Avatar: Rebirth Chronicles

A Novel By: A.R. Fredrick

Based on the characters in Avatar, Created by: James Cameron

Archive: With Permission Only

Chapter Rating: R

Eye of the Storm

"Look, I don't care if your idea makes sense or not," Max argued. "There are still too many variables to consider, and given those, the whole charade is too risky."

Moments before, the man had been seated at the sparse metal table, which they had shared amicably during their conversation, but he had become agitated by their difference in opinion and had taken to pacing since then.

Not that there was much room to move in the confines of the cargo bay (which could more aptly be called a room, or even a walk-in closet) besides the brushed steel table and pair of chairs, there was a lone pitcher of water and two Styrofoam cups. Florescent lights washed the room in a soft white glow and hummed at a low pitch, almost like the wings of a hummingbird. A few egg-shell white crates were strewn haphazardly in the corner, left forgotten long enough to collect a good amount of dust.

"We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs, waiting for Quaritch and his SecOps cronies to finish duking it out with the Na'vi, because when the dust settles, the Na'vi will still be pissed, and coming after us," his companion replied in a steely tone.

"You seem pretty optimistic given the circumstances," the bespectacled doctor replied, changing tact. "What makes you think the Na'vi will overtake Quaritch and his goons?"

"Simple, home field advantage." the man replied.

"Huh?" Max asked slightly confused.

"In human history, several wars have taken place against different cultures, and even in cases where the aggressor is more technologically advanced, the underdog still tends to come out on top, due to strong moral convictions or the homefield advantage," he paused. "Didn't you ever study military history while you were in school?"

"Sorry, no, I was more interested in the future," Max admitted, coming to a standstill and regarding the man with crossed arms. "Not things that happened in the past."

"The most notable example I could give you is a war that began nearly 200 years ago. It was a war that took place between the governments of North and South Vietnam, spurred to life by different political ideals. The North Vietnamese where the underdogs of the war, as the South Vietnamese were aided by the United States and other non-communist countries towards the end of hostilities, who had greater military resources at the time. But in the end, after a conflict that spanned nearly twenty years, North Vietnam won the war."

"How?" Max asked.

"Guerrilla warfare, subterfuge, and other tactics that were highly taboo." the man replied.

His passionate speech had caused Dr. Max Patel to regard him in a new light, and in doing so, he studied the man and his features more closely, perhaps in an attempt to gauge the mettle of his resolve. His stature wasn't tall, or his build overly muscular, however the man seemed to radiate a calm sense of confidence. He had sandy blonde hair the flowed in waves slightly down past his ears, and eyes that looked like smoky gray pieces of chipped charcoal. His face was heavy with scruff, and probably hadn't seen a razor in several days.

His name was Frank Bastion, and while Max had only become recently aware of the man, he had a reputation within Hell's Gate as a level-headed sort, who only resorted to violence when forced. He had sought Max out shortly after the beginning of Quaritch's campaign against the Tree of Souls, after hearing sketchy rumors about his ongoing connection with Jake Sully, and the rest of the rogue Terrans.

But after being lured here by Bastion to discuss a possible coup d'etat against their resource hungry brethren, Max was beginning to question both the logic and sanity of this man, more specifically his hopes to overthrow the remaining SecOps forces on the base, and his plan to commandeer it after forcing them into submission.

"So what, you think we can just waltz into the Command Center, and tell Selfridge it's a hostile takeover? Executive or not, he's not going to rollover and play dead." Max protested.

"How many of Quaritch's men do you think are still left on the base?" Bastion asked.

"There are over sixty Marines left on the base," Max replied.

"I'm not asking about the number of Marines left here! What I want to know is, how many of Colonel Quaritch's loyal men are still left on the base?" Bastion rephrased his question.

There was a brief pause while the doctor made some estimations, and it was during that time that Bastion reached for the condensation heavy pitcher of water, and poured himself a few ounces into one of the available Styrofoam cups. While he gulped down the flat-tasting filtered water, he watched the bearded man out of the corner his eye, and waited for his response.

"Maybe half of those Marines left are loyal to Quaritch," Max answered hesitantly. "The rest are a mixed bag of career soldiers, people working for a paycheck, and adrenaline junkies."

"Well Doctor, regardless of previous military training and background, the men who are still loyal to Quaritch, including those who flew with him, aren't fit to be called Marines any longer." Bastion told him. "In this case, and all those going forward, I think calling them Mercenaries would be more apt."

"Whatever," Max mumbled, licking his lips shortly afterward. "What is it you guys are planning to do exactly?"

"I'm keeping those cards close to my vest for the time being," Bastion said. "The fewer who know, the better."

"What's with the closet session then?" Max asked. "Why'd you want to meet me here?"

"I need a few things from you..." Bastion began.

Safely strapped into my wheelchair I took a second to withdraw the re-breather unit from the emergency holding compartment in its entirety, and wrapped the apparatus around my waist, connecting the pack with the snap-on buckle. Once that was done, I took a moment to survey the damage done to the bunker.

Shards of glass littered the rubberized floor in pebble-like fragments that glittered as if they were diamonds. The shell of the structure had been torn and warped by the fury of Quaritch's attack with the AMP Suit, it was as if the bunker were a orange, and he had casually began to peel away its skin. There were small bits of gray metal strewn about here and there, and as I peered through the breach where the windows had previously been, I could see even more steel on the jungle floor, not far from where the lifeless body of my adversary had come to rest.

Surely one of the POD's was damaged beyond repair, but I had no way of knowing about the condition of the other two, as the solar generator which powered the bunker had gone offline, and I had yet to engage the battery backups.

During my entire inspection of the damage, Neytiri watched me quietly, she regarded me as if I were an entirely new creature, and she had not seen Humans up close before. I wondered what thoughts were hidden behind her golden eyes, but I had little time to question her, or ponder further about her musings, I had to get a better handle on what was going on outside of this bunker, and our little clearing.

I wheeled over to one of the computer terminals that had access to the communications array, and booted the system up, while the microchips and other mechanical components sprang to life, I shifted the chair slightly, to face Neytiri once more.

"We need to find out what is happening with Spellman and the others. Earlier, before the beasts joined our attack, I couldn't get any of them to answer when I called them, only you." I paused. "So, while I try and drop them a line, maybe you could pull my Avatar inside the bunker, so we can keep a better eye on it?"

She seemed to hesitate for a moment. Maybe she had never heard the Human term for our remote-controlled hybrid Na'vi bodies? Nevertheless, I'm sure she could catch my drift without many questions. I shrugged slightly, and pointed out toward the body which I had felt so alive in. She followed my gesture, looked back at me, then out toward the jungle, without the need for further communication she sprang out of the bunker as nimbly as a kangaroo, and I turned back to the computer which had finished its start-up sequence.

I navigated the operating system of the computer with practiced ease, resorting to using the touchscreen rather than the voice commands, as I wanted to stay silent enough to hear Neytiri, if she were to call out in alarm. The computer was functioning on its own independent battery, which remained at half life, and would hopefully last for as long as I needed it to. I opened up the satellite images taken when the area had been mapped several years prior. The images were fuzzy, and the resolution was grainy, more than that, the images were practically useless thanks to the flux and the fact that the topography had changed to such a great extent since the images had originally been taken.

I had no choice, I had to work with the tools that were available to me, so I tried to bring up the GPS locator beacons which I had passed out with the communicators before we encountered the RDA. There were somewhat unreliable due to the interference from the flux vortex, but Spellman and Trudy had both assured me that if they came within 500 yards of the master unit, which was located within this bunker, there would be discernible location readings given.

I'm no computer geek, but as far as I could tell, the GPS program was functioning normally, and should pick up any approaching GPS signals, whether they were from my friends, or our enemies. Behind me, I could hear Neytiri grunting in exertion, and while I sympathized with the difficulty of her undertaking, there wasn't much I could do to assist her, given the circumstances, so I focused on finding our friends.

I queued up the communications link, and isolated the radio frequency which we had been using to coordinate our attack, with that done, I reached for the headset which rested on a cluttered shelf above my head, ignored the mess when some bric-a brac fell from the shelf, bounced off of the arm of my chair and clattered to the floor, and snugged the device to my ear.

Once I opened the isolated radio frequency, I was rewarded with the hiss of dead air, and I listened for anyone who might be broadcasting. Hearing nothing, I engaged the microphone and spoke.

"Spellman? Trudy? Tsu'tey?" I called. "Can anyone hear me?"

"I can hear you Jake," Neytiri called from behind me.

"From where?" I asked her.

"Both from where you sit now," she said, "and from the ray-dee-o you gave me earlier."

I turned back to look at her, and was surprised to see that she had somehow managed to hoist my Avatar into a comfortable looking sitting position, using a piece of the lime-colored gel mattress from the damaged POD, as a cushion to prop it against.

Spellman had told me that there had been cases where Drivers had become quite unnerved by occupying the same room as their Avatar bodies, after they had spent a great deal of time with it. He said that the psychologists studying those suffering from such feelings of vexation had guessed that it had something to do with seeing your own likeness in two places at once.

That sounded like a load of garbage to me though, because if that were the case, why weren't identical twins unnerved with the idea of sharing the same room with each other, or the same childhood house?

"Crap, I'm getting distracted..." I mumbled, turning back to the computer, and engaging the microphone once more. "Hello? Anyone copy? Trudy? Rogue One? Tsu'tey? My brother...?" I let the call hang, and disengaged, greeted only by static once more.

The static wasn't really a byproduct of the flux, or some other form of connection interference, it was there to let the user know that they were connected to a radio frequency, both with the ability to transmit and receive audio. The static had been left in place to put the mind of the user at ease, to reassure them that the equipment was functional. But, right now, all it was doing was pissing me off.

"Isn't the ray-dee-o working Jake?" Neytiri asked, still somewhere behind me.

"I think so, but nobody is answering me," I replied. The fact that I had been unable to raise anyone was quite worrisome, if they weren't able to answer me, then it was quite possible some terrible fate had befallen each of them.

I remember the bleakest moment we all shared on this day, it was a communal sense of uncertainty that overcame us during that faithful point in time, when the ominous question undoubtedly played in each of our minds, would we beat them?

Well, whether by the sacrifice of blood, hand of fate, or grace of Eywa, we had repelled the attack against the Tree of Souls. But, at what cost? Would the soil of this land now bear a bad harvest, since it had been tainted with the bowels of our enemies? As Neytiri would say, only the mother knows.

I turned to the woman, who remained crouched near my other body in a protective posture, her eyes were focused on the patch of jungle visible through the breach. She was busy studying the trees that lined the edge of the clearing, seemingly intent on locating some previously unengaged menace.

"Is something out there?" I asked her.

"I do not know... But it is possible..." Neytiri sighed. "...I am only bothered because the jungle is so quiet."

Neytiri had taught me that the most dangerous times in the jungle, were the quiet ones. When you cannot detect a chirp, squeak, yip, yelp or growl, then you should be worried. Because it usually meant that something higher up on the food chain had spooked the smaller animals and caused them to hide, in fear of becoming dinner.

"Jake?" Neytiri called to me, still gazing through the breach and into the jungle.

"Hmm?" I grunted my reply while staring at her.

She turned to look at me, her amber eyes locked with my blue ones and studied me intently. I held her stare, while I waited for her to speak.

"I must go and see what is happening with my people," she informed me, her voice melting into a softer tone than she had used previously. "Can you come with me?"

Her eyes flicked to my Avatar and betrayed her desire. While I wished that I could follow her, I knew that I was trapped here for the time being. Without the ability to restart a POD and operate it in a breathable and pressurized atmosphere, there was no way I could link with my Na'vi counterpart.

"I can't now Neytiri, the device that allows me freedom in that body is not working now," I told her. "Until it is fixed, I am stuck in this form."

"I understand, but it is like you said before," she paused. "We need to find out what is happening with the others."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But, lemme guess, you're worried about leaving me here alone, aren't you?"

"You know as well as I do, that there are things in the jungle, for which you would make a nice meal," Neytiri told me candidly.

"Maybe, but I'll give them a helluva case of acid indigestion first," I said.

"I do not know those words, what do they mean?" She asked, arching her eyebrows.

It was just as well, if she knew I was being sarcastic and making light of my safety, she would probably get angry. But, in truth, I had been taking care of myself as long as I could remember, and I was determined not to let my disability hamper my independence, or become a burden to those that I care for.

Removing the earpiece and placing in on the desk, I turned away from the computer terminal and wheeled over to a slightly battered storage cabinet, I disengaged the latching mechanism and tried to pry the door of the cabinet open, it protested with a groan, and the sound of grinding metal, but I was finally able to open the door, only to set it aside afterward as it had fallen off of its hinges. Reaching inside of it, I rifled around until I found what I was looking for.

I pulled in free from the confines of the damaged compartment, and removed the handgun from its holster. The handgun is a fully automatic Makarov pistol, capable of firing hollow-point fragmentation rounds. As I had previously packed away the weapon, I knew that the magazine was fully loaded, and that a live round of ammunition waited in the breech of the weapon. I checked to make sure that the safety switch was still properly engaged, and re-holstered the weapon. I attached the holster to the same belt that held my re-breather in place and smiled wanly at Neytiri.

"I'll be able to handle myself for a little while," I replied. "You should check on Mo'at and the rest of the Omaticaya anyways. I'm sure they're worried about you."

Still crouched, Neytiri shuffled over to me and placed a hand on my chest, she smiled at me, and said nothing. As I watched her in earnest, I wondered if she knew that my heartbeat still quickened at the whim of her touch, or that there were times in which I was still nervous around her.

"You are also Omaticaya," She said without removing her hand, I could feel its warmth through the fabric of my T-shirt. "As well as my mate, do not assume that what has happened today has changed anything."

I was taken aback momentarily by the sudden proclamation of her heartfelt words. It was as if she had peered into my mind, and was able to divulge my errant fears. Before I could speak, she quickly changed tact.

"If the leaders from the other tribes ask to see the Toruk Makto, what am I to tell them?" Neytiri asked.

"The truth, that I'm trying to find my friends," I answered.

Since he had ejected foolishly from the POD and trudged out into the jungle things hadn't gotten much better for Norman Spellman. He knew full well that his Avatar was wounded during the firefight on the ground. He had felt the impact of a bullet, but the feedback from the injury had caused him to lose connection shortly afterward.

When he had fallen out of the POD, his lungs were burning, and his shoulder was on fire. Worse than that, he could not catch his breath. He had stumbled out of the research bunker in a rush, grabbing little more than a re-breather and a rifle. To make matters even more deplorable, he had gone charging off into the jungle half-cocked, like some war bent meat-head, with little more of a plan in mind, then trying to locate his Avatar... and Trudy Chacon.

Though they had kept it very quiet, and hadn't really mentioned it to anyone, they had shared a brief kiss in the cockpit of the Samson shortly before they had taken their positions. It had been a bit of an experience for Norm, Trudy had pushed him back against the co-pilot seat; not expecting the quick shift in his own weight, he flailed his arms, and let out a cry of surprise involuntarily.

That cry of surprise was quickly muffled by Trudy's lips. They pressed against his hungrily, and in that moment Norm was overcome with the sensations of it all. Her lips were plump, soft and hesitant. Though she had began their little encounter with a fierce display of authority, the kiss became gentle and warm. Even now, all Norm could remember was the bitter smell of grease and the taste of cinnamon, thanks to the gum that she favored.

It had been awkward after the kiss had broken and Norm had questioned her as to her intentions.

"Uh... Wha-, um, why the kiss?" He had asked, stuttering like a clown the entire time. He remembered feeling his face grow hot and red with a blush, and the heat traveling up to his ears. Knowing that they had been in a pressurized environment did little to make him feel better, he could not blame the heat for his change in color, since the cabin air was also climate-controlled.

"Let's just say it is for good luck," she answered coyly with a wry grin and a throaty laugh. "Okay cowboy?"

Though his mind was muddled with thoughts of the Hispanic helicopter pilot, he could not allow himself to daydream any longer. He had to focus on the tasks at hand. Getting distracted on Pandora almost always meant certain death. First, he would find his Avatar, then worry about locating Trudy and the others.

He had left the bunker running, almost an hour before, but he had been forced to hide several times, in order to ensure that he would not be discovered by any remaining rogue RDA forces. He had remembered cursing his luck just a few minutes before, while he was crouched against the trunk of a tree, as the inside of his face mask had fogged up. He was forced to depressurize his mask, and wipe at the offending beads of condensation with the hem of his now dirty shirt.

Throughout his whole misadventure, he had kept expecting to be faced with a surprise encounter, though it had not come to that as of yet. The thing that had him skittish was the remaining pockets of violence. Though the area around the bunker had been quiet and relatively unscathed, this was due to its proximity to the Tree of Souls, which they had all made a vow to protect. As they had set up their defensive line a great distance away from the tree, it had given them the chance to manage the traffic of the fight as it were, and ensure that nobody on the ground or in the air had gotten too close. Though that defensive line had been breached by Quaritch's airship and his jimmy-rigged bomber, they had actually held it quite well. As a result, the bunker and the Tree of Souls were the eye of the storm in a hurricane of chaos. The farther away from the two he traveled, the worse the carnage was.

There was scorched trees, charred saplings and trampled foliage. Twisted metal, broken glass and spent bullet shell casings littered the ground like some kind of macabre confetti. What was worse was the sight of broken and mangled bodies. Though in this fight his Human kin had been their enemy, he held no malice toward them, seeing all the torn, bruised, and broken bodies, the only emotion that he felt was pity, the only reaction his body gave was nausea.

It was the Na'vi that affected him on a deeper level, each of their large and graceful bodies he passed tore at him more and more, rending his heart into pieces. They did not deserve this, nor did they ask for this, they just wanted to live their life as they always had. Norm realized that it was the Human capacity for curiosity that had spurned man's desire for space travel and exploration, but on the other hand it was greed and gluttony that had caused the Na'vi to suffer this damnable fate.

He tried not to focus on the philosophical, or on educated thought, he tried to narrow his mind and focus on his destination, like a hawk focuses on its prey. Climbing up a grassy hill, while staying near the treeline, he was greeted with the sight of the river they had crossed during their conflict. The rifle was heavy in his hands, and he knew as he approached the stream that he would have to cross it as quickly as possible, as it was at this time that he would be most vulnerable.

Norm stepped into the stream, and began to work his was across it. His military-issue boots were constructed of leather, with steel-reinforced toes and heavy rubber soles, and while they were sturdy and reliable on land, they did nothing to help his traction in the water. Now waist deep in the stream, he had to fight the current to stay standing, and plan each of his steps carefully, to ensure that he did not slip on the algae-coated rocks that rested in the streambed.

As he continued moving forward, he was forced to raise his rifle above his head to keep it from getting wet, as the water was now up to his armpits. For him, the experience was quite daunting and a little disorientating, as he had vivid memories of crossing this stream while controlling his Avatar, and the water had been little more than thigh deep.

As he struggled onto the embankment on the other side of the stream, he heard a low moan of pain, and words which were being mumbled so quickly, they became slurred and unintelligible. Squinting his eyes through the plexiglass face mask of his re-breather, he wiped away some beaded water that had found its way onto it while he splashed through the stream. He brought the rife to bear, supporting the butt of the weapon against his shoulder, then sweeping the barrel of the gun from the left, to the right, while searching for the source of the disturbing sounds.

Ahead of him was a large mossy boulder, this massive behemoth seemed to be rooted in the ground as if it had resided in that spot for centuries, half covered in soil, a flowering fern grew in a soil encrusted patch atop the otherwise unremarkable stone. As Norm made his way toward the boulder, he realized that the muttering sounds grew louder and more distinct, it was a man speaking in heavily-accented English, seemingly torn between crying and giggling at the same time.

Though the man had not come into view, Norm had surmised with a great deal of certainty that he was somewhere on the other side of the boulder. He crept up to the boulder as quietly as possible, all the while trying to ignore the squish and squelch his now drenched boots and sopping clothes made each time he took a step, simultaneously praying that the still phantasmal man did not hear his approach.

He rounded the left side of the boulder, hands tightly clutching the rifle, finger hovering on the trigger guard. Dr. Norm Spellman was tired, wet, hungry, and having a really shitty day. The tall and angular brown-haired and green-eyed man thought he was ready for anything, but when he finished rounding the boulder, and reached the other side, what he saw made his fair skin turn a ghostly shade of white and his blood run cold.

The plan was simple, Frank Bastion had learned that in war, the best plans often were. But, while the troops were gathered, and their weapons readied, he needed to prepare himself for the challenges that lay ahead. Though he had become lax in his faith during recent years, he had found himself praying just moments before. Even now, after his prayer, he wore the medallion of Saint Sebastian, hoping that the Patron Saint of Soldiers would see his cause worthy, and grant him a little luck.

What was he doing? Why was he intent on doing all of this?

Frank had heard rumors over the past few days about Jake Sully going AWOL, as well as the trouble he was causing for the RDA, and though he did not personally know the man, he had decided that he wanted to shake his hand. Frank had grown up in Ireland, amid domestic fighting and oppression of religious and cultural beliefs, and had spent his adolescent years and early adulthood trying to gain the freedom to be his own man. So, on that level, he could respect the Na'vi, and their struggle for the land and life they so richly deserved.

Shortly after learning of Quaritch's planned genocide, Frank had reacted in silent disgust, and decided that he could no longer stomach any activities that, while benefiting the greater good of humanity, resulted in the slaughter of innocents. His hands would not be stained with the blood of lambs. There were other hushed pockets of protest, and he had seized upon those, to gather men that felt as he did.

He now had a squad of 12, counting himself, that would attack central points crucial to the defense of Hell's Gate. They would take control of those areas, and by doing so, render the remaining forces within the base impotent. If everything went according to plan, they would then allow a party of Na'vi warriors to occupy the base and share control.

After that, they would just have to make things up as they went along...

For now, he sat in his bunk, which was little more than a five-by-ten foot steel closet, that he shared with a bloke named Will Archer, in this struggle they were compatriots, but the man was elsewhere, presumably readying himself as well.

Moments before his impromptu prayer Bastion had consumed a vacuum-sealed bag of dried apples, and was now enjoying a snifter-sized portion of whiskey, from a dented metal flask. The alcohol warmed his belly like liquid fire, and eased his mind, as he resigned himself to the task at hand.

All that was left now, was to wait, word had traveled (such as these things did), that the fight was not going well for the RDA. That the forces were in retreat, and Quaritch was missing in action. That had been almost an hour and a half ago.

"Sully, old boy?" Bastion asked the room quietly, "did you get yourself a piece of the devil?"

Hopefully, they would know soon, he had asked Dr. Patel to contact the man, and inform them of their intentions. With or without the Na'vi, they would strike in an hour.