One Year Later
The window panels slid shut with an ominous finality. The auditorium went black, leaving only the lambent patterns of the twelve seated figures. Then, with the press of a button, a large screen powered on; its dull white glow silhouetted Ardmore as she strolled in front.
"You've been living a cushy life up until this point," she announced coolly. "You may have graduated, but make no mistake, those patches on your chest mean nothing till you give us a win. Your very existence has cost Bridgehead a king's ransom each, and the big boys want a return on their investment. My job is to see to it that they get it. Now, I'm not sending you kittens out to play peek-a-boo in the forest just to pick off a few Na'vi. We've got bigger fish to fry." She flicked up her remote, and the green schematics of Hell's Gate materialized onscreen.
"Hell's Gate. For five years now, we've been trying to take it back. Our last attempt ended in disaster. We found the old base was two hundred strong, and not only that,"—she flicked her remote again, and images from their failed mission displayed onscreen—"Sully had placed a ring of mines around the base that took out the majority of our troops. The gunships not assaulted by banshees were destroyed by explosive arrows. Ye-up, you heard right—explosive arrows. After twenty thousand years of eating mud, the barbarians finally decided to evolve.
"Inside the old Habmod, you'll find there's some obstinate buggers still holding out. Since the human race is critically endangered, we want those people brought here safe and sound. It's why we haven't resorted to just gassing the area. The amount needed to kill a Na'vi would seep through the structure's filtering and wipe them out instantly. Sully's using them as a shield."
Ardmore switched the screen to an orbital image of Hometree. "This is site 0823-K, a.k.a. Hometree. You know it. You know what we did. The only thing left to do is mine it. Once we have Hell's Gate again, we'll be using it as a base to streamline excavation. So before you bring your blue tails back, you're to check on the potentially usable mining equipment parked nearby and determine if it's functional.
"Long and short, since none of our attempts have been successful, it will be up to you twelve to recapture the base, and I'm not crossing my fingers."
The recombinants' murmurings filled the ears of Quaritch. He hushed their doubts with a staunch "Affirmative."
"Good," she chirped. "Our intel gathered from the defectors tells us this is Sully's top commander. His name is Anotang."
She struck another button, and what displayed onscreen was the graphic playback from a soldier's body cam. The unlucky man was gutted by a Na'vi spear, and Quaritch grimaced in empathy. She freeze-framed the exact moment the gigantic shaft skewered the man's stomach and zoomed in on his killer's contorted face.
"He is a shrewd and adaptive military strategist. And, from what we're told, a close friend of Sully. Do not underestimate the threat he poses to your team."
Quaritch's eyes followed the deep cuts running across the left side of Anotang's face. The three lines of healed-over flesh bore a striking resemblance to his old scars. The moment she mentioned he was Sully's friend, Quaritch marked him for death.
The colonel had everyone gather around the digital map of Hell's Gate, projected from a computer table. His teal fingers cut through the holographic display to guide his men through their discussed route. He already knew the base by heart; it had been his home for fifteen years. Personal experience taught him the best ways of defending it; all he had to do was ask himself, "How smart was Sully?" He wasn't going to underestimate him, not this time.
His plan was simple; since overt didn't work, they would go covert. Under the cover of darkness, they would sneak onto the base via the old unobtanium refinery, then fan out to key points and encircle the airfield where the warriors encamped. On Quaritch's signal, they would open fire, with their snipers in the trees picking off combatants from afar. Flash grenades and flares would be used to scare off the warrior's ikrans and stun the enemy. Quaritch's tactic was pandemonium: a crude method, but it worked for Gideon.
The first hurdle was getting there. With night flights being too risky, the plan was to drop them off at a location close enough to Hell's Gate, then trek the remainder on foot. The team would have to be on constant alert for enemies. In the jungles of Pandora, it's not a question of if you're being watched, but by whom and how many.
It was early dawn, and the ashen light of Polyphemus lent only a dull illumination. The haze of Bridgehead blurred the horizon, causing the images of the sister moons to dance chaotically—the overworked city was already sweating from its own insufferable heat.
Gear on their backs, Quaritch and Wainfleet made their way down the airfield. Their boots struck asphalt with a weight that excited awe, and the pilots tending to the aircrafts couldn't help but steal glances—if statues of Roman gladiators were animated by some dark mage, they would've attracted the same fearful stares.
The other recombinants were waiting near gunships. They saluted their colonel upon his arrival and gathered around him, not just for a debriefing but for a last moment of respite before their mission began.
"This is it, kids. We've trained long and hard for this day." He pursed his thin lips as he studied the straightness of their backs; they were resolved. "Once we leave asphalt, we enter hostile territory. You know what's out there. We tasted it before. We know what it's like to be eaten alive, crushed underfoot, gutted by arrows—death doesn't scare us."
Lips flicked up on the formerly grim faces as they nodded, nearly snickering, in full agreement.
Quaritch stripped his shades. "That's not what's at stake here. For a whole year, we've been spoiled rotten by our own company. We forget the fact that there are no other recoms. It's just us twelve. And if that number changes, it will only go down." He watched them intently as they looked to their closest buddies; people inches from them today could be beyond their reach tomorrow—forever—and that thought struck them more than the trauma of their own death.
"There's no one else like us. And there'll never be others like us. All we have is each other…for as long as we can make that last." He was as stalwart as they'd always known him, but there was something else in his demeanour, something new. For a moment, the recombinants saw not their colonel but a ghost from their past—that dependable male relation their adolescent eyes would turn to when the world was upside down. "We are not human. We are not Na'vi." He paused.
"We are family."
Then, one by one, they surrounded him. A hand pressed to a back, a head to a cheek, an arm to a shoulder, and the team locked into a huddle. For a long while, they stood in silence. Let God or the devil try; nothing would break that palisade. Theirs was a strength that relied not on muscle nor weapon but a force invisible; and one their leader knew would ensure their survival.
Heavy rainfall assaulted the gunships as they sailed over the canopy. The flying beasts hovered over a section of trees, and the leaves around trembled in fright. Tendrils uncoiled from their metal stomachs, and from its strands, slid the recombinants into the jungle.
Boots crashed into the grass bed, leaving deep impressions that pooled with brown water. Quaritch pressed his throat comm—a noticeable black band that hugged his neck—and informed the pilots they were good to go. The gunships pitched and returned to the direction of Bridgehead, with their bellows fading behind the noise of rainfall.
The jungle was a dark, cheerless grey. There was no glow—no magic—nothing but an occasional screech in the distance, but the unpleasant downpour still had its benefits; it would wash away the recoms' scent trail, and the mist would obscure them from view.
"Keep your eyes and ears on alert," Quaritch ordered. "If you use 'em right, they're more accurate than your instruments. Move out."
With cat-like tread, the Deja Blus slipped into their first Pandoran course: a flooded grove of warbonnets. The towering palms, laden by the showers, arched significantly, dipping their iridescent blades into the pool, forming cages the soldiers ducked under as they waded through. Soon the turbid water was as high as their chests, and the recom team had no choice but to raise their assault weapons above their heads to keep them dry. The thick, obstinate mud—refusing to readily release their feet—caused many to stumble and find balance against the warbonnet's rubbery stalks. Most wore beards of mud by the time they finally reached the end of that undertaking, only to find a new one awaiting them.
For many miles, they endured the rain, wading across rivers and plodding through quagmires, with their shivering ears pivoting—flicking off the collecting droplets—to hone in on the faintest of sounds.
Suddenly, an eerie wail brought all of them to a halt. Anxious, they waited in complete stillness for the predator to emerge from the ominous mist. Wainfleet had his assault rifle drawn, but Quaritch pressed the barrel down. "Banshee of Paradise—a plant," he uttered. "It makes a wailing sound when wind blows through its stalk."
"I don't remember hearing that in class," Lyle whispered back.
"I read it in a book," Quaritch dismissed, and they continued on their way.
It was nearing evening by the time Hell's Gate came into view, and atop the mountain range that hugged the base's perimeter, they inched, on their stomachs, towards a bluff. Dense foliage gave them cover as each set of eyes subtly peered to spy their target, quickly accounting, thanks to their acute vision, a gross of Na'vi populating the airfield. Quaritch rubbed the saline mud from his face before bringing up his binoculars. "They got a watcher on every tower." He sniffed.
Zhâng also surveyed the scene with binoculars. "Their patrols seem timed. Eyes on every blind spot. See how they turn?"
"I see it. They know their weak points."
"How will we get past them?" Zhâng replied, handing his binoculars to CJ.
"We'll find a way."
Warren rubbed his protruding brow. "The place is filled with the striped devils. How are we expected to take back the base when there's only twelve of us?"
"Running Eagle," Wainfleet remarked, and his colonel raised his pleased brows.
"Running Eagle."
The commander of the Deja Blus waited till dusk before leading his team further. They were in the warriors' hunting region, increasing their risk of detection; however, Quaritch read that they did not favour hunting at night due to the viperwolves, so cautiously, the special operations unit crawled through the undergrowth.
Their bodies' bioluminescence made for perfect camouflage among the equally brilliant flora, but it could not hide their natural smell from the nocturnal predators. Periodically, the viperwolves' hellish cackles would echo through the maze of trees, further distorting their terrifying sounds. The colonel also read that packs of up to thirty viperwolves could rove the forest at once, all with voracious appetites.
The hellhounds' laughter crescendoed.
Quickly, Quaritch directed everyone to scale the trees. Digging their fingers into the bark with their wet pack straps abrading their skin, the team made their ascent. Lopez was the most exhausted and struggled to climb. The others were already safe in the branches before he was four metres off the ground. Brown reached his hand down to help him up when a viperwolf shot out from the bush. The six-legged canine lept up the trunk and clamped onto Lopez's foot. Its adamant teeth dug into his skin as it tried dragging him to the ground. Immediately, Brown sprung from the branch and jumped full upon the viperwolf. They stumbled down the length of the tree, and the beast was killed on impact. Brown made to get up but found himself staring into the glowing eyes of its hungry pack mates. Their gaping, salivating jaws had the recombinant frozen in fear. He was ready to be devoured when Mansk and Prager suddenly catapulted from the tree, baring their fangs to frighten the animals back. The other soldiers followed suit. With all eleven standing in their way, the creatures of opportunity shied from their prey, knowing better than to take on a pride of recombinants.
Howling in defeat, their lithe bodies leapt over fronds, and the pack disappeared as quickly as they came. In the distance, a bomb went off, and their laughter scattered—the minefield surrounding Hell's Gate. Again, Quaritch directed them all to return to the understory, having figured out how the Na'vi hunters avoided the traps.
Lopez was the first to check on their medic, who was still stunned from the encounter, but Brown waved away concerns, showing that all he sustained was a scrape. The others helped Lopez with his pack, and together, they climbed the trees once more.
With the help of their tails, the operatives balanced on branches as they made their way from tree to tree. When they came upon one with a hollow, big enough to house the whole dozen, they opted to slide into the cavity, taking a moment to rest. Quaritch didn't want to stall and ordered them all to get ready. They stripped their wet clothes and transitioned into dry body suits, pulled from their packs, before re-outfitting themselves in their plate carrier vests. They wrapped their queues around their clavicles, securing them in place, then donned gorgets of lightweight armour. After strapping on his helmet, Quaritch drew out a jar of black paint and began coating his face. "Time to get on your make-up, ladies."
The recombinants coated their exposed skin to hide their conspicuous freckles: a boon in the jungle but a death wish in the greenless world of Hell's Gate. In full gear, with black-painted faces emphasizing their yellow eyes, the recombinants lived up to the Na'vi's other word for Skypeople: vrrtep (demon).
Wainfleet and Fike were commanded to remain hidden in the branches as Quaritch led the rest of his team down the tree.
Jake and his Neytiri were arm-in-arm under the twinkling expanse. Nights like these were coveted by the lovers when there were no duties pressing upon them. They would steal to the top of Txurseng, their floating bed of rock, and lay on sheets of cool moss under the naked sky. Serenaded by the nocturnal fauna, singing in the jungles, the mated pair made love.
She rolled atop him for another kiss.
"Think we'll get lucky this time?" he whispered.
The serenity fled from her expression. Neytiri did not answer as she sat upright and faced away.
Realizing he upset her, Jake got up and leaned near her. "I'm sorry…"
"Is it The Way of Skypeople to always want more?" she replied briskly.
Jake nodded in shame. "Neytiri, I'm not ungrateful for Neteyam—"
"It is the will of Eywa we have the one," she interrupted. "It is part of the balance."
Neytiri was ever proud, but he saw through her glossy eyes that her composure was breaking down. He cupped her head and let his thumb run down the length of her high cheek.
"If I lost you…" She exhaled.
"Don't talk like that."
The princess pulled from his hold; she would be heard. "Neteyam would be all I have left. I am getting to be a Skyperson—wanting more!"
Jake nuzzled her, and the two souls comforted one another. The couple had birthed only one child, born of their first union. It was not for want of effort or time, but all the same, the miracle did not repeat. Neytiri had begun to fear something happened to her body because of the war. Jake would sooner admit it was the fault of his avatar than her womb. Norman had warned Jake that hybrids were often plagued with infertility. Him being a chimaera, a hybrid of man and Na'vi, meant his potency was questionable. When Kiri came along, Jake and Neytiri adopted her because she was in need before they knew they would later have difficulty conceiving. She was already a blessing but appreciated all the more with each barren year.
"You'll still have Kiri," he reminded her.
"I know," she sighed. "She is so unlike us, Jake. I never feel like I can be her mother. Always is she flying away. It is like you with Spider. That I am only borrowing Kiri. And one day, she will take off—for all time."
He let her head rest in the recess of his neck. Jake watched the world turn from atop his revolving mountain, ruminating on how ever-changing life was. The rock rotates by degrees until one day, you look out and realize the view is completely different, and you're left wondering how you got there.
"No matter what paths our children take, you'll always have me, Neytiri."
The team of ten could smell the pungent fumes that wafted from the refinery of Hell's Gate. Yanking away the foliage, they uncovered the steel fence and laser-cut an opening near the ground, large enough to crawl through. Peering inside the compound, they watched the patrolling guards. The Na'vi's vigilance gave them no opening to sneak past.
Quaritch signalled his team to stand by as he pulled out his walkie-talkie. "This is Blue Daddy. Over."
A voice hissed past the speakers. "Roger, Blue Daddy. This is BH-3. Over."
"Requesting payload on the devil's doorstep. Over."
Back at Bridgehead, on the colossal border wall serried with firepower, a turret pivoted in the direction of Hell's Gate, and the metal hydra stuck out one of its nine tongues. Meanwhile, somewhere in the control towers, after taking a sip of coffee, a worker finished the countdown to launch. The warhead erupted from the turret and soared into the atmosphere. Like a molten knife, the red flare sliced through the firmament with unremitting speed. The whine of its course startled both Na'vi and beast awake, who instinctively registered the sinister light as something to fear.
Throughout ancient history, comets were considered a bad omen, a sign from above that the end was nigh. The doomsday prophets who thought this were dismissed as ignorant, for the comet was a celestial phenomenon, not a harbinger of ICBMs.
Jake and Neytiri witnessed the crackling red flare. The Na'vi princess didn't understand its significance, but the veteran from the war-stricken planet understood it with terrible clarity. When his arm was pressed, he uttered with grave emphasis, "Turatan."
"Last Light?" she breathed.
His eyes mapped its trajectory. "It's headed for Hell's Gate!" He ran down into the inner labyrinth, calling his warriors. Men and women sprang from their tents with bows in hand. Neytiri was fast behind him.
"Neteyam, fly with me! Neytiri, remain and lead the clan."
"Ma Jake!"
Jake faced her, and the fear in his eyes took her back. He had been dreading this day. "We don't go to fight, Neytiri. By the time we get there, it'll already be too late. We're only bringing back survivors—if there are any." With that, Jake kissed his mate goodbye, mounted his ikran, and flew out with half the clan.
Hell's Gate came into the warhead's view. Anotang was on the Habmod tower surveying his camp when he espied the glint on the horizon. His sage eyes narrowed in on the light. The second before it hit was a moment frozen in time. A kali'weya was scurrying up a tree, hunting for insects. The ayfkio in the canopy readjusted themselves as they nuzzled their heads under their wings. A yerik stirred, licked the ear of her calf, and returned to sleep. Then, all at once, they ceased to exist.
Anotang and his men were thrown by the sonic blast. The explosion rushed over the junglescape and surrounded half the base with a wall of fire. Strewn across the ground, the warriors gaped up at the devouring inferno. Whole trees drifted into the camp as burning embers that ignited their tents. The Na'vi, who were able, rushed to stop the blaze from spreading, but the air stung with a dense smoke, threatening to choke them all to death.
Safe on the opposite side of the base, where the flames did not reach, Quaritch led his team onto the compound. They scurried through the refinery, then fanned out to their positions, unnoticed by the distracted warriors.
Anotang got up and raced to the edge of the roof to get a better view. In the chaos of the flames, he scanned the area for the Skypeople but saw no gunships or ground assault vehicles. The arrow was fired, but where was the hunter? His instincts said to look away from the chaos to the other side of the base. His eyes moved over flickering shadows and saw, there in the darkness, a figure with a Skyperson weapon. |"Down there! Behind you, brothers! Attack!"|
With their cover blown, the recombinants opened fire. The battle had begun. Mansk drew his Hydra, and a barrage of death swept the compound. Walker yanked the pin of her grenade and hurled it into the clearing.
Shrieks ran out as the Na'vi searched for their enemies, but the astringent smoke blinded them. Na'vi, with assault rifles, fired into the darkness, but most of the recombinants were already shielded behind barriers.
CJ had yet to attain her vantage point and would need to brave an exposed stretch of ground to reach it, so she made a mad dash. Her armour withstood the open fire, yet one bullet managed to land in her Achilles heel: a narrow gap under her shoulder guard. It was a one-in-a-million shot, and CJ crashed onto the asphalt in a state of shock. With her arm completely numb, she could only feel warm rivulets course down her shoulder. She forced herself onto her left side and started dragging her body towards shelter, her fingers still coiled around the weapon she could no longer use.
Being out in the open, Anotang spotted CJ immediately and was utterly taken aback. He pulled out an arrow and aimed for her face. With his bow taught and fingers ready to release, Wainfleet caught him through his viewing scope, and the figure slumped over before they could finish the deed.
Zhâng discovered CJ was down and sprinted from his cover to reach her. Throwing her across his back, he made for the same shelter Quaritch was crouched behind and laid her next to him.
"Casey!"
"It's nothing. It's nothing," she panted to her colonel.
They hurriedly pressed the wound. One glance and Quaritch assessed she'd survive it but would be out of commission for the rest of the battle. Commanding Zhâng to remain by her side, Quaritch signalled the others to close in on their targets.
With flames at their back, flares overhead, and fire shooting from the blackness beyond, the Na'vi were overwhelmed. Many were struck dead before their bows could be drawn, with corpses bordering the edge of the airfield. Then, one Na'vi espied a recombinant.
It was not a Skyperson! But a demonic imposter!
Enraged, the warrior unsheathed his curved blade and hurdled the fallen. With a blood-curdling screech and a rocketing jump, he slammed the recombinant down, but before the Na'vi could thrust his blade into the enemy's face, Quaritch swooped in and sliced the man's neck. Warren kicked off the weight then jumped to his feet, where he shared a firm nod with his colonel, and the two charged through the black curtain into the vibrant firelight with a mighty battle cry of their own.
Black smoke billowing around his legs, Quaritch raced over the burning camp, attacking whatever enemy remained. When his M69 emptied, he swung it as a club, then drew his tactical knife and crossed it with the encircling enemies. Blade against blade, the primitive versus the advanced—the recombinant felled many.
Standing alone amongst the bodies, piles of ash smouldering at his feet, Quaritch finally noticed, with alarm, the Habmod surrounded by flames. There were people inside banging desperately on the windows as the fire neared. "We got civilians trapped in the Habmod!" he alerted through his throat comm.
Brown and Mansk, being closest, made their way through the thick of battle towards the building, but the sea of fire blocked them. Parked next to the Habmod was a slash-cutter. Its neck, if lowered, would be long enough to extend past the blazing barrier and allow them to reach the building's windows.
"Sasha, can you hotwire this thing?" Brown shouted.
Sasha Mansk shot out the cockpit's windows and crawled inside the narrow compartment. With brute force, he ripped open a control panel and proceeded to work on the insides. Brown was clutched to the boom when the dead machinery suddenly resurrected in a thunderous roar. Its thirty-metre-long hydraulic joint dropped without warning, and Brown was flung in the recoil. He caught the edge and held on with one hand as his feet dangled over the inferno. With a loud grunt, he swung himself back up and ran up its neck towards the people.
The humans were amazed by the recombinants. Janine clutched her son Zachary to herself as the boy awed at the heroes. "Those guys are Na'vi!" he sang.
"They're also attacking us," Licai hurled.
"We should have left this place when we had the chance!" Janine shouted.
Through hand gestures, Brown warned them to get on their visors, but the blinking civilians didn't understand until they heard the tell-tale whine of a monstrous saw. Hands flew for the emergency breathers as a blurry disc of a thousand deadly teeth rose into view, forcing the occupants to scramble behind a hasty barrier of thrown tables. Next thing they knew, the shattering of windows rang in their covered ears, with glass, metal, and other bits of debris flying in every direction.
The saw died down, and the two recombinants jumped inside the room, shards of glass crunching beneath their boots as they carefully approached the frightened civilians.
"Remain calm," Brown assured them. "We're here to evacuate you."
"Who are you?"
"Recoms," Mansk answered, then hoisted the man who asked over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said to Brown. He proceeded outside, where he scaled the building towards the safety of the roof.
The snipers in the canopies rained well-timed fire. Few times did they miss; deadly was their accuracy. Wainfleet reloaded his rifle when a figure came up from behind—a Na'vi had spotted him in the treetops. Hatchet raised, he was ready to slice open Lyle's head when Fike caught wind. In one shot, he felled the Na'vi, and Lyle witnessed the corpse twirl down the trunk into the jungle's abyss. He blinked at his buddy, then clasped the hand on his shoulder and shook it in thanks.
For the Na'vi, the chaos worsened. Pools of blood tarnished the blackened airfield, and licking flames danced in the reflections. Quaritch was fighting like a demon. None were spared in his rampage. A Na'vi that attacked him from behind got bodily swung over his back and died from a twisted neck. Quaritch screamed at the devils to come at him, and the brave numbers answered. When the last one slumped to his feet, he sensed another coming for him.
Quaritch spun away in time to avoid a thrusted spear. He gazed up at Anotang, whose fearsome eyes raged like the fire around them. From his flapping cloak to bleeding gunshot wound, his whole body was coated in red. The stench of burning flesh and wails of the dying assaulted their senses as the two adversaries began circling one another. Anotang moved with the steadiness of a tree limb, bending but not breaking from the wind. His feet swivelled artfully, and Quaritch could not tell which direction he was going to strike. Then, with a savage yell, he came for him. By the skin of his teeth, Quaritch dodged the attack, then swung his knife. Anotang blocked it with the shaft of his weapon, knocking Quaritch's blade from his hand. The recom made a grab at his spear, and the two swung around, wrestling for control. Quaritch slid under his legs, and using all of his weight, he flipped Anotang over his head. The warrior's spear cracked in two as he crashed against the asphalt opposite Quaritch.
Both rolled off their backs onto all fours. Locked in a face-off with the lustre of their fangs glinting in the fire, Anotang hurled a beastly roar in response to the recombinant's. The lions lunged for each other; jaws snapped, and fists came down in their murderous battle. Quaritch nearly had him in a rear naked choke, but the Na'vi hurled him over his shoulder, and he was thrown upon a pile of ash. Anotang unsheathed his curved blade and came for the killing blow.
The colonel lunged.
Anotang stood frozen in his grip, gored by the tactical knife Quaritch rediscovered in the ash. His iris' contracted in the lambent fire, and the recombinant saw himself in their reflection.
Perhaps induced by the fumes or the exhaustion from fighting, for a moment, Quaritch thought he was looking through Anotang's eyes, staring helplessly at his killer's demonic visage. Disoriented by the vicarious hallucination, he slumped with him to the ground. The sight of Anotang's repeatedly gaping mouth roused Quaritch to back away, but his eyes remained fixated. His tail swayed pensively; warm blood dripped from his limp fingers as he pulled one step further from the dying warrior, trying to draw in air his lungs could no longer hold. With mouth frozen open, did the majestic Na'vi die.
"Sir? Sir?" His comm mic rang.
Quaritch pressed the receiver. "What is it, Lyle?"
"The last of the combatants have been taken out. We won."
"Good work, everyone," Quaritch announced over their airwaves.
A flock of ikrans soared high above the cloud layer in the chilling zone where toruk did not hunt. Jake led the V-formation to lessen the wind strength for the others. The sun was peeking over the horizon and illuminating the world below. The vibrant rays pooled around clouds, and their shadows stretched for miles. Jake was still in shock, tormented by the thought that everyone on Hell's Gate had been decimated, and the long flight only worsened his delirium. His glazed eyes wandered to the few mountains that floated this high in the atmosphere—Jake pitied their existence; their ascent heavenward took them away from their kin; the price of enlightenment was loneliness.
Jake wrestled his mind from the daze and tried focusing on flying.
It wasn't long before his eyes fell away again, this time to the waterfalls cascading off the mountains. They broke across the winds, where they became one with the sky to then return to their parental form as clouds and send themselves down again as rain, repeating the cycle. He dwelt on how the winds endlessly circled the moon, that endlessly circled Polyphemus, that endlessly circled its star.
Jake growled for having wandered again and struck his head, fighting to keep his mind clear.
By chance, his eyes cast upward to the white shine of the resplendent stars, and he was, once again, enwrapped by another deep thought. The stars were more visible beyond the obstructing cloud layer; the light pollution from the jungle prevented them from being enjoyed in their full glory. How beautiful their shine was, a shine he knew was but a ghost. Many of those distant stars died long ago, and only now did their light reach him, or at least, that's what he was told.
No matter what Jake did, his thoughts continued to drift like the clouds that crashed against mountain peaks and lapped over one another in waves.
The smoke on the horizon was not unexpected, but it troubled the flyers all the same. They dove downward and surveyed the area from a distance. At first, Jake was relieved to see that the blast had taken out the jungle and not the base, that is, until he saw the black dots scattered across the airfield.
|"Keep circling. I'm going in alone,"| Jake instructed as he banked his ikran to port; he wanted to keep his Na'vi far away in case a threat still lingered.
Toruk Makto landed, and when his eyes spanned the carnage, no word manifested in his stricken grief. The finest men and women he'd ever known were wasted there on that asphalt. Among the dead, Jake caught sight of a red quill bending in the breeze, and like an invisible coroner, the wind blew off the cloak, enabling Jake to identify the body.
"Anotang!"
He rushed over to him in hopes of finding any sign of life, but it was too late. The glossy eyes, the mouth frozen open in rigour mortis—Jake swallowed hard in acceptance. He drew the lids, then set the body down to cover Anotang's face with his red cloak—a friend made on the battlefield and now lost on one. Jake's mind was everywhere but dwelling on nothing as he knelt over the body and clung to it.
"Kìyevame," his voice cracked in Anotang's ear. "Eywa ngahu livu…"
At the top of the Habmod tower, the humans sat in the centre, surrounded by all twelve recombinants. CJ was in a stable condition with her arm in a sling, but her face was dour, unlike the others. The victorious soldiers were waiting for the tiltrotors that would return them to the city.
Licai's hair fell flat against her visor; her sour gaze studied each recombinant. "So Bridgehead finally decided to use avatars again."
The simultaneous laugh that rose from the recombinants unnerved the humans.
Quaritch popped his mouth in satisfaction while rocking an arm over his knee. "We're not avatars."
"What are you, then?"
Quaritch grinned maliciously and said to the others, "You'd think Miss Licai, here, would recognize her former chief of security?"
The human's eyes narrowed in consternation. She couldn't recognize him for anything behind his mask of black paint; however, the iconic southern drawl was unmistakable. "Colonel Quaritch?" She gaped.
Pleased by the shock on her face, he was about to make another quip when she blurted out, "Didn't Sully do away with your murdering ass?"
He huffed, then looked away with disinterest while sneering, "It was his wife."
Just then, they all heard an agonized scream. Quaritch rushed to the edge, where he saw Jake Sully kneeling over a body.
"It's Sully!" he bellowed.
Jake had looked up in time to see the recombinant in the distance and the pistol trained on him. Immediately, Licai rammed against Quaritch's legs and fouled the shot that would have gone through Jake's heart. The colonel bodily kicked the small woman away. He seethed in anger and wanted to execute her on the spot but held back on Ardmore's orders. Looking back over his shoulder, he witnessed Sully flying away, already out of range.
Painted red by the violent dawn, Quaritch moved to stand akimbo on the ledge, his long shadow slicing across the base like a sword. His eyes followed Sully, vanishing over the horizon, and he vowed, right there, to not waste his next chance.
Jake landed in a clearing and looked back at the smouldering jungle. He was fit to collapse as he stood there panting profusely with the words "It's Sully!" repeating in his mind. The voice was too similar to be anyone else's, but that was impossible. Quaritch was dead, Jake told himself. His eyes fell on the murder weapon he drew from Anotang's body. After a long while of blank gazing, his agitated mind cleared, and he realized he was looking at an RDA blade—for a Na'vi hand.