AVATARS:
Gone Native
By Q42
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Life on Pandora is great! The air is clean, the planet is beautiful, and if you're one of the people who help to keep it that way, the Na'vi will treat you just fine. Join Norm, Max, and the rest of the Avatar team as they explore Pandora … and try hard not to make total skxawngs of themselves.
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Chapter 1: For the Man Who Had Everything
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Parker Selfridge was in a lousy mood.
Then again, he was usually in a lousy mood these days. Eight years previously, the little man had been on top of the world – no, the Universe. He had been in charge of Extra-Solar Mine One, the biggest and most lucrative operation in the history of capitalism. At twenty million USD per kilo, he had raked in a sizable percentage of unobtanium sales. Everything had been rolling along smoothly.
Then a bunch of fly-bitten blue savages had kicked him – literally – into the next solar system.
It had been bad enough when Jake Sully and his band of merry turncoats had herded him onto the shuttle. It had been worse to get packed into a cryo chamber knowing that he was only bringing home a measly metric ton of unobtanium. The real kicker, though, had been when the UN had brought him up on charges.
"Crimes against sentient life?" That wasn't even a category before they put me on trial! I thought they were only crimes if you committed them against humanity!
Unfortunately, this argument had failed to impress the World Court. Not only had Parker been hung out to dry, but the Resources Development Administration had pretty much ceased to exist, with most of its assets sold to pay off a massive indemnity. No doubt the world governments were happy to take over the industrial giant's operations, without having to deal with the RDA's stranglehold on unobtanium supplies, algae farms, and resources in general.
The only reason Parker was still drawing breath was because his father, the RDA's former CEO, had still had a decent nest-egg left, and enough pull to keep his loyal (if hopelessly inept) son out of the incinerator.
Now, here Parker stood, watching through a triple pane of Lexan as some little mining ship came in for a landing. Asteroid Mine 248 smelled like an old copper pipe, its recycled air sighing forlornly as it traveled through the hollowed-out space rock. At some point in the previous century, it had been a major source of iron, nickel, and other heavy metals. Now it was just a big shipping yard, where loads from the smaller rocks were gathered in, packed up, and shot in to Earth by a magnetic catapult. The place was empty, cold, and long past its glory days. A lot like Parker, actually.
"Hey, Selfish! You got a package."
"Huh?" Parker turned to face the dirty, shaggy older man who had addressed him. "From whom?"
The dockworker inspected his data pad. "From … lessee … Fort Trudy Chacon, via ISV Copernicus, Gateway Station and AM-248 distribution. Sign here."
"Trudy Chacon … I just know I've heard that name before," Parker muttered, signing the little screen. "Copernicus … wait a minute! That was one of the ships between Earth and Pandora!"
The old guy shrugged. "Mebbe. Prob'ly got 'er doing the Pluto run, now that Pandora's off-limits. Anyways, I'll have one of de guys drop it off at yer quarters after the shift's over."
The next couple of hours went by with all the agonizing slowness that Parker had grown accustomed to. Ships came in, ore was offloaded, rocks were tossed into the smelting pools, and refined metal was packed up and fired off to Earth. And, of course, Parker slogged through the mountains of paperwork that were continually dumped on his desk.
Finally, Parker trudged down the corridor to his grimy, rough-hewn apartment deep inside AM-248. At once, he noticed the long, 2'x2'x6' box standing outside the hatch. Maybe somebody on Pluto likes me? He couldn't imagine whom; even his fellow rock rats would have happily tossed him out an airlock given half a chance.
Taking a beat-up, rusty pair of scissors, Selfridge cut open the box … and nearly passed out from joy. Inside the box was a long, cylindrical bag, made of fine black leather, with brass buttons and zipper.
"My clubs!" cried the little man, his eyes lighting up like a kid's at Christmas time. "My babies! How the hell did you get here?" Ripping the last of the packaging away, Parker pulled out the fancy golf bag, tossing aside the small blue envelope on top.
Then he unzipped it, and nearly passed out again … this time, from horror.
There were his precious golf clubs, all right – or what was left of them. It looked as though somebody had taken Parker's clubs, driven over them with a tank, burned them, shot at them, then hired Superman to come and work them over. His nine-iron and putter were twisted around one another. His carbon-fiber driver looked like someone had torched it with gasoline, leaving a charred blackish-gray lump at the end. Several bullet indentations had even been used to "draw" a smiley face on the head of his sand wedge.
"No! No … NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" wailed Parker. Grabbing the blue envelope, he tore it open.
Dear Parker,
We tried to teach the Omaticaya about golf. Unfortunately, when they heard it was your favorite sport, they decided to get creative with your clubs. Oh well….
Anyway,
Happy Golfing!
Love,
Jake
Neytiri
Norm
Max
And the rest of your loyal friends on Pandora!
Beneath the text was an enormous orange kiss. It was far too large to have been made by human lips, and seemed to be made from some sort of orange war paint instead of lipstick.
With a scream of frustration, Parker crumpled the card up and tossed it across the room. Then he glared at the ceiling of his dim, dirty apartment, shaking his fist at the heavens.
"CURSE YOU, JAKE SULLY!!!!"
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