The Valkyrie ship pierced through the dense cloud layer and injected into the troposphere the evolved version of the human virus: the recombinants. Secured to their seats and packed like sardines against the wall—six on one side, six on the other—they buffeted the turbulence as they made their approach. The terse voice over the intercom instructed the "blue freaks" to get their packs ready and not dawdle when they hit tarmac. When the hatch finally lowered, Pandora's breath rushed in to greet them, and their lungs heaved with excitement as they greedily took in all her scent. Invigorated, they threw on their loads and rolled out.
The thunder of their footfalls marching down the platform alerted everyone nearby that something new had come into town. Some gave looks of awe, while others only saw the body of their enemy and eyed them with fear; either way, the recoms were too focused to notice the attention they garnered.
At the edge of the airfield, they were awaited by Bridgehead's appointed governor, Ismael Serrano. He was a tall, handsome man whose origins came from somewhere in the Caribbean. He had a polished look about him, friendly even, but an air of fakeness behind that expensive smile, which glinted even through his visor. The soldiers—hair trimmed and properly outfitted—lined up in front of their governor to offer their salute.
"Welcome to Bridgehead," he radiated. "We're glad to have you with us at last. It was five years ago to this day I signed the approval for your creation—understand you were built with the sole intention of protecting the last of humanity. You have the skilled memories of our fallen soldiers and the physical advantages of the Na'vi. We're placing very high hopes in you gentlemen."
Quaritch scrunched his brow as the men abreast of him mumbled their confusion. He didn't like being addressed like a product off an assembly line, let alone an imitation. "We are happy to serve this cause, sir. Understand, we gave our lives for it already," he countered.
"The men you came from did. Now it's your turn to impress."
"You're talking like I'm my own son," he chortled.
"Not son, but close enough. Redux. A better version than before. Tougher. Stronger." The importunate man smiled back, pumping his fist in the air in hopes of rousing Quaritch to the cause.
"But, I am the colonel," he stated, stopping short of calling him a numbskull.
The governor's steel smile showed no signs of capitulating. He had his speech prepared and wasn't about to be deterred by back-talk. "You will have that sensation for some time. Identifying with whom you came from is encouraged to help ground your resolve during the adjustment phase of your reconditioning."
Quaritch stepped forward and gave him a suspicious glare. "What did they tell you about recombinants exactly?"
"That you were made using the memories of dead soldiers who backed up their minds before battle."
Quaritch squatted on his knees to look him in the eye. "So, why do I remember dying?"
Serrano froze, and the richness of his dark skin faded to white. He wasn't just looking at a ghost; he'd been facing a whole host of them. "Y-You remember dying?"
Quaritch bared his teeth for the most threatening smile. "Down to the rigour mortis."
Serrano stepped back and began whispering to his entourage, from which the idle recombinants learned that Parker had a lot of "explaining to do." Serrano returned his attention to the recoms, but this time, without the smile. "This is an unforeseen turn of events. We were told you'd be copies, not—"
"Summoned by a necromancer?" CJ grinned.
At that moment, Parker came running down the tarmac, struggling to hold up the attaché case underneath his arm. He caught up with the recoms and leaned against one of their legs, attempting to catch his breath. "I'm here," he panted.
Serrano scowled at Selfridge with a look that screamed, "Speak of the devil." "Parker," he greeted. "I was just informed by the recombinants that they remember dying."
"I'm sorry—change in plans. I know being up in orbit made communications difficult. But, uh… Yeah. These guys are hundred percent the soldiers that…" Parker stalled on his sentence.
"Died?" Quaritch finished.
"Yes, a hundred percent the soldiers that died. Not copies."
Ismael stepped towards Selfridge to argue under his breath. "How could you fail to explain something that important? Having soldiers who've experienced the actual trauma of death could make them more susceptible!"
Parker whispered back to Ismael, partly to assuage his superior's anger with low, non-threatening tones. "Look, you've already made preparations for them to undergo a psychological assessment. You can address this then. Maybe you'll find that their experience has made them stronger?"
"You're on thin ice, Parker. Remember that. Don't screw up your last chance to impress the investors," Ismael retorted before returning to the recoms. "You'll be driven to your accommodations located near the south gate. Except you." He was referring to Quaritch but was reluctant to address the "ghost" by his mortal name. "Leave your pack here. Our military chief of staff, General Ardmore, wishes to speak with you."
The colonel turned to the others. "Alright, the rest of you stay on your best behaviour. We'll regroup after I pay the big man a visit."
"Big woman," Ismael clarified.
Quaritch glanced down at him with an awkward half-smile, and the governor realized just how stupid the phrasing of that gender reveal sounded—even Parker gave him a look. Serrano tightened his posture, straightened his tie and walked away, vowing to never let a first encounter go that badly again.
After Serrano departed, Quaritch addressed Selfridge. "I don't mean to pry, but where exactly do you sit on this food chain?"
Parker grew nervous. "Me? I'm the overseer."
"Overseer of what?" asked Fike, coming up behind him.
Selfridge fidgeted as he found himself surrounded by columns of muscle. "Of Project Phoenix."
The colonel, along with the others, noticed the label "PROJ PHNX" printed on their tactical vests.
"You guys were my idea, so I'm in charge."
"You're not in charge of anything else?" Lyle wondered, squatting to the man's level. Parker shook his head.
Quaritch was sniggering at that point when he squeaked out the words, "You've been demoted to our babysitter?" and that's when Parker lost it.
"Look! Things went south after the expulsion from Hell's Gate. I lost my job. I lost my dignity. So when I came forward and told the shareholders—investors—I had a plan that could turn things around, I finally earned back some respect. So don't talk down to me like that! I'm the reason you're back among the living, understand?" he thundered in one continuous breath.
After his harangue was over, the recoms looked among themselves as they waited for their colonel to reply. He paused, licked the top of his lip in a sardonic grin and asked, "Do we call you 'Papa'?"
All of Parker's "kids" muffled their sniggers.
Quaritch knew this former administrator had no clue what he was actually in for. The higher-ups weren't giving him an opportunity to get back in their good graces; he was being punished for losing Hell's Gate by getting saddled with a bunch of boisterous super-soldiers—a dynamic Quaritch was looking very forward to.
A soldier equipped in a SKEL suit, a metal exoskeleton that mimicked the Na'vi height and strength, escorted the colonel to Ardmore. They walked down a dirt pathway polluted with dust due to the constant construction work; it didn't bother his escort, who was protected by his visor, but Quaritch suffered all of it; however, the pain of hacking every other second was nothing compared to the assault on his ears. After openly complaining about the noise, the soldier stated in reply that the construction would be ongoing for another four years. He then looked askance at Quaritch, commenting they were yards away from where the actual work was being done.
The escort stopped in front of a towering structure and pointed him in the general direction of Ardmore before taking off. If the speed at which he ran wasn't enough of a clue, it was the cries of pain shooting up from behind the tower.
Spitting out the last bit of gravel that collected in his throat, Quaritch turned the bend which led onto an open plot, and what he saw was a lithographic illustration straight out of a history book. There, in the centre of the morbid scene, was Ardmore, strapped into a SKEL suit and brandishing a whip. Before her was a Na'vi adolescent, stripped to his loincloth and hanging by his wrists against a wooden pole, his back marbled with bruises.
The woman of forty-something had no emotion on her face as she carried out her task, and neither did Quaritch as he approached.
"General Ardmore." He saluted.
She gave him the once over. "Quaritch. Be with you in a moment."
Ardmore's whip came down, and the boy's cries fired out across the wasted land; it was the last the adolescent could endure, and he fainted from his wounds. Satisfied with her day's work, she coiled up her weapon, then shook Quaritch's hand with that of her SKEL suit. "Welcome to Humanity's Armed Forces, or HAF. Unlike our obscene predecessor—nothing more than a band of hired mercenaries—our cause is noble—defending the last of mankind. Hope you can get used to the change."
"I'm honoured to serve, ma'am." Looking at the boy, his curiosity compelled him to ask, "Is that a POW?"
"Serf," she corrected, directing him to the fields off in the distance. "That, there, is where we grow the soy-vein plants. Chimaeras—like you—grown in a lab. We're trying to synthesize food that can grow on this moon and still be fit for human consumption. Given the vegetation's enormous size, we found it simpler to apply Na'vi to the task of fieldwork."
"What about avatars?"
"We don't do the avatar program anymore—waste of resources. We have to be as frugal as possible to maintain this city. It's not like we can expect a shipment from Earth, bringing in the supplies we need. Everything here runs on what we're able to make ourselves. We may be an advanced civilization, but we're still in the pioneer phase of things."
She then nodded towards her victim. "The boy is Anurai. We took in most of their clan after dealing with their warriors. They're skilled artisans, you know. Their work sells for a lot around here, so make it a point not to damage their hands when you administer punishment."
The colonel's brows knitted. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Your barracks sit right on the plantation. Part of your job will be keeping them in line and making sure they obey Bridgehead rules. The corporate s***s think they can just assign these savages to farm duty, and all would be well. No one pays attention to them, so I do. As the chief of staff, I'd be endangering the lives of my own men if I didn't appreciate their potential threat. You have to be firm with this kind. They are as feral as the animals they resemble. They don't understand much else but this," she warned, holding up the rawhide with a firm shake.
"Old-fashioned"—he nodded, studying the weapon not of human make—"but effective."
"This isn't the colonial days of Tennessee, Colonel," she chided in a surly tone that confused him. "I'm not some plantation owner whipping a black. That, there, is a hostile alien. And don't go turning soft for them just because you're playing dress-up."
Quaritch gave her one slow, controlled nod. He respected her role, he respected her uniform, and he respected her reasoning, but found he had to fight the overwhelming urge to hiss. If not for his cultivated discipline, it would've erupted out of him on sole reflex.
"I've heard a lot about you," she said dismissively. "You served ten years as chief of security back during the mining days. Had nothing but good things on your report. Then you launched a coup and got one hundred people killed."
The comment knocked him back, but he didn't show it. "The Na'vi were going to launch a full-scale attack. I had no choice but to commandeer operations."
"Didn't make it a habit to read your contract, huh? Their actions automatically turned the area into a warzone, so taking the offence made you"—her steely finger rapped his tight chest—"an unlawful combatant—placing your company into some pretty deep legal s***. Not very responsible of you, Quaritch. And let's not forget how your 'preemptive attack' consummated the war between mankind and an entire alien race. Considering how touchy the Geneva Convention is about that sort of thing, you would've come back home to a firing squad—if the Na'vi didn't beat us to it."
He stood there and took it all without a single muscle twitch. "In my defence, my directive was to defend Hell's Gate. What should I have done instead?"
"You could've ordered a retreat off the moon."
"Then Hell's Gate would be taken and destroyed."
"And no lives lost."
Quaritch was silent.
"I meet types like you all the time in the army. One bad encounter with the enemy,"—she pulled her fingers over her face, purposely mimicking the set of scars awarded to the colonel on his first day —"and you make it your life's goal to get revenge. You forget the bigger picture, like the lives you're supposed to be protecting. I make it my goal to always keep the main thing in mind. That kind of empathy goes a long way, Quaritch. Hence, why I am giving you this second chance. After all, you can redeem yourself by helping us deal with all the bats*** crazy animals your little stunt set off. But before I let you get anywhere near any action, I want to see you brought to your knees first. And even then, I still won't trust you.
"You are to start from the ground up, Quaritch, like all the other recoms. You'll be confined to Bridgehead until you graduate from your training program. If any of you fail to pass this program, you'll be nothing more to us than expensive wastes—no more tolerated than the smurfs." Once again, she used her head to direct him towards her victim.
Quaritch gave Ardmore one last nod before turning on his heel. He had a lot of thoughts about that encounter, which didn't come to him till later, but at that moment, as the colonel walked away, all he could think of was how much he didn't like her scent.