Skye City: The Darkness of Emmilyn

Poker Game

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 toxic 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, but the smell refuses to go away, even as I cough on alpine fragrance.
We sit on the cold floor tiles with our legs sprawled between the cream 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 to his bluster, but my ears tune out.
Scoop and Oscar seem enthralled, but Smig gets emotional as the alcohol takes hold, and soon his breaking voice falls silent. And we just contemplate recent events for a while. This seems like the most appropriate thing we could be doing, but I sure as hell could not contemplate this stuff sober. Those poor guys were hanging around the base, laughing and joking, just a week 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 from the box, then 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 other boys 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, then we continue the game I have no further 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 in the corridor 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 in these sleeping quarters. I am scared to even look around as the footsteps come closer, and the door creaks open, 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 dusty service droid hobbles into the sleeping quarters and stands before the sitting 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 different 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.'