Skye City: Sister of a Rebel Soldier (The Darkness of Emmi Book 1)

by R. D. Hale

  'From my position, it didn't seem like you guys were prepared for war. You just looked like regular workers,' I say.

  'You mean because we weren't carrying guns around? Our training is well and truly over. We've been well drilled, held meetings almost daily, discussed every strategy.

  'In the final days, the most important thing has been to ensure we have enough supplies. We'd hoped for a short fight, but we've definitely prepared for the long haul,' Nelson says.

  'And the long haul is what you'll be facing… I can't bear the thought of you going on the frontline. I feel so helpless about the whole thing,' I say.

  'The way you performed today, you're anything but helpless,' Nelson says and I cannot meet his gaze in case I become emotional.

  I approach one of the largest machines which has badly-welded armour-plates and rust showing through green paint. It stands over twice as tall as me, with a huge chest and a glass dome where many others have a head. It could be a cockpit, but I cannot tell from this angle.

  'It's my dream to pilot one of these, but I have to earn that right.' Nelson strokes a broad gun-arm which is filled with holes.

  'I don't get it…' I sigh, picturing this machine on a battlefield, swatting soldiers like flies. And I shudder.

  'Get what? The finest mechanoid in the Rebellion's armoury?' Nelson says.

  'I don't get why you'd put a person inside. Don't they function perfectly well without people? Seems like just another excuse to kill,' I say.

  'Firstly, you'd be a damn sight safer inside than outside. Secondly, there are some instances where a human pilot is preferable to an AI. We're better at making moral decisions for a start.'

  'Oh, so this is about morality? My bad,' I say.

  Nelson pulls a bottle of Tarlaxian gin from his inside pocket, and sits on the concrete floor between two mechanoids. Huge metal feet dwarf him, and large pistons and armour-plates give the impression of immense power. These machines could do serious damage with just a misplaced footstep.

  'Should a rebel soldier really be drinking so much? What if you get called into action?' I say.

  'Actually, I don't drink that often. Maybe a couple of bottles a week. And I can safely say we have earned a drink today,' Nelson says.

  'You got that right.' I smirk, tilting my head back.

  Gin splashes as Nelson shakes the bottle before my nose, and I hesitate for a moment, then snatch. I down half the contents, coughing and trying to stop myself from gagging. I had forgotten how strong Tarlaxian gin is. Not that I am complaining.

  'We've really been through a lot, eh?' Nelson says.

  'Yeah, but we're still here. Lel's not. The others could be alive or dead. Right now, it feels like they're both, or neither,' I say.

  'All of them are alive, unless you hear confirmation otherwise. Remember that,' Nelson says.

  'Yup, all of them are alive, apart from poor Lel,' I say.

  'It's not easy losing a friend, eh?' Nelson says and I get the feeling he is talking from experience. Losing a friend is hardly uncommon for our kind, but that makes it no less painful.

  'You can say that again… It feels as though your life has been split in two, into the time before when you had them, and the time after, when you don't. The time after doesn't feel real. It's dark, hollow…'

  I glance to Nelson, feeling a warm tear below my eye, followed by dizziness as alcohol hits my brain.

  'Every night I wake with a jolt and realise she's gone, and it's like experiencing it for the first time. I see her dead face poking from her blanket for the first time, every night. I suspect I will for the rest of my life. It's like a nightmare on repeat play.'

  'I understand, I really do. It's natural for death to haunt us, scar us, but you know what? Lel would want you to be happy.' Nelson swigs his gin.

  'Yeah, I know she would. After she died, it was weird, I kept reliving the good moments we shared. Everywhere I went, I'd relive another memory, and I mean relive it, like she was really there, like I was hallucinating, and when the hallucination came to an end, I'd expect her to just walk around the corner, but then I'd realise she was never coming around again, and even then part of me still believed she would just appear, like I could only half-accept she was gone. As time passes, it gradually sinks in that she really is never coming back, and the denial lessens, but the darkness deepens.

  'And now I can only experience happiness in spurts, like the light can only shine for so long, and it's something inside of me, a weakness that switches it off. I'm not strong enough to keep it on all the time. I'm not strong enough to keep it on without help, without my friends, without my brother, without you…'

  'And without Lel's spirit?' Nelson whispers, offering false hope.

  'The time that belonged to Lel is over, it exists only in memory, but at least she is remembered. But here's the true darkness:

  'A nuclear missile could wipe us out tomorrow and there'd be no-one to remember us. All trace of our lives would be gone, except our stupid Sonet profiles. And what would mine say? Here's a girl who was always wasted, who could barely write a meaningful sentence, who had nothing to offer, who was no loss…' I stare at lightbulbs fixed to iron beams with cables running along them, breathing shakily. 'Anyways, sorry to be all depressing. I didn't mean to pour my heart out like that… So, tell me, what's your story?'

  'Eh?' Nelson says.

  'Every bottom-leveller has a story. What's yours? How did you end up in the Rebellion?' I say, wanting to distract my thoughts, but realising this story could be just as depressing.

  'You're assuming I'm a bottom-leveller,' Nelson says.

  'You're a Citizen?' I raise my eyebrows.

  'Well, I was – Level Two. Not sure if I still am. My parents are in prison, or dead. Hard to find out these things. My father was part of the Rebellion. My mother didn't have a clue, apparently.

  'The STG came one weekend as my parents sat in the garden. I peered out the window, then hid under my bed as they were arrested. My mother was screaming. My father kept saying he was sorry.

  'They didn't bother searching the house or checking whether any children were present, which is just as well. I dread to think what would've happened to me. I was only eleven at the time.

  'When they went, I ran to my father's friend's house. I didn't know where else to go. That's when I was told all about the Rebellion, and became a part of it.'

  'Wow, I never would've guessed… You went from having a perfect life to this. When you're wrapped up in self-pity, it's easy to forget we all have our struggles. It must've been so hard for you, but you hide it well. You're much stronger than I am,' I say.

  'Actually, I'm no stronger, I feel the same pain you do. Some nights I relive my parents' arrest, but I have no answers, nothing further to relive. The true horror is the uncertainty. Were they executed? There's no official record of execution, but that doesn't mean they're alive. I have no way of knowing if they're in prison, if they'll ever be released, if I'll ever see them again.

  'Most of the time I tell myself they're probably dead. And telling myself that is the only way I can move on. Well that and joining the fight for freedom. I try not to dwell on the first half of my life when I had them because that's when things feel dark and hollow,' Nelson says and I put my hand on his knee, feeling strangely better, feeling a sense of closeness, of trust. There are not many people I can trust. 'But none of that compares to what you've been through. You've had it your whole life, living on the streets as an orphan…'

  'Yeah, but I don't know any better. You do… What was it like?' I say.

  'What was what like? Life as a Level Two Citizen?' Nelson scratches his nose. 'Nice, easy, boring. Everything was so controlled, sometimes it was hard to appreciate the good things I had. It sounds crazy now, but I just wanted to run free, ya know?'

  'Not really. I don't know what running free would look like, let alone if it would be possible. This whole damn world is controlled to one extent or another,' I say.

 
; 'You got that right. The only true freedom is that which we take. We gotta break the rules whenever we can, otherwise our lives aren't our own.' Nelson looks up to the mechanoid to his right, then rests his shoulder against its foot. 'Shame I don't have the key. We could've taken this thing for a ride.'

  'Wouldn't that get you kicked out the Rebellion?' I frown, shaking my head a little, but Nelson laughs.

  'Who said I'd return? If I had my own mech…'

  'And be alone in a warzone with a mech you're not qualified to pilot? You may as well wave a sign saying shoot me…' I place my cheeks in my hands and sigh. 'Why are boys like this?'

  'Like what?' Nelson's voice shakes as though about to break into laughter.

  'One minute you seem smart, sensible even, and then you say something so dumb my head wants to explode.' I clench my fingers and shake my hands beside my temples.

  'Are you saying girls don't say stupid things? Now you're sounding sexist,' Nelson says.

  'Sexist? Really? Now you're sounding like an idiot,' I say.

  Nelson laughs and I raise my hand to slap him, but curl my fingers as I spot the artificial skin on his forearm. Nelson shuffles against the foot of the mechanoid with another obnoxious smirk.

  'Why so serious all the time?' Nelson says and one side of his mouth curls into a smile.

  'In case you've forgotten what we've just–'

  'Oh yeah, never mind. Why don't we have some fun tonight? Take our mind off things. It might be the last chance we get to shine that light,' Nelson says.

  'What do you have in mind?' I raise my voice and slow my speech.

  'Party! Let's get the others into the recreation room. We'll keep that light shining, live in denial for one night, and allow ourselves to let go. Let's put some music on and party like it's the end of the world!'

  Contact

  Nelson and I locate the gang in the sleeping quarters because we could hear them from the other end of the base. Rupert and Bex are struggling to get a word in edgeways as Oscar and Scoop squabble about who will be in charge when they become 'real soldiers'. And I do not think either has a clue about how this Rebellion actually works, or recalls how helpless they were during the siege. They simply remember how Nelson and I enabled Rupert to save the day, and think that means they could be heroes, but I would not trust them with a pair of scissors, let alone deadly weapons.

  'I-I'm the smart one, Scoop, and I'm better at Samarian Soldier too. I have the brain of a tac–'

  'Ahem.' I interrupt the squabbling, and Oscar turns his head mid-sentence. 'You guys fancy a party?'

  'P-party, hell yeah.' Oscar grins like he does not have a care in the world, and the others shrug, probably relieved by the interruption.

  The gang head into a recreation room with lots of spongy but dirty seats, old-fashioned speakers in the corners of the ceiling, and a green-topped table covered in balls and two sticks. A couple of young lads are sitting quietly as moody rock music plays, and they look sick of their rebellious lives. Suddenly I am wondering whether it will be possible to pretend, even for one night, but I will give it my best shot.

  'What's that?' I point at the green-topped table as the lads take seats, and Bex requests a song list at the holoscreen.

  'It's a pool table. Come on, I'll show you how to play.'

  Nelson takes a swig of gin, reaches into a rectangular hole at the end of the table, and removes a plastic triangle which he rests on the green fabric. He places the balls inside the triangle, then reaches into the hole to grab a few more balls. He fills the triangle then switches the balls around and carefully removes the triangle, returning it to the hole. The balls forming a triangle-shape are all red or yellow apart from a black ball in the middle. Nelson places the last ball, which is white, on a dot at the other end of the table.

  'The rules are simple. We take turns striking this white ball. The aim is to knock the other balls into the pockets…' Nelson explains the rules of pool until my brain is a puddle on the floor. But whatever, I will play how I want to play. 'Okay, I'll let you break. Take a cue, rest it on your hand like this.'

  As I follow Nelson's instruction, he wraps his large arms around me and holds my shaky cue. I am momentarily distracted as a nicer song plays on the holoscreen, more upbeat and happier. This one surely cannot be Bex's choice.

  'Just pull your hand back a few inches and then thrust it into the white ball, hard and steady.'

  Nelson and I push the cue together, and I squeal as the white ball smashes the other balls which fly around the table.

  'You think you can take the next shot on your own?' Nelson says.

  'What do I look like, an idiot?' I say, giving the white ball a good hard whack. It flies off the table and lands on the lap of one of the quiet lads. 'Sorry!'

  Nelson places the white ball in the 'D', potting three red balls just to show off, then he misses and cheats by taking another shot. He misses again and helps with my next turn, but as he wraps his arms around me, I hear the door creaking open. The grin drops from my face as I turn around to see Jardine looking as serious as ever.

  'We've received contact from Turbo.' Jardine wipes his brow and takes a deep breath. 'As suspected, he and Anguson mounted an unauthorised rescue mission after confirming the location of Myla. Only the Goddess knows how. They landed in Averley in an escape pod with Dynah. They were separated from Arturo and Myla during the evacuation. There's every chance they made it too, but they could've landed anywhere in the world. The moment we receive contact, we'll send someone to retrieve them.'

  'They made it. They must have made it. Oh my Goddess!' I shriek.

  The gang rise to their feet, cheering and hugging and high-fiving and wiping tears. Nelson turns up the music volume on the holoscreen, and we jump and dance as the two quiet lads exchange bemused glances. Bex drags one of them onto his feet, and the other gets up too, joining the celebration.

  'It's time to party!'

  The gang dance for hours with techno music at full blast, ignoring repeated complaints from Jardine. He can hardly stop us from celebrating on a day like today.

  I now feel the most incredible release from the darkness: the escapes from death, the overcoming of fear, the lessening of sadness, the yearning to just go back. We are halfway there, and although we will never return to the way things were, halfway still means half the joy, and half is a whole lot brighter than before. Fuck, we used to be so much happier than I ever realised.

  Smig and a few others join in the fun, bringing alcohol, and the entire group get well and truly smashed. Rupert dances as awkwardly and unashamedly as anyone I have seen, and this just makes him more endearing. Bex laps up compliments from the lads without snapping or sneering, and she even grins without her face breaking. The holoscreen displays morphing patterns and shapes, and Oscar gets mesmerised by the pretty colours, staring and staring… Empty bottles become tripping hazards and vomit on the tiles causes part of the room to be avoided. Nice one, Scoop.

  When we eventually tire, I reduce the music volume and we slump on the chairs, with me resting snugly in Nelson's arms. My skin tingles as I stare around the scarred faces of the rebels – I definitely have the best one. The others are mostly immature with missing teeth and lopsided noses and sticky out ears and so on. Nelson's reasonably proportioned face is quite the rarity.

  'How come you've found a man among this lot, Emmi? Even if I was looking, which I'm not, these rebels are all freaks!' Bex attracts glares from the lads as she returns to form, but I do not mention she is not so hot without her makeup. 'No offence, boys.'

  'Who said I was searching?' I rest my head against Nelson's as Bex crosses her arms. 'Here I was, just waiting for Arturo to come back to life…'

  'Arturo – your brother is–'

  'Impressive? Amazing? Heroic? Yawn,' I interrupt a skin-headed rebel who interrupted me from the opposite chair. His nostrils flare as he leans away, frowning.

  'All three, actually. I can't wait to meet him. A real life superhuman…
'

  'You do realise there's a superhuman right beside you?' I say and the skin-headed rebel turns to his left to face another rebel who frowns in confusion. 'Not that way. The other way.'

  The skin-headed rebel turns to the puny, ginger dread-locked boy who is swamped by white robes. And I shake my head. Like who else would it be?

  'Oh, you're Rupert? Is it true you can conjure fire with your bare hands? Everyone's been talking about it, but the lads here talk so much crap…'

  Rupert casts a flame in his palm, and every rebel, who has not yet witnessed his trickery, gawps. The flame swallows Rupert's entire hand which appears demonic, and orange light ripples around the walls and ceiling. Somehow, the telepath does not burn to ashes as heat reaches my face, causing sweat to trickle. I wipe my brow with my sleeve before Nelson notices.

  'Doesn't it hurt? I mean is it real fire, or just magic?' the skin-headed rebel says.

  'What do you mean by real fire?' Rupert says as the flame vanishes.

  'Like this?' The skin-headed rebel pulls a lighter from his pocket and sparks it up. Rupert ever-so-casually places his palm onto the flame and holds it there for ages. 'Doesn't it hurt?'

  'I hardly feel a thing.' Rupert shrugs, and I wince at the thought of his skin blistering, but he raises his palm which is unblemished, apart from a faint pink mark.

  'So you're fire-proof?' the skin-headed rebel says.

  'Well, to an extent. I'm not sure what my temperature limit is. And I'd rather not find out.' Rupert chuckles.

  'Let me try.' The skin-headed rebel touches the lighter flame with his finger and quickly pulls away. 'Ow!'

  'So are you really a superhuman, or just a very advanced droid? I mean how would you know? You were created, weren't you? That's what I overheard,' the skin-headed rebel says.

  'Give me that dagger.' Rupert nods to a dagger sheathed in the lad's belt for unknown purposes. Perhaps he simply wants to look bad-ass like all these wanna-be soldiers. He follows the instruction and Rupert stabs the dagger into his palm until blood trickles. Rupert returns the dagger to its owner and raises his bloody palm to the holoscreen light.