Skye City: Survivors of the Plague (The Darkness of Emmi Book 2)
Page 9
We place our friend inside the desk-filled room, the makeshift morgue, and march out, mechanically approaching the next corpse. The boys emerge empty-handed, and Smig and I exchange glances, then frown disapprovingly.
'Come on, guys, just switch off, and get this done. We'll clear the corridors for now. Once we're done, we'll move the other bodies as and when we find them,' Smig says and the pair spring into action, but it seems Bex has assigned herself to door-holding duty. Clearly, 'Let's do it!' meant, 'You do it!'
We hurry back and forth, dragging the corpses with impressive efficiency, coping with the process far better than I expected. When you know you must do something, not just for yourself, but to show respect for others, your brain figures out a way to get it done. Explains how people cope with embalming and other grim jobs.
Within an hour, we have cleared the accessible corridors, filling the makeshift morgue with about thirty unfortunate souls, both friend and foe. The corpses lie uncovered in neat rows between the desks, and many are familiar to Smig. His handling of the ordeal is more impressive than ours, for this very reason. He may act tough, but I know he is feeling the strain.
'Right, that's the corridors done. We'll check the rooms for working devices, anything useful, but preferably a holoscreen. If we find any more corpses, we'll move them,' Smig says.
We check the next room, another sleeping quarters, and the holoscreen is also inactive, so we move on, checking several more, but finding nothing useful. I open a set of double-doors and Smig says: 'I wouldn't bother,' as the breeze meets my face. The far end of the room has collapsed and I can see the sky through gaps in the rubble. This mess was formerly the canteen.
Tables and chairs are still upright, but dust-coated, and part of the service area is still intact, bearing mouldy food which smells worse than the corpses. I sneak through a doorway into a kitchen which has also partially collapsed, and I find the service droid lying under bricks and metal; his lower half trapped.
'Hello,' I say, and the droid attempts to sit, lifting his cylindrical body inches to make eye contact. He resembles the service droid in the first base we visited when my brother was recovering from surgery. That droid was quite charming and this one could be the same, unless he was programmed with attitude. Yes, some droids have been programmed with attitude for some reason.
'Hello, pretty lady,' the service droid says in a distorted voice. 'Have you come to rescue me?'
'I sure have,' I say, unable to bring myself to give any other answer. I feel a strange sense of pity for a talking computer, but he looks so helpless, and possesses the charm I was hoping for. Even if the droid is a write-off, he deserves a more dignified ending.
Footsteps come through the canteen as I kneel to free the service droid's legs. 'What are you doing? This thing's no use.' Smig approaches from behind as I struggle to drag a chunk of wall – several bricks cemented together.
'Says who? Look, just help me out, okay?' I puff my cheeks, and Smig and the others kneel to remove the debris, unleashing a thick dust cloud. Coughing, I quicken my pace almost blindly to avoid suffocation. Once the light work is finished, we combine our efforts to shift a girder, inch-by-inch, and I look over my shoulder as I hear the words: 'Thank you.' The droid has freed himself while I was focusing on the heavy lifting. We place the girder down as he stands in a dusty pinnie with a damaged right leg which twists inwards.
'I thought I'd never get out of there,' the droid slurs. 'Tell me, how can I help?'
Memorial Service
'What's up with your voice?' I say to the service droid standing crookedly among the rubble of the collapsed kitchen. His shell bears surprisingly few dents, given the amount of debris which was piled on top of him.
'My power level is at three percent. I need to go to my storage room to recharge,' the service droid says, and he hobbles away on his damaged leg, escaping the dust cloud.
We follow him through the canteen and I cough as we pass the rotting food in the service area. We wander through the corridors to a reinforced metal door, and he twists the wheel, then enters the armoury where rows of mechanoids are stored. He stands in a space on the floor and a small panel opens at his feet, then a cable emerges and connects to his ankle. It looks rather strange to see such a camp droid standing among these masculine armoured brutes.
'Clearly, the cable still has power, given that it attached itself,' I say.
'I can confirm the cable is providing an adequate power supply. I should be fully charged in nine hours and thirty nine minutes,' the droid says with his back turned, and it almost feels inappropriate to be watching him charge, as though we are intruding on a private moment. Ridiculous, I know, but when something can talk so politely, and when you are watching behaviour normally unseen, it feels like the machine should be entitled to privacy. Maybe I really am turning into a crazy!
The armoury is empty of weapons which must have been collected for battle. The fact we have not seen a single dropped rifle among the corpses means San Teria must have taken every one for themselves. The fact they left the mechanoids intact means they must now be useless. Smig said they would not start, even though the room was EM shielded, leaving one possibility: They were sabotaged.
The service droid is completely motionless so I look to the guys at the armoury doorway and say, 'What now?'
'We should hold a memorial service. Some of the dead were my friends,' Smig says.
'Hold on,' Bex says, 'you don't wanna hold the service in the morgue, do–'
'Don't be silly, we'd choke on the smell! We can hold it in the sleeping quarters. I found some candles. I'd like to say a few words,' Smig says. 'Let's move the rest of the bodies first. It'd be wrong to start the service before then.'
We leave the service droid to charge in the armoury, and search the rooms of the base, finding five more bodies and dragging them to the morgue. We shower and change into clean clothes because the smell of death is infesting us, then we gather in the sleeping quarters. I collect items scattered on the floor, piling them in the corner, then I ensure the beds are neatly made. It feels more appropriate that way.
Smig lights a candle which he places in the middle of the floor and we stand in a solemn circle. I am unsure if my perspective on life and death has been hugely altered or reinforced, if the sheer numbers make acceptance easier or harder. All I know is the important thing is to remember, to acknowledge, and to show respect.
'Hi, guys, I'm not really sure what to say because I've never done this before…' Smig steps forward, standing over the flickering candle. 'We're, erm, gathering here to remember the dead, our fallen comrades. Heroes. All of them were fighting for our freedom. They knew some would pay the ultimate price. We have to make sure their sacrifice meant something. We have to win this war! We will win this war!
'I'm sorry, men. I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I lost some great friends, Bri, Dunny, Saul, Beezle, Hasan. You won't ever be forgotten. Once the battle is over and they're building monuments, I'll make sure your names are engraved on them…'
Smig pauses as though thinking what else to say, then he sighs with pain burnt into his eyes, and stiffens his posture. His energy had emerged in a sudden and brief burst, and has faded just as quickly, stolen by his inability to find words, but some sentiments do not need words to be understood.
'Rest in peace, lads. You'll be missed…'
Smig steps back into the circle and stares at his black leather boots. I pat his upper-arm, whispering, 'You did well,' then I clear my throat as the candle flickers. 'Okay, guys. I have a few things I'd like to say…
'From the start, I've been unsure if any of this was worth it, if we can even win freedom, if the cost would be too high anyways, if the winners would be any better than what came before.
'We can only have the freedom that people in power allow us to have. And we've no idea what the rebels could be planning behind closed doors.
'I know I'm not exactly setting the tone here, that you want to hear me say we'r
e gonna win for our dead friends. But here's the thing, whatever the outcome, win or lose, we must always admire that people gave their lives for ours, that they really believed in a greater good. That belief itself is proof that a greater good exists.
'The only question in my mind is: Will that good overcome the evil in the world in our lifetimes? I really have my doubts, but the fact that it exists at all, gives us a purpose, a reason to go on. We keep that good alive, simply by existing, by being the better people in this world.
'Arturo, Dynah, Turbo, they exemplified that greater good when they went on the mission to rescue Myla. We don't know if their mission was a success, but we do know that whatever happens, they're heroes. They're the good guys in this war and so are we.
'We've spent our whole lives being told we're the bad guys because we do bad things. We steal. Why? To survive. We do drugs. Why? To keep our sanity. We fight back. Why? Because we don't want to be victims.
'They tell us we're bad for all these reasons, but the truth is, we're better than them. We're better than all the people who've lived sheltered lives and looked down on our kind, because anything we did to hurt people, was done out of necessity, whereas their entire existence was built around hurting others. They knew this, they just didn’t care. They called us criminals, even terrorists, but those labels are nothing to do with right and wrong. They're set by people in power and placed on those who threaten their system.
'We've always been a threat to them. Way before we even knew what the Rebellion was. We threaten them by staying true to ourselves, by believing there are better ways to live, to treat people. In our despair, we've forgotten this at times, forgotten who we are, but we must remember.
'And these men who've given their lives, let them be our reminder: We are better than all of this. We, the bottom-levellers, the slumdogs, the scumbags, the riffraff, we are the greater good that our friends died to preserve.'
Poker
After the memorial service, we rummage through our food supply, but no-one feels like eating, not least because we desperately need to shower again. The gases released by corpses really linger in your hair, pores, laundry… I locate some men's deodorant in a drawer and spray myself from head to toe, then the others do the same.
We sit on the cold floor with our legs sprawled, between the wall and the end bunk. We have a decent stash of beer, wine, whisky, and gin, so we just indulge ourselves in memory of the fallen. Smig tells stories tinged with the glorification of violence, and I offer no objection, but my ears tune out.
Scoop and Oscar seem enthralled, but Smig gets emotional as the alcohol takes hold, and soon he falls silent. And we just contemplate for a while. This seems like the most appropriate thing we could be doing, but I sure as hell could not do it sober. Those poor guys were hanging around this base, laughing and joking, just a couple of weeks ago…
As I swig from a bottle of rosé, Smig pulls a box of playing cards from his pocket, saying: 'I found these inside a drawer'. He removes the deck, shuffles, and deals two cards to each member of the group. I frown at the cards placed between my legs on the floor tiles.
'You girls know how to play poker, right?' Smig says.
'No, er, yeah.' I pick up my cards, planning to wing it, make up the rules as I go.
'What do we look like, idiots?' Bex says as Smig turns around, pulling a flat plastic box from our supplies.
'Obviously, we can't play for money, but I found this box of screws in a storage cupboard, thought it'd come in handy.' Smig opens a lid on the box and gives each of us a handful of screws without bothering to count them out. I place mine in a pile beside my cards, blocking one that tries to roll away.
We play poker and I just copy what the others are doing, using words I do not understand like raise and check and fold. Often, I am accused of bluffing, which is a major overestimation of my grasp of the game. Other times I am told I cannot have more cards, which must be to stop me getting the good ones. This explains why I never seem to win a hand. My occasional declarations of victory fall flat, but every time a boy declares victory, the others agree, and smirk as my screw pile dwindles. Anyways, who cares? I am getting drunk.
'Smig, this reminds me of when you used to come around to the squat to sell drugs and play poker with the lads,' Bex says.
'Yeah, I miss those days. And to think, I wanted to leave all of that behind for this. What was I thinking?' Smig laughs.
'You always think there's something better around the corner. That's why you moved out in the first place. The rest of us stuck together, remained a team, but not Smig, he had big ideas, became a drug dealer at fourteen, then left the only family he had,' I say.
'You think I shouldn't have grown up and moved out? Everyone has to grow up at some point, Emmi. You lot just took longer to mature,' Smig says.
'No, Smig, we took care of each other, shared what we had, made sure no-one starved. You had a little money in your pocket and didn't want to share. That's why you left. And then you came back only when you wanted to make money off us. The nerve of you,' I say.
'Wow, sounds like someone has repressed anger issues!' Bex says.
'Anger? No, I'm just saying it like it is.' I drop my cards and cross my arms as one of my screws rolls in a circle.
'Well, I'm sharing now, aren't I? I could've easily sent you on your way, but here you are, drinking my alcohol,' Smig says.
'We're drinking the Rebellion's alcohol, and we're with you because you've finally learned you're still vulnerable and you need us. Not that you'll ever admit to it,' I say.
'I don't need anyone. You guys are here because I want you here. Real friendships should never be about need. When I was rescuing your brother from the workcamp, that wasn't about need. It was about something more. That speech you gave, that greater good thing, I exemplified that. I'll always be there for you guys, but I'm damn sure I'm gonna live my own life too,' Smig says.
'That's right, Smig! When the war's over, maybe we can sell drugssth too, and do our own thing,' Scoop says with enthused eyes.
'Wow, we're fighting a war, hopefully winning our freedom, so a bunch of idiots can become drug dealers. The dead would be so glad to know their sacrifices weren't in vain,' I say.
'Well, what would you have us do, Emmi?' Oscar says.
'Call me crazy, Oscar, but I'd have you getting an education, or a job. Living a dignified life. If you guys don't understand that's the entire point of winning, the Rebellion may as well give up now. Perhaps San Teria are right, bottom-levellers are a lost cause,' I say.
'Sheez, someone got out the wrong side of bed,' Bex says, and the others laugh off the confrontation, continuing the game I have no interest in.
We play poker for hours, constantly sharing out the screws again, because they always end up in Smig's grubby hands. I swear the lad is cheating. We have drunk about a quarter of our alcohol supply, and we are so wasted, no-one could even consider touching another drop. I can barely count my screws now and I am tempted to call it an early night.
I hear footsteps and flinch, knocking a wine bottle with my flapping arm. It rolls excruciatingly loudly until I stop it with my fingertips. We fall silent, exchanging horrified glances because there is no emergency exit, or even a window. I am scared to look around as the footsteps come closer, and then I hear a familiar voice: 'Hello, friends, how may I be of service?'
'Fuck, it's just the service droid!' I spin around with my hand on my chest. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack.'
The service droid hobbles into the sleeping quarters and stands before the gang. He is the crude, barely human kind, yet I can only think of him as a person. His body is just a cylinder of unpainted metal wrapped in a tattered pink pinnie. His head is another cylinder with light-up facial features almost cartoon-like, as though they were added for fun. His right knee looks crooked in comparison to his left knee, and must have taken the brunt of the impact during the collapse. Although his leg design is humanoid with knees and ankles, his arms are a diffe
rent matter. They are segmented and can bend in complex ways. It almost seems as though they are made from spaghetti.
'Hey, droid, why don't you come and sit with us?' I grin, thinking he could help raise the mood. 'We're just having a drink, or we were. We're pretty wasted. Anyways, I could use some feminine company.'
'It's almost like I'm not in the room.' Bex frowns as the droid sits upright with bent legs, near the food supply, and the empty bottles, and the piles of screws. I place my cards down with no desire to continue playing poker.
'Hey, droid, what's your name?' I say.
'My designation is J-four-two-three-five-six-B-one-nine, but some humans call me Eugene.'
'Well, it's good to see you're in working order, Eugene. Your voice sounds much better now. I've always wanted to talk to a robot,' I say.
'Most of the distortion in my voice came from a low power level, but my wiring and some internal components are damaged, meaning a small level of distortion remains,' Eugene says with a camp voice, with only a tiny distortion on his final word.
'Well, you sound fine to me. Let me introduce the gang. I'm Emmi. This is Bex, Scoop, Oscar, and Smig. We're hiding inside this building. There's deep snow outside. And a war. And crazy people. So we're just waiting things out, trying to pass the time… Why don't you entertain us?'
'I'm sorry, do you find me boring?' Eugene says, sounding endearingly nervous. It would appear he is programmed to effectively simulate human emotion, but not accurately interpret questions.
'No! I mean, will you entertain us, please? Tell us a story.' I stare at the droid expectantly, curious to see what goes on inside an artificial mind, whether a machine is capable of imagination.
Eugene pauses, motionless as though in hibernation mode, then he enthusiastically spouts words: 'Leaves on the ground, yellow and brown. In the trees, red and purple and orange and red and purple. It's a beautiful time of year. So many colours. I like colours, don't you?'