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

  My breath steams the window as we approach a complex of buildings in an industrial park with a sign reading: Kofta Imports. Strange hospital. A shutter rolls up and the transport lands inside a hangar, close to other vehicles. At the far side, people are working among tall shelves and piles of boxes, carrying equipment, driving forklifts, and so on.

  Turbo slides the door open and grabs Arturo with the help of the driver, carrying his floppy body from the transport. The pair hurry through a doorway, and I just stare at Smig because I have no idea what I am supposed to do.

  'He has a chance you know. The Rebellion are well-equipped. If anyone can save him–'

  'What do you mean – the Rebellion?' I frown and Smig's scarred lips flap.

  'Ah, er… We didn't wanna say for your own safety, but that's who we've been working for. That's–'

  'You mean it's their fault? Those bastards put my brother in danger and now he's been shot. He's only sevente…' my voice breaks under the strain of speaking and I cannot finish my sentence.

  'I'm sorry, Emmi. The Elites were killing our own people. They released the plague. We had to stop them. We need everyone who can help us win this fight, and Arturo's a great soldier,' Smig whispers.

  'A dead soldier, just like his father,' I cry.

  'If they can repair the damage, they may be able to re-animate him. It's been done before,' Smig says.

  'Not when someone's been shredded to mincemeat,' I growl, and Smig stands, stooping his head. He passes the case on the floor, and I follow him from the transport, turning away from the saturated red seat. Smig slams the sliding door and I take a few uncertain steps, settling near a lorry.

  Smig is supposed to be familiar with rebels hideouts, yet he seems as hesitant to proceed as I am. Following that corridor means reaching a conclusion neither of us can face so we wait in a preferable limbo. And I clench my fists, shivering, staring at the girders in the hangar roof, wondering why we even came here?

  How could anyone in this crappy factory perform cutting-edge surgery? What medical equipment could they even access? Something that runs on magic? Because I have never heard of anyone rebuilding a human. I mean San Teria's scientists can put an eagle head on a lion, but even they could not fix the unfixable, could they?

  The red-handed Turbo comes through the doorway and runs across the hangar, catching his breath. His narrow, freckled face stoops to my level and his grey eyes squint nervously.

  'They have his body in stasis. The surgical droid is assessing the situation to see if Arturo is retrievable.'

  'Retrievable? You make him sound like a… a… He's my brother,' I snarl.

  'I'm sorry, Emmi. Your brother means a lot to all of us. We're doing everything we can. Jardine is on his way and we need to find your friends before the STG do,' Turbo says, widening his pathetically sorry eyes.

  'As long as they've made it to the jungle, they'll be fine. Dynah and the others will protect them,' I say.

  'Come on, you two. We can't leave you in here. I'll take you to the sleeping quarters, where you can make yourselves comfortable while we wait to see if… You know…'

  Turbo leads us through a double-door into a long passage, containing mostly single doors which are green with grey strips. I focus on cream ceiling tiles to avoid looking at the bloody footprints. We reach a large room which stinks of sweat, containing many bunks, a holoscreen, and three lads slightly older than Smig. The lads glance into my teary eyes, averting their gazes like they do not wish to upset me further. My distress is obviously obvious.

  'Choose one of the unused bunks and make yourselves comfortable. There are towels and robes in the drawers and showers through that door. You two will need to get yourselves cleaned up. I'll see if I can find clean clothes in your size.'

  Turbo enters a door at the far end of the room, leaving a handprint on the grey panel, then I hear rushing water. He returns seconds later, shaking his wet hands. 'I'll need to get changed, then update central command. I'll return as soon as I can.' He rushes past us, leaving through the door we originally entered.

  I shuffle towards a bed which is perfectly neat with no sign of belongings. Then I sit, hunched on the bottom bunk, not wanting to move or speak. The shirtless Smig sits on the next bed, looking straight at me, but I stare at my sticky, red hands, empty of feeling.

  A clock ticks so loudly for long and uneventful minutes… Smig heads for the showers, but I have no desire to follow, despite my obvious need to get changed. The other lads inside the room shuffle occasionally – tough guys who seem nervous of making noise; their eyes darting away as though they were not staring.

  Then, just at the moment the silence becomes unbearable, one of the lads climbs from his bunk and approaches in a tight green t-shirt.

  'You really should get yourself cleaned up, you know. It won't help anyone, just sitting like this,' the lad says and I look up with a suspicious frown.

  My gaze skims his broad chest and shoulders, then his robust chin and crooked nose, stopping at his extra-short hair, then dropping to his blurry ebony face, and focusing on his big brown eyes. And I suppose he is pretty good looking, not that I am remotely interested.

  'What would you know?' I say, avoiding prolonged eye contact.

  'I'm sorry, I didn't mean… Your brother, he has a reputation. I mean, I haven't met him or anything, but the things he's done – raiding a military base, implanting a virus in Skye City, escaping prison, rescuing a telepath… And that's just what I know about. Let's just say I'm impressed.'

  'Impressed? Do you have any idea what has just happened?' I growl.

  'I heard he's been shot. Turbo mentioned it, then hurried off. I know it must be bad, but look – they can bring people back. I've seen it before.'

  'My brother's body has about twenty bullet holes. Unless they can give him a whole new body, he isn't coming back.'

  'Oh, I didn't realise it was th–'

  'I think you're right, it's time for a shower.' I remove my shoes and rummage through a drawer with my sticky, red hands. Grabbing a towel and a gown, I head through the door into a shower area and enter a cubicle. I peel off these foul clothes, step through the shower curtain, and press a button on the wall unit.

  Freezing cold water blasts from the nozzle and I gasp, adjusting the dial, only to be blasted by scorching hot water. Stepping back, I stretch my arm to avoid being scalded as I find the correct temperature balance. The floor turns pink as blood swirls down the drain, but the warm water feels nice, soothing. This is the first shower I have ever had.

  Stepping from the curtain, I dry myself with the towel and wrap my body in the coarse, white gown, then I exit the cubicle. I rub steam from a mirror to discover my reflection is not a pretty sight. Mascara is running from my baggy eyes so I wash my face in the sink, using the towel to remove the last of the makeup. The pimples and blemishes I was masking become all-too-visible. I grab my bloody clothes from the tiled floor, grimacing, and I return to the sleeping quarters. Smig is nowhere to be seen.

  'There's a laundry basket, there,' a lad says, nodding to a large, wheeled basket near the door. I lift the lid and dump the clothes that I really do not wish to wear again. 'Turbo left some clean clothes on the bunk for you.'

  Walking over to the bunk, I pick up a big, boyish sweatshirt and awful baggy trousers. I drop them on the floor and lie on the bed with my hands behind my wet hair.

  'I'll put them on later.'

  Last Throw of the Dice

  Hours pass and I just lie on the bed, ignoring everyone's efforts to speak because they have nothing helpful to say. Eventually, the lights go out and most of the thirty-something bunks are filled with sleeping bodies, but I remain wide awake. The night is horrible, agonising, endless. I feel like I too have died and I wish I did.

  Gradually, I see the bodies around me rise, and yet for my brother this very same act is impossible. Why are they leaving me in this limbo, prolonging the inevitable? Why can I not say goodbye to him now?

  Sl
eepy lads enter the showers and return in clean clothes, dumping their laundry in the basket and leaving the quarters. The lad who spoke to me yesterday, the one with the crooked nose, comes over to my bunk with a warm smile. Suddenly, his ruggedness vanishes, and he appears sweet, gentle, but his smile is a meaningless gesture.

  'Hey, Emmi, I would ask how you're feeling, but… Why don't we get some breakfast while we wait for good news?'

  Smig is snoring in the next bed, I am still wearing the white gown with sticky red marks, and the clothes Turbo gave me are still piled on the floor. I get to my bare feet, and we walk through the cold corridor which no longer contains bloody footprints. We reach a canteen with a droid wearing a pink pinnie, and this would be amusing under any other circumstances.

  I sit at a table in the corner as the lad queues with a tray at the service area. He returns with two plates of food – toast and stuff – but I am not interested, even though hot food is a luxury for a skinny bottom-leveller. The lad shoves food into his gob in that messy way lads do, and then he slurps from a cup before he has even swallowed. He coughs as something goes down the wrong way, and half a smile creeps onto my face.

  'Hey, you actually look pretty when you smile. Er, prettier,' he says and I immediately remove the smile from my lips. He seriously cannot be flirting with me, right now. 'I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm Nelson.'

  'Nice to meet you,' I say half-heartedly as I play with my nose piercing.

  'Hopefully, we should get an update soon. Ya know, a proper one. I hear Jardine and a few others are on the way to help. Given the expense they've gone to for Arturo, they're not gonna give up now,' Nelson says.

  'Expense?' I lift my gaze from a stain on the plastic table to make eye contact.

  'Ya know? When they rescued him and Anguson from the workcamp, they took a huge risk, but everyone insists your brother was worth it. Jardine says he has leadership potential,' Nelson says.

  'If you wanna be led by a reckless idiot who gets himself jailed and shot… Actually, that's not entirely fair – the Rebellion got him jailed and shot. Arturo was just dumb enough to comply with orders. He must fit in well here,' I say.

  'At least we take care of our own,' Nelson says with a shrug, almost offended.

  'Yeah, they clearly don't. They fled like cowards. Didn't even wait to see if their own had survived. They just shot my brother and raced away,' I say.

  'It's their bodysuits, I've heard they register vital signs. When a guard dies, the others are notified through their earpieces, stops them taking unnecessary risks. It's an efficient system,' Nelson says.

  'Efficient? One squat full of kids was too much for them,' I say.

  'Well, the STG, and even the EG, are just drones. Often their bodies aren't even collected. One guard dies, they train another slumdog to take their place, act like the previous one never existed. Death is shameful to them. All they're interested in is power. It makes 'em feel big and strong, turning against their own. Damn cowards,' Nelson says.

  'It's funny, they probably see you in exactly the same way,' I say and Nelson gives another almost-offended shrug.

  Smig and his cousin Turbo enter the canteen, grab some food, and sit at our table in the corner. Smig looks baggy-eyed and broken. Arturo is probably his only real friend, his former class-mate and boxing buddy. Turbo, however, is twitchy and full of energy, as if he really believes they will succeed in resurrecting my brother.

  'Okay, Emmi, here's the thing – Arturo has one chance of re-animation and we need to get started today, because we can only hold off the cell decay for so long. The surgical droid explained regular techniques won't be enough.

  'If we just fitted artificial organs, the surrounding damage is so bad, they'd almost certainly fail, but the Rebellion has experimental technology. It was designed by San Teria's science division to create a supersoldier. We've never used it before and we're not one hundred percent certain how it all works. But if it does work, you won't just be getting your brother back, you'll be getting a new and improved version,' Turbo says with an enthusiastic raise of the eyebrows.

  'The only improvement I want to see, is my brother – alive. Do what you have to do.' I shrug because the plan sounds so desperate, but San Teria has miraculous technologies, so who knows?

  The lads continue eating as I leave the canteen after a mouthful of toast and plod to the sleeping quarters where one rebel is still in bed. A shower cubicle provides privacy as I change into the spare clothes which make me look like a boy – a very tired boy.

  Leaving the showers in baggy trousers and a sweatshirt, I sit on the bed and return to the tedium of waiting for news on my brother's condition. They could be performing surgery, right now, carving his body open, and replacing his insides with robotic parts. Fuck, I need to get the image out my mind.

  Okay, deep breaths. Remember, they are giving Arturo a new lease of life, as a frigging cyborg. They are performing a miracle. Just believe.

  I run my fingers over the blue criss-cross threading of the blanket and the texture is somewhat soothing. The sleeping rebel wakes with a jolt, puts on his boots and hurries from the room. I assume he slept in.

  Finally alone, I once again notice the ticking of the clock – the antique kind that I am unsure how to read properly. One hand is pointing close to the number eight. Does that mean the time is around eight o'clock? Must be.

  The ticking loudens, my heart pounds, and my mind races as though making up for my almost complete lack of recent thought.

  Maybe the gang were shot too. Maybe their bodies are just lying in the road somewhere. No. Arturo killed the guards who passed me, that is why the men fled in the transport, if Nelson is right. Maybe backup arrived, hunted them in the streets. Fuck.

  They could have run to the jungle lair in like twenty minutes. Chances are they made it, right? The telepaths must have kept them safe. Or the gang could have given their hideout awa… Do not even go there. They will be safe. The gang are safe. Apart from the obvious two. And Killow. But he ran away weeks ago. He did run away, I hope. So that just leaves Lel. One dead plague victim and a whole range of uncertainty.

  To be honest, I am amazed we survived so long intact. The only reason we did is because we had each other. Alone, we are too stupid and too weak, and yet we are seen as strong by those who have survived alone. Go figure… And now, it has all come crashing down in a matter of months.

  I used to pretend our joyful delusions would last forever. Life could just be one endless party. Theft was so easy, most of the time. Those who knew us did not threaten us. We seemed immune to the problems others faced. We had created a situation so advantageous, entirely by accident. I never realised how utterly bizarre my attitude was. Denial is the correct word, repression would be another, but now I understand the painful reality that the odds are against us. Life is supposed to be a fight. And now we are about to do a whole load of fighting.

  The ticking clock gets louder and louder so I look around for something to throw at the damn thing, but then I hear the door creaking. Smig approaches and I notice a weapon in a holster – a weird-looking gun or laser or something.

  'Emmi, I'm gonna take a jeep to search for the others. If they haven't been caught, they'll be wandering the streets or hiding somewhere. I'll have to reach them before the STG do,' Smig says.

  'Remember to try the jungle hideout,' I say, lacking the strength to object. 'Call Dynah's name when you're there. The firebird should guide you… Oh, and thank you for not leaving us, Smig. When everyone else fled, you came back. You risked your life for me and Arturo. You're the only reason he has a chance.'

  Smig leaves the rebel base to search for the gang, facing three possibilities: One, they have vanished without a trace, which means arrest and goodbye forever. Two, their corpses are lying in the street and Smig must face that horror and then make funeral arrangements. Three, he will bring them all back here, unharmed, and we will have to find a new home.

  Of course, the reality co
uld be a combination of those three possibilities. I may just revert to denial because the thought is too much to even contemplate. Right now, I am caught between the worlds of the living and the dead, and I do not know which I would prefer to remain in.

  Without the gang, without my home, what would I do? Where would I go? I would never belong with the Rebellion, nor would I belong with the Enclave, but those would be my only options. Those, or suicide.

  News at Last

  I lie on top of the blanket, and sometime later, I open my resting eyes to see Smig entering the sleeping quarters with our miraculously unhurt gang who are wearing greasy outfits in various shades of dark. I never thought I would be so relieved to see this ramshackle bunch of thieves and scavengers. They are as follows:

  Oscar – the painfully thin spider enthusiast with pink skin and a mop of mousey hair. Scoop – the not-so-bright plague survivor who still bears a few boils which I hope are not infectious. Bex – the pretty tomboy with tight denim clothes, feline eyes, and a sharp tongue. Dynah – the angelic blonde girl who was created in a laboratory and commands a phoenix elemental.

  And tagging along is Rupert – Dynah's gawky lab friend who has a white robe and ginger dreadlocks and is the last person on Eryx you would expect to have superpowers.

  Maybe their reappearance means Arturo can be resurrected, our missing friend Killow can return, and Myla can be rescued, but realistically I am clutching at straws. A second miracle is not unthinkable, but a third and fourth?

  We must accept our lives are changing forever and there is not a damn thing we can do. Fuck, there goes the negativity again. Remember, I must believe and breathe and avoid overthinking.

  Oscar demonstrates his usual level of composure by running across the room as I sit on the bedside. He flings his arms around my neck, cutting off my airways, and then he almost bursts my eardrum.