The colonel was driven to the barracks on the bed of a heavy-duty truck. He jostled about among the rattling gravel as he lay back to watch the oncoming twilight. The darkening expanse was dominated by the gas giant, Polyphemus—Pandora being but one of the bigamists' many moons and the envied Favourite among her barren sisters. Quaritch could only observe this planet as something to look at, as he was no Van Gogh—someone who might've spent hours gazing at its surface to then depreciate his own masterpieces in comparison to the streams of swirling blue wonder. Rather than admiring beauty, Miles' attentions were wrapped up in the nostalgia of his surroundings. It harkened back to days buried in his distant past—days of him being driven home in the back of his father's pickup, wearing overalls caked in mud after fighting one of his friends who cried, "Foul!" at a "ball." He'd watch the rolling acres of yellow farmland, the once green section of America turned barren by the dust bowl, and wonder why his family was dumb enough to scratch out a living in that hellscape while others migrated to the cities. He learned to appreciate their hardiness when he got older after witnessing the nightmare of overpopulated cities with their weak and dying residents. It drove him to the military, where he found kinship among the strong: fellow grunts from other backsides of hell who didn't mind a bloody nose or getting caked in mud.

The truck stopped, and Quaritch looked around with surprise. They had reached the recombinant barracks located against the inner wall of Bridgehead, but what he hadn't expected was a homestead straight out of his childhood. It was a row of a dozen adjacent cabins, each with a porch and barred windows draped with mosquito nets. The primitive structure, juxtaposition against the highly militarised one-hundred-foot wall, made for a curious sight. Quaritch jumped off the truck bed and landed with a satisfying thud on the soft dirt. He stepped aside to give the driver plenty of room to perform his U-turn, as he was a tired worker, eager to get back to the human quarters and call it a day.

Now alone, Quaritch stood like a minaret on the flatlands, casting a long shadow. He looked out at the greater structures in the distance and was grateful to be away from them at last—away from the din of machinery and the air thick with debris.

His ears flicked to pick up the sound of Wainfleet on approach.

"What was the general like?"

"Piece of work," he grumbled.

Lyle paused pensively, and his ears went flat. "You know they have Na'vi living on-site?"

"I know, those are the serfs. Bridgehead's using them to work the fields over there."

Lyle studied his stony expression, hoping he'd explain further. "They're cooking our food right now. Have they been instructed to serve us like domestics or something? Their living quarters are right across that field from ours," he felt the need to point out; the proximity was bothering him and everyone else.

Quaritch sighed in frustration. "That's because Ardmore wants us to keep them in line and make sure they don't act up."

Lyle stripped off his blue shades, revealing a look of surprise. "They brought us back to babysit?"

"No. Only a part of it."

"Then are we here to fight the Na'vi or what?"

"Look, I'm not happy about the situation either," Quaritch snapped, the day finally catching up with him. "We still got enemy combatants skulking in the jungle, but it's a different world now than what we knew at Hell's Gate—this is a colony, not a mining operation, so if the higher-ups want us to moonlight as plantation masters, we toe the line."

Lyle nodded dully, about as happy with this arrangement as his surly colonel. "Do we get a cat o' nine tails?" he drawled sarcastically.

Quaritch returned Lyle's comment with an impish grin. "You could probably borrow one from Ardmore. She was flaying one of the devils when I spoke with her."

"Are you serious?"

He nodded back, and Wainfleet stood by his side, now looking at the human civilization with a new sense of fear. "Where the hell are we?"

Quaritch exhaled. "Pandora."

Inside the cookhouse that sat comfortably next to the barracks, all the recombinants gathered at a long table for dinner. Quaritch shuffled down to his seat between CJ and Lopez while Brown sat opposite with his ball cap scrunched under his arm.

"So, was she a 'big woman'?" Fike snickered.

The colonel cocked his head, then recalled Serrano's faux pas. "She was rather small, actually, but compensated in other ways. You'll recognize her for the rawhide she carries on her belt."

"A rawhide?" Walker drawled in an Acadian accent. "She got a kink or something?"

"She doesn't use that on the soldiers, does she?" Warren feared.

Quaritch shook his head. "She saves that privilege for Serrano."

The team chuckled; the governor's secret BDSM relationship with Mama Ardmore was now canon in their dirty minds.

To everyone's surprise, several Na'vi walked in at that moment, carrying their food. They were dressed in civilian clothes and would be mistaken for avatars until you noticed their absent eyebrows and fifth finger. Quaritch followed their sluggish movements for any sign of hostile intent, but their downcast eyes carried no fire of malice, and they walked back out as silently as they entered. Quaritch could breathe again.

Fike leaned to Wainfleet. "What's with the blue Help?"

"Just another thing we're going to have to get used to, Fike," his colonel replied. "For starters, I'm not your colonel anymore, kids."

Everyone was struck dumb by the sudden announcement.

"As you know by now, our great countries, along with the Marine Corp, is gone. We're now fresh recruits in Bridgehead's new Charlie Foxtrot of a military, the HAF. Therefore, addressing me as a colonel is a violation of the chain of command. Since everyone at this table holds equal rank, you can call me Miles if you like."

Among all the uncertain murmurings, Quaritch overheard one ask, "His name is Miles?"

"Can we still consider you our colonel?" Lyle entreated.

"Only if it stays among ourselves. Now, we'll have to pick a team leader, but we'll do it democratically—suggest a candidate and hold a vote."

Every recom at the table gave Quaritch a knowing look, to which he bowed his blushing face. "Alright, alright." He waved off.

"And here I was going to nominate Wainfleet," Prager quipped.

The obliging colonel smiled at his corporal. "You want to run against me, Lyle?"

"Hell no, sir. I forfeit."

With the matter settled, along with a sprinkling of good humour, the hungry soldiers commenced with dinner. That's when they noticed their food. It had been served to them on leaf plates: an array of fleshy pomes, drupes, and achenes—all stripped of their edible seeds, which were, in turn, offered as a pungent dish. For the recoms, it was a strange, inedible-looking mess.

Lopez grimaced at his meal, lifting up a pulpy mass of flesh with his fork before letting it fall back into its juices. Mansk bent his head low to sniff his meal, whereas Walker just openly sneered at hers.

"How do we eat this?" Alexander complained.

"Oh, s***! That thing moved!" CJ yelped, discovering grubs were a part of the course.

Prager flicked the worms off his plate onto hers. "Grubs up."

"Prager, you're such a dick! Cut that out!" Once the men realized it got a reaction from her, they all leaned over to pile their maggots onto her plate. "You creeps are so juvenile!"

"You know grubs are a highly nutritious food source, CJ."

"Then you eat one!" she replied haughtily, flicking one at Brown. He freaked out and hastened to brush it off his shirt, to everyone's amusement.

"Why don't you? Since you're making such a fuss?" Quaritch suggested, then followed up with a cocky shimmy of his head. "Or are you chicken?"

Casey Jones Zdinarsk was the valley girl from Long Beach who had never backed down from a challenge. Her childhood days were spent on her skateboard, attempting jumps that often ended in trips to the ER, but once the cast came off and the stitches removed, she'd head right back out to try it again. Her colonel regarded her as one of his best, and here she was, freaking out over bugs. CJ knew there was only one way to save face.

Casey picked up the grub.

The men's eyes widened as she drew up the wriggling mass, followed by a chant of anticipation. She tightened her lips, trying to mentally picture a candy bar rather than a pulpy worm, before opening her mouth to let the "food" dangle over her extended tongue. Then, just like that, she swallowed it whole. CJ convulsed immediately, but when the men thought she'd spew it back up, she gave her chest a hard smack and choked it back down.

The room blew up with impressed whoops and howls. CJ high-fived her colonel, who was wiping away tears of laughter before downing one himself in solidarity—to his instant regret. Seeing their colonel struggle to eat the grub sent their boisterous uproar to new decibels. They were already close to falling off their seats, but when CJ unexpectedly belched for a strong second, everyone was on the floor. The servants outside exchanged frightened looks from the noise, but it was nothing more than a crash of Marines having their first real good laugh in fifteen years.

After dinner and a trip to the showers, the recoms retired to their beds. To their surprise, each member was given their own cabin—it was above and beyond being designated a single bunk in a communal room.

Quaritch took the one farthest right, as it was the closest to the serfs; if any of them tried anything, he'd be the first to know. He looked about his room. The floorboards creaked so loudly beneath his great weight that he wasn't sure if they'd hold. After a few jumps assured him that they would, he stripped to his shorts.

He leaned against the ledge of the window that surveyed the defence wall. His skin was bathed in the cool glow of Polyphemus' reflected light; Pandoran nights never reached total blackness, thanks to the Father's shining face. The specks on Quaritch's body shimmered with joy upon seeing their faint siblings above. He observed just how prominent their glow was and studied the curling patterns they made around his streaked forearm. America may have been gone, but through him, the stars and stripes lived on.

His nose scrunched up as he took in the smells that he had ignored earlier. Over the sharp metallic scent that dominated the air, he picked up hints of the jungle beyond. The dew that rolled down the beanstalk palm, the frass of insects that feasted on its leaves—admixed by the miasma of Bridgehead—he could smell all of it but hadn't yet learnt how to distinguish the ingredients in his mind.

An animal's cry suddenly pierced the air, quickly followed by rapid gunfire, and then—silence; the kill zone that bordered the city had served its purpose once again. Quaritch recognized the owner behind the distinct protracted bellow; they called it a "great leonopteryx." To the Na'vi, it was toruk. No matter its name, it was a nightmare thought up by Lucifer himself, with its colours of Hell, damning anyone it encountered to a violent end. Quaritch had heard its cry only once before, but it was enough to burn itself onto his memory. Before he knew it, he was taken back to that battle: The Assault on the Tree of Souls.

From within his gunship's cockpit, a streak of fire passed overhead. There, riding atop the beast's elongated neck, was Jake Sully, painted up like a barbarian and slaughtering every human in sight. The colonel's fast acting stopped Sully from debilitating the ship's engines with a well-timed grenade, but Jake was faster yet. Dislodging a missile from its dock, Jake threw it into their rotary blade, consigning the Dragon Assault Ship and the two dozen lives aboard into a fireball that detonated across the canopies. Only the colonel survived by jumping out last minute from within the safety of his AMP suit. After landing in the thick jungle below, with ashes of his former glory blowing past his face, Quaritch sought out Jake for one last showdown.

A pain rose in Miles' chest, forcing him to pull away and massage the area. Rubbing off the sweat collected on his forehead, he finished getting ready for bed. He put away his tactical gear in a trunk and rolled it underneath his bunk when he noticed there, on a floor-level shelf, was a set of books large enough for his hands. One read "The Secret Life of Pandora." He raised a brow at the author's judgement in selecting a title so evocative. His curiosity had him draw it out, discovering the sticky note plastered on the front, which read "Required reading for your curriculum - Selfridge."

"The training program…" Quaritch grumbled.

He remembered what Ardmore said about needing to undergo one before they could get their stripes, so to speak. He knew from experience it wouldn't just be early morning drills—no, that would be the fun part; the rest would be tedious classes filled with PowerPoint presentations on the dumbest subjects imaginable.

Judging by the book in his hand, looking like a veritable doctrine of Pandora, it was going to be an eye-roller indeed. He plopped onto his bunk to skim through it. It served as layman's introduction to the inner workings of the complex moon. A whole section was dedicated to the naturally occurring global neural network that the Na'vi would access using their kuru or 'queue'—Quaritch skipped it. He flipped to the back, where he fell upon the list of contributors and discovered a name he recognized; it was hard to miss, being the header of the page and written in bold letters.

The better portion of this book owes its existence to the
recovered notes of the brilliant Dr. Grace Augustine. Missing as of—

"Augustine." Now, that was a name he recalled with a snigger: a full-of-it redhead with a temperament as nasty as her smoker's breath. She came to the world in the year 2124, fifteen years before him, when Hell's Gate was still in its early stages. Their paths didn't cross officially until she became head of the avatar program, and he was their chief of security. He saw their puppet show as a threat to the safety of his workers, believing their constant interactions with the Na'vi would only embolden them to attack—which it did. A band of them set fire to thousands of dollars in mining equipment, killing two miners in the process before escaping into the jungle. He ordered a pursuit, and the insurgents were swiftly taken out.

The following night, as he was having dinner, Grace Augustine stormed into the mess hall to upbraid him then and there, calling him a child murderer, claiming that those "insurgents" were actually kids—kids from her school that had gotten in over their heads and fled to the schoolhouse for protection; only, they brought the pursuing soldiers to the doorstep, and the result was pedicide. The colonel didn't see it that way; he was a man doing his job, and if an enemy combatant opens fire, you retaliate. He had enough of the deluded woman's preaching about the Na'vi's perfect way of life and told her outright. Their working relationship was forever steeped in acrimony after that, with their infamous argument being the subject of gossip around the water cooler for months. You would never believe that during his first year on Pandora, over a drink at the canteen, Quaritch had flirted with the young and attractive xenobotanist—a footnote in the annals of history that neither would ever admit to.

He reminisced all this as he set aside the book and lay back in bed. Until now, he had forgotten all about Grace Augustine. The last he heard of her, she was escaping Hell's Gate on a stolen tiltrotor with her rag-tag team of tree-hugging freaks. As his eyes followed the undulating grooves in the boards above, he wondered what became of that woman; a traitor still living among the Omatikaya, no doubt; herself, dressed up in beads and a loin-cloth, going about hugging every damn tree in sight—or worse. Quaritch was juvenile enough to snicker at the visual before drifting off to sleep.