The Living fight for the Dead
Posted on Sat Aug 16th, 2025 @ 5:49am by Ensign Kaelun Merak
886 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
The Raz Defense
Location: Memory Alpha station
[Memory Alpha - Mess Hall]
Memory Alpha had always been more than just a station. Founded as the Federation’s central library of knowledge, it was a monument to exploration and learning, an archive that preserved centuries of discoveries. Now, in the aftermath of Earth’s fall, it had become something else: a refuge for those who had escaped, and a vault that Starfleet could not afford to lose. If the Borg had destroyed Earth—the symbolic heart of the Federation—then Memory Alpha was its memory, still pulsing, still alive.
But for those who lived here now, its purpose felt both heavy and hollow.
The mess hall was dim, filled with the quiet scrape of utensils and murmured conversations. At a side table, Ensign Kaelun Merak sat with Lieutenant Daron, Lieutenant Commander Sharvel, Ensign Praxo, and Lieutenant Aric. None of them were eating much. Words carried more weight than food.
Praxo broke the silence first, his hands tightening around a cup as if afraid it might vanish. “I wasn’t in San Francisco when it started. I was in Paris, working at the Daystrom annex. At first, we thought it was just a systems failure—the grid collapsing one district at a time. Then the sky turned red. Orbital platforms burned as they fell, scattering fire across the city. By the time I reached the spaceport, the shuttles were already gone. I only escaped because a survey vessel meant for students forced launch clearance. Sixty of us, packed shoulder to shoulder. I looked back once through the viewport.” His voice faltered. “Paris was burning. The city I knew was gone in minutes. I don’t think anyone from my team made it.”
Kaelun’s reply was muted. “Countless millions never left Earth at all. Mars. Luna. Titan. We don’t even know how many had the chance. And Starfleet’s blackout ensures we won’t know.”
Daron scowled into his mug. “Or maybe they can’t tell us. No word from the fleet at Arcturus. No word from the borders. Nothing. For all we know, we’re already alone.”
Sharvel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Or maybe silence means there’s no one left to send word.”
Aric finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “I was at Utopia Planitia. We loaded shuttles until the bays were empty, but there were too many people. Dozens pounded on the hatches as the last one filled, but we couldn’t take them. As we broke orbit, a vessel beside us was cut in half by a Borg beam. I saw their faces through the viewport right before it ruptured. And then—gone.”
The words hung heavy over the table. No one rushed to break the silence.
Kaelun felt Jaret’s presence stir within him—his past host, the Starfleet Marine who had survived hopeless ground battles and carried the weight of comrades left behind. You don’t get to choose who lives or dies, Jaret’s voice whispered through Kaelun’s mind. You only choose what you do with the time you’re given.
Before Kaelun could respond, Sharvel’s voice cut softly through the gloom. “And yet… Memory Alpha still stands. The archives hold. The Borg didn’t take everything. As long as we keep this place alive, the Federation isn’t gone. Not yet.”
Praxo latched onto the words quickly. “She’s right. If this station survives, maybe others did too. Maybe more will.”
Aric gave a short, bitter nod. “Maybe.” It sounded less like hope and more like desperation—but it was something.
Kaelun didn’t join in. He only stared at the glowing Memory Alpha crest etched into the far wall. The others needed hope; he had none to offer. For him, survival still felt like an accident—arbitrary and cruel.
But Jaret’s voice pressed harder now: The living fight for the dead.
[Memory Alpha – Kaelun's Quarters, Later That Night]
Kaelun sat alone in his quarters, the only light coming from the console on his desk. Data scrolled across it—theta radiation curves, subspace wave harmonics, fractured traces of Borg energy signatures. His rations sat untouched.
The echoes of the mess hall replayed in his head, but so did Jaret’s harsher memories: the heat of disruptor fire, the metallic stench of blood, the helplessness of watching comrades fall. Survivor’s guilt pressed like a weight on his chest, but Jaret’s presence was insistent. Survival is no victory. It is duty. You fight for those who can’t.
Kaelun looked back at the console, at the patterns and anomalies scattered across the screen. They weren’t weapons. Maybe they would never become weapons. But they were data, knowledge—the only battlefield he had.
Straightening in his chair, Kaelun began to work again. His fingers moved steadily, parsing the fragments, looking for anything the Borg hadn’t adapted to yet.
“The living fight for the dead,” he whispered, almost a vow.
For the others, hope might be Memory Alpha’s survival. For him, it was the work itself—the belief that science, persistence, and memory could still strike back, however faintly, against the void.
And so he kept at it, long into the night, fighting not with weapons but with knowledge.
Ensign Kaelun Merak
Science Officer
Memory Alpha
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