, try to retain a semblance of a normal workday. Picard was going to use his pull as captain of the Federation flagship to see if they could be outfitted with a new crew and get back to their patrols. Riker was going to go with Worf and a couple of technicians and try to get the Defiant up and running, since Worf had pointed out that Deep Space Nine would no doubt need him.

Geordi was sighing as he and Data rode the turbolift down to Engineering, his sleeves already rolled up in anticipation of another day of heavy labor. "I dunno, Data. Is it just me, or is everyone more keyed up than usual?"

"I do not know. Is not tenseness a normal human reaction after a crisis?"

"Yeah, I guess. But the Captain's not sleeping well, not that I blame him. Too bad Doctor Crusher isn't here. She could whip up a fixer-upper in no time."

Data cocked his head at him, but said nothing.

"Well," said Geordi, as they stepped out of the turbolift and walked down the hallway, "at least they're sending a repair crew. Ever notice how repair crews are usually Vulcans? They love tinkering with that stuff. Either that or they feel guilty because they weren't in on the fight."

"Perhaps," said Data.

"Anyway, we'll need all the Vulcan calm we can get. I haven't had time to scan the news, but I bet everyone on Earth is pretty much hysterical."

"I have been keeping up with the latest bulletins. They are hysterical."

Geordi laughed, clapped Data on the shoulder. "There, I knew it. Imagine seeing that thing on holovid—I mean, imagine seeing it as everyone down there saw it, no reference points. I mean, the Borg is what kids frighten other kids with. They're pretty much the boogeymen of the galaxy now. Think they care?"

"They do not," said Data calmly. He glanced to one side. "In fact, I believe that she would have been pleased."

There it was: that disturbing way he avoided saying the name of the Queen, as though it were too dreadful—or too sacred—to hear aloud. Trying to get past the awkward silence, Geordi said with a strained grin, "Anyway, back to the repair crews. I don't think I've ever seen a Klingon crew repair ships after a crisis, though of course they must. A shipload of Worfs, running around. Imagine it, Data!"

"I am endeavoring to, Geordi," said the android solemnly, as he bent over his work.

By 0500 hours most of the Borg circuitry was out of the walls, and the consoles in Engineering had been, as Geordi put it, "de-assimilated". No more of those alien green blotches blinked up at the eyes of the crew. The regeneration alcoves had all been beamed down to labs all over Earth, there to be distributed to the rest of the Federation and studied. The tubing had been detached from the walls and ceiling, and now the repair crews were concentrating on various phaser-blasts, scorched panels, and ripped-up hardware. Some of the damage was so severe that they would have to wait until a better-equipped crew, namely the Vulcans, came along.

Worf, meanwhile, had been busy on his ship, beaming hopelessly twisted metal and debris out into space on a wide-dispersal beam, and cursing the Borg in at least four languages. Ensign Hayes helped him in everything but the cursing and tried not to think of his fallen and assimilated comrades.

"Damn!" Picard shouted, as the vidscreen went blank with the insignia of Starfleet. Angrily he switched the viewer off and began to pace the room.

"Captain?" asked a soft voice from the door of the ready room. Damn. He'd forgotten about Deanna on the bridge. He must have been projecting all over the place.

He swung around to face her. "Yes, Counselor? What is it?"

"That's what I came to ask you." Troi's large eyes were full of probing sympathy.

Picard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn bureacrats. They want to keep us here indefinitely, until they can unscramble themselves and their red tape enough for a proper debriefing—in person, no less. Oh, God." He rubbed his forehead, eyes shut against the pain in his head. "I shall be in the news again. I know I was when I was…captured…"

"I'm sorry, Captain." And she was sorry. This was hard on all of them.

"I doubt they'll throw the book at me, as I did save Earth. But it'll be difficult for the crew, and there'll no doubt be all sorts of top-secret officials—I hate dealing with Intelligence agents." He dropped his hands to his sides, laughed bitterly. "And I had wanted to get out of here and back to business."

"A typical Starfleet officer reaction," observed Troi sagely. "Bury the trauma beneath work."

Picard sighed. "Counselor, this really isn't the time…"

"Data wants to do the same thing, you know. And I keep telling him he can't, but he won't listen."

"Keep telling him. Perhaps you'll get through to him eventually."

"That's what I'm doing with you, sir."

Picard's jaw clamped. "That isn't what I meant." Seeing she was still unimpressed, he elaborated. "I do not want to talk about it. Not one-on-one, and least of all in group therapy, which I've always held to be ridiculous."

"Who said anything about group therapy?" When the Captain didn't answer she went on. "You're projecting, Captain. You're afraid of telling Starfleet Command about the incident and you're transferring the fear to me."

"Stop psychoanalyzing me!" Picard snapped.

She gave him a faint smile. "What's a ship's counselor for?"

Picard's shoulders sagged. "Point taken. But really, Counselor. Now is not the time."

"Will there ever be a time?"

He didn't look at her. Shrugged brusquely.

And Deanna Troi walked from the ready room shaking her head.

When she went to Data's quarters that night she noticed that the painting of the Borg Queen had disappeared. When asked about it, Data simply looked at her.

"It seemed to disturb you when you saw it," he said equitably. "Our…session…depends on your being relaxed."

But there were no breakthroughs during the session. Data was his normal calm, imperturbable self, his face set in that faintly quizzical expression that was normal for him. He looked Troi in the eye when he talked, sitting absolutely still. At one point Spot jumped into his lap and Data stroked her absently, but without a flicker of emotion on his face. Were Troi anyone else, she would have thought the emotion chip was off. But outer calm could not deceive Betazoid senses. The emotion's that roiled beneath Data's neutral surface were dark and ugly.

At last their hour was up. Troi got up with a sigh and crossed to the door. Data, setting down Spot, followed silently, his head cocked to one side, his eyes wide with distress.

"Counselor," he said. "I hope you do not think that I am being…stubborn."

Troi managed a weak smile. "No, Data. Just troubled." She patted him on the arm. "Give yourself time to heal."

He nodded to her as the doors slid shut and parted them.

Afterwards Troi spent her time counseling a young man whose wife had been assimilated, and several other shattered and hurting people. The dark tide of emotions left her crying herself. She ordered a hot fudge sundae and ate it slowly, watching the tears drip into the sauce and flavor it with the tang of salt.