The lids pulled back, and a white blur stung his eyes. Rather than vengeful ghosts, he saw a familiar face, and it smiled. "Sir?"
"Lyle?" With one finger, he gestured the man closer, then snatched his shirt, pulled him in, and fumed, "Who was the motherf***** that put me in this hospital gown?!"
Unable to escape the clutches, Lyle strained his neck to say to the others, "He's comin' 'round."
Relieved murmurs filled the hospital room, and Quaritch realized his whole team was present. "What happened? Why did I blackout?"
"Brown had to sedate you."
"Your body was reacting like it was hit with an arrow dipped in neurotoxin. Wainfleet told me that's how you were killed. So, assuming you were suffering a pseudoseizure, I took the risk and applied a sedative, hoping that'd override the attack and allow you to breathe again. It was a shot in the dark—no pun intended—but it actually worked."
Quaritch hid his gulp. "I had a seizure?"
"Ghost pain," Brown corrected. "Often experienced by people who've undergone amputation. They have the sensation of pain in a limb that's no longer there."
"I felt that arrow," he testified. "Waking just now, I thought I'd been recom'd all over again." After finally noticing Lyle, he released his grip.
"Pops came by earlier, but you were out cold," Walker mentioned, pointing to a vase. "Left you flowers."
Quaritch cast a cursory glance at the sun lilies, then gave them a dismissive shrug only to notice Alexander with his arm in a cast. "Johnny? What happened to you?"
"Suffered a comminuted fracture," Warren volunteered. "Woulda been mincemeat if it weren't for him. First recom to break a bone too," he sang, drawing his arm around his ornery comrade who couldn't maintain the frown any longer.
"We all would have been dead if it weren't for Z-Dog," mentioned Zhâng.
"Why? What did Casey do?" He saw her hiding her blushing face as the men gave her congratulatory slaps on the back. Lyle filled him in.
"We were going to be overrun when she told us about a cave system below Hometree. We hid out there till reinforcements arrived."
"It's why you're in a hospital bed," Fike confessed.
Lyle scowled at him before sheepishly looking at his colonel. "It was a…rough landing."
Fortunately for him, Quaritch didn't catch that part as his attention remained fixed on CJ. "What about the excavator?"
"Whole thing is totalled," Mansk sighed. "The tail-heads set off a series of bombs that wrenched the booms. It's now a massive roadblock that will take years to dismantle. Without a clear path to Hometree, I heard they're just giving up on her. It's cheaper for them to use the smaller mines closer to Hells Gate."
"And Ardmore…?" Quaritch tensely inquired.
Walker rolled her eyes as she pulled a face. "Woman's pissed."
"Well, between her losing two gunships to an attacking leonopteryx—" Zhâng brought up.
"De echar más leña al fuego…" Lopez interjected in a mumble.
"And arriving to find the excavator in flames, I'd say she was surprisingly collected."
"Better stay on the lookout for her, sir. With two dozen casualties, she's going to want to have words with you," Lyle warned.
"It's my fault we lost the excavator," Mansk professed with regret, and Prager patted his back.
"How?" Quaritch challenged. "There were a clusterf*** of reasons why we lost—most of 'em my doin'," he said while distinctly patting his chest. "I should've figured Sully would resort to explosives—just didn't figure he had that much. We had a loss, but we pulled through. What matters is that we're all still alive." Having successfully inspirited his team, Quaritch saw it was time to wrap things up and permitted them to go. However, as they filed out, he instructed Casey to remain.
Anxious, CJ returned and stood at the foot of his bed.
"You did good."
Her surprised eyes shot up, and she blushed. "Thank you, sir."
"Alright, let's not make it sappy. Git."
"Yes, sir." Holding back her grin, she pivoted to exit, wanting to leave before he noticed her thumping heart. She gingerly shut the door, then finally exhaled in relief. As she turned around, both hands tugging at her craned neck, she discovered Zhâng leaning against a wall. Casey jogged up to her friend, and together, they left the recombinant ward.
Na'vi of all clans came together to celebrate in the Mo'ara Valley. Acrobats rode pendulum swings into giant drums, creating wondrous reverbs. Men and women danced about the bonfires, swinging their arms to mimic their ikrans as strands of blue fluttered behind them. Mo'at headed her party of dancers, and the mesmerizing grace of the Omatikaya sage was a treat for all to see. They laughed, they sang, they leapt and twirled. The Na'vi were both beautiful and daunting in their energetic movements.
Then there was the social dance. Na'vi would roll their heads and shimmy from side to side before approaching their partner, where they would jump up and down and work their fingers into the other's palms. Jake swept up his woman, and they joined the Omatikaya hootenanny. Despite his initial embarrassment, he eventually mastered their dance over the years, unlike his son, Neteyam, who was awkwardly out of step, trying to keep up with a stoic girl from the Tipani clan. Jake, reflecting on his own youth, couldn't help but chuckle at the all-too-relatable scene.
When the dancing finished, Neteyam left to drown his embarrassment by tipping the drinking gourd. His uncle, Norman, was breaking the record by balancing five drinking bowls on his head, and while it ended with the loss of several litres of liquor, his spectators all agreed it was worth it.
The sweet Tawkami mead flowed as warriors wearing the ornaments of their departed comrades drank toasts in their memory. They were regaling, often with misty eyes, their fondest memories, such as when Taym accidentally startled Rìngawo's direhorse, who threw him into a dung pile, or when Satsom and Nafämawa were fighting in their fort and knocked over a bowl of paint, coating their olo'eyktan in pink. Neteyam raised his gourd to Taym, to Satsom, and to all the friends he wished he could have made. As the evening wore on, he spotted an Omatikaya whose side was bandaged; he tapped the shoulder. |"Clan brother, Lew?"|
The young man stared at him curiously as Neteyam asked, |"Were you one of the climbers?"|
|"Yes. I was shot during my mission."|
|"I've recognized you then. I am glad you made it to safety. I was worried you had fallen."|
Lew frowned. |"I did fall. Ngam'en of the Dreamwalkers swooped in to save me. Where were you?"|
|"I was engaged with the demon who was trying to kill you."|
"Oh," he uttered and regretted his curtness. |"I thank you, then."|
Neteyam then presented his bow. |"Thank our Hometree. It was her strength that fended off the enemy."|
|"That is of Hometree?"| He gaped, and Neteyam handed him the weapon to study. |"This is amazing craftsmanship. You should go and present this bow to the clan."|
His freckles bloomed. |"I could not. The victory belongs to all of us. I cannot take credit."|
|"You wouldn't. You would be honouring our home,"| Lew spoke as he handed it back.
The young warrior clenched his tsko in rumination. Inspired, he went and stood before everyone by the main fire. All chatter gently ceased as the people lent the prince their ears, with many Omatikaya eyes falling on his beautiful collar, displaying their symbol.
|"My friends, brothers and sisters, I see you."|
|"I see you,"| the hundreds enthusiastically replied.
Neteyam smiled brightly, taking a moment to appreciate the warm reception.
|"Tipani. Tawkami. Omatikaya,"| he began, turning to each clan to salute them with deference. |"Kekunan, my brothers of the air,"| he distinguished with his outstretched arm, then swept his hands in mimicry of a wave. |"Tayrangi, my sisters of the sea. Olangi. Ìponi. Mawìtan—my family, let us rejoice!"|
The clans answered with raised fists and cheers.
|"I am Neteyam, son of Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite and Rider of Last Shadow. Many years ago, when I was still in my mother's womb, my people lost their home, and since that time, our steps forward were weighed down by sadness—we could not bring ourselves to look back.
|"When the demons occupied our former home, though we no longer lived there, it stirred something in our hearts. We realized we had to look back—for the sake of a memory—for our fallen ancestors. Today, they ran with us, led by my great warrior grandfather, Eytukan."|
Neytiri quivered to hear her father's memory honoured as she and Jake listened to their son's speech.
|"Last year, my previous bow snapped during a talioang hunt. I have borrowed from others as I spent the time constructing a new one—from Hometree."| The warrior held up his tsko to show the clans. |"For many weeks, I did not use it because I was afraid. I was afraid that if it broke, it would be a sign."| He took a pause as he relived the weight of that fear.
|"In that battle, a demon almost killed my clan brother, Lew. With my bow, I fended off the attacker, but he ripped it from my hands and prepared to break it—like this!"| Neteyam smacked the bow across his knee with the same intensity. He waited for the murmurings to finish before proudly holding up the undamaged testimonial. |"You should have seen his face when he realized that our spirits will never break!"|
Hollers of triumphant laughter rolled across the clearing, and Jake and Neytiri were overcome with pride for their only son. The parents silently agreed that they were surpassed by Neteyam's merit and that the future of their people was brighter in his hands than it could ever be in theirs.
Neteyam walked over to his parents and knelt before them. Taking his weapon, he offered it up to his mother. Neytiri was speechless. Delicately, she wrapped her fingers around the grip and took a moment to dwell on what she clasped. After an inhale, she set it down gently to then take up her father's bow and present it to the clans.
|"This bow was given to me by my father as he lay dying. With his last breath, he commanded me to 'protect the people.' My son, now it is your turn."|
She then bestowed the heirloom to Neteyam.
His eyes searched his mother's, and with a nod, she assured him this was the correct path. With filial veneration, he stroked the carved wood, running his hands up to the blue tip crafted from an ikran's chin vane. It was the sturdiest of weapons made by the noblest of hands, and now it was his to wield. He thanked his mother and set it on his back. Its weight was not burdensome and lent him strength rather than taking it. He stepped down from their platform of woven straw and bowed his head to Mo'at, and it pleased the grandmother to see the legacy of her beloved carry on. She placed a palm on his forehead and blessed him. While she knew her traditional mate would have been more skeptical, she looked at her eclectic family mixed with Tskaha and Sully, human and Na'vi, and nodded with an approving smile.
With the speech concluded, it was time for the next dance. The theme of the evening was moving forward—the old passing on to the new. At Mo'at's behest, Kiri led the next procession around the fire.
As the family of three generations watched her, Neteyam took the opportunity to disclose something that had been on his mind. |"Grandmother, I know that Eywa speaks through the movements of the world and that it is your duty to interpret, but is it possible that She could speak directly to someone?"|
Being asked such a question, Mo'at was contemplative as she studied her grandson. |"You're saying that Eywa spoke to you directly?"|
|"I heard a voice guiding me to make my bow from Hometree. I believe it was Her."|
|"What did She sound like?"|
He thought for some time. |"Gentle."|
Mo'at focused on Kiri with an enigmatic look that Neteyam did not understand. |"Keep this to yourself, for now, my son. People do not like change when it stares them in the face."|
|"You believe me?"| he whispered in relief.
|"I do."|
His attention returned to his sister, who was dancing publicly for the first time. She was cloaked in a flowing raiment of iridescent pink quills that reflected the firelight. Her tail spun and flicked in reaction to her jumps as she and her dancers pranced around the ring. The young men of other clans knew Toruk Makto had a daughter, but few had ever seen her, and the Omatikaya boys who had always known her saw her differently that night. In their opened eyes, she was not scrawny but lithe; her unkempt hair seemed bouncy; her gangly hands thought dainty, and her small eyes and pointed nose were now delicate and exotic. Through no contrivance of her own, the unassuming girl had become the centre of attention.
One set of eyes was not so much on her as it was on her admirers. High up in the rafters of vine bridges, overlooking the stage, skulked the Pandoran Phantom of the Opera. He watched the celebration beyond the firelight's reach, observing the bewitched eyes on his Na'vi. Only Neytiri caught the outline of his dark form in her peripheral vision.
"I do not like how he looks at her."
Jake didn't understand her meaning and looked up. "Who, Spider?"
"See how frightful his stare is?"
"Aww, Neytiri… Spider's just in a bad mood right now. Mo'at needed him during the blackout, but he was nowhere to be found. He had taken off to sulk and got chewed out for it. I feel bad because I know I'm to blame, but he won't let me talk to him."
She gave him a doubtful glance. "You think that is all?"
"He probably just feels like he's not welcome to join in."
"No, Ma Jake. His eyes speak more."
"What, you think he's jealous?" Jake laughed off. "He and Kiri have been playing since they were tykes. It's nothing more than that—no drama."
"They're not tykes anymore. Do you not think he could one day have feelings for her?"
Jake gave Spider a once over, then shook his head. "What are you even worried about?" he chuckled dismissively. "They're not even the same species."
"Exactly! They are not the same species. Kiri would have no future with Spider if this seed sprouts."
"You're beginning to sound like your mother. I remember back then that she didn't like seeing us together," he recalled while drawing his arm around her, but Neytiri pulled out.
"You are worsening my concern."
"C'mon, Sheila. Is it so horrible if something does sprout?"
Neytiri stared at him with consternation. "You had a Dreamwalker body. Spider can only stay human. Think of our daughter for a moment, my love. Is this really the path you want for her?"
"I only want the path that makes her happy no matter who or what she picks. Besides, you know as well as I that Kiri hasn't looked at anyone like that yet."
Neytiri sighed in reluctant agreement. "I suppose you are right. I remember when she was three, bringing home a syaksyuk and telling me with her excited hands that she had found her mate. Why do I feel like she is still stuck in that phase?" she moaned.
Jake looked again at the pink syaksyuk above.
The evening wore on, but the energy did not diminish. The outskirts of the celebration were inhabited by drunken Na'vi teetering about and lovers rushing off to find privacy.
Neteyam was in a quieter section of the romantic jungle, trying to woo the Tipani girl from earlier. All the women of his clan already knew him, and whether interested in him or not, he struggled for some reason when it came to courtship. His father once gave him an empathetic pat on the shoulder and claimed that it was the Sully family curse for their men to be unlucky with the locals and that if it weren't for immigration, their line would have died out years ago—Jake's case being the most extreme.
Neteyam took a step back to admire the shield-maiden's grace under the calming glow of a bladder lantern. "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow / so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, / The smiles that win"—she wasn't smiling—"the tints that glow—"
|"Are you speaking to me in Skyperson talk?"| she interrupted.
|"It is a poem written by one of their ancestors. Do you like it?"|
Her expression remained flat, almost to the point of flouting. |"I do not speak Skyperson."|
Neteyam flinched as she departed. Left alone under the sad blue light, the hybrid reflected on his mixed heritage with a sigh; however, he was suddenly pulled from his wistfulness when he caught the distinct scent of his friend. He jogged up to him as his brother drifted through the brush.
"Spider. I see you."
The young man was so lost in his sullen thoughts that he hadn't noticed Neteyam until he was nudged. "Oh. Hey."
"Why are you so glum? We had a great victory today, and you are the only one wearing a frown. Why is this? It can't be your height. It's never bothered you before," he teased, measuring the distance between their heads with his hand. Spider didn't care for his jesting and pulled away. "Is it serious?" he asked. "Did a girl spurn you too, brother?"
"I'm not your brother!"
The sudden remark caught the giant off guard. The dour human let out a regretful breath and promptly apologized.
"It is forgiven, Spider, but why are you this upset?"
"It's…" Spider stalled. It wasn't something he wanted to divulge, but after his outburst, it warranted some explanation. "A lot has been on my mind."
To Spider's misfortune, his friend was a good listener and stood there patiently, awaiting the follow-up.
"I, uh… Don't know who my real family is," he cobbled together.
Neteyam cocked his head, for Spider had never before shown an interest in knowing his origins and had come to assume he didn't care. "This has been bothering you? Why now?"
"I don't know. I guess it's been bugging me."
The last thing Spider expected was for Neteyam to go still. "Do… Has my father ever mentioned anything to you?"
His brows knit. "Mention what?"
"Perhaps it is not fair to keep this from you..."
"Keep what from me?"
Neteyam hesitantly began, "I once overheard my parents argue—many years ago. Mother was upset with Father. And I remember clearly, she said, 'Is Spider his son?'"
The human was filled with dismay. He was under the impression that the Sully family was just as ignorant to his parentage as he was. "What else did you hear?" he urged with severity.
"That was all I heard. Uncle caught me eavesdropping and shooed me away."
"Then…they know who my father is…? And he never told me?"
"It sounded like neither knew for certain. That is the same as not knowing at all."
Spider gaped as he slowly came to realize. "You know exactly who she was referring to."
"Spider, I would not jump to conclusions—"
"How many humans does your mother know personally?" he reacted loudly. "We both know there's only one that would make her freak out."
Neteyam wanted to dissuade Spider's train of thought, but once it left the station, there was no stopping it. "Before you assume anything, Spider, ask my father and let him tell you."
"Like what? Like, why he's kept this from me for all these years?"
"Whether or not you resemble him."
The following day, Jake entered the avatar clinic, where many of the bodies were being treated for trauma. Drivers in EXO packs stood by their avatars like concerned friends as routine examinations were performed.
"Any update on what caused the blackout?" Jake asked.
"I'm stumped as to why it happened, honestly," Max replied. "Could've been anything, from a malfunction to even a solar flare. We're doing a checkup on all the avatars for any signs of possible brain damage. We're lucky there were no casualties."
Jake cast his gaze over to his friend, who was busy fixing his avatar's braid. "What's wrong with yours, Norm?"
When the great olo'eyktan of the Skypeople tribe only fidgeted in embarrassment, Max filled in. "His avatar had too much liquor. Bumped his head on a bladder lantern while trying to empty his. He'll be fine."
Crossing his arms, Jake moved to lean against a nearby gurney with a pensive expression.
Max put away his clipboard. "Is something the matter, Jake?"
"What are your thoughts on these new combatants?"
"Well, my theory is they're not avatars. They wouldn't risk a disconnection while the body was in enemy territory."
"So, what are they then?"
"Manufactured Na'vi soldiers," Norman interjected while shaking his head in disapproval.
"It seems so," Max affirmed. "But I can't say I see the logic in it. I mean, when you stop and think about it—a whole army of soldiers who are naturally incongruent with human habitation? Even just a few would cause headaches for Bridgehead."
Norman scoffed. "Yeah, but you know the RDA. If it gave them the advantage, why wouldn't they invest in a bunch of Na'vi-grade soldiers?"
"But we've only counted the dozen," Jake reminded. "Or maybe…these guys are something like a prototype? And Bridgehead is just testing them in the field?" As he sounded out his hypothesis, it lent the burdened olo'eyktan some hope to think he had more time.
"That's a reasonable take, actually," Max complimented. "Might explain why there's so few. Course, to play the devil's advocate, you would only need the few to start breeding."
"Breeding?" Both Norman and Jake winced.
"That's purely from a scientific standpoint. It would be cheaper than growing them in vitro. But then you would have to consider whether you'd want to spend them in the field or hold some back for propagation. There's also the fifteen-year wait period for their offspring to reach maturity. As you can see, this route would take decades. Perhaps not the most viable option."
"I always did wonder why Bridgehead accepted Anurai workers." Norman tried to rub away the disturbing thought.
"Don't worry. It's not likely they would use Na'vi given the unreliable fertility rates between them and chim—" Max faced away with an awkward itch to his temple, but Jake still gave him a look. To Max's relief, it was for an entirely different reason.
"You, uh, been thinking about this for a while?"
"I'm into speculative science. But thinking about it now, in vitro is likely what they'll use going forward."
"But you would still need a mind to inhabit the vegetative bodies," Norman pointed out.
"True, if what we're seeing is modified avatar science. And it could be that there are humans volunteering to sacrifice their bodies to permanently inhabit new ones."
"What about clones?" Jake asked in dead seriousness.
"Clones?"
"Is it possible…" the man stopped himself and rubbed his brow, trying to comprehend his own theory. "Can you clone a dead man back into existence?"
"Which dead man are we talking about?" Max faltered while looking at Norman.
"I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think one of these guys is Quaritch."
Norman blinked. "Are you serious? He's dead. That's not possible."
"I know, but Norm, I saw one for a brief second during a fly-by, and it looked like him. It had his stance and everything. At Hell's Gate, I thought I heard his voice. And the Anurai—when I visited them, they said there was a soldier with a tattoo, just like his. I feel like I'm going crazy."
Max was doubtful but didn't want to be insensitive. "Jake… If they did use his DNA to create a chimaera that came with its own consciousness, at the very least, he'd sound like Quaritch and maybe have a few of his mannerisms, but he would be a brand new individual—like a son—not Quaritch himself."
"What about, uh, memories? Could… I don't know. Can you copy them into a mind?" he stammered.
"Implanted memories? We're not talking about androids."
"'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?'" Norm quoted.
"Ah, I love his work." The scientist smiled. "But to answer your question, Jake. I know we use the same terminology, but brains don't store data the same way computers do—a cerebellum doesn't even run out of storage space, so it isn't as simple as, say, dumping a memory file into a brain folder."
"What about the Na'vi? They can upload their memories."
"Even if we could do the same with our tech, uploading memories into a husk will do nothing. It's like plugging a data key into a computer without an operating system." When his analogy was met with a head cock, Max saw he needed to elaborate. "A computer won't function properly without an OS. What I'm saying is memory implants won't work if the body is brain dead—without a consciousness. With the Na'vi, they're uploading their memories to a preexisting consciousness known as Eywa."
Norman rolled his eyes. "Are you suggesting Eywa is an operating system?"
"Don't tell me you're gonna get offended again."
"Heathen."
"Hippie."
After exchanging shuttered eyes, Max returned to his troubled friend. "Now, I don't know why you'd want to do this, but if you made a chimaera with its own consciousness and waited for it to mentally develop, and then you implanted it with someone else's memories—"
"Hey, Max, where's the cabinet with the syringes?" a stray voice interrupted.
Max squinted to see who was asking. "You're sitting on it! Anyway, if you do all that, you risk the subject suffering a crisis of duality where they can't determine their real memories from the implanted ones. But this would be next to impossible anyway since memories are proprietary to the minds that experienced them."
"What about a personality? Can you clone a personality?"
Max pulled a face. "Look, Jake. Much as I love speculating and science fiction, that's all it is. Fiction. This is real life."
The former human gaped and spanned out his giant blue arms. "Max, have you taken a good look at me? How do I exist? What about Norm? This whole psionic linking business might as well be astral projection."
"Okay. Avatars are one thing. Clones are another. If they finally succeed in cloning humans, all you'd have is a twin. Implanting memories is just not feasible, and personalities can't be cloned either—they're not solely determined by genes and are far too elusive to replicate. So, really, no matter how you go about bringing back Quaritch, it couldn't be the same guy. The only plausible way would be if his mind was preserved. But lucky for us, you killed him." He finger gunned.
"It was Neytiri," Jake corrected.
"So, you see?—Impossible. Don't forget, when Quaritch died, our race didn't even have the science to do a permanent transfer."
"But the Na'vi can through the power of Eywa," Norman sang, cupping his hands in prayer.
The scientist stared at him while shaking his head. "What happened to you?"
Jake steadied himself. "So, if I have it right, you're saying there's no way the RDA could create an exact copy of Quaritch?"
"Who would want to?" Norman cracked as he returned to his avatar.
Meanwhile, hiding out from behind a table and listening to the whole conversation was Spider. He had entered the clinic with a purpose, but when he heard mention of Quaritch, he chose to listen in.
"If they did, it'd be purely by chance. From fetal development to upbringing, there are so many outside factors that shape a person that such duplication is beyond our power."
Despite his explanation, Jake was still uneasy, and Max felt concerned for his friend. "You know, Jake, fears can have a way of manifesting themselves, altering the way we view things. It's possible your fear of Quaritch is causing you to see him where he isn't."
"I don't know, Max. My instincts are telling me something else."
"Well, let's suppose a copy of him was made. A clone would not have a vendetta."
Jake wore a frown as he dwelt on the vengeful way that voice bellowed, "It's Sully!"
"Unless it's not a copy."
"You think he rose from the dead like a phoenix from the ashes?"
"Not a phoenix…"
"Pheenix…" Spider whispered to himself. The familiar sound had the young man instantly draw to memory the letters he had read on the demon's tactical vests. At that moment, he realized he possessed important information. Spider moved to stand, but something inside of him halted the action. Speaking up would lead to questions—reveal his disobedience. The adolescent emerged, pretending he had just entered.
"Oh, Spider." Jake was mildly surprised. "How you doing, mate?"
"I'm okay," he lied.
"I'm sorry about earlier. I know you would have helped if you knew what was happening."
"Couldn't even be present to save my own species," he grumbled.
Jake leaned against a desk as he looked down at his ward, who was twirling himself slightly in a rolling chair. "It hasn't been fair to you, I know. I, uh, was wrong to keep you from joining. I'm sorry. Back home, I was bound to a wheelchair, and I'd keep telling people, 'I don't want your pity.' Just because I was impaired didn't mean I stopped living. I forget sometimes what that was like and what it must feel like for you."
"It's okay, Jake."
"No, I mean it. I was being stubborn. I know Pandora doesn't slow down for a disability. When it comes to this world, you have to go by her rules, but you already do that—and you're up against tougher odds. I'm really proud of you."
Spider sat there listening to the praise as the weight on his heart grew heavier. He alleviated his guilty conscience by reminding himself that Jake was also keeping something from him. He balanced a pen on the desk, pressing down the tip with such force that it slipped under pressure and skidded across the room.
"Spider?"
"Why didn't you tell me Quaritch was my father?" he accused under his breath.
"Wha—? Where did that come from?"
"Neteyam told me. He said he overheard you and Neytiri arguing about me, and she asked, 'Is Spider his son?'"
His brows creased as he tried to keep up. "Hold on there, kid. Hit the anchors. When did this happen?"
"Neteyam said it was years ago. I don't know when."
Jake took a moment to recall the memory. "He was listening in…?" the father uttered to himself, trying to figure out when his son developed this nasty habit of eavesdropping. He returned to Spider. "Kid, it's not what you think. Neytiri and I were talking about the possibility of you being his son."
"Then why did you think I was?"
A recognition of shame and guilt flashed in Jake's eyes as he, once more, drew up his songcord. Among the beads and bones that represented every important event in his second life was a tiny silver bracelet. Before now, Spider thought the glinting object was Jake's old ID tag. "She found this. You were wearing it the day I found you." Unlatching the bracelet, he nudged up the small hand and coiled it into the palm.
Spider held up the tiny band. Engraved on one side was a serial number, and on the other, a name that he read aloud. "Miles…Q…Socorro. Miles? My real name is Miles? Why didn't you tell me this?"
"Because…" He sighed. "That was Quaritch's name. I didn't want people jumping to conclusions because of the similarity, so I kept it to myself and let the Paras name you. I was going to tell you when you got older."
"So, why didn't you?"
Jake's eyes turned away from his ward. "I guess I was worried you'd assume he was your dad like Neytiri had."
"Does she hold it against me?"
"C'mon, Spider, she's more open-minded than that. She married a Skyperson, after all."
"But you guys were arguing."
"She was more upset that I kept the bracelet a secret. Believe me, Spider, I've been thinking about telling you, but with Quaritch's—" Jake suddenly faced away to hush an expletive. He guiltily returned to the boy in the chair. "I've been caught up," he deflected. "But, there is something I can share. When I skimmed through the roster of employees at Hell's Gate, I found one with the last name 'Socorro.' Her name was Paz."
Spider's eyes bugged out. "Who was she?"
"She was a SecOps pilot—and a Marine, like me. Died of cancer a year and a half before I came to Pandora."
"SecOps? Then she would've been under his command…"
"Hold on there. I know what you're thinking, and it's not likely."
"Why not?"
"Marines aren't allowed to fraternize. Quaritch was a colonel—that's a very high rank. He, of all people, would respect the rules."
"Maybe he got drunk with her?"
"Drinking with the lower ranks is also considered fraternizing. Even I wouldn't be stupid enough to do that."
"Yeah, but you said the SecOps farts were just mercenaries. It's not like they were in active service."
The Marine had to make a confession. "Look, I know that's what I called them, but technically, they were PMCs—signed on with a private military contractor who hired them out to the RDA for security purposes. All legal and s***. So that means Quaritch—and I'm being generous—still had to operate under the same code of conduct all of us Marines do. He would never risk his colonel status by sleeping with a subordinate. Hell, he'd get his ass canned so fast you could slap an expiration date on it." Jake was adamant in his tone, though a bit unsettled that he was defending Quaritch's character of all people.
"What if he kept her a secret?—like a mistress?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, both surprised and perturbed that Spider was familiar with the term. "Well, he'd be a real drongo if he did. But I don't think that was his style."
"Style? Was he gay?"
Jake then felt his brow and wondered what other colourful things his ward had picked up on. "No. I meant—" He stopped to think. "Well, I don't know, actually…" There was an awkward pause, and the man didn't like the visual he was getting in his head. "Okay, I'll say this. While I don't know who your father is, I will say this Paz woman is most likely your mom. But you look nothing like her."
"How do you know?"
"I have her picture downloaded from her profile. I can show it to you if you like?" Reading the eagerness in his eyes was all Jake needed for a yes. He leaned over to power on the computer, but the simple task was met with issue as the giant fumbled his keyboard inputs.
"Do you need help, Jake?" Spider offered up from under the blue armpit.
"No, no. I got this." After another swear, he mumbled, "Where's that pen?"
Spider was more than happy to jump from the chair and grab it. With the aid of the tool by way of chicken-pecking the keys, Jake was able to pull up the image.
"There," he exhaled triumphantly. "That's your mom."
"That's a dude."
"What?" Jake stared at the profile of a bearded Russian janitor. "S***. Hang on."
One more exhaustive effort and Spider soon found himself gazing upon the grainy ID photo of an unsmiling stranger. "That's Paz Socorro?" he whispered.
"That's her. As you can see, she's Hispanic, yet you're as white as me. Well, before I—you know."
The sullen young man twiddled his thumbs anxiously as he stared at his likely mother. His prior comments as to her promiscuity suddenly felt juvenile when he had eyes to look into.
One more turn of the thumbs, and he looked up at his mentor. "Can I see his profile?"
Jake hesitated.
"Please?"
After deliberating on it, the man yielded with an audible exhale. "Okay, but you're gonna have to do the typing."
It took a moment for Spider to commit himself to spelling out the name, but before long, Jake's old foe was dominating the screen. Spider sat there studying his face. The shape, the features—It was like staring at his reflection thirty years from now. The boy sat up and pulled away from the desk despondently.
"You okay, mate?"
"I look like him…"
Jake kneeled before him so their eyes were level and clutched the drooping shoulders. "Spider, listen. Nothing will ever change who you are to me."
The young man kept his head down. "You took in the son of a monster…"
"I don't care who your father is! Discovering you was one of the happiest moments of my life, and I will never regret taking you in. Even if Quaritch is your dad, this"—Toruk Makto set his great finger on the human's fast-beating heart. "This is yours."
"Thanks, old man," his voice cracked.
"C'mon, let's get you back to your cabin."
Jake could tell in Spider's gait that his mind was elsewhere. The real issue still lingered, and no amount of reassurance from him would put it to flight. Try as he might, he could not rewind to the days when the boy was happy in his ignorance. The first few rocks gave way, and an avalanche would soon follow.