Skye City: The Darkness of Emmilyn

Medio Base Four

'They killed one of the unicorns,' Nelson murmurs, staring at the concrete floor as the group gather beside the transport in the hangar. 'Claudius, my favourite...'

'What?' Jardine frowns as I look past him, watching workers carrying boxes and driving forklift trucks as though the war has not yet begun, as though they are not meant for the front line. What is even the point of these people? I guess some were play-acting as rebels in the hope war would never come, but who can blame them?

'They killed one of the unicorns – a stallion called Claudius,' I say loudly, and the thought of such a beautiful innocent creature being slain hits home, but I compose myself and continue: 'We were out riding. Nelson took one of the soldiers down. They shot at us, and we thought we'd escaped, but got surrounded by wolves in the woods. The unicorn got startled and bolted off. Then more troops arrived.

'I dunno how, but we fought our way out. Took down wolves and soldiers, and walked miles to the farm, only to find you guys in trouble. Believe me, that was the easy part.'

'Emmi, the more I hear of you, the more courageous you sound. You're growing by the day. The last young person I met with your potential was–'

'My brother.'

'To keep a clear head and remember your training, it's a rare skill. I've seen men train for years. One day on the battlefield, they fall apart. You led from the front. I'm glad you're on our side.'

Jardine leads us between stacked crates in the hangar, along a corridor, and into sleeping quarters similar to those of the first base I visited, but the difference is now I feel part of this, or at least part of me does, even though I desperately want to run away. Like I care about what happens to these people, like my fate is entwined with theirs, whether I like it or not. Shit, how much confusion can one girl handle?

Whether I fight again or flee for the mountains, I am changing. My instincts are those of a different person. My actions are controlled to a degree. I am reacting like a soldier, no less competent than the others, but competent is not a word to describe any of them, and I have no illusions about my own abilities. My instinct to kill could easily get me killed and must be resisted, but my instinct to flee could equally get me in trouble.

As the rebels hurry to bunks which seem in short supply, Jardine hurries out of the sleeping quarters. Nelson rolls up his torn, bloodied sleeve and reveals scabbing teeth marks in his forearm. Heads rise and turn to gain a better view, wincing, but Nelson is unflinching as he flexes his fingers.

'With all the drama, I'd forgotten you were hurt. I feel bad. Is it painful?' I say.

'No, well... a bit.' Nelson rotates his forearm to reveal shredded skin on the other side – the injury is far from a clean bite. The twisting and turning in locked jaws left a painful mess which does not appear easy to fix. And then there is the infection risk...

'Issth that a wolf bite?' Scoop says; his eyes bulging as though admiring a thing of beauty.

'Yeah,' Nelson says.

'I can't believe you were fighting wolves, Nelssthon, you must be hard as nails,' Scoop says.

'I'm not actually. I was getting well and truly beaten by that damn wolf until Emmi kicked the crap out of it.'

All eyes roll sideways and the rebels sitting on bunks fixate on little old me, disbelievingly. A skinny blonde girl is hardly the type you would expect to fight off a wild predator, unscathed, but here I am, among soldiers who suddenly seem less hardened than me.

'It's really true. They were rolling around so it was too risky to shoot, therefore I proceeded to kick the crap out of the wolf. I shot it as soon as I got the chance, but Nelson was stunned too,' I say.

'You also kicked the crap out of me in the process. I'm gonna be covered in bruises, thanks,' Nelson says.

'Any time... We'd better get that wound seen to. I'll help you find the medical facility, assuming they have one,' I say.

'They do. I'm quite familiar with it, actually. They fixed my broken finger just a few weeks ago.'

Nelson and I leave the sleeping quarters and wander through grey corridors until we come to a room with Medical Treatment written above the doorway. We enter the world's crappiest hospital ward with grimy, old-looking devices and wheeled beds covered in paper sheets. All of the beds are empty, but that situation is obviously about to change drastically. A middle-aged woman in beige overalls approaches to inspect Nelson's forearm.

'Oh my, what happened here?' the woman says, taking Nelson's fingers and turning his arm with a grimace.

'Wolf bite,' Nelson says and the woman seems strangely unsurprised, shaking her head.

'Not a smart idea to be fighting wolves, Nelson. I'm seeing you in here too often for my liking.'

'It's only like my fourth visit, Doc. Next time, I'll tell the wolves not to eat me!'

The doctor turns to a small metal table on wheels which contains thin drawers which she rummages through. She collects a clear bag and removes rubber gloves which she puts on, then she pulls a cleaning wipe from a packet. 'Sit on the bed.' She removes the dry blood from Nelson's skin, then dabs his wounds with the wipe and he winces. 'Painful, eh? Maybe you'll learn your lesson. Medical treatment is a drain on our resources... Can you wriggle your fingers?'

Nelson wriggles his fingers, and the doctor drops the bloodied wipe into a yellow bin which reads Clinical waste only, then she leads him to a large cream device, tapping at a touchscreen. She places Nelson's shredded forearm between two open halves of an arm-sized slot. The device clamps over his elbow and makes a whizzing sound.

'You're lucky this thing's still functioning. When the EMP went off, our equipment went haywire. You can imagine my surprise when diagnostics confirmed everything was in working order. Our tech guy said if the pulse was just a few hundred yards closer, our wiring would've been fried,' the doctor says.

Nelson's forearm is released from the device and his wounds are now covered in sticky white stuff. 'The temporary skin will fall off when you've healed. Give it two weeks and don't pick at it.' The doctor fills a glass at the sink, then opens a small bottle and tips something into her hand. 'Here, take this.' She gives Nelson the glass and a pill which he swallows, placing the empty glass on the metal table.

'You could at least have given me skin to match my own,' Nelson says, examining his brown and white forearm. The new skin fits so perfectly into the no-longer-ragged wounds, you would not know he was injured, if not for the tone difference.

'That's all we have left. Beggars can't be choosers... Any other injuries?' the doctor says.

'Nothing to worry about,' Nelson says.

'And you, young lady?' the doctor says.

'I'm fine, thanks,' I say.

'Okay, you can go now. I don't expect to see you back any time soon.'