The deep jungle is where skittish fauna are only witnessed as ghostly blurs or sudden rustles, where rain falls till the valley is a river basin, and from nowhere, creatures of fin emerge, while ones of leg disappear. The Pandoran rainforests of the northern hemisphere receive up to four thousand millilitres of rain during the wet season, and no area more so than on the Kxisikan route, where the horn of Australis meets the great peninsula of Vandervelde's regio, the only land passage connecting the two divided continents—a handshake between brothers. But this peace-making is fraught with ill weather, for typhoons run along either side of the coast, and when two separate storms tourney on this narrow strip, they meld into one super-typhoon from hell.
However, the dangers of the Kxisikan were mocked by the fleet of AMPs marching over the muddy terrain, who dealt with the torrents assaulting their windshields from simple repeated wipes of synthetic polyisoprene, as the men inside these cockpits were less concerned by the scene and more attentive to their instruments to discern whether or not their target was near. The herd of golems disrupted the song of the wild with their rumbling tromp and sharp whine of oscillating bodies. The artillery their metal hands wielded were the size of cannons, and on that stark day in the jungle, for their presence scared away many, they used them to brush aside irritating vines, lianas, and other foliage.
"T-09? This is T-08."
"Go ahead, T-08."
"I'm picking something up due east of your position."
"What are you reading, T-08?"
"A group of lifeforms exactly twenty metres out."
"Copy that. Everyone, follow me. We're moving in. Prepare for action."
The troops picked up their heels and veered east, metal feet catching roots and breaking trees too young to resist the treatment. Rains screamed at the aliens; mist and dew tried to obscure view, but the seasoned drivers ploughed confidently forward. Trailing the parade were the giant holes their stamps left behind, filling rapidly with brown water and leaf litter.
The suits arrived to nothing, so they stopped on a signal from their captain. A giant steely palm raised to divide his team on either side while advocating caution, for the lifeforms present were only orange blobs on a screen and might not be the ones they were after. There are many varieties on Pandora, many with teeth or talons or bulk, and plenty tough enough to warp tons of walking steel—even after upgrades.
"On my signal, shoot anything that moves," the captain commanded.
The cannons lifted, weapons capable of felling trees with one pull of a trigger.
"Where are you kittens?" asked one driver to himself as his eyes drifted over the winding shapes above—brown shapes without detail in the pouring rain, coated in drooping matter like rotting skin. "I don't see them."
"That's how you know they're here," his leader replied.
The AMP suits moved as lightly and quietly as they could around the uneven, dense forest, but all could hear them. Every ear, large and blue, sensitive to the faintest change in an animal's breath, adjusted to the direction of the approaching enemy. The Na'vi were there—everywhere. The drivers' unseeing eyes beheld all of the Omaticaya, for the children of shadows—sisters of statues and brothers to silence—became their forest.
Flat on her stomach in a cramped depression was the princess, Neytiri, calm in the face of danger. Beside her was her son, lying under a sheet of decayed wood that covered their hollow. His face was scarred with worry lines that were not just from the many days of weary travel. It was on him to deliver his clan from the palulukan's jaws, and the man, one month shy of seventeen, was not ready for it; Fate never waits until you are ready.
Kneeling like a gargoyle on a tree limb above till her lithe figure resembled a branch was the olo'eyktan's grandmother and tsahìk: Mo'at. Her face was in broad view of the enemy—her yellow eyes flashing—but in her native biome, she was perfectly disguised amongst all the other shapes, patterns, and lights that made up their bizarre wood.
Hidden against a boulder was one not Omaticaya; her slender forehead stripes resembled a sun setting on a plain like her savannah homeland: the Anurai, Säro. She clutched to herself a woman different still: the recombinant, CJ, who was delirious with fever and wrapped in a giant frond to combat the chills. Säro held her tight, hoping their shared warmth would diminish the chatter of her sister's teeth before it could alert the enemy.
"I see movement!" shouted one driver.
The command to open fire was given, and the dim grey clearing was lit up with flashes of blinding light—an accident of the wind triggering absolute chaos. Hundreds upon hundreds of bullets rocketed over the camouflaged heads, ripping off whole boughs and pulverizing mighty trees. The People winced as they suffered screaming blasts that wanted to rip apart their ears, themselves preparing for death that could arrive without a moment's notice. Säro clamped her mouth to prevent her own scream as flecks of shrapnel and rock exploded around her hiding spot.
The AMP suits decimated the entire scene with their senseless barrage, but still, they did not let up. On and on, they attacked the silence, moving in on nothing. Only after the last branch was stripped of leaves did their leader order a ceasefire.
"Did we get anything?"
"Look around."
Neteyam listened as the stomp of one grew louder. He moved onto his hands, fortifying his back against his wood covering, preparing for the worst. He felt a touch at his wrist and saw into the eyes of his mother, her pinched fingers hovering over her mouth.
Do not cry out.
The Titans, impervious, closed in. One driver looked bodily about, his whole upper half oscillating on its axis, the fire in his afterburners brought down to a low blue flame. His steps were incremental, and he was only a few feet away from the hollow where mother and son hid. He pulled his foot closer, and it came down on the corner of Neteyam's shield, inflicting thirteen thousand pounds of pressure, slowly pouring upon the young man's back.
Neteyam's mouth opened to scream, but he swallowed it gone and, holding himself as stiff as he could, counteracted the weight with his own strength. Neytiri clenched his wrist in tight support. His arms and legs buckled, streams of sweat cascaded from his brow, spit and tears were forced out as the young breadwinner committed every bit of himself to prevent his family from being crushed. Once more, he saw into his mother and the reality that, at any moment, she would be snuffed out if he failed. Neteyam knew he had to prevail; this was his burden now. Even if the weight would break his very back, he would hold until that moment came to pass; his gurgled wheezing might as well have been, "I will do anything for this family." His mother's fingers went from his shaking wrist to his bulging arms, where she squeezed his shoulder till his skin went baby blue, trying to impart what strength she could.
"False Alarm. Move out."
The oppressive foot lifted, and Neteyam collapsed in a puddle of mud made by his own sweat, while Neytiri threw her head back as the tyrannical fear that seized her was expelled in one breath.
The manufactured nightmares departed, but only after the last rumble of the earth rolled out and the unnatural crack of wood ultimated did the Na'vi finally emerge.
They limped into view, weak and tired, to count their numbers. Some clutched limbs where they were grazed, others forbearing injuries even worse. The possibility of finding at least one dead was high, if not guaranteed. The olo'eyktan slid the bark shield off his back and was rewarded with the sweet taste of wet air. Neytiri wormed her way out of the depression as well, taking her son's assisting hand so she could come to her feet.
|"Count yourselves,"| he instructed his clan. |"Manawo, Kìte—call back our pa'li."| Neteyam then pressed his throat mic. |"Brother Lew, what do you see?"|
Far above their heads, the Omaticaya's fleet of ikran hunters, who were toughing out the torrential downpour, followed the ayyokxtìranyu from a discreet distance.
|"I am here, brother, Neteyam. The shield walkers move away, and as of now, we see nothing more over the horizon."|
|"Return to my position."|
As commanded, Lew raised his bow and hollered a series of yips at his fellow warriors, informing them to fly back.
On the ground, the Omaticaya were grim in spite of evading discovery. Mo'at descended, as did many others from the understory, to assist in the search of the missing, wounded, or dead. Neteyam joined their efforts, his gait swaying from fatigue, his feet bending or crushing the fungi stalks he didn't walk around. In the fog beyond, he saw more figures emerge: one dragging another from out behind a boulder. Neteyam rushed over, which triggered a frown on his observant mother.
|"I see you, Säro. Are you both all right?"|
|"I am only grazed,"| she wheezed as streams of blood ran down her arms—arms she used to shield her sister. Neteyam quickly assisted Säro in pulling CJ's hammock to a flat bed of grass, and there he gently nudged it open to look upon the face anemic.
|"She needs warmth, soon,"| Säro forewarned.
|"I can see. Her fever worsens. We will move on as soon as our pa'li return."|
Horrified cries sent both on alert, but the moment they recognized it as the wails of mourners, Neteyam's head bowed very, very low. And Säro understood why it was he left the way he did—suddenly and silently.
With emotions at bay, the olo'eyktan entered the circle where several bodies were being laid. |"How many?"| he asked with no passion.
|"Too many,"| his tsahìk answered. Her mind was greatly burdened: their trip was to be delayed by yet another funeral.
Over the tears, the wails, and the despairing mumbles from those whose eyes were deep in the skull, Neteyam spoke up. |"My brothers and sisters, forgive me, but we cannot stop to mourn. The Skypeople are still hunting us."|
Mouths became stone and spines petrified as they all acquiesced to the cold logic.
|"I hear the root of your discontent. No—this is not because we attacked their village. We dealt justice to a place where justice was never carried out. This persecution is because we are Omaticaya. We are, to the Skypeople, the symbol of all Na'vi. Our very existence stirs their hatred. They are hunting us to make a statement. Our survival right now means more than just our lives."|
Neteyam removed his ancestral bow that belonged to his grandfather and held it high.
|"For the sake of all that we are, we must preserve these lives, not for ourselves, but for our children and our children's children. For all Na'vi of Eywa'eveng, the clan of the Blue Flute must live on."|
The weighted hearts listened well, not because what he said inspirited them but because they were too weak to resist. A mourner kneeling by one of the dead—her own eyes as lifeless as the ones she closed—abstractedly took mud into her fingers and began painting the face with the earth they could not cradle him in. Neytiri's eyes never left the widow nor the baby upon her back.
This was the funeral. They did not have the privilege to find a hollow suitable to lay a loved one in, folded in rest and coated with flowers, no atokirina' to descend upon their emptied shell, no long chants; it was only a shroud of kamokxe leaves and a brief prayer after being placed in a crypt of tangled roots. And this was carried out in the short hour of respite awaiting the return of their direhorses—a precaution to protect their pack animals from the AMPs. When several Omaticaya rode in, leading the herd in tow, the Na'vi went to work attaching vine harnesses upon their mounts to sledge the newly injured, but preparations immediately halted after Säro was caught trying to prepare one for CJ. Not a single Omaticaya tolerated such a waste of a pa'li when so many others were in need. Among the verbal assaults against the lone Anurai and her burden were complaints against Neteyam for allowing a rekom at all.
|"You barely give us any time to bury our dead, but you delay us for a sick enemy?"|
|"Leave her behind!"|
As the tirades went on, Säro took CJ's harness, threw the straps over her shoulders, and trumped past the dissenters as the first to move out. Neytiri felt no sympathy when CJ's unconscious and pained face slid past her view; rather, the noblewoman approached her son, who was currently lost in self-doubt. He lifted his eyes at that moment to catch her glare. She didn't need to waste time with words; her scowl was enough.
|"Mother, one is sick. The other is with child!"|
|"So am I."|
Neteyam lowered his stunned eyes—rain flicking off both their shoulders—until his mother broke from the reproof and continued onward, leaving him to rethink his extension of charity when his own blood needed it far more. Cursed with his father's heart, Neteyam plodded after his clan, making the deepest footprints swelling with brine carried in from the sea.
The spirits of the Omaticaya were gone. They moved about Pandora as hollowed-out husks, muddied and bereft. Hometree's loss, Eywa's silence, Toruk Makto's death, and being chased off their own land—the persecution did not relent; and now, at the end of themselves, they drifted their way north in hopes of finding some flicker of hope; if not a rolling fire, they would settle for even an ember—anything—so that they would live.
Beyond, in another world that shared the same ground but not the same woes, deep inside man-made walls that kept out air too rich to breathe, over in a dim corner lit only by a few hanging lights, was a figure side-stepping from shadow to shadow. The punching bag swung from each unrestrained blow too fast to let it return to centre, gyrating around its chain tether that rattled from the abuse. The red claw marks that were printed upon its black leather casing paled in comparison to the genuine ferocity being shown to it by the man. The tips of his cropped blonde hair glistened from the collected sweat that dripped down and dotted his skin like his own form of bioluminescence. In his mind, he was hundreds of miles away, speeding through the days and growing more riled on each one passing.
"I told you not to go to Hometree. … My daughter trusts you! I trusted you."
"Jake…"
"From now on, you're not allowed to see Kiri … That's an order."
Another swing, and the punching bag quivered.
The train of thought docked at a later date, where he disembarked to a scene taking place in a cave lit by breaks in the ceiling. In the center of a sun ray was one who shone even brighter, her golden eyes reflecting his image as he looked down from above.
"When can we see each other again?" her mournful fingers danced.
"I do not know."
"I miss you."
"I miss you too."
A random blue hand in a crowd of spectators reached in to snatch him by his collar, yanking him out of the memory and into another. He was held before an indifferent woman, cold and calculating in her expression.
"Tell us about Sully."
"Zize'ìl sngivap ngat!"
"String him up."
He punched, and sweat flecked off his bulging white knuckles. Away, to another scene—setting: night—he was standing across from a Na'vi noble who placed a palm over his shoulder.
"You guys think I'm one of them?"
"No, Spider, that's not it. Father and I would both fear for your safety among the clan right now."
"So you're telling me to stay at Bridgehead?! They tortured me!"
Another blow. The bag vibrated from the fury of strikes that did not lessen in force as his mind approached the climax of his tragedy. There, he was overshadowed by a giant he had once made the mistake of putting trust in.
"You've pushed me too far, kid! I've been too soft on ya. You're a man now, and it's high time you learn things the hard way!"
On and on, he kept attacking the tough surface that started to whiten from the accumulating cracks. His world darkened and relit to a new scene that placed him on a divan to face the hard truth.
"We were, Miles. We were building, planning and securing our future—the future of the human race. And it starts with clones."
"I am not him!"
"No. You are Miles."
"I'm Spider!"
"A better version than your predecessor."
"I said that's enough!"
The bag rumbled backwards, the leather and all its contents threatening to explode from the onslaught.
"Covert listening device. Everything you ever said near that mask went directly to me. … Maybe it's you who should be careful of what you say from now on?"
He struck the bag.
"We did capture her, thanks to your blabbering lips, but there was an unfortunate accident."
He struck the bag.
"Compound flooded. She drowned in her cell. Too bad, huh?"
He struck the bag!
Fpeio!
With a yell that reached every corner of the gym, he delivered one last blow, atomizing the surface into particles that burst into the air. He stood in a manic daze, panting, as he let half his face be eclipsed by the violent swings of the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound pendulum. For all the chaos inside, outwardly, he was a statue in the rain, rivulets flowing down from his brow and through the contours of his physique, herculean at nineteen.
Spider commanded the swings to a stop with a press of his palm, then straightened out his back to be at his tallest once again. No longer was he in the proud garb of the Omaticaya, who had nothing to hide; no longer did he wear his waytelem (songcord), filled with his memories; no longer was his hair wild and free, for he had been tamed by the jaws that held him; but even so, deep inside his breast smouldered a quiet fury that bided its days for when it would break from morality's restraints and burn without inhibition.
He sent himself to the showers, where, unlike his old watering hole, it wasn't perfumed with the scent of fauna that frequented the bank, nor was the water sweet like the falls that crashed from stories of greenery before bathing his skin—no, instead, mystical songs of the deep jungle were replaced by the bawdy dialogue of unpleasant company who had everything to hide but didn't, so Spider was quick in this action as he was in every action that necessitated proximity to such a disgusting race. Thus, he was in and out of the tiled room—protected only by his scowl that effectively kept everyone at bay—then took a direct course for the changing lockers.
Dressing himself in camouflage pants and a grey tank top—gear assigned to him since enrollment in the academy—he planted his boot on a bench before dark blue lockers dented from thoughtless swings and finished tying up his feet. He was in a hurry to escape this cage to another that housed his bed.
Nearby, grouped on some benches, was a pack of young men. A Black one of nineteen paused from the conversation to steal a glance at Spider. "Hey… Over there." His finger guided his friends to the subject of interest but then lowered his hand, warning them to stick to low tones.
One of them, a Brazilian who had already plastered his young face with every tattoo imaginable, stole his own glance. "Who's he?"
"Mister gold medal himself. The saviour of Bridgehead," he informed.
The heavy of the group, a bald Samoan, leaned to take a peek. "No s***. That's him?"
"Did he really choke a Na'vi with his bare hands?"
The Samoan felt his neck without realizing it.
The Black youth nudged his chin to a third benchmate. "What do you say, Sike?"
Sike, whose own chin was punctured with a cleft which accentuated his bulging, asymmetrical eyes, leaned for his own study. "Prominent deltoids… Musculature in good shape… Over six feet, too. I'd love to see him in the ring."
"I heard because of what he did," the entertainer continued. "he became a five-tier overnight."
The parent of the group, a young man with thin lips, brown hair, and sporting an old-school Jarhead cut, was nodding approvingly. "Hey, Foxy, what's the guy's name again?"
"Miles Socorro."
"We should check him out," he suggested with genuine friendly interest.
"Don't do it, Dodger," Foxy warned. "You just got back from the hospital. Wouldn't wanna piss off the guy who spends his one free hour doing even more intensive training."
"How do you know?"
"They say he's always hitting the heavy bag. Look at him! He's a f***ing AMP suit. Besides, he's a five-tier. You're just a three."
"So?" Before anyone could stop him, Dodger was whistling for Socorro's attention.
When the pair of piercing blue eyes locked in on the group, they all glanced away save for the one whistling as the young man strutted over.
Looming more than standing, the weight Spider put into his one leg was the angle that faced them, fists clenched at his side but drifting out due to the tension in his recently exerted muscles. "What do you want?"
The group silently snickered at their leader's mistake.
"Want to join us?" He smiled.
"Why?"
"Just being neighbourly."
So Spider took a seat, having room now as the others were very quick to scooch away. He adjusted himself with legs firmly apart, hands gripping both thighs, deliberately keeping his body language wide and imposing. Dodger saw no need to do the same, however, and let his own posture slump, petting his hands before offering one. When Spider didn't shake it, Dodger withdrew humbly, taking it all on the chin.
The one with the most tattoos, and therefore the most attitude, called Spider out. "Got something up your ass, sunshine?"
Socorro narrowed in on the one who made the remark, let out two fingers, then sharply flicked them up.
"What was that?"
"Na'vi swear. Means 'fangs up the butt.'" He was semi-correct: it was a Na'vi swear, but one he made up with Kiri.
The cadets gave each other looks.
"They have swears?"
The man chuffed. "I guess. The Na'vi don't really bother themselves with bad language. They have insults instead."
Dodger leaned on his knee. "You speak Na'vi?"
"Fluently."
When he admitted to that, all eyebrows cocked, and Spider felt the reactions he was causing.
"Hey, I speak Na'vi too," the Brazilian boasted, and the boys collectively sniggered as he proceeded to mock The People with an unflattering display. "Pretty good, right?"
"Let me try, let me try," Sike insisted, then chose a baboon for his impersonation.
When a third joined in the thoughtless game by beating his chest and hooting like a gorilla, Spider had had enough; the Pandoran popped open his mouth and let loose a shriek so sharp and unworldly its only equivalent would be the Aztec death whistle. By the time the boys knew what was what, they were gaping up from the floor and staring at the only person still seated—and he was perfectly calm, his smug grin swerving from one ignoramus to the next. "Na'vi war cry," he schooled. "Meant to make your heart stop before they have a chance to kill you. More merciful that way."
One by one, the bewildered group thawed from their petrification, returning to their seats with excited breaths.
"H-H-Holy s***. This motherf***er's crazy."
"You idiots don't get it…" Spider drawled. "The Na'vi aren't some tree-swinging savages. They're smart, skilled, patient—keep all their strength in here." He beat his heart. "But if you push them, they'll let it out, and when that happens, they won't hesitate to kill the stupid. So if you ngong-brains wanna to live, I suggest you keep a healthy fear."
"Jeez. It sounds like you side with them."
"Just respect."
"Why?" one ultimately asked.
"Why not? There's a lot more to their culture this academy doesn't teach you about. And not learning about them leaves you unprepared."
"In what way?"
"For one, the Na'vi are versed in covert operations. They have their own secret codes—use whistles and other sounds to get messages across the jungle without you even knowing. By the time you realize you're in the presence of a Na'vi, you're surrounded by up to thirty, all with hatchets aimed right for your skull."
"F***ers sound organized…"
"Damn right, they're organized. And they don't have an alphabet, either. They record their history through songs or weaving. Certain patterns strung together can be a whole book of information. And no tawtute's ever been able to decipher it."
"What's a taa-toot?"
"It's what they call us. Well, one of the nicer things they call us. Means 'sky person.'"
"Because we came from the sky," Dodger finished. "You know a lot about the people."
"You know, that's what 'Na'vi' translates to?—'The People'?"
"I remember reading about that. We got a Na'vi aficionado among us, boys. Hope your taste in ladies aren't Na'vi too."
Spider didn't suppress the smirk. "Maybe they are."
The gang howled.
"Big beautiful women, you know?" one agreed.
"Bro is one of us!"
"I'm Dodger," the group leader introduced, then directed Spider's attention to the one that was heavily tattooed. "That's Jojo." His finger moved again. "And that's Bear." The biggest one flicked his head. "I'll break it to yah now so you don't get your hopes up, but they're a couple."
"Shut the hell up, Dodger," Jojo warned.
"This is Foxy."
The Black one nodded.
"And the bell of the ball sitting next to him is Sike."
The sewer rat did a curtsey. "How do-yah do?"
"So, what's your name?"
"Uh, they call me Miles Socorro."
Dodger tried not to snicker. "Yeah, and my real name's Jamie Atzer. What can we call you?"
The moment he heard that his eyes livened for the first time in several months. "Spider."
"Pleased to meet you, Spider."
The hand was offered again, only this time, Spider shook it.