The indigo night was alive with the pink light radiating from a tree's weeping sprays; its gnarled roots poured over the ground like an illuminated river, growing upward and over the ridge that encircled its base. Mo'at chanted a sonorous elegy as she led a procession down the winding embankment and into the recess of their organic cathedral. The Tree of Souls seldom saw a gathering of so many. Clansmen from every tribe came for this vigil. For every soul that perished, there was a family in mourning. Following the tsahìk was her son-in-law, Jake. He wore a cloak of dried ebony leaves that rustled with each step. Behind him, he led the rest of the royal family, adorned in their funerary garments, which were shawls of dry reeds and headbands of coarse, pliable bark. Jake's head hung low, and in his palm cage, like the others behind, fluttered an atokirina' (woodsprite). The Na'vi congregation fanned out into the aisles and, joining their queues to the phosphorescent root system, they formed the tsaheylu. Moved by the energy, they swayed with the waves of sorrow washing over them, humming an elegy that filled sore eyes with new tears. The royal procession crossed the beating expanse then climbed up the shallow steps of the altar, where they ceased before the palatial tree.

The wind blew through Her branches, and Eywa wept.

They raised their hands and unleashed their prayers. The woodsprites swam upwards, their delicate white feelers bouncing with child-like innocence. Death did not touch them, for they floated above the shackles of mortality. Some in the procession abandoned composure and collapsed on the steps in grief. Jake's gaze fell to Li'ona, pouring out her heart on Eywa's chest, and Her exposed roots drank the offering of bitter tears. Neytiri witnessed the lamenting of the widow and could not help but look at Jake. He stood tall next to her with his face lifted to the heavens, eyes closed, and lips moving in song. Kiri stood next to Mo'at, singing through gestures that felt more profound than words. Her silent voice joined the congregation's, and the night air swelled with the humming and wailing of hundreds of Na'vi. The only solace the mourners had was knowing that those who were lost were forever preserved in the bosom of Eywa. Jake and Neytiri linked to the Tree of Souls, and Anotang appeared before them. In the impalpable world of Pandora's soul, they bade farewell to the vision of their old friend whom Jake loved with all his heart.

The vigil carried on well after the prayers were sung by the tsahìks. People lingered to quietly recount fond memories while others sang from their songcords. It was a melancholy affair, but the artful way the Na'vi revered the dead made it beautiful.

From the bluff, Jake and Norman looked down into the sanctuary.

"There's so many," Norman sighed.

"Many died," Jake whispered back.

"The attack is only the beginning. Bridgehead is finally militarising avatars. That knife proves it."

Jake shook his head. "If they are avatars."

"What else could they be? You saw them at a distance. You admitted they were avatars."

"I had my men follow the trail they left in the jungle. It went back for ten klicks."

Norman was stunned. "That's too far to be linking from anywhere. Did you find any evidence of link shacks?"

"No. Unless they found a way to boost the radius. I can't understand how they could be avatars. Whatever these things are, they're powerful. I'm recalling my other battalions."

"Jake, if you do that, the mining sites will be exposed."

"They are not after the other sites. Now that they've got Hell's Gate, it's Hometree they'll target. Besides, if they took out my strongest garrison that easily, what's the point of smaller ones?"

"Are you going to concentrate your forces on protecting Hometree?"

Jake shook his head. "No, I'm letting them grab it. I've another idea, but later. For now, let the Na'vi regroup and go home to their families. We can't play defence anymore. The RDA's won this round."

"What are you going to do about the avatars? Ours, I mean."

To his question, Jake inhaled deeply. The loss of Hell's Gate would have far-reaching consequences. It's where they grew food, repaired broken equipment, sought spare parts and sheltered the humans when Pandora's orbit brought them dangerously close to Polyphemus' radiation. Without Hell's Gate, the humans under Jake could only be maintained for so long.

"I don't know. We need to implement strict rules. Curfews, rationing, make do with what we have until we can build up something more substantial."

"It's not looking good, Jake."

Jake rubbed the creases on his forehead raw. "I know. When it comes to linking to your avatars, try and do it as little as you can."

"Not to add to your plate, but the Omatikaya elders have been complaining. They feel your leadership has led them astray. That the loss of Hell's Gate was an act by Eywa for their disobedience."

"Disobedience?"

"You know their three laws, Jake. Don't set stone upon stone. Don't use a turning wheel or the metals in the ground."

For a moment away from Na'vi eyes, the real Jake emerged. "I know, I know—those damn laws. Norm, I am busting my ass trying to help the people. The problem is I have two people, and maintaining one means angering the other." Jake was about to gripe some more when he caught wind of an eavesdropper. "Neteyam!" Jake scolded.

His son shamefully stepped out from the bushes. "I was only passing—"

"I don't want excuses. You shame your clan when you disregard privacy."

"I'm sorry, Father," Neteyam sighed.

Jake grumbled and shrugged it off. "Forget it. Now, what's this idea of yours?"

Neteyam perked with a bright smile and scooted towards his father. "If the elders are angry that you lead two people, then why not appoint a leader just for the humans? Uncle could be their olo'eyktan."

Both men gave Neteyam a strange look.

"But only when he is human. When he is operating his avatar, he is Omatikaya and obeys you."

"That's—" Jake paused, then looked to Norman, trying to find fault with the idea.

"It won't improve much, Father, but it should get the elders off your back."

"That's not a bad idea," Norm acknowledged to Jake.

"I was considering Spider for this one day, Neteyam."

"I know, but the avatar drivers already respect Uncle Norman."

Jake thumbed his cloak in contemplation. "They won't be happy with you, Norm, if you play the skinflint."

"I think everyone understands the severity of what happened. Restrictions were a long time coming. This just sped things up. But we'd be two clans now," Norman sighed. "So much for coexisting."

"We always were two clans coexisting, Uncle." Neteyam shrugged. "Now it's official."

"Should make the elders happy," Jake chuffed. His gaze was drawn back to the Tree of Souls, where he saw his daughter sign-singing. His heart grew heavy watching her. Unbeknownst to Kiri, she was standing on the very spot where her mother died.

He was drawn back to the days following the Assault on the Tree Souls. He was slouched against the divine trunk and gazing upon Grace Augustine's lifeless avatar. The Omatikaya had laid it on a bed of flowers where it would be undisturbed as they dealt with the aftermath of the battle. Jake was permanently in his body and had just committed his human form to burial. He knew the time was nearing to do the same for her.

It was a hard decision for him, looking upon his mentor's face, as he couldn't shake the feeling that, at any moment, her eyes would open, and she'd lambast him for a cigarette. Jake felt he'd be killing a friend if he buried her. As he dwelt on this, he witnessed an atokirina' come down and land on her stomach. Jake had a twinge of faith that, somehow, her transfer ceremony did work, and this was the sign he needed to hold on. They put the brain-dead body on life support and kept it under watch. He had hoped that one day someone might run up and tell him that the avatar had awoken, not that it was pregnant.

No one understood how it happened; Grace wasn't known for getting along with anyone who didn't photosynthesize. Despite all the theorizing it would result in a miscarriage, the vegetative body grew the baby all the way into the third trimester, where, being unable to contract, they had to perform a cesarean section: the birth of Kiri.

They continued to preserve the body for his daughter's sake, and Grace Augustine's avatar soon became Kiri's whole world; whether to bid it morning or goodnight, she paid pilgrimage to it daily. When a child, she would set a blanket over the tank to keep it warm at night. As she grew up, the avatar was whom Kiri would divulge all her secrets to. Being a witness to her unrelenting devotion was humbling for Jake. To bury the body at this point would be sacrilegious.

"Norm, what you do for the humans is your district, not mine, but—"

"Preserve Grace's avatar," Norman finished. He, too, had been watching Kiri with the same reflections. "I'll do anything for Kiri," he reassured.

With his mind still heavy with other matters, Jake could only reply with a weak but grateful smile.

"Ah, the lengths a father will go to…" Neteyam teased while purposefully looking away from Norm.

Norman chased his cheeky nephew through the bush.

It was supposed to be a dour night of mourning, but Jake appreciated the relief of good humour. His son was like a panacea for grief. No matter how dire the situation, Neteyam could always find a way to bring back a smile.

The dome was alive with tumultuous celebration; nearly the entire populace came to witness this event. Serrano stood at his podium with the air of a democratic leader despite no votes placing him on that stage. He was stately in his white suit that emphasized the sleekness of his black hair. Proud to his left and fully suited in their tactical gear stood his Potsdam Giants. Behind them was the emblem of Bridgehead: a white outline of the Pandora globe surrounded by three swords. Spectators took countless photos of the statuesque soldiers whose still composure was only interrupted by the constant need for their breathers. They may have hid it behind stolid expressions, but they were, in fact, ecstatic about the event.

"It pleases me today to announce that Hell's Gate has been successfully retaken!"

The auditorium boomed with cheers, and Serrano flashed his signature smile while raising both hands in triumph. He directed the public's attention to his recombinants.

"This would not have been possible if not for the bravery and dedication of these fine men and women you see before you. This team of twelve single-handedly took out hundreds of enemies! Without a single loss, they rescued every human held hostage!"

The propaganda worked, and the city answered with praises. Ismael Serrano addressed his recoms. "For your service to the human race, we bestow upon you these medals." He held up one for all to see. The circular medal, glinting like platinum, was embossed with the emblem of Bridgehead.

"Angel Miguel Lopez."

The first recom in the line stepped out of formation and marched ceremoniously up to Serrano. Clapping his right leg to his left, Lopez gave him a salute. Serrano, while standing at his podium, clipped the medal onto the chest, then let him return to the lineup.

"Tyler Brahmms Brown."

The next in line stepped out, and the process repeated. You could tell which soldier was the most popular by the amount of cheering that followed each name. Lyle Christian Wainfleet didn't get nearly as much praise as Sean Jackson Fike, but both were shown up by Sasha Dariuz Mansk; the adulations he received nearly brought the house down. However, when it came to the king, it was evident to all ears who reigned supreme.

"Miles Stephen Quaritch."

He marched towards his governor with head held high. He didn't need to hide a flushed smile behind his breather like the others; his stoic expression was unmoved by the deafening applause. Serrano was overshadowed by his awe-inspiring countenance. With utmost respect, he set the medal on the chest, then said under his breath, "Keep this up, and there'll be more rewards for your team in the future." Quaritch said nothing and returned to the lineup.

Bridgehead was a newly created city-state of nascent identity. No history lent weight to the recently manufactured medals that hung on their chests; they were vaingloriously awarded to boost Serrano's image, but the proud team still wore them all the same. Standing straight and tall, the stalwart recombinants saluted the human race.

After the all-day event wound down, the recombinants were eager to get back to Homestead and once again enjoy the better company of themselves. Some months after their arrival, a recreational lodge was built for their leisure. It didn't house much, but they could still lounge at bar stools or slum it on the floor, as there weren't enough seats to go around.

"So, who do you think has the most fans?" Wainfleet petitioned.

"Z-Boy's got you beat there, Baldy," CJ boasted, tucking her medal back in her pocket after studying it. She was the only one who opted not to wear it.

Walker scoffed in protest. "Please. Did you guys not hear what Sasha got?"

"Yeah, spot the heartthrob," Lopez sniggered and threw himself into Mansk's "big, strong arms." He scrambled out of his grip when he discovered Mansk was cheeky enough to start puckering his lips.

"Hey, Sasha, how many women asked you to pick them up?" Brown snorted.

Walker nudged his shoulder. "You're one to talk. I saw the way you cradled that fan."

Tyler pulled his cap down to hide his blushing face.

Warren was sitting on a stool when he clucked, "If she's married, you ruined her. Gonna have blue dreams from here on out."

Quaritch shook his head. "What the hell is going on with people and their love of blue tails?"

"If the whole soldier gig doesn't work out," CJ cracked, "you guys could always become models."

All eyes shifted to Fike, who tightened up defensively. "What are you looking at me for?"

"Go easy on, Daisy." Lyle waved. "His brows naturally look like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know we could make a fortune publishing our own dirty magazines," Lopez suggested.

"Or pose for some calendars," Warren added.

"Gee, I wonder who the first subscriber would be," Brown said, and the room rumbled with naughty laughter.

"Just enable the degenerates, why don't ya?" Walker hissed. "Every time I walk the city, I feel one set of eyes on my back end."

"Izvinite."

"The tail's the newest trend. It'll be the next prosthetic offered in the plastics business," Zhâng proclaimed.

Despite the humour, Johnny was the only one locked in contemplation. "So… Umm… Do we like the tail?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

Warren rubbed his brow, Lopez coughed, Zhâng itched his ear, Lyle fidgeted, Fike looked away, and Mansk nodded.

Then Prager broke the silence. "I like the tail."

His colonel gave him a look. "What do you like?" he drawled. "The way it moves back and forth?"

"Yeah, it's got that hypnotic effect."

Mansk reached over to firmly pat Prager's shoulder in proud support.

Johnny Alexander was not impressed. "On whose ass did you discover that?"

He lifted his heavy lids in delight. "Why, the colonel's, of course."

The boldness of Prager's delivery caused the lodge to shake with laughter once again, and Quaritch could only pull a face as he endured their fun at his expense.

Warren leaned on his seat so he could see past Lyle and say to the colonel, "So that's why you got the most hollers. Put you on the calendar, and we'd be in business for sure."

"Yeah, he's got the finest tail of all," Lyle lilted but regretted participating the moment he read the murder in Quaritch's eyes. It was impeccable timing, thought Lyle, when a human soldier walked in.

"What is it, Private?" the colonel greeted.

"Requesting Officer Quaritch."

"Ardmore?" he wondered, and the private affirmed it.

"Flipping hell…" CJ mumbled. It angered her that after such a long day, they were still being demanded of. Quaritch shot her a warning look and motioned to leave. He gave his team a proper goodbye while vowing, with his eyes, to make drill practice extra fun tomorrow, especially for Lyle.

Ardmore's war room was lit solely by the projections from her holographic table. Natural lighting wouldn't do the interior any favours as it was nothing more than another cold, desolate section of corporate landscape, with the general's presence being the only fixture in the room that lent it any personality. Frances Joan Ardmore compensated for her short height with a straight back and a regular rolling of the shoulders. Today, she was in a good mood, as evident by the way her mouth pulled in imitation of a smile. She strutted around the hologram of Hell's Gate with pride. The summoned recom soon entered and immediately needed a sip of air.

"Ah, Quaritch. Just the person I wanted to see."

"You summoned me, General?" He saluted, lowering his breather.

"Going over the 3D images you collected for us. The damage the savages did to the base isn't as severe as I thought. It should take less than two months for us to get things fully operational. Good work. You took out every combatant without a single loss."

He crossed one hand over the other at his waist and proudly nodded. "My team trained hard. They're as tough as they are tough to kill."

"I meant the humans," she corrected him. "It was only a handful, but every labourer counts. They'll find it won't be easy to earn points around here, but they should be grateful Bridgehead is even giving them anything at all.

"Nice medal," she remarked before walking to the other side of the hologram. Quaritch watched her movements past the glimmering blue display. When she leaned over the table, her head clipped through a tower's pronged satellite, making it appear like she had horns. Quaritch was secretly amused. "I want to hear your report on the status of the machinery."

"My team inspected it thoroughly as per your order. It's in good condition, but most of the parts have been gutted. This is Mansk's full report." He delicately pulled out a small data key from his pocket and handed it to her, careful not to crush the chip between his giant fingers. As he took in more air, Ardmore uploaded the data and went over the projected machinery. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in contemplation. "I see. So that lines up with what the others have said—Sully's running out of means to sustain the humans. Most of RDA's equipment is built to last, but without maintenance, the radiation from Polyphemus buggers everything up. That planet doesn't like progress."

She took up her coffee mug and poured herself some brew from the machine nearby. "Coffee?" she offered.

Quaritch shook his head. "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm told it's poisonous for this body."

"Shame," she said, putting the pot back down. "It's poisonous for dogs and cats too. Most animals can't drink the stuff." She took a satisfied sip, aware but unbothered by the glare Quaritch gave her.

He leaned forward and let his sinewy knuckles fold over the tabletop. "On the subject of Sully—"

"I know you want to go after him. The answer is negative," she answered abruptly, setting aside her mug.

"If it's a matter of locating his camp, my team can track it down."

"Sully is a low-priority. He's running out of ammunition, men and supplies. It won't be long before he can no longer afford to keep linking."

"With all due respect, General, I'm more familiar with the threat he poses. To the Na'vi, he's known as Toruk Makto—that's practically their Christ. It's how he was able to gather all those clans. Now, if he can do it once before, he can do it again."

"He hasn't been spotted flying that overgrown bird since the battle," Ardmore countered. "He's not Turkey Makto anymore."

"I still think you're making a mistake. Sully's on the run. We should give chase."

"You're cocky from that last mission. You venture into the Hallelujah Mountains, you'd be entering his territory, with warriors hidden in every nook and cranny. No, hunting Sully is out of the question. I won't have you costing us a fortune just for some revenge-fueled wild goose chase. It's cheaper and more effective to put the squeeze on him. Once he can longer link, he'll either come crawling to us or suffocate to death—whatever comes first. Do you find fault with this plan?"

Though far from satisfied, he bowed his head in submission. "No, ma'am. I agree with it."

"Your back end doesn't."

Quaritch's tail was whipping about in anger. He fruitlessly tried to control it through muscle clenching. To his chagrin, he had no choice but to reach behind him and cease it manually.

Ardmore held back a snigger and returned to the subject. "It's his son we're more worried about."

Quaritch's ears perked like a dog's. "He has a son?"

"Mmm-hmm. A lot like his father too—savvy to our military tactics, only not restricted by linking. We don't have any images of him, unfortunately. We know he's four-fingered and has no eyebrows, so it's impossible to tell him apart from other Na'vi. His one identifier is that he flies an albino banshee, but we've never spotted one, so this could be false. He visited Hell's Gate a lot, always wanting to learn more about the humans."

"Know thy enemy," Quaritch growled to himself.

"There's another thing, not as important but certainly not to be overlooked. Sully has a 'Boy Wonder' who tags with him everywhere. He doesn't pose a threat to us, but if you ever stumble upon this kid, he'd be a valuable source of information."

"What does he look like?"

"Ever hear of Tarzan?"

"Yeah?"

"That's your kid."

Incense burned in Jake's tent as he scribbled plans on pliable bark laid out across the floor. He was using a handcrafted pen that Neteyam had gifted him. The Omatikaya did not have an alphabet; instead, they recorded information through weaving—the skill they were most famous for. Jake tried but found macramé wasn't his thing. He continued writing so the ability would not atrophy.

Spider perused Jake's tent and studied the RDA screen that displayed High Camp's energy level. After that got boring, he strutted over to his mentor and stood akimbo before him. When he chose to be bipedal, he kept his back straight and made long strides that emphasized his imposing physique. Jake was crouched over his plans as he viewed his ward from under his brow. The man-cub was growing taller by the day. Sully was impressed by his daunting size and humorously thought it was because he was so absorbed in Na'vi culture he was evolving into one.

He noticed the blue stripes Spider had painted on his body. "Those are new."

"You like, old-timer?"

"What prompted you to do that?"

"No reason." Spider shrugged and made another turn around the room. Jake knew that wasn't true; with him, there was always a reason. He cocked his head as he cast Spider a wary stare. "You don't seem too troubled."

"Why should I be?"

"Your family's living on Bridgehead now. You're not going to see them again."

Spider cast his gaze downward. "They secretly wanted to take Ardmore's package. The only reason why they didn't was because of me. They should be happy now." He then gave him a side-smile. "Besides, I consider you guys my family."

"Still, aren't you sad?"

"I'll miss, Dungbeetle. But let's face it, they're humans. They belong on Bridgehead. They don't know how to live off the land like we do."

"You're human, too. Don't forget that."

"So are you," Spider teased. "I seem to remember that more than you do."

Jake did sometimes forget. Next to Norman, Spider was the last reminder of his humanity. It was comforting to have his species visage always before him, even if it did unsettle him at times. Spider was a very confident individual; he always knew what he was about, unlike Jake, who struggled with culture shock. Spider did not suffer an identity crisis. He would always be, first and foremost, a Pandoran.

"By the way, I'm clearing out the other sites like you suggested," Jake told him.

"No surprise there. You go with all my ideas."

"Okay, smart aleck, what do you suggest we do now?"

Spider pondered for a moment. "Well, you know how much energy those old, broken-down link beds chug. The drivers should cut back, get rid of anything that drains—" He was seized by a sudden fear and breathed, "Grace's avatar…"

"We're keeping that online. Don't worry. She's still our first priority," he reassured him, and Spider breathed easy. "I was referring to Bridgehead. I want to figure out who these new combatants are."

"We need a way to learn them from the inside," Spider pointed out.

"I know, but how?"

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious. "Do what Quaritch did."

The casual drop of the name put Jake on high alert. "What?"

"He wanted you to learn the Omatikaya from the inside by becoming one of them. Let's do the same."

"Spider, we can't do that! They'd be interrogated or worse."

"I meant a Na'vi, jarhead."

"A Na'vi?" He grimaced. "And who you calling 'jarhead'? Have you seen your forehead?"

Spider palmed the upper half of his visor as he continued. "The last of the Anurai live nearby Bridgehead on a reservation, right? The city leaves them alone because some of their clansmen live on the inside as workers. Every month, the Anurai are allowed entry for trade. Have one request to be a worker, and you got yourself a mole within the city."

"Spider, those Anurai workers are not allowed out."

"True, but they could still get out information."

"How?" Jake argued.

"They're smart. They could find a way. Look, Jake, the Anurai are your one path into the city, and you haven't taken advantage of it yet."

"I don't want to jeopardize their lives. You know what Bridgehead would do to them if they discovered they were helping me. They've been kicked enough as is."

"Wouldn't they consider it an honour to help Toruk Makto? To avenge their dead brothers and get payback against their oppressors?" he said, all the while still covering his forehead.

Jake couldn't argue his reasoning but neither could he bring himself to like it. Spider's plans were like balancing a huntsman on your palm. Done right, and they're harmless, but that doesn't make their bite any less dangerous. "I'd be asking one of them to live as a slave in the city."

"They're already living as slaves."

Jake cogitated over the plan for a long while. "Alright," he huffed. "I'll travel to the reservation first thing and suggest it, but only that. I'm already putting them at risk just by entering their camp. And will you stop covering your head?"

"You made me self-conscious about it, man."

"You? Self-conscious?"

Spider finally set his hand down and playfully nudged Jake's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry, Pops. Those limp-dicks at Bridgehead will be too stupid to realize it's a mole."

This reassurance had the opposite effect on Jake. He studied Spider's features in the teal light of his RDA screen: the lines down his nose, the purse of his lips, his baby blue eyes.

"Spider…" Jake began.

"Yeah? What is it?"

Jake's mouth hung open, ready to say something, but instead, he looked away and briskly commanded, "You and Kiri are not allowed to venture beyond the mountains."

Spider gasped. "Why not?"

"Those things that took out Hell's Gate may be roaming the jungles. It's too dangerous to play there anymore."

"The jungles are already dangerous. Besides, aren't linkers limited to a radius?"

"Not these ones, I don't think. You and Kiri stay within our perimeter, understood?"

His ward grumbled a disheartened, "Understood…"

"Now, run along. It's getting late."

"Yeah. You need your beauty sleep. Those wrinkles of yours are startin' to show, not to mention that gut."

Jake motioned to smack him upside the head, but the boy was always quicker. Spider stood with his signature aplomb before the tent flap to bid one last sentiment. "Goodnight, Jake."

"Goodnight, si—" Jake faltered. "G'night, Spider."