Dekas - The Forgettables

[Dekas]

A Conspiracy.

 

A conspiracy against her. That’s what it felt like to be stationed here on Deep Space 81. In many ways, Cosmo longed to go out into space like anyone else who’d gone through Starfleet training. Experience the adventure people claimed to have. And yet they’d deemed her “important” for this out of the way space station that in many respects was trying to be like the famed Deep Space 9, despite there being no wormhole in range to deserve the association, the only wormhole around was the weird little gathering place they’d named The Wormhole that didn’t seem to know what it was supposed to be.

 

Based on observation it wasn’t an oft visited section of the station. It was somehow known about, and niche all at once. There were more theme settled places on the station that were objectively much better, and that’s where people more often went. 

 

And yet The Wormhole was the only place that called to her.

 

The more popular haunts were too often full of boring people, with their boring stories of having been on this run down heap of a station for so long they thought it was actually interesting instead of Middle of Nowhere, Space. People who thought too highly of themselves, and of their offices, and who didn’t want to know an Aurelian who bore a dark, and striking resemblance to a Terran corvid of some sort. Sleek black feathers, one inky black eye on one side of her face, and a now faded scar left behind from a poor stitch up job on the eye socket of the other, the only remnant of a life she chose to deny had once been hers. It certainly added to her role of allegorical omen of misfortune, and “unapproachable intelligence officer.” 

 

A murder of crows grouped into one being, and an unkindness of a raven.

 

So she finally entered The Wormhole. By day an apparent cafe, and place to read actual physical books, though at night she was pretty sure it served a different type of drinks and acted as an easy going gathering place to dance and share music, or poetry every once in a while. It wasn’t one thing, and she supposed she could understand why the boring people would avoid something that didn’t fit into any fully determined box.

 

It was the beginnings of the late evening, and as expected the lights had started to dim, but there were holographic groups stars from some part of the quadrant that reflected on the black ceilings and, in a shockingly delightful turn of events, also on her black feathers as she realized it wasn’t just the ceiling, but subtly everywhere as she suddenly became a backdrop for something beautiful. Something bigger.

 

Cosmo allowed herself a moment of awe, before feeling some insecurity of public displays of anything and sought the quieter area with the real books, still light enough to read. Most of it was fiction. Escapism.

 

Cosmo almost snorted to herself, Desperately needed escapism from this place, she thought.

 

But there was a particularly interesting section. Small by comparison, maybe 50 at most. Non-fiction by label. But not in any sort of way she had ever seen before. They seemed almost…

 

“Intrigued by that section, too, huh?”

 

Cosmo cawed once, startled, and looked over to the human woman that was now standing there. She was a young adult, dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin, a fascinating amount of freckles. She was likely fairly fresh out of the academy and also wondering what she could possibly have done to deserve being assigned here. She was usually much better about feeling people approach, momentarily embarrassed as she heard the other person laugh.

 

“Just browsing.”

 

The stranger just nodded and sat down in one of the chairs in the section. “They’re people’s journals. The ones that found it more gratifying to have thoughts in written word. According to the person who runs this place these people had no one to collect these when they died, no one to send them to. That or no one cared to find out. But they believe it’s important that people aren’t forgotten. Even the ones who could be considered nobodies. Red shirts. Expendables. So they’re here. Once in a while they apparently get a new one. I haven’t picked one up yet, it’s almost haunting. But I keep coming back to them. Because I don’t think I’d want to be forgotten either. Just a name on a list.”

 

Cosmo wasn’t sure what to say to that, or if she even should. She looked between the woman and the journals a few times and decided to look at the woman in the end. She was here and alive. “And what name would yours be?”

 

“Delilah Gold. What about yours?”

 

“Cosmo.”

 

“I thought that might be the case. I think I’ve heard of you in passing, only heard the name once. Mostly you’re apparently known as, That one Ensign, you know… Madam Scary Bird from Intelligence,” her tone turned slightly joking, “the one who melts into shadows, and knows with one quick look of her eye the exact date and time of your death, and is hoping it comes sooner.” she wiggled her fingers for mysterious effect. “Honestly, you don’t seem that scary to me.”

 

If she had an eyebrow to raise she would have raised it, she tilted her head instead. Something about Delilah Gold appealed to whatever sense of humor she had. “Well, that’s good. But refrain from asking the date and time of your death, please. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know it at a glance,” she paused and then continued deadpan, “I mean there’s actually an exhausting blood ritual involved to find that kind of information out and this is my day off.”

 

“Is it like a bird specific ritual, or could you show me? I wouldn’t mind being prepared for my death in advance.”

 

The response didn’t miss a beat, and then they were both laughing. Cosmo hadn’t laughed in a while. Maybe too long.

 

“I’ve just decided I enjoy you, Delilah Gold. So I will have to decline ritually figuring out your time of death if only because I think it would distress me personally. But our interests otherwise align.” She gestured to the journals now, “Maybe the reading will haunt us less if we pick one together.”

 

“Should we start with the clearly older ones, or pick one of the newer looking ones?”

 

“Older. They’re the most likely to already be forgotten. So let’s remember.”

 

It was something she’d only expected to happen once or twice. Except the two of them kept finding each other. In the corridors, in the mess halls, in the popular haunts on purpose. Sometimes they talked about themselves, what pieces they were willing to share. A few times they found each other in their personal quarters, talking late through the night about things both of them had rarely told anyone else. They were inseparable.

 

But most often they found each other in The Wormhole. Reading the writings of people that were deemed forgettable enough to end up here on an otherwise boring, out of the way space station that no one cared much about.

 

At some point they started picking out hobbies of the dead, and trying them together. Learning to make disgusting, and delicious foods. Looking up information about things that never would have occurred to either of them to think about. Games that had since become mostly irrelevant to the newer generations. Holodeck programs that needed more than a few updates. Trying things that felt stupid and fun. Generally finding solace in knowing that they were not the only people who had felt certain feelings.

 

As they sat together on the couch in the corner, Cosmo’s head on Delilah’s lap as she broke the quiet moment she’d been sharing with her favorite human, “What if we started our own journals?”

 

This had been a process that had taken time to occur to her. Mostly, she was one to stick to personal logs, or saying nothing. Occasionally talking to Delilah, or a counselor here and there. But once the thought had occurred she was surprised it hadn’t much earlier.

 

Delilah’s hand stilled in her feathers, “Are you expecting to end up here?”

 

“I’m here regardless. Maybe I was meant to end up here.”

 

“Maybe,” she paused, “but I’m glad you ended up here, or being assigned to this station would be way more boring.” There was an undertone to her voice that was far more fond than just thinking it would be boring. Cosmo recognized it because it was equally in her own voice in her conversations with Delilah and with some of the passing friends of the few ships that visited.

 

(And how interesting it was that she now had friends. People who collected similar such macabre interests and hobbies. Using her intelligence job as a means to occasionally gather more of the forgotten where it could be found. Using it to truly archive the ones closest to falling apart, and then the ones that were not. Let people around other places find comfort in finding what had been lost.)

 

“It would.”

 

Another moment of comforting silence as Delilah started running her hands through her feathers again, “Let’s do it. Become forgettables together.”

 

“I would be honored.”

 

Through months, a year, and more; through one promotion or another, through multiple notebooks of thoughts and care, and love, things remained beautifully terribly “mundane.” Maybe the older people on the station weren’t completely wrong about their love for it.

 

It was just that way… until a new power in the sector decided it didn’t have enough anymore. Cosmo had known about it as she’d become head of Intel on the station. Of course, she knew about it. It had come through in the endless PADDwork and the conversations with the admirals who cared only enough to cover their bases to pretend they weren’t just sitting comfortably in their offices far away and not doing much else to truly assist in the conflicts. The concern had been on her radar as much as she couldn’t tell most people anything unless they were in the need-to-know club. 

 

But she hadn’t expected the attack when it happened. No one did.

 

Never in her life had she been so annoyed by her lack of depth perception with phasers than now. All she had was knowledge, and wit, and the desire to protect who she cared for against this.

 

There’d never been a time when Cosmo had something to protect as much as she did now.

 

As inseparable as they could be, Delilah was with her. Taking point. Acting as shield, and potential fodder for the protection of others. And perhaps those fears that they’d shared during nights when things were darkest caused Cosmo to act with the rashness of someone desperate as she stepped in front and took a hit that would surely have killed the person she loved most. The only thing really keeping her on her own feet was the adrenaline and the continued desperation.

 

Time seemed to fade in and out for a while in the chaos of the attempted take over. She couldn’t remember when she could no longer stand, or how she was still even breathing.

 

But they had won this one with some heavy losses.

 

She faded back into something with Delilah by her side. She was crying and she hated to see her cry. She didn’t want that to be the last thing she saw of her. So she rested a clawed hand against her cheek, and the human rested her own hand on top of it. “Don’t worry, I did a blood ritual to know this a while back and was prepared for it.”

 

A sad smile, and laugh in a sob, “I wish you would have told me about it so I could have talked you out of knowing your time of death because it distresses me, personally.”

 

She laughed even as she felt a lot more leave her in the exertion.

 

“You are my best friend, and… I love you. I’m glad I know you. You beautiful, courageous woman.”

 

“I love you too, Madam Scary Bird from Intelligence.”

 

“That’s Chief Madam Scary Bird from Intelligence, to you.” They shared a quick smile, and Cosmo faded out for a few seconds. “Find the one with a letter in it. Read it. That one is for you. I made it as a contingency. Put the rest with the forgettables in The Wormhole. I belong there.”

 

“I’d protest, I could never forget you. But I know you wouldn’t have it any other way. So I’ll respect it.”

 

The short silence they shared while Delilah pet her feathers was not a comfortable one, but it was one that couldn’t have gone differently. And in her last moments she remembered the moment of awe she felt the first time she walked into The Wormhole and felt part of something bigger. Maybe she really could be now, and that gave her some peace as she took her final sleep.

 

—

 

Delilah followed her friend’s wishes and added Cosmo’s writings to the shelf of people who had no one else, who to some would just seem like a name on a list. It was bittersweet and terrible somehow. She felt a little empty as she did.

 

She’d requested a transfer to a ship, no longer able to be here where grief currently overpowered love.

 

And with a final deep breath, Delilah Gold stepped out of The Wormhole with its acceptance and strange shifting themes that couldn’t decide what they were, and watched the doors close one last time. Things would not be the same, and there would be no going back. And yet she felt hope that someone else would find the same comfort as she’d had for so long, as she left just one of her own journals behind next to Cosmo’s, the final page simply saying:

 

To those who feel alone, and lost, you’re more than just a name on a list. You are truly unforgettable.

Edited March 25 by Dekas
Fixed a few grammar errors.