New sequel to Avatar; Recombinant Bridgehead!

[JforA]

Chapter 9 Day Out
The tumultuous uproar of Bridgehead's residential sector was not unlike the cities of Earth during rush hour; the unpaved roads were abuzz with activity, ranging from haggard construction workers to impatient men in suits, each one on their way to do more work.

For the recoms, school was out; but, contrasted to the tired workers, these soldiers were heading back to camp for some leisure. The obnoxious bunch clambered onto their transport, pushing and shoving limbs to make room; Quaritch didn't bother climbing in. "You head on without me. I got business here." He waved on.

Lyle leaned over the truck's edge. "Is it private, sir?"

"Why, you wanna join?"

Lyle nodded eagerly, and with a gesture from his colonel, he hopped out of the truck with a loud "whump." Quaritch rolled his eyes at Lyle's grunt of satisfaction upon hearing the sound.

"What are you staying in the city for?" Fike asked aloud.

"I'm going to discuss our pay with the boss."

The recoms looked at each other stupefied; they had completely forgotten about wages. Before they could ask further questions, they were jerked rearward by the truck's propulsion and sent away.

Left in the wake of the curling dust, Wainfleet turned to Quaritch. "We get paid?"

"That's what I want to find out."

Spoiler

With tails bobbing behind them, they set out to find Parker's office, a location the overseer had conveniently forgot to mention. Wainfleet followed suit but was distracted by all the sights of the unfinished city. An ugly cloud of dust and dingy smoke perpetually hung overhead, yet Lyle still spun on his heels to take in every angle with boyish curiosity. Every so often, he had to jog to catch up. The colonel's eyes widened when he spotted an oncoming vehicle headed for his distracted companion. Quickly, he grabbed Lyle's queue and whipped him out of the way. Wainfleet was thrown against a wall as the machine sped past. He could only blink at Quaritch.

"Eyes up front, Lyle!" he snarled.

"Sorry, sir."

Quaritch arched his lip as he surveyed the area. "Now then... Where the hell is Parker?" They looked about the intersection when Lyle caught sight of something above.

"Hey, sir. Look!"

He directed him to a twenty-metre-wide digital screen bolted to a communications tower. It displayed an artistic rendition of the recombinants; they were depicted suited up in tactical gear and brandishing rifles. The artist's cubic style blacked out their faces, favouring, instead, to emphasize their alien strength. A bold white caption read "Humanity's Last Hope."

"Guess we're celebrities."

"Yeah..." Quaritch bobbed, a little less certain about the propaganda. "I wonder if the folks around here realize we're reanimated." He took several pauses to look around. Quaritch knew very little about the layout of the settlement, and with construction going on everywhere, it was difficult to discern one street from the next; in the distance, the most he could see were unfinished buildings peeking over the horizon, with their skeletal structures yet to be coated by silver plating. The men were forced to step aside for a march of spider bots: automated construction robots on their way to crawl up towers and weave steel bars together. Dump trucks filled with gravel lumbered down the dirt road, followed by a concrete mixer and then a bobcat and then a backhoe. Wainfleet and Quaritch had no choice but to cover their ears to block out all the beeping shrills. They trekked down another turgid road, passing by plots where grass was desperately trying to grow, but the climate made it dry and yellow. The day was getting on, and being nowhere close to finding Parker, Quaritch stopped to ask a worker for directions; when shouting didn't work, he had to lean over just so the portly man could hear him. The worker then pointed north and went on his way. They eventually found themselves in a rural area populated with grey warehouses and parked construction equipment.

"Hold on," Quaritch sneered, looking around. "This doesn't look like the residential section." As he attempted to decipher their whereabouts, Lyle made for an unattended water hose. Quaritch beckoned over a worker from across the empty road, and a bearded man approached.

"Where's the administrator section?"

The man gave him a blank stare. "Sir, this is the industrial periphery."

It took a moment for the reconnaissance Marine to appreciate the fact that he couldn't have led them farther away from their destination. Quaritch palmed his face in disgust.

Wainfleet ran over, dragging the hose with him. "Now what?"

"We circle back!" Quaritch exclaimed, pinching the hose from Lyle, for he, too, needed to cool down.

They trudged down a stretch of burning asphalt that never seemed to end. Neither of the burly men wanted to admit they were tired, but eventually, both stopped to rest. Hands on his knees, Quaritch panted as he squinted at his surroundings when he spotted a massive fuel truck rolling their way. Quickly, he tapped Lyle before sprinting after it. Executing a successful leap, he latched onto the truck's extension ladder, where he promptly reached back for the tagging Lyle and hoisted him aboard. The two joyriders, dangling off the side, high-fived each other in triumph, then scaled the tank's piping.

They inhaled the rushing wind with a smile and politely waved at the astonished on-lookers. Lyle's carefree attitude throughout the day was so infectious that even Miles was starting to have fun. Quaritch stood up and walked down the tank to get a better view of Bridgehead. He crossed his arms with his signature aplomb and surveyed the city; this proved to be a bad idea, however, when the vehicle suddenly braked and flung the colonel backwards. Wainfleet barely had a chance to see if he was okay before the driver poked his head out to shout at the stowaways. Guilt written all over their impish faces, the two sprung from the tank and took off down an alley like the delinquents they were. Wainfleet peered around the corner for any signs of pursuit and signalled to his colonel when the coast was clear.

"C'mon, we have a suit to shake down." Quaritch sniffed.

After a long walk and several asking-of-directions later, they, at last, reached an administrator building which could help them locate Parker. Wainfleet was reluctant to tap his colonel on the shoulder and point out that the lecture hall they had started from was right across the street. The colonel's face pinched, and he palmed it once again, desperately wishing he hadn't brought a witness to his incompetence. Shrugging it off, Quaritch pushed open the hermetic doors of the building's vestibule and walked inside. He stood in place when he suddenly felt a grab at his tail and, in turn, stared at Lyle, who was holding it in his grip. He timidly gestured to the vaulted door that slammed shut behind them. "You— You got to mind the door, sir..."

Quaritch snatched back his appendage.

They patiently waited as the air filtered before proceeding, with neither relishing having to switch back to their wearisome breathers. The lobby of the cone-shaped structure was, thankfully, spacious enough for their height, but the pristineness of the Oxford Blue floor was ruined by the mud they tracked in. The secretary at the wraparound desk nearly had a heart attack upon seeing the giants. She greeted them timidly.

"Can I help you?"

The colonel politely bowed his head to the woman as he strutted over. "We're looking for Selfridge."

"Oh, Selfridge. Yes. He's out at the moment but will return shortly. Would you like to wait for him?"

His ears flicked. "Sure."

Quaritch read the uneasiness in her eyes and followed the line of sight to Lyle leaning before a display tank. The sniper was so focused on the sumptuous Pandora fish that he was completely still, save for the gradual sways of his tail.

"Don't eat the fish, Lyle," Quaritch remarked while yanking him away towards the seating area.

The two recombinants took one look at the dinky chairs and knew they had little choice but to slum it on the floor. They ended up waiting for some time. Lyle eventually grew tired of drawing up his mask and just left it strapped over his mouth as he slouched in boredom. His colonel sat upright, shrugging at the businessmen who glowered as they passed. A dark-skinned man with a full beard entered the building. The recoms paid him no notice, that is, until the secretary called out to them.

"Oh, sirs? You wanted to see Mr. Selfridge?"

They cocked their quizzical heads at the equally confused man.

"Mr. Jamil Selfridge," she clarified.

"No," Quaritch tried to rectify upon getting up. "I want to speak to Parker Selfridge."

"Who?"

"Parker Selfridge," he repeated, hoping it'd ring a bell, but it was clear she'd never heard of the man. "The overseer of Project Phoenix? The recombinant team? Us?"

"Hold on." She scrunched up her nose as she typed away on her computer. Her transparent screen flashed with paragraphs of multicoloured text, orbital images, photos of many different people before ultimately coming up with Mr. Selfridge's profile. "It says here, his office is in... Oh." Her voice trailed off, and she murmured to herself. "Oh, he's not liked."

"What do you mean?"

The secretary giggled as she read his bio in full. "His office is located in the industrial core—in the periphery."

She didn't understand what possessed the recom to suddenly slap his own face.

It took a few, albeit more discreet, rides for them to reach the periphery again. The secretary had scribbled down the address on a scrap of paper, and the directions brought them to a colourless building; the men in protective gear walking in and out indicated it belonged to foremen.

The recoms looked at the tiny vaulted door and then at each other.

"You first, Alice." Quaritch winked.

Wainfleet sized up his opponent before braving entry. With some exerted wriggling, he managed to squeeze his way into the vestibule, and Quaritch followed. They squirmed about inside the narrow space, trying to put some distance between their bodies, to no avail. With heads uncomfortably close, they impatiently waited for the green light. It flicked on, the door swung open, and the two fumbled over one another in their rush to escape.

Finding themselves in a dim foyer, Quaritch took up his breather as he fingered out the paper from his back pocket. He unfolded the note in his palm and strained his eyes in an attempt to decipher the smudgy letters. Wainfleet leaned over his shoulder and read the door number aloud. "Q-8."

They looked at the doors on ground level, all labelled with "A"; the ones on the floor above were labelled "B" and so forth. Their eyes trailed up past the many, many stories, accessible only by a narrow set of stairs winding up the rectangular complex.

Quaritch swore.

They kept tripping over the tiny steps that buckled under their great weight. The two blue men were bombarded with complaints from vocal tenants who had to shimmy their way past the hulking bodies. At some point, Wainfleet had enough and decided to free-style the ascent. Reaching for a set of stairs above, he hoisted himself onto the guardrails and proceeded that way. After signalling the colonel to do the same, the two clambered up the steely rails, creating a frightful noise that shook the entire building. Office doors swung open as irate men and women peered out to source the cause of the racket.

The pandemonium reached the ears of Parker Selfridge. He had a pile of papers on his desk, and the rattling outside caused a stack of them to slump off. Parker got up to investigate. He opened his door to nothing when, all of a sudden, the heads of Lyle and Miles leaned into view. "Geeze!" He jumped back, clutching at his heart.

"Hi-ya, boss. We had a helluva time trying to find you." Miles grinned.

The two recoms crouched into his office as Parker left to assess the damage. One scan of the warped guard rails, and he knew the repair costs would be high. Hoping to avoid getting slapped with the bill, Parker surreptitiously snuck back inside and locked the door.

Quaritch and Wainfleet surveyed the dive and observed it was a far cry from the ritzy office Selfridge once enjoyed back at Hell's Gate.

"What brings you here?" Parker gulped, moving to seek sanctuary behind his desk; he would have offered his guests a seat—if there was one.

"Sorry to bother you like this. I see you're busy," Quaritch said as he returned the fallen stack of papers to his desk. "It's just that you didn't mention anything about our wages yet."

"Oh, right," he wheezed, shuffling the papers in order. "Yeah, I've been going over that. Your point account hasn't been activated yet. It's still in the processing phase."

"What point account?" he asked from behind his breather.

"Every citizen has their own account that Bridgehead manages. It operates on a type of merit system."

Quaritch was incredulous. "Like in good deeds?"

"Well, it depends on your contribution towards the development of the city. Only provisional, I'm told. Provisional for five years now..." he griped. "It works like a barter system. You can exchange points with people for goods. If you have a high-risk contract job, Bridgehead doles you more points. Low risk, and you get low pay. They want to encourage 'selfless commitment' to the 'building of a better tomorrow.' I swear the guys who coined that have been orbiting too long. Anyway, crime docks the percentage you earn, but charity, I'm told, multiplies it—hell if I know how they determine charity. And it's all digital."

"How Christian. So, how much do we get paid?"

"Each? Fifteen thousand a month."

"Is that a lot?"

"Compared to mine, it is. The number depends on the success of your missions. The better you do, the higher the point balance—for the both of us."

"Oh, I see," Quaritch mused. "We're your meal ticket."

"You guys impress the city, that impresses the investors, then that goes to my account."

"They the guys funding all of this?" he asked, circling his finger in the air. He was referring to the city, not the pitiful office, but it worked in that sense too.

"Yes, they live above. In space, I mean. Their headquarters haven't been completed yet. Those swanky offices will take the longest." Selfridge diverted temporarily to fish some medicine out of his desk; Quaritch could only theorize it was heart-related.

"Last we talked, you said something about being stuck until Bridgehead completes production?"

"I was allowed an opening on account of you guys."

"In the periphery?"

"In the periphery," Selfridge sighed, downing a pill. He bolted up when Wainfleet's fiddling caused a shelf of knick-knacks to fall over. "Please don't touch that!" he fruitlessly cried, then slumped back into his chair, trying to steady his heart rate.

"Can we buy anything in the meantime?"

"Why? It's not like most of our goods would be of use to you." Selfridge held up a mess of papers. "I'm already going through the paperwork to approve custom-made goods for you guys. You wouldn't believe how many little things you need. Clothing, toiletries, bedding, cutlery, feminine care—"

"Feminine care?"

"Surprised me too. Anyway, once your accounts clear, I'll bring you your cards. You can use them to make purchases like renting the gym or having drinks sent to you. You're lucky you guys need so many custom goods. Those costs are covered automatically."

"What if I want to buy something today?"

Selfridge gave him a wary look. "Well, if you want, you can tax it to my account," he said, hesitantly reaching for his card.

Quaritch lowered his breather to politely take the tiny red slip. "Hey, 'preciate it. That's real generous of you." He flashed it to Lyle before sliding it into his pocket.

"Don't go splurging with that."

"Oh, don't worry. We'll be prudent. Right, Lyle?"

The nature of Lyle's thumbs-up was not reassuring for Parker, but it was too late. "W-What do you want it for?"

The colonel shrugged. "Oh, things."

They proceeded out the door, and Wainfleet turned to wave, followed by a "Thanks, Pops!"

Selfridge buried his face in his palms as he listened to their terrible clatter down the stairs. Then, for a brief moment, he had peace, only for it to be interrupted by the giant who suddenly burst back in.

"Oh, that reminds me. You got a map of this city?"

After purchasing a ride from a flatbed driver, Wainfleet and Quaritch were dropped off at an army barracks. The air was a noisome mix of sweat and urine, but Lyle didn't know that's what he was smelling, only that it reeked. "What are we doing here?" he asked, scrunching his nose.

"You'll see."

A strolling foot soldier caught sight of the recoms and gave them a leer. "Hey, guys, check it out. The Blue Man Group is paying us a visit." A dozen or more unsavoury men gathered around the two ex-humans.

"Hey, kittens," one of them sang in a seedy voice.

Lyle stiffened, but his tail whipped involuntarily.

"Cute tails you got there. Look at it go."

"So, what does 'Humanity's Last Hope' want with us dumb grunts?"

Quaritch stepped forward. "I want to know where you get your work done."

"Woo, you cuties are plenty fine as is. You already got those stripes. Ink would just ruin it."

Quaritch didn't appreciate the cat calls, and his ears went back despite himself.

"Oh, look at their ears. They go back when they're mad. That's adorable." A third whistled.

The individual bold enough to meow quickly paid for his folly. Without warning, Quaritch hissed directly into the man's face, and the burly man fell backwards. The recombinant kept him there by hovering his fangs over his visor and letting his hot breath fog up the plastic. The others backed away in fear with hands ready at their holsters. They watched the leonine twitches of Quaritch's face, the pinning of his bloodshot eyes, and truly believed he might have eaten the man alive. "Still think we're adorable?" he purred.

With the power dynamic returning in their favour, Wainfleet maneuvered to crouch over their victim. "Hey, if you like it so much,"—Lyle picked his cuspids—"maybe we can get you the blue treatment too?"

Upon making his point, Quaritch directed Lyle back up. "Now then," he readdressed the shaking men. "Where's your parlour?"

The tattoo parlour was a reconverted industrial garage that was hermetically sealed so individuals weren't burdened by breathing masks. See-through tarps hung against the walls, rivers of electrical cords ran in every direction, and heavy metal rattled from the tinny speakers nailed to the ceiling corners. Enlistees of HAF, from sailors to aviators to the watchmen that patrolled the city—all kinds of servicemen rested on various crates, drinking their homebrew since the Bridgehead brands didn't cut it for them. Clients would sit on exercise benches while the artists performed their meticulous work; in the case of the recoms, the giants had to sit on the floor and lean against the benches like they were armrests.

There is a reason why body art is so integral to military culture. The tattoo is an act of self-awareness. A soldier's memories are some of the most vivid and graphic. While others would rather forget, and rightly so, these individuals take ownership of the pain. Whether it's a benign reference to a joke or honouring a fallen comrade, the tattoo is an acknowledgement that their war memories have forever shaped them.

Quaritch did not skimp on the job; he had hired the best artist with every intention of repaying Parker. He wanted his old tattoo; so, coming prepared that day, he had brought with him a photo from his past. The artist digitally transferred it to her glass pad and rested it on her tray, referencing it as she worked. Occasionally, she would lift up the data pad to compare the photo with her progress, and every time it came into view, Quaritch found himself looking away.

Lyle sat next to him, getting a modification of his old tattoos. This time, the helmet-wearing skull on his right shoulder would be Na'vi; Lyle was really beginning to like the fangs.

Quaritch's artist rolled back on her stool to gaze at her masterpiece. "She's coming along just fine," she said, smacking her gums; the woman didn't have front teeth but never shied from a smile. "First time doing blue." She squinted her face with a tongue poking out. "The stripes make it a bit hard to gauge detail..." Upon finishing another important feather, she set down her tool to undo her bandana, shaking out the dust from her frizzy hair before tying it back on. Using the interval to admire it, Miles gave her a thumbs up while pressing his breather to his face, then complimented her skill once his mouth was free.

"We could get this done in one sitting, but I don't want to rush those pretty feathers," she said while tapping the eagle on her pad. "So many artists just half-ass the feathers—do the sh****est job. Buzz a couplea blobs and call it good. Not from Marjorie, you'll get that." They bumped fists, and the bubbly woman returned to her magnum opus. "So, what's the story behind this beauty?"

"It's nose art from a plane I went down on back during the 2nd African War."

The lazy lids of a few tipsy foot soldiers raised. Quaritch saw the attention he drew and wasn't about to disappoint. "Yeah, that s***show," he bragged. And, by then, eyes were bugging out. "Off the coast of Ghana, I was aboard an N8 with several of my buddies. We were on our way to Abuja to deal with that infestation of tuskens. I was seventeen and dumber than a sack of rocks—we all were, save for our commander. 'Ironass,' we called him. He didn't like getting saddled with a bunch of greenhorns, and—looking back—I wouldn't either. One of my mates was bragging about his girl when a flash threw me to the back of the cabin like a popping grit on a hot pan. An insurgent had fired a rocket launcher at us, broadside—blast blew a gaping hole in our fuselage. It was pitch black, and all I heard were the screams of men as they were sucked out of the plane. I would've too, but the blast entangled me in some cargo netting. I held on for dear life as we swan-dived into the coast. Our pilots managed to guide the craft along the incline of a dune, which kept it from flipping. After the crash, I cried out like a madman but got no response. My commander was dead, along with every buddy I went through training with. Knee-deep in enemy territory, I knew it'd be a matter of minutes before the sand mites would come to pick us off. I untangled myself from the netting and donned an infrared helmet to scan the horizon for combatants—the hills beyond were filled with the devils.

"Now, we had a s***load of weapons aboard, so I had two options—blow ourselves sky-high so they wouldn't fall into terrorists' hands or use them to single-handedly fight off the horde. Remember, I was dumber than a sack of rocks." He paused to appreciate the harmonious chuckles. "With a broken leg, I grabbed an M203, positioned myself behind what remained of our fuselage, and launched a frag right on top of them. When the rats realized they had a live one, they opened fire. Their bullets exploded against the steel frame, and I took several grazes. After launching my last grenade, I was forced to sniper out the rest—and I fired at anything that so much as twitched. How I survived?—I don't know. But I was the one with the night scope, not them.

"My fingers were raw by the time reinforcements came—didn't even know the pilots were alive to radio for help. Was told the whole thing lasted about six hours. Government types thanked me for preserving thousands in weaponry, but the two pilots sought me out for another reason. One of them was a Blackfoot. He told me that he had christened that plane 'Running Eagle,' hence the art. And to thank me for saving their lives, dubbed me that too."

"Running Eagle?" Marjorie smiled knowingly.

Quaritch didn't understand what made her so delighted.

"That's an ancient warrior from my tribe. Imma Blackfoot too. She saved her daddy's life when his horse was shot inna ambush. The name means 'to rise above limitations.' You see, man's bound to earth—he can only run—but the eagle flies above all that. She went against all odds to save another from many—just like you did."

"You mean the colonel did," a stray voice corrected from across the room.

Quaritch didn't respond. They had been advertised to the public as copies and nothing more and wasn't going to waste his breath correcting every individual.

They left the barracks, pleased with the work but not with the leers. Despite the prejudice against his kind, Quaritch was still going to recommend the parlour to his team, provided they go in groups.

The star their planet orbited, Rigil Kentauru, was retiring for the day. They were minutes from twilight by the time the men reached the suburbs, having to pass through it to reach Homestead two miles off. Tired from the day's peregrination, they hungered for a meal and a shower.

"You never mentioned that story before," Lyle brought up, having dwelt on it the entire walk.

"No one's ever asked me about it," he dismissed. In truth, Quaritch felt his memories of Earth were beginning to fade and recounted the story to ensure their survival.

Lyle frowned. "An N8 is a covert plane. How'd they manage to shoot you down?"

"An ally had purposely leaked our flight path. He was arrested in Venezuela and brought to the States, where he was found guilty of treason and executed."

The cold delivery of this loaded fact caused Wainfleet to stop in his tracks as he listened to him continue.

"He had this idea that America had no business being in Africa and wanted to help the 'oppressed' insurgents. For his noble cause, he sacrificed my team." He stopped and turned. "You know, if he did it for money, it might've been easier to swallow," the colonel exhaled upon finishing, then, just like that, continued onward for Lyle to follow.

They strolled past quaint homes encased in transparent domes. Some children, wearing fastened visors, were playing outside the barriers. The object of their interest was a serf woman weighted down by her sack of goods. The children took advantage of her inflexibility to dance around her legs, pulling at her tail and poking her feet to see if they could trip the giantess. They kept this up until something far more interesting caught their attention.

The recoms' ears honed in on the sound of little feet running towards them. The Pied Pipers looked over their shoulders and saw the host of children they had lured away from the village.

"You guys are recoms!" a curly-haired boy trumpeted.

"I guess so," Quaritch mused. He crouched to their level, and the children stepped back in fear while wanting to get closer at the same time.

"Can you guys really lift a whole car?"

"I don't know, we haven't tried it yet," Miles answered, looking at Lyle.

"I heard you can see in the dark."

"I heard you can smell fear!"

Another tried lecturing his peers on what he heard, but the fact escaped him, and it devolved into a stutter.

One held up his ball. "How far can you throw this?"

"If I chucked it, you kids wouldn't get it back."

Lyle spun around when a girl of five made a grab at his tail. She took off giggling and hid behind the colonel. The clothes of the little blonde were covered in dirt, and it made her toothy smile stick out all the more as she laughed. It was very difficult for the steely men to keep straight faces.

Quaritch decided to entertain them. Taking a rock in his right hand—his left being sore from the tattoo—he hurled it across the plains. The length it travelled surprised even him, and the kids shouted hyperbolic praise.

The corporal stood back to better appreciate the rare sight of his colonel entertaining children. Noticing the burdened serf woman coming up on his left, he stepped aside for her to pass; only, at that moment, several honks blared behind him, and the recom could see a truck hurtling their way with no intention of yielding. Acting on instinct, Lyle quickly pulled the Na'vi woman to safety as the front loader barrelled past.

"You okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet, but she only gawked at him. He picked up the few goods he caused her to spill when his colonel ordered him over with the reminder that they needed to keep going. Unsure of how to exit the encounter, Lyle handed her the items and awkwardly waved goodbye.

The children followed for as far as they could, shouting their goodbyes from the border of their suburb, with the younger Marine walking backwards to return the waves.

It was a singular experience for the both of them as most of their encounters with children were from their own childhoods. They never had families, and after spending their years in service, they seldom saw kids, let alone getting swarmed by a gaggle of them, making that one brief encounter a precious memory neither ever spoke about, its value being too high to share casually.

[JforA]

Chapter 10 Hell's Gate
All was calm on the Hell's Gate airfield. The warriors cooked their game over small open fires. The air was merry with songs and good humour. A human took this opportunity to stroll across the asphalt and enjoy the beauty of the world. Her slippers flapped against her heels as she strolled past the cluster of tepees. She took in the pleasant scents as best she could through her visor's filtering, and her auburn hair fluttered across the smooth plastic of her mask—a barrier she pretended wasn't there.

An animal's death cry suddenly screeched in her ear, and the woman twirled around to find a stingbat at her feet with a poison dart in its chest. She reeled in disgust upon seeing the spasming corpse when a hand came in to pluck it off the ground. Her eyes ran up the tall frame of a stoic Na'vi. He was a noble sight with his bone-pierced nose and a ruby-quilled mohawk. He wore a cloak that ran down the left side of his body that stopped at the thighs, its delicate folds emphasizing his muscular build.

"I am sorry, JaninePara."

She eyed the gangly creature dangling by its tail between his thumb and forefinger. "Thank you, Anotang," she exhaled.

Mouthing a prayer, he laid the creature with reverence upon his open palm, its wings of brilliant purple draping lifelessly off his hand, before removing the dart. "Do not thank me. This is not a happy event. Ayriti make for friendly companions. It saddens me to do this."

Spoiler

"It was going to kill me."

"Yes. Most certainly, it would have." A loud bang went off in the distance, followed by the flapping of birds, and Anotang overheard the complaints of his disheartened warriors. They despised the minefield around the base that needlessly killed the wildlife—wildlife that was on its way to kill the humans. He agreed with their sentiment that these tactics were wrong, but Toruk Makto bade him to allow it.

Holding his thoughts to himself, the stoic warrior did not translate the protests for the lady, for he didn't want to trouble her, and Janine returned his goodbye as she watched him depart. He was polite for a Na'vi, she thought, and well-spoken too; English came easily to their race. Of all the warriors living on base, she preferred him, but that isn't to say he didn't frighten her. Anotang had a presence that earned a fearful respect.


Neteyam stood silently atop the hill with his leucistic ikran, White Flower, and together, they surveyed the ghostly depression. The structure that once towered proudly, a landmark that could be spotted from miles away, was splayed across the clearing like a fallen warrior's spear in the grass. |"My brothers and sisters, I see you,"| he spoke as he bade their memory a salute, then patted his ikran to signal he'd be a while before sliding down into the sunken area.

Neteyam made a gentle approach, respecting the fact that he was entering a graveyard. He walked down the length of the tree towards the base where the bark would be toughest. The wood hugging the ground was soft and unusable; only the sky-facing side would be suitable for carving. Taking a deep breath, Neteyam began his ascent up the horizontal trunk.

He wedged his feet and hands between the narrow cracks of the dense bark, but the effort scraped his skin—he'd been spoiled by the smooth rock of High Camp. Before long, he had to rest but took the time to remind himself that he still carried the blood of his tree-dwelling ancestors. He pushed upward; and, by enduring the biting pain, Neteyam achieved his goal.


  <span>He puffed out his chest in pride as he admired the view. White Flower came flying up behind him and stared blankly at her master; Neteyam gave her an annoyed sigh. |"Yes, I know I could've flown up here, but how can I call myself Omatikaya if I can't climb a tree?"| He then whipped out his knife and knelt before a good spot. The loyal mount tilted her head as she watched his blade dig into the tree's skin to make a bow-long incision before he began the work of tediously carving it out.</span>


The hunt from the other day had left an impact on him. There he was, flying confidently atop White Flower, his braided hair whipping about in the wind as he led his fellow ikran riders into the hunt. Neteyam had painted his arm ochre: a hunter's vow that he would return with a kill. The targets were the migrating sturmbeests following the lazy river, corrugating the earth with their six-legged plodding. One bull could feed a clan for days, but their size made them formidable prey. The bulls were alerted by the hunters' cries and broke into a stampede; their hoofs tore up the river's silt, and sprays of mud coated the direhorse riders. Neteyam skimmed over the old and weak and aimed his bow at one in his prime. His arrow, dipped in slinth venom, careened through the air and straight into the narrow of an ear. The animal tripped over its still-running legs and crashed into the river, where it then issued its dying roar.

What should have been a victory ended in disaster. As Neteyam was hooting triumphantly, he flew over a sturmbeest that bucked its head. Its horns buffeted White Flower, and Neteyam was thrown clear off his mount. When he got up, he discovered his tsko (bow) had split in two beneath his back. While the other riders flew on to follow the herd, Neteyam stared at his shattered weapon. The bow could bring down nine-ton beasts, but the wood wasn't sturdy enough to bear his own weight. He perceived a question in his heart that asked, "Why did you make your bow from a tree other than the one meant for your people?" Neteyam heeded the gentle voice and understood this was a sign from Eywa.

He continued with his cutting when he heard a cry from above. Neteyam looked up and saw Jake circling overhead with Spider clung to his back. Jake called down to him. "Got everything you need?" Seeing Neteyam nod in reply, he continued, "I'll see you in two days. Take care of your mother and sister."

"I see you, Father. I will," Neteyam hollered back.

They waved goodbye as Jake steered his ikran towards the direction of Hell's Gate.


The sun was setting by the time Jake and Spider reached Hell's Gate. The grey pentagon, bordered by mountains, stuck out like a scab on the green landscape. Plant shoots grew between the cracked tarmac, and foliage coiled its way over the iron fences; Pandora sought to heal the wound.

After the battle, this former RDA base had become home to the defectors—defectors who had to make the most of what they had. Despite the base running on renewable energy, parts would inevitably break down. With no supply chain bringing in replacements, the humans had to jury-rig less than safe alternatives, resulting in one tragic incident where the airtight sealing in a compartment ruptured, killing a family of three in their sleep.

As the humans' quality of life dwindled with each passing year, along with morale, it was almost a blessing when Ardmore hijacked their airwaves and offered them a place at Bridgehead, which included a full pardon for their crimes—a bombshell that set off a daisy chain of arguments within Hell's Gate. Rationalists screamed at loyalists about the reality of their situation, while loyalists couldn't conceive of returning to the enemy; however, no matter how much any of them favoured life on Pandora, the unavoidable could only be ignored for so long.

Families were torn in two; friends became enemies; and, in the end, most left for Bridgehead. Painful as the separation was, it at least lifted the strain on the dwindling supplies.

Jake's ikran landed on the airstrip, and the two men jumped off to await a lady on approach. She was dressed in an old field vest that was now more beads than burlap.

Pamela Licai was her name: an American/Taiwanese and former RDA on-site resource manager. Ms. Licai was not to be mistaken for a defector; on the contrary, she hated Jake and regarded him as nothing more than a traitor. When the humans were being rounded up for their removal off-world, the woman told the defectors how short-sighted their plan was—that they'd eventually run out of means to sustain themselves and perish. Knowing this, they still insisted on staying, stating they would rather die free on Pandora than atrophy on a dystopian Earth. Ms. Licai wasn't about to let that stand. Traitors or not, she knew she could help stretch their remaining resources, and when she told Jake this, she didn't hide her animosity; on the contrary, it was actually her candour that convinced him could entrust her to the task.

Jake appreciated her genius enough to put up with the constant insults, and over time, his patience paid off. Somewhere along the lines, she stopped calling him names, and their working relationship gradually improved. Pamela had actually fallen in love with Pandora, but she wasn't about to let Jake know it, not after all the words she had with him; that is, until the day her field vest had finally worn to pieces. Being the guy he was, Jake offered to have his people mend it. He later returned with a garment so beautifully stitched that Pamela dropped her guard to admire the craftsmanship. Upon discovering it wasn't repaired by just any weaver but a labour of love by Jake's own wife, Pamela stopped pretending to hate him.

She was brilliant in keeping up Hell's Gate despite the limitations they suffered. She had mining equipment gutted for parts and teylu farms constructed before the last of their synthesized food packs ran out. For all the creative workarounds, Pamela still warned Jake she couldn't make a projection that extended past two decades.

"Pam. I see you." He saluted.

"Howdy, Jake," she replied, then smiled at Spider. "Howdy, monkeyboy."

The boy squatting at Jake's feet saluted back.

Jake surveyed the area. "Anything new to report?"

She crossed her arms. "Other than the fact we're hopelessly screwed, not really. I don't suppose you could spare us an AT-99?"

"What do you want a gunship for?"

"We need the engine. I can't keep the solar panels going during routine cleaning, and our current generator is getting old."

"Like you?" he joked.

"Don't push your luck with me, handsome. I can take you on despite your size, remember?"

He smirked at the Texan with a black belt. "Sorry, I can't spare you another bird."

"Isn't that always the case? Your blue buddies are waiting to talk with you."

Jake nodded and turned to his ward. "You go on with Pam. I'll talk with Anotang." Spider agreed and left with Licai while Jake visited his garrison.

Hell's Gate wasn't home to just humans; a great number of Na'vi warriors lived on-site. After the battle that took place many years ago, Jake dispelled his toruk, not realizing the authority, along with the title, was permanent. It was a strange revelation to him when he understood he was something of a "colonel" to the Na'vi. No warrior, no matter their clan, would deny him respect. Jake used this to garner troops to dwell on Hell's Gate as a make-shift Na'vi fort, protecting the humans from the frenzied wildlife that would've otherwise killed them. When Bridgehead was built, the invaders wasted no time trying to retake Hell's Gate, but his troops were valiant in rerouting the enemy. With the return of the RDA, Jake created more garrisons to defend all known unobtanium sites. His commander in charge of the Hell's Gate division was Anotang.

|"Rider of Last Shadow, I see you,"| he greeted Jake. The proud Na'vi had a deep voice as impressive as his scars. He hailed from the plains and had fought by Toruk Makto's side fifteen years ago.

|"Anotang, I see you. How are the warriors?"|

|"Many itch to see their clansmen again, but we stay to fight."|

|"I know. We must switch out the warriors soon."|

|"I will remain to train the ones that come next."|

Jake's brows raised in surprise. |"But doesn't your mate miss you?"|

|"Of course she does,"| he boasted happily. |"But who else will teach the new warriors your strange fighting techniques? Li'ona understands this."|

|"Anotang, you're mated to your work,"| Jake laughed, and the two went over the barracks together.


The doors slid back, and Spider walked into the immaculate white apartment. It was sterile in its postmodernist architecture, valuing efficiency over enchantment. The displays of Omatikaya craftwork were all that lit up the barren room, with Spider's old woven ikran toy being the proudest ornament. He removed his EXO pack along with his visor and tossed it to the side.

A boy of seven sprinted with glee towards Spider. "Josh!"

"Hey, Dungbeetle!" Spider took the kid's reaching hands and proceeded to swing him around. His parents came forward to greet him but were halted by the unexpected stench. "For Pete's sake, Joshua. Doesn't Jake ever give you a bath?" his father complained while holding his nose.

"That's my natural musk, Dad. I've been working on it for weeks."

"More like months," remarked his mother, Janine. "Your clothes are in your room."

"Do I have to?" he whined.

"What are you, Tarzan? You're not walking around here in a loincloth. It's bad enough with the dreadlocks."

Spider smirked at her. "C'mon. It's my mane."

"What do you style it with? Mud?"

"No." He snorted. "Hexapede dung."

The boy, unbothered by the smell, continued to play with his dirty older brother while the woman leaned close to her husband. "We're going to have to hose them both down, aren't we?"


Spider stepped into the dining room, having fixed his appearance at his parent's request. His mane was tamed into a ponytail, and his legs were stuffed into pants. He clambered onto a chair next to his brother and squatted with his knees peeping up past the table.

"Button your shirt," his father directed.

"What's wrong with it? I'm not a girl. And even the Na'vi woman show—"

"Don't finish that sentence. Button up."

With an eye-roll, Spider obeyed his father. His mother came over to place the last dish, peeling off all the lids to commence with dinner. Spider barely waited before he shamelessly reached across the table to grab some food.

"I see Jake doesn't teach you any manners, either."

|"I am sorry, Mother. May Eywa smile on you both,"| he replied in Na'vi and bowed his head.

She didn't care for this response, recognizing the sarcasm even when spoken in a foreign tongue. "We should never have let Jake take you under his wing."

Spider narrowed his brows. "What do you mean? Jake's doing a great job teaching me."

"Like how to swing from trees and pick lice from hair?"

"The Omatikaya aren't uncivilized, Mom," he retorted. "They don't go around blowing up people's homes for profit."

"Hey, hey, hey!" the man of the house interjected. "None of that. We're finally having dinner together. I won't have it spoiled by another argument, Josh."

Spider nodded his apology with a contemptuous pout.

The younger boy shifted his anxious gaze between his parents and adopted brother. He didn't understand the context of the conversation but understood how it was being said.

"The Na'vi are an impressive people, but don't forget it's our race you come from, not theirs."

"With the way the animals leave him alone, you'd think that he was Na'vi," she said with a bit of snark.

"That's because of Kiri," the little boy declared.

Spider hit his brother's side. "Shut up, Dungbeetle."

"Joshua cut that out. Leave Zachary alone. And stop calling him 'Dungbeetle'!" she scolded.

"Kiri's the one with a knack for animals, right?"

Spider only gave his father a tight nod and quickly went back to eating.

"I thought it was because of some mixture Jake gave you to ward away predators."

"I made that myself," Spider boasted to both parents. "And it doesn't ward away predators. It just messes up their sense of smell. Works like cocaine."

The little boy couldn't help but be curious. "What's that?"

The mother hid her face in her hands, frustrated to the hilt with the whole conversation. "Joshua, please!"

"Who told you about—" He refrained from saying cocaine when he noticed the look on his wife's face. "That, Josh?"

Spider blushed, and his father knew who was to blame. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we shouldn't have let him train our son."

"Hey, it was Jake who found me as a baby, remember? He let you raise me."

"He let us? As I recall, that's not what happened."

Spider waved it off. "I still owe him for saving me. Besides, without me, his camp would be in ruins. I help him out with all his work. He even needs me to figure out military strategies."

"You're not his ward. You're his familiar," his mother observed.

"Jake doesn't use magic," he smartly replied before finishing in his head. It's Kiri who does.


Polyphemus was adumbrated by the distant star ebbing behind the horizon. In the golden hour of Pandora, everything glimmered with radiance. Colours were shifting from warm to cool with the coming of night. Jake and Anotang's skin appeared indigo as they stood atop the Habmod of Hell's Gate, a good vantage point for Jake's warriors to monitor the horizon. The two men were busy discussing their blind spots and how to better guard them.

|"I do not understand the Skypeople. They have such strength, but what kind of warrior makes a bow that fires arrows you cannot retrieve?"|

|"Normally, we'd just make more, but the ammunition we use for our weapons requires machines we don't have,"| Jake explained.

|"After five years, we cannot keep fighting with Skypeople tools. They are so destructive, they destroy even themselves."|

|"I know we're running out of ammo. You've made do with what you have. I'm thankful our enemy cannot easily venture out this far."|

|"Our Mother preserves us,"| Anotang voiced in a manner as courteous as his speech. His smile then fell away, and his eyes narrowed.

Jake's ears perked. |"What troubles you, Anotang?|

|"I'm a warrior that's known peace for many years—more than my fair share. I fear Eywa knows this too."|

|"What are you saying?"|

|"It is a dream I had a night ago—a terrible vision. I stood, down there, with my warriors ready. The ground shook and shattered. From the cracks rose skeletons. They moved like living men, but they were dead. All at once, they fell upon us. My men and women fought, but our weapons were useless. Our arrows flew right past their ribs. Our spears landed on nothing. Without skin, they had no blood to spill. How do you kill what is already dead? In the end, all of us were slain."|

Jake stood motionless as Anotang recounted his vivid dream. His mind wandered back to the Harryhausen pictures he saw as a little boy—movies with claymation skeletons fighting the heroes. It was unnerving to hear it described by an extraterrestrial. Zombies, ghosts and other undead monsters are foreign to the Na'vi, for spirits are never lost or wandering as they return to the Mother who made them. Anotang's dream was too Earthlike for Jake's liking.

|"It sounds like a nightmare."|

|"What is a 'nightmare'?"|

Jake sighed uneasily. |"A dream you don't want to have."|

Anotang dwelt long on this new Skyperson term. |"Yes."| He nodded thoughtfully. |"It was a nightmare."|

[JforA]

I love these bozos.

[JforA]

Chapter 11 First Mission

One Year Later

The window panels slid shut with an ominous finality. The auditorium went black, leaving only the lambent patterns of the twelve seated figures. Then, with the press of a button, a large screen powered on; its dull white glow silhouetted Ardmore as she strolled in front.

"You've been living a cushy life up until this point," she announced coolly. "You may have graduated, but make no mistake, those patches on your chest mean nothing till you give us a win. Your very existence has cost Bridgehead a king's ransom each, and the big boys want a return on their investment. My job is to see to it that they get it. Now, I'm not sending you kittens out to play peek-a-boo in the forest just to pick off a few Na'vi. We've got bigger fish to fry." She flicked up her remote, and the green schematics of Hell's Gate materialized onscreen.

"Hell's Gate. For five years now, we've been trying to take it back. Our last attempt ended in disaster. We found the old base was two hundred strong, and not only that,"—she flicked her remote again, and images from their failed mission displayed onscreen—"Sully had placed a ring of mines around the base that took out the majority of our troops. The gunships not assaulted by banshees were destroyed by explosive arrows. Ye-up, you heard right—explosive arrows. After twenty thousand years of eating mud, the barbarians finally decided to evolve.

"Inside the old Habmod, you'll find there's some obstinate buggers still holding out. Since the human race is critically endangered, we want those people brought here safe and sound. It's why we haven't resorted to just gassing the area. The amount needed to kill a Na'vi would seep through the structure's filtering and wipe them out instantly. Sully's using them as a shield."

Ardmore switched the screen to an orbital image of Hometree. "This is site 0823-K, a.k.a. Hometree. You know it. You know what we did. The only thing left to do is mine it. Once we have Hell's Gate again, we'll be using it as a base to streamline excavation. So before you bring your blue tails back, you're to check on the potentially usable mining equipment parked nearby and determine if it's functional.

"Long and short, since none of our attempts have been successful, it will be up to you twelve to recapture the base, and I'm not crossing my fingers."

Spoiler

The recombinants' murmurings filled the ears of Quaritch. He hushed their doubts with a staunch "Affirmative."

"Good," she chirped. "Our intel gathered from the defectors tells us this is Sully's top commander. His name is Anotang."

She struck another button, and what displayed onscreen was the graphic playback from a soldier's body cam. The unlucky man was gutted by a Na'vi spear, and Quaritch grimaced in empathy. She freeze-framed the exact moment the gigantic shaft skewered the man's stomach and zoomed in on his killer's contorted face.

"He is a shrewd and adaptive military strategist. And, from what we're told, a close friend of Sully. Do not underestimate the threat he poses to your team."

Quaritch's eyes followed the deep cuts running across the left side of Anotang's face. The three lines of healed-over flesh bore a striking resemblance to his old scars. The moment she mentioned he was Sully's friend, Quaritch marked him for death.


The colonel had everyone gather around the digital map of Hell's Gate, projected from a computer table. His teal fingers cut through the holographic display to guide his men through their discussed route. He already knew the base by heart; it had been his home for fifteen years. Personal experience taught him the best ways of defending it; all he had to do was ask himself, "How smart was Sully?" He wasn't going to underestimate him, not this time.

His plan was simple; since overt didn't work, they would go covert. Under the cover of darkness, they would sneak onto the base via the old unobtanium refinery, then fan out to key points and encircle the airfield where the warriors encamped. On Quaritch's signal, they would open fire, with their snipers in the trees picking off combatants from afar. Flash grenades and flares would be used to scare off the warrior's ikrans and stun the enemy. Quaritch's tactic was pandemonium: a crude method, but it worked for Gideon.

The first hurdle was getting there. With night flights being too risky, the plan was to drop them off at a location close enough to Hell's Gate, then trek the remainder on foot. The team would have to be on constant alert for enemies. In the jungles of Pandora, it's not a question of if you're being watched, but by whom and how many.


It was early dawn, and the ashen light of Polyphemus lent only a dull illumination. The haze of Bridgehead blurred the horizon, causing the images of the sister moons to dance chaotically—the overworked city was already sweating from its own insufferable heat.

Gear on their backs, Quaritch and Wainfleet made their way down the airfield. Their boots struck asphalt with a weight that excited awe, and the pilots tending to the aircrafts couldn't help but steal glances—if statues of Roman gladiators were animated by some dark mage, they would've attracted the same fearful stares.

The other recombinants were waiting near gunships. They saluted their colonel upon his arrival and gathered around him, not just for a debriefing but for a last moment of respite before their mission began.

"This is it, kids. We've trained long and hard for this day." He pursed his thin lips as he studied the straightness of their backs; they were resolved. "Once we leave asphalt, we enter hostile territory. You know what's out there. We tasted it before. We know what it's like to be eaten alive, crushed underfoot, gutted by arrows—death doesn't scare us."

Lips flicked up on the formerly grim faces as they nodded, nearly snickering, in full agreement.

Quaritch stripped his shades. "That's not what's at stake here. For a whole year, we've been spoiled rotten by our own company. We forget the fact that there are no other recoms. It's just us twelve. And if that number changes, it will only go down." He watched them intently as they looked to their closest buddies; people inches from them today could be beyond their reach tomorrow—forever—and that thought struck them more than the trauma of their own death.

"There's no one else like us. And there'll never be others like us. All we have is each other...for as long as we can make that last." He was as stalwart as they'd always known him, but there was something else in his demeanour, something new. For a moment, the recombinants saw not their colonel but a ghost from their past—that dependable male relation their adolescent eyes would turn to when the world was upside down. "We are not human. We are not Na'vi." He paused.

"We are family."

Then, one by one, they surrounded him. A hand pressed to a back, a head to a cheek, an arm to a shoulder, and the team locked into a huddle. For a long while, they stood in silence. Let God or the devil try; nothing would break that palisade. Theirs was a strength that relied not on muscle nor weapon but a force invisible; and one their leader knew would ensure their survival.


Heavy rainfall assaulted the gunships as they sailed over the canopy. The flying beasts hovered over a section of trees, and the leaves around trembled in fright. Tendrils uncoiled from their metal stomachs, and from its strands, slid the recombinants into the jungle.

Boots crashed into the grass bed, leaving deep impressions that pooled with brown water. Quaritch pressed his throat comm—a noticeable black band that hugged his neck—and informed the pilots they were good to go. The gunships pitched and returned to the direction of Bridgehead, with their bellows fading behind the noise of rainfall.

The jungle was a dark, cheerless grey. There was no glow—no magic—nothing but an occasional screech in the distance, but the unpleasant downpour still had its benefits; it would wash away the recom's scent trail, and the mist would obscure them from view.

"Keep your eyes and ears on alert," Quaritch ordered. "If you use 'em right, they're more accurate than your instruments. Move out."

With cat-like tread, the Deja Blus slipped into their first Pandoran course: a flooded grove of warbonnets. The towering palms, laden by the showers, arched significantly, dipping their iridescent blades into the pool, forming cages the soldiers ducked under as they waded through. Soon the turbid water was as high as their chests, and the recom team had no choice but to raise their assault weapons above their heads to keep them dry. The thick, obstinate mud—refusing to readily release their feet—caused many to stumble and find balance against the warbonnet's rubbery stalks. Most wore beards of mud by the time they finally reached the end of that undertaking, only to find a new one awaiting them.

For many miles, they endured the rain, wading across rivers and plodding through quagmires, with their shivering ears pivoting—flicking off the collecting droplets—to hone in on the faintest of sounds.

Suddenly, an eerie wail brought all of them to a halt. Anxious, they waited in complete stillness for the predator to emerge from the ominous mist. Wainfleet had his assault rifle drawn, but Quaritch pressed the barrel down. "Banshee of Paradise—a plant," he uttered. "It makes a wailing sound when wind blows through its stalk."

"I don't remember hearing that in class," Lyle whispered back.

"I read it in a book," Quaritch dismissed, and they continued on their way.

It was nearing evening by the time Hell's Gate came into view, and atop the mountain range that hugged the base's perimeter, they inched, on their stomachs, towards a bluff. Dense foliage gave them cover as each set of eyes subtly peered to spy their target, quickly accounting, thanks to their acute vision, a gross of Na'vi populating the airfield. Quaritch rubbed the saline mud from his face before bringing up his binoculars. "They got a watcher on every tower." He sniffed.

Zhâng also surveyed the scene with binoculars. "Their patrols seem timed. Eyes on every blind spot. See how they turn?"

"I see it. They know their weak points."

"How will we get past them?" Zhâng replied, handing his binoculars to CJ.

"We'll find a way."

Warren rubbed his protruding brow. "The place is filled with the striped devils. How are we expected to take back the base when there's only twelve of us?"

"Running Eagle," Wainfleet remarked, and his colonel raised his pleased brows.

"Running Eagle."

The commander of the Deja Blus waited till dusk before leading his team further. They were in the warriors' hunting region, increasing their risk of detection; however, Quaritch read that they did not favour hunting at night due to the viperwolves, so cautiously, the special operations unit crawled through the undergrowth.

Their bodies' bioluminescence made for perfect camouflage among the equally brilliant flora, but it could not hide their natural smell from the nocturnal predators. Periodically, the viperwolves' hellish cackles would echo through the maze of trees, further distorting their terrifying sounds. The colonel also read that packs of up to thirty viperwolves could rove the forest at once, all with voracious appetites.

The hellhounds' laughter crescendoed.

Quickly, Quaritch directed everyone to scale the trees. Digging their fingers into the bark with their wet pack straps abrading their skin, the team made their ascent. Lopez was the most exhausted and struggled to climb. The others were already safe in the branches before he was four metres off the ground. Brown reached his hand down to help him up when a viperwolf shot out from the bush. The six-legged canine lept up the trunk and clamped onto Lopez's foot. Its adamant teeth dug into his skin as it tried dragging him to the ground. Immediately, Brown sprung from the branch and jumped full upon the viperwolf. They stumbled down the length of the tree, and the beast was killed on impact. Brown made to get up but found himself staring into the glowing eyes of its hungry pack mates. Their gaping, salivating jaws had the recombinant frozen in fear. He was ready to be devoured when Mansk and Prager suddenly catapulted from the tree, baring their fangs to frighten the animals back. The other soldiers followed suit. With all eleven standing in their way, the creatures of opportunity shied from their prey, knowing better than to take on a pride of recombinants.

Howling in defeat, their lithe bodies leapt over fronds, and the pack disappeared as quickly as they came. In the distance, a bomb went off, and their laughter scattered—the minefield surrounding Hell's Gate. Again, Quaritch directed them all to return to the understory, having figured out how the Na'vi hunters avoided the traps.

Lopez was the first to check on their medic, who was still stunned from the encounter, but Brown waved away concerns, showing that all he sustained was a scrape. The others helped Lopez with his pack, and together, they climbed the trees once more.

With the help of their tails, the operatives balanced on branches as they made their way from tree to tree. When they came upon one with a hollow, big enough to house the whole dozen, they opted to slide into the cavity, taking a moment to rest. Quaritch didn't want to stall and ordered them all to get ready. They stripped their wet clothes and transitioned into dry body suits, pulled from their packs, before re-outfitting themselves in their plate carrier vests. They wrapped their queues around their clavicles, securing them in place, then donned gorgets of lightweight armour. After strapping on his helmet, Quaritch drew out a jar of black paint and began coating his face. "Time to get on your make-up, ladies."

The recombinants coated their exposed skin to hide their conspicuous freckles: a boon in the jungle but a death wish in the greenless world of Hell's Gate. In full gear, with black-painted faces emphasizing their yellow eyes, the recombinants lived up to the Na'vi's other word for Skypeople: vrrtep (demon).

Wainfleet and Fike were commanded to remain hidden in the branches as Quaritch led the rest of his team down the tree.


Jake and his Neytiri were arm-in-arm under the twinkling expanse. Nights like these were coveted by the lovers when there were no duties pressing upon them. They would steal to the top of Txurseng, their floating bed of rock, and lay on sheets of cool moss under the naked sky. Serenaded by the nocturnal fauna, singing in the jungles, the mated pair made love.

She rolled atop him for another kiss.

"Think we'll get lucky this time?" he whispered.

The serenity fled from her expression. Neytiri did not answer as she sat upright and faced away.

Realizing he upset her, Jake got up and leaned near her. "I'm sorry..."

"Is it The Way of Skypeople to always want more?" she replied briskly.

Jake nodded in shame. "Neytiri, I'm not ungrateful for Neteyam—"

"It is the will of Eywa we have the one," she interrupted. "It is part of the balance."

Neytiri was ever proud, but he saw through her glossy eyes that her composure was breaking down. He cupped her head and let his thumb run down the length of her high cheek.

"If I lost you..." She exhaled.

"Don't talk like that."

The princess pulled from his hold; she would be heard. "Neteyam would be all I have left. I am getting to be a Skyperson—wanting more!"

Jake nuzzled her, and the two souls comforted one another. The couple had birthed only one child, born of their first union. It was not for want of effort or time, but all the same, the miracle did not repeat. Neytiri had begun to fear something happened to her body because of the war. Jake would sooner admit it was the fault of his avatar than her womb. Norman had warned Jake that hybrids were often plagued with infertility. Him being a chimaera, a hybrid of man and Na'vi, meant his potency was questionable. When Kiri came along, Jake and Neytiri adopted her because she was in need before they knew they would later have difficulty conceiving. She was already a blessing but appreciated all the more with each barren year.

"You'll still have Kiri," he reminded her.

"I know," she sighed. "She is so unlike us, Jake. I never feel like I can be her mother. Always is she flying away. It is like you with Spider. That I am only borrowing Kiri. And one day, she will take off—for all time."

He let her head rest in the recess of his neck. Jake watched the world turn from atop his revolving mountain, ruminating on how ever-changing life was. The rock rotates by degrees until one day, you look out and realize the view is completely different, and you're left wondering how you got there.

"No matter what paths our children take, you'll always have me, Neytiri."


The team of ten could smell the pungent fumes that wafted from the refinery of Hell's Gate. Yanking away the foliage, they uncovered the steel fence and laser-cut an opening near the ground, large enough to crawl through. Peering inside the compound, they watched the patrolling guards. The Na'vi's vigilance gave them no opening to sneak past.

Quaritch signalled his team to stand by as he pulled out his walkie-talkie. "This is Blue Daddy. Over."

A voice hissed past the speakers. "Roger, Blue Daddy. This is BH-3. Over."

"Requesting payload on the devil's doorstep. Over."

Back at Bridgehead, on the colossal border wall serried with firepower, a turret pivoted in the direction of Hell's Gate, and the metal hydra stuck out one of its nine tongues. Meanwhile, somewhere in the control towers, after taking a sip of coffee, a worker finished the countdown to launch. The warhead erupted from the turret and soared into the atmosphere. Like a molten knife, the red flare sliced through the firmament with unremitting speed. The whine of its course startled both Na'vi and beast awake, who instinctively registered the sinister light as something to fear.

Throughout ancient history, comets were considered a bad omen, a sign from above that the end was nigh. The doomsday prophets who thought this were dismissed as ignorant, for the comet was a celestial phenomenon, not a harbinger of ICBMs.

Jake and Neytiri witnessed the crackling red flare. The Na'vi princess didn't understand its significance, but the veteran from the war-stricken planet understood it with terrible clarity. When his arm was pressed, he uttered with grave emphasis, "Turatan."

"Last Light?" she breathed.

His eyes mapped its trajectory. "It's headed for Hell's Gate!" He ran down into the inner labyrinth, calling his warriors. Men and women sprang from their tents with bows in hand. Neytiri was fast behind him.

"Neteyam, fly with me! Neytiri, remain and lead the clan."

"Ma Jake!"

Jake faced her, and the fear in his eyes took her back. He had been dreading this day. "We don't go to fight, Neytiri. By the time we get there, it'll already be too late. We're only bringing back survivors—if there are any." With that, Jake kissed his mate goodbye, mounted his ikran, and flew out with half the clan.

Hell's Gate came into the warhead's view. Anotang was on the Habmod tower surveying his camp when he espied the glint on the horizon. His sage eyes narrowed in on the light. The second before it hit was a moment frozen in time. A kali'weya was scurrying up a tree, hunting for insects. The ayfkio in the canopy readjusted themselves as they nuzzled their heads under their wings. A yerik stirred, licked the ear of her calf, and returned to sleep. Then, all at once, they ceased to exist.

Anotang and his men were thrown by the sonic blast. The explosion rushed over the junglescape and surrounded half the base with a wall of fire. Strewn across the ground, the warriors gaped up at the devouring inferno. Whole trees drifted into the camp as burning embers, then ignited their tents. The Na'vi, who were able, rushed to stop the blaze from spreading, but the air stung with a dense smoke, threatening to choke them all to death.

Safe on the opposite side of the base, where the flames did not reach, Quaritch led his team onto the compound. They scurried through the refinery, then fanned out to their positions, unnoticed by the distracted warriors.

Anotang got up and raced to the edge of the roof to get a better view. In the chaos of the flames, he scanned the area for the Skypeople but saw no gunships or ground assault vehicles. The arrow was fired, but where was the hunter? His instincts said to look away from the chaos to the other side of the base. His eyes moved over flickering shadows and saw, there in the darkness, a figure with a Skyperson weapon. |"Down there! Behind you, brothers! Attack!"|

With their cover blown, the recombinants opened fire. The battle had begun. Mansk drew his Hydra, and a barrage of death swept the compound. Walker yanked the pin of her grenade and hurled it into the clearing.

Shrieks ran out as the Na'vi searched for their enemies, but the astringent smoke blinded them. Na'vi, with assault rifles, fired into the darkness, but most of the recombinants were already shielded behind barriers.

CJ had yet to attain her vantage point and would need to brave an exposed stretch of ground to reach it, so she made a mad dash. Her armour withstood the open fire, yet one bullet managed to land in her Achilles heel: a narrow gap under her shoulder guard. It was a one-in-a-million shot, and CJ crashed onto the asphalt in a state of shock. With her arm completely numb, she could only feel warm rivulets course down her shoulder. She forced herself onto her left side and started dragging her body towards shelter, her fingers still coiled around the weapon she could no longer use.

Being out in the open, Anotang spotted CJ immediately and was utterly taken aback. He pulled out an arrow and aimed for her face. With his bow taught and fingers ready to release, Wainfleet caught him through his viewing scope—the figure slumped over before he could finish the deed.

Zhâng discovered CJ was down and sprinted from his cover to reach her. Throwing her across his back, he made for the same shelter Quaritch was crouched behind and laid her next to him.

"Casey!"

"It's nothing. It's nothing," she panted to her colonel.

They hurriedly pressed the wound. One glance and Quaritch assessed she'd survive it but would be out of commission for the rest of the battle. Commanding Zhâng to remain by her side, Quaritch signalled the others to close in on their targets.

With flames at their back, flares overhead, and fire shooting from the blackness beyond, the Na'vi were overwhelmed. Many were struck dead before their bows could be drawn, with corpses bordering the edge of the airfield. Then, one Na'vi espied a recombinant.

It was not a Skyperson! But a demonic imposter!

Enraged, the warrior unsheathed his curved blade and hurdled the fallen. With a blood-curdling screech and a rocketing jump, he slammed the recombinant down, but before the Na'vi could thrust his blade into the enemy's face, Quaritch swooped in and sliced the man's neck. Warren kicked off the weight then jumped to his feet, where he shared a firm nod with his colonel, and the two charged through the black curtain into the vibrant firelight with a mighty battle cry of their own.

Black smoke billowing around his legs, Quaritch raced over the burning camp, attacking whatever enemy remained. When his M69 emptied, he swung it as a club, then drew his tactical knife and crossed it with the encircling enemies. Blade against blade, the primitive versus the advanced—the recombinant felled many.

Standing alone amongst the bodies, piles of ash smouldering at his feet, Quaritch finally noticed, with alarm, the Habmod surrounded by flames. There were people inside banging desperately on the windows as the fire neared. "We got civilians trapped in the Habmod!" he alerted through his throat comm.

Brown and Mansk, being closest, made their way through the thick of battle towards the building, but the sea of fire blocked them. Parked next to the Habmod was a slash-cutter. Its neck, if lowered, would be long enough to extend past the blazing barrier and allow them to reach the building's windows.

"Sasha, can you hotwire this thing?" Brown shouted.

Sasha Mansk shot out the cockpit's windows and crawled inside the narrow compartment. With brute force, he ripped open a control panel and proceeded to work on the insides. Brown was clutched to the boom when the dead machinery suddenly resurrected in a thunderous roar. Its thirty-metre-long hydraulic joint dropped without warning, and Brown was flung in the recoil. He caught the edge and held on with one hand as his feet dangled over the inferno. With a loud grunt, he swung himself back up and ran up its neck towards the people.

The humans were amazed by the recombinants. Janine clutched her son Zachary to herself as the boy awed at the heroes. "Those guys are Na'vi!" he sang.

"They're also attacking us," Licai hurled.

"We should have left this place when we had the chance!" Janine shouted.

Through hand gestures, Brown warned them to get on their visors, but the blinking civilians didn't understand until they heard the tell-tale whine of a monstrous saw. Hands flew for the emergency breathers as a blurry disc of a thousand deadly teeth rose into view, forcing the occupants to scramble behind a hasty barrier of thrown tables. Next thing they knew, the shattering of windows rang in their covered ears, with glass, metal, and other bits of debris flying in every direction.

The saw died down, and the two recombinants jumped inside the room, shards of glass crunching beneath their boots as they carefully approached the frightened civilians.

"Remain calm," Brown assured them. "We're here to evacuate you."

"Who are you?"

"Recoms," Mansk answered, then hoisted the man who asked over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said to Brown. He proceeded outside, where he scaled the building towards the safety of the roof.

The snipers in the canopies rained well-timed fire. Few times did they miss; deadly was their accuracy. Wainfleet reloaded his rifle when a figure came up from behind—a Na'vi had spotted him in the treetops. Hatchet raised, he was ready to slice open Lyle's head when Fike caught wind. In one shot, he felled the Na'vi, and Lyle witnessed the corpse twirl down the trunk into the jungle's abyss. He blinked at his buddy, then clasped the hand on his shoulder and shook it in thanks.

For the Na'vi, the chaos worsened. Pools of blood tarnished the blackened airfield, and licking flames danced in the reflections. Quaritch was fighting like a demon. None were spared in his rampage. A Na'vi that attacked him from behind got bodily swung over his back and died from a twisted neck. Quaritch screamed at the devils to come at him, and the brave numbers answered. When the last one slumped to his feet, he sensed another coming for him.

Quaritch spun away in time to avoid a thrusted spear. He gazed up at Anotang, whose fearsome eyes raged like the fire around them. From his flapping cloak to bleeding gunshot wound, his whole body was coated in red. The stench of burning flesh and wails of the dying assaulted their senses as the two adversaries began circling one another. Anotang moved with the steadiness of a tree limb, bending but not breaking from the wind. His feet swivelled artfully, and Quaritch could not tell which direction he was going to strike. Then, with a savage yell, he came for him. By the skin of his teeth, Quaritch dodged the attack, then swung his knife. Anotang blocked it with the shaft of his weapon, knocking Quaritch's blade from his hand. The recom made a grab at his spear, and the two swung around, wrestling for control. Quaritch slid under his legs, and using all of his weight, he flipped Anotang over his head. The warrior's spear cracked in two as he crashed against the asphalt opposite Quaritch.

Both rolled off their backs onto all fours. Locked in a face-off with the lustre of their fangs glinting in the fire, Anotang hurled a beastly roar in response to the recombinant's. The lions lunged for each other; jaws snapped, and fists came down in their murderous battle. Quaritch nearly had him in a rear naked choke, but the Na'vi hurled him over his shoulder, and he was thrown upon a pile of ash. Anotang unsheathed his curved blade and came for the killing blow.

The colonel lunged.

Anotang stood frozen in his grip, gored by the tactical knife Quaritch rediscovered in the ash. His iris' contracted in the lambent fire, and the recombinant saw himself in their reflection.

Perhaps induced by the fumes or the exhaustion from fighting, for a moment, Quaritch thought he was looking through Anotang's eyes, staring helplessly at his killer's demonic visage. Disoriented by the vicarious hallucination, he slumped with him to the ground. The sight of Anotang's repeatedly gaping mouth roused Quaritch to back away, but his eyes remained fixated. His tail swayed pensively; warm blood dripped from his limp fingers as he pulled one step further from the dying warrior, trying to draw in air his lungs could no longer hold. With mouth frozen open, did the majestic Na'vi die.

"Sir? Sir?" His comm mic rang.

Quaritch pressed the receiver. "What is it, Lyle?"

"The last of the combatants have been taken out. We won."

"Good work, everyone," Quaritch announced over their airwaves.


A flock of ikrans soared high above the cloud layer in the chilling zone where toruk did not hunt. Jake led the V-formation to lessen the wind strength for the others. The sun was peeking over the horizon and illuminating the world below. The vibrant rays pooled around clouds, and their shadows stretched for miles. Jake was still in shock, tormented by the thought that everyone on Hell's Gate had been decimated, and the long flight only worsened his delirium. His glazed eyes wandered to the few mountains that floated this high in the atmosphere—Jake pitied their existence; their ascent heavenward took them away from their kin; the price of enlightenment was loneliness.

Jake wrestled his mind from the daze and tried focusing on flying.

It wasn't long before his eyes fell away again, this time to the waterfalls cascading off the mountains. They broke across the winds, where they became one with the sky to then return to their parental form as clouds and send themselves down again as rain, repeating the cycle. He dwelt on how the winds endlessly circled the moon, that endlessly circled Polyphemus, that endlessly circled its star.

Jake growled for having wandered again and struck his head, fighting to keep his mind clear.

By chance, his eyes cast upward to the white shine of the resplendent stars, and he was, once again, enwrapped by another deep thought. The stars were more visible beyond the obstructing cloud layer; the light pollution from the jungle prevented them from being enjoyed in their full glory. How beautiful their shine was, a shine he knew was but a ghost. Many of those distant stars died long ago, and only now did their light reach him, or at least, that's what he was told.

No matter what Jake did, his thoughts continued to drift like the clouds that crashed against mountain peaks and lapped over one another in waves.

The smoke on the horizon was not unexpected, but it troubled the flyers all the same. They dove downward and surveyed the area from a distance. At first, Jake was relieved to see that the blast had taken out the jungle and not the base, that is, until he saw the black dots scattered across the airfield.

|"Keep circling. I'm going in alone,"| Jake instructed as he banked his ikran to port; he wanted to keep his Na'vi far away in case a threat still lingered.

Toruk Makto landed, and when his eyes spanned the carnage, no word manifested in his stricken grief. The finest men and women he'd ever known were wasted there on that asphalt. Among the dead, Jake caught sight of a red quill bending in the breeze, and like an invisible coroner, the wind blew off the cloak, enabling Jake to identify the body.

"Anotang!"

He rushed over to him in hopes of finding any sign of life, but it was too late. The glossy eyes, the mouth frozen open in rigour mortis—Jake swallowed hard in acceptance. He drew the lids, then set the body down to cover Anotang's face with his red cloak—a friend made on the battlefield and now lost on one. Jake's mind was everywhere but dwelling on nothing as he knelt over the body and clung to it.

"Kìyevame," his voice cracked in Anotang's ear. "Eywa ngahu livu..."

At the top of the Habmod tower, the humans sat in the centre, surrounded by all twelve recombinants. CJ was in a stable condition with her arm in a sling, but her face was dour, unlike the others. The victorious soldiers were waiting for the tiltrotors that would return them to the city.

Licai's hair fell flat against her visor; her sour gaze studied each recombinant. "So Bridgehead finally decided to use avatars again."

The simultaneous laugh that rose from the recombinants unnerved the humans.

Quaritch popped his mouth in satisfaction while rocking an arm over his knee. "We're not avatars."

"What are you, then?"

Quaritch grinned maliciously and said to the others, "You'd think Miss Licai, here, would recognize her former chief of security?"

The human's eyes narrowed in consternation. She couldn't recognize him for anything behind his mask of black paint; however, the iconic southern drawl was unmistakable. "Colonel Quaritch?" She gaped.

Pleased by the shock on her face, he was about to make another quip when she blurted out, "Didn't Sully do away with your murdering ass?"

He huffed, then looked away with disinterest while sneering, "It was his wife."

Just then, they all heard an agonized scream. Quaritch rushed to the edge, where he saw Jake Sully kneeling over a body.

"It's Sully!" he bellowed.

Jake had looked up in time to see the recombinant in the distance and the pistol trained on him. Immediately, Licai rammed against Quaritch's legs and fouled the shot that would have gone through Jake's heart. The colonel bodily kicked the small woman away. He seethed in anger and wanted to execute her on the spot but held back on Ardmore's orders. Looking back over his shoulder, he witnessed Sully flying away, already out of range.

Painted red by the violent dawn, Quaritch moved to stand akimbo on the ledge, his long shadow slicing across the base like a sword. His eyes followed Sully, vanishing over the horizon, and he vowed, right there, to not waste his next chance.

Jake landed in a clearing and looked back at the smouldering jungle. He was fit to collapse as he stood there panting profusely with the words "It's Sully!" repeating in his mind. The voice was too similar to be anyone else's, but that was impossible. Quaritch was dead, Jake told himself. His eyes fell on the murder weapon he drew from Anotang's body. After a long while of blank gazing, his agitated mind cleared, and he realized he was looking at an RDA blade—for a Na'vi hand.

[Toliman]

I love these bozos.

That is amazing

[Toliman]

I read next chapters, really very good

[JforA]

That is such a joy to hear! I'll be posting all the way up to our current latest one. Ch. 22

[JforA]

Chapter 12 Strategy
The indigo night was alive with the pink light radiating from a tree's weeping sprays; its gnarled roots poured over the ground like an illuminated river, growing upward and over the ridge that encircled its base. Mo'at chanted a sonorous elegy as she led a procession down the winding embankment and into the recess of their organic cathedral. The Tree of Souls seldom saw a gathering of so many. Clansmen from every tribe came for this vigil. For every soul that perished, there was a family in mourning. Following the tsahìk was her son-in-law, Jake. He wore a cloak of dried ebony leaves that rustled with each step. Behind him, he led the rest of the royal family, adorned in their funerary garments, which were shawls of dry reeds and headbands of coarse, pliable bark. Jake's head hung low, and in his palm cage, like the others behind, fluttered an atokirina' (woodsprite). The Na'vi congregation fanned out into the aisles and, joining their queues to the phosphorescent root system, they formed the tsaheylu. Moved by the energy, they swayed with the waves of sorrow washing over them, humming an elegy that filled sore eyes with new tears. The royal procession crossed the beating expanse then climbed up the shallow steps of the altar, where they ceased before the palatial tree.

Spoiler

The wind blew through Her branches, and Eywa wept.

They raised their hands and unleashed their prayers. The woodsprites swam upwards, their delicate white feelers bouncing with child-like innocence. Death did not touch them, for they floated above the shackles of mortality. Some in the procession abandoned composure and collapsed on the steps in grief. Jake's gaze fell to Li'ona, pouring out her heart on Eywa's chest, and Her exposed roots drank the offering of bitter tears. Neytiri witnessed the lamenting of the widow and could not help but look at Jake. He stood tall next to her with his face lifted to the heavens, eyes closed, and lips moving in song. Kiri stood next to Mo'at, singing through gestures that felt more profound than words. Her silent voice joined the congregation's, and the night air swelled with the humming and wailing of hundreds of Na'vi. The only solace the mourners had was knowing that those who were lost were forever preserved in the bosom of Eywa. Jake and Neytiri linked to the Tree of Souls, and Anotang appeared before them. In the impalpable world of Pandora's soul, they bade farewell to the vision of their old friend whom Jake loved with all his heart.

The vigil carried on well after the prayers were sung by the tsahìks. People lingered to quietly recount fond memories while others sang from their songcords. It was a melancholy affair, but the artful way the Na'vi revered the dead made it beautiful.

From the bluff, Jake and Norman looked down into the sanctuary.

"There's so many," Norman sighed.

"Many died," Jake whispered back.

"The attack is only the beginning. Bridgehead is finally militarising avatars. That knife proves it."

Jake shook his head. "If they are avatars."

"What else could they be? You saw them at a distance. You admitted they were avatars."

"I had my men follow the trail they left in the jungle. It went back for ten klicks."

Norman was stunned. "That's too far to be linking from anywhere. Did you find any evidence of link shacks?"

"No. Unless they found a way to boost the radius. I can't understand how they could be avatars. Whatever these things are, they're powerful. I'm recalling my other battalions."

"Jake, if you do that, the mining sites will be exposed."

"They are not after the other sites. Now that they've got Hell's Gate, it's Hometree they'll target. Besides, if they took out my strongest garrison that easily, what's the point of smaller ones?"

"Are you going to concentrate your forces on protecting Hometree?"

Jake shook his head. "No, I'm letting them grab it. I've another idea, but later. For now, let the Na'vi regroup and go home to their families. We can't play defence anymore. The RDA's won this round."

"What are you going to do about the avatars? Ours, I mean."

To his question, Jake inhaled deeply. The loss of Hell's Gate would have far-reaching consequences. It's where they grew food, repaired broken equipment, sought spare parts and sheltered the humans when Pandora's orbit brought them dangerously close to Polyphemus' radiation. Without Hell's Gate, the humans under Jake could only be maintained for so long.

"I don't know. We need to implement strict rules. Curfews, rationing, make do with what we have until we can build up something more substantial."

"It's not looking good, Jake."

Jake rubbed the creases on his forehead raw. "I know. When it comes to linking to your avatars, try and do it as little as you can."

"Not to add to your plate, but the Omatikaya elders have been complaining. They feel your leadership has led them astray. That the loss of Hell's Gate was an act by Eywa for their disobedience."

"Disobedience?"

"You know their three laws, Jake. Don't set stone upon stone. Don't use a turning wheel or the metals in the ground."

For a moment away from Na'vi eyes, the real Jake emerged. "I know, I know—those damn laws. Norm, I am busting my ass trying to help the people. The problem is I have two people, and maintaining one means angering the other." Jake was about to gripe some more when he caught wind of an eavesdropper. "Neteyam!" Jake scolded.

His son shamefully stepped out from the bushes. "I was only passing—"

"I don't want excuses. You shame your clan when you disregard privacy."

"I'm sorry, Father," Neteyam sighed.

Jake grumbled and shrugged it off. "Forget it. Now, what's this idea of yours?"

Neteyam perked with a bright smile and scooted towards his father. "If the elders are angry that you lead two people, then why not appoint a leader just for the humans? Uncle could be their olo'eyktan."

Both men gave Neteyam a strange look.

"But only when he is human. When he is operating his avatar, he is Omatikaya and obeys you."

"That's—" Jake paused, then looked to Norman, trying to find fault with the idea.

"It won't improve much, Father, but it should get the elders off your back."

"That's not a bad idea," Norm acknowledged to Jake.

"I was considering Spider for this one day, Neteyam."

"I know, but the avatar drivers already respect Uncle Norman."

Jake thumbed his cloak in contemplation. "They won't be happy with you, Norm, if you play the skinflint."

"I think everyone understands the severity of what happened. Restrictions were a long time coming. This just sped things up. But we'd be two clans now," Norman sighed. "So much for coexisting."

"We always were two clans coexisting, Uncle." Neteyam shrugged. "Now it's official."

"Should make the elders happy," Jake chuffed. His gaze was drawn back to the Tree of Souls, where he saw his daughter sign-singing. His heart grew heavy watching her. Unbeknownst to Kiri, she was standing on the very spot where her mother died.

He was drawn back to the days following the Assault on the Tree Souls. He was slouched against the divine trunk and gazing upon Grace Augustine's lifeless avatar. The Omatikaya had laid it on a bed of flowers where it would be undisturbed as they dealt with the aftermath of the battle. Jake was permanently in his body and had just committed his human form to burial. He knew the time was nearing to do the same for her.

It was a hard decision for him, looking upon his mentor's face, as he couldn't shake the feeling that, at any moment, her eyes would open, and she'd lambast him for a cigarette. Jake felt he'd be killing a friend if he buried her. As he dwelt on this, he witnessed an atokirina' come down and land on her stomach. Jake had a twinge of faith that, somehow, her transfer ceremony did work, and this was the sign he needed to hold on. They put the brain-dead body on life support and kept it under watch. He had hoped that one day someone might run up and tell him that the avatar had awoken, not that it was pregnant.

No one understood how it happened; Grace wasn't known for getting along with anyone who didn't photosynthesize. Despite all the theorizing it would result in a miscarriage, the vegetative body grew the baby all the way into the third trimester, where, being unable to contract, they had to perform a cesarean section: the birth of Kiri.

They continued to preserve the body for his daughter's sake, and Grace Augustine's avatar soon became Kiri's whole world; whether to bid it morning or goodnight, she paid pilgrimage to it daily. When a child, she would set a blanket over the tank to keep it warm at night. As she grew up, the avatar was whom Kiri would divulge all her secrets to. Being a witness to her unrelenting devotion was humbling for Jake. To bury the body at this point would be sacrilegious.

"Norm, what you do for the humans is your district, not mine, but—"

"Preserve Grace's avatar," Norman finished. He, too, had been watching Kiri with the same reflections. "I'll do anything for Kiri," he reassured.

With his mind still heavy with other matters, Jake could only reply with a weak but grateful smile.

"Ah, the lengths a father will go to..." Neteyam teased while purposefully looking away from Norm.

Norman chased his cheeky nephew through the bush.

It was supposed to be a dour night of mourning, but Jake appreciated the relief of good humour. His son was like a panacea for grief. No matter how dire the situation, Neteyam could always find a way to bring back a smile.


The dome was alive with tumultuous celebration; nearly the entire populace came to witness this event. Serrano stood at his podium with the air of a democratic leader despite no votes placing him on that stage. He was stately in his white suit that emphasized the sleekness of his black hair. Proud to his left and fully suited in their tactical gear stood his Potsdam Giants. Behind them was the emblem of Bridgehead: a white outline of the Pandora globe surrounded by three swords. Spectators took countless photos of the statuesque soldiers whose still composure was only interrupted by the constant need for their breathers. They may have hid it behind stolid expressions, but they were, in fact, ecstatic about the event.

"It pleases me today to announce that Hell's Gate has been successfully retaken!"

The auditorium boomed with cheers, and Serrano flashed his signature smile while raising both hands in triumph. He directed the public's attention to his recombinants.

"This would not have been possible if not for the bravery and dedication of these fine men and women you see before you. This team of twelve single-handedly took out hundreds of enemies! Without a single loss, they rescued every human held hostage!"

The propaganda worked, and the city answered with praises. Ismael Serrano addressed his recoms. "For your service to the human race, we bestow upon you these medals." He held up one for all to see. The circular medal, glinting like platinum, was embossed with the emblem of Bridgehead.

"Angel Miguel Lopez."

The first recom in the line stepped out of formation and marched ceremoniously up to Serrano. Clapping his right leg to his left, Lopez gave him a salute. Serrano, while standing at his podium, clipped the medal onto the chest, then let him return to the lineup.

"Tyler Brahmms Brown."

The next in line stepped out, and the process repeated. You could tell which soldier was the most popular by the amount of cheering that followed each name. Lyle Christian Wainfleet didn't get nearly as much praise as Sean Jackson Fike, but both were shown up by Sasha Dariuz Mansk; the adulations he received nearly brought the house down. However, when it came to the king, it was evident to all ears who reigned supreme.

"Miles Stephen Quaritch."

He marched towards his governor with head held high. He didn't need to hide a flushed smile behind his breather like the others; his stoic expression was unmoved by the deafening applause. Serrano was overshadowed by his awe-inspiring countenance. With utmost respect, he set the medal on the chest, then said under his breath, "Keep this up, and there'll be more rewards for your team in the future." Quaritch said nothing and returned to the lineup.

Bridgehead was a newly created city-state of nascent identity. No history lent weight to the recently manufactured medals that hung on their chests; they were vaingloriously awarded to boost Serrano's image, but the proud team still wore them all the same. Standing straight and tall, the stalwart recombinants saluted the human race.


After the all-day event wound down, the recombinants were eager to get back to Homestead and once again enjoy the better company of themselves. Some months after their arrival, a recreational lodge was built for their leisure. It didn't house much, but they could still lounge at bar stools or slum it on the floor, as there weren't enough seats to go around.

"So, who do you think has the most fans?" Wainfleet petitioned.

"Z-Boy's got you beat there, Baldy," CJ boasted, tucking her medal back in her pocket after studying it. She was the only one who opted not to wear it.

Walker scoffed in protest. "Please. Did you guys not hear what Sasha got?"

"Yeah, spot the heartthrob," Lopez sniggered and threw himself into Mansk's "big, strong arms." He scrambled out of his grip when he discovered Mansk was cheeky enough to start puckering his lips.

"Hey, Sasha, how many women asked you to pick them up?" Brown snorted.

Walker nudged his shoulder. "You're one to talk. I saw the way you cradled that fan."

Tyler pulled his cap down to hide his blushing face.

Warren was sitting on a stool when he clucked, "If she's married, you ruined her. Gonna have blue dreams from here on out."

Quaritch shook his head. "What the hell is going on with people and their love of blue tails?"

"If the whole soldier gig doesn't work out," CJ cracked, "you guys could always become models."

All eyes shifted to Fike, who tightened up defensively. "What are you looking at me for?"

"Go easy on, Daisy." Lyle waved. "His brows naturally look like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know we could make a fortune publishing our own dirty magazines," Lopez suggested.

"Or pose for some calendars," Warren added.

"Gee, I wonder who the first subscriber would be," Brown said, and the room rumbled with naughty laughter.

"Just enable the degenerates, why don't ya?" Walker hissed. "Every time I walk the city, I feel one set of eyes on my back end."

"Izvinite."

"The tail's the newest trend. It'll be the next prosthetic offered in the plastics business," Zhâng proclaimed.

Despite the humour, Johnny was the only one locked in contemplation. "So... Umm... Do we like the tail?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

Warren rubbed his brow, Lopez coughed, Zhâng itched his ear, Lyle fidgeted, Fike looked away, and Mansk nodded.

Then Prager broke the silence. "I like the tail."

His colonel gave him a look. "What do you like?" he drawled. "The way it moves back and forth?"

"Yeah, it's got that hypnotic effect."

Mansk reached over to firmly pat Prager's shoulder in proud support.

Johnny Alexander was not impressed. "On whose ass did you discover that?"

He lifted his heavy lids in delight. "Why, the colonel's, of course."

The boldness of Prager's delivery caused the lodge to shake with laughter once again, and Quaritch could only pull a face as he endured their fun at his expense.

Warren leaned on his seat so he could see past Lyle and say to the colonel, "So that's why you got the most hollers. Put you on the calendar, and we'd be in business for sure."

"Yeah, he's got the finest tail of all," Lyle lilted but regretted participating the moment he read the murder in Quaritch's eyes. It was impeccable timing, thought Lyle, when a human soldier walked in.

"What is it, Private?" the colonel greeted.

"Requesting Officer Quaritch."

"Ardmore?" he wondered, and the private affirmed it.

"Flipping hell..." CJ mumbled. It angered her that after such a long day, they were still being demanded of. Quaritch shot her a warning look and motioned to leave. He gave his team a proper goodbye while vowing, with his eyes, to make drill practice extra fun tomorrow, especially for Lyle.


Ardmore's war room was lit solely by the projections from her holographic table. Natural lighting wouldn't do the interior any favours as it was nothing more than another cold, desolate section of corporate landscape, with the general's presence being the only fixture in the room that lent it any personality. Frances Joan Ardmore compensated for her short height with a straight back and a regular rolling of the shoulders. Today, she was in a good mood, as evident by the way her mouth pulled in imitation of a smile. She strutted around the hologram of Hell's Gate with pride. The summoned recom soon entered and immediately needed a sip of air.

"Ah, Quaritch. Just the person I wanted to see."

"You summoned me, General?" He saluted, lowering his breather.

"Going over the 3D images you collected for us. The damage the savages did to the base isn't as severe as I thought. It should take less than two months for us to get things fully operational. Good work. You took out every combatant without a single loss."

He crossed one hand over the other at his waist and proudly nodded. "My team trained hard. They're as tough as they are tough to kill."

"I meant the humans," she corrected him. "It was only a handful, but every labourer counts. They'll find it won't be easy to earn points around here, but they should be grateful Bridgehead is even giving them anything at all.

"Nice medal," she remarked before walking to the other side of the hologram. Quaritch watched her movements past the glimmering blue display. When she leaned over the table, her head clipped through a tower's pronged satellite, making it appear like she had horns. Quaritch was secretly amused. "I want to hear your report on the status of the machinery."

"My team inspected it thoroughly as per your order. It's in good condition, but most of the parts have been gutted. This is Mansk's full report." He delicately pulled out a small data key from his pocket and handed it to her, careful not to crush the chip between his giant fingers. As he took in more air, Ardmore uploaded the data and went over the projected machinery. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in contemplation. "I see. So that lines up with what the others have said—Sully's running out of means to sustain the humans. Most of RDA's equipment is built to last, but without maintenance, the radiation from Polyphemus buggers everything up. That planet doesn't like progress."

She took up her coffee mug and poured herself some brew from the machine nearby. "Coffee?" she offered.

Quaritch shook his head. "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm told it's poisonous for this body."

"Shame," she said, putting the pot back down. "It's poisonous for dogs and cats too. Most animals can't drink the stuff." She took a satisfied sip, aware but unbothered by the glare Quaritch gave her.

He leaned forward and let his sinewy knuckles fold over the tabletop. "On the subject of Sully—"

"I know you want to go after him. The answer is negative," she answered abruptly, setting aside her mug.

"If it's a matter of locating his camp, my team can track it down."

"Sully is a low-priority. He's running out of ammunition, men and supplies. It won't be long before he can no longer afford to keep linking."

"With all due respect, General, I'm more familiar with the threat he poses. To the Na'vi, he's known as Toruk Makto—that's practically their Christ. It's how he was able to gather all those clans. Now, if he can do it once before, he can do it again."

"He hasn't been spotted flying that overgrown bird since the battle," Ardmore countered. "He's not Turkey Makto anymore."

"I still think you're making a mistake. Sully's on the run. We should give chase."

"You're cocky from that last mission. You venture into the Hallelujah Mountains, you'd be entering his territory, with warriors hidden in every nook and cranny. No, hunting Sully is out of the question. I won't have you costing us a fortune just for some revenge-fueled wild goose chase. It's cheaper and more effective to put the squeeze on him. Once he can longer link, he'll either come crawling to us or suffocate to death—whatever comes first. Do you find fault with this plan?"

Though far from satisfied, he bowed his head in submission. "No, ma'am. I agree with it."

"Your back end doesn't."

Quaritch's tail was whipping about in anger. He fruitlessly tried to control it through muscle clenching. To his chagrin, he had no choice but to reach behind him and cease it manually.

Ardmore held back a snigger and returned to the subject. "It's his son we're more worried about."

Quaritch's ears perked like a dog's. "He has a son?"

"Mmm-hmm. A lot like his father too—savvy to our military tactics, only not restricted by linking. We don't have any images of him, unfortunately. We know he's four-fingered and has no eyebrows, so it's impossible to tell him apart from other Na'vi. His one identifier is that he flies an albino banshee, but we've never spotted one, so this could be false. He visited Hell's Gate a lot, always wanting to learn more about the humans."

"Know thy enemy," Quaritch growled to himself.

"There's another thing, not as important but certainly not to be overlooked. Sully has a 'Boy Wonder' who tags with him everywhere. He doesn't pose a threat to us, but if you ever stumble upon this kid, he'd be a valuable source of information."

"What does he look like?"

"Ever hear of Tarzan?"

"Yeah?"

"That's your kid."


Incense burned in Jake's tent as he scribbled plans on pliable bark laid out across the floor. He was using a handcrafted pen that Neteyam had gifted him. The Omatikaya did not have an alphabet; instead, they recorded information through weaving—the skill they were most famous for. Jake tried but found macramé wasn't his thing. He continued writing so the ability would not atrophy.

Spider perused Jake's tent and studied the RDA screen that displayed High Camp's energy level. After that got boring, he strutted over to his mentor and stood akimbo before him. When he chose to be bipedal, he kept his back straight and made long strides that emphasized his imposing physique. Jake was crouched over his plans as he viewed his ward from under his brow. The man-cub was growing taller by the day. Sully was impressed by his daunting size and humorously thought it was because he was so absorbed in Na'vi culture he was evolving into one.

He noticed the blue stripes Spider had painted on his body. "Those are new."

"You like, old-timer?"

"What prompted you to do that?"

"No reason." Spider shrugged and made another turn around the room. Jake knew that wasn't true; with him, there was always a reason. He cocked his head as he cast Spider a wary stare. "You don't seem too troubled."

"Why should I be?"

"Your family's living on Bridgehead now. You're not going to see them again."

Spider cast his gaze downward. "They secretly wanted to take Ardmore's package. The only reason why they didn't was because of me. They should be happy now." He then gave him a side-smile. "Besides, I consider you guys my family."

"Still, aren't you sad?"

"I'll miss, Dungbeetle. But let's face it, they're humans. They belong on Bridgehead. They don't know how to live off the land like we do."

"You're human, too. Don't forget that."

"So are you," Spider teased. "I seem to remember that more than you do."

Jake did sometimes forget. Next to Norman, Spider was the last reminder of his humanity. It was comforting to have his species visage always before him, even if it did unsettle him at times. Spider was a very confident individual; he always knew what he was about, unlike Jake, who struggled with culture shock. Spider did not suffer an identity crisis. He would always be, first and foremost, a Pandoran.

"By the way, I'm clearing out the other sites like you suggested," Jake told him.

"No surprise there. You go with all my ideas."

"Okay, smart aleck, what do you suggest we do now?"

Spider pondered for a moment. "Well, you know how much energy those old, broken-down link beds chug. The drivers should cut back, get rid of anything that drains—" He was seized by a sudden fear and breathed, "Grace's avatar..."

"We're keeping that online. Don't worry. She's still our first priority," he reassured him, and Spider breathed easy. "I was referring to Bridgehead. I want to figure out who these new combatants are."

"We need a way to learn them from the inside," Spider pointed out.

"I know, but how?"

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious. "Do what Quaritch did."

The casual drop of the name put Jake on high alert. "What?"

"He wanted you to learn the Omatikaya from the inside by becoming one of them. Let's do the same."

"Spider, we can't do that! They'd be interrogated or worse."

"I meant a Na'vi, jarhead."

"A Na'vi?" He grimaced. "And who you calling 'jarhead'? Have you seen your forehead?"

Spider palmed the upper half of his visor as he continued. "The last of the Anurai live nearby Bridgehead on a reservation, right? The city leaves them alone because some of their clansmen live on the inside as workers. Every month, the Anurai are allowed entry for trade. Have one request to be a worker, and you got yourself a mole within the city."

"Spider, those Anurai workers are not allowed out."

"True, but they could still get out information."

"How?" Jake argued.

"They're smart. They could find a way. Look, Jake, the Anurai are your one path into the city, and you haven't taken advantage of it yet."

"I don't want to jeopardize their lives. You know what Bridgehead would do to them if they discovered they were helping me. They've been kicked enough as is."

"Wouldn't they consider it an honour to help Toruk Makto? To avenge their dead brothers and get payback against their oppressors?" he said, all the while still covering his forehead.

Jake couldn't argue his reasoning but neither could he bring himself to like it. Spider's plans were like balancing a huntsman on your palm. Done right, and they're harmless, but that doesn't make their bite any less dangerous. "I'd be asking one of them to live as a slave in the city."

"They're already living as slaves."

Jake cogitated over the plan for a long while. "Alright," he huffed. "I'll travel to the reservation first thing and suggest it, but only that. I'm already putting them at risk just by entering their camp. And will you stop covering your head?"

"You made me self-conscious about it, man."

"You? Self-conscious?"

Spider finally set his hand down and playfully nudged Jake's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry, Pops. Those limp-dicks at Bridgehead will be too stupid to realize it's a mole."

This reassurance had the opposite effect on Jake. He studied Spider's features in the teal light of his RDA screen: the lines down his nose, the purse of his lips, his baby blue eyes.

"Spider..." Jake began.

"Yeah? What is it?"

Jake's mouth hung open, ready to say something, but instead, he looked away and briskly commanded. "You and Kiri are not allowed to venture beyond the mountains."

Spider gasped. "Why not?"

"Those things that took out Hell's Gate may be roaming the jungles. It's too dangerous to play there anymore."

"The jungles are already dangerous. Besides, aren't linkers limited to a radius?"

"Not these ones, I don't think. You and Kiri stay within our perimeter, understood?"

His ward grumbled a disheartened, "Understood..."

"Now, run along. It's getting late."

"Yeah. You need your beauty sleep. Those wrinkles of yours are startin' to show, not to mention that gut."

Jake motioned to smack him upside the head, but the boy was always quicker. Spider stood with his signature aplomb before the tent flap to bid one last sentiment. "Goodnight, Jake."

"Goodnight, si—" Jake faltered. "G'night, Spider."

[Syatikrel]

I love these bozos.

Nari rim ke lu.

[JforA]

I love these bozos.

Nari rim ke lu.

Srane.

[Toliman]

That is such a joy to hear! I'll be posting all the way up to our current latest one. Ch. 22

Kea tìkin
That is nice

[JforA]

Chapter 13 Anurai
The silvery lustre of Polyphemus' moons, or ayoare, illuminated the night sky. Jake and his banshee soared over the misty scape. His loyal mount was dubbed "Bob," a name embossed on the leather patch of his macramé collar. It was the extent of Jake's abilities in the art and his proudest creation. The ikran's four wings pounded the air as he raised his rider high over the cumulus to roll down its cottony bluff. Jake hooted in excitement as the air rushed past his ears. With the growing war and tensions building in the clan, he took this time to appreciate what he loved the most about his Na'vi life: flying.

C'mon, Bob. I know you're stuffed." He could feel through their link that the animal was growing tired. The loyal beast uttered a guttural coo as Jake patted him. "Keep going, boy. The Anurai are just ahead." Bob flicked his head, and they followed the wind to the savannahs in the distance.

The grassy plains transformed into an ivory forest. For centuries, the Anurai would forage for animal bones to add to their sacred graveyard. These unchallenged artisans of Pandora would work them into astonishing crafts highly valued across the moon.

Jake landed Bob in a quiet clearing and headed for the Anurai's camp on foot, trying to ignore the dead sentries watching him.

Spoiler

"The Anurai were known to reconstruct skeletons of revered animals into life-sized totems that could move on an axis. The night's mist seeped into the chambers of their rib cages, and the slightest breeze stirred them. Occasionally, a jaw would lower as if the animal's spirit was returning to roar. It was a surreal experience for Jake, walking down the lanes of the beautiful but eerie necromantic zoo.

He was passed one of a palulukan, the fiercest land animal known to Na'vi and the most revered by the Anurai. A stray breeze moved the skeleton, and Jake lurched back as the totem swayed upward. Its skull eclipsed the alabaster moon, and a haunting, white light shone through the empty eye sockets. Its distensible jaw flung open, flashing all of its wicked teeth before Jake.

Starting at the teeth, he was taken back to his first day operating his avatar. Accompanied by Dr. Augustine and his friend Norman, they were exploring the jungles, hoping to make contact with the Na'vi. Instead, Jake stumbled upon the nightmare his people called "dry mouth bringer of fear." Humans knew it as thanatora ferox. The monstrous panther, with its insatiable appetite, gave up on its hunt and came circling towards Jake. Its muscles rolled under its sleek black hide as it readied to pounce, and the avatar did the only thing he could—run.

The six legs overtook his two, and Jake had to slide for the protection of prop roots, but the beast gnashed away at his shelter, ripping off whole chunks like it were putty. Supine and kicking himself away from the claws, the would-be meal fired back, but the assault from Jake's machine gun only enraged the beast. It flared its crest and started digging with a newfound vengeance. Jake had no choice but to flee from his compromised shelter and dash for the bluff, where, by a hair's width, he escaped the snapping jaws through a leap of faith. Jake dove feet first into raging rapids that tossed him like driftwood until he gained purchase of a shore. Slumped in exhaustion and waters crashing against his back, the man listened to frustrated yowls echoing in his pounding ears.

Jake returned to the present day. He gulped, feeling silly for getting startled so easily and followed the sound of drums to the Anurai camp.

The Anurai were a zebra-striped people of the plains, with broad straw collars and hair teased up in mohawks. That night, the village was busy performing a special constellation dance. Their dancers, mimicking the stars, would move about the arena in accordance with their rotation. The clan adored the heavens and turned star-gazing into an art form. That's why they favoured the plains, for it granted them an unobstructed view of the night sky. Masters in both artistry and astronomy, Leonardo da Vinci would have found his kindred among the brilliant Anurai.

The drumming ceased as they caught wind of an arriving guest. With a bow of his head, did he politely enter the heart of their village. The people saw him and lilted, "Oel ngati kameie (I see you)." Jake returned their salutes and went to greet their olo'eykte (female chief).

|"I see you, Rider of Last Shadow."| She saluted. Her impressive headdress of beads jingled when she dipped for a bow.

|"I see you, Häku te 'rrtang Pakaw'ite,"| Jake answered, pleased he managed to repeat her name without stumbling. He had practised the whole day prior.

Häku only smiled. She was actually of the Pakaw family and was the daughter of 'rrtang, but she didn't bother correcting him. The Na'vi had come to learn that the mixing up of names was a quirk of Toruk Makto's.

|"We welcome you among our humble clan."| Her arm spanned the village, and it was clear their numbers were few.

|"Fear not, my friends. I will not risk your safety by lingering. I've come under cover of night to request of you a warrior."|

|"We are your spears. We are your shields,"| she crooned.

|"I ask not for a spear or a shield, but a hidden ear and mouth. I need one who is willing to live on Bridgehead and report to me the actions of our enemy."|

Many straw collars rustled as the clan murmured in apprehension.

The woman's lips parted, revealing her prominent gap tooth. She respected the legend before her, but his request was an audacious one. |"Why, Rider of Last Shadow, do you want one of us to go there?"|

|"They have built for themselves a new warrior that uses our skin. They are different from Dreamwalkers. I need to learn more of them."|

|"We have seen these new warriors!"| a woman interjected.

|"Yes,"| Häku said to Jake. |"Never more than three come to inspect our goods each time we enter their wicked land."|

|"You have?"| Jake exhaled hard. |"What do they look like?"|

|"Big, big..."| the tribe answered in unison. In the disjointed discourse, Jake heard descriptions of their thin ears and unsightly small eyes.

|"Have you ever heard their names spoken?"| he queried anxiously.

The Na'vi searched their memory, but none could recall the demons addressing one another in their presence.

|"They all have strange markings on their body. No two are alike."|

|"I have seen a female with colourful arms. Strange, strange designs."|

|"One has a band of black around the neck."|

|"There is one with a skull on his shoulder. Right here."|

Jake listened with cocked ears and agonized over each description. |"Did any go by 'Colonel Miles Quaritch'?"|

Again, the Na'vi shook their heads. Jake was relieved, for a name as strange as that would surely be remembered.

|"One had a marking, here, on his arm. He was very big."|

The section on his upper arm that he pointed to unnerved Jake. |"What did this marking look like?"|

The Na'vi stammered as he tried recalling the memory. |"It... It was strange. It looked like an ikran with its snout cut off and missing two of its wings."|

The defector froze, recovered, then resumed talking with Häku. |"I must learn more, but I make no demands. If none wish to go, I do not think less of your noble clan."|

Häku appreciated his consideration. They had fallen from the Na'vi graces since accepting life on a reservation; it was the only way they could remain on their ancestral lands. Bridgehead wanted to clear it for development, destroying the boneyard that took the Anurai centuries to build. The clan was spared this traumatic outcome if they agreed to let members of their tribe serve in the city as workers. This was not a decision anyone favoured but reluctantly agreed to. The clan would be protected under Bridgehead law, which they saw as the city's foot, always threatening to stamp.

Among the hushed whispers rose a proud old voice. |"I will serve."| An elder stepped out into the crowd. His countenance was frail and unassuming. He was perfect for the job, Jake thought with a twinge of guilt.

|"Father?"| Häku shuddered. |"You cannot go, my sister's sacrifice—"|

|"Will finally be repaid,"| he replied firmly. |"I've spent too many sunrises and moonfalls in regret."| He turned to Jake. |"Rider of Last Shadow, I am your humble servant, Zwefnawo."|

Jake saluted him. |"Zwefnawo, I see you. I warn you, the Skypeople's land is very dangerous. I don't know how you can relay information to me. That will have to be figured out after you get behind their walls."|

|"A way will be found."|


Häku offered Jake a night's rest in their camp, but he turned it down. Bridgehead would decimate their village or worse if they discovered Jake Sully was among them. As Toruk Makto, he had a responsibility to all Na'vi, not just the Omatikaya.


Respecting his choice, Häku walked with him back to his ikran.

|"I thank you, Häku, for receiving me."|

|"The honour was mine, Rider of Last Shadow."|

|"My heart is weighed with stones. My coming has taken your father from you."|

Häku gestured to him to not feel guilty. |"My father has his own mind. He has not seen my sister for five years. I envy that he'll see her again. I envy not where he goes."|

|"Do they not let you visit one another?"|

|"No. We enter, but we never see them."|

|"I'm sorry to learn this. I have not been in contact with your tribe as much as I would like. After my Omatikaya, your people have suffered the most."|

|"It was the loss of your Hometree that drove us to accept the Skypeople's offer. We do not trust these aliens, and I do not think they mean to leave our plains alone, but we are only doing what we can to protect our home."|

|"You are right to think that. My world has great clans too. They suffer under the same evil—an evil that breaks their bows and shatters their shields yet can not kill their spirits."|

|"Like your Zarhead clan?"|

Jake didn't understand her at first but then recalled how he introduced himself to the Omatikaya as "Jake Sully of the Jarhead clan"—a tongue-in-cheek joke that his people took seriously.

Jake felt a return of that same pride he had while serving in the Corps. |"Yes, our spirits refuse to die."|

Just then, the Anurai had gathered around their most sacred totem, and from the top of the dead palulukan, they paid homage to Toruk Makto by blaring their great shofar, which mimicked its paralyzing roar. Jake went rigid as he listened to it boom over the plains.


The recombinant silhouettes in the morning sun ran across the tawny plains of the plantation. The outer area of Bridgehead once again echoed with marching chants. Lyle lagged far behind, burdened with a rucksack twice in weight as the ones his teammates carried. He was panting heavily and ready to faint when Quaritch slowed to jog alongside him.

"What's the matter, Corporal, too heavy for you?" he sang.

Lyle ignored him and kept his focus on marching.

"Look on the bright side. Now you get to see all our fine tails," the sadist laughed as he sped forward, leaving Lyle in his wake.

The troop passed through the fields, avoiding the serfs who were busy tending to the crops. The recoms were many metres ahead by the time Lyle reached the field. Between the rows of soy-vein plants, his muscles failed him, and Wainfleet collapsed. Regardless of what his colonel would say, Lyle gave himself a moment to recuperate. His chapped hands dug into the refreshing peat moss, and he rested there under the shade of the climbing plants and their tiers of wavy leaf heads. The wind was torrid from Bridgehead's pollution, but it was still a breeze that cooled his overheated brow. During his break, he felt a set of hands adjusting his lopsided pack. He looked up and found himself staring back into a set of xanthous eyes: a serf woman had come by to assist him with his load.

Lyle tried telling her in Na'vi that it wasn't necessary; however, his knowledge of their language was abysmal, and the woman responded with confused blinks. "I speak Skyperson," she felt the need to say.

"Oh." Lyle was relieved and also embarrassed for making a fool of himself. "How do you know English?"

"We were...learn."

"Taught?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know you guys knew our language. You never talked to us before."

"We..." she hesitated. "Are not allowt." She completed her word with a 'T,' for the phonetic 'D' was not native to her language.

"Oh. Hey, it's no big deal if you do." Lyle smiled, and she returned the expression, displaying her striking gap tooth that added to her artless beauty. She was a svelte woman with a diminished chin. And her features were like a deer, timorously sensing the area for danger. Lyle thought her beige head wrap reminded him of a famous painting about some girl with an earring. He couldn't recall the name but thought the look added to her femininity.

He started to blush. "I'm, uh, Lyle."

"Lee?"

"Lyle," he enunciated.

"Ly'il."

Lyle decided he liked the guttural stop she put into his name and left it at that.

She rested her palm against her chest. "Säro."

"Sawoo?"

"S-aah-rroo. Listen. Rrr," she trilled.

He tried to do the same, but his schooling had not covered purring. "Uhr."

Säro held back her giggle and tried again. "Rrr."

"Err."

"Rrr."

It was by the third trill that the recombinant was utterly spellbound. Lyle knew he had to get a move on before she could purr a fourth time and make him forget himself entirely.

He came to his feet. "Look, uh, thank you for wanting to help, but this is part of"—he hoisted his ruck onto his back with a loud grunt—"my drill." He had a vague recollection of how they would say goodbye in their language. Linked with the action of drawing a hand down from the eyes, he bid, "Uh, well, gnaty cami ha."

She was taken aback and stammered, "Oel ngati kameie, Ly'il."

He flashed a loveable smile and jogged away.

Elated, Säro dashed off to rejoin her clan mates, who were busy at work. |"Everyone! I talked with one. They are pleasant. Not cruel!"| They rose to their feet and gasped but did not share in her joy.

|"Säro!"| One of them scowled while thrusting down his canvas bag. |"What were you doing? You risk setting that woman upon us by even approaching one of those things."|

|"Peace, Reyneyat. This was the same man who saved my life."|

Rather than praise, the reveal caused many to moan.

|"No wonder. She always watches that hairless demon when they run by each morning."|

|"You invite trouble on us, Säro!"|

A woman slightly older than Säro joined the conversation. She was dressed in slacks dirtied from days of labour. |"He is right, Säro. You are being a fool. These are demons you talk to. They can only be dangerous."|

|"He is not a demon,"| she insisted in frustration. |"He is kind. How is a demon kind?"|

Reyneyat flicked his head to cluck in mocking disdain. |"A good-hearted demon?"|

|"What about Zayksuli? He is Rider of Last Shadow,"| Säro argued.

|"Let us see your ugly friend try to ride a toruk then,"| Reyneyat scoffed.

|"He'd only get eaten,"| another jeered.

Säro was disheartened by the ridicule and knew no amount of arguing would sway them. She lowered her head and returned to working in silence.


A caravan of two dozen Na'vi traversed through the jungle that receded as they approached Bridgehead. Their direhorses were decorated with beaded caparisons and burdened with straw baskets. The Anurai would spend months on a single piece to give to the humans and thus pay for living on their own property.

They stopped before the kill zone: a ring of mange around the lesion that was Bridgehead. It was a mystery to the Na'vi how the heretics were able to keep Eywa's touch at bay, but they were more perplexed as to why.

The eykyu, the leader of the caravan, stepped forward to blow a carved shofar. A firework rose out of the city, where it cracked in the sky, and the caravan braved the deactivated kill zone.

Those who made this crossing often succumbed to an inexplicable sickness, ranging from vomiting to dermatitis. While the Anurai's medicine could alleviate the symptoms, they could not deduce the cause. In the end, their only solution was to lengthen the time between caravan trips as they waited for the afflicted to recover.

The specks stood before the monstrous city wall. A hairline running down its face widened as a brace of two thousand-ton metal slabs rolled away from one another. The powerful machinery worked itself up into angry roars to pry the barriers apart, just enough to let the caravan through.


Outside the washing house, the recoms were crouching down to dunk their heads under running taps. Fike was letting the refreshing water cascade down his neck and saturate his sweaty clothes when, from the corner of his eye, he caught his friend returning. "Hey, look! Dumpling made it back alive."

"Give me some of that," Lyle wheezed. He crouched to his knees and fought with Fike for tap privileges. Their tussling resulted in the faucet getting ripped off the wall, and a spray of water shot out that drenched everyone.

"Woo-hoo!" CJ sang as she and the others ran their hands through the torrent.

Quaritch arrived on the scene with a disappointed scowl. He surveyed the destroyed property, the two responsible and the subtle point of blame Fike directed at Wainfleet. "Alright, you two chuckleheads. Since you like fooling around so much—the circus is in town, and you're just in time to go inspect them."

It was strike two for Lyle and, knowing better than to object, nodded in compliance.

Alexander shook his head as he watched them shuffle away. "There's three rules on Bridgehead," he told his teammates. "Don't lean over the smelting pit rails, don't touch Ardmore's whip, and don't bring up how fine the colonel's tail is."

The others snickered, except for Prager, who was confused as to why he wasn't ostracized for breaking the third rule. The descendant of the tribe of Judah chalked it up to his commander respecting his chutzpah.

Every month, selected recombinants had to go inspect the visiting Anurai. It was a cumbersome chore they likened to latrine duty due to the stench of the direhorses. It was only to search their goods, but they hated most how close it brought them to wild Na'vi.

The caravan squatted on a patch of asphalt that was off to the side of the main road. They were shaded by towering fuel tanks that served to power the dozers that routinely cleared the kill zone of its collected cadavers. It was a painful display of waste for the witnessing Anurai. Instead of memorializing the animals' greatness by carving their bones into art, the dead beasts were dumped into the garbage incinerator.

Several men in SKEL suits were temporarily supervising the Na'vi until the recombinants arrived. The south land gate wasn't far from Homestead, but it was a slog for Lyle and Sean, who were still exhausted from their morning drill. When the guilty party arrived, they relieved the humans, leaving the two recombinants alone with the task.

Lyle patted Fike's shoulder. "Alright, you sniff the goods."

"Why am I playing sniffer?"

"Because, Daisy, you smell so good," he warbled.

Fike rolled his eyes. "Gotta make sure these monkeys aren't packing any IEDs made of mud and animal dung. Know how dangerous those are." He shooed the Anurai away as he approached their direhorses. Frightened by Fike's proximity, one of them began snorting loudly, waggling its long snout and stamping all six of its legs. Worried for his own safety, Sean allowed a single Na'vi to come over and steady it. The animal calmed, and the recom proceeded to comb through the woven baskets hanging off its side.

Seeing now was a good time, Zwefnawo walked up to Wainfleet. The moment Lyle's peripheral vision spotted the nearing enemy, he raised his weapon and shouted at the man to stand down. Zwefnawo fanned his hands in petition while giving a hurried explanation that he wished to live on Bridgehead, but Lyle barely understood his language.

"What's working him up?"

Lyle slowly lowered his weapon. "I don't know... But it kinda sounds like he's requesting to be a serf."

"That's new. Do you know the protocol for that?"

"No, no one's requested it yet." Unsure what to do, Lyle brought up his walkie-talkie. "Colonel?"

Zwefnawo's ears raised in surprise. "Ker-nel?"

"What is it, Corporal?" a voice replied through the speaker.

"I got a Na'vi here requesting to live in the city. What do I do?"

"Grab his name and age, then bring him over to the service office for his picture. After that, you take him to the plantation."

"That's it?" Lyle grimaced. "Bridgehead doesn't do more than that? No quarantine period? No vacs? Nothing?"

"Why, you worried they're diseased? Bridgehead's not too concerned with what they bring to the other serfs."

"What about us?"

"Well, if he bites you, get yourself checked for rabies! Is that all, Corporal?" Quaritch snapped, wanting to get back to his weights.

"Okay, sir," Lyle finished, and the device fired a beep as it switched off. He turned to the Na'vi. "Alright, what's your name?"

The Na'vi cocked his head.

"Oh, right." Lyle scratched his ear. "Uh, tstxo? Tstxo?"

His pronunciation was poor, but the man recognized he was trying to say "name."

"Zwefnawo te Pakaw Auonoro'itan."

Fike chuffed. "That's a mouthful."

"Zwef...nah...woo," Lyle repeated slowly as he jotted the name on his electric pad. "Umm... Hey, Sean, what's the Na'vi word for 'age'?"

"How the hell would I know?" He shrugged, flicking a bone flute back in its basket.

"Okay, uh, pulpy oary?"

The Na'vi winced.

He tried again. "Pol-pay oh'aree?"

Zwefnawo deduced Lyle was trying to ask him how many moons there were. He was at a loss as to why but patiently answered with, |"Twelve."|

"You're twelve years old?"

Sean shook his head and sniggered, "Zoboomafoo's one wrinkly kid."

"Hang on, I think I remember their word for 'year.' Uh, zizit?"

"Zìsìt?" Zwefnawo corrected.

"Yes, uh, oe mevohin zìsìt. Ayoe?"

The Na'vi elder was renowned for his intelligence and concluded, after several mental gymnastics, that the recombinant wanted his age. |"I am sixty-three years young."|

Lyle, unfortunately, did not know the Na'vi word for "sixty-three." It was lucky for him that Zwefnawo was a patient man who took the time to count up to the number with slow claps.

It was a very long day for everyone.


After a visit to the service office, Lyle escorted Zwefnawo to the serf's camp. The Na'vi's beautiful raiments of animal hide were replaced with ill-fitting clothes: leftovers from the defunct avatar program. It was late midday, and Lyle desperately wanted to return to his cabin like Fike had. As they neared the village, it occurred to Lyle this was his first time setting foot in the serf's territory. Despite being instructed to keep them in line, the serfs never did anything to warrant punishment, so the recoms left them alone.

Not allowed to grow plants other than the ones necessary for food, the serfs were unable to weave textiles and had to construct their tepees from blue tarps. Near the centre of their camp was the communal fire pit, lined with chunks of broken concrete that had reinforcement rods poking out. Living on the outskirts of undeveloped land awaiting construction, the serfs made do with castaway rubble. A few scrawny tapirus', raised for meat, oinked as they hungrily sniffed the ground for food. It didn't escape Lyle's notice that the overall aesthetic of their camp was a sorry blend of tradition, industrialization and poverty.

Zwefnawo bemoaned the depressed surroundings with heartbroken cries that alerted the serfs.

|"Father?!"|

Lyle was surprised to recognize the caller; it was Säro. She sprinted into Zwefnawo's receiving arms, and though he looked feeble, he effortlessly twirled her around—it was for the first time in over a decade. The adult woman, overcome with emotion, cried like a child as she rubbed his cheek with her tear-stained face. She was both happy and heartsick to see him, knowing his presence meant the loss of his freedom. After they hugged once more, the other Na'vi came over to reunite with their clan brother.

The Anurai were openly affectionate in the reunion, clasping hands, brushing heads and setting their palms on Zwefnawo's shoulder. As the recombinant watched on, he thought about his team's huddle and couldn't help but see the comparison. The display of such ingenuous love was moving for Lyle, and he wondered if this was a trait found in all clans or if hardship brought it out in the Anurai. He would've quietly made his exit if not for his empty stomach choosing that untimely moment to complain. Everyone stared at the alien, including Säro, who was stunned to see him.

"Ly'il?"

|"You know him?"| Her father narrowed.

|"We met before,"| she said with a faint blush, then asked the recom, "Woult you take meal in our camp?"

He was stunned by the offer and agreed instantly, as there is nothing easier than coaxing a hungry soldier to join a beautiful woman for dinner.

Orange tarp mats were laid out around the firepit. Since the others were reluctant to sit next to the recom, Säro and her father sat on either side of him so he wouldn't feel isolated. A Na'vi brought out a jerrycan of water and filled a stained plastic bucket to pass around for hand washing. It was offered to Zwefnawo first; then, he handed it to Lyle.

Säro's father was deeply troubled by the way his daughter and the others were forced to live. She tried, but it was not easy to convince the proud elder this was an acceptable set-up—for it wasn't.

"Is he okay?" Lyle wondered, and Säro answered him.

"He is unhappy for how we live. He was not here to see how our lives are petter from past year."

"In what way?"

She gave him a curious look. "One Skyperson always came to harm one of us. Always say we are acting wrong, an' we never know what. Woult tie us up an'...whip us." Säro had taken a moment to remember the word, for there was no Na'vi equivalent. "Since your coming, tis woman has not come. We not know why. We are happy for it."

Lyle recalled what his colonel said about Ardmore. His heart swelled with pride after discovering his presence had been sparring her from harm.

Soon, a soy-vein leaf, filled with wriggling food, was set before them. Luckily, Lyle had come to appreciate the grubs for the delicacy they were and was happy to have a large helping that he didn't have to fight over. Säro explained the larvae were called tktk, a pestilence that fed on the crops. She went into detail about how the Skypeople had given them a harnessed mist to kill the leaf eaters, but it made the workers sick. Instead, the serfs valued the larvae for the nutrition they provided. In the land where there was no Eywa, they wasted nothing and shared everything.

Refreshments were served in the form of a communal cup, which was a discarded can made clean for drinking. Lyle took up the can set before him when he caught Zwefnawo in the corner of his eye. He remembered from class that the Na'vi would not take a drink until one was offered to them. A bit unsure if he was doing it right, he set the can before the elder, who was surprised, to say the least. He didn't expect an alien who was so inept at their language to be well-versed in their etiquette. He thanked Lyle and quenched his parched throat. Säro could barely hide her delight as she watched this play out and observed the wide-eye stares with a vindicated grin.

After their meal, stories were shared, and the serfs were brought up to date on the events of the outside world. The English-speaking recom sat around, not understanding what was being said but enjoying himself all the same. His eyes often wandered to Säro, who was nestled comfortably in her father's embrace. The bridge of her nose was tucked under Zwefnawo's ear while he talked with the other elders. Occasionally, when Lyle glanced at her, he'd catch her glancing back.

When the day was nearing its end, Säro offered to walk Lyle back to his barracks, which he didn't object to; he even stripped his cumbersome boots and proceeded barefoot, as was the Na'vi modus operandi. He walked with them in hand as he crossed over the field and felt the smooth dirt between his toes. The star was low, and the moons were high. The chimaera plants brushed their legs, and the occasional banshee could be heard in the distance. Time didn't pass for these descendants of different ancestors, and it was good.

"I wish I got to know you guys sooner. You're not at all like the other Na'vi."

"How many Na'vi have you known?"

Lyle felt ashamed; the only ones he knew were on the receiving end of his MBS-22A. "I guess you could say you're the first."

"An' how am I not like utter Na'vi?"

"You're not trying to kill me."

"I say same of you." She grinned, and the recombinant lost himself again to her charm.

They continued onward for a while before Säro asked, "What are you, Ly'il? We know you are not uniltìranyu. Your spirits never leave to return to your Skyperson potty."

He had to hold back his snort at her poor pronunciation of "body" and no longer felt bad about his broken Na'vi. "What does yoo-til-ran-yuu mean?"

Säro had to think up the proper English translation. "'Unil' means to see story as you sleep."

"A dream?"

"Yes, a tream. 'Tìran' is 'walk.'"

"Oh! You mean a Dreamwalker." Lyle then remembered what Chatterjee said about the Na'vi referring to avatar drivers as "dream walkers." While the driver slept in a link bed, they would connect to their avatar and operate them as if in a dream. Lyle wished he was dreaming; his body was sadly very real. "No, we're not what you call 'Dreamwalkers.' We're soldiers, actually. Who...died."

Säro was startled and grimaced in confusion. "You are kerusey?"

Lyle gave himself a moment to translate the word for "dead." "Yeah, our spirits, or something, were transferred into these bodies. I actually died sixteen years ago."

"How?"

"I don't really know. The science behind it is beyond my pay grade."

"No... How you turkep (die)?" she clarified with sensitivity.

Lyle blew out a restrained exhale. "In battle," he evaded.

Säro heard the pain in his tone and lowered her eyes in empathy. "We are rusey akerusey. Alive an' not alive, like you." The recombinant didn't understand, so the lady explained. "We are where Eywa cannot see."

His face pinched, trying to understand her religion. Chatterjee had a hundred things to say about the Na'vi way of life, but Lyle couldn't even retain one-third of it. He learned the Na'vi had this view that connecting to certain flora would cause them to live forever. "Is it that important you guys connect with trees?"

"It is all that matters!" she gasped. "Have you not connect?"

"Uh, you mean my braid? I haven't done anything with it yet except accidentally whack my colonel a few times."

"It is kuru. Kuru is your...lifeline. Have no kuru, you cannot connect to Eywa. We see into (understood) when we come here. It was sacrifice to protect family."

Lyle lowered his head in solidarity. "I'm sorry."

"I am sorry for you, Ly'il. It is not right to call spirits to return," she murmured. "I know not what we call you in Na'vi. Kxitxtìranyu?"

Lyle was amused by the description. "'Deathwalker'? I'm a zombie? No, we're known as 'recombinants,' 'cause our bodies were made by recombining my species DNA with yours." Lyle then sighed and flipped a pebble over with his toe. "But, I guess 'zombie' is probably right."

[JforA]

Chapter 14 Storge
"Drop me off over there," Parker instructed the driver; he had bargained a ride from the sanitation worker in charge of Homestead's latrines. His fee was reasonable but a strain on Parker's tight budget, nonetheless. It was night when he arrived at the recombinant lodge, and he could tell by the obnoxious noise that the whole dozen were inside. The clamour was enough to make Parker want to circle back, but the driver had already pulled out. After swallowing the lump in his throat, Selfridge braved the building.

The house was filled with boisterous activities. Some recoms were playing darts, having custom-made their own set using rifle bullets. Being limited in what goods were available to them brought out their creativity. Their taste in music didn't need to be custom-made, however, and the rock hits from the past played for their pleasure. Selfridge feared getting stomped on as he shoved his way past the sinewy recoms towards the centre, where Warren was regaling a story with Quaritch.

"—slapped me full across the face, shrieking, 'I thought you said you'd treat me like one of the guys.' I'm like, 'B****, have you seen Marines? That was equality.'"

Quaritch burst out laughing when he caught sight of Selfridge from the corner of his eye. "Oh, hey. Lookie here." He sniffed. "You don't often pay us a visit."

Spoiler

Soon, all the devious recombinants gathered too closely around Parker. He fidgeted, trying to give himself space from their fanged smiles and hot breath.

"Hey, little man," sang Fike.

Johnny loomed over his ear. "I can smell your fear."

Parker threw retorts from "cut that out!" to "rude!"

CJ waved Zhâng over. "Hey, Z-Boy, come help Pops up so we can all see him."

Zhâng mischievously rubbed his palms together. "You got it, Z-Dog."

Parker could only hurl protests as he was hoisted above the crowd to be plopped on the island in the centre. Standing on the counter, he was now above their eye level, but he felt far from respected as he hastily tucked his ruffled shirt back under his pants.

"So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Quaritch asked.

He straightened out his tie before replying. "I got word of your guys' next assignment. You're going to be leaving Bridgehead for a while."

"Where are we going?"

"The Omatikaya's old village—Hometree. The dozers have finally finished clearing a path, and we're ready to mine. From what I've learned, they want you to guard the site till the bucket-wheeler gets there, which will take about two months. So I came to ask if there's anything you need ahead of time."

"Pads!" Walker blurted out from across the room.

"I thought I dealt with that?"

"Things suck at absorbing. It's like they're made of cardboard."

Brown winced. "TMI, Walker."

"Could use some drinks." Warren shrugged, but his commander gave him a look.

"For a mission?"

"I mean, when we come back to celebrate. We have to settle for water," he explained to their overseer.

Parker spotted the glass at his feet, and sure enough, it was filled with the clear liquid. "What's wrong with the beer Bridgehead makes?"

"You wanna drink the brand they send us?" He reached behind the counter and brought up a can for Parker. The unimaginative label simply read "Viperwolf Beer." "Viperwolf Piss, more like," Warren remarked. He tried opening it for Parker, but the recom couldn't work his elephantine fingers under the tab, so he punctured it with his teeth. He then handed it to Selfridge, who was slightly grossed out by the polite gesture.

Parker held his breath, removed his visor and took a quick swig before setting it back on. He smacked his lips. "What's wrong with it?"

"Must be our taste buds, then," Quaritch sighed.

"You guys can't drink this?"

"We can't use most of the stuff they send," CJ explained.

"Why not?"

She cocked her shoulder. "Too big. Too small. Doesn't fit. You name it."

This was news to Parker, as he had been too busy arranging things from behind his desk to ask how they were doing and was now finding out that no one else had either, except for their psychiatrist, and he was contractually obligated. "What's it like for you guys? Being Na'vi?"

"We're not Na'vi," Quaritch corrected.

"You know what I mean."

"It's..." Brown started up, then stopped. He looked to Prager, who gave a shrug, then to Lopez, who was just as uncertain.

"It's different," Lyle droned.

"Like how?"

"You mean aside from banging our heads against doorways?" Johnny half-smiled.

"Howbout threading your tail through the hole in your boxers?" Quaritch added.

"Do you trip on it when you get out of the shower?"

"Yeah, sometimes," he chuckled.

"Hey, at least you guys are living someplace where it's quiet."

"Not quiet where you live?" asked Zhâng as he leaned against CJ; the two were always resting one limb off the other's shoulder.

"Hardly. Every other hour, I get a lovely siren blaring outside my window. I'm like, 'Thanks, I needed that. Yes, scare me out of bed with an ear-piercing scream so I know it's time for other people to get to work. Thank you.'"

Lopez patted him on the back. "Least you don't have overly sensitive hearing."

Parker laughed. "Yeah, that's gotta be hell." Deciding it was worth it, he removed his visor to take another dangerous sip. "It can't be all bad, like you got those long legs which makes walking easier. Me—I have to walk a mile and a half just to get to my apartment. If I want to rent a ride, it's from an operator of heavy machinery. You think something with sixteen wheels would go fast, but no. Course, my apartment overlooks the sanitation plant. Since those aren't anywhere near where the rich people live, they don't bother dousing the smell. No. I get that privilege."

The recoms concurred with Parker as he assuaged his skittery nerves with yet another swig. Quaritch was surmising that if he kept drinking this way, he'd pass out from lack of oxygen; however, as the evening wore on, Selfridge proved to be more resilient than he thought.

His brief popover extended into the witching hours as the overseer exchanged with his recoms like-minded testimonies of their new life within Bridgehead. The alcohol intake, on top of regularly depriving himself of air, meant Parker's choleric temperament melted away till he was positively giddy, resulting in him leaning back on the table with his tie undone and hair dishevelled from all the times he brushed it. In this unflattering state, the human happily regaled his "kids"—by no prompting, just a drunken man's caprice—about their early days in space.

"I think I came by your guys' tank at least three times a week to watch you grow. I mean, what else are you going to do orbiting a moon for five years?"

The team blinked and exchanged glances. Considering they were naked and vulnerable, floating inside an amino tank, it was unsettling to learn they were being observed.

"You were watching us?" CJ inquired anxiously.

"Oh yeah, I was—" He burped, and the man had to detach his EXO pack briefly. "I was there watching all of you."

Walker crossed her arms and discreetly covered her chest.

"You started this small." He cupped his two palms together to cradle the invisible fetus. "Then you got this big!" He demonstrated by fanning out the whole of his arms. "Somewhere during that time, they said to me, 'You-you gotta take care of these guys.' I'm like, 'Whoa! Hold on there"—he hiccuped—"they're like, how many pounds? Five hundred? And pure muscle!' I was all, 'Oh, no-no-no. Why do I have to be in charge of them?

"You were the most twitchy!" he blurted to Lyle. "Every time I came by your tank, one of your limbs always smacked the side. Felt like you were trying to grab me." Fike chortled at the way his buddy's freckles brightened in embarrassment.

He turned to Zhâng. "You were the most behaved. I liked you. Let's see where's..." He searched the room until his eyes fell on Brown. "I remember you. Your forehead pattern looked like, uh... Like, uh... It was like one of those damn Rorschach tests—reminded me of a..." Parker repeatedly snapped his fingers. "Of a wolf!" he beamed, happy to have finally remembered.

No one made a peep, not even a cough, as Brown went completely still.

"I spent hours watching you guys. Especially you," he stupidly admitted to Quaritch.

"What?"

"To see you was...something else. First, you were this tiny, little baby—kind of cute, actually. Had to keep reminding myself that that adorable thing was you." Parker issued a wheezy laugh; the humour he saw in it escaped everyone else. "You were so peaceful, sleeping in your amino tank like a babe in a cradle. What a comparison, right?"

Quaritch said nothing as he deliberated on taking Parker home.

The room went quiet while the man, filled to bursting and completely inebriated, slumped over on the counter and curled up to sleep.

"Alright, who's got the car keys?"

Walker jingled them in the air at Quaritch. "I do. Shall I drive him back for you?"

"No, I'll do it."

"You want the keys? You let Bridgette drive." Mansk grunted. "She's protective of her baby."

Quaritch cast a wary look at Walker.

The new vehicle issued to them, known as The RTV (Recom Transport Vehicle), was a behemoth that could hold all twelve and required special training to drive. Walker took to it from day one, and the others had to rely on her for rides. They discovered she was an expeditious driver who could weave through the densest traffic thanks to her right-of-way attitude. Quaritch wasn't keen on being escorted by her; her driving was enough to put anyone on blood pressure medication.

"Throw Papa in the RTV," she instructed and strutted outside before her commander could decline.

With little choice, Quaritch sighed and went over to Parker. He was the size of a child compared to him, and the recombinant reluctantly cradled him in his arms to proceed on out.

From the lodge, the others watched the entertaining scene of their commander struggling to prop up Selfridge in the back seat. Blocking out their sniggers and Parker's drunken giggles, the irritable colonel rammed the buckle into the latch, then finished off by slamming the door. After a few brisk wipes of the hands, he strutted over to the front, gripped the RTV's frame, and hoisted himself through the window to slide into the front seat.

"What the hell are you doing!" shouted his driver. "You'll damage my seats with your boots."

"Walker, shut your pie hole and drive!"

She shifted gears while muttering unflattering descriptions, then, bringing her foot down upon the gas, made a sharp turn of the wheel that slammed Quaritch against the door. His harangue rolled into the night along with the vehicle.

With the fun was over, the recombinants decided to call it in. Lopez looked across the room and saw Brown crouched in a corner, deeply absorbed with feeling his forehead. His face was still, and his eyes were blank. "What's eating him?" Lopez leaned to Warren.

The burly man knit his brows. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Tyler was eaten by viperwolves—ripped apart by them. Poor kid. I think his death was the most dragged out."

Thomas called it a night and walked off, but Angel lingered on the way Brown's eyes were glued to the floor like his mind was elsewhere.

"Tyler?" Lopez rubbed his shoulder to help stir him out of his trance. "You okay, amigo?"

His lifeless eyes gazed up. "Angel?" An outline of a faint smile appeared on Brown, and he nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"We're packing it in."

"Oh, right."

Lopez helped him up and carefully watched Brown's eyes to make sure he wasn't slipping back into the void.

Led by the arm, Angel slowly escorted his brother back to his cabin.


Uniqueness was not the RDA's priority when they constructed the city of Bridgehead. The bastions against Pandora's forces all had to be well insulated to block out Polyphemus' radiation, resulting in a thick, unvaried appearance, which also made it harder for drivers to discern one building from the next.

Walker manoeuvred the RTV into a tight parking spot, and Quaritch hopped out.

"He's right. It does smell," Bridgette remarked, leaning out of the window. "You know what room it is?"

"I know it," Quaritch dismissed. He had obtained that information when he and Lyle returned Parker's point card; they had failed to reach him at his office before closing, resulting in another odyssey.

Moving into the building's cramped vestibule, Quaritch readjusted his grip on Parker, whose arms flailed about like a rag doll. The giant pulled his blue tail clear from the sliding hatch and was careful not to smack his overseer's head against anything—he wasn't successful. Once the room cleared of its excess carbon dioxide, Quaritch, while cradling the sleeping man with one arm, removed the EXO pack. The hardened Marine didn't like playing keeper, but he didn't want Selfridge sleeping in their lodge. Given how many swigs the man had, he thought it better for him to relieve himself in the sanctuary of his own apartment than risk falling into a recombinant latrine.

His one-room apartment was on the fifth floor, and Quaritch tried to quietly make his way up the stairs, muttering profanities under his breath every time he tripped on the narrow steps. When he reached the locked room, it dawned on him that he needed a keycard. He plopped Parker down to frisk him for his wallet while having to pause several times to use his breather. Frustrated to the brim with his large fingers unable to pinch out the darn thing, he decided to just tear the seam and hoped the complex wasn't under any kind of neighbourhood watch. In the end, the simple task of getting Parker into his apartment had become a monumental feat.

"Yah better 'preciate this," he grumbled as he slapped the opened wallet across the door sensor. The panel slid back and deemed him entry.

Taking him up once more, Quaritch manoeuvred his way into the tiny room, failing, once again, to keep Parker's head from hitting any furniture. When a bed was found, the colonel no longer made the effort to hush his cursing and dropped Selfridge onto his mattress like a bag of dirt. With his duty over, Quaritch flicked the EXO pack to a corner of the room and made to leave, but as he turned, his tail got caught between his legs, and he tripped full onto the floor. So much for the tail providing balance. The loud thud of his landing had jostled a picture frame onto his chest, and when he picked it up, Quaritch did a double-take; he was looking at his team on the day they graduated.

All twelve were happy to be wearing their team patch for the first time. Off to the side of the smiling Titans was Parker Selfridge, proudly holding up a plaque with their insignia. It depicted a human skull inside a Na'vi one, with the queue morphing into a snake. A cordon below boasted the phrase "Deja Blu. We will tread on you." Through Parker's help, the colonel had some say in its design. It wasn't much, but when the artist showed him the preliminary sketch, he scrawled three lines over the human skull, then gave it his approval.

Quaritch reminisced over the graduation day with a soft chuckle. Following the ceremony, they had kidnapped Parker for their graduation party. Prager had stolen his tie and wore it for a headband while Lopez juggled his cufflinks. After a few rounds of tossing the little man around in a crowd surf, they stranded him on top of a forklift, where he yelled at them profusely. Seeing how hot and bothered it made him, they offered him a drink to cool down—by dunking him in a water barrel.

It didn't escape Quaritch's attention that Selfridge chose to hang the photo in the privacy of his room rather than his office. Dwelling on that thought, Miles realized Parker never displayed any photos of family and concluded it must be because he had none.

The whole thing was becoming a surreal experience for Quaritch. His relationship with Selfridge back in the old days was far from friendly. He tolerated the choleric blowhard to a point, but when push came to shove, it was only because Parker was too weak of an opponent that the powerful Marine didn't pop his head off his shoulders. Yet, here they were, in what may as well have been another dimension—him in an alien body, squatting in an impoverished apartment before the same Parker Selfridge, snoring away on an exposed mattress—and there, in Miles' hands, was evidence that the lonely man would rather have his pocketful of bastards than nothing at all.

He set the photo back on the shelf and left the room.

Walker inquired as to why he was so quiet during their drive back, but Quaritch dismissed her with a terse remark that he only wanted sleep.


In the jungles below Mt. Txurseng, Mo'at stood before a bonfire. She was adorned in her blue feather shawl that bounced from each spastic movement of her bizarre dance. She repeated a strange litany, answered by the congregation of Na'vi crouched around her fire. She cast into the embers a mixture that made it burn brighter. The fire blazed, and the intensity of her dance heightened. Many Na'vi watched the esoteric performance with bated breath. Her lithe body flowed in strange ways, contorting effortlessly with the spirit that moved around and through her. Kiri studied intently on what is required of "she who interprets the will of Eywa." Upon finishing her dance, Mo'at slammed her palm against the grassy floor and went completely still. The breathing of the crowd ceased, and only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Mo'at gazed darkly into the flames before turning to her people.

|"We cannot force our Mother to talk."|

|"This drought is worsening,"| a Na'vi decried.

|"When will we hear Her voice again?"| a woman threw in.

|"Ask not when. Let us ask why? Why has She been silent?"|

|"She is displeased. We have fallen too far from The Way."|

|"What of other clans, Zuzey?"| spoke Mo'at with great authority. |"The other tsahìks have said the same. The breathing of the world is incoherent. The ayatokirina' move mindlessly. This silence is across all clans."|

|"But other clans are holding us at fault. Lesser tribes look down on us like Anurai. We of the Blue Flute, one of the oldest and most revered of people, now a clan to be pitied!"|

Another joined in. |"Since the Time of the First Songs, we have done nothing differently except use the methods of the Skypeople—our enemies. We are losing The Way. Eywa hasn't gone silent. It is us who have gone deaf!"|

Norman of the Skypeople rose up. His garments were Omatikaya save for his field vest and belt. His avatar stood tall over the others. |"You have Skypeople living among you who cherish your ways, but we are forced to use the ones known to us in order to live."|

|"Na'vi live as Na'vi. Skypeople live as Skypeople. Olo'eyktan of the Dreamwalkers, it is different for us. You of another star have never heard Eywa before. You do not know what it is we have lost."|

|"True, Äi'ut. I have never seen or heard Eywa, but I have still developed a faith in Her."| He smiled humbly.

|"Rider of Last Shadow, what do you say?"| spoke the unhappy Äi'ut.

Neteyam was kneeling by his father when he looked at him. Jake was in deep contemplation. He was impressive in the firelight with his hair ornaments of sharp red quills. The three fangs of his collar, a trapping that once belonged to his fallen clan brother Tsu'tey, were just as threatening in appearance as his black feather mantle. |"That I see into your complaints. But I also know this enemy and their weakness. I have only been protecting my clan using the methods I know will work."|

|"Yet they slaughtered so many of us, and now they're on their way to Hometree. And you've forbidden assault on their machines!"|

|"We cannot afford to attack until we learn more of these new warriors."|

|"Olo'eyktan, these methods we agreed to have cost us in ways too great. We gave in to their ways, and now the enemy grows ever stronger, and us weaker!"|

Jake could only listen as the others began hurling blame at him for leading them astray. Mo'at tried her best to tame the row, but each voiced complaint fueled the fire.

|"The silence began the moment a demon entered Eywa!"|

Kiri gasped. The thoughtless remark humiliated and disgusted the Tskaha family, and Jake was incensed. He was preempted by his mate, who sprung to her feet to face off the dissenter. |"Do not speak of our school mother in that way. She is not a demon,"| she growled fiercely.

The Na'vi bowed his head low and cast his gaze away. He had attended Grace Augustine's school alongside Neytiri. In those days, the children referred to her as Sa'nok (Mother), and she was greatly loved by them. Sadly, over the years, only a few held a torch of her memory as others favoured forgetting her benevolence.

|"Why, then, can we not hear her spirit when we connect to the Tree of Souls?"| another countered.

Jake and Neytiri always championed for Grace, but they had no answer for this reasonable question. For reasons unknown, no one could commune with Grace Augustine's spirit. Grace had died while she was linked to the Tree of Souls, but despite this, she never once appeared before anyone who connected. It was as if she never existed. It troubled Jake greatly, and rumours began to spread that Eywa did not accept Skypeople spirits. Neytiri would silence this blasphemous talk by reminding her people that this same logic would be applied to Jake. Would their own Toruk Makto, whom Eywa, Herself, selected, also be turned away? The doubters argued that Toruk Makto did not count, for he was no longer a Skyperson once he became Omatikaya, unlike Augustine.

All the talk of spiritualism gave Jake a headache. Of course, the scientists had explained to him that the Na'vi did not actually communicate with spirits. When they connected to neural trees, they were, in fact, uploading a "screen capture" of their minds, and it was this copy of themselves that other Na'vi could talk to, leaving Jake to conclude that Grace must have been too weak to perform her backup. It wasn't an uplifting explanation, but it was the one that satisfied scientists; however, deep down, Jake hoped that they were spirits so that one day he could talk with her again. What an obstinate thing hope was, he thought with a smile.

|"Before Grace died, | Jake proclaimed with an authoritative tone. |"She told me, 'I am with Her, Jake. She is real.' My daughter does not talk. Does that mean she is not here? No. She is with us. Just as Grace is with Eywa."|

Kiri saw into her father and thanked him with misty eyes.

|"But why is Kiri silent?"| a new voice contended. |"We don't even know whom she mated with. Was that also unnatural, like her daughter's birth?"|

|"Is it safe to even train her to be tsahìk?"|

|"Silence! I will not stand here and have my family insulted,"| Neytiri hissed. |"Kiri is my daughter. Who here will accuse her of being born of a demon? You dishonour GraceOgusteen's memory with such talk!"| Neytiri looked to Kiri, and the mother saw where she was needed. First signalling to her husband with a subtle nod, which he returned, she led their daughter away so as to spare her from further pillory.

Jake came to his feet. He stretched his arms out to signal to his clan he was going to speak. |"It is not The Way for us to interpret the will of Eywa. Mo'at, what do you say?"| He bowed his head to her.

|"I cannot speak on behalf of one who has said nothing. If we have been wrong, Eywa would make it known to us. But I will say this. I train my granddaughter because out of all of us, she is the most like our Great Mother—for she, too, is silent."|


Once far enough away, in the quietude of a peaceful glade, did Kiri give in to her emotion, but gentle hands turned her around.

"Kiri..." the mother soothed.

"Do they speak truth? Eywa is quiet because of Mother?"

Neytiri shushed her gently. |"Daughter, why would this be?"|

"I do not know..." she signed in defeat. "I know I cannot talk with Mother. I think because I am different."

|"Come. Come here."| Neytiri pressed her frail daughter to herself. She smoothed out Kiri's wavy hair and recalled the time she tried to braid it. The fussy child had no patience for sitting, let alone having her hair pulled into tiny knots. Only after coaxing her with a bead worn by her mother's avatar was she able to do something with her hair. Even Jake was impressed by Neytiri's accomplishment and gave her a thumbs-up when he saw their little daughter stepping out of their tent with that single triumphant braid.

Neytiri looked down into her daughter's doe eyes. |"Your father is different, but Eywa still chose him,"| she reminded, holding the five-fingered hand between her four.

"The others say I should not be tsahìk. I think they are right."

|"They are not right. They are only afraid. They seek something to blame."|

"I don't know what Eywa sounds like. I don't know what I sound like. How can I interpret Her?"

Neytiri thought for a while as she stroked her daughter's back. |"Do you know how I first met your father? I found him trespassing in our forest. I was ready to shoot an arrow through his heart."| She felt Kiri shudder. |"Then an atokirina' came down and landed on my arrowhead. Without speaking, I heard it say no. Without speaking, that one pure spirit changed everything."|

Kiri was still downcast, but to hear Neytiri say these words, spoken in the warm tone of a caring mother, served to calm her.

|"You are different, Kiri,"| she whispered with her head pressed against hers. |"You are my little atokirina'."|


Jake was melancholy when he returned to his grotto. The yawning Omatikaya retired for the night, but he traipsed the cave with a troubled mind, so it was a welcome thing for him when he picked up the hints of inviting pheromones. He turned around and faced Neytiri; she had just put their daughter to bed and had purposefully sought him out. With a resolute nod, she beckoned him to follow her to the mountaintop. Yet, instead of fluttering her lashes at him, she aggressively stripped her husband's feather mantle and set it respectfully on a moss-covered rock.

"Uh, Honey?"

She faced him with a grimace. "Teach me."

"Teach you what?"

"To fight like the warriors of your clan."

Jake's eyes bugged out. "You want to learn how to fight like a Marine?"

"You say many times you know how to fight this enemy. Teach it to me. I want to be ready when I face these demons using our skin."

He was still recovering from the shock of his wife—a royal descendant of a clan older than humanity—a people who fought with bows and arrows, spears and bolos—demanding to be taught martial arts. "Well...I guess I can," he said, running his hand across his neck.

Jake instructed Neytiri to back away a few steps to give herself a wide berth for their training session. He stalled, deliberating on what fighting style would suit her best. Since she was small, he decided to go for Krav Maga, as it served to give users an advantage over much larger opponents. The Israeli martial art was an ugly but effective fighting style with its origins rooted in helping civilians defend themselves against fanatics. It aimed for the quickest takedown, regardless of what it takes to get there. For Neytiri, it was a perfect fit; Jake's only problem was having to ignore that she was his mate long enough to teach it to her.

Looking at her slim build compared to his, he was starting to have second thoughts. "You sure you want to do this?"

He didn't need a reply; her resolute scowl was enough.

"Alright then."

He began with the jabs, keeping fists close to the most vulnerable area, the neck, then proceeded to strike at his opponent. Neytiri mirrored him, and her speed was impressive. It was something else for Jake to see her boxing the air; it was the first time a Na'vi practised a human's fighting style. The Omatikaya did not specialize in combat like their aggressive Tipani brothers, but that didn't mean they weren't skilled.

Impressed with her agility, he decided to move on to the next phase: how to disarm your opponent. He drew out the RDA tactical knife that had killed Anotang. He kept it on his person as a dark memorial and a reminder of what was out there. He first shielded the tip with a cloth before guiding her on the many ways to work it out of his hand. One way was to thrust her clamped fists over his bicep and push downward, deflecting his oncoming attack. Most people freeze up when an enemy comes at them with a weapon; however, Neytiri fought viperwolves and slinths. She rode both the thanator and the great leonopteryx. She had the self-control to remain calm in situations that would otherwise induce panic.

In their tussling, the cloth came off the blade, and Neytiri was cut. Jake panicked when he saw the blood on her arm. He reached to help her, but she pushed him away. "No."

"You're bleeding."

"I've bled before. Again," she ordered, her forearm quivering in pain.

Jake cleaned the knife and put it away. It was late, and they had been practicing for over an hour. "I think we better call it a night."

"No. I can keep going. Ma Jake, I want to do this."

"Why's it so important we do this now?"

Neytiri sighed wistfully. She unclasped her wound, and Jake saw the blood run down Neytiri's fingers. "I want to protect Kiri. This, I can do for my family."

Jake understood and, if it was possible, admired her more than he already did. He took her arm and patched her wound. "Crazy Sheila. You're my wife. You've borne my son. You've raised my daughter. You've devoted your whole life to protecting us. You're already a badass, what more do you want?" he chuckled. She briefly smirked back but dipped her head; Jake gave her shoulder another rub. "Let's not cram it all in one night. We can pace ourselves learning."

Neytiri perked up. "You will still teach me?"

"Of course."

Jake hugged her and thought about how lucky he was to have her. He was a simple everyman, but of all the people in the universe, the one for him existed on another planet. What a special magic it was that the invisible link between soul mates could be so powerful it could unite people light-years apart.

[JforA]

Chapter 15 Her
The surrealist jungle contorted into liquified swirls like oil paint mixed on a palette. The painterly trunks undulated and broke apart, reforming into new trees, new branches, new leaves, and the cycle of life would repeat. Behind the transparent vale was a golden web of wonder: the sacred neural network that permeated the moon. In the icy blue sky hung a brilliant prism that shone forth a myriad of rays. A toruk's black shadow passed overhead, and its song rolled across the land.

Jake roamed through the forest, accompanied by his mate and son. With bow in hand, he stopped to tap his forehead to both, and the family was happy. A hexapede darted through the forest, and Jake fired an arrow after it. In pursuit, his chase brought him to a glade where he stopped in his tracks. To his horror, in the centre of the clearing was a derelict AMP suit and lying before it was his daughter, shot dead from his arrow. Jake dropped to his knees in shock. He cradled the lifeless body in his arms and desperately called her name, but her eyes did not open. He stared at the blood dripping from his quivering hand. The red droplets splattered against the ground, and from them rose a black miasma.

The world darkened, and Jake looked up at the miasma as it swirled around a skeleton inside the AMP suit. The black mass took the shape of a man writhing about in his death throes, but instead of collapsing, the shape grew and grew till it towered over Jake. The shadow convulsed and, from its side, burst four sinewy limbs. The essence solidified into a palulukan. The beast roared, and the whole land trembled. Through eyes of fire, it spotted Jake and fell upon him.

Jake screamed.

Spoiler

Neytiri was startled out of her sleep and found her husband in a cold sweat. She shook him as she called his name. He opened his eyes, and the vision of her was enough to calm him down from his panic.

"Ma Jake," she breathed. |"This is happening so much."|

He sat up as she petted his brow. |"I know."|

|"I thought they had come to an end."|

Jake wouldn't look her in the eye. |"I thought so too. This one was...different."|

|"How different?"|

Jake didn't want to answer. He clutched his wife and set his head on her accepting shoulder. In the privacy of their placid tent, the hardened Marine entrusted himself so completely to her tender caress that he said what few men were brave enough to say.

|"I'm afraid."|

She breathed him in. |"Have you prayed to Eywa?"|

The question caught him unawares. Despite all the talk of Eywa, especially in the most recent clan meeting, compounded with the war, praying as a solution had been the farthest thing from his mind. He respected that there was a consciousness to the world, even miracles he'd been a firsthand witness to, but that wasn't to say he held a devotee's view of Eywa; She was a concept that always evaded him. While Olo'eyktan Zayksuli revered Her, Jake Sully couldn't help but raise a brow.

Neytiri took his silence for a no. |"I know it has been hard because of Her silence. Sometimes, I wonder if She has abandoned us."|

The skeptic could not offer much encouragement. |"Well, maybe She's resting—taking a breather after that last roar?"|

His plebeian explanation lifted her spirits more than any sermon. |"Yes. A mother does not forget her children,"| she murmured. |"We will hear Her again."|

|"We will,"| Jake seconded, but he was thinking of someone else.


Jake flew for the Tree of Souls on his wife's insistence. Its glow was visible on the horizon, but Jake dove through the emergent layer and perched on a tree limb farther off. He dismounted and patted his ikran on the head. The loyal beast appreciated the prolonged chin rub, as Jake was hesitant to climb down the tree.

"I'll only be a minute, boy," he finally spoke, then, after a strong inhale and exhale, made the journey down through the understory.

Jake dropped into a meadow, where he was lit up from below by the lambent blues of the jungle floor. Flecks of phosphorescent spores drifted past him and faded into the night. A few yards beyond him was the site where he and the colonel last battled. The events replayed in his mind in perfect detail.

Quaritch was a threat unfathomable in his AMP suit, searching the jungle for the one responsible for destroying his ship, and, unfortunately for Jake, the enemy was headed in the right direction. The shack Jake was linking from was secreted away in a section of forest that he prayed wouldn't be discovered, but it was. Quaritch was primed to destroy Jake—when something alerted the colonel.

Elsewhere, having deemed her worthy, Eywa bestowed to the princess a palulukan for a mount. The beast lowered its head in submission, allowing Neytiri to form the bond. Sensing Jake was in danger, she rode the terrifying creature through the thick of battle to where her beloved slept unprotected. She spotted the demon about to kill him and pounced. The screams of rider and mount collected into one petrifying roar, and she tackled the steel golem. Muscle versus metal, the evenly matched Titans were locked in a duel. Vicariously, Neytiri bellowed through her palulukan and brought her claws down on Quaritch. His suit's windshield was ready to shatter when he pulled his gambit: a serrated blade. Clenched in his metal fingers was a sword the size of an adult male. He plunged it into the animal's side, and Neytiri felt its cold teeth as he stabbed her mount again and again. He slayed the creature, and Neytiri was trapped under its hide. With his weapon high, the demon was about to destroy the Omatikaya princess when her champion arrived to save her.

Jake lured Quaritch away from Neytiri, and the two fought. The avatar of flesh was outmatched by the one of steel, but through cunning agility, he robbed the Titan of his blade. With it, Jake penetrated his windshield and made him vulnerable to the poisonous air. Jake allowed his enemy time to strap on his breathing visor, but his opponent was not so honourable. Quaritch felt that the traitor should be reminded of his own weakness, and so, abandoning his fight with Jake, he targeted the link shack. With a swing of his AMP suit's fist, he shattered the window and the Dreamwalker was violently woken, gasping for air. Jake held his breath long enough to repossess his avatar and, by sheer willpower, dreamt himself back into battle, but it wasn't long before the more powerful opponent held his queue in an iron fist.

Savouring his advantage, the colonel pointedly dislodged the Na'vi knife that was stabbed into his seat and, with a leer, primed it on Jake's jugular when a figure emerged from the corner of Quaritch's eye.

There, standing tall with her father's bow drawn, was Neytiri, and she fired an arrow straight through the demon's black heart.

The golem staggered; the driver gasped—already dying. Neytiri fired another shaft.

In his final seconds, Quaritch reached for the arrows twice his length, but the poison of their tips seized his mind, and he could do nothing but feel his punctured lungs heave for the air they could no longer hold.

The AMP suit collapsed, and the battle was over.

The dark memorial was regarded as taboo by the Na'vi, who believed the demon's restless spirit still dwelt there. None were allowed near the site, and seldom did Jake break this custom. Slowly drawing one foot before the other, Toruk Makto soundlessly approached the sepulchre of Colonel Quaritch.

The organic sentries felt Jake brush against their green hands, and they saluted him with heightened bioluminescence. He froze at the border of the dark meadow where his night vision picked up the curved outline of the AMP suit and the straight lines of the link shack, both now victims to overgrowth. Ignis faatus glinted in the murky blackness beyond the ghostly meadow. It was unnaturally quiet, and the air did not smell of animals; they, too, steered clear of the site. He entered the grounds and walked towards the suit with obeisance, for even the remains of his enemy commanded respect.

Jake neared the fallen suit, fearing he'd discover an empty cockpit, only to breathe a sigh of relief.

The sight wasn't grotesque like the one from his nightmare but strangely beautiful. Nature had stripped away the flesh, leaving behind a yellowed skeleton burgeoning with life. Sun lilies made their homes on Quaritch's scapula, striped creeping vines with delicate pale blooms weaved through his rib cage, and the length of his sternum was coated in sparkling blue lichen. This was the power of Pandora—to transform even his remains into a den of beauty. The scene harkened to Jake a line from a Na'vi prayer spoken over the dead, and he found himself mumbling it aloud.

"Tokx 'ì'awn slu Eywevengyä hapxì (Your body stays behind to become part of Pandora)."

Jake had a start when he caught movement on the skull, but it was nothing more than a cluster of Cat Ears; the zooplantae's ear-like stalks would pivot in the direction of sound, and Jake's prayer had triggered them. He cocked his head in defiance at the skeleton—smug about being alive while his enemy was not; then, once he was satisfied, Jake exited the clearing and left Quaritch to Pandora. He was Hers now and free to do with him as She deemed fit.

He soon arrived at the Tree of Souls. The olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya bade an "I see you" to Eywa before journeying down into the recess. An air of calm ruled the glade; no violence occurred here; no bloodshed desecrated the hallowed ground. The pure spirits played in their Mother's haven and swirled around Jake as he made his way over the network of roots. The Tree of Souls reminded him of the willow trees of Earth, whose gnarled miens lent them a sense of wisdom and strength. Jake walked up the steps and knelt at the altar of root like he once did many years prior. He had begged Eywa for help, warning Her of the threat the human race posed to the precious world of Eywevengyä (Eywa's Child)—It's a humbling thing for a man when he finds himself supplicating to a plant.

With one hand, Jake drew up his queue and the illuminated branches with the other. The nerves of his kuru knew to unfurl, and they wrapped around the sprays with gladness. Instantly, the peace of the world permeated his soul. It had been a while since he communed with Her, Jake thought.

"Great Mother," he started, trying to think of the right words. Should he talk in English or Na'vi? He wondered. Did it matter? Was this entity capable of understanding someone beyond the limitation of speech? Jake didn't really know, but he opted for English as he could articulate better in his mother tongue than his Mother's tongue. "My heart is heavy. My efforts to defend this land have been marginal at best. We've lost so many, and the enemy continues to grow like an invisible cobra, choking us. I can only keep the Omatikaya safe by hiding them, and now I'm told I'm leading them astray.

"Flipping hell. What am I doing? Who am I kidding? I'm kidding them, that's what. They preach the name of Toruk Makto at me, and in my heart, I know I'm just an alien who got lucky—that's it!" Jake slammed his anger onto the roots of Her altar, and it responded, causing him to immediately regret the outburst.

He clenched his fists tightly as the heart of the issue surfaced. "I'm scared, Mother. I'm deathly scared for my family." The father squeezed his face trying to block out the intrusive nightmare that kept replaying in his mind. "Help me understand what's happening—what to do," he choked. "We need another miracle..."

With nothing else to add, Jake undid the connection and lingered, head still pressed against his fists as he rested on the altar. The loss of Anotang still weighed heavily on him and the fear of losing more, his own family—Jake was arrested by nightmarish thoughts.

Eventually, the olo'eyktan drew himself up and leaned his head back, seeking to wash his face with the cool night air. After a deep inhale that absorbed all that he could, his eyes rested on the beauty of the pink canopy thereupon his pupils dilated when he noticed a blue tree limb.

Recognizing the bracelet of woven bark, Jake called up to the nymph. "Kiri?"

The sudden announcement of her name startled the girl awake. Kiri stumbled from her resting spot, but Jake swooped in to catch her in time. He set her gently on a bed of ferns while panting from the close call. "Jesus, Kiri. What are you doing all the way out here?"

She made several gestures, and it took a while for Jake to decipher them.

"You always come here at night?"

She nodded.

"Kiri, you shouldn't fly out alone, especially at night. It's too dangerous."

"It's safe here," she reminded him.

Jake exhaled in defeat. Her way of thinking always found a way to circumvent his point. Unsure of what else to say, he lay there beside her on the bed of ferns, and together, they gazed at the twinkling atokirina' fluttering about. More gathered by the minute, and soon, a bouquet of the delicate sprites were dancing overhead.

"I've noticed you're always attracting these things," her father mentioned as one skipped across his nose.

Being on her back, Kiri held up her hand and waved it back and forth in lieu of a nod.

"Do you know why?"

Her palm dipped, meaning "I don't know."

Kiri was a unique girl that Jake, no matter how hard he tried, couldn't fully understand. She was a mystery while also being as normal as an adolescent girl could be. For one, no one could figure out why she couldn't talk. Two months after Neteyam spoke his first word, the family wondered why Kiri wasn't doing the same. Jake thought she was simply the quiet type, but after a year of silence, it was obvious something was wrong. She was examined by human scientists, and while they found no physical deformities, Kiri was diagnosed as mute. There were many theories tossed around as to why, from being gestated in a brain-dead avatar to a fault in how the cesarean section was performed, but in the end, no amount of theorizing was going to give the girl what she needed: a voice.

Norman came to her rescue with his knowledge of ASL. He was raised by a deaf father, and it was actually due to Norm's saturation in mute/deaf culture that sparked his interest in the field of anthropology. It was an added blessing that the Omatikaya were already an expressive people accustomed to hand gestures. Mo'at taught Kiri a universal sign language more commonly applied by other tribes and encouraged the Omatikaya to be diligent in their use of it. Since the Na'vi didn't have an alphabet, Norman also taught Kiri to fingerspell English.

Life carried on, but a new issue surfaced. Each year, it became more apparent that Kiri was mentally developing at a slower rate. Jake didn't see it at first; he thought her mood swings and fussy attitude were normal for a teenager. Norman had to point out that it was normal—for a human teenager; the Na'vi reached full maturity much sooner. It was evident to the tribe that Kiri suffered from arrested development.

This baffled Jake, for how could a girl fluent in four languages be considered slow? Kiri knew English, Na'vi, and two forms of sign. She was quadrilingual by the age of six. On top of that, she had an affinity for botany, weaving and medical care. By Na'vi standards, Kiri may have been considered autistic, but Jake was endlessly in awe of her brilliance.

Kiri reached out her hand to let an atokirina' tickle her fingers and delicately guided it over to Jake.

"What's the sign word for our little friends here?" he politely asked, already knowing the answer.

Kiri brought over her free hand and wiggled her fingers in a way that mimicked their movements.

Jake copied the gesture as he took up the sprite, but it floated away from him and disappeared among the weeping sprays.

She sat up so as to sign to him. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"Me? Uh, well, I came to..." Jake trailed off, then silently chastised himself for feeling embarrassed. "I came to pray to Eywa," he answered proudly.

"That is good! I have been worried about you. I have been asking Eywa to help you."

Jake didn't have words.

"Are you okay?"

Her father nodded.

As they relaxed under the great tree, it dawned on Jake how rare a father/daughter moment like this was, and he wanted to cherish it. "So...how have you been doing?" he began, feeling the waters; his mind had been weighted with concern for her since their last clan meeting.

"I have been good. Mo'at's training is confusing, but I try to learn."

"I'm sorry, uh, but what does"—he mimicked her gesture of drawing a round hand down from the neck—"this mean?" he asked, this time genuinely not knowing.

"That is my word for my grandmother. She braids her tswin in front."

"Oh, it's one of your special words? I don't know those too well. Are you happy learning the ways of tsahìk?"

She bobbed her hand, meaning "yes."

"That's good. Your mother never really took to it. Between you and me, I think she's too headstrong to be a tsahìk." He grinned. "I think she'd rather be olo'eyktan."

Kiri seconded the sentiment with a laugh, but Jake didn't completely understand her signed reply. He wanted to kick himself. Here they were having a moment's respite away from tensions, away from war, and he couldn't fully enjoy it because of his limitations in the skill. Fears of losing her had been plaguing him. Now, with his daughter nearly an adult, it was all too apparent to Jake how he had wasted those few years. She wasn't a child anymore, and one day, before he'd know it, she'd be someone else's. He cursed himself for being a bloody galah and wished he spent more time learning her sign. If the past was beyond him, he'd make do with the present. "I'm sorry," he apologized through finger-talk. "What does this gesture mean?" He then mimicked drawing a bow.

Kiri was elated to see her father making the effort to reply in her language. "It is Mother's sign name. I made it up with Spider."

"You mean, N-E-Y-T-I-R-I?" he fingerspelled.

Kiri bobbed her fist again and showed him that Grace's name was a combination of the words "mother" and "sleeping."

"So, each sign name has to do with what that person means to you?"

Kiri grinned her yes and then asked, "Can you tell me what J-A-K-E means?"

"I do not know. I was named after Grandad's direhorse."

Kiri tilted her puzzled head. "You have direhorses back on your star?"

Jake chuckled softly. "No, we have an animal which is similar. I just don't know the sign word for it."

She laughed, then curved her brows in question. "Father, why did you name me K-I-R-I?"

Jake pursed his lips in thought. "Well, you were a Kiri-ous birth."

She stared at him flatly.

"Your mother came up with it. If she left it to me, I would've gone with something simple like 'Jessica.'"

"That doesn't sound very simple." She winced.

"It's simple for me." Jake smiled. "At least I get credit for your nickname 'Kiwi.'" The father nudged her shoulder with his. "I could tell you the story behind that again?"

She grimaced from embarrassment.

"Alright. Alright. So, uh..." He took a moment to figure out how to form his next sentence. "What is my special sign name?"

Kiri crossed the thumbs of her flat hands with palms facing away and directed the "V" formation heavenward.

"That's my name?"

"What is wrong?"

"All this time, I thought you were saying, 'Shove off, Dad.'"

Kiri made a face and adamantly shook her head no.

"Well, I didn't know. I'm just a dumb grunt. You know that."

She replied with many, many nods.

"Okay, okay, don't agree too much. So, what does"—he echoed her gesture—"this mean?"

She fingerspelled the word for him.

"T-O-R-U... Wait... Your special word for me is 'Toruk Makto'?"

"Yes. Because that is what you are." She finished by placing her palm over her heart.

Kiri didn't understand why he went quiet or why he suddenly stared at her so intently, but when he swallowed whatever words were forming in his mouth, she recognized the tell-tale sign of creases forming on his chin. She thought it best to lean in and let him take her in his embrace. The little princess set her cheek against his sturdy chest as his coarse hands petted her shoulder. She felt his warm breaths part the tufts of her hair, and his body faintly tremble as he rocked her.


All was quiet on Homestead but not peaceful. It was an uncomfortably hot night for Quaritch, who tossed about his bunk in a restless sleep. His perspiring face was contorted in anguish. In the distance, a great leonopteryx's bellow startled him awake. He lay there panting upon his pillow, staring up at the boards of his cabin, processing the fact that he had woken up screaming. Quaritch came to his feet and wiped his face, thinking the world was playing tricks with his mind; as such was the intrinsic nature of moons seducing men into madness.

Without bothering to don pants, he strutted outside in his boxers for some fresh air. He strolled a ways away from his cabin. The undeveloped plains their home sat on was very dark at night—away from Bridgehead's light pollution and away from the luminary jungles blocked off by walls. Only the stars, the planet, and his bioluminescent freckles emitted light. Quaritch stroked his striped arm and studied the dots that would, here and there, cluster in groups of six. CJ was right, he thought with a smile; they did look like daisies. His eyes returned to Bridgehead, where its fluorescence stained the horizon and attempted to overpower the shine of the celestial bodies. The city had grown significantly in the last year and would only continue to swell. For all of man's advancements, his boyhood fields of dust were prettier than that smog-filled, concrete jungle that flaunted before him. No longer impressed by it, Quaritch's gaze shifted right, towards the unfinished headquarters of the investors—the future realm for the demi-gods who funded his existence. It was a row of bizarre-shaped towers awaiting completion. Exposed levels were roped off by tendinous cords that wrapped around its reinforcement-beam skeleton. In the night, its silhouette looked more like a ripped-open cadaver than a Mount Olympus.

How long, Quaritch thought, before another city would be built? And another and another? How would mankind take control of this arcane moon, and where did the recoms fit in the grand scheme of things? They were products of an afterthought—the preservation of their minds: a fluke. For the first time since his rebirth, the recombinant started to ask questions. He was an astute man who could see the writings on the wall. It was not his life that was a concern but the eleven others he was responsible for, and he didn't honestly know if he could protect them from the cold justifications of their utilitarian overlords. Without answers, he could only continue serving the city and keep his focus on the upcoming mission.

Having finished cooling himself, Miles motioned for his cabin when he caught a subtle movement overhead. There, just a few metres above him, was something he couldn't believe—a woodsprite.

The frailest of Eywa's creations had made its way through the two-mile-wide kill zone and climbed over the hundred-foot wall. Ignored by the legion of automated sentries that deemed it too insignificant to shoot, it infiltrated the purportedly impregnable fortress of Bridgehead. The little invader commanded the soldier's full attention. He bodily tracked its movement as it curved around him and, by its latent strength, ascend over the wall on its return journey home.

[JforA]

Chapter 16 Arrival
The day came for the recombinants to head out for Hometree. They were busy clearing out their belongings and piling them outside their cabins to be reorganized. Since they were going to be away for two months, they wanted to bring with them what they could for entertainment. Lyle stood outside his cabin going over his gear when he caught sight of a figure in the fields trying to approach. Recognizing it as Säro, he skulked over.

"Säro, what are you doing?" he whispered as he ducked with her behind the plants. He had warned her before not to come near their lodgings at the risk of upsetting his colonel.

"I'm sorry, Ly'il. Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. We're going to be stationed elsewhere."

"For many nights?"

He shrugged. "For two months. I'm..." He swallowed. They had conversed numerous times, but he was still at a loss for words when with her. "I'm going to miss you."

"I will miss you too." The young woman's eyes fell away as she mentally debated over something. "I wish to... To give you a gift."

"Oh?" His ears perked, and the corporal blushed slightly.

Spoiler

"Here." Säro nervously drew her hand around his neck and nudged him forward. The Marine was baffled and believed she was bringing him in for a kiss. His lips were slightly puckered when Säro, instead, pressed their foreheads together. With a deep breath, she pulled a necklace from under her shirt and, drawing it over her head, transferred it onto his neck. It pulled up her long braid in the process, and he dwelt on the feeling of her smooth hair sliding down his clavicle before he noticed the bib necklace now upon him.

"What is this?" he asked, thumbing the creation.

"My sister make it many years ago. It is fkxile. Necklace you give to 'eylan."

"Eee'lan?"

"Yes, frien'. It is what ''eylan' means."

Lyle was surprised. "You consider me a friend?"

"Is it wrong?" she feared.

"No, I just never thought I'd befriend a Na'vi."

She was relieved. "In time, you give to your 'eylan."

"Oh no, I'm holding onto this."

"It is Way." She smiled. "'eylan necklace walks to tell a story. It starts here." She touched the first bead on the chain, and Lyle savoured the press of her delicate finger. "Going from 'eylan to 'eylan." Her fingers danced down the pattern before it skipped to the last bead on the necklace. "Always growing into a great story of many ayeylan. Take necklace far, Ly'il. You are now a part of its life."

He was enamoured by her wording, wishing he could equal her eloquence, but alas, he was just a dumb grunt and could only nod. Säro was pleased he accepted her gift and turned away, fearing she, too, would lose her composure if she dared linger. She flew off like the deer she reminded him of, and Lyle was left alone. He felt the bone ring of the necklace's centrepiece, carved to such smoothness it would've been mistaken for porcelain. He did not know what a rare privilege it was on Pandora to be gifted an Anurai's work. He kept the item hidden under his shirt so his teammates would be none the wiser.


A band of tiltrotors soared over the lush jungle. It was a beautifully clear day, perfect for sightseeing. The eight recombinants gripped the interior frame and leaned out as far as they could to admire their surroundings. Slender trees, with flowing lianas for hair, wore around their trunks necklaces of viridescent ferns. Alongside the dryads were strapping giants enveloped by strangler figs that lent them a sinewy appearance. They impressed their ladies with dazzling corsages of pink xenocormiflorum.

CJ and Zhâng held a game of who could spot the most monkeys swinging through the canopies. Meanwhile, Sean and Lyle were less innocent, scoping a herd of direhorses and bragging about who could shoot the most. They didn't, as it was considered a waste of ammunition, but Quaritch wouldn't have let them either way, knowing it would have upset CJ.

Over the rippling green sea of swaying branches flew a rainbow flock of tetrapterons. The four-winged wonders hissed warnings at the flying machines and yawed away. The aliens then glided over a lagoon where a thanator was cooling itself, ferocity taking a holiday as it languidly sat in the pool, lapping up the water. The tiltrotors startled the apex predator, and it snarled at the whirlybird, not expecting its occupant, Quaritch, to snarl back. The team laughed as he kept taunting Pandora with the brazen show of his fangs.

They travelled over the lake that bordered Hometree and arrived at their destination. When they spotted the fallen monument, the mood shifted from jovial to brooding. Seeing the amount of growth on that former strip of ash was surreal for the recombinants; it reminded them just how long it had been since they were last there. Quaritch didn't say anything as the others reminisced over their involvement with its destruction. Walker had watched it all from a monitor back at Hell's Gate. She was supervising Jake and Grace, who were attempting to evacuate the Omatikaya. Bridgette could still remember the SciOps' faces as they witnessed the collapse of Hometree and the silent tears they shed for a species not their own. When the deed was done, she rounded up the drivers and could not deny they resisted like impassioned warriors; it was the first time she ever respected the frail scientists.

The transports landed on the bank, and the recoms began unloading their cargo, lifting the heavy equipment with such ease that the pilots dubbed them "walking powerhouses." Quaritch told his team to be quick about it as the pilots risked animal attacks the longer they lingered.

After their transport took off, he savoured just how serene the environment was—how brilliant the sunlight when unobstructed by smog—and inhaled the fragrant air free of pollution. For a man who valued discipline, he couldn't argue the sickly world of Bridgehead was counterintuitive to good physical health; it's why, during his days as chief of security, he exercised outside the borders of Hell's Gate to train in his AMP suit, Beyond Glory.

Bridgette walked up beside her commander, weary of the jungle around her. "There's only eight of us. What's stopping the Na'vi from over-running the site?"

"The Na'vi consider this place cursed. They remember what we did to them and know we can just as easily do it again."

Meanwhile, there was an Omatikaya scout, hidden in the trees, who had his arrow trained on Quaritch; however, his olo'eyktan commanded everyone not to engage the enemy. He deliberated on disobeying his leader for the righteous cause of punishing the aliens for sullying a sacred ground but, ultimately, lowered his bow and climbed down silently to his ikran. Within the hour, he was back at High Camp, flying up through the floor entrance, shouting, |"They are in Hometree! They are in Hometree!"|

Jake and Neytiri both burst from their tent and ran down the rocky stoop towards the scout.

|"Who is?"| Jake asked.

|"The demons! There are only eight of them. They are making Hometree their camp."|

|"Did you see one with a strange ikran on his left arm?"|

The scout shook his head. |"I do not know of this strange ikran. I only see they walk wherever they please over our old home—over our dead!"|

Neytiri heard all this with disgust. The other warriors shared in their princess' indignation. |"There are only eight of them. I say we take them now!"| she growled.

|"Peace, my love. Do not forget how easily they slew our brothers and sisters."|

Neytiri would not let her anger abate. |"Have you heard any news from our ears within the ci-tee?"|

|"None yet. He still needs time to figure out how to get information past the walls."|

Norman stepped forward to address the pair. |"It will take two months for the ground eater to reach Hometree. That monster will make a mile-wide crater of the whole site."|

|"They will desecrate the land and our ancestors' remains!"| decried the scout.

Jake set his hand on the shoulder of his worried clansman. |"I know. I have planned for this, my brother. We will not let this violation go unanswered. Hear me now. When I give the word, we will strike!"|

The lusty warriors, including Norman, whooped and hollered as all were eager to fight. Brandishing her father's bow, Neytiri filled the cavern with her ululated cry. She had been insulted too many times by the Skypeople to let this injustice stand. Her heart burned to take action; her fingers itched to right this wrong. She would surmount the more powerful enemy with an interminable spirit that would live on well after the invader's machines rusted to dust.


Zhâng and CJ were on top of Hometree, setting up the team's tactical satellite.

"Almost done, boys?" Quaritch called up to them.

"Almost," CJ replied.

With a roll of wire in hand, the two uncoiled it over the edge, and it fell for many yards onto a patch of grass.

"Watch it there," their colonel complained, stepping aside to avoid getting hit. He picked up the heavy cables and walked off with it in hand.

After finishing up with the satellite, the friends strolled down the length of Hometree, making a new game of identifying birds. Zhâng was older than CJ by seven years and exceeded her in height by a foot and a half, but when together, the pair were like little kids. From rock skipping to arm wrestling to rounds of I Spy, they acted more like they were in summer camp rather than the army.

"Swivel-tail dove!" Casey jumped up excitedly.

She pointed to a creature that could only be considered a dove with a stretch of the imagination. It flapped its membranous wings and flew off, with the long pink quills of its tail spinning behind it.

"You'll scare them away if you shout," he teased.

She pouted and tugged his Manchurian queue. "Ah! Z-Dog?"

"Why do you style it like that anyways? You're from Sichuan, not Manchuria."

He couldn't help but snicker. "They wouldn't even wear this in Manchuria. The style hasn't exactly been popular in over three hundred years. This look was mandated on the Chinese people during the Qing dynasty. For many, it's a symbol of oppression. Think my grandmother would strike me dead if she saw me wearing it."

"So why wear it like that?" she wondered, folding her arms across her chest.

"I don't know—thought it looked cool. I actually didn't know much about its history till after I got it. Since learning what happened to Earth, I've been reading everything I can about my ancestors."

Her smile flew off like the bird she scared. "Hard to believe it's really all gone. That it's just us."

Zhâng stopped to stare up into the heavens and the soaring banshees eclipsing the outline of the gas giant. It reminded him of an ancient poem, The Far Journey.

"I value the perfect man's vital valour
and hail the Ancients' heavenward ascent.
Beyond mutability and the human gaze,
leaving behind names that are admired in time,
I heard strange tales of men that dwell in stars,
and the enviable Han Chung who gained Oneness."

CJ, enchanted by his recital, asked, "What does that mean?"

"I think the poem envies those who achieve immortality. It's a Taoist thing. Speaking of Taoism, did you know the Na'vi also believe in reincarnation?"

"They do?"

"Yeah, spirits coming back as living matter—plants, animals—energy always recycling. I, myself, never believed in it, yet here I am, having ascended from rénjiān as something new entirely."

"You saying we're gods now?"

"Low gods," he corrected with a smirk. "As former mortals, we'd get few perks in heaven. We still have to kowtow to the high gods and the celestial emperor."

"That sucks. You spend your whole life achieving perfection, but when you get to heaven, it's the same as Earth, only longer?"

"Welcome to Pandora."

Meanwhile, Quaritch carried the cables back to their makeshift opening in the tree located by the roots. It was a narrow squeeze, for the recombinants had blocked off most of the entrance with sandbags to negate predators, and Quaritch cussed as he tried to worm his way past. Inside, the interior was a vast tunnel that went on for many, many yards. It was not so much a tree now as it was a cavern. They lit the great expanse with several fluorescent floor lamps only to realize few were needed due to their excellent night vision. The old wood creaked beneath Quaritch's feet as he made his way down into the deeper recess of the tree where the others were still setting up camp. He stepped over the sleeping bags and handed Fike the cables. Sean plugged it into their communications setup, and the glass screen powered on, revealing Mansk currently inside the lobby of the HEM-OA Bucket Wheel Excavator. The recoms were happy to see each other again.

"What's your situation, Shasha?" Quaritch asked.

"All good here, sir."

"Now that we have direct communications, you report to me anything that seems off. I don't like how easy it's been to clear a path to Hometree—that Sully is up to something. Have a recom on guard duty at all times and keep those drivers safe."

"Will do, sir."

The screen powered off, and Quaritch carried on with setting up camp. He ceased with a wince to massage his torso. It was for the third time that day, and his medic took notice.

"You alright, sir?" Brown queried.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, just a little heartburn."

"We get heartburn?" Lopez doubted. "I thought these bodies were superior to humans."

"That's only according to Fappin' Chatters," Brown sniggered.

Quaritch took a look at his military watch and read sunset was fast approaching. He pressed his comm mic. "Alright, Z team, come back inside. I don't want anyone out after dark."

"Roger that, sir."

Quaritch readjusted his belt. With his hands set on his hip, he moseyed about their camp, approving the arrangements with silent nods in order to mask his real interest in Hometree. He had only ever seen the beast from the outside. Now, sixteen years later, he finally got the chance to snake around its belly. His curiosity pulled him further down the tunnel towards the crown. The musty, hollow tree was magnificent in size and redolent with decay. His tail flicked about as he stepped over the rotting heartwood. In the centre of the tunnel was a spiralling column that had once served as a stairway up the tree. It had taken the Omatikaya centuries of manipulating the growth in order to create those stairs, and now it lay in a heap of mangled wood. He heard a crunch and looked down at a group of beads under his boot. The thread that once held them together rotted away, and they rolled about the floor as rubble. Hometree was riddled with these decrepit trinkets—decorations that once comforted its occupants with a sense of warmth and security.

A movement in the shadows had the colonel whip out his Wasp revolver and fire at what turned out to be a harmless cuirass crab. The bullet had flipped it onto its back, exposing its belly. Quaritch sneered at the ugly arthropod as it twitched helplessly. He ended it with another shot. Having been alarmed by the gunfire, Quaritch informed his team, asking via the comm mic, that all was fine. Afterwards, he bent down to take up the object that had interested the creature.

He shook off the rot to reveal a woven direhorse wearing a stitched smile and realized he held a child's toy. He turned it around indifferently in his hand, then moved to set it back on a ledge, but before the hooves could touch the surface, he suddenly lurched back with the toy falling to his feet.

Quaritch found himself frozen, gazing up at the nightmarish skull of a great leonopteryx

The sacred totem of the Omatikaya was purposely left behind to guard the ruins and to remind trespassers where they should not be. It chagrined Quaritch how easily he was startled. Rubbing away the knot forming in his chest, he pushed over the totem with a gentle tap and watched it crash to the floor, mocking its effectiveness.

He continued onward, where he found a section populated with shimmering webs. Glow worms that the Omatikaya once used in their ceremonies had been feasting upon the dead tree, unchecked. The shining teal filaments tickled his ears as he crouched under them. His eyes focused on a tiny hole in the ceiling where a worm was issuing a new web. It clumsily fell from its den and landed at Quaritch's feet. He picked up the luminescent purple grub and studied it with pure fascination.

It was a long time since he was so inquisitive. His mind had closed off over the years, losing interest in things that would have enraptured him as a boy. Since entering his new body, he had begun to change, or rather revert, and he couldn't help but notice the same phenomenon happening with his comrades. In one way or another, they all exhibited some form of childlike behaviour. Miles wondered if this was a result of their brains technically being six years old or even a consequence of having Na'vi genes, but as he was not about to admit to anything, it was never brought up.

He squatted down, still observing the grub, and fished out a book from his back pocket. His copy of The Secret Life of Pandora was worn from constant use. The spine was cracked and corrugated, and several bent pages threatened to fall out. He flipped to the page that mentioned the Arachnolumera nitidae. It was Augustine's own words coming through the paragraph where it talked about how the Omatikaya would use the worm's psychoactive properties for their vision quests. Quaritch read the words in her voice; it was always her voice. He tried imagining another narrator, Chatterjee even, but no matter what he did, it always returned to that composed matriarchal tone.

Just then, he heard a faint sigh. He flicked away the grub and went to investigate.

Quaritch peered beyond a barrier and found his corporal. He was slumped against a wall, fondling a red-tasseled necklace. Lyle burst out of his daydream when he discovered his colonel standing in front of him and rushed to hide the token under his shirt.

Quaritch squatted dominantly in front of him. "You, uh, taken to wearing jewellery, Corporal?" the man was speechless, and his biolumen flared. Before he knew it, Quaritch's lighting grip seized the contraband. "Where'd you get this?"

"I, uh, traded for it f-from one of the serfs... I like what it does for my eyes." He tried to laugh.

"Oh," Quaritch chirped. "I thought it was from that little filly I keep seeing sniffin' around you."

Lyle gulped as he stared back in fear. "Are you disappointed, sir?"

"No, I'm jealous!" he sang with a fake smile that flipped instantly. He thrust the forehead back and returned to a full stand. "Come on back to camp, Corporal. You can make love to your trinket later."

The operator cabin of the Bucket Wheel Excavator was spacious enough for the recombinants to stand in. Mansk was asking about the delicate instruments that fascinated his tech-loving mind. Despite having to pull up his breather every other question, Shasha was more loquacious than usual, chatting up the driver, who was happy to explain the inner workings of his baby. The human had to sit for tedious hours in that seat, slowly ploughing the machine towards his destination and was glad to have the company.

Alexander was dressed only in his boxers when he strutted into the cabin, asking for directions to the latrine.

"Get your pants on, Johnny. This isn't a dorm," ordered Warren.

"I think our latrines might be a tad small for you, buddy," the driver chuckled. "You'd have to go outside."

Johnny groaned and cussed in frustration.

"If you're afraid of the dark, kiddo, I can escort ya?" Warren offered. "Maybe hold your hand too?"

Alexander gave him the finger, and it was quickly answered by a smack to the head. Warren followed it up by comically brushing his hands. "Well, I might as well pack it in for the night. See ya, Shasha."

"Krepkikh snov." Mansk waved.

Warren led Alexander onto the main deck of the excavator. The people had cleared a path for the machine that spanned three hundred metres so it could lumber across the land unobstructed. The rolling castle moved on twelve treads that, in width, were ninety metres in total. Their teeth ripped Pandora's skin, and she bled rivers of mud that flowed for miles. At nearly eight hundred feet in height, the HEM-OA was more than a machine; it was a monster. Johnny couldn't help but lean over the rusty green rails and whistle in amazement.

"Damn, this thing's big."

"Loud too," Warren complained. "C'mon, let's get a move on. Noise is deafening."

They climbed down from the impressive height to the lower levels, swinging over the rails and sliding down piping to reach the ground far below.

Warren had his rifle ready at his side as he escorted Johnny across the clearing. "Alright, go here."

"I'm not doing that. It's out in the open!"

"Oh, miss wants her privacy, that it?"

Alexander ignored him and headed off into the bush. Warren warned him to be quick, for he didn't want to linger in the danger zone beyond the safety of their excavator, especially at sunset. A few minutes passed, then a few minutes more; as Rigil Kentauru slipped further below the horizon with still no sign of Alexander, the recom got worried. He called into the jungle. "Hey! You okay, Johnny? Johnny?" Beginning to fear the worst, Warren kicked up his heels towards the bush. It wasn't long before he found the lad, standing in a clearing and perfectly unharmed. Warren would have berated him for dawdling, but his attention was seized by the same thing that captured his brother. "Holy sh..." Warren didn't finish as he stepped further into the clearing. Every fleck of moss, every patch of lichen, every strip of bark—from the blades of grass to the wisping fronds to the iridescent leaves—everything around them lit up with resplendent phosphorescence. He was utterly taken in by his surroundings as he stood there with mouth agape.

"I had no idea it could be so pretty," Johnny uttered softly.

The grown men marvelled at the world they had known about their entire lives yet had never seen for what it was. Being underdressed, the constellations of Alexander's body shone in full glory, and the alien was visually harmonious with his new home. His bare feet massaged the ground, and excited by his tender touch, she responded with glittering ripples.

"How come your feet don't do that?" Johnny wondered as he stared at the dark shadow beneath his friend. Warren lifted his foot, but when he set it back down, the earth continued to give him the cold shoulder. "It's your boots. You gotta take 'em off."

Warren stripped his boots and set his naked foot on the ground. She lit up in excitement at the offering of his skin. "Whoa, that tickles," Thomas laughed. "You know, this Pandora chick looks good in the dark."

"What makes it do this?"

"Something about the radiation from Polyphemus, I think," Warren replied, gesturing to the planet above.

Johnny attempted to understand with a simple "huh." "It's kinda cool how we get to be out here like this."

"It's nice not to have to wear that stupid mask, isn't it?"

"Hell, yeah. I remember how much I hated that visor sucking against my skin. Made me feel like I was in a damn fish bowl."

"Thing made my skin clammy," Warren added and then sniffed the air suffused with the perfume of nocturnal flowers; the shy maidens would wait until the sun wasn't looking before they unwrapped. Warren never knew a scent more sweet. "Almost makes dying worth it..."

"How did you die?" Alexander quietly asked.

Warren cocked a shoulder. "Blew up. I was on a Scorpion firing the door gun when suddenly everything started spinning. Felt like we were being flung around, like a stone in a sling. Next thing I know—boom. That's it."

"Not very descriptive."

"I consider myself lucky." Warren noticed the conversation had slipped into a lull, with Johnny looking strangely ruminative.

"I was crushed..." he imparted distantly. "We were pushing out the payload—those things weighed about a ton each. The gunship listed, the payloads slid, and...nothing." His gaze idled on the grass. "Do you know what it's like to feel pieces of your own skull pop through your eyes?"

Thomas stepped towards Johnny and set a reassuring hand on his trembling shoulder. "You don't have to go over it, Johnny."

The young man gulped; his tone was choked with tears that didn't surface. "I still hear it—at night—when it's all quiet. But I don't know if the scream I hear is mine or someone else's..." His stare was disturbingly empty as he stood there in the glade, drifting farther away. Warren set his forehead against his, placed his hands around Johnny's neck, and stroked it with his thumbs. The son of a prostitute—the orphan who had been alone his entire life—followed Thomas' strong rhythmic breathing out of the fog that held him prisoner. Through a misty lens, Johnny looked up at the comforting smile, and he was back.

[JforA]

Chapter 17 Waiting
Inside the network of caves that made up High Camp was one of exceptional beauty. It was a tall cavity possessing three skylights from which grew entwining roots, glowing yellow and green, that gripped the ceiling and flowed down onto the cave floor. Even in a floating mountain drifting far above the ground, Eywa's touch was ever-present. This was where Mo'at came to pray, in her pagoda of rock and root. She sat in meditation under a waterfall of light, and the spores around her glistened as they passed through the heavenly streams. She heard Jake's footsteps as he entered her pagoda. He wished to hold council as he commonly did before big events. Though Neytiri held authority in her own right, it was with Mo'at whom Jake governed the clan. Their laws decreed that olo'eyktan and tsahìk lead the people in close unison, which was why they were often mated pairs. Since Neytiri had not taken up the mantle, her mother continued the role. Mother and son were impressive in their noble raiments; as separate figures, they already stood out as dependable, so when they were together, the pair exuded an aura of security.

Mo'at stood up. "I see you, my son."

"I see you, Mother." He bowed his head. "Am I interrupting you?"

"No. I can meditate later."

"Have you still heard nothing?"

"If I heard, I'd speak," she replied briskly.

"I'm sorry. After sixteen years, I'm still learning this world. To me, everything is abnormal, so I can't tell if something is off. Has this never happened before?"

"In all our history, never. Something new is happening in the world, but you don't need to be a tsahìk to see that."

Spoiler

As they stood there, an atokirina' floated down from the ceiling. They both tracked its descent as it drifted towards them. Mo'at breathed excitedly and held out her hand. When it reached her, it mindlessly crashed against the edge of her staff. With a frown, she unwrapped its tendrils and set it free. "The ayatokirina' move as if no voice guides them. I feel like only when my eyes are watching do they act this way. Eywa means to confound me." She motioned the sprite away. "What is it you wish to speak about?"

It took him some time to bring up the words. "It's... It's about Kiri. I had a dream a few nights ago—a nightmare—that I don't understand."

"If you did not want this dream, an interpretation might be something you also do not want. Are you prepared, Zayksuli?"

"It was so real. I'm not sure why I had it, but I would rather have an answer than be left in the dark." Mo'at could hear the anxiousness in his breathing and beckoned him to speak. "I was hunting a yerik. I fired my arrow, but when I followed after it, I discovered..." Jake gulped in guilt. "That I...had shot Kiri... I found her in the same spot where Vrrtepeyktan died."

"The one who destroyed Hometree?" Mo'at breathed.

"Kiri was lying before his remains. This is the part I don't understand. Her blood summoned his spirit. He returned as a palulukan that killed me."

Mo'at was both amazed and disturbed by the dream. "This is a very powerful vision you had, Zayksuli."

"Do you think... Is this—am I being spoken to by Eywa?" he doubted.

"What are you doubting, my son? Eywa speaking or Eywa Herself?"

He huffed in defeat, as he didn't rightly know either.

"If She is speaking to you through this dream, I am envious. You have heard more from Her than I have in many years. You say you hit Kiri with an arrow. Where?"

"In the side."

Mo'at mused, "In the same spot where her mother was hit?"

Jake's eyes widened from the revelation. "Yes, the very same."

"And this made Vrrtepeyktan reincarnate as a palulukan? How well did GraceOgusteen know him?"

"I don't think their paths crossed a whole lot. But I wasn't there long enough to know. What's this have to do with Kiri?"

"That's what I wish to know. Vrrtepeyktan has returned, Zayksuli, but as something new. Be sure Kiri does not wander from High Camp. Your nightmare does not bode well with me."

Jake nodded throughout. Just then, Kiri entered the cavern with a basket of herbs. She greeted her father as she placed the basket before Mo'at.

"Thank you, Kiri." She hummed, then said to Jake, "I am teaching her how to make concoctions, yet with her knowledge of plants, she has been teaching me."

The young woman smiled back at her proud father. The atokirina' from before landed on Kiri's shoulder, and she gave it her hand, inviting it to dance around her arm.

"Kiwi," Jake addressed her. "Because of what's happening right now, you're not to leave High Camp unless your mother and I are with you, okay?"

Kiri stared at him, perplexed. Reluctantly, she heeded the condition, then returned to playing with her friend.


Alexander and Warren spent most of their days climbing the excavator. They would challenge each other's skill by racing to the top, where the reward was an excellent view. Sentry duty was, by far, their favourite task as they could see the land for miles, and it was almost like flying.

Meanwhile, Mansk would hang out with his new friends, Bob and Doug. There was little else to do on the HEM-OA, so Sasha would occasionally entertain them by reading aloud from his small collection of books. The drivers loved it but were not so much fans of Dostoyevsky as they were of Sasha's thick Russian accent.

To Mansk's surprise, Prager had some knowledge of literature too. This led to them playing a small game of quoting lines from famous works. One match resulted in them reciting, back and forth, twenty-five consecutive verses from Ovid's Metamorphoses. The drivers were amazed and thought it was a thing of beauty despite not understanding what the topic was.

One evening, as Alexander returned to his cabin, he was surprised to discover Prager's bunk empty. He interrupted Mansk's reading to ask, but when he lowered his book, there was Prager snuggling up to him. Upon hearing his name, Prager looked past his sleepy eyelids and glimpsed at the disturbed Johnny. "What?" He yawned. "He's warm."

"He's still green," Mansk remarked while flipping a page. "Give him a few more months. He'll be spooning too."

"I don't think so," Johnny wheezed.

"Hey, kid," he heard Warren say. He turned around and saw him in his bunk, lifting back his blanket with a beckoning finger.

"Oh, hell no!" Johnny jumped back and dashed out as snorted laughter bounced off the walls.

This is how the monotonous days went by for the recombinants: idling away the hours as the excavator inched towards its destination. The team, back at Hometree, marked on the wall the days remaining until they would return to Bridgehead; they were eager to go home and none more so than Lyle, who had started the count. When he scratched off yet another day, followed by a pitiful moan, his colonel had just about enough.

"Lyle, if you sigh wistfully one more time, I'm feeding you to a pack of viperwolves!"

Lyle stood to attention, embarrassed to be called out and returned to his duties. His commander shook his head and marched outside to check on Casey.

CJ was alone on sentry duty, standing on top of the giant jagged root stump that once held up Hometree. She wiped her partially shaved head, re-coifed her mohawk, then shook her crop shirt, attempting to cool herself. She was beginning to understand why the primitives opted for the loin cloth; the humidity of Pandora was brutal. She blew a bubble, gum being one of the few human commodities she could still enjoy, and popped it languidly. Through a half-lidded gaze, she looked about the tranquil glade with contempt. They were in a hostile world filled with savages, and not one had the decency to show. Casey prayed for some action—anything to prove herself worthy of being called his best. Bored, she looked away from the sky she was supposed to be watching and, instead, tracked the wood's rings with her toes.

"Eyes to the sky, Private!"

CJ looked down and discovered her leader scowling in disappointment.

"I-I'm sorry, sir."

"If you're too tired-eyed, I can switch you out?"

"No, sir. I'll focus."

He walked off with a grunt, leaving CJ to cuss at herself. She lamented being the butt end of the universe's joke that he was always there to witness her every failure. Putting on a brave face, she readjusted her rifle stance and stepped forward.

Quaritch heard a scream.

Spinning around in panic, he ran back to the stump, but there was no sign of Casey up high. He climbed to the top to discover a gaping hole where the rotted wood had given way. With no response after calling, he jumped down the shaft. It was structurally unsound from wet decay, so when he landed on a thin edge, it, too, gave way, and Quaritch slid further into a pitch-black tunnel. He landed feet first into a pool of shallow water, and its splash echoed many times throughout the dark cavern he was now in. Before he could call out her name, CJ responded.

"Colonel?"

Quaritch relaxed when he saw her standing in the shallows just a few feet before him. It was dark, but a soft teal light permeated the cave that adumbrated her slender figure.

"Are you injured?" he exhaled.

"Sir..." she breathed. "Get a load of this place."

Quaritch looked about him. They had found themselves in a subterranean cavern the size of St. Paul's Cathedral. The atrium reverberated with the sound of trickling droplets. Small streams poured down and had, over time, eroded the walls, forming the numerous scarsellas of this unhewn edifice. Rather than murals of religious figures, the ceiling was painted with a network of illuminated webs. The weavers were a colony of glow worms that fed off of Hometree's roots. Their nest spanned to the edges of the cave, forming a tapestry stitched with radiant thread, ranging from indigo to turquoise. It was a den of glory that spent more years in its making than Michelangelo's vault. Strands of this translucent webbing extended all the way to the floor, stopping short of the dark reflective pool that CJ and Quaritch quietly stood in.

Casey circled in place to gaze at the natural wonder, oblivious to the pair of eyes studying the blue lustre of her nubile body.

"I'm glad you're alright," Quaritch grumbled and went over to inspect the entrance they had slid out from. He looked up the chute. "Well, I can see the sky. We didn't drop far. Bit of wiggling, but we can climb back out with a knife for a pick." He pulled out, only to find Casey was still preoccupied with sightseeing. He walked up to her while brushing the debris off his tactical vest. "So, where are we?"

"I think water from the lake seeped down and made this pocket. Considering how big this tree was, it must've needed a ton of water. Wonder if its roots run through hundreds of cavities just like this, like a reserve—and that chute we slid down was made by a root that had rotted away."

He folded his arms. "As good an explanation as any."

"What's making the walls sparkle like that?"

Quaritch gave them a glance and answered, "Unobtanium." He then looked around at the many columns of entwined roots that grew down from the ceiling. One of sizable girth coiled down the cavern's centre and continued through the ground; it was surrounded by a patch of dry land.

"We could probably make it to that islet over there. Might be worth checking out," Casey petitioned after noticing the same column.

Quaritch pursed his lips, pressed his comm mic and instructed Zhâng to take over guarding the Hometree entrance. CJ looked away with a flash of guilt but shook it off and gave her colonel a smile.

Setting aside their boots, they, waded through the pleasant, cool waters of the nave.

Casey and Miles strolled under the upside-down forest of phosphorescent web strands. The moisture of the cavern coated the silken fibres in crystalline dew that dazzled like stars. CJ ran her hands under the filaments and marveled at the way their light increased in brilliance when touched. One brushed against her and bloomed with radiance as it flowed over her shoulder, leaving behind a trail of water droplets that glinted like her tantalizing star patterns.

Quaritch grunted, shook his head and strutted ahead of her.

They exited the pool and emerged onto the consecrated bank. Casey plucked a pink flower growing off the centre column where thousands of them were poking through the grooves like prayers set in the Wailing Wall. Holding the flower in hand, CJ ran her toes across the shore's moss to make it light up, and Miles' eyes followed her naked foot before trailing up to her face. When the woman issued an innocent laugh, his stoicism vanished, and Miles dared to smile.

"This place is awesome," she giggled.

He concurred, and the two sat down to admire the natural beauty of the cavern. He straightened out his back to look across the waters instead of at her.

After a while, CJ's emotions fell from the previous high, and she was left to dwell on her insecurities.

"Sir?" she asked hesitantly while thumbing her ankle.

"Yeah?"

"Can... Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

There was another pause. "Why did you consider us your best?"

"You want to know why I picked you?"

She bobbed her head.

"You're highly trained in coalition warfare—teamwork is your strong suit, which is pretty valuable, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but on my own, I suck," she griped. "I got shot within seconds of storming Hell's Gate."

"That tends to come with the territory of being a soldier."

"When I came to Pandora, I broke my leg on my first day."

Quaritch sniggered. "Yep, you sure did."

She grumbled.

He leaned forward, setting his arm on his leg and said with an avuncular smile, "The day I was asked to select you, I was told to pick a well-rounded bunch, with each being the best in their field. I made my dozen, and the suits nodded in approval. They only saw logistics. Total kills, hours of stamina, clean bill of health—that sort of thing. But I was looking for something that couldn't be quantified on paper."

"Like?"

"Well...take Lyle."

"Do I have to?"

"Best sniper I've ever met. Grew up in the bayou hunting critters in the grass. Learned to be quiet as a mouse to catch anhingas with his bare hands. Course, when I first met him, sashaying onto that tarmac with a squint in his eye, I knew he was a reckless, dick-thinking punk."

CJ covered her mouth to hide the unattractive snort.

"And I knew it would be that same ballsy attitude that would keep him alive." Both made a face as Quaritch paused to rethink that sentiment.

"What about Qiáo?"

"Zhâng's a good man. Steady. Thinks ahead."

"And Prager?"

"Charges into battle without ever losing his footing, physically and mentally."

"And Walker?"

"Walker?" Quaritch stopped there. He wasn't going to admit it, but Walker scared him, and if you could scare someone like him, he thought, you must be one of the best.

Casey continued to stroke her ankle, not feeling like the confident woman she knew she should be. Miles was sympathetic.

"You are young, Casey. You do get distracted easily. And you have a long way to go yet. Sure, you can hone skill. You can gain abilities. But this,"—he tapped CJ's heart—"you can't fake that."

She blinked at her colonel as she absorbed every word down to the way he spoke them. Casey was the tough girl, always giving her verbally abusive father the finger every time she stormed out of the house—a child running away from the ugly reality of her loveless life, endlessly trying to prove to a set of eyes that weren't watching that she had so much to offer, so much to give, so much potential if someone would just believe in her. Quaritch was more than just her colonel; he was her idol. She admired his steadfastness and wanted nothing more than to emulate him. Her heart nearly exploded the day she found out he had noticed her. That her colonel saw something in Casey Jones Zdinarsk. For all that she lacked, he still gave her that nod of approval.

"Thank you, sir," she choked.

He smiled back, and her heart fluttered despite her mental disciplines. She observed how young his new face was, free of the wrinkles that she never minded. Though his silvery hair was now black and his blue eyes now yellow, his handsomeness still translated, but his face wasn't the only thing she noticed. He built for himself the strongest physique among the whole team—something he did even when middle-aged, and she wondered if he even missed his old body. CJ tried not to notice these as more than the trivial details they were, but she couldn't help it. Truth was, she was smitten with him before, and here she was, feeling that same goofy feeling all over again.

As her golden irises focused on his, CJ anticipated him to lean forward like he looked ready to do. Instead, Quaritch came to his feet and offered his hand. She set her flower adrift on the water and placed her fingers in his great palm. His grip could have easily crushed her hand, but he was ever delicate, bringing her to a stand. Together, they crossed the pool and returned to the tunnel entrance.

CJ enjoyed the pause from her humdrum duties of soldier life and went about the rest of her day like nothing had happened. She sat down for dinner, chatted up her mates and afterwards went to bed. She didn't show it past her deceptive smile, but her heart was heavier than a collapsed star. She knew that if something were to happen between them, it would have happened in that underground cathedral, on its bed of cool moss, beneath those erotic lowlights while breathing in the petrichor through heavy gasps of ecstasy. Instead, her evening ended, cold and curled up, inside a scratchy sleeping bag while quietly shedding tears.


Within the tranquil mountain where High Camp was hidden, Norman the Dreamwalker proceeded back to his tent. His avatar lifted back the flap, and he entered his home almost ceremoniously. So often was the routine performed that these motions were refined to an art form. Norman lay down on the silken mat, propped his head on a wooden headrest, then folded his arms at the chest in preparation.

He closed his eyes, and the avatar was dispossessed of its spirit.

The link bed opened, and out from the sarcophagus emerged the real Norman Spellman. Adorned only in boxers and a threadbare tank top, the middle-aged man rubbed his scruffy brown beard and exhaled a tired moan. With a grunt, he shuffled out of bed and made for the washroom. His field cabin was divided by open-back shelving units filled with books scavenged from Hell's Gate. It was a white and blue sterile room, immaculate, not from constant cleaning but seldom use, for he favoured life in his avatar form over his human body. The Omatikaya had offered to permanently transfer Norman's mind, but he turned it down. Though it was a hard decision, Norman didn't have that one thing to warrant a transfer like Jake had.

After a shower, Norman donned his regular worn-out clothes and made for his opulent couch. It was upholstered using smooth animal hide and decorated with metallic beads around the arms, forming ornate swirling patterns. It was the most beautiful thing in the room until he turned on a hologram projector that was stationed before the couch. Norman sat down to watch the blue image of a Latina pilot in overalls whose hair was trussed up in a bun. The smiling figure was bidding "Skinny" goodbye, telling him not to be too lonely while she left for their base. Norman's sleepy eyes would not leave the ones that felt alive even when captured in a hologram. He slumped back, pausing on the frame where her smile was widest, still remembering the taste of love infused in her parting lips. His abstracted hand reached up to fondle a silver ring that hung on a chain necklace she had given him and issued a deep exhale that spoke so much.

The cabin door opened.

Norman sprung from his couch and turned off the hologram. The intruder was Max Patel, and when he realized he had interrupted Norman, he was fearfully sorry.

"What the hell, Max?" Norman yelled. "You can at least knock first!"

The Indian scientist raised his hands in a plea. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I thought you knew I was coming by?" Max was correct. Norman's purpose for unlinking was to await Max at his cabin. On top of mood swings, Norman also suffered memory lapses. Information conveyed to his avatar form didn't always carry over to his human one. He was like a spirit reincarnated, travelling back in time to relive the days of who he once was, and the constant rewinding would cause confusion.

Norman hastily readjusted his pants. "What is it? What do you want?"

"Here's the bucket excavator schematics Jake wanted you to go over." Max held up the portfolio and set it on Norm's glass table.

"Oh, right," he breathed out.

Max sheepishly eyed his capricious friend, hoping he'd forget his faux pas of barging in, especially during a private moment. Luckily for Max, Norman's mood swings were short-lived, and he would forget transgressions just as easily. Norman huffed as he looked over the plans. "I hope Jake knows what he's doing," he said, flipping through the yellowed papers—Pandora's damp touch did not take long to cause decay.

Max was doubtful. "I hope so, too." Patel was the former head technician of the avatar program and one of Jake's most valuable assets for his brilliance in getting link beds operational after breaking down; however, operations hit a snag when Max's glasses broke, and they were unable to replace the lenses. He continued his work regardless of the sight impairment and educated the other drivers so that each had a smattering of knowledge on how to maintain the beds. Though his sight improved over the years, Max's poor vision had him confined to Sully's Grotto.

"I need to find Neteyam," Norman remarked, taking up the papers and donning his EXO pack.

"He's right outside," Max informed with a nod to the door.

Norman wasn't surprised. He pulled a book off the shelf and proceeded into the vestibule with Max ensue. The men popped open the seal and were readily greeted by the prince.

"Oel ngati kameie, Uncle. I was wondering if—"

However, Norman was already prepared. "Here." He tossed up the book into Neteyam's hands. "Hope you like Austen."

"Persuasion..." he read aloud. The book was tiny, cupped in his palm, and his finger stroked the cover with great esteem; the literary magpie had another jewel for his collection.

"Before you get into that, I need to go over these battle plans with you," Norman instructed, holding up the folder.

"What battle plans?"

"Jake hasn't told you? How absent-minded is he getting lately?" Norman gruffed, looking at Max. "Your father's planning an attack on the HEM-OA. You're going to be a part of it."

"I am?" Neteyam gaped. "Uncle, are you sure he wishes me to fight in this battle? I have never faced a machine before. And the HEM-OA is a behemoth."

Max wasn't interrupting but showed approval for his use of 'behemoth.'

"That's why we need all the warriors we can get. You're old enough now, Neteyam. You know that."

"I know, it's just..." Neteyam stalled and breathed deeply. "I don't know if my bow is ready."

"How long have you been working on this one?"

"Seven weeks," he admitted.

"Then it should be ready. Now, come on. You need to learn everything you can about this beast."

Neteyam still couldn't believe it. "Are we really going to destroy it?"

Norman scowled from just thinking about the mechanical molester on its way to ravage a land still recovering from her last assault. From under a narrowed brow, the Earthling stared up at the giant. "Damn right, we are."


Neteyam ambulated anxiously in his tent. The thought of fighting the HEM-OA, the strongest of all the Skypeople machines, filled him with dread. He was not at peace like his tranquil sister, who had joined him in his tent to do her beadwork. Neteyam took his bow and sat next to Kiri as he inspected it. He drew his two fingers down the length of the polished wood to feel its firm structure, dwelling on the months he spent weaving its smooth, burgundy grip made of minuscule beads. Neteyam had actually made three bows from Hometree after being dissatisfied with the first two. He scoured the site for the strongest, hardest wood and spent hours shaping it into a bow worthy of his arrow. The third one was perfect by all standards, but he was afraid to use it.

Kiri saw the trouble in his eyes and set down her project. Without the use of speech, she stroked his arm to comfort him.

|"I'm alright, sister,"| he whispered. |"We'll soon be going up against a powerful enemy, and our bows cannot pierce metal."|

"We have Eywa. She is enough. When you go, I will be with Grandmother, and we will pray."

|"Thank you, Kiri."|

She leaned against his shoulder, and the brother stroked her arm with one hand as he inspected the bow with the other.

She tapped his creation and made a fist—her way of saying, "Your tsko is strong."

|"I fear it will break."|

Her hand waved in disagreement.

|"Because it is Hometree?"| he sighed.

She cupped his face to make sure she had his full attention when she signed, "Because you made it." After kissing his cheek, the siblings rested their heads together. Neteyam was scared for the future—for his family. He understood now why pain would sometimes surface in his father's eyes when he'd look upon his mother, Neytiri.


As another uneventful day was coming to an end, Z team strolled back towards the entrance and slid down the spiral roots when CJ heard a low beat emitting from inside the hollow tree.

"Hey, Qiáo, do you hear that?"

Zhâng's ears flicked forward. "Sounds like...music?"

They shimmied their way past the sandbag barrier and followed the Latin beat. They soon discovered the most bizarre thing they had ever witnessed on Pandora: their teammates dancing to chacha music playing from a repurposed radio.

"What the hell?" CJ interjected.

Quaritch was standing off to the side. "Care to join our little hoedown, kids?" He was about to take CJ's hand when Bridgette swooped in.

"Attache ta tuque!" Walker smiled, and the brazen woman pulled the baffled Marine into a dance. He shouted protests, but as he couldn't wrestle her away, he grudgingly went along with it.

"Colonel?" CJ laughed.

He gave Casey a half-smile and a shrug, being helpless to stop his dance partner.

Brown and Lopez promenaded past her, they weren't doing the chacha or any specific dance, but they kicked their legs high and baltered about the floor.

"Ai-ya." Zhâng cringed, looking at CJ. He had to step back to make room for "Dumpling and Daisy."

"When in Pandora..." she cheered and, grabbing her best mate, whisked herself onto the floor with her tail wiggling as she and Zhâng spun to the Latin rhythm.

The ridiculous recombinants danced away, not knowing that many years prior, to the beat of different drums, the Omatikaya held their own dance ceremonies in that same section of the tree. The Na'vi dance had the participants jump where the recoms spun, shimmy towards their partner rather than shimmy with them. The natives would wiggle their fingers into their partner's hands while the soldiers clasped them tightly, but no matter the variance, the nature was the same.

Their fun continued until a new beat joined their mix: a strange, bassy echo that poured into the cavern and shook the walls.

"Who ordered the dubstep?" Fike remarked to Lyle.

Lopez axed the music to get a better listen. It was a grating rumble, further distorted by their hollow enclosure. The recombinants stood around in confusion as it continued.

"Casey, did you see anything when you were out?"

"We saw nothing, sir."

With two scooped fingers, he motioned to his corporal. "Alright, let's go check it out." Quaritch had volunteered himself too, for he was more than eager to escape Walker's killer grip.

Lyle and Miles made their way up the log and followed their ears. They stopped where the sound was loudest, and with their M69s ready, the two Marines peered over the ledge.

It turned out to be nothing more than a hammerhead, so named for its unusual head shape, using the abrasive wood of Hometree to free itself of voracious wolfticks.

"So, that's it?" Quaritch clucked. "Alright, Bambi, git." He fired at the creature, and while the shots ricocheted off its plate armour, it started the bull. It flared its head crest of blue and purple, then reared onto four of its six legs the size of redwood tree stumps. Stretching its beaked mouth wide for a nasty bellow, the beast could only roar before bolting off into the jungle. "Not so tough now, are ya? Alright, let's go, Lyle. Lyle...?" But Lyle didn't turn to follow; he remained completely still by the ledge. The colonel cocked his head as he circled the stiffened frame. He gazed into Wainfleet's contracting eyes that stared into the middle distance and identified the seizure. He was quick enough to catch him before he fell backwards and laid him down. Quaritch held the mouth open out of fear he'd bite his tongue, then contacted Brown, demanding he get up topside, stat.

The medic arrived swiftly and found Quaritch leaning over Wainfleet, clamping his shoulder. "What happened?"

"We found a hammerhead scraping against the tree, and he broke into a seizure."

Brown squatted next to him and directed he lay Lyle on his side to keep the airways open. "How long has this been going on?"

Quaritch only lent Brown a fraction of his gaze. "One minute and ten seconds. He stopped responding, motor control seized up, then collapsed."

"Fluttering eyelids? Muscle spasms?"

"Some convulsion in the hands."

Brown made sure Lyle had space as they awaited the seizure to abate. When it finally broke, Lyle returned to the world in a fit of terror. He screamed and writhed about, and his eyes raced everywhere. Quaritch grabbed Wainfleet's face to shake him out of his panic. "Lyle, Lyle!" he shouted desperately. "It's me!"

The man steadied. "Sir...?"

Upon seeing awareness return to Lyle's eyes, Miles gave his face several heavy pats. "You okay, son?"

"I'm okay..." He gulped, carrying a shaky wheeze. "What happened?"

"Gave me a scare, is what. You froze up like a nervous politician. Brown. Tend to him." Quaritch backed away and gave the two space as the medic checked Lyle for injuries; afterwards, the patient was escorted back to his bunk. The others were unaware of what happened, but Sean sensed something was wrong and sat with his buddy. Meanwhile, Quaritch directed Brown aside, who was busy logging the event in Wainfleet's health record. "Will he be alright?"

"He made it out of this one," Brown answered. "Seizures aren't known for being one-time occurrences. Unless this was connected with how he died, making it a pseudoseizure."

"PTSD?"

"Pretty much. Our psychiatrist warned me of this."

"Warned? We were deemed fit."

"I know. I'm starting to think we were rushed through our aptitudes."

Quaritch looked over his shoulder with a new worry. "Are you saying we're all susceptible?"

"We've all been resurrected from a violent death, sir. That's never happened before. The consequences from that could be anything, but none of us have any way of knowing what they'd be until—"

"Until they surface..."

"Have you experienced anything, sir?" he asked, but his colonel replied with a dismissive, "No." After which, Quaritch returned to Lyle and sent Sean away, insisting the patient needed rest. He sat before Wainfleet, who was upright in his sleeping bag, still shaken from earlier.

"How you doing?"

"I'm doing better."

"Need me to tuck you in? Maybe read a bedtime story?"

"Nah, that's okay, Daisy already did that."

Quaritch didn't continue the humour, which told Lyle something was bothering him.

"Lyle, I have to know..." He sighed. "How did you die?"

The corporal's neck muscles twitched, and he licked his tightening lips. "I was marching my suit team through enemy lines. We had cleared out their cavalry when we...heard this rumbling in the distance. It was a herd of hammerheads." Wainfleet clenched his bag so tightly that his knuckles bulged. "One totalled my AMP and... and..."

Quaritch raised his hand, signalling him to stop.

The young man quivered as he mentally stared at the traumatic painting hanging in the gallery of his memories. "I still remember everything, and I don't want to."

"I remember dying too."

"You do? How did you..."

"Two arrows through the lungs."

"Two?"

"Yeah, one wasn't enough." He smiled. "There are some things you just don't forget. I could probably paint for you that bow Mrs. Sully used to kill me."

Lyle looked up, "I could count the number of toes..."

Quaritch winced and patted his shoulder. "We all understand each other's pain, and as soldiers who died, we've already served our part. It's perfectly understandable if one of us can't serve because of it."

"I'll be alright, sir," he hastily replied.

"You can't be sure of that."

"I will be. I'll get over it. I'll—"

"You're seizure-prone."

"I'll lick it!"

"Lick a seizure? You think it's that simple?" Quaritch scolded.

"Don't send me back, sir. I can't abandon my team."

His colonel paused. He was impressed by the resolve in Lyle's tone. He dwelt long and hard on what he said, then, after some time, Quaritch spoke, "You're not to venture out alone, you understand?"

Lyle breathed a sigh of relief and, grinning from ear to ear, nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir!"

"You're to always have at least one person with you at all times."

"Yes, sir!"

"You disobey, and I'll take a switch to you."

"Yes, sir!"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir!"

Quaritch chuckled. "Okay then," he grunted as he got up. "You rest up, Corporal." He swaggered back to his bunk as Lyle went off to sleep. Quaritch was greatly relieved, but for another reason. He knew how much Lyle wanted to return to Bridgehead, so to see him putting his team first before some tail back at home put his mind at ease.

[JforA]

Chapter 18 Risk
"No, Spider!" Jake boomed. He paced angrily about his tent before the obstinate adolescent.

"It's the only way," Spider countered firmly. His boldness in staring down the Titan made their size difference almost unnoticeable.

"The answer is still no. I will not put you in danger like that."

"I'm a warrior, Jake. These are my people too. It's my duty to protect them."

Jake's scowl unsheathed his fangs, something he rarely did unless truly upset. "And I'm telling you, you can't sneak into Hometree."

"Jake, someone's got to learn more about these non-linkers. The mole hasn't said anything yet, and they're right in our territory. This might be our only chance."

"Spider..." Jake sighed.

The bold human wouldn't relent. "I'm willing to take this risk. I'm, what, eighteen? Nineteen? I'm not a kid anymore, Jake. I'm old enough to do this." He paused before adding firmly, "And you know I can do it."

He lowered his head and sighed again. He knew Spider was exceptional at spying and often succeeded in sneaking up on him despite his acute senses. Having observed the Na'vi his whole life, Spider absorbed all their ways, including their mastery in stealth. "You could—and you could also get caught."

Spoiler

"I'm a human. They'd spare me."

"You don't know that, kid."

"They spared the people at Hell's Gate."

Jake didn't reply. The truth was he didn't actually know. He betted on it being true for Spider's sake and his own peace of mind. "If you ever got discovered..."

Spider rolled his eyes. "Surrender."

"No!" Jake practically shouted. "You fight. This isn't about you getting caught. It's what they'll do to you afterwards. You know where High Camp is—everything we do is all in here." He tapped the boy's temple, then leaned over to warn in a low, grim whisper, "Do not underestimate what they'd be willing to do to you just to get that information out. They won't care if you're a human. They will torture you."

Spider was rarely, if ever, disquieted, but Jake's warning managed to halt his breath. He shrugged it away with his token grin. "Don't worry, Pops. They'd never be able to break me."

"You're not taking this seriously," Jake mumbled and returned upright. "The answer is no."

"But—"

"I said no. That's the end of it."

The young warrior was fuming, but he could tell by the stiffness of his guardian's back that no amount of reasoning would sway his decision.

Jake was ready to leave when he realized this was his tent and shooed the human out. He palmed his creased brow smooth, dwelling on all that had been said. Spider was right about one thing: he was no longer a kid. The olo'eyktan, who already had two children of his own, couldn't help but take up his songcord and reminisce over their years together.

It was August 24th, 2154, the night Jake returned to the avatar lab for one last video log. After finishing his log entry, Norman had called Jake aside about a discovery he made—a ninth level. Using a janitor's card key, Norman gained access to a strictly classified final floor. The underworld appeared as if a hurricane had gone through it; the whole place was sabotaged, from smashed computers to shredded data, along with unregistered link beds that Norman couldn't account for. As the anthropologist made futile efforts to uncover what research had been conducted, Jake rolled his wheelchair down the dark hall of flickering lights, following the faint sound of crying. It brought him to a locked room where he discovered a toddler huddled in the corner. The boy was petrified, exhausted from crying, and suffering from want of care. He noticed the chapped lips and pulled out a water bottle he carried on his wheelchair to coax the tyke over. Though he was emaciated, the boy still had the strength to scramble onto Jake's lap, where he greedily suckled the water. In that quiet moment, as the Marine doled the little man whispers of reassurance, Jake's heart opened up and then restitched itself with the boy now nestled inside it.

Jake nicknamed him "Spider" for his ability to scale any surface and placed him under the care of a young couple: the Paras. Even after transferring to his avatar, the toddler still recognized Jake, excitedly sprinting up to him for a tussle every time he visited Hell's Gate. He'd roll the little tail-nabber around or chase him about the field before teaching him how to use a bola. If Jake wasn't committed to his Na'vi life, he would have raised Spider as his own; he had that much love for him. To have him as a ward was a privilege the Paras were kind enough to grant him, but he was still their son, not his—a fact that Jake always found himself at risk of forgetting.

He came to the last notch of his songcord and acknowledged Spider's time as his ward was coming to an end.


Spider stomped through the great interior of High Camp. His narrowed eyes trailed along the rock floor, over the pebbles and insects he'd walk over every day without noticing. Inside the tunnel were fluorescent lamps fastened to floating boulders, and he stood under one of the bobbing spotlights that caused his extended shadow to flicker upon the wall. His anger increased so much that he took a stone and hurled it at the black doppelgänger. It cracked against the slate, and the cave was filled with the sharp, clangorous echo. Spider heard a startled gasp. He whipped around and finally noticed Kiri sitting on the floating rock; the alarm in her eyes caused his own to be filled with regret. "I-I'm sorry, Kiri. I didn't mean to scare you."

She dropped down to convey to him, through touch, that she understood.

"You hide in the weirdest places..."

"What is the matter, Spider?"

"Your father won't let me spy on the enemies at Hometree."

"But of course, you can't!" she signed fervently.

"You don't understand, Kiri. I carry this," he said, reaching for the pouch at his waist. "I can foul up their sense of smell. They won't even know I'm there. But Jake thinks it's too dangerous."

"It is too dangerous."

"So is this enemy. We can't take them on blindly. Do you know how many we could lose if we try? I heard that even Neteyam will be fighting. If he's willing to let his own son take that kind of risk, why can't he at least do the same for me?"

Kiri's body went rigid the moment she heard mention of her brother. "Is the danger that great?"

"Yes. These guys are deadly. We should take every opportunity we can to foil them. If I can get in, I could—I could do a lot. Like mess with their guns or learn about their tactics—anything. I'm willing to do this for you."

Kiri looked in the direction of her brother's tent. She thought of him, her parents, her uncle, her grandmother—the fate of her entire family in the face of an impending battle. She returned to Spider. "Because you are a human, they would not hurt you if you were caught, right?"

Spider hesitated, then replied, "Right."


Palm-Palm flew before the setting sun, his black silhouette engulfed by the orange heat of the yawning star. They banked into a gully, flying inches above their speeding reflection. Kiri's vine shawl flapped in the wind as Spider sat in front of her. His entire body was coated in dark blue paint, interrupted by lines of white specks. Their usual happy faces were grave and burdened with guilt; this was the most disobedient they had ever been.

On his princess' mental command, Palm-Palm aimed for a meadow in the forest neighbouring Hometree, and the truants stood quietly at the bank of a stream. Kiri took his hand and guided him into a hug that she wouldn't cease until he prompted her. "I'll be alright," he repeated for a third time, gently cupping her supple elbow—an action for goodbye synonymous with "I care for you." After one more goodbye, she watched her champion cross the stream and steal away into the bush. Left alone, and unable to do more in the way of action, Kiri set her queue to the skin of a lizard tree, so named for its scaly iridescent blue/green bark, and despite it not being a neural interface, accepted her tendrils. The pink locks fastened to the furrowed surface, which produced a glow the flora was not capable of. Kiri then pressed her body against the tree and sent a prayer to the goddess, begging Her to keep Spider safe.

Spider prowled the jungle floor with the adroitness of a cat. Though he had not the Na'vi senses, he had their discipline: the patience to pause from the faintest sound and arrest his every muscle so that not even his eyelids fluttered without his permission. No twig snapped under his weight; no leaf rustled in annoyance as he slowly crawled over the wet, tender undergrowth.

From the setting sun, Hometree was once again set afire. Spider made his way down into the valley where he hid behind a fngapsutxwll: a metal-following plant. When its rubbery satellite swivelled in the direction of Hometree, aroused by the scent of approaching weapons, the haunter of the woods hurriedly took cover behind its thick stalk.

Two recombinants stepped into view, and Spider was amazed when he beheld the militarized Olympians. On their vests, he spied eight cryptic letters that he mentally pronounced as "Prawj Phinix."

"¡Ándale, ya vamos. It's almost night."

"Keep your pants on, Angel. I want to find something to make our rations somewhat edible," Brown replied. With his useful knowledge of botany, the team medic had been trying his hand at cooking. "Food's muy mal." Unconfident with his pronunciation, he double-checked with Lopez. "How's my Spanish?" His friend gestured so-so.

"You know, I kinda miss what the serfs would bring us, not that I don't appreciate you tryin'."

"Thanks. I'll remember not to make a career out of it."

Lopez cocked his rifle and strolled the area, watching for viperwolves as Brown knelt to dig out the plants. With both of their backs to Spider, the spy boldly crawled into view with a handful of innocuous taupe powder and dropped it into Brown's herb bag.

"Hey, you smell that?" Lopez remarked.

Spider halted as Brown paused to sniff the air; the recombinant did sense something new in his environment, but since he couldn't identify it, he returned to his task as the human, very quietly, crawled back to his fngapsutxwll.

An obstinate sprout gave Brown some difficulty. Grabbing it by the stem, he tried yanking by its roots, but the plant wouldn't budge. He dug away more of the dirt and, with one hard tug, managed to free the plant from its hold, along with the weight it was fastened to.

Brown lurched back in fright.

Right away, Angel rushed to his side to see what was the matter and discovered, rolled over in the grass before his friend, a tiny Na'vi skull. Loose dirt flowed from its sockets and down the yellowed cheekbones with the hole at the top, meant for the queue, growing a sprout that Brown had snapped in his force.

Tyler gulped. "I forgot this place would be filled with bones."

Angel found himself fearfully searching the open air. "Believe in ghosts, amigo?"

"No," Brown scoffed. "Don't tell me you do?"

"Me? No," Angel tried to laugh. "But remember—if their spirits returned, it's our throats they'd go after." He suddenly lunged at Tyler, who wasn't going to be spooked that easily despite being on edge. Instead, Brown pushed his cackling friend away.

"We should head back. It's getting late."

Spider waited until they were completely out of sight before stepping into the open. He saw the remains and brushed his hand over the skull as a gesture of respect. The mourner set his eyes in the direction they left in and couldn't hold back his sneer as he growled, "Murderers..."

With night arriving, Spider snuck towards Hometree, his painted skin making him nearly invisible under the cloak of twilight. He came around to the main entrance and easily pulled his little body past the sandbag barricade, then crawled sideways through the shadows until he came upon eight recombinants sitting down for dinner. Spider rested behind the radio cart to listen in.

"So, Angel, how about you serenade us with that voice of yours?"

"Huh?"

"Tyler tells us you have a great voice."

"I can't. I don't gotta instrument."

"C'mon. You don't need an instrument. Your vocals should be enough."

"No. I'm too shy. My cords will tremble."

"Hey, Brown, what did you do this stuff?"

"Nothing I don't normally do."

"Can't taste a thing."

"Me neither."

"Sure you don't want some, sir?"

Spider's heart jumped.

"Help yourself. I did some foraging earlier."

"For what?"

"Cannonball fruit. The Na'vi knock it from its branch to crack open its husk—tastes like chocolate."

"Did the doc write that book?"

"It has most of her notes. Who knew her blatherings would come in handy."

"Looks ready to fall apart."

"Well, what can I say? Knowledge is—" Quaritch suddenly paused, and the recombinants watched in alarm as he started scanning the room with a scrunched nose. They didn't dare ask what he smelt, only keeping the air clear of sounds for him to pick up on whatever he sensed. Drawing his Wasp revolver, Quaritch made quiet footfalls towards the radio cart. He whipped around with weapon aimed, ready to fire—the spot was empty; Spider was smart enough to leave the moment he heard one still had their use of smell.

The other recombinants got up as their colonel knelt to sniff the area. He issued a low growl. "Someone was here..."

"How can you tell?" Lyle gaped.

"Yeah, I can't smell anything," Fike added.

"Exactly!" the colonel barked. With his revolver primed, he ran out of their camp.

The recombinant rushed down the tunnel, mindfully removed three sandbags, then watchfully stepped into the night, prying the darkness for their intruder, who was tucked away at the top of Hometree, flat on his back and silent as a ghost. The nostrils scrunched again, and Quaritch detected Spider's previous scent trail.

The boy, ever so slightly, lifted his head after hearing the sound of brushed flora and, from the bottom of his eyes, spied the outline of a figure—running off in the direction of Kiri.


Kiri had fallen asleep against the trunk, unaware of the peculiar ripples that were pulsating from the link. Above the resting maiden, a bloom of atokirina' frolicked, and the little imps were tickling her skin with their feathery tendrils. When she heard the faint sound of disturbed leaves, the droopy lids raised, and the silent girl voiced a loud yawn. The dryad stretched her arms to the fullest extent, shook the tiredness from her eyes, then came to her feet in anticipation of Spider, but as she stood, the wind changed direction, and Kiri's heart pounded in her breast; she picked up not his pleasant aroma of animal skin but the acrid bite of gunpowder.

The recombinant charged into the clearing, eyes sharp and weapon ready, searching for his prey. He stepped past a lizard tree, irritably whacking away an atokirina' that drifted too close. His heavy boots crushed florets and sullied a clear stream in his repeated circling of the placid meadow. Peering down, he spotted a faint impression of a footprint. Quaritch squatted and, holding his revolver in his other hand, nosed the ground. The scent of man was faint but rich with Na'vi—of broken seed pods and lacquered beads.

Kiri had scurried under the prop roots of a towering tree. Like a frightened rabbit, she huddled against the inner dirt wall, waiting for the threat to leave, but the threat did not leave; it neared. Fearing she was somehow heard, Kiri ceased breathing as she watched a hulking figure inch towards her enclosure. He loomed over Kiri's hiding spot, mouth hung open, tasting the air, and she saw slivers of his image as it passed over her cage of tangled roots, catching sight of the strange ikran imprinted on his arm. She nearly gasped. This was the one her father was asking about.

He stopped over a section that gave her full view of his mean visage. His stench of gun oil and sweat was made worse by the aura of death clinging to his body. His sniffing nose inched closer. Knowing she would eventually be discovered and unsure what else to do, Kiri reached for her knife. Her trembling hands managed to work it from its sheath, and her mouth unsealed in preparation for the war cry. She had never used a knife in combat before, and the experienced warrior, holding his gun, was now directly over the burrow.

A viperwolf cry in the distance broke the hunter's concentration; the recombinant bent low as he heeded the cackles of the nearing predator who would come with friends. Being far from camp and hopelessly outnumbered, Quaritch abandoned the hunt and returned for Hometree.

Overwhelmed with relief, the girl threw her head back so fast that it smacked against the dirt wall. The howls grew louder, but Kiri left her sanctuary: she recognized the culprit. Stepping into the clearing, with palms cupped around his mouth, was her human, mimicking the wolf cry once more before strapping on his visor. She rushed to throw her arms around her quick-thinking rescuer, and the two collapsed into the carpet of grass. After a moment to collect herself, Kiri signed anxiously, "I saw him! I saw him! The one who has the marking father asks about."

"Are you sure?" Spider signed back in alarm.

Kiri would not stop nodding as she mentally logged down the image so she would not forget. "I saw his ugly face. He was right there." She demonstrated how close he was and it made Spider gulp. "He was terrifying. We must tell, Father! I could draw his face for him."

Spider rushed to grab Kiri's hands to get her to stop signing. "No, no. Kiri, we can't let your father know we were here. We'd get in trouble."

Kiri wrestled her hands free to say, "But I saw his face!"

"If Jake found out how close you were to getting caught—" Spider fretted. "We're not even supposed to fly out at night. He might forbid us from be—playing together."

She was crestfallen. "Then what was the point of coming here?"

"No point, I guess," Spider grumbled. "I managed to sneak into Hometree, but I didn't get the chance to do anything."

"You sure we shouldn't tell my father what we learned?"

"We didn't learn anything important," he dismissed with a shrug. Kiri was upset to see his usual composure gone. "C'mon. Let's go before that bastard comes back."

He took up her hand, but Kiri's gaze lingered where Quaritch stood. Her expression was severe. She turned to her companion and signed, "He stank of death."


Back at Hometree, the other recombinants were eager for news from their returning leader.

"Our intruder got away," he remarked to Walker as he brushed past her.

Brown jogged up to him. "Sir, I examined my herb bag and found traces of a bitter-tasting powder. Someone must have planted it when I was out foraging."

Quaritch scowled at him. "And you didn't smell the culprit?"

"I did, but..." Brown trailed off upon realizing his failure.

"You haven't been improving your skills," Quaritch chided. Turning to his whole team, with a sharp point to his nostrils, he proclaimed, "You forget we have these. You're supposed to use 'em—hone 'em—right down to identifying every fart of every team member and what they had for breakfast. Recognizing scents may save your life. And it nearly cost us ours tonight, Brown."

Tyler lowered his head in shame.

"We had an intruder tonight—a human intruder. For those of you who don't know, Sully carries a boy with him wherever he goes. This 'Mowgli' of his was probably our little visitor. This means Sully now has insider info on our operation."

Brown's anxiety worsened as the other recombinants were angered by the news.

"What do we do, sir?" Lyle asked.

"Go over all our supplies—make sure nothing was tampered with. We double our patrols. Have a door watch. I also want word sent to Bridgehead to bring in more ammunition. Then...we wait." Quaritch's mood shifted, and he became strangely pleased. "I, for one, am rather glad Sully knows we're out here. If we're lucky," he said in a drawl, "maybe he'll show."

[Toliman]

Great  

[JforA]

Chapter 19 Hometree
Toruk Makto stood like a towering oak at the ledge of his floating fortress. The sides of his head were shaved, accentuating his alert ears. His braided hair was adorned in plumes the colour of fire, making his already regal countenance intense with righteous anger. It was the auroral hour, and the golden light gave hope to all as Jake raised his bow in salute to his arriving warriors. They were the ikran fliers of Kekunan and Tayrangi; the direhorse riders of Olangi and Ìponi; the Tipani, wielding their shields of viridescent carapace; and the Mawìtan, riding their steervanes dressed in knotted caparisons. Ikran riders by the hundreds flew around the mountain like black dots swarming the flaming welkin. U'imi (streamers) worn on the rider's backs flapped, snapped and cracked in the high winds, filling the sky with the vivid colours of war. Below, horns blared to greet the warriors, treating them with the deference their bravery warranted.

Thousands were bivouacked beneath the mountain, and the mood was electric. Na'vi took turns swinging on the gruelling pendulum drums so no player was overworked. They danced and skipped around the great fires to inspire others and to thank Eywa for giving them this life so they may lay it down for a worthy cause.

These civilized people would comport themselves with dignity even when preparing for battle, such as ceremoniously dousing their war hatchets with water, as fighting with an unclean axe was considered disrespectful or bestowing a blessing to their arrowheads that it would deal a quick and painless death. No matter the tribe, all peoples of Pandora were governed by this tenet of respecting life, which encompassed even that of their enemies.

Spoiler

It was midmorning when everyone regrouped at Vitrautral (Tree of Souls) for their most crucial of all pre-battle practices: the ritual communion with Eywa. It was an enigma to xenoanthropologists as to why the knowledge of warfare had not atrophied in a people that seldom experienced it, but the answer was simple. Pandora's global library housed centuries of knowledge dating back to the Time of the First Songs. When communing with Eywa, She would depart to the Na'vi, in subliminal ways, the wisdom they needed to fight. This allowed them to be pacifists without being weak, ferocious without being cruel—as hardened as soldiers but as innocent as babes.

Clans gathered at the steps and connected their queues to the roots. Some were chanting a rhapsody of prayers so complex in notes that it ascended the mortal vale and into the realm of the divine. In the firmament, an orbiting satellite spied the convocation and reported back to Bridgehead the amassing Na'vi numbers. A chagrined Ardmore frowned at a giant screen as she watched a green mass repeatedly enlarging over a series of orbital images. She stormed through the control tower and bellowed her orders to all within earshot.

"Roll out the Dragon. I want two dozen Wasps on escort. And someone get me Officer Quaritch on the line!"


The leader of the Deja Blus was patrolling outside Hometree when he was told to hurry inside. He stood before their communications unit and watched the screen power on to be greeted by a very irritable Ardmore. "Quaritch, get ready for some company. As of yesterday, Sully's amassed up to five thousand in the Hallelujah Mountains."

He was only a little surprised. "How 'bout that? Guess he's still Toruk Makto after all."

Ardmore replied with a grunt. "We're heading out to meet you to provide backup. Two thousand more hostiles will reach those mountains in approximately two hours. Expect an attack at fourteen hundred. We'll be there to swat the flies by then."

"Roger that. The excavator is visible at fifty yards. We'll give them the heads up."

"Don't let me down, recom," she growled before terminating the call.

"Alright, you heard her! I want HMGs primed at every loophole. Double time, everyone!" Quaritch gave order after order, and Hometree buzzed with activity as the Deja Blus ran about, reinforcing the walls with sandbags and prepping their weapons for war.


Within Txurseng, Spider jogged to keep up with Jake's long strides. "We're geared up and ready to go, Pops. Can't wait to make a kill with my bow."

Jake was confused. "Spider, you're staying here at High Camp."

"What?! I'm not fighting with the rest of you?"

"Be reasonable, kid. This is a battle, not a hunting trip."

"But I'm a warrior too. I'm supposed to fight!"

"You're too young."

"Too young? I'm older than Neteyam!" His scowl switched to desperation when he realized his mentor was unmoving. "Please, Jake! Don't leave me behind with the pregnant women and children. I'm a man now. Treat me like one."

"Being a man doesn't mean fighting whenever you want. You're to stay with Kiri."

"She'll be busy with Mo'at. She has no use for me. I'm useless if I stay here."

"Well, having a tantrum isn't going to change my mind," Jake rebuked. "You want to be treated as a man? Act like one. You're staying behind."

Restrained for the last time, the warrior swayed his head in anger. "I can't believe this. Hell, Jake, do you have any use for me?"

"Spider..."

"You're always teaching me the ways, but you never give me a chance to prove myself! I had enough of this s***. See you around." Backing away, with a frown targeted at his guardian, he turned heel and departed into the cavern.


The avatar party was on standby at the top of Txurseng and stationed in front of their banshees. The scruffy team of insurgents, painted like their Na'vi comrades, wore a collage of weather-beaten gear, dying for retirement. Any strip of cloth that attempted to desert was then promptly seized to be repurposed around their head, Rambo-style. They stood in a lineup to be drilled by their commander, Norman Spellman; as a rider of an ikran, he wore his raspu' (chaps) to protect his inner thighs, and his claret loincloth hung over his strong legs that were accented by his songcord. The right side of his hair was shaved, and the left was braided with many pale beads. His open traveller's shirt not only displayed his chest, streaked with white mud, but also his ta'lan (cummerbund), indicating his rank as an adult Omatikaya male.

Norman's voice was not deep, but he had a commanding tone. "This attack will have three phases. After Sully's team deploys the smoke shield, the cavalry will circle the HEM-OA. They will pick off any soldiers they spot and provide distraction for Neteyam and his delivery boys. Meanwhile, the banshee riders will fly past Hometree in waves and turn up the heat. Once the enemies are well-smoked, we meet Sully at the crown and move in to cook their gooses." The avatars were hungry for a fight and hooted in unison to show their readiness. Norman looked at his team with an approving nod when Jake came up behind him, and the two firmly grabbed arms in greeting. "Jake, the avatars are ready," Norm was proud to report, but he noticed a troubled look on his friend's face. "Pre-battle nerves?"

"It's Spider." He sighed. "He wants to join the fight, but I can't let him."

"Why not?"

"Norm, Spider's too young."

"He's eighteen, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but this is a battle we're talking about—Spider's half the size of us. He can't fly an ikran. He can only shoot so far—"

As Jake was reciting his points, Norman crossed his arms and flatly stared him down. "This is rich coming from the guy who arrived on Pandora in a wheelchair."

The ex-paraplegic blinked thrice. "You're saying I should let him fight?"

"Why not? He's a man."

"Norm, how would the Paras feel knowing I was sending their son into battle?"

"The Paras are gone, Jake. Spider's future now lies here in High Camp. You can't keep him like a pet."

"I know that, Norm! That wasn't why I took him under my wing. I wanted Spider to learn the peaceful ways of the Na'vi, not get caught up in war like..." When Jake hesitated, Norman understood.

"You're worried about him getting a taste of it?"

"I'm a Marine," he stated. "I enlisted when I was seventeen. I know what it does to you—what happens when you take a life. It— It changes you. I don't want that for Spider."

"And Neteyam?"

"Neteyam is different," Jake countered quickly.

"You're capping Spider by doing this. He's separated from his species and can't undergo the Na'vi rite of passage. At least let him do something for his people so he knows he belongs."

"By teaching him how to kill other humans?"

Norman was sympathetic as he patted his buddy's shoulder. "Jake, when Grace let you undergo your Dream Hunt, it wasn't just your avatar dying that she was afraid of. It was seeing you falling in love with a world she knew you couldn't be a part of. She was scared too."

"She was right."

"Yeah, but she still let you do it."

Jake reflected on his youthful obstinance with a chuckle. "I wasn't going to be stopped."

"Neither will Spider. Trying to prevent him will only make things worse."

He yielded with a half-smile while clasping the hand on his shoulder. "You know, in that instance, what drove me was Neytiri. Thank god, that's not the case with him."

"So, you going to let him join?"

"One problem—what would he do?"

"Why not have him deliver one of the packages with Neteyam?"

Jake's ears flicked. "Yeah, he could easily do that, couldn't he?"

"He's one of the best climbers in the whole village. His name is 'Spider' after all."

He couldn't argue with that. "Alright. I'll go find him. Oh, and how are we with our current numbers?"

Norman looked around. "We still have two thousand more on their way. They should be here in a couple hours."

"Good, send word out throughout the camp. We're heading to battle."

"What? But don't you want to wait till the others get here first?"

He shook his head. "Nothing doing. Max told me last time Quaritch used orbital images to predict our movements."

"So they won't expect us to attack beforehand?"

"Exactly."

"Jake, that's brilliant."

"You wait here. I'll be back with Spider," he called out as he took off.

Jake worked his way through the bustle of activity and walked down into the heart of High Camp; however, he failed to find Spider in his cabin. He knocked, but no one answered. When he entered, it was empty, and all the lights turned off. He stopped to ask Max, but the scientist relayed to him that he hadn't been seen for some time. Jake kicked himself for being too hard on his ward, but it was too late to rectify anything; he only had a few minutes before departure, and he couldn't waste time searching for him. With a heavy heart, the olo'eyktan returned to the top of the mountain.


Ready for departure, the ikran riders took the last few minutes to don their tsamopin (war paint). With a wooden bowl of paint in one hand, Kiri carefully drew yellow streaks across her brother's face. Neteyam thanked her upon completion, but before she would let him go, the sister had something else she wished to do. She plucked up her special tipi bag and drew from it a turquoise collar that bore the symbol of the Omatikaya at its centre: a tree.

|"Kiri, is that the collar you've been working on for the last few weeks?"|

She nodded, then lifted it over his head to place it on his chest. The Omatikaya were renowned weavers, and Kiri, trained by her mother, was regarded by her own clan as the most talented.

Neteyam admired the complex piece. |"It is beautiful, sister. Thank you."|

Rather than tear up, Kiri put on a brave face and threw her arms around Neteyam for a sudden hug. The brother patted her trembling frame and reminded her not to worry after donning his ionar (ikran riding visor).

"Grandmother and I will be praying for all of you," she signed emphatically.

"I know," Neteyam spoke with his hands, then kissed her cheek.

Further down the line of riders, their parents were performing the same routine. Jake could feel as he painted Neytiri's face how tense she was. This battle was not just them going up against a powerful enemy; it was to take place at Hometree, something his wife had not looked upon since that fateful day. Her worry lines ran deep across her face as she readied to speak. She took his cheeks in her hands and held firmly, giving herself a moment for her strong breathing to steady. "Ma Jake, before we go..." she began in English, and Jake knew it was serious. "I want you to know that my heart is filled with pride for you. Thank you for protecting this clan. For choosing me for a mate. For being my children's father. You are always beloved to me. And I need you to know that."

The man was struck silent as he gazed at his woman. Even her intense eyes declared how highly she regarded him. Rather than ruin the moment by speaking, he snatched her up in his arms and laid a full kiss on his incomparable princess. Whatever faced him beyond the safety of their Hallelujah Mountains, he knew he would be ready for it.


Quaritch stood atop a root stump to look upon the Bucket Wheel Excavator now towering over the virgin glade. The rusted green castle issued incessant billows of dust and smoke. At the end of its heavy cutting boom, suspended by many powerful hoist lines, were three revolving wheels of serrated scoops. The beast crawled towards Hometree with its jutted jaw, like a hungry Cerberus tugging on Hades' leash; it could smell the Unobtanium deposit ahead and wanted nothing more than to gobble it up. Its treads, the height of a cargo ship, rolled forward with an unrelenting metal whine that attacked Quaritch's ears. He pressed his collar to communicate with his teammates. "Johnny, what do you see?"

Alexander was perched at the highest peak of the excavator, surveying the skies through his binoculars. The coiled wire of his earpiece brushed his neck as he kept turning his head. "I got nothing, sir. Skies are empty."

"Walker, how 'bout you?"

Walker was positioned at the other end of Hometree. "Nothing here either, sir."

"Think the tail-heads will show?" asked Prager over the airwaves.

"Not if they know what's good for 'em," he answered.

"Too bad, my fingers are itchy."

"Put some cream on it, Fike. Sully won't attack for another hour, and Ardmore's coming to steal the show."

What the team did not know was that the enemy had already arrived. The ikran fliers were not to be found in the skies but in the jungle, hanging off tree trunks by the claws of their wings. Jake was perched with his squadron, watching the lumbering Yängomyu kllteyä; its entire upper half was visible past the emergent layer like an icebreaker ship penetrating leaves of pack ice. With his old machine gun in hand, Jake swooped down from his hiding spot to issue his signal for attack: a Na'vi war cry. Executing death-defying turns, Toruk Makto skirted the peaks of the indomitable beast, and in his wake fell a trail of orange smog.

"Na'vi!" Johnny shouted, setting off his recombinant M69, but the escaping devil evaded his fire by way of an aileron roll, creating loops of orange that drifted down the HEM-OA. Unable to see, Johnny nearly fell from his post when a sudden arrow zipped past his head.

Jake's squadron flew in fast behind him, also puncturing their tìkakrel'wll (blindness plant), so named by the alchemist clan, the Tawkami, who discovered they could inject these expandable pods with a special formula via quills for a unique weapon. Sweeping trails ranging from orange, green and purple began bathing the entire battlefield in colour as if it were a Holi festival.

The drivers were leaning in their seats to espy what was happening outside when both were startled back by a recombinant pounding on the window, trying to gain Mansk's attention. Upon seeing Johnny, Sasha seized his nearest weapon, then nodded to the men that he'd only be a minute before heading out.

Quaritch watched the action with dismay; Sully had, once again, outsmarted him. "Take cover! The Na'vi are flying in!" he broadcasted. He took up his Wasp revolver and, with his feet firmly planted, aimed at the oncoming rider twirling through the air. Time came to a crawl as the rider turned into view.

Their eyes locked.

Quaritch fired repeatedly at Sully as he sped away, not landing a single shot. Neytiri and the other riders came up from behind, and he leapt off the root spire to avoid their arrows. He ducked back into camp and charged down the log, commanding everyone to get into battle positions. Walker also arrived on the scene, having entered from the crown, and Quaritch gave orders to block all exits. He manned a heavy machine gun stationed before a narrow slit and started firing wildly. After a few seconds of chaos, there was a sudden lull. The recombinants were anticipating a second wave of fliers when the ground started to rumble.

Over the thunder of hooves and treads came the screeching direhorse riders charging up the excavator's lane. The muscular fighters burst through the obscuring cloud and took aim at the walking city. Mansk, Prager, Johnny and Warren leaned over the rails, trying to scope out their targets, but they could see nothing past the motley screen. HAF soldiers simply fired blindly at the ground, only to be impaled by the materializing arrows piercing the veil.

The circling horde was not without their own losses, but for every Na'vi rider slain, three more warriors came pouring in, filling the air with screams as the indifferent fortress lumbered forward.

Ikrans dove through the polluted sky, and new riders assailed Hometree. The recombinants, inside, sprayed an onslaught of rounds at the hundreds of blurs who were aiming for their slit windows. HMGs flashed in retaliation, but the colonel paused when he detected smoke. He jerked his head around to discover the bastards were using flaming arrows. Hurriedly, he shouted at Z team to "get on it," and the pair flew for the extinguishers.

Meanwhile, the assault on the Yängomyu kllteyä raged. Projectiles shattered against the steel, and the HAF soldiers, that still could, scoffed at the primitives' futile attempts to stop the HEM-OA when a certain arrow struck a beam and erupted into a fireball—the circuiting calvary had switched to those infamous explosive arrows.

Waves of heat rushed over the colossal body. Metal fragments struck random targets. Small fires began burning the internals, but still, the beast would not yield.


Back at High Camp, in Mo'at's pagoda, the tsahìk chanted an enthralling prayer that echoed throughout the winding cave system. The time of the eclipse drew near, and all three skylights ceased to issue rays, revealing the golden hues of the stimulated entwining roots that bathed the whole chamber. Kiri watched Mo'at with a studious gaze as the walls radiated with magic. Eager to do her part, she took her songcord, closed her eyes and began thumbing it around her curved palm, waving her other hand in a silent, esoteric hymn.


Amid the darkness and chaos, several Na'vi wearing yellow backpacks with the words "AVTR Program" printed on them jumped off their ikrans and landed on the excavator. Without the reassurance of netting or spotlights to guide them, the daring Na'vi swung with the skill of trapeze artists up the rusted non-tree. Balancing on the narrow beams of the boom, they stripped their backpacks to buckle them to the hoist cables, then escaped by jumping onto the backs of their getaway ikran riders. Two Na'vi, with different targets, moved further towards the pulley blocks, splitting off to either side of the excavator. A precarious climb with a sheer drop awaiting them if they failed, the daredevils reached the peak of the leaning tower to then strip their packs. They waved to their passing ikran sisters, and one jumped to safety, but as the other was about to leap, a bullet ripped through his side. Shouting in agony, he stumbled across the beam and tripped but caught a single support last minute; however, his grip was weak, and the demon who struck him was lining up for a second shot.

Having spent all his arrows, Neteyam leapt off White Flower and jabbed his bow in the demon's face before using it to thwack the M69 out of the hands. Warren staggered, wiped his bloody nose, then forcibly snagged the Na'vi weapon coming at him again, thrusting the small devil onto his rear. Neteyam eyed in horror when the enemy raised his bow high in preparation for snapping it across the knee, but when he brought down the shaft, Neteyam's craftsmanship withstood the test. Encouraged, the young warrior sprang back up to snatch it back. Blue arms twisted and wrestled for control in a deadly dance across a slim bridge. Warren had the upper strength, but he had underestimated how truly nimble the Na'vi were, and a lightning-speed kick at his heel threw him off balance. Another strike from the assaulting bow, and he was sent over the edge.

Johnny was moments away from shooting Neteyam, but when he saw his friend fall, he dropped his pistol and lunged to grab Warren's falling hand. The man swung with such force that it cracked Johnny's arm, but despite the sheer pain, the rescuer held on.


The tsahìk stopped her chanting when she sensed something strange and opened her eyes to a miraculous sight—the bioluminescence of the roots were moving in waves as if all the energy was being inhaled and softly exhaled. Mo'at nudged Kiri's knee, but the girl did not respond. She called her name, and then, all at once, the roots ceased to flicker and returned to their steady glow. Mo'at was bewildered and awed at the now dim cavern as Kiri stared at her grandmother, awaiting an explanation as to why she pulled her out of her meditation.


A weakening hand was slipping from its grip when gravity gave its final tug. The warrior fell with a scream, but an arm lassoed around him, and he was yanked onto an ikran. The beast pulled away from battle and into the jungle, where Norman of the Dreamwalkers set the Na'vi down.

|"You okay, young warrior?"|

His hand remained cupped over his bleeding wound. |"I was grazed, but that's better than being dead. Thank you."|

Norman did an American salute. |"Any time, fellow cit—"| His eyes rolled back, and suddenly, the giant collapsed.

"Au! Uniltìranyu Ngam'en!" he hollered in shock at the Dreamwalker now faceplanted in the dirt.

Elsewhere, waiting outside the battlefield, the avatar party was on standby.

"When is Norman going to show up?" a female driver complained. "Doesn't Jake need us to infiltrate Hometree?"

"It's already eclipse. He should've shown by now." Another blue face grimaced, setting down his rifle.

A third scanned the skies dotted with ikrans. "Should we con—" The avatar fainted—mouth stuck open on the unfinished sentence—and the audience along with it, not one before the other, but all at once, striking the ground as hollow shells.


The link beds burst open as the panicked drivers woke up in total blackness. Not only did the links terminate, but their cabins ceased filtering the air. Unable to see, they failed to find their emergency masks and fumbled helplessly in the dark. With their sealed homes fast becoming their tombs, the drivers used their depleting oxygen to cry for help.


When the electric hum of the human's instruments no longer filled Mo'at's ears, she prompted Kiri to follow her to the mouth of the cave, where they discovered, to their consternation, that the whole labyrinth was unlit.

|"Kiri, you must go find Spider at once. Without power, the Dreamwalkers are in danger."|

Kiri obeyed and set off to find him as her grandmother ran for the human camp.

"Tsahìk!"

The elder caught a form in the darkness as it approached her. |"Sawnee, do you know what has happened?"|

|"No, I do not,"| Sawnee fretted. Around her legs was a clutch of children scared by the sudden blackout.

|"Children, children. Come to me. Do not fear. Listen, you must hurry. Run to each cabin and help the Dreamwalkers. They have no air and cannot see in the dark like us. You must bring them their other faces, found on the wall by their beds."|

With urgency, Sawnee and the children scurried to every cabin.

|"Remember to pinch the middle part of the black frame after setting it firmly on their face! Do not stop till you hear the other face hiss!"| Mo'at instructed. She prayed the children knew enough about the breathing visors to correctly activate the seal.

Meanwhile, Max had managed to put on his EXO pack and venture out of his cabin to help the drivers, but as he braved the darkness, calling out to the others in distress, his bad eyesight caused him to trip. He stumbled forward when timely blue dots scooped around his waist and carefully veered him away from the thousand-foot drop.

They did not have halos, but their bioluminescence sufficed as each little angel flew to the rescue. Through teamwork, toddlers turned the stubborn wheels of the vaulted doors and poured into the tombs. Drivers were semi-conscious by the time the children finally arrived. They scrambled to find the breathing visors and obeyed their tsahìk's instruction to the letter.

Resuscitating after seal activation, Norman found himself cradled in the arms of an eight-year-old, asking if he was okay.


Over the bedlam, Lyle recognized the crescendo of rapid fire and warned everyone to duck as a trail of bullets ran across their slit windows. Their instruments were perforated and spat out fireworks of sparks. Tongues of blue flames closed in around them with no more white agent to snuff the encroaching threat. Quaritch was the first to get back up and retaliated with his heavy machine gun. Gnashing his teeth, he bellowed orders, all the while keeping his eye out for Sully. Smoke now saturated the air both inside and out. With visibility rapidly becoming non-existent, Quaritch fired at anything. His eyes watered and burned, but he would have his revenge; he was determined to end that undeserving life while he still had the chance. As he surveyed the cloud, a teal blur suddenly manifested, followed by a woman's screech, and in that split second, a spinning shaft flew directly for his heart.

His eyes pinned.

The Marine's first life flashed before his eyes, ending on those last few seconds before his traumatic death. Spirits of slain Na'vi appeared before him as he collapsed backwards. They seized his neck in their vengeful grips, and he felt nothing but the icy touch of the undead.

Wainfleet and Brown alerted the others as the two rushed towards their suffocating colonel. Brown did chest compressions as Lyle hollered desperately, but the stretching mouth drew in no air; the man gaped like a fish on dry land. The medic came down harder; the corporal screamed louder, and outside the narrow window where they knelt was Neytiri's arrow, lodged into the bark, having missed its mark by less than an inch.


Jake stood on a root stump and stared down the excavator. On his orders, every Na'vi retreated from the HEM-OA. Once the site was cleared of his men, Toruk Makto pressed the detonator. Instantly, the planted backpacks blew off. Fireballs expanded into one giant inferno that swallowed the whole of the colossus. Limbs blew off their supports, and the beast yelled out in cries of warping metal. With its tendons destroyed, the boom snapped under its own impossible weight, and the great bucket wheels crashed deep into the soil. Fire and smoke surrounded the passengers as recombinants raced to help the humans, only to have their escape routes cut off by the tons of falling rubble.

Jake saw blue figures climbing down the superstructure, and through his scope, he targeted Mansk—the recombinant was scrambling to the mangled driver's cabin. Jake's crosshairs were right on the man's back, ready to fire, when he witnessed his enemy turn around, now holding an unconscious and badly injured human. It would've been a clean shot if Jake didn't lower his weapon.

High above, ikran riders spectated the HEM-OA, burning like their fallen Hometree; the site was now a graveyard of two giants. Neytiri gazed at the vanquished monster and, brandishing her bow, issued a roar that was echoed by her clan. The cries of the past were sounded again but for victory, not defeat. With their dead vindicated, the Omatikaya people finally had closure for what happened sixteen years ago.

[JforA]

Chapter 20 Heritage
The lids pulled back, and a white blur stung his eyes. Rather than vengeful ghosts, he saw a familiar face, and it smiled. "Sir?"

"Lyle?" With one finger, he gestured the man closer, then snatched his shirt, pulled him in, and fumed, "Who was the motherf***** that put me in this hospital gown?!"

Unable to escape the clutches, Lyle strained his neck to say to the others, "He's comin' 'round."

Relieved murmurs filled the hospital room, and Quaritch realized his whole team was present. "What happened? Why did I blackout?"

Brown had to sedate you."

"Your body was reacting like it was hit with an arrow dipped in neurotoxin. Wainfleet told me that's how you were killed. So, assuming you were suffering a pseudoseizure, I took the risk and applied a sedative, hoping that'd override the attack and allow you to breathe again. It was a shot in the dark—no pun intended—but it actually worked."

Quaritch hid his gulp. "I had a seizure?"

"Ghost pain," Brown corrected. "Often experienced by people who've undergone amputation. They have the sensation of pain in a limb that's no longer there."

"I felt that arrow," he testified. "Waking just now, I thought I'd been recom'd all over again." After finally noticing Lyle, he released his grip.

"Pops came by earlier, but you were out cold," Walker mentioned, pointing to a vase. "Left you flowers."

Quaritch cast a cursory glance at the sun lilies, then gave them a dismissive shrug only to notice Alexander with his arm in a cast. "Johnny? What happened to you?"

Spoiler

""Suffered a comminuted fracture," Warren volunteered. "Woulda been mincemeat if it weren't for him. First recom to break a bone too," he sang, drawing his arm around his ornery comrade who couldn't maintain the frown any longer.

"We all would have been dead if it weren't for Z-Dog," mentioned Zhâng.

"Why? What did Casey do?" He saw her hiding her blushing face as the men gave her congratulatory slaps on the back. Lyle filled him in.

"We were going to be overrun when she told us about a cave system below Hometree. We hid out there till reinforcements arrived."

"It's why you're in a hospital bed," Fike confessed.

Lyle scowled at him before sheepishly looking at his colonel. "It was a...rough landing."

Fortunately for him, Quaritch didn't catch that part as his attention remained fixed on CJ. "What about the excavator?"

"Whole thing is totalled," Mansk sighed. "The tail-heads set off a series of bombs that wrenched the booms. It's now a massive roadblock that will take years to dismantle. Without a clear path to Hometree, I heard they're just giving up on her. It's cheaper for them to use the smaller mines closer to Hells Gate."

"And Ardmore...?" Quaritch tensely inquired.

Walker rolled her eyes as she pulled a face. "Woman's pissed."

"Well, between her losing two gunships to an attacking leonopteryx—" Zhâng brought up.

"De echar más leña al fuego..." Lopez interjected in a mumble.

"And arriving to find the excavator in flames, I'd say she was surprisingly collected."

"Better stay on the lookout for her, sir. With two dozen casualties, she's going to want to have words with you," Lyle warned.

"It's my fault we lost the excavator," Mansk professed with regret, and Prager patted his back.

"How?" Quaritch challenged. "There were a clusterf*** of reasons why we lost—most of 'em my doin'," he said while distinctly patting his chest. "I should've figured Sully would resort to explosives—just didn't figure he had that much. We had a loss, but we pulled through. What matters is that we're all still alive." Having successfully inspirited his team, Quaritch saw it was time to wrap things up and permitted them to go. However, as they filed out, he instructed Casey to remain.

Anxious, CJ returned and stood at the foot of his bed.

"You did good."

Her surprised eyes shot up, and she blushed. "Thank you, sir."

"Alright, let's not make it sappy. Git."

"Yes, sir." Holding back her grin, she pivoted to exit, wanting to leave before he noticed her thumping heart. She gingerly shut the door, then finally exhaled in relief. As she turned around, both hands tugging at her craned neck, she discovered Zhâng leaning against a wall. Casey jogged up to her friend, and together, they left the recombinant ward.


Na'vi of all clans came together to celebrate in the Mo'ara Valley. Acrobats rode pendulum swings into giant drums, creating wondrous reverbs. Men and women danced about the bonfires, swinging their arms to mimic their ikrans as strands of blue fluttered behind them. Mo'at headed her party of dancers, and the mesmerizing grace of the Omatikaya sage was a treat for all to see. They laughed, they sang, they leapt and twirled. The Na'vi were both beautiful and daunting in their energetic movements.

Then there was the social dance. Na'vi would roll their heads and shimmy from side to side before approaching their partner, where they would jump up and down and work their fingers into the other's palms. Jake swept up his woman, and they joined the Omatikaya hootenanny. Despite his initial embarrassment, he eventually mastered their dance over the years, unlike his son, Neteyam, who was awkwardly out of step, trying to keep up with a stoic girl from the Tipani clan. Jake, reflecting on his own youth, couldn't help but chuckle at the all-too-relatable scene.

When the dancing finished, Neteyam left to drown his embarrassment by tipping the drinking gourd. His uncle, Norman, was breaking the record by balancing five drinking bowls on his head, and while it ended with the loss of several litres of liquor, his spectators all agreed it was worth it.

The sweet Tawkami mead flowed as warriors wearing the ornaments of their departed comrades drank toasts in their memory. They were regaling, often with misty eyes, their fondest memories, such as when Taym accidentally startled Rìngawo's direhorse, who threw him into a dung pile, or when Satsom and Nafämawa were fighting in their fort and knocked over a bowl of paint, coating their olo'eyktan in pink. Neteyam raised his gourd to Taym, to Satsom, and to all the friends he wished he could have made. As the evening wore on, he spotted an Omatikaya whose side was bandaged; he tapped the shoulder. |"Clan brother, Lew?"|

The young man stared at him curiously as Neteyam asked, |"Were you one of the climbers?"|

|"Yes. I was shot during my mission."|

|"I've recognized you then. I am glad you made it to safety. I was worried you had fallen."|

Lew frowned. |"I did fall. Ngam'en of the Dreamwalkers swooped in to save me. Where were you?"|

|"I was engaged with the demon who was trying to kill you."|

"Oh," he uttered and regretted his curtness. |"I thank you, then."|

Neteyam then presented his bow. |"Thank our Hometree. It was her strength that fended off the enemy."|

|"That is of Hometree?"| He gaped, and Neteyam handed him the weapon to study. |"This is amazing craftsmanship. You should go and present this bow to the clan."|

His freckles bloomed. |"I could not. The victory belongs to all of us. I cannot take credit."|

|"You wouldn't. You would be honouring our home,"| Lew spoke as he handed it back.

The young warrior clenched his tsko in rumination. Inspired, he went and stood before everyone by the main fire. All chatter gently ceased as the people lent the prince their ears, with many Omatikaya eyes falling on his beautiful collar, displaying their symbol.

|"My friends, brothers and sisters, I see you."|

|"I see you,"| the hundreds enthusiastically replied.

Neteyam smiled brightly, taking a moment to appreciate the warm reception.

|"Tipani. Tawkami. Omatikaya,"| he began, turning to each clan to salute them with deference. |"Kekunan, my brothers of the air,"| he distinguished with his outstretched arm, then swept his hands in mimicry of a wave. |"Tayrangi, my sisters of the sea. Olangi. Ìponi. Mawìtan—my family, let us rejoice!"|

The clans answered with raised fists and cheers.

|"I am Neteyam, son of Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite and Rider of Last Shadow. Many years ago, when I was still in my mother's womb, my people lost their home, and since that time, our steps forward were weighed down by sadness—we could not bring ourselves to look back.

|"When the demons occupied our former home, though we no longer lived there, it stirred something in our hearts. We realized we had to look back—for the sake of a memory—for our fallen ancestors. Today, they ran with us, led by my great warrior grandfather, Eytukan."|

Neytiri quivered to hear her father's memory honoured as she and Jake listened to their son's speech.

|"Last year, my previous bow snapped during a talioang hunt. I have borrowed from others as I spent the time constructing a new one—from Hometree."| The warrior held up his tsko to show the clans. |"For many weeks, I did not use it because I was afraid. I was afraid that if it broke, it would be a sign."| He took a pause as he relived the weight of that fear.

|"In that battle, a demon almost killed my clan brother, Lew. With my bow, I fended off the attacker, but he ripped it from my hands and prepared to break it—like this!"| Neteyam smacked the bow across his knee with the same intensity. He waited for the murmurings to finish before proudly holding up the undamaged testimonial. |"You should have seen his face when he realized that our spirits will never break!"|

Hollers of triumphant laughter rolled across the clearing, and Jake and Neytiri were overcome with pride for their only son. The parents silently agreed that they were surpassed by Neteyam's merit and that the future of their people was brighter in his hands than it could ever be in theirs.

Neteyam walked over to his parents and knelt before them. Taking his weapon, he offered it up to his mother. Neytiri was speechless. Delicately, she wrapped her fingers around the grip and took a moment to dwell on what she clasped. After an inhale, she set it down gently to then take up her father's bow and present it to the clans.

|"This bow was given to me by my father as he lay dying. With his last breath, he commanded me to 'protect the people.' My son, now it is your turn."|

She then bestowed the heirloom to Neteyam.

His eyes searched his mother's, and with a nod, she assured him this was the correct path. With filial veneration, he stroked the carved wood, running his hands up to the blue tip crafted from an ikran's chin vane. It was the sturdiest of weapons made by the noblest of hands, and now it was his to wield. He thanked his mother and set it on his back. Its weight was not burdensome and lent him strength rather than taking it. He stepped down from their platform of woven straw and bowed his head to Mo'at, and it pleased the grandmother to see the legacy of her beloved carry on. She placed a palm on his forehead and blessed him. While she knew her traditional mate would have been more skeptical, she looked at her eclectic family mixed with Tskaha and Sully, human and Na'vi, and nodded with an approving smile.

With the speech concluded, it was time for the next dance. The theme of the evening was moving forward—the old passing on to the new. At Mo'at's behest, Kiri led the next procession around the fire.

As the family of three generations watched her, Neteyam took the opportunity to disclose something that had been on his mind. |"Grandmother, I know that Eywa speaks through the movements of the world and that it is your duty to interpret, but is it possible that She could speak directly to someone?"|

Being asked such a question, Mo'at was contemplative as she studied her grandson. |"You're saying that Eywa spoke to you directly?"|

|"I heard a voice guiding me to make my bow from Hometree. I believe it was Her."|

|"What did She sound like?"|

He thought for some time. |"Gentle."|

Mo'at focused on Kiri with an enigmatic look that Neteyam did not understand. |"Keep this to yourself, for now, my son. People do not like change when it stares them in the face."|

|"You believe me?"| he whispered in relief.

|"I do."|

His attention returned to his sister, who was dancing publicly for the first time. She was cloaked in a flowing raiment of iridescent pink quills that reflected the firelight. Her tail spun and flicked in reaction to her jumps as she and her dancers pranced around the ring. The young men of other clans knew Toruk Makto had a daughter, but few had ever seen her, and the Omatikaya boys who had always known her saw her differently that night. In their opened eyes, she was not scrawny but lithe; her unkempt hair seemed bouncy; her gangly hands thought dainty, and her small eyes and pointed nose were now delicate and exotic. Through no contrivance of her own, the unassuming girl had become the centre of attention.

One set of eyes was not so much on her as it was on her admirers. High up in the rafters of vine bridges, overlooking the stage, skulked the Pandoran Phantom of the Opera. He watched the celebration beyond the firelight's reach, observing the bewitched eyes on his Na'vi. Only Neytiri caught the outline of his dark form in her peripheral vision.

"I do not like how he looks at her."

Jake didn't understand her meaning and looked up. "Who, Spider?"

"See how frightful his stare is?"

"Aww, Neytiri... Spider's just in a bad mood right now. Mo'at needed him during the blackout, but he was nowhere to be found. He had taken off to sulk and got chewed out for it. I feel bad because I know I'm to blame, but he won't let me talk to him."

She gave him a doubtful glance. "You think that is all?"

"He probably just feels like he's not welcome to join in."

"No, Ma Jake. His eyes speak more."

"What, you think he's jealous?" Jake laughed off. "He and Kiri have been playing since they were tykes. It's nothing more than that—no drama."

"They're not tykes anymore. Do you not think he could one day have feelings for her?"

Jake gave Spider a once over, then shook his head. "What are you even worried about?" he chuckled dismissively. "They're not even the same species."

"Exactly! They are not the same species. Kiri would have no future with Spider if this seed sprouts."

"You're beginning to sound like your mother. I remember back then that she didn't like seeing us together," he recalled while drawing his arm around her, but Neytiri pulled out.

"You are worsening my concern."

"C'mon, Sheila. Is it so horrible if something does sprout?"

Neytiri stared at him with consternation. "You had a Dreamwalker body. Spider can only stay human. Think of our daughter for a moment, my love. Is this really the path you want for her?"

"I only want the path that makes her happy no matter who or what she picks. Besides, you know as well as I that Kiri hasn't looked at anyone like that yet."

Neytiri sighed in reluctant agreement. "I suppose you are right. I remember when she was three, bringing home a syaksyuk and telling me with her excited hands that she had found her mate. Why do I feel like she is still stuck in that phase?" she moaned.

Jake looked again at the pink syaksyuk above.


The evening wore on, but the energy did not diminish. The outskirts of the celebration were inhabited by drunken Na'vi teetering about and lovers rushing off to find privacy.

Neteyam was in a quieter section of the romantic jungle, trying to woo the Tipani girl from earlier. All the women of his clan already knew him, and whether interested in him or not, he struggled for some reason when it came to courtship. His father once gave him an empathetic pat on the shoulder and claimed that it was the Sully family curse for their men to be unlucky with the locals and that if it weren't for immigration, their line would have died out years ago—Jake's case being the most extreme.

Neteyam took a step back to admire the shield-maiden's grace under the calming glow of a bladder lantern. "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow / so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, / The smiles that win"—she wasn't smiling—"the tints that glow—"

|"Are you speaking to me in Skyperson talk?"| she interrupted.

|"It is a poem written by one of their ancestors. Do you like it?"|

Her expression remained flat, almost to the point of flouting. |"I do not speak Skyperson."|

Neteyam flinched as she departed. Left alone under the sad blue light, the hybrid reflected on his mixed heritage with a sigh; however, he was suddenly pulled from his wistfulness when he caught the distinct scent of his friend. He jogged up to him as his brother drifted through the brush.

"Spider. I see you."

The young man was so lost in his sullen thoughts that he hadn't noticed Neteyam until he was nudged. "Oh. Hey."

"Why are you so glum? We had a great victory today, and you are the only one wearing a frown. Why is this? It can't be your height. It's never bothered you before," he teased, measuring the distance between their heads with his hand. Spider didn't care for his jesting and pulled away. "Is it serious?" he asked. "Did a girl spurn you too, brother?"

"I'm not your brother!"

The sudden remark caught the giant off guard. The dour human let out a regretful breath and promptly apologized.

"It is forgiven, Spider, but why are you this upset?"

"It's..." Spider stalled. It wasn't something he wanted to divulge, but after his outburst, it warranted some explanation. "A lot has been on my mind."

To Spider's misfortune, his friend was a good listener and stood there patiently, awaiting the follow-up.

"I, uh... Don't know who my real family is," he cobbled together.

Neteyam cocked his head, for Spider had never before shown an interest in knowing his origins and had come to assume he didn't care. "This has been bothering you? Why now?"

"I don't know. I guess it's been bugging me."

The last thing Spider expected was for Neteyam to go still. "Do... Has my father ever mentioned anything to you?"

His brows knit. "Mention what?"

"Perhaps it is not fair to keep this from you..."

"Keep what from me?"

Neteyam hesitantly began, "I once overheard my parents argue—many years ago. Mother was upset with Father. And I remember clearly, she said, 'Is Spider his son?'"

The human was filled with dismay. He was under the impression that the Sully family was just as ignorant to his parentage as he was. "What else did you hear?" he urged with severity.

"That was all I heard. Uncle caught me eavesdropping and shooed me away."

"Then...they know who my father is...? And he never told me?"

"It sounded like neither knew for certain. That is the same as not knowing at all."

Spider gaped as he slowly came to realize. "You know exactly who she was referring to."

"Spider, I would not jump to conclusions—"

"How many humans does your mother know personally?" he reacted loudly. "We both know there's only one that would make her freak out."

Neteyam wanted to dissuade Spider's train of thought, but once it left the station, there was no stopping it. "Before you assume anything, Spider, ask my father and let him tell you."

"Like what? Like, why he's kept this from me for all these years?"

"Whether or not you resemble him."


The following day, Jake entered the avatar clinic, where many of the bodies were being treated for trauma. Drivers in EXO packs stood by their avatars like concerned friends as routine examinations were performed.

"Any update on what caused the blackout?" Jake asked.

"I'm stumped as to why it happened, honestly," Max replied. "Could've been anything, from a malfunction to even a solar flare. We're doing a checkup on all the avatars for any signs of possible brain damage. We're lucky there were no casualties."

Jake cast his gaze over to his friend, who was busy fixing his avatar's braid. "What's wrong with yours, Norm?"

When the great olo'eyktan of the Skypeople tribe only fidgeted in embarrassment, Max filled in. "His avatar had too much liquor. Bumped his head on a bladder lantern while trying to empty his. He'll be fine."

Crossing his arms, Jake moved to lean against a nearby gurney with a pensive expression.

Max put away his clipboard. "Is something the matter, Jake?"

"What are your thoughts on these new combatants?"

"Well, my theory is they're not avatars. They wouldn't risk a disconnection while the body was in enemy territory."

"So, what are they then?"

"Manufactured Na'vi soldiers," Norman interjected while shaking his head in disapproval.

"It seems so," Max affirmed. "But I can't say I see the logic in it. I mean, when you stop and think about it—a whole army of soldiers who are naturally incongruent with human habitation? Even just a few would cause headaches for Bridgehead."

Norman scoffed. "Yeah, but you know the RDA. If it gave them the advantage, why wouldn't they invest in a bunch of Na'vi-grade soldiers?"

"But we've only counted the dozen," Jake reminded. "Or maybe...these guys are something like a prototype? And Bridgehead is just testing them in the field?" As he sounded out his hypothesis, it lent the burdened olo'eyktan some hope to think he had more time.

"That's a reasonable take, actually," Max complimented. "Might explain why there's so few. Course, to play the devil's advocate, you would only need the few to start breeding."

"Breeding?" Both Norman and Jake winced.

"That's purely from a scientific standpoint. It would be cheaper than growing them in vitro. But then you would have to consider whether you'd want to spend them in the field or hold some back for propagation. There's also the fifteen-year wait period for their offspring to reach maturity. As you can see, this route would take decades. Perhaps not the most viable option."

"I always did wonder why Bridgehead accepted Anurai workers." Norman tried to rub away the disturbing thought.

"Don't worry. It's not likely they would use Na'vi given the unreliable fertility rates between them and chim—" Max faced away with an awkward itch to his temple, but Jake still gave him a look. To Max's relief, it was for an entirely different reason.

"You, uh, been thinking about this for a while?"

"I'm into speculative science. But thinking about it now, in vitro is likely what they'll use going forward."

"But you would still need a mind to inhabit the vegetative bodies," Norman pointed out.

"True, if what we're seeing is modified avatar science. And it could be that there are humans volunteering to sacrifice their bodies to permanently inhabit new ones."

"What about clones?" Jake asked in dead seriousness.

"Clones?"

"Is it possible..." the man stopped himself and rubbed his brow, trying to comprehend his own theory. "Can you clone a dead man back into existence?"

"Which dead man are we talking about?" Max faltered while looking at Norman.

"I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think one of these guys is Quaritch."

Norman blinked. "Are you serious? He's dead. That's not possible."

"I know, but Norm, I saw one for a brief second during a fly-by, and it looked like him. It had his stance and everything. At Hell's Gate, I thought I heard his voice. And the Anurai—when I visited them, they said there was a soldier with a tattoo, just like his. I feel like I'm going crazy."

Max was doubtful but didn't want to be insensitive. "Jake... If they did use his DNA to create a chimaera that came with its own consciousness, at the very least, he'd sound like Quaritch and maybe have a few of his mannerisms, but he would be a brand new individual—like a son—not Quaritch himself."

"What about, uh, memories? Could... I don't know. Can you copy them into a mind?" he stammered.

"Implanted memories? We're not talking about androids."

"'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?'" Norm quoted.

"Ah, I love his work." The scientist smiled. "But to answer your question, Jake. I know we use the same terminology, but brains don't store data the same way computers do—a cerebellum doesn't even run out of storage space, so it isn't as simple as, say, dumping a memory file into a brain folder."

"What about the Na'vi? They can upload their memories."

"Even if we could do the same with our tech, uploading memories into a husk will do nothing. It's like plugging a data key into a computer without an operating system." When his analogy was met with a head cock, Max saw he needed to elaborate. "A computer won't function properly without an OS. What I'm saying is memory implants won't work if the body is brain dead—without a consciousness. With the Na'vi, they're uploading their memories to a preexisting consciousness known as Eywa."

Norman rolled his eyes. "Are you suggesting Eywa is an operating system?"

"Don't tell me you're gonna get offended again."

"Heathen."

"Hippie."

After exchanging shuttered eyes, Max returned to his troubled friend. "Now, I don't know why you'd want to do this, but if you made a chimaera with its own consciousness and waited for it to mentally develop, and then you implanted it with someone else's memories—"

"Hey, Max, where's the cabinet with the syringes?" a stray voice interrupted.

Max squinted to see who was asking. "You're sitting on it! Anyway, if you do all that, you risk the subject suffering a crisis of duality where they can't determine their real memories from the implanted ones. But this would be next to impossible anyway since memories are proprietary to the minds that experienced them."

"What about a personality? Can you clone a personality?"

Max pulled a face. "Look, Jake. Much as I love speculating and science fiction, that's all it is. Fiction. This is real life."

The former human gaped and spanned out his giant blue arms. "Max, have you taken a good look at me? How do I exist? What about Norm? This whole psionic linking business might as well be astral projection."

"Okay. Avatars are one thing. Clones are another. If they finally succeed in cloning humans, all you'd have is a twin. Implanting memories is just not feasible, and personalities can't be cloned either—they're not solely determined by genes and are far too elusive to replicate. So, really, no matter how you go about bringing back Quaritch, it couldn't be the same guy. The only plausible way would be if his mind was preserved. But lucky for us, you killed him." He finger gunned.

"It was Neytiri," Jake corrected.

"So, you see?—Impossible. Don't forget, when Quaritch died, our race didn't even have the science to do a permanent transfer."

"But the Na'vi can through the power of Eywa," Norman sang, cupping his hands in prayer.

The scientist stared at him while shaking his head. "What happened to you?"

Jake steadied himself. "So, if I have it right, you're saying there's no way the RDA could create an exact copy of Quaritch?"

"Who would want to?" Norman cracked as he returned to his avatar.

Meanwhile, hiding out from behind a table and listening to the whole conversation was Spider. He had entered the clinic with a purpose, but when he heard mention of Quaritch, he chose to listen in.

"If they did, it'd be purely by chance. From fetal development to upbringing, there are so many outside factors that shape a person that such duplication is beyond our power."

Despite his explanation, Jake was still uneasy, and Max felt concerned for his friend. "You know, Jake, fears can have a way of manifesting themselves, altering the way we view things. It's possible your fear of Quaritch is causing you to see him where he isn't."

"I don't know, Max. My instincts are telling me something else."

"Well, let's suppose a copy of him was made. A clone would not have a vendetta."

Jake wore a frown as he dwelt on the vengeful way that voice bellowed, "It's Sully!"

"Unless it's not a copy."

"You think he rose from the dead like a phoenix from the ashes?"

"Not a phoenix..."

"Pheenix..." Spider whispered to himself. The familiar sound had the young man instantly draw to memory the letters he had read on the demon's tactical vests. At that moment, he realized he possessed important information. Spider moved to stand, but something inside of him halted the action. Speaking up would lead to questions—reveal his disobedience. The adolescent emerged, pretending he had just entered.

"Oh, Spider." Jake was mildly surprised. "How you doing, mate?"

"I'm okay," he lied.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I know you would have helped if you knew what was happening."

"Couldn't even be present to save my own species," he grumbled.

Jake leaned against a desk as he looked down at his ward, who was twirling himself slightly in a rolling chair. "It hasn't been fair to you, I know. I, uh, was wrong to keep you from joining. I'm sorry. Back home, I was bound to a wheelchair, and I'd keep telling people, 'I don't want your pity.' Just because I was impaired didn't mean I stopped living. I forget sometimes what that was like and what it must feel like for you."

"It's okay, Jake."

"No, I mean it. I was being stubborn. I know Pandora doesn't slow down for a disability. When it comes to this world, you have to go by her rules, but you already do that—and you're up against tougher odds. I'm really proud of you."

Spider sat there listening to the praise as the weight on his heart grew heavier. He alleviated his guilty conscience by reminding himself that Jake was also keeping something from him. He balanced a pen on the desk, pressing down the tip with such force that it slipped under pressure and skidded across the room.

"Spider?"

"Why didn't you tell me Quaritch was my father?" he accused under his breath.

"Wha—? Where did that come from?"

"Neteyam told me. He said he overheard you and Neytiri arguing about me, and she asked, 'Is Spider his son?'"

His brows creased as he tried to keep up. "Hold on there, kid. Hit the anchors. When did this happen?"

"Neteyam said it was years ago. I don't know when."

Jake took a moment to recall the memory. "He was listening in...?" the father uttered to himself, trying to figure out when his son developed this nasty habit of eavesdropping. He returned to Spider. "Kid, it's not what you think. Neytiri and I were talking about the possibility of you being his son."

"Then why did you think I was?"

A recognition of shame and guilt flashed in Jake's eyes as he, once more, drew up his songcord. Among the beads and bones that represented every important event in his second life was a tiny silver bracelet. Before now, Spider thought the glinting object was Jake's old ID tag. "She found this. You were wearing it the day I found you." Unlatching the bracelet, he nudged up the small hand and coiled it into the palm.

Spider held up the tiny band. Engraved on one side was a serial number, and on the other, a name that he read aloud. "Miles...Q...Socorro. Miles? My real name is Miles? Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because..." He sighed. "That was Quaritch's name. I didn't want people jumping to conclusions because of the similarity, so I kept it to myself and let the Paras name you. I was going to tell you when you got older."

"So, why didn't you?"

Jake's eyes turned away from his ward. "I guess I was worried you'd assume he was your dad like Neytiri had."

"Does she hold it against me?"

"C'mon, Spider, she's more open-minded than that. She married a Skyperson, after all."

"But you guys were arguing."

"She was more upset that I kept the bracelet a secret. Believe me, Spider, I've been thinking about telling you, but with Quaritch's—" Jake suddenly faced away to hush an expletive. He guiltily returned to the boy in the chair. "I've been caught up," he deflected. "But, there is something I can share. When I skimmed through the roster of employees at Hell's Gate, I found one with the last name 'Socorro.' Her name was Paz."

Spider's eyes bugged out. "Who was she?"

"She was a SecOps pilot—and a Marine, like me. Died of cancer a year and a half before I came to Pandora."

"SecOps? Then she would've been under his command..."

"Hold on there. I know what you're thinking, and it's not likely."

"Why not?"

"Marines aren't allowed to fraternize. Quaritch was a colonel—that's a very high rank. He, of all people, would respect the rules."

"Maybe he got drunk with her?"

"Drinking with the lower ranks is also considered fraternizing. Even I wouldn't be stupid enough to do that."

"Yeah, but you said the SecOps farts were just mercenaries. It's not like they were in active service."

The Marine had to make a confession. "Look, I know that's what I called them, but technically, they were PMCs—signed on with a private military contractor who hired them out to the RDA for security purposes. All legal and s***. So that means Quaritch—and I'm being generous—still had to operate under the same code of conduct all of us Marines do. He would never risk his colonel status by sleeping with a subordinate. Hell, he'd get his ass canned so fast you could slap an expiration date on it." Jake was adamant in his tone, though a bit unsettled that he was defending Quaritch's character of all people.

"What if he kept her a secret?—like a mistress?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, both surprised and perturbed that Spider was familiar with the term. "Well, he'd be a real drongo if he did. But I don't think that was his style."

"Style? Was he gay?"

Jake then felt his brow and wondered what other colourful things his ward had picked up on. "No. I meant—" He stopped to think. "Well, I don't know, actually..." There was an awkward pause, and the man didn't like the visual he was getting in his head. "Okay, I'll say this. While I don't know who your father is, I will say this Paz woman is most likely your mom. But you look nothing like her."

"How do you know?"

"I have her picture downloaded from her profile. I can show it to you if you like?" Reading the eagerness in his eyes was all Jake needed for a yes. He leaned over to power on the computer, but the simple task was met with issue as the giant fumbled his keyboard inputs.

"Do you need help, Jake?" Spider offered up from under the blue armpit.

"No, no. I got this." After another swear, he mumbled, "Where's that pen?"

Spider was more than happy to jump from the chair and grab it. With the aid of the tool by way of chicken-pecking the keys, Jake was able to pull up the image.

"There," he exhaled triumphantly. "That's your mom."

"That's a dude."

"What?" Jake stared at the profile of a bearded Russian janitor. "S***. Hang on."

One more exhaustive effort and Spider soon found himself gazing upon the grainy ID photo of an unsmiling stranger. "That's Paz Socorro?" he whispered.

"That's her. As you can see, she's Hispanic, yet you're as white as me. Well, before I—you know."

The sullen young man twiddled his thumbs anxiously as he stared at his likely mother. His prior comments as to her promiscuity suddenly felt juvenile when he had eyes to look into.

One more turn of the thumbs, and he looked up at his mentor. "Can I see his profile?"

Jake hesitated.

"Please?"

After deliberating on it, the man yielded with an audible exhale. "Okay, but you're gonna have to do the typing."

It took a moment for Spider to commit himself to spelling out the name, but before long, Jake's old foe was dominating the screen. Spider sat there studying his face. The shape, the features—It was like staring at his reflection thirty years from now. The boy sat up and pulled away from the desk despondently.

"You okay, mate?"

"I look like him..."

Jake kneeled before him so their eyes were level and clutched the drooping shoulders. "Spider, listen. Nothing will ever change who you are to me."

The young man kept his head down. "You took in the son of a monster..."

"I don't care who your father is! Discovering you was one of the happiest moments of my life, and I will never regret taking you in. Even if Quaritch is your dad, this"—Toruk Makto set his great finger on the human's fast-beating heart. "This is yours."

"Thanks, old man," his voice cracked.

"C'mon, let's get you back to your cabin."

Jake could tell in Spider's gait that his mind was elsewhere. The real issue still lingered, and no amount of reassurance from him would put it to flight. Try as he might, he could not rewind to the days when the boy was happy in his ignorance. The first few rocks gave way, and an avalanche would soon follow.i]