Inside the network of caves that made up High Camp was one of exceptional beauty. It was a tall cavity possessing three skylights from which grew entwining roots, glowing yellow and green, that gripped the ceiling and flowed down onto the cave floor. Even in a floating mountain drifting far above the ground, Eywa's touch was ever-present. This was where Mo'at came to pray, in her pagoda of rock and root. She sat in meditation under a waterfall of light, and the spores around her glistened as they passed through the heavenly streams. She heard Jake's footsteps as he entered her pagoda. He wished to hold council as he commonly did before big events. Though Neytiri held authority in her own right, it was with Mo'at whom Jake governed the clan. Their laws decreed that olo'eyktan and tsahìk lead the people in close unison, which was why they were often mated pairs. Since Neytiri had not taken up the mantle, her mother continued the role. Mother and son were impressive in their noble raiments; as separate figures, they already stood out as dependable, so when they were together, the pair exuded an aura of security.
Mo'at stood up. "I see you, my son."
"I see you, Mother." He bowed his head. "Am I interrupting you?"
"No. I can meditate later."
"Have you still heard nothing?"
"If I heard, I'd speak," she replied briskly.
"I'm sorry. After sixteen years, I'm still learning this world. To me, everything is abnormal, so I can't tell if something is off. Has this never happened before?"
"In all our history, never. Something new is happening in the world, but you don't need to be a tsahìk to see that."
As they stood there, an atokirina' floated down from the ceiling. They both tracked its descent as it drifted towards them. Mo'at breathed excitedly and held out her hand. When it reached her, it mindlessly crashed against the edge of her staff. With a frown, she unwrapped its tendrils and set it free. "The ayatokirina' move as if no voice guides them. I feel like only when my eyes are watching do they act this way. Eywa means to confound me." She motioned the sprite away. "What is it you wish to speak about?"
It took him some time to bring up the words. "It's… It's about Kiri. I had a dream a few nights ago—a nightmare—that I don't understand."
"If you did not want this dream, an interpretation might be something you also do not want. Are you prepared, Zayksuli?"
"It was so real. I'm not sure why I had it, but I would rather have an answer than be left in the dark." Mo'at could hear the anxiousness in his breathing and beckoned him to speak. "I was hunting a yerik. I fired my arrow, but when I followed after it, I discovered…" Jake gulped in guilt. "That I…had shot Kiri… I found her in the same spot where Vrrtepeyktan died."
"The one who destroyed Hometree?" Mo'at breathed.
"Kiri was lying before his remains. This is the part I don't understand. Her blood summoned his spirit. He returned as a palulukan that killed me."
Mo'at was both amazed and disturbed by the dream. "This is a very powerful vision you had, Zayksuli."
"Do you think… Is this—am I being spoken to by Eywa?" he doubted.
"What are you doubting, my son? Eywa speaking or Eywa Herself?"
He huffed in defeat, as he didn't rightly know either.
"If She is speaking to you through this dream, I am envious. You have heard more from Her than I have in many years. You say you hit Kiri with an arrow. Where?"
"In the side."
Mo'at mused, "In the same spot where her mother was hit?"
Jake's eyes widened from the revelation. "Yes, the very same."
"And this made Vrrtepeyktan reincarnate as a palulukan? How well did GraceOgusteen know him?"
"I don't think their paths crossed a whole lot. But I wasn't there long enough to know. What's this have to do with Kiri?"
"That's what I wish to know. Vrrtepeyktan has returned, Zayksuli, but as something new. Be sure Kiri does not wander from High Camp. Your nightmare does not bode well with me."
Jake nodded throughout. Just then, Kiri entered the cavern with a basket of herbs. She greeted her father as she placed the basket before Mo'at.
"Thank you, Kiri." She hummed, then said to Jake, "I am teaching her how to make concoctions, yet with her knowledge of plants, she has been teaching me."
The young woman smiled back at her proud father. The atokirina' from before landed on Kiri's shoulder, and she gave it her hand, inviting it to dance around her arm.
"Kiwi," Jake addressed her. "Because of what's happening right now, you're not to leave High Camp unless your mother and I are with you, okay?"
Kiri stared at him, perplexed. Reluctantly, she heeded the condition, then returned to playing with her friend.
Alexander and Warren spent most of their days climbing the excavator. They would challenge each other's skill by racing to the top, where the reward was an excellent view. Sentry duty was, by far, their favourite task as they could see the land for miles, and it was almost like flying.
Meanwhile, Mansk would hang out with his new friends, Bob and Doug. There was little else to do on the HEM-OA, so Sasha would occasionally entertain them by reading aloud from his small collection of books. The drivers loved it but were not so much fans of Dostoyevsky as they were of Sasha's thick Russian accent.
To Mansk's surprise, Prager had some knowledge of literature too. This led to them playing a small game of quoting lines from famous works. One match resulted in them reciting, back and forth, twenty-five consecutive verses from Ovid's Metamorphoses. The drivers were amazed and thought it was a thing of beauty despite not understanding what the topic was.
One evening, as Alexander returned to his cabin, he was surprised to discover Prager's bunk empty. He interrupted Mansk's reading to ask, but when he lowered his book, there was Prager snuggling up to him. Upon hearing his name, Prager looked past his sleepy eyelids and glimpsed at the disturbed Johnny. "What?" He yawned. "He's warm."
"He's still green," Mansk remarked while flipping a page. "Give him a few more months. He'll be spooning too."
"I don't think so," Johnny wheezed.
"Hey, kid," he heard Warren say. He turned around and saw him in his bunk, lifting back his blanket with a beckoning finger.
"Oh, hell no!" Johnny jumped back and dashed out as snorted laughter bounced off the walls.
This is how the monotonous days went by for the recombinants: idling away the hours as the excavator inched towards its destination. The team, back at Hometree, marked on the wall the days remaining until they would return to Bridgehead; they were eager to go home and none more so than Lyle, who had started the count. When he scratched off yet another day, followed by a pitiful moan, his colonel had just about enough.
"Lyle, if you sigh wistfully one more time, I'm feeding you to a pack of viperwolves!"
Lyle stood to attention, embarrassed to be called out and returned to his duties. His commander shook his head and marched outside to check on Casey.
CJ was alone on sentry duty, standing on top of the giant jagged root stump that once held up Hometree. She wiped her partially shaved head, re-coifed her mohawk, then shook her crop shirt, attempting to cool herself. She was beginning to understand why the primitives opted for the loin cloth; the humidity of Pandora was brutal. She blew a bubble, gum being one of the few human commodities she could still enjoy, and popped it languidly. Through a half-lidded gaze, she looked about the tranquil glade with contempt. They were in a hostile world filled with savages, and not one had the decency to show. Casey prayed for some action—anything to prove herself worthy of being called his best. Bored, she looked away from the sky she was supposed to be watching and, instead, tracked the wood's rings with her toes.
"Eyes to the sky, Private!"
CJ looked down and discovered her leader scowling in disappointment.
"I-I'm sorry, sir."
"If you're too tired-eyed, I can switch you out?"
"No, sir. I'll focus."
He walked off with a grunt, leaving CJ to cuss at herself. She lamented being the butt end of the universe's joke that he was always there to witness her every failure. Putting on a brave face, she readjusted her rifle stance and stepped forward.
Quaritch heard a scream.
Spinning around in panic, he ran back to the stump, but there was no sign of Casey up high. He climbed to the top to discover a gaping hole where the rotted wood had given way. With no response after calling, he jumped down the shaft. It was structurally unsound from wet decay, so when he landed on a thin edge, it, too, gave way, and Quaritch slid further into a pitch-black tunnel. He landed feet first into a pool of shallow water, and its splash echoed many times throughout the dark cavern he was now in. Before he could call out her name, CJ responded.
"Colonel?"
Quaritch relaxed when he saw her standing in the shallows just a few feet before him. It was dark, but a soft teal light permeated the cave that adumbrated her slender figure.
"Are you injured?" he exhaled.
"Sir…" she breathed. "Get a load of this place."
Quaritch looked about him. They had found themselves in a subterranean cavern the size of St. Paul's Cathedral. The atrium reverberated with the sound of trickling droplets. Small streams poured down and had, over time, eroded the walls, forming the numerous scarsellas of this unhewn edifice. Rather than murals of religious figures, the ceiling was painted with a network of illuminated webs. The weavers were a colony of glow worms that fed off of Hometree's roots. Their nest spanned to the edges of the cave, forming a tapestry stitched with radiant thread, ranging from indigo to turquoise. It was a den of glory that spent more years in its making than Michelangelo's vault. Strands of this translucent webbing extended all the way to the floor, stopping short of the dark reflective pool that CJ and Quaritch quietly stood in.
Casey circled in place to gaze at the natural wonder, oblivious to the pair of eyes studying the blue lustre of her nubile body.
"I'm glad you're alright," Quaritch grumbled and went over to inspect the entrance they had slid out from. He looked up the chute. "Well, I can see the sky. We didn't drop far. Bit of wiggling, but we can climb back out with a knife for a pick." He pulled out, only to find Casey was still preoccupied with sightseeing. He walked up to her while brushing the debris off his tactical vest. "So, where are we?"
"I think water from the lake seeped down and made this pocket. Considering how big this tree was, it must've needed a ton of water. Wonder if its roots run through hundreds of cavities just like this, like a reserve—and that chute we slid down was made by a root that had rotted away."
He folded his arms. "As good an explanation as any."
"What's making the walls sparkle like that?"
Quaritch gave them a glance and answered, "Unobtanium." He then looked around at the many columns of entwined roots that grew down from the ceiling. One of sizable girth coiled down the cavern's centre and continued through the ground; it was surrounded by a patch of dry land.
"We could probably make it to that islet over there. Might be worth checking out," Casey petitioned after noticing the same column.
Quaritch pursed his lips, pressed his comm mic and instructed Zhâng to take over guarding the Hometree entrance. CJ looked away with a flash of guilt but shook it off and gave her colonel a smile.
Setting aside their boots, they, waded through the pleasant, cool waters of the nave.
Casey and Miles strolled under the upside-down forest of phosphorescent web strands. The moisture of the cavern coated the silken fibres in crystalline dew that dazzled like stars. CJ ran her hands under the filaments and marvelled at the way their light increased in brilliance when touched. One brushed against her and bloomed with radiance as it flowed over her shoulder, leaving behind a trail of water droplets that glinted like her tantalizing star patterns.
Quaritch grunted, shook his head and strutted ahead of her.
They exited the pool and emerged onto the consecrated bank. Casey plucked a pink flower growing off the centre column where thousands of them were poking through the grooves like prayers set in the Wailing Wall. Holding the flower in hand, CJ ran her toes across the shore's moss to make it light up, and Miles' eyes followed her naked foot before trailing up to her face. When the woman issued an innocent laugh, his stoicism vanished, and Miles dared to smile.
"This place is awesome," she giggled.
He concurred, and the two sat down to admire the natural beauty of the cavern. He straightened out his back to look across the waters instead of at her.
After a while, CJ's emotions fell from the previous high, and she was left to dwell on her insecurities.
"Sir?" she asked hesitantly while thumbing her ankle.
"Yeah?"
"Can… Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
There was another pause. "Why did you consider us your best?"
"You want to know why I picked you?"
She bobbed her head.
"You're highly trained in coalition warfare—teamwork is your strong suit, which is pretty valuable, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but on my own, I suck," she griped. "I got shot within seconds of storming Hell's Gate."
"That tends to come with the territory of being a soldier."
"When I came to Pandora, I broke my leg on my first day."
Quaritch sniggered. "Yep, you sure did."
She grumbled.
He leaned forward, setting his arm on his leg and said with an avuncular smile, "The day I was asked to select you, I was told to pick a well-rounded bunch, with each being the best in their field. I made my dozen, and the suits nodded in approval. They only saw logistics. Total kills, hours of stamina, clean bill of health—that sort of thing. But I was looking for something that couldn't be quantified on paper."
"Like?"
"Well…take Lyle."
"Do I have to?"
"Best sniper I've ever met. Grew up in the bayou hunting critters in the grass. Learned to be quiet as a mouse to catch anhingas with his bare hands. Course, when I first met him, sashaying onto that tarmac with a squint in his eye, I knew he was a reckless, dick-thinking punk."
CJ covered her mouth to hide the unattractive snort.
"And I knew it would be that same ballsy attitude that would keep him alive." Both made a face as Quaritch paused to rethink that sentiment.
"What about Qiáo?"
"Zhâng's a good man. Steady. Thinks ahead."
"And Prager?"
"Charges into battle without ever losing his footing, physically and mentally."
"And Walker?"
"Walker?" Quaritch stopped there. He wasn't going to admit it, but Walker scared him, and if you could scare someone like him, he thought, you must be one of the best.
Casey continued to stroke her ankle, not feeling like the confident woman she knew she should be. Miles was sympathetic.
"You are young, Casey. You do get distracted easily. And you have a long way to go yet. Sure, you can hone skill. You can gain abilities. But this,"—he tapped CJ's heart—"you can't fake that."
She blinked at her colonel as she absorbed every word down to the way he spoke them. Casey was the tough girl, always giving her verbally abusive father the finger every time she stormed out of the house—a child running away from the ugly reality of her loveless life, endlessly trying to prove to a set of eyes that weren't watching that she had so much to offer, so much to give, so much potential if someone would just believe in her. Quaritch was more than just her colonel; he was her idol. She admired his steadfastness and wanted nothing more than to emulate him. Her heart nearly exploded the day she found out he had noticed her. That her colonel saw something in Casey Jones Zdinarsk. For all that she lacked, he still gave her that nod of approval.
"Thank you, sir," she choked.
He smiled back, and her heart fluttered despite her mental disciplines. She observed how young his new face was, free of the wrinkles that she never minded. Though his silvery hair was now black and his blue eyes now yellow, his handsomeness still translated, but his face wasn't the only thing she noticed. He built for himself the strongest physique among the whole team—something he did even when middle-aged, and she wondered if he even missed his old body. CJ tried not to notice these as more than the trivial details they were, but she couldn't help it. Truth was, she was smitten with him before, and here she was, feeling that same goofy feeling all over again.
As her golden irises focused on his, CJ anticipated him to lean forward like he looked ready to do. Instead, Quaritch came to his feet and offered his hand. She set her flower adrift on the water and placed her fingers in his great palm. His grip could have easily crushed her hand, but he was ever delicate, bringing her to a stand. Together, they crossed the pool and returned to the tunnel entrance.
CJ enjoyed the pause from her humdrum duties of soldier life and went about the rest of her day like nothing had happened. She sat down for dinner, chatted up her mates and afterwards went to bed. She didn't show it past her deceptive smile, but her heart was heavier than a collapsed star. She knew that if something were to happen between them, it would have happened in that underground cathedral, on its bed of cool moss, beneath those erotic lowlights while breathing in the petrichor through heavy gasps of ecstasy. Instead, her evening ended, cold and curled up, inside a scratchy sleeping bag while quietly shedding tears.
Within the tranquil mountain where High Camp was hidden, Norman the Dreamwalker proceeded back to his tent. His avatar lifted back the flap, and he entered his home almost ceremoniously. So often was the routine performed that these motions were refined to an art form. Norman lay down on the silken mat, propped his head on a wooden headrest, then folded his arms at the chest in preparation.
He closed his eyes, and the avatar was dispossessed of its spirit.
The link bed opened, and out from the sarcophagus emerged the real Norman Spellman. Adorned only in boxers and a threadbare tank top, the middle-aged man rubbed his scruffy brown beard and exhaled a tired moan. With a grunt, he shuffled out of bed and made for the washroom. His field cabin was divided by open-back shelving units filled with books scavenged from Hell's Gate. It was a white and blue sterile room, immaculate, not from constant cleaning but seldom use, for he favoured life in his avatar form over his human body. The Omatikaya had offered to permanently transfer Norman's mind, but he turned it down. Though it was a hard decision, Norman didn't have that one thing to warrant a transfer like Jake had.
After a shower, Norman donned his regular worn-out clothes and made for his opulent couch. It was upholstered using smooth animal hide and decorated with metallic beads around the arms, forming ornate swirling patterns. It was the most beautiful thing in the room until he turned on a hologram projector that was stationed before the couch. Norman sat down to watch the blue image of a Latina pilot in overalls whose hair was trussed up in a bun. The smiling figure was bidding "Skinny" goodbye, telling him not to be too lonely while she left for their base. Norman's sleepy eyes would not leave the ones that felt alive even when captured in a hologram. He slumped back, pausing on the frame where her smile was widest, still remembering the taste of love infused in her parting lips. His abstracted hand reached up to fondle a silver ring that hung on a chain necklace she had given him and issued a deep exhale that spoke so much.
The cabin door opened.
Norman sprung from his couch and turned off the hologram. The intruder was Max Patel, and when he realized he had interrupted Norman, he was fearfully sorry.
"What the hell, Max?" Norman yelled. "You can at least knock first!"
The Indian scientist raised his hands in a plea. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I thought you knew I was coming by?" Max was correct. Norman's purpose for unlinking was to await Max at his cabin. On top of mood swings, Norman also suffered memory lapses. Information conveyed to his avatar form didn't always carry over to his human one. He was like a spirit reincarnated, travelling back in time to relive the days of who he once was, and the constant rewinding would cause confusion.
Norman hastily readjusted his pants. "What is it? What do you want?"
"Here's the bucket excavator schematics Jake wanted you to go over." Max held up the portfolio and set it on Norm's glass table.
"Oh, right," he breathed out.
Max sheepishly eyed his capricious friend, hoping he'd forget his faux pas of barging in, especially during a private moment. Luckily for Max, Norman's mood swings were short-lived, and he would forget transgressions just as easily. Norman huffed as he looked over the plans. "I hope Jake knows what he's doing," he said, flipping through the yellowed papers—Pandora's damp touch did not take long to cause decay.
Max was doubtful. "I hope so, too." Patel was the former head technician of the avatar program and one of Jake's most valuable assets for his brilliance in getting link beds operational after breaking down; however, operations hit a snag when Max's glasses broke, and they were unable to replace the lenses. He continued his work regardless of the sight impairment and educated the other drivers so that each had a smattering of knowledge on how to maintain the beds. Though his sight improved over the years, Max's poor vision had him confined to Sully's Grotto.
"I need to find Neteyam," Norman remarked, taking up the papers and donning his EXO pack.
"He's right outside," Max informed with a nod to the door.
Norman wasn't surprised. He pulled a book off the shelf and proceeded into the vestibule with Max ensue. The men popped open the seal and were readily greeted by the prince.
"Oel ngati kameie, Uncle. I was wondering if—"
However, Norman was already prepared. "Here." He tossed up the book into Neteyam's hands. "Hope you like Austen."
"Persuasion…" he read aloud. The book was tiny, cupped in his palm, and his finger stroked the cover with great esteem; the literary magpie had another jewel for his collection.
"Before you get into that, I need to go over these battle plans with you," Norman instructed, holding up the folder.
"What battle plans?"
"Jake hasn't told you? How absent-minded is he getting lately?" Norman gruffed, looking at Max. "Your father's planning an attack on the HEM-OA. You're going to be a part of it."
"I am?" Neteyam gaped. "Uncle, are you sure he wishes me to fight in this battle? I have never faced a machine before. And the HEM-OA is a behemoth."
Max wasn't interrupting but showed approval for his use of 'behemoth.'
"That's why we need all the warriors we can get. You're old enough now, Neteyam. You know that."
"I know, it's just…" Neteyam stalled and breathed deeply. "I don't know if my bow is ready."
"How long have you been working on this one?"
"Seven weeks," he admitted.
"Then it should be ready. Now, come on. You need to learn everything you can about this beast."
Neteyam still couldn't believe it. "Are we really going to destroy it?"
Norman scowled from just thinking about the mechanical molester on its way to ravage a land still recovering from her last assault. From under a narrowed brow, the Earthling stared up at the giant. "Damn right, we are."
Neteyam ambulated anxiously in his tent. The thought of fighting the HEM-OA, the strongest of all the Skypeople machines, filled him with dread. He was not at peace like his tranquil sister, who had joined him in his tent to do her beadwork. Neteyam took his bow and sat next to Kiri as he inspected it. He drew his two fingers down the length of the polished wood to feel its firm structure, dwelling on the months he spent weaving its smooth, burgundy grip made of minuscule beads. Neteyam had actually made three bows from Hometree after being dissatisfied with the first two. He scoured the site for the strongest, hardest wood and spent hours shaping it into a bow worthy of his arrow. The third one was perfect by all standards, but he was afraid to use it.
Kiri saw the trouble in his eyes and set down her project. Without the use of speech, she stroked his arm to comfort him.
|"I'm alright, sister,"| he whispered. |"We'll soon be going up against a powerful enemy, and our bows cannot pierce metal."|
"We have Eywa. She is enough. When you go, I will be with Grandmother, and we will pray."
|"Thank you, Kiri."|
She leaned against his shoulder, and the brother stroked her arm with one hand as he inspected the bow with the other.
She tapped his creation and made a fist—her way of saying, "Your tsko is strong."
|"I fear it will break."|
Her hand waved in disagreement.
|"Because it is Hometree?"| he sighed.
She cupped his face to make sure she had his full attention when she signed, "Because you made it." After kissing his cheek, the siblings rested their heads together. Neteyam was scared for the future—for his family. He understood now why pain would sometimes surface in his father's eyes when he'd look upon his mother, Neytiri.
As another uneventful day was coming to an end, Z team strolled back towards the entrance and slid down the spiral roots when CJ heard a low beat emitting from inside the hollow tree.
"Hey, Qiáo, do you hear that?"
Zhâng's ears flicked forward. "Sounds like…music?"
They shimmied their way past the sandbag barrier and followed the Latin beat. They soon discovered the most bizarre thing they had ever witnessed on Pandora: their teammates dancing to chacha music playing from a repurposed radio.
"What the hell?" CJ interjected.
Quaritch was standing off to the side. "Care to join our little hoedown, kids?" He was about to take CJ's hand when Bridgette swooped in.
"Attache ta tuque!" Walker smiled, and the brazen woman pulled the baffled Marine into a dance. He shouted protests, but as he couldn't wrestle her away, he grudgingly went along with it.
"Colonel?" CJ laughed.
He gave Casey a half-smile and a shrug, being helpless to stop his dance partner.
Brown and Lopez promenaded past her, they weren't doing the chacha or any specific dance, but they kicked their legs high and baltered about the floor.
"Ai-ya." Zhâng cringed, looking at CJ. He had to step back to make room for "Dumpling and Daisy."
"When in Pandora…" she cheered and, grabbing her best mate, whisked herself onto the floor with her tail wiggling as she and Zhâng spun to the Latin rhythm.
The ridiculous recombinants danced away, not knowing that many years prior, to the beat of different drums, the Omatikaya held their own dance ceremonies in that same section of the tree. The Na'vi dance had the participants jump where the recoms spun, shimmy towards their partner rather than shimmy with them. The natives would wiggle their fingers into their partner's hands while the soldiers clasped them tightly, but no matter the variance, the nature was the same.
Their fun continued until a new beat joined their mix: a strange, bassy echo that poured into the cavern and shook the walls.
"Who ordered the dubstep?" Fike remarked to Lyle.
Lopez axed the music to get a better listen. It was a grating rumble, further distorted by their hollow enclosure. The recombinants stood around in confusion as it continued.
"Casey, did you see anything when you were out?"
"We saw nothing, sir."
With two scooped fingers, he motioned to his corporal. "Alright, let's go check it out." Quaritch had volunteered himself too, for he was more than eager to escape Walker's killer grip.
Lyle and Miles made their way up the log and followed their ears. They stopped where the sound was loudest, and with their M69s ready, the two Marines peered over the ledge.
It turned out to be nothing more than a hammerhead, so named for its unusual head shape, using the abrasive wood of Hometree to free itself of voracious wolfticks.
"So, that's it?" Quaritch clucked. "Alright, Bambi, git." He fired at the creature, and while the shots ricocheted off its plate armour, it started the bull. It flared its head crest of blue and purple, then reared onto four of its six legs the size of redwood tree stumps. Stretching its beaked mouth wide for a nasty bellow, the beast could only roar before bolting off into the jungle. "Not so tough now, are ya? Alright, let's go, Lyle. Lyle…?" But Lyle didn't turn to follow; he remained completely still by the ledge. The colonel cocked his head as he circled the stiffened frame. He gazed into Wainfleet's contracting eyes that stared into the middle distance and identified the seizure. He was quick enough to catch him before he fell backwards and laid him down. Quaritch held the mouth open out of fear he'd bite his tongue, then contacted Brown, demanding he get up topside, stat.
The medic arrived swiftly and found Quaritch leaning over Wainfleet, clamping his shoulder. "What happened?"
"We found a hammerhead scraping against the tree, and he broke into a seizure."
Brown squatted next to him and directed he lay Lyle on his side to keep the airways open. "How long has this been going on?"
Quaritch only lent Brown a fraction of his gaze. "One minute and ten seconds. He stopped responding, motor control seized up, then collapsed."
"Fluttering eyelids? Muscle spasms?"
"Some convulsion in the hands."
Brown made sure Lyle had space as they awaited the seizure to abate. When it finally broke, Lyle returned to the world in a fit of terror. He screamed and writhed about, and his eyes raced everywhere. Quaritch grabbed Wainfleet's face to shake him out of his panic. "Lyle, Lyle!" he shouted desperately. "It's me!"
The man steadied. "Sir…?"
Upon seeing awareness return to Lyle's eyes, Miles gave his face several heavy pats. "You okay, son?"
"I'm okay…" He gulped, carrying a shaky wheeze. "What happened?"
"Gave me a scare, is what. You froze up like a nervous politician. Brown. Tend to him." Quaritch backed away and gave the two space as the medic checked Lyle for injuries; afterwards, the patient was escorted back to his bunk. The others were unaware of what happened, but Sean sensed something was wrong and sat with his buddy. Meanwhile, Quaritch directed Brown aside, who was busy logging the event in Wainfleet's health record. "Will he be alright?"
"He made it out of this one," Brown answered. "Seizures aren't known for being one-time occurrences. Unless this was connected with how he died, making it a pseudoseizure."
"PTSD?"
"Pretty much. Our psychiatrist warned me of this."
"Warned? We were deemed fit."
"I know. I'm starting to think we were rushed through our aptitudes."
Quaritch looked over his shoulder with a new worry. "Are you saying we're all susceptible?"
"We've all been resurrected from a violent death, sir. That's never happened before. The consequences from that could be anything, but none of us have any way of knowing what they'd be until—"
"Until they surface…"
"Have you experienced anything, sir?" he asked, but his colonel replied with a dismissive, "No." After which, Quaritch returned to Lyle and sent Sean away, insisting the patient needed rest. He sat before Wainfleet, who was upright in his sleeping bag, still shaken from earlier.
"How you doing?"
"I'm doing better."
"Need me to tuck you in? Maybe read a bedtime story?"
"Nah, that's okay, Daisy already did that."
Quaritch didn't continue the humour, which told Lyle something was bothering him.
"Lyle, I have to know…" He sighed. "How did you die?"
The corporal's neck muscles twitched, and he licked his tightening lips. "I was marching my suit team through enemy lines. We had cleared out their cavalry when we…heard this rumbling in the distance. It was a herd of hammerheads." Wainfleet clenched his bag so tightly that his knuckles bulged. "One totalled my AMP and… and…"
Quaritch raised his hand, signalling him to stop.
The young man quivered as he mentally stared at the traumatic painting hanging in the gallery of his memories. "I still remember everything, and I don't want to."
"I remember dying too."
"You do? How did you…"
"Two arrows through the lungs."
"Two?"
"Yeah, one wasn't enough." He smiled. "There are some things you just don't forget. I could probably paint for you that bow Mrs. Sully used to kill me."
Lyle looked up, "I could count the number of toes…"
Quaritch winced and patted his shoulder. "We all understand each other's pain, and as soldiers who died, we've already served our part. It's perfectly understandable if one of us can't serve because of it."
"I'll be alright, sir," he hastily replied.
"You can't be sure of that."
"I will be. I'll get over it. I'll—"
"You're seizure-prone."
"I'll lick it!"
"Lick a seizure? You think it's that simple?" Quaritch scolded.
"Don't send me back, sir. I can't abandon my team."
His colonel paused. He was impressed by the resolve in Lyle's tone. He dwelt long and hard on what he said, then, after some time, Quaritch spoke, "You're not to venture out alone, you understand?"
Lyle breathed a sigh of relief and, grinning from ear to ear, nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir!"
"You're to always have at least one person with you at all times."
"Yes, sir!"
"You disobey, and I'll take a switch to you."
"Yes, sir!"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, sir!"
Quaritch chuckled. "Okay then," he grunted as he got up. "You rest up, Corporal." He swaggered back to his bunk as Lyle went off to sleep. Quaritch was greatly relieved, but for another reason. He knew how much Lyle wanted to return to Bridgehead, so to see him putting his team first before some tail back at home put his mind at ease.