Trauma

"Do you know what trauma is?"

"Of course, Counselor," said Data, his golden eyes flicking momentarily to the side. " 'Trauma' is a shock, an ordeal, distress. It is usually caused by an emotionally trying experience of some kind. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—"

Troi held up her hand to forestall a lengthier explanation. It was well known among the Enterprise crew that Lieutenant Commander Data was something of a chatterbox. "That's good, Data. And you know, of course, that once someone has had a traumatic experience, it is generally considered appropriate for them to go to counseling?"

"Yes."

"Then…can you understand now why you are here?"

She watched sympathetically as the android squirmed in his chair, his eyes riveted to a painting on the wall. This was probably as hard for her as it was for Data, but it had to be done.

Data's eyes came back to her, his mouth thinned. "Counselor. With all due respect, I do not believe that I could possibly suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The usual symptoms and effects—disturbances in sleep patterns, loss of appetite, lack of concentration—cannot be applied to me. I have run a full diagnostic since the event, and all systems are functioning within normal parameters."

Troi sighed and shook her head, dark ringlets cascading in the dim light. "Data…" she said softly. "Of course you know that I am an empath. I sense others' emotions." She paused. "I can also sense the lack of them."

That did it. Data flinched, and unwittingly his positronic brain supplied a comment worthy of the situation.

You're becoming more Human all the time, Data. Now you're learning how to lie.

She had said that. He could still see her face—cold, blue-marbled with the cold life that was Borg, with ancient, insatiable eyes of silver. She never stopped wanting. And that day she had wanted him.

Troi, watching him, felt through her lowered shields his confusing surge of emotions: anger, regret, hate and desire, all swirled into one. And with it, a rising panic. The one other time she had tried to talk with him about it she had been blocked, because he had shut off his emotion chip. She had almost not caught the minute twitch of his head, the faint computerlike beep, but she had certainly felt the sudden void in which he operated. Before the emotions had cut off she had felt his panic, and now she was feeling it again.

"Data," she said softly.

He looked up from his intense study of his hands, fingers interlaced in a nod to Human convention. Troi could remember how when she first met him he would still forget occasionally to put any expression in his face, his voice.

"Don't turn off the emotion chip."

Golden eyes narrowed on either side of that long, faintly absurd nose. He looked oddly like Lore in the moment before he smoothed the expression over. He was getting steadily better at controlling his reactions over the two years he had had the emotion chip, and Troi suddenly felt an odd pang of regret…Data was losing his innocence. In fact, the experiences of the past week had all but shattered it.

"I do not wish to talk," he stated decisively.

She smiled reassuringly, leaned forward a little. "I know you don't wish to, Data. But it would be better for you if you did."

Data was looking at the painting again. Troi knew that with his superior vision he could see every brushstroke in even this faint light, and in fact was quite capable of copying it from memory, stroke for stroke. The quiet stretched on for a few more moments, during with Troi wondered if the android was capable of feeling discomfort at the awkward silence, and then Data's gaze came back to her.

"Captain Picard has not been sleeping well," he stated.

"No, he hasn't, Data. How did you know?"

"I am equipped with medical diagnostics. His endorphins are significantly lower than normal. Also he is more irritable. There is a 13.72 percent discrepancy with the way he moves when rested versus the way he moves when tired." He stopped, gave her a sidelong glance, fishing, in his naively obvious way, for something. "Am I correct in assuming that you are also counseling him?"

Troi sighed. "Yes, you are, Data."

"I would imagine that this recent…ordeal…has resurrected memories of Locutus," he said flatly.

Troi sighed again, wondering whether all androids were this stubborn, or only Doctor Soong's creations. "Data, are you aware that stalling for time is a human characteristic?"

"Yes," said Data. Was that a trace of bitterness in his voice? "I am aware…but she was not."

Troi very nearly shuddered at the emotions that accompanied the word she. Data's eyes were narrowed again, with anger this time. He looked quickly down into his lap and said quietly, "I have not activated my dreaming program since the end of the last mission."

Troi said gently, "Because you are afraid of what you will dream about?"

Data looked up at her again. He had a disconcerting habit of sitting absolutely still when focused on one thing, not twitching or fidgeting as organic beings did. Troi was relieved to see that his eyes were no longer crimped with anger, although she could still sense it roiling around inside him.

"I know what I will dream about," he said softly. "As I do not have a subconscious corresponding to the parameters of organic humanoids, I dream of whatever is foremost on my mind." His eyes held hers, daring her to make the obvious connection.

Troi made it. "And right now the Borg are foremost on your mind."

"Yes." He paused. "It is strange. I have fought them before, with my bare hands if necessary, but I have never felt…afraid of them. As I am now." His gaze asked her the question before it was spoken. "Will I ever stop being afraid, Counselor?"

An honest question deserved an honest answer. Troi leaned forward and spoke softly. "Probably not. I dread facing the Borg, because every time I do I can feel the fear of the entire crew. It's a natural reaction, Data. It's natural to fear losing yourself to someone else—being subsumed into the mind of another. Because every sentient being values their own mind over even bodily freedom. And to lose both…" She trailed off.

"It is their greatest fear," said Data, nodding. He had his 'suddenly enlightened' expression on again.

"Exactly." Troi paused. "Everyone is very worried about you, Data."

"They have been avoiding me." It was not an accusation, simply a statement. "Even Geordi. They do not want to talk about it. Is that a normal Human reaction?"

"Yes, Data, I'm sorry to say it is. I don't exactly know why. Perhaps it's an atavistic throwback to the prehistoric days, when the sick and wounded were shunned. Survival of the fittest."

Data looked up quickly. "Or perhaps it is not that. Perhaps it is because they are aware of how much time I spent with…her, and they know I considered her offer—"

"You considered her offer?" asked Troi gently.

She felt an ugly surge of shame. If Data could have flushed, he would have.

"Yes," he said, so softly that she had to lean forward to catch the words. "For a time, I was tempted."

"How long a time?"

The android smiled faintly. "0.68 seconds, Counselor." At Troi's involuntary smile of amusement, he added quickly, "For an android, that is nearly a lifetime."

"Data…it's normal to be tempted. Everyone is. What matters is that you are strong enough to overcome the temptation. It's part of being Human, Data."

Don't be tempted by flesh.

Data's glowing yellow eyes held hers for a moment, and then he shifted and began to stand. "Thank you, Counselor. However, I do not think I am ready to talk about it. I need some time to think."

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow night, then," said Troi, and rose. "Same time."

Data nodded. He was looking at the painting again. "Thank you, Counselor," he said, and left the room. The doors swooshed shut behind him.

Deanna Troi stood in the middle of the room and shook her head. Stubborn, stubborn Data!

As the door to his quarters wooshed open Data could hear Spot's questioning meow. The cat jumped down from her perch on the sofa and rubbed against his legs, purring. Data stooped to pick her up and hold her, knowing that humans took comfort from pets. In fact, he had once heard Doctor Crusher talking about something called 'pet therapy', which was, as he found when he accessed his files on the subject, when humans brought in animals like cats or dogs to bedbound patients. His files also gave him information regarding autistic children responding to dolphins…

He lowered his head slightly, looked around the room. When he had first joined the Enterprise crew his quarters had been sparse, with no decorations. He had not understood why he should have mementos, as his android brain could accurately recall every event he had ever recorded. Then, as he had gone on, he had discovered (by dint of questioning those he thought in authority on the subject) that the point was not precisely to have reminders, but rather to make the quarters…aesthetically pleasing. Thus, once again imitating humans without quite understanding them, he now had a few paintings in the room, a few knicknacks…

Including the holo of Tasha Yar.

Data's mouth pinched, and his golden eyes flicked from side to side as his flawless memory called up another scene and the accompanying sensations—fear. And pain—not warning from sensors that told him he had been damaged, but actual physical pain, hot and stinging. The sensation had shocked him into immobility. He had known, of course, that humans experienced pain, but had never expected to feel it himself. Nor to see blood—not fluid, but real human blood—oozing from his slashed arm, oddly-colored against his gold-white fingers.

And she had circled him, smiling, walking with that easy languorous supple swaying of hips, looking at him and yet not looking.

Is it becoming clear to you now? Look at yourself—standing there cradling the new flesh I have given you. If it means nothing to you, why protect it?

He had said the first thing he could think of. I am simply imitating…the behavior of humans.

And she had smiled, contempt cold in her eyes.

Data's head twitched as he consciously aborted the memories. He put Spot down onto the floor and crossed over to where the holo of Tasha stood. When he activated the switch she sprang to life, smiling with her boyishly-cropped hair a lemon-yellow cuff over her brow.

Data, I'm only going to say this once: it never happened.

He had been puzzled at the time, having to run the comment through his memory banks before he understood that Tasha was not denying the fact that it had happened, but rather telling him that she was not to be reminded of it again. He had, of course, had no emotions on the subject at the time, aware of only a faint puzzlement over why humans felt compelled to feel 'embarrassment' over something which, Data had observed, happened alarmingly often. Since he had gotten his emotion chip, however, he had been able to feel emotions, and he was feeling one now. He tried to isolate it. Was it…anger? No, that couldn't be right. Puzzlement, certainly. Regret that he had not had the emotion chip when he had known Tasha. Shame…not about Tasha but about what had happened in Engineering, the things that even the Captain did not know about. Something that the humans called 'revulsion', both at himself and the creature who had done this to him.

I suppose this is what Humans mean, he thought, when they talk of feeling 'dirty', or 'tainted'.

It was an unpleasant sensation. He wanted it to go away, and tried to reroute his awareness away from it, but it kept resurfacing.

Part of having emotions is learning to integrate them into your life, Data. Learning to live with them—no matter what the circumstances—

That was the Captain. And now, as he had then, Data said, "Sir, I cannot."

His head twitched slightly as he deactivated the emotion chip.

Deanna Troi looked up from her book as the flow of emotions she had been monitoring for the past hour suddenly ceased.

She sighed. Data had done it again.

The absence of emotions allowed Data to sit at the computer console and scan all the news with android speed. As of now the bulletins were mainly about the recent attack of the Borg, comparing it with the last one, Wolf 357. Data wondered whether the Captain was reading the bulletins as well; Wolf 357 could hardly be a pleasant memory for him.

After he was done with the news he calculated the extent of the repairs which would have to be effected in Engineering and all the decks which the Borg had taken over, and estimated the amount of time necessary to have a new deflector dish installed. At the same time he ran a report for Starfleet Command over what had taken place, planned the details of his next shore leave, and contemplated the details of his next assignment. After all this had been completed to his satisfaction, he switched the emotion chip back on.

And immediately the ugliness came flooding back in on him. Data, slumped over his desk, straightened his shoulders slowly and stood up. Nearly five hours were left before his shift began; plenty of time to get started on what he had decided would be his latest project.

He crossed to the other side of the room, slid open a compartment in the wall, and took out his painting supplies and a clean canvas, and settled down in the middle of the room to work.

Captain Picard woke with a scream. For a moment the image of Borg hovered before him before he blinked his eyes and his vision cleared.

He always hated nightmares, most especially when the nightmares were not some random holodrama of the mind but a replaying of actual events. Somehow a captain of a starship should not have nightmares. It ruined his professional image.

And Counselor Troi would be in here any minute now…

Bad enough, to have nightmares. Worse to inflict them on someone else, some innocent person.

Picard slid out of bed and did his best to project feelings of calm and wellbeing—which was difficult since he was still shaking. With set jaw he crossed over to the replicator and demanded, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

There was a momentary rippling sound as the mug and its contents came into being. Picard sipped it slowly, moving aimlessly and restlessly around the room, unwilling and unable to think about his nightmare beyond a few random flashes of horrible distorted images. The eyepiece…

He shuddered.

The door chimed.

Had Picard not been expecting the sound he would have dropped his tea. As it was, he stiffened slightly and barked, "Come."

The doors slid open. Deanna Troi stood without, her wide, faintly alien eyes large in the dimness, her hair tumbling around her face. "Captain? I sensed…"

"Terror," said Picard dryly. "Yes, I know." He gestured for her to come in and went back to scowling out the window at the stars. "Just another Locutus dream. Nothing out of the ordinary." He turned to look at her with a wry smile. "I presume that you have been sensing many such dreams."

"You are the third I've sensed tonight," she admitted.

"Data?" Picard hazarded.

Troi looked at him with an indefinable sadness in her dark eyes. "No. Not Data."

"How is Data, by the way? I know you were scheduled to have a session with him." While not an overly sociable man, Picard did genuinely value his crewmembers. Besides, it was important for a captain to know the well-being of his crew, especially when the operation of a starship, particularly a damaged starship, depended so much on everyone being at the top of their game.

Troi sighed. "We had the session."

"And…?"

"And I don't think we got anywhere in particular. Not surprising, considering what has gone on in the past few days, but still…" She sighed. "Frankly, I'm worried for him. Not that he'll malfunction, but that whatever happened in Engineering twisted something so hard in Data that it broke." She sighed again. "Captain, he keeps deactivating his emotion chip."

Picard frowned. As often as he had envied Data his ability to 'switch off' his emotions, he knew what his counselor was trying to say. "And this isn't good for him?"

"No. Temporarily deactivating the chip doesn't make the emotions go away; if anything it aggravates them when the chip is turned back on. It just sort of…shunts them off into a pattern buffer until the next time. He'll just keep cycling through them until we can get him past them."

Picard pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes; they seemed to have sand in them. "I can understand why he doesn't want to talk about it."

Troi smiled, remembering all the convolutions Picard had gone through to keep from talking about Locutus.

"However," said Picard, and opened his eyes again, "that does not negate his need to talk about them. I don't understand it. He's always so eager to try out another human foible; why not counseling? If we told him that everyone else does it—"

"I tried that already."

Picard sighed again. "Well, is his emotion chip off now?"

Troi went still for a moment, allowing the tendrils of her empathic senses to quest outward, searching for that one mind. Then she shook her head. "No. It's functioning."

"Very well, Counselor. You will continue your sessions with him in the hopes of opening him up. If you see any signs that something is wrong you will inform me immediately."

"Yes, Captain." Troi began to walk to the door, then turned to him and asked softly, "Are you sure you don't want to talk?"

"Me?" He smiled wryly, spread his hands. "I've done all the talking I can stand for this hour of the night. I'm getting another cup of tea and a good book. I doubt I'll be able to sleep."

"Very well, Captain." And Troi drifted out, ghostlike in the dim light of ship's night, her filmy nightclothes shimmering behind her.

Picard sighed, went over to the shelf, and got out one of his favorite archaelogy books.

"Geez," griped Will Riker, pacing restlessly around the captain's ready room, "not only do we have to deal with the Borg taking over our ship and disrupting the timeline, but we have to clean up after them once they're gone. What litterbugs."

His lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere earned him a ferocious scowl from Worf, a hard look from the captain, and a twitch from Data. Beverly Crusher, coming into the room a moment later, looked around as though wondering what the uncomfortable silence was about.

"Well," she said into the stillness, sliding into her assigned seat, "I think we have everyone patched up, including your ensign, Worf," she nodded to the Klingon. "As for Ensign Hallow—he's in intensive care, but I have every expectation that he'll be all right."

"Good," said Picard, and everyone nodded their relief. "Worf…I think it will be safe to beam aboard your ship and see what can be done with it. I'm afraid they're not going to have a slot in Spacedock open for us for some time; they're repairing the more critically damaged ships first so they can get back to duty. The Vulcans are sending a few repair teams, and we can expect them in a few days. Until then, we'll have to see what we can do ourselves." He nodded to Geordi LaForge, who took up the slack.

"The Borg have made an incredible mess of Engineering," he said. "We've disposed of all the bodies, but there's still all that tubing and those damn regeneration alcoves are everywhere. Not to mention the mess they made of the controls. And the...plasma coolant tank," he added, with a sideways glance at Data.

Data merely stared back at him with his usual neutral, relaxed expression.

"Well." Picard cleared his throat, to get them all past this uncomfortable moment. "We'd best get started on that. Mr. Data, you and LaForge will work in Engineering. Number One?"

"Yes, sir?"

"See if you can find someone to go with Worf to the Defiant."

Worf shot him a glance that was a Klingon's closest equivalent to gratitude. "Thank you, sir," he rumbled.

"Not at all, Commander. Doctor Crusher…I expect that someone on the other ships will require medical assistance. You and Counselor Troi will be on lend, as it were."

Beverly smiled, a small curl of the lips. "No problem, Captain."

"Good. Dismissed."

He watched as the little huddle broke up and flew off to their assigned duties.