Feet of Clay
"Fingers," yelled out Yuri. "Fingers!"
His friend was ignoring him. Then again, he was ignoring just about everyone these days. Not that Yuri could blame the poor bastard, not after what he had been though. Still, it had been long enough – as his foul-mouthed friend Sharon would say, it was long past time for Fingers to harden up.
"FINGERS!"
The former Delta Force soldier slowly turned around. "Did you say something, Yuri?"
"I've only been yelling at you for the last ten minutes," replied Yuri. Well, that was only a slight exaggeration. "What's wrong with you? You've developed the situation awareness of a fucking politician."
"Sorry, Yuri. I've had a lot on my mind," replied Fingers. "What is it?"
They were standing outside the maintenance building in Hell's Gate, by the wall bearing the wriggling mathematical notation defining the Kalinkey Theorem. A bunch of the maintenance engineers had spent three months of their free time carefully removing the military grey paint that had been applied over it by the orders of the late unlamented Mad Dog Quaritch. They had done a damn fine job – even the associated graffiti gleamed as though they had been painted yesterday.
"I've got something for you to see," said Yuri. "Come inside."
"The Boss is expecting me," said Fingers. "He's expecting the latest report on our consumables. If he doesn't get it this morning, he'll get damn narky."
"Jesus, Fingers. Even the Boss can wait for ten minutes," said Yuri. "It's not like we're at war now."
"Ok, ok," sighed Fingers. "As long as it's only ten minutes."
As they walked down the cavernous interior of the impressively ugly building, Fingers said, "I've always meant to ask – why doesn't your English have any trace of a Russian accent? I mean, you're as Russian as bloody Tolstoy."
"I was born and grew up in New Zealand. Dad was Chair of Russian Studies at Auckland University, while Mum was an artist," he said. "She specialised in traditional Māori stone carving, especially in greenstone."
"How the hell did you end up in the Spetznatz?"
"Mum and Dad were killed in the Great Auckland earthquake of 2134, when I was sixteen," replied Yuri. "The only relative who could take me in was my grandmother in St Petersburg. Even though my Russian was fluent, it was a hell of a culture shock. I had to change my name, just to fit in, because no one could pronounce mine correctly, and even then I was almost always called black-ass."
"What the hell for?"
"Mum was Māori," said Yuri. "And I didn't take at all after Dad's side of the family. I was typical Māori – at sixteen I was already six foot four and twenty-one stone. There were a couple of professional rugby teams who had offered me tryouts, but I didn't have anywhere to live after the quake, so it was off to Mother Russia and babushka."
He continued, "The Russians don't play rugby, so I went to art school until I was called up at nineteen. Then it was army all the way, until I got wounded in the Caucasus, and was invalided out. I was stoked when I got this gig, because civilian life on disability sucked, and I couldn't afford to go home to New Zealand."
"So what was your name?"
"Irirangi," replied Yuri. "It means spirit voice."
"I can see why you had trouble," said Fingers drily.
Yuri shrugged. "Mum was Māori through and through, tight down to the tattoos. Although Dad was a really nice bloke, it always surprised me that Mum married him."
"Where did the Kiwi accent go?"
He shrugged again. "It had to go so I could get credit for English at the army language school. The buggers only accepted generic American English, and they weren't interested in fluent Māori at all." Yuri grinned, and added, "If I cut loose with my enzed accent and vocab, the only person around here who would have a chance of understanding me would be Sharon – Oz and Kiwi are mostly mutually intelligible, you know."
"I had heard…" Yuri's voice trailed off.
On the metal bench they approached, there was a large sculpture of a Na'vi woman riding a palulukan, both snarling viciously. The energy of the piece was incredible – the coiled muscles and flared threat display of the palulukan looked as though it was about to pounce and savage its prey. The colours – the colours were perfect, from the black flesh tones of the palulukan right down to the woman's war paint.
"You like?"
Fingers said, "It's fucking awesome." He paused, and walked around the bench, studying the work. When he saw the translucent quality of the woman's delicate ears, he realised the sculpture must be porcelain, or something very much like it. "Is that Jake's wife? You know, Neytiri. It looks just like her."
"Jake saw one of my earlier pieces – a nantang – and asked if I could do a work for him," said Yuri. "It took ages for me to get the glazes right, and I was terrified when I finally put it in the oven for firing. Some of the work is so delicate that I was sure it would crack."
"What did you use as the framework?" asked Fingers. "I would think that there would be problems using wire. You know, different cooling rates causing the ceramic to crack during firing."
Yuri said, "You're no dummy. I started out with wire, but it was a fucking disaster. It wasn't until I switched to bone that I had any success. Now the kitchen saves me all the bone – there's a bloody mountain of it in cold storage – but it's a bugger to work, although the ash works wonders mixed with the clay. The carbon fibre reinforcing makes it as hard as steel, and I won't say a thing about how disgusting it is getting the remaining flesh off."
"Where did you get the clay?"
"There's a big deposit by the riverbank where the Omaticaya trail crosses Kunsìp Creek," said Yuri. "By the grove of apxangrr trees. It's fantastic stuff – better than any material I ever used on 'Rrta."
"Just up from the burnt-out Samson? That icky grey sludge that sticks to damn near everything?"
"You got it," affirmed Yuri.
"I have to ask a question," said Fingers. "Why the hell did you stay in the army when you can do sculpture like this?" He waved a hand at the palulukan. "Conscription in Russia is only for two years."
Yuri shrugged again. "One of my college professors told me my work was way too representational, even though my technique was ok, given I liked working in traditional materials. Any fool with a portable laser scanner and a 3d printer could do better. There was no bloody way I could make a living from it – just no market for it. So it was the army way, or no way."
"Fko kakrel," murmured Fingers, admiring the work yet again. Yuri had totally captured the spirit of the original. Jake would be totally blown away. "Well, thanks for showing me. I'd best be off. Renshaw isn't the most forgiving of blokes."
"I didn't ask you down to look at Jake's commission," said Yuri, walking over to a dark plastic curtain. "I wanted you to be the first to see this."
Fingers fell to his knees in shock.
The life-size sculpture behind the curtain was a beautiful Na'vi woman, a spear loosely held in her left hand, her right resting on her outthrust hip. Her head was tilted to one side, a rueful smile on her face, as though she thought the viewer was a skxawng.
"Se'ayl…" whispered Fingers. Yuri had captured the expression of his dead love perfectly. He fully expected the statue to speak and tell him he was an idiot.
"Colonel Renshaw wanted something to commemorate Operation Bounty," said Yuri. "I was going to do a sculpture of Amala, but he insisted that his wife did not need an ego boost – she was difficult enough already. That's when I decided to do Se'ayl instead. I always thought she had a lot of gumption, and God knows what she ever saw in you."
Fingers slowly stood, and wiped his eyes. "She's perfect." He released a long, shuddering breath. "Where are you putting her?"
"In the Colonel's longhouse," replied Yuri. "in the area where the council meets."
"She would like that," said Fingers. "Se'ayl always had something to say about the foolishness of men."
Yuri chuckled, "She was never backward in expressing her opinion."
"That she wasn't," he agreed, still gazing at the statue. "I will have to tell Änsìt, her father, of your work. He will want to see her again." Fingers sighed and turned towards Yuri, gripping him firmly on the shoulder. "Irayo, tsumukan," he said. "Oel asyzerok tì'i'avay krrä."
"Rey tìrey, tsumukan," replied Yuri.
Fingers nodded once, and then walked away.
Two days later, Yuri strolled up to the main gate, where Colonel Renshaw was watching a figure march steadily up the rise of the Omaticaya trail.
"He's left, then," said Yuri.
"Yes," replied the olo'eyktan of the Uniltìranyu, without looking at Yuri. "Fingers has gone after the Uluta woman. Eywa alone knows if he will find her, but at least he's doing something with his life."
"Glad to be of help," said Yuri. "It was a good suggestion of yours, to do Se'ayl."
They watched in silence until Fingers disappeared over the hill, when Renshaw said, "Why haven't you mated, Yuri?"
"Never found the right woman," said the sculptor. "I'm not the prettiest bloke you've ever seen, so most women never give me a second glance. I think the aphorism 'body is nothing, spirit is everything' only goes so far, even for the Na'vi."
"I've seen worse," said Renshaw, glancing at Yuri's face. It certainly had little to recommend it, as far as looks went – whether one was tawtute or Na'vi. "There was a sturmbeast bull with a broken top horn last month. I reckon he was uglier than you."
"Gee, thanks, Boss," growled Yuri drily. "Any time I want a compliment, I know where not to come now."
"As our mutual friend Sharon would say, no wucking furries, mate."
Over the next six months, there was a constant flow of visitors from almost all the Fifteen Clans, all eager to see the sculpture of Se'ayl. Theyl marvelled at the way it captured the spirit of the woman, and many went to the maintenance building to see other work of the artist.
Surprisingly, the constant stream of visitors did not disturb Yuri. All the Na'vi were quiet, and few spoke to him. All they wanted was to look at his art, or watch him work.
Several olo'eyktan from the clans came to commission work. Those he spoke to for over an hour each, trying to get a feeling of what they wanted, as Renshaw had impressed the need to maintain good relations with the neighbours of the Uniltìranyu. He did warn them it would take many months to do each piece, as invariably they wanted large works.
He had to hose down the aspirations of the olo'eyktan of the Plains people, who wanted a full-size representation of a pa'li. The statue of Se'ayl was close to the size limit of the microwave oven he was using, and he was doubtful that he could get the same outcomes from a wood-fired kiln. Yuri suspected it might take years of experimentation before he got consistent results. This was without even considering trying to fire a piece as large as a pa'li, which he suspected was near impossible – let alone trying to move one.
Most of the other visitors faded into the background, but one he did remember – Änsìt of the Omaticaya, the father of Se'ayl. He didn't say much – just that Yuri's hands spoke with the voice of the spirit of the Na'vi – but his words sent a shiver down Yuri's spine.
The same day he received another visitor, one he knew well.
"Kaltxi, Yuri," said the familiar voice from behind him. The lyrical tones were unmistakeable.
"Sharon," he exclaimed with a smile, turning around to greet his friend. If anything, she looked even more formidable than she did tooled up for combat – the swirling orange, black and red paint daubed over her entire body was startling, let alone the elaborate beading in her hair. It must take her hours to get ready. "What are you doing here? Aren't the spiritual cares of the Ikran People keeping you busy?"
The Tsahìk of the Ikranaru answered, "Actually, that's why I'm here."
"Eh?"
"Child, present yourself," ordered Sharon. A Na'vi girl stepped out from behind the Tsahìk. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. "Tanhì, this is my brother Yuri. He will teach you his art."
"What!" roared Yuri, in 'Ìnglìsì. "I'm not taking on any fucking apprentice, not for you, not for anyone. I don't have the fucking time, or inclination."
"I'm calling in a favour, Yuri," said Sharon calmly in the same language, unmoved by his bluster. "You'd still be sucking vacuum if it wasn't for me."
"Shit," he swore. "I can't believe even you would stoop that low. Just because you saved my life…"
"I'm a woman," said Sharon. "We go places men fear to tread – but even we aren't stupid enough to open a pressure door into vacuum."
"Ok, ok," he said. "You've got me. I'll do it, Sharon, but only because it's you. But I can't promise she'll be any good."
"Show him, Tanhì."
The girl dipped her hand into the basket slung from her should, pulling out a piece of unvarnished timber. She held it out shyly for Yuri to take.
"Hmmm," said Yuri. It was a hammerhead - 'angtsìk, the Na'vi called it – carved from a single piece of driftwood. "Not bad," he admitted. The work had a certain vitality to it, given the limitations of the material, although it was a little rough. "How long did it take you to carve?" he asked the girl directly.
"Tanhì is mute," interrupted Sharon. "It's part of the reason why we are here. Not being able to talk is a major problem with becoming a hunter, or virtually any of the other usual occupations for a Na'vi. Tsa'peen has given her a full workup, but there's no physiological or neurological reason for her inability to talk. So I am stuck."
"Jesus, Sharon," swore Yuri. "Talk about making it difficult."
"Think of it as a challenge," said Sharon. "I should warn you, though. Tanhì isn't stupid. You only have to tell her anything once."
Suddenly, Yuri looked worried, as though he had just realised what had been dumped on him - responsibility. "Where is she going to sleep?"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," smiled Sharon. "Tanhì will be using my old quarters. I've already cleared it with the Boss. I'll be showing her around, so she knows where everything is, including the nard hole and how civilised plumbing works, and where the mess is, so the ins and out are covered."
With those words, Sharon took Tanhì's arm, and swept out of view as though she was a queen of legend.
"Fuck," whispered Yuri.
Tanhì was waiting at the bench alone when Yuri arrived the following morning. "Where is Zharr'n…the Tsahìk," he asked, and then cursed himself as a fool.
The girl shook her head, a serious expression on her face.
"Can you read? I mean, read the symbols that the tawtute use to record speech."
She shook her head again, and he sighed. It was going to be right back to basics. He pulled out the data tablet from his satchel, and beckoned her over. There were some lesson plans that he had used to learn how to read Na'vi – they had been developed by a friend of his, Linda Paklowski, who he reflected was now with the Ikranaru – the same clan as Tanhì's. She also had the sexiest damn voice he had ever heard.
"This is a doorway to the metallic brain made by the tawtute," he said. "There is much knowledge held within, but to learn it you must know how to read." He quickly called up the lesson plan, switched the language setting from English to Na'vi, and turned off the lesson setting requiring a vocal response. "To move from one symbol to the next, lightly press the straight arrow symbol. To repeat the sound for the symbol, press the curved arrow." He added, "You will recognise the voice of the teacher. If you get stuck, ask me for help."
He looked directly at the girl to see if she understood, and was relieved when she nodded. Yuri passed her the data tablet, and was relieved when she started to work it, however tentatively.
"I have need to speak to Amala, our Tsahìk," he said. She gave no sign of having heard him, being totally engrossed by the tablet. "I will be gone for a little while."
Linda's voice sounded out the syllables of Na'vi as he walked away.
"Amala," said Yuri. "I need some help."
"You've never asked for my help before," she observed. "Is it about the young woman Zharr'n has dropped in your lap?"
He should have known – Amala was tuned in to everything that happened around Hell's Gate. "Tanhì is a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman," he said. "I am ignorant of such things, but even I know of the tsumuke'awsiteng, and the need of all Na'vi women to have sisters of an age. It will be especially difficult for Tanhì to join one, as she is mute, and away from the clan of her birth.","
"It is thoughtful of you to consider Tanhì's welfare," said the Tsahìk. "I will ensure that she is introduced to the young women of the clan. Few of them are cruel, and I am sure she can find sisters amongst them."
He breathed a sigh of relief. Yuri well-remembered the chaos that descended on the Uniltìranyu before they became a clan, the chaos that was driven by the women until the Omaticaya brought the gift of Uniluke. Every man was thankful for that action – if he thought about it, the gift was the starting point of the journey the former tawtute travelled to become Na'vi.
Yuri had no wish to repeat that experience, even at the hand of a single teenage girl.
What the hell did he know about teenage girls?
The Tsahìk must have been reading his mind, as she smiled and said, "I am sure that Tanhì will give you as much knowledge as you share with her."
"You are sure of many things," he said.
"Yes, I am," she replied. "One of the things of which I am sure is that it was a good thing Ren'zhore persuaded you to sculpt Se'ayl rather than myself. It would have been disconcerting to see my face every time I entered this place."
When he returned to the maintenance building, Tanhì was still engrossed by the lesson on the data tablet. Yuri began thinking of how to proceed.
First of all, he would have to indent for another data tablet. Yuri suspected it may be difficult to wrench his out of Tanhì's hands. He would have to set up a reading list for her, covering the history and development of human art, together with works on technique, especially the development of perspective and composition. Not just Western art either – he would have to include the art of all cultures. It was a pity there wasn't much on Na'vi art, and then only on the art of the Omaticaya. Yuri had noticed significant differences between the clothing and jewellery worn by the differing clans, and had reflected these differences probably also existed in the other decorative arts. He had no idea how he was going to tackle that little issue.
He smiled, and thought of his mother's seminal work on Māori sculpture. It wasn't in the RDA database, but he had a signed hard copy he kept in his crib. Apart from the greenstone tiki necklace he wore around his neck every day, it was the only keepsake he had of his mother. Yuri would have to get around to scanning it so the English-Na'vi translator could get to work.
An arrow of melancholy shot into his heart, as he realised he was the last Māori speaker in the Universe. No-one would ever hear the songs that his mother sang to him as a child, ever again.
Don't think. Not about being the last. Move on to something else - the future was the ticket.
Preparation of materials – that was the other key building block. Unlike his time at the Ilya Repin Art Institute, he couldn't just nick down to the art supplier when he ran low. Time management was going to be an absolute bugger. He would have to make sure he reserved enough time to work on his own interests, not to mention commissions.
One other thing – the resolution of a portable data tablet would be too low to get the nuances of most of the art work. He would have to liberate a large wall-screen. Fortunately, he knew where there was one that was not in use.
That was how he came to be in the lab next to the Avatar link room, carefully removing the largest screen from its wall mounting. It was a pain wearing an exo-pack, as the atmosphere in the building was still set up for tawtute, even though the last one had passed though the Eye of Eywa a month ago. The ceilings were too damn low as well – his bruised skull could testify to that little problem.
"Yuri," said Renshaw.
"Ow," he said, as he involuntarily straightened to give the Boss some respect.
"Sorry," said the olo'eyktan. "I didn't mean to creep up on you."
"That's ok, Boss," replied Yuri. "I'm just taking this screen down to the maintenance building."
"Ah," said Renshaw. "The new apprentice. Data tablets just don't have the fine resolution or size to get the full impact, do they?"
"No."
"Do you want a hand with that?" asked Renshaw. "It's pretty big and awkward to move, even for a Na'vi."
"I'd appreciate it," said Yuri. "As long as you think it doesn't impinge on your dignity."
"There's not much chance of my head swelling when I'm under Amala's thumb," said Renshaw ruefully.
"Don't you believe it, Boss," said Yuri. "You got a good one there."
"Thanks," he said. When they had the screen on the handling trolley, Renshaw said, "There's a reason I came looking for you."
"Eh?"
"Not long after I got my captain's bars, I spent six months on exchange with the Kiwis. One of my peers took me to an All-Blacks game, where I saw my first haka." The olo'eyktan paused for a moment, and then asked, "I want you to write a haka for the Uniltìranyu, and train the men to dance it. Relations with the Rongloa are a little prickly now, and their olo'eyktan is coming next month to discuss the outstanding issues. We need a suitable ceremony to welcome him to our clan, and the thought of a haka popped straight into my mind. It will have to be in Na'vi, of course, not Māori. Can you do it?"
Yuri nodded slowly. There were quite a few Māori haka he knew that would fit the bill. He didn't think Ranginui would mind too much if he plagiarised them into Na'vi. "Haka, if done right, are very powerful, but I will need all the men for about two hours every night, from the end of this week. The men must believe in the haka for it to believable."
"You've got it."
Yuri thought for a moment. The women of the Uniltìranyu were proud also, and most of them were warriors. "The women too. They will learn the haka as well. And there must be a gift – a spear, or a warclub. To not have one shows disrespect."
"Ok."
"Thompson – you know, the pommy bastard – he was a bugler in the Coldstreams. At the end, after the giving of the gift, to honour our dead, he will play the Last Post, and the Reveille, after a minute's silence."
"You've given this some thought."
Yuri shrugged. "If we are to be a true clan of Na'vi, we must have our ceremonies, and recognise those who went before – despite the fact our people almost destroyed this world."
Yuri was surprised when Tanhì whipped through the lesson plans in a little over a week. Luckily, he already had assembled a fair whack of the reading list, so transferred it onto her tablet, and showed her how to swipe images up on to the big screen.
He was too involved in developing the haka to keep track of where Tanhì was up to.
On the day of the Rongloa visit, the heavens opened just before dawn. The entire Uniltìranyu clan stood out in the rain, waiting for the distinguished visitors. He was surprised when two familiar ikran flew in and landed – what the hell was Sharon and her mate doing here?
When he saw them greeted by the Boss, it appeared that they were expected. From what he knew of Na'vi interclan relations, only the most serious discussions were mediated by a third party, and the Ikranaru Tsahìk was certainly that – in both senses of the word. This visit was more serious than he expected.
Ten minutes later, sixteen ikran flew in, in formation, and landed smoothly. It was well Yuri had insisted that the clan be painted up, as the warriors of the Rongloa were in their full glory as well – warpaint, beads and jewellery, and weapons.
Yuri waited for Renshaw to meet the Rongloa olo'eyktan. They exchanged a few words, but the body language was ugly. It was now or never. Just then, the rain stopped.
He lifted the war club into the air, and called out to the clan, who answered, and a shiver ran down his spine as the massed voices chanted the haka in Na'vi, slapping their chests and thighs in the ageless rhythm of the Māori, bulging their eyes, blowing out their cheeks, and stamping their feet.
Stranger
Why are you here?
Men of the Uniltìranyu
We ask you
We ask you
Women of the Uniltìranyu
Call on you
Give an answer
Our mother called to us
Come to Eywa'eveng
Leave your world
We answered the summons
Crossed the void
You saw the ships above
Our un-kin followed
Seeking Eywa's death
We destroyed them
The Uniltìranyu belong
To this land
Eywa claimed us
Our spirit is strong
Our knowledge great
Our warriors deadly
Uniltìranyu are true
To enemy and friend
Accept the challenge
Stranger
Why are you here?
HA!
Yuri approached the Rongloa, each step striking out with the war club, smashing the invisible enemy with both club and shout. He stopped before the Rongloa olo'eyktan, catching his eye, and in a bow presented the war club horizontally in both hands, maintaining eye contact.
Sharon said quietly to the hesitating Rongloa, "A friend will take the offered weapon from the hands of the Uniltìranyu, as a gift. An enemy will take the weapon, and break it, to show there can be no friendship."
The Na'vi chieftain nodded, accepting the war club. He said in a great voice, "The Uniltìranyu do the Rongloa much honour."
Yuri backed off, maintaining both bow and eye contact until he was standing before the ranks of the massed Uniltìranyu. He straightened and swivelled to face them, calling out, "Uniltìranyu, ten-hut." Despite the lack of boots, the thudding of bare feet on concrete was quite impressive, as the entire clan stood to attention.
The Tsahìk of the Ikranaru murmured, "Now, the clan remembers the dead, of both enemies and friends, in the language of their homeland, 'Ìnglìsì."
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.
Thompson stepped forth, raised his shining bugle to his lips, and blew the melancholy notes of the Last Post. The notes died away into silence, the only sound the distant humming of insects. A minute later, Thompson played the rousing Reveille.
At the end, without an order, the Uniltìranyu broke ranks and dispersed.