Cracks of gunfire overpowered the quiet plains as the recombinants honed their marksmanship at the shooting range. It was Mansk's favourite pastime, but he delayed participating for some casual discourse with Walker.
"How long will they be gone?" she asked him.
He shrugged. "I'd target three to five days. The colonel said they need time adjusting before they fly back."
"So, they're going to show up on those banshees?"
"Yeah." He then paused to study her expression. "Bridgie? Something wrong?"
"No. Let's just get to practice."
Both donned their protective earmuffs and joined the others.
Without the recombinants noticing he was ever there, Zwefnawo finished sweeping up the camp and stole across the plantation. Beyond the serf tents, he entered an overhang with a roof made of braided leaves. This was the stable where they kept the tapirus' and direhorses. He entered a stall and pulled away a dew-coated tarp that covered polypropylene sacks filled with grain. One by one, he moved them aside. Brushing away the manure and grass, he unveiled his treasure: a five-foot-wide water drum made from a rain barrel. After looking behind his back, making sure the coast was clear, Zwefnawo shuffled out his drum. He guided the barrel out of the stable, rolled it behind the building, and down an incline far from everyone's eyes. He brought with him two mallets made of scrap wood that he spent days smoothing. Stripping his button shirt, the frail Zwefnawo turned into a daunting warrior of great physical prowess. He breathed steadily, issuing controlled exhales as he prepared for his performance.
Aside from speech and sign, the Na'vi had a third language, that of the water drum. Xenocryptographers have tried and failed to understand the intricacies of the code—a code that sounds almost randomized and unique from tribe to tribe, yet somehow understood by all. It is said to be a language even older than their tongue, perhaps born from a violent time, postulated one historian, when such encryption was necessary.
The low, sonorous beats drifted for miles; such was the strength of the percussionist. Beyond the city's view, among the few scant trees that bordered the kill zone, stealth Anurai hid. During the last caravan visit, banking on the recombinants' ignorance regarding Na'vi bird calls, Zwefnawo informed his outside kin that they were to have warriors on stand-by to receive his next message. The two women listened well to the drumbeats and recorded them by tying knots on a cord. After several minutes, the beat repeated, and the warriors returned to their lands.
Meanwhile, in the Iknimaya Valley, CJ and Lyle were racing each other over the clouds. Wainfleet had achieved his ikran in a manner of seconds. The crane-catcher of the bayou was completely still when his ikran charged him. Lyle jumped over its head, rolled onto its back, and was flying off before the dragon knew it even had a rider. It was a swift beast of royal blue that commanded your full attention. The splendiferous mount, with teeth of ebony, flaunted the worthy moniker of "Ballsy"—short for "Ballistic Missile"—a name that didn't surprise CJ in the slightest. Likewise, CJ was thrilled with her banshee and dubbed her "Baby's Back," to which Quaritch joked that the reason why she ended up with a girl was because she had sent all the boys packing. A sucker for chin rubs, Casey called her "the sweetest badass that ever lived."
Having overseen their banshee wrangling, it was now the colonel's turn. He squatted on a table of smooth rock and looked down at the preening ikrans, scouting out the best one for the taking. Presently, CJ and Lyle finished their game and came in to land on Mons Veritas. They watched from nearby as their leader made his way down a jagged slope towards a new batch of victims. While Quaritch knew Na'vi custom stipulated that the ikran must choose their rider, he wanted to go about the selection process a little differently.
An unsuspecting juvenile was ignoring Quaritch to clean his wings. The recombinants watched with confusion when their colonel suddenly bent low and charged at the beast. The dragon panicked and scurried backwards into one that was sleeping. Incensed by the rude awakening, the swarthy predator flew into a rage and bit the troublemaker's wing. The juvenile flapped about in pain, trying to break free before finally taking off yelping, yet the cranky ikran was not appeased and continued her rage, snapping at all within her space. This was the matriarch of the flock—an aged ikran whose body was scarred from many fights. A torn yìmkxa (banshee catcher) hung from her wine-coloured neck, and her patterns were like flames flitting across her breast where she burned with indignation. The whole arena thundered with her fury.
Quaritch had found his ikran.
With a leer, he detached the lariat from his belt and cocked his head from side to side as he swaggered towards the grande dame. Her pinning eyes focused on him and his impudent body language, approaching not with reverence but disrespect. He spanned out his arms, taunting her to come near, then proceeded to swing his lasso in the air. The banshee raised her head and, with all teeth flared, issued a blood-curdling wail to announce the start of their match. He threw his lasso, but she snagged it with her teeth, and when Quaritch yanked in their tug-of-war, she flung him behind her.
Quaritch skidded across the ground, then watched the ikran toss his orange rope over the ledge. Slowly, she came for the cad, ready to do to him what she did to the last suitor who gifted her that necklace. She charged, but Quaritch evaded the snapping jaw. He rolled to the left, under her flapping wing, but she slapped him down with the membranous sheet, and before he could come to a stand, she then nabbed his leg to hurl him like a rag-doll. The violent toss had him reduced to a heap across the way when the relentless ikran came charging again, this time, for his whole body. With Quaritch in her jaws, she pitched him effortlessly, and his back smacked hard against the rockface.
His trembling fingers felt the bloodless spot where he should have been disembowelled. Quaritch couldn't believe it; she wasn't trying to kill him; she was trying to teach him manners. He looked at the dumb beast, at the awareness in her eyes, and issued a wheezy laugh from her admirable spirit. Now, it was on.
Quaritch came running up to the roaring ikran and punched her full across the jaw. Lyle and CJ were gobsmacked, then cheered even louder. The queen retaliated by sweeping her great head, swinging him off his feet, but with Quaritch flat on the ground, he had the perfect advantage to snatch her neck. With her now in a choke hold, Quaritch delivered three jabs. The animal roared, unable to fling the parasite, and brought her head down to pummel him thrice into the ground, forcing him to let go. Trapped under her, he repelled her mouth using his hands and feet, and she breathed distorted, ugly snarls on top of him.
"Need help, sir?" Lyle shouted.
"No," Quaritch grunted.
He kicked her right in the spiracle, an air-intake valve located on the neck. The dragon fell back wheezing, and in that opening, Quaritch roped his arms around her. The banshee wasn't going to let herself be molested and ran for the cliff wall to scrape off the barnacle. He cried out but withstood the pain. The ikran was tiring, and so was he, but both were too proud to forfeit. Seeing he was stubborn, the matriarch had one last trick. She flapped her wings and flew up the wall with him still clung to her. Higher and higher, she raised him off the ground, then kicked away from the rock to bring him down for a body slam. The recombinants watched with bated breath as the two wrestlers cascaded towards their impact.
One thunderous smack and the fight was over.
Casey and Lyle jumped into action and ran towards the heap. The two contenders were entangled within the wings, but with no sign of movement, Lyle believed both were gone. Suddenly, a wing lifted, and there was their commander, lying on his back and panting profusely like his ikran. Miles proudly held up the connected queues to the amazement of his team.
The warrior staggered onto his knees and set his hand on her brow. He breathed through her lungs, and she thrummed with his heart. They admitted in that silent gaze that that was the toughest fight either had ever fought. He patted her head as she erected herself, and Quaritch manoeuvred onto her neck. He set his feet on her clavicle like a stirrup and clasped her neural antenna like the reigns of a horse. Miles saluted his team; then, with a deep inhale, took off over the cliff.
Rumbling winds shook his spine as they dove at full speed down the cliffside. The sensation of falling filled him with intoxicating adrenaline. The trees were becoming dangerously close; everything became a blur, and all he felt was the ikran's desire not to crash. He thought of banking, and the next thing he knew, they were shooting towards the clouds. With awesome wings spanning out, he lifted into the heavens. He felt himself pounding the air, climbing higher and higher over the horizon. Every objective in his life vanished, and all he could think of was the pure blue sky above—that sweet open air, the perfume of freedom—he just had to inhale. Miles began laughing like a madman as he exerted his banshee to reach the empyrean.
His eyes closed in ecstasy, and he fell out of time.
Miles was taken back to when he was scrubbing through the aerial footage Jake collected during his banshee flights. He was gleaming topography information of enemy territory, and while he learned everything he needed to in a manner of minutes, Quaritch lingered for hours. He'd listen to Jake's excited whoops, unmuffled by an acrylic visor, gaze at the clouds travelling beneath his feet, watch the tantalizing horizon that offered new adventure at every turn; and Quaritch thought to himself, sitting before that screen in a cold corporate lab, what a lucky son of a b**** Jake was.
Quaritch opened his eyes, perceived the trees he was careening towards and promptly recovered. The ikran yawed to her left, and Miles glided past the weightless mountains he could now relate to.
It was sunset, and the pastel sky darkened by the minute, revealing the eager stars. Half the view was blocked by the indigo sphere, always keeping his storm-cloud eye on his mesmerizing Pandora.
Quaritch was overlooking the pleasant horizon from the security of his bluff. To his left was his new acquisition, attempting to sleep under her wing while leaving one of her eyes sharply open. Miles stood up and strutted over. The transparent lids peeled back, but the rider only came close to stroke her neck. Cupping her chin vane, the dragon bucked her head, and he felt in that subtle gesture how she brimmed with strength, even while resting. Her build was as handsome, Miles thought, as his old AMP suit. "You're a glorious-looking beast. I'll call you Gloria for short since you're clearly a girl." She snorted at him. He stripped her neck of the worn collar and studied the leathery whip that would have bound her mouth had the thrower not missed. "That was an impressive fight you gave. Jerked a knot in my tail, real good." He chuckled, tossing the binder away. With an empathic look, he ran his finger down the scars of her weather-beaten skin. Gloria shimmied her head and growled. "I know, I know. It was mighty rude of me to live." She cooed in recognition. "Let's have an understanding, you and I," he said, lifting her head. "Wherever I am on the food chain is where you perch too." Seemingly satisfied with this answer, Gloria returned to her nap. He was mid-strut when a stretch of her wings knocked him forward. He looked back and caught the cheeky animal yawning as if the action was unintentional. He grimaced, knowing full well it wasn't.
The three recombinants camped in a grotto of a small bobbing mountain. Quaritch read that the Omatikaya would spend several days adjusting to their ikrans before returning home, so the three spent the carefree weekend doing nothing but flying.
They were speeding over the zoetic valley of Sosul Syanan (Sweet-smelling Falls), where pure rivers cascaded into a great sea, and the scent of fresh water was too alluring for the riders to ignore. Following their commander, he guided his party down to a muddy clearing filled with refreshing mist and cool air that soothed their sweating bodies. After parading their ikrans towards a pond, Ballsy eagerly lapped up a drink while Lyle dismounted to refresh himself too.
"You two, don't get carried away with showing off your fancy tricks," Miles said as he, too, dismounted. He stripped his tank top and draped it over a bush before diving into the pond.
"He started it," Casey argued.
Lyle was knee-deep in the water when he threw her a slanted brow. "What are you blaming me for? I'm just naturally good at flying. You're the try-hard."
CJ had her banshee lift its head and knock Lyle back with a jet of water.
"This isn't summer camp," their colonel chided, swinging his head for a dunk and resurfacing to add, "You're here to learn."
Lyle swam back to the shore. "Aren't we?" he asked, knocking the water out of his ears.
"Unless the Na'vi are gunning you down with an automatic, we don't have much need doing barrel rolls, now, do we? Focus on agility. Stamina. Speed. Outmaneuver, outfly and overtake."
The recoms exchanged looks as their colonel carried on. His back was to them when CJ mischievously pointed to Lyle what was hanging off a bush.
"Like, through games?" Wainfleet baited, keeping him distracted.
Quaritch thought about it, oblivious to what was happening behind him. "I suppose that games are a good way to increase skill."
"How 'bout capture the tank?" CJ suggested.
"Yeah. We could—" Quaritch spun around to find two impish grins and his shirt dangling from dainty fingers. His arm could only reach out in petition before the delinquents took off. Quaritch hastily splashed out of the pond to leap for Gloria. She reared on her talons and shot after the cackling pair.
High in the air, CJ cheered, waving her plunder around and letting it flap in the wind until a hand came in to snatch it away; Lyle compensated her by sticking out his tongue.
Darting over the speeding canopies, Wainfleet pulled in his banshee's wings to increase their velocity. His lungs felt three times greater and worked twice as fast as he took in the air through his mount's spiracles. The sensation of flight was unlike anything he had ever known; more thrilling than a roller-coaster and more euphoric than a first kiss, it was all things magical. He was laughing at CJ's attempts to keep up and looked over his shoulder to goad her again but didn't spot her. Perplexed, he looked ahead and still saw nothing. He should have looked down because there she was, flying up in a surprise attack. His ikran lurched when Baby's Back snapped, allowing CJ to reclaim her trophy.
"Gotta do better, Baldy!"
The two resumed their chase, swirling and twirling over the trees.
Meanwhile, Miles was gliding overhead, watching the circus. "If they get a rip in that, I'll skin them both." He dove Glorious downward and overtook the dynamic duo.
Lyle had managed to outfly CJ and take back the tank, only to have it ripped from his hands seconds later. Tongue out, Miles jeered at both of them as he flaunted his own shirt. His teammates weren't going to be bested, and with a nod, the two agreed to work together to take down their leader.
When the colonel saw he was being bottle-necked, he pulled up and flew Gloria in a loop. He freed himself from their trap, but as he adjusted himself, he lost his hold, and the shirt fluttered away.
CJ made a sharp U-turn, and her outstretched fingertips nearly brushed Lyle's when both attempted to reach for the billowing cloth. Casey nabbed it by the strap and took off with an obnoxious whoop while, once again, flaunting her prize.
Seeing how much CJ enjoyed waving his stolen clothes around, Miles avowed to knock her down a few pegs. Coming up on her right, he snagged it away using Gloria's talons, and the garment rippled violently as he flew off.
CJ primed herself and pursued under Gloria's belly. Once close enough, she flipped around and flew precariously upside-down, snagging the olive top using Baby's Backs talons; however, Gloria would not release it, and the two greedy eagles began swan-diving towards the earth. In their deadly game of chicken, curses were fired instead of bullets, and f-bombs dropped instead of the shirt, with Miles and CJ both too gladiatorial to mind the trees. Wainfleet had to holler at them to grab their attention just in time for the pair to swerve, leaving the abandoned tank top to blanket upon a branch.
Within seconds, the bald opportunist was zipping away with the prize. "Come get some!"
"Dangnabbit, Lyle!"
The outwitted Marines tailed after the thief, who was diving under rocks and flicking up lianas in his getaway.
Lyle skimmed up the ecru cliff face, wary of his tailgating colonel. The wind screamed past his ears as he lifted over the bluff and darted through the elevated forest, evading the branches but getting whacked with broad leaves. Emerging on the other side, he coughed up pollen when his colonel surprised him. In a moment of unexpected grace, Lyle twirled backwards into the canopies to shake off his pursuer.
Wild eyes narrowing in on the corporal, Miles was soon within grabbing distance when he noticed a small problem. "Where's my shirt!"
Wainfleet stared at his empty hand and realized he lost it after crashing through the trees. Just then, the men were lurched forward by CJ flitting overhead. They watched the woman flaunt the shirt high in the air, only to then flash them the middle finger.
"We gonna let a girl beat us?"
"Hell no, sir."
"Let's take her!"
Lungs heaving, blood rushing—the game would not abate; onward and upward, they flew as the three rode the streams of rushing air. When they forgot about learning and focused on winning, they became their ikrans, as if they were born with wings. The Na'vi lived in a world where such a miracle was commonplace; to them, flying was as ordinary as walking. Only these travellers from another star, who were ground-bound all their lives, knew how to drink the sensation to its fullest, savouring every last drop.
The men glided under and over the agile Baby's Back, who serpentined through the sky. Try as she might, CJ could not shake them, and the male Marines exchanged leers before closing in. Tired of being shirtless, Quaritch was ready to take back his property, but Casey outmanoeuvred him with a well-timed yaw to the right—straight into Wainfleet. CJ recovered but lost her grip; and, once again, the tank top parachuted towards the jungle. After christening their intentions via a Mexican standoff, all three dove madly after the target. The nose-diving ikrans were locked in a continuous spin as each recombinant desperately reached for the evasive fabric, oscillating gently downwards. The trio plummeted towards a ravine, levelled out last-minute, then skimmed over the crystal waters, sending up soaking rainbow sprays.
The peals of laughter and splashing filled the gully as all three propelled through the tickling mist. Having completed their rite of passage, the warriors were baptized with the elixir of youth. Their new adulthood was defined by the freedom to romp like children down a muddy stream.
Quaritch, smug as he could be, sneered triumphantly at CJ and Lyle while shaking his conquest in their faces before dismounting to don it, only to find, to his teammates' amusement, that it was riddled with holes. He took a good look at himself. His pants were muddied, his shirt was torn, his toes were deep in silt, and his friends were having a laugh. Clutching the useless garment, Miles reflected briefly that he was supposed to be fifty-one before tossing it away with a happy shrug.