Skye City: The Darkness of Emmilyn

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 debris which was piled on him, but maybe his pinnie is hiding some damage.
'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 injured 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 weapon 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 inside 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 this way.
Smig lights a candle which he places in the middle of the floor and we stand around the flame in a solemn circle. I am unsure if my perspective on life and death has been hugely altered or reinforced, if the sheer numbers of dead 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 flame stretches sideways. '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're 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.'