Data took refuge in painting, a severe, strictly geometric composition with primary colors, black-bordered squares arranged exactly on the canvas. He liked this kind of painting best. It appealed to the logic of his mind, without all these incomprehensible and puzzling emotions.

But eventually he found his hand moving slower and slower as more and more of his memory circuits became consumed with images from that horrible day in Engineering. He tried to reroute his awareness, without success. Eventually he gave up painting altogether, putting all the brushes and paints away. As he slid the now-clean palette into its proper place his hand brushed against the canvas on which the Borg Queen's face was painted. He consulted his memory banks for a proper human idiom, but all he could think of was 'a skeleton in the closet'.

Yes, a skeleton. A hard, blinking, metal skeleton with a long red-ribbed shiny spine, trailing into an empty black body. And the Borg Queen was in his closet, was she not?

He smiled faintly. Perhaps he had made a joke.

He pulled the canvas out and set it on the easel, staring into the silvery eyes. As he did the emotions inside him consumed his circuits. He turned away quickly and went to activate the holo of Tasha.

He stood and looked at it: at Tasha, as vibrant and beautiful as ever. This holo was like him: with proper care it would last virtually forever.

For the moment, he stopped fighting, and the memories replayed themselves through his brain, the memories he was trying so hard to block.

Heat, pressure on his mouth. Lips moving against his, wonderful and terrible and frightening because of the new, strange emotions accompanying them. At the same time, beating underneath like the pulse of a heart, his ethical programming, warning him that what he was doing he must not do.

"Data," she purred, tipping her head back. Staring right into his eyes. Was there not an old Earth legend about being hypnotized by the eyes of a snake? "You must show me more of your sexuality program."

A dilemma, taking 0.79 seconds to solve: a lifetime. To regain the ship he must acquiesce to her demands, but she was the enemy. She had killed millions, destroyed millions more. Data constructed a decision tree, ran a numbers program calculating his odds of succeeding with acquiescence versus his odds of succeeding with resistance. Acquiescence won.

"Of course," he said, doing his best approximation of a human's eager smile. If she saw the falseness she gave no sign. Data pulled her to him and kissed her again.

The next thing he knew she had her hands on his chest and was making him step backwards across the floor.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Isn't it obvious, Data?" she asked slyly.

A bump against his legs. He looked over his shoulder and saw an assimilation table. When he looked at her for an explanation she smiled again, and licked her lips. Then she flipped him onto the table as though he weighed nothing—something which shocked him greatly. He was made of titanium, of steel.

While he was thinking this she had vaulted lightly up onto the table and had straddled his hips. Now she sat smiling down at him with that same satisfied smile, danger moving through her eyes like the ripples on a body of water.

"Well, Data?" she purred.

He turned his head. The drones were moving about their assigned tasks, controlled by the will of She who was All. A few stopped to look at the two of them disinterestedly before moving on again.

She stared down at him impatiently.

"I do not wish to," he whispered. "Not with them watching."

She laughed, a silvery ripple. "Data, they only see what I want them to see. But if it pleases you—" She blinked, that slight motion he had come to know, and all the drones went away to other sections of the room, their backs turned. Even as Data was calculating how he could use this to his advantage she said, shifting, "Activate your pleasuring program. Now."

This, he recognized, was the emotion humans called humiliation. But he must not let her see it. Once he activated the program he would not feel it, not then. Only before and afterwards, as humans did.

He felt the surge as the program activated. And suddenly the Borg Queen seemed different to him: no longer such a monster, such a thing of revulsion. He stared up at her in wonder.

She smiled at him, eyes heavylidded. "It has been too long," she said. Then: "Move your hips, Data."

He did, and found it undeniably pleasurable. So he did it again. And again. He reached out to touch her, and the tingle in her fingers was like electricity.

So they held each other, and when at last he cried out against the sensory overload—cried out in pleasure—for some reason his vision had narrowed down to include only her face.

Data shuddered, Tasha's holo swimming before his eyes. He asked himself what Tasha would have said if she knew what he had had to do. In a few nanoseconds another part of his mind answered that she would have approved. She had grown up in a criminal world, starved and spending all her time avoiding rape gangs. She would have understood.

But this did not help the feeling inside him. He felt as though he were overheating, as though all his pain sensors were going off at once…No. He felt as he had that day when his new human flesh had been torn. Only this feeling was inside.

His throat ached. He swallowed, but the sensation did not go away. A small sound escaped him, a sound between a sigh and a groan. When he put his fingers up to his stinging eyes he felt wetness there.

He backed away from the holo until his back hit the wall. He slid down to a sitting position, staring off into space as the memories of those horrible minutes in Engineering played and replayed themselves.

The sobs came, slowly and softly at first and then harder until he was shaking with the force of the emotions that wrung him. And in between the sobs he whispered, "I am sorry…I am sorry…"

And the face of She who was All stared back at him from the canvas.

The anguished voice of the operatic tenor sobbed in Picard's ears. Despite this and his personal relaxation lamp all he could think of was the Borg.

It was ship's night. The decks would be deserted by now except for essential personnel. And Picard, once again, could not sleep.

The one person he trusted to dispense sleeping medication, Doctor Beverly Crusher, was away at the Earth hospitals, a fact that Picard heartily rued. Will Riker was sound asleep in bed, Worf was still on the Defiant—no doubt cursing heartily. Geordi was sleeping the sleep of a man who had been lifting heavy objects all day. And no doubt Counselor Troi had troubles of her own, an empath on a ship full of nightmare-ridden crewmen. No, he would not disturb her.

The tenor cried, in Italian, of his lost love.

"Oh, what do you know," said Picard irritably. "You only lost a lover. Not your ship, not three-quarters of your crew. And certainly not your dignity as a human being, although that may come in time, if you keep up that noise."

"I am not programmed to respond in that area," said the bland voice of the computer.

"No, I'll wager you're not. Computer, end music!"

The tenor cut off as though he had been suddenly throttled.

Picard sighed and lay down his book. Archaeology held no charms for him tonight. Nor did anything else.

But he didn't want to talk. Not that. But just to be near someone, to know that one was not alone in one's misery…

"Data," he said aloud, remembering Troi's assessment of the android's emotional state. He hit his commbadge. "Mr. Data?"

"Data here, sir."

Picard frowned. There was something odd about Data's voice. He sounded…choked. "Data? You all right?"

A long pause, during which Picard could hear heavy, uneven breathing. "I…do not believe so, sir."

"Data?"

"Perhaps…you should come, sir."

"On my way." Picard hit his commbadge and hurried out the door, wondering what on earth was the matter with his second officer.

As the doors whooshed open in front of him, for a moment he couldn't see anything anything out of the ordinary. There was an easel turned to face the wall, but that was hardly unusual. Then he saw Data.

The android was curled up in the corner, his face buried in his folded arms. His shoulders shook alarmingly. Strangled sobs came from his throat.

"Data." Picard strode over to his second officer and pulled him to his feet. "Data, what is wrong?"

The golden eyes were awash with tears. Data's face was streaked with wet. He gripped Picard's arms, carefully avoiding squeezing too hard and hurting him. "I am sorry for being angry with you, sir."

"Angry?" said Picard, astonished. And then in a flash it all came to him. Data not looking him in the eye. His silences, so unlike him, in the briefing room. He had not volunteered information until asked. Data, usually so eager to please, had become withdrawn—and Picard had been so preoccupied with his own demons and the concerns of his ship that he had not noticed it until now.

"Data," he said, shocked into speechlessness except for that one word.

Data wiped his eyes on his sleeve and rushed on. "I thought that you had abandoned me to the Borg. I see now that I was mistaken. I am sorry, sir."

"Data. Data, let's sit down." He put his hand on Data's arm and led the android unresistingly over to the couch. Data sat down, hands spread on his knees, and stared up at him, yellow eyes as guileless as ever.

Picard sighed and sat stiffly down, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. Disturbing images intruded into his mind, images of a consciousness trapped within its own assimilated body, looking out one's own eyes as out of the forcefield of a prison, trapped behind the shimmering wall. Unable even to scream. Suddenly the horror of it all nearly overwhelmed him. It had nearly overwhelmed him back in 2063, in the Observation Lounge, when he was trying to remodulate the gun.

Get out!

Or what? You'll kill me? Like you killed Ensign Lynch?

There was no way to save him!

You didn't even try!

And he hadn't tried with Data either. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he had decided to sacrifice the crewmen and his second officer, because the alternative was even more unbearable.

And Data was still here, unassimilated. But scarred, scarred perhaps permanently.

He felt the tears blurring in his eyes—a delayed reaction to all the callous butchery. Data saw, and his eyes widened in shock. "Sir?"

Picard shut his eyes to keep the tears from escaping, massaged his temples. "Data. I think I ought to tell you…that I had, essentially, abandoned you to the Borg. I thought you had been assimilated."

Data had had emotions for far too short a time to learn how to hide them properly. His face changed, from disbelief to hurt and a dawning anger. The sight cut through Picard like a knife. Data was his friend as well as his second officer, and the captain hated the sudden distrust he saw in the other's eyes.

"But sir," he said, visibly struggling to keep his tone even, respectful to his superior, "when you were Locutus, we came back for you. I came back for you. If you recall, Captain, I was one of the ones who beamed over to rescue you."

"I remember, Data." The Captain could feel the headache growing behind his eyes. "I remember all too well. But I was left with no choice. If we had let the Borg assimilate the ship they would have destroyed the whole galaxy."

"Do you think I did not know that?" Data's eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned. "I was conscious of it every moment in Engineering—and as you know, Captain, an android mind can literally do such a thing."

"Data." Picard had no idea what to say. He wasn't a counselor, was just a ship's captain. And he didn't even pretend not to know that all the ensigns called him the 'Iron Duke' behind his back. Sympathizing was not one of his strong points.

Of course Data knew this. His eyes showed reproach, anger—but no longing for pity. He leaned forward.

"I will not tell Counselor Troi about what happened in Engineering. However, I will tell you. I believe the captain has a right to know the activities of his crewmembers."

Picard winced—not at the sarcasm, for there was none, but because he had been avoiding precisely that question for some days now.

Data's eyes darted from side to side, a disturbingly computerish look of calculation. Then he turned away and stared at a point over Picard's left shoulder. Picard waited in silence.

Finally Data spoke.

"She had me activate my sexuality program." His voice was soft, dull with pain and defeat. "I had to do as she demanded, or she would have known that I was not truly on her side—that I was still trying to help you regain control of the ship."

Picard stared. Of course he knew that Data was fully functional, but somehow he could never think of his second officer in a sexual context.

Apparently the Borg Queen could.

"Data. My God, Data, that's—that's tantamount to rape!"

"It was rape, sir." Data's mouth twisted. "I had no wish to be intimate with her. And she used my programming against me. She somehow knew that once the program was active, it would—I would—"

He broke off and began to sob uncontrollably, one arm up to shield his face. Picard watched with growing alarm as Data's shoulders shook, remembering that Data's daughter Lal had died of emotional overload. Surely Data couldn't go into cascade failure over an emotional upheaval?

He reached over and touched Data on the shoulder, lightly. "Data? Should I call Counselor Troi? Or Geordi?"

Data hiccuped. "N-no, sir. I—I do not think that will be necessary." He choked again, then sucked in a deep breath and said desperately, "Sir, I must deactivate the emotion chip."

"You can't, Data. It will only put them in the buffer for later."

Data shook his head angrily. "I cannot deal with them now!"

"Data, I forbid it!" clipped Picard.

Golden eyes narrowed. "Is that an order, sir? Because I am rapidly becoming incapable of controlling my feelings. I may damage something." He choked again and went into a fresh cycle of sobs. Picard watched worriedly as Data's head sank lower and lower, and the sobs became more uncontrollable.

Then they suddenly stopped.

Data's head snapped up, eyes wide. All the lines had smoothed out of his face, though it still glistened with tears. He now had a distant, detached look.

"Data," Picard said sharply, dangerously. "Did you deactivate the emotion chip?"

Data's eyes flicked from side to side as he ran a quick diagnostic. Then he met Picard's eyes and nodded. "Affirmative, sir. But not through any conscious effort on my part. I believe it shut down as part of a failsafe system. I was in danger of overload." He cocked his head to the side, stared down at his damp sleeve. "This is all very interesting."

Picard felt as though he had just been through one of those horrible fairground rides that spun you around and around, upside down and sideways. He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Yes, Data, it is." He paused. "If there is no danger of overload, perhaps you'd better reactivate your emotion chip."

"Yes, sir." Data's mouth thinned. His head twitched. Picard could see the change immediately in the tightness around Data's eyes, the trembling of his mouth before he controlled it. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "The chip is active. However, I believe I can control myself now, sir."

Picard felt deep empathy for his second officer, but of course didn't know how to show it. He looked away and saw the easel, facing the wall.

"So, Data," he said conversationally, hoping a change of subject would do them both good, "what have you been working on?"

Wrong question. Data's head jerked suddenly. "I am not certain you want to know, sir."

"Well, Data, if you don't want—"

"However, I think you should know." Data appeared to reach a decision. He strode across the room with that indefinable, slightly machinelike quality that marked him as other than organic. He stood in front of the easel, and the blur of emotions that crossed his face was too fast for Picard to decipher. Then he looked at Picard and gave a slight nod.

When he saw the face on the canvas Picard felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He could feel his eyes widen as he muttered, "Mon Dieu."

"I am sorry, sir," said Data with an air of apology.

Picard looked into the metal-clouded eyes of the Borg Queen and shuddered. "Data, why on earth would you want to remind yourself of her?"

"My memories do not fade as yours do, sir. I can accurately recall every moment. In fact, I downloaded some of my memories into my personal computer for Counselor Troi to watch." He paused. "The files keep circulating. I thought that if I could…--I believe there is a reason for what humans call a 'confessional'. I believe it does them good. I hoped it could do the same for me."

"And has it?"

Data cocked his head to the side, considering. "I believe so, sir. I wanted to paint her to show the others what I have seen. I will not put the painting on display, Captain, but nevertheless I showed it to Counselor Troi."

"How did she react?"

"She appeared quite overcome. Apparently the intensity of emotions—"

"Yes, I see. Well, Data, I'd advise you to keep that thing under wraps. Not many can understand what we two have undergone—and we wouldn't want to frighten them. God knows they've been through enough already." He gave Data a conspiratorial glance.

Data nodded thoughtfully. "I believe I understand, sir. It is another case where humans do not need the whole truth." A lesson he had learned, painfully, over many years: humans can become frightened or angry when one is too candid with them.

"Exactly." Picard rose and went to stand before the easel, hands clenched at his sides. His heart was still beating far too fast. "What you and I have to remember Data, is that though she hurt us, we won in the end. You won, Data." He glared down at the mocking face of the Borg Queen.

Data shook his head. "No, sir. I could not have done it without you. You afforded the distraction I needed." He paused. "You reminded me that we still had a chance of victory. More importantly, sir, your presence reminded me of our talk in Stellar Cartography during the Amargosa incident. How one had to live with one's feelings, no matter what the circumstances—how courage could be an emotion as well." He gazed at Picard frankly. "I was afraid in Engineering, sir."

"Of course you were, Data. Any normal person would be. I certainly was." Picard patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Data smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Picard sighed and shook his head, staring at the painting of She who was All. The brushstrokes were Data's usual even, precise ones, but Picard had no doubt that Counselor Troi could feel the anger emanating off it.

"I wonder whether she will ever stop haunting us," he murmured. "She'll always be there, Data, in my mind at least. A skeleton in my closet."

Data gave him a sharp look. "Indeed, sir. My thought exactly."

Picard ran a finger along the edge of the canvas. "Well, Mr. Data. I would advise you to put this thing away. You'll scare the daylights out of some poor ensign. And I hope you feel better soon."

"I do already, sir. Perhaps crying lifted my spirits." He cocked his head. "Is that a paradox?"

Picard smiled. "No, Mr. Data. Humans have a saying, 'All I need is a good cry'."

"Ah." Data nodded.

"Though I'd advise you to keep talking to Counselor Troi. She's heard just about everything by now. I don't think you can shock her."

"Understood, sir. Will you be sleeping tonight?"

Now it was Picard's turn for a sharp look. "How did you know I wasn't sleeping?"

"I…" Data didn't want to tell him about his medical diagnostics; it might alarm him. "I just knew, sir."

Picard nodded. "Very well, Mr. Data. I shall try to sleep."

"Sir, advise you to go to sickbay if you have trouble."

Picard sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Very well, Mr. Data. I suppose I shall have to take that advice." He straightened, resolutely turning away from the painting. "If you need anything, call someone."

"I will do that, Captain."

Picard nodded to him and went out the door.

Data stood looking at the painting, but for once he felt a sense of triumph mixed with the shame.

"I beat you," he said to it. "You may have assimilated countless millions, but you did not get me. Or my captain." He laughed, actually laughed with a hard delight. "I was better than you!"

Still smiling, he put the painting back in the alcove where it belonged.

Picard punched his pillow and scowled. He hated, hated, sleeping medicines. Still, he couldn't be a commanding officer without sleep. He already knew from past experience the havoc missing one's REM sleep could wreak. Sighing, he pulled on a bathrobe and went down to sickbay. No sooner had he gotten back then he crawled into bed and enjoyed the first undisturbed sleep he had had for weeks.

The Vulcans arrived the next day. With their help the ship was soon back to normal—as was Worf's Defiant. Before he left for Deep Space Nine Worf beamed back onto the Enterprise and shook hands with all his friends before giving them a warrior's salute and going on his way.

During the course of the day the Vulcans were scandalized to note that Captain Picard smiled continuously without any apparent reason—an action most illogical for a man whose ship and crew had undergone such a beating. As for Data, he startled Geordi in Engineering by actually…whistling?

But Deanna Troi smiled to herself and basked in the lifted spirits of the crew.

And soon the Enterprise streaked away from Earth and toward the stars, trailing the blue field of warp like a triumphant banner.

They had, after all, won.

The End