In the shadow zone of a floating mountain, hidden from Polyphemus' eye and beyond the revealing touch of sun, an ikran and her rider lurked. Ebony talons grappled lianas growing down the cliff, and the two rested motionlessly in the gap between turning tons of hovering rock. They made not a sound, not a movement, even when pestilence irritated their skin. No outsider sensed their presence. The rider's face was dark with splotches of black sap that he clawed across his visage; in its chaos, the smears resembled scars. His exposed upper body was treated in the same fashion—sharp smatterings of black haphazard, not for camouflage nor intimidation alone but both. He was born for this moment and knew it. He sensed his ikran's impatience to fly, so he broke form, ever so discreetly, to stroke her tense neck. He understood her.
Far below was the grey sheet of misty junglescape. The humid breeze licked the surface and sent up waves of gauze that vaporized into nothing. Hidden in this obscuring fog were four blurry, dark forms; they moved unnaturally straight, not turning or pitching to the currents of the world but piercing its flow in autocratic defiance.
The hunter pressed his neck. "This is Papa Dragon. Target sighted." The expression on his painted face was blank, almost bored, for anxiety was completely absent. He had been to rodeos before, but not from this side of the fence, and so, while it didn't manifest to the surface, there was just a hint of excitement roiling within. There was something primal in what he was about to do, and this raw simplicity was its justification, an underlying nature as deep as his genetic code that, if disentangled, would spell out one word: war.
"Now!"
A sanguineous roar from man and mount rocketed through the air, and the duo fell upon their unsuspecting prey. Fast behind him, in a triangular formation and descending at the same rapid speed, with shouts and appearance right as menacing, were the eight other members of his pack, brandishing their only weapons of PX automatic pistols: leftovers from their ALICE packs but sufficient in their hands.
The four Wasp gunships had no time to react to the swifter enemies firing out their windows with endless rounds, launching arrows of serried light, puncturing glass, metal, and skin. Already, two ships were spiralling, with their pilots dead at the controls, but the troopers manning the door guns retaliated, sending out sprays of gunfire at the screeching, circling blurs darting everywhere around them. Two dragons descended onto the roof of a defiant gunship and off jumped their riders. The giants swung themselves inside the carriage and physically attacked. The half-sized fighters were overpowered and surrounded too quickly on all sides. Blood sprayed as heads were bashed and others less fortunate tossed into the air. The assailants then blew out the cockpit—the craft pitching to its doom—as a final sendoff before they bailed for the sky.
On the fourth gunship, still holding out, a petrified but determined door gunner aimed for the evasive giants leaping away from the falling Wasp. Right then, the leader of the pack banked from behind the stern and shot out the man's heart on his way for the helm. He catapulted off his ikran to land upon the windshield, but the pilots reacted with a spin. He slid across the glass, with his outstretched hand gripping the framing the moment he swung out, his wrist bulging as he counteracted the force of the high-powered turns. Boots rammed against the Wasp's side, and the fighter won back balance. Inside, the last thing the alarmed pilots saw was a roaring leonine face as the beast let loose an iron volley through their windows. Shrapnel of speeding glass was coated red as it burst out with smoke and flame on the other side of the cockpit. The blue daredevil sprang away from the craft and skydived towards the jungle at a great speed. Arms out to slow his descent, he brought fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. There came his wine-coloured dragon, nose-diving to match his velocity. As they glided inches from each other, he calmly set foot into stirrup, wrapped neural antenna in hand, connected queues, and stretched out their four wings. They levelled out over the trees and braked onto a trunk, just in time for him to look over his shoulder and witness the last gunship explode in an impressive fireball.
Miles Quaritch exhaled, letting his heart rate steady, and softly patted his lady ikran. "Good work, Gloria. You actually caught me this time." He glanced again at his carnage. "Looks like we got 'em good. Okay, let's hurry. We got a kill to pick." A loud "Ha!" and Quaritch bucked Glorious off the trunk to make for the smoking forest.
The pack met around the ruins of a smouldering Wasp, with one rider even landing upon it to then flap his four wings, all his body language hurrahing their victory. The mob of strapping giants, messy with blood, sweat, and leaf litter, were utterly daunting as heavy smoke drifted past their forms. But for all their might, they yielded to one greater; alerted by a banshee's shriek, they lowered their heads and backed away for their arriving chief.
"Roll call," Quaritch bellowed from atop his beast, then, like a swinging boom, glided his dragon's head to survey their numbers. "Lopez."
One leapt down from the wreck and onto charred grass, the distorting flames billowing behind him. Ochre were his rippling arms, and black was his entire chest from his painted-on cowl. "Here."
Their leader veered again. "Brown."
Another entered, like his brother before. He was only in his boxers, but his whole upper body was lathered dark red. "Here."
"Fike."
A third figure emerged from the hazy screen with gait and sharp brow unphased by the stench of death. "Here."
"Alexander."
The warrior who showed off his muscles by beating his wings proudly followed up with a rousing "Here!"
"Prager. Mansk."
The ground shook as two giants leapt down as one. Streaks of black handprints were smeared across their bloody chests. The two, otherwise known as Samson and Sasha, stood to attention to declare they were also "Here."
"Warren."
"Here!" announced the jubilant man daring torn shorts and a bodysuit of mud.
"Wainfleet."
Silence.
"Lyle?"
His finger was already in the air, ready to deploy the others for a search party, when a banshee cry prompted him to whip around. There was his missing brother, coming in to land. One streak of white mud drawn down each eye: he was the only one to wear the colours of sickness, death, and bone.
"Here, sir."
"Took you long enough. Alright. Strip the gunships, collect the bodies, and bring it all over. Double time!"
The recombinants dismounted door guns and tallied cartridges, including ones too small to use. They dismantled seats, unscrewed instruments, syphoned fuel, and snatched raw wires; they even took EXO packs as the pirates stripped the gunship clean of anything and everything, including the corpses, cradling the dead in hand and bringing them outside for each one to be laid down gently. In the distance, random patches of forest burned, and a vile smoke drifted through the air as a bitter, bluish miasma. It was a scene not for the faint of heart.
Brown drew up after laying the last.
"Total?"
The medic dipped his head to the chief. "Nineteen, sir."
"Colonel!"
Heads turned to view Lyle Wainfleet jogging up. He panted once, stopped, then shook his head after a swallow from the exertion.
"We got a live one…"
Eight figures emerged from the jungle to where the soldier lay, having somehow survived the nine hundred-foot drop but at the cost of shattering every bone in his body. The victim was in agony, and the recombinants were filled with his horrifying distress, pain so robbing he could not finish one cry before another started anew, and anew, and anew.
Quaritch quietly approached him and knelt down respectfully. It was like kneeling at the bedside of a son: that's how large he was compared to the dying man.
When the wide eyes registered the looming recombinant, they beheld a blue face not contorted in anger but thick with pity.
Quaritch hovered his hand around the shoulder. A section of soiled coveralls was torn clean, and a tattoo was peeping under the ripped cloth. He thumbed the rest back to reveal the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. "No wonder you survived." He smiled genuinely. "We're sorry to do this to you. We didn't want it to come to this, but Bridgehead gave us no other choice." His elephantine fingers pushed aside the collar and pinched up the dog tags so as to get a name. "Tonnino Ray. Catholic." He set the tags down and called over his shoulder. "Angel?"
Lopez came up and knelt opposite in anticipation of orders.
"Left my Bible back home."
Understanding his meaning, Angel leaned near the dying man and recited a commendation prayer as best he remembered. "Te… recomiendo a Dios Todopoderoso, mi querido hermano…"
As the recombinant performed the last rites, Quaritch reached behind himself and unsheathed a tactical knife.
The clearing was as they left it: the fires still burning, the dead still laid, with the returning recombinants approaching the pyre to rest the twentieth comrade.
Branches were selected, dipped into the wrecks to catch their dying flames, then thrown upon the pile to create the bonfire.
The chief puffed out his chest. "Ten-hut!"
The lined up nine warriors simultaneously clapped their legs together and offered a salute to the fallen brothers of their before race. The recombinants may have been forced to go primitive, but they would not turn savage.
Black rivers of hair fell off the shoulders as a hand came in to bring over a new stream and connect it with the others. Knot after knot, the spool was slowly being woven into a braid. He was patient as his head jerked with each tug caused by the woman behind him, and so, to pass through the monotony, he shut his lids and drifted away to a day that aroused a gentle smile on his face now scarred with burns.
As the desired memory replaced his dull surroundings, so came that laughter he remembered with perfect clarity. They twirled around one another in the air, soaking themselves in the spray of waterfalls and absorbing the romantic scene sweet with mating calls. Then, there she was, standing by the pond, the diamond light of the water outlining her face.
"I live upstream and you downstream.
From night to night, of you I dream."
"You do like your poems. What's the story behind this one?"
"It's a love poem using the Yangtze River to describe longing."
The labouring hand, still hard at work, came over to divert another river. The head was pulled in its dictation, along with the smile.
"I'm sorry, Casey. My intention wasn't to embarrass you."
"Qiáo, you shouldn't let yourself get distracted with feelings. We're soldiers."
Another knot.
"Z-boy, what are you smelling?"
"Explosives… Go!"
His mind recollected the memory with such chaos that all the colours were over-saturated and sounds deafening as he watched her run for cover towards the jungle beyond, and then—total whiteness.
A face like calm water—there was no expression of loss, just the reaction of another knot being plaited.
"You've been in a coma for weeks."
"Weeks—?"
It was nearing the end; only a handful of black remained.
"Tonight, we lost four. Parker. Lyle's wife and child, and Casey."
The queue was finished.
"All done, Rapunzel," Walker informed, patting Zhâng's shoulder.
The amputee shifted in his seat to catch her in his peripheral vision. "That was fast."
"I'm used to doing it."
He crinkled his hairless brows, stripped by fire, then half-smiled. "Would do it myself, but—" He didn't need to finish his sentence; his left shoulder waggling without its appendage said enough.
"Hey, it gives me something to do… Not much to do around here in this cave," she grunted upon getting up. "We're grounded every time the men go out to have fun."
Her voice carried across the great antechamber of their home; it knocked off the concave walls before falling down the wide opening in the floor the two had been sitting near. Down under were the unpredictable jungles of Pandora, where at any moment flocks of fkio could fly into view, escaping the predatory ikran that was trying to outfly the even more fearsome toruk—the vicious circle of life always playing out below for the spectators secure in their floating mountain above.
Zhâng pulled away from the opening. "Yeah…"
She made a face at his tone, as nothing slipped past her detectors. "They know what they're doing."
"It's reckless."
"No. It's desperation. We need the supply. You know that."
"There are better methods than direct assault."
"Those aren't good enough—not for this team."
"Not for our chief…" he mumbled.
"So, he's flashy? We wouldn't have it any other way."
"My mistake. I've been in a coma too long to know what this team wants."
"Hey. What is that? What is that attitude? Just because you were out of it for a while, you think you're not a part of this team anymore?"
"I'm a part of it. Always. I'm now the beloved team eunuch." He shrugged in a huff and marched away.
"And what does that make me?" she shot back, her words snapping off the walls. "As the only woman—the team whore?"
"Whatever you feel like."
Out of nowhere, but not unexpected, a solid strike to his side forced him to the ground. She kicked him again.
"Theerree," she dragged out in a taunt. That make you feel better?" She paused to toss up her hands in a show. "Look at me not going easy on you because of your special condition."
Zhâng disguised his plan of attack with his deer-in-the-headlights stare, then worked his foot around her ankle and, in a flash, brought her to the ground. "Very kind of you, Bridgette!"
She shoved him off and chucked him down the steps, where he rolled to a stop and stared up at the Marine, now displaying her fangs. "Why you feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself anyway?! Worried about the safety of your tail every time they come around? That they'll drop the soap on you? Goddamn, wuss. You're a Marine. Don't embarrass the name. At least you're male. I'm the only female in a band of nothing but men. You think that's going to be easy on me? Wait until their blood starts running hot. I have no one to turn to when that happens. No one to joke with about how you men are always thinking with your—" She punted a rock and sent it flying into the jungle.
He was still on the ground, so he rocked himself onto his remaining arm, blowing aside the loose hair she freed, and chuckled. "And you complain about me bitching…"
She yielded. "You know it's going to happen—us out here in the jungle—living the tribal life. Don't know how the colonel's going to handle that when they get in a rut. Or himself, for that matter."
"Permission to speak my mind?"
She thought about it. "Permission granted."
"His lack of direction is going to kill us."
"He's—!" Her objection stopped of its own accord. "You're right…"
"If you want my advice, you should find a life outside of this. Take one of the men."
Her brows raised like curtains.
"If you have someone, the others will stay away, and the two of you can rely on each other when this jungle militia runs its course."
"Die soldiers or settle down?—Is that what you're saying?" Impressed he had the balls to be this honest, she replied in kind, albeit with her own astuteness. "Your way of hitting on someone leaves a lot to be desired."
"Not me. I'd be a poor choice."
"Casey didn't think so."
He inhaled methodically, attempting to mask, but his bitterness betrayed him. "She didn't want me."
"Are you sure about that?" she scoffed. "She was going to retire for you."
"She was in love with someone else."
"Oh… Now I see. I get it. I get it."
"Get what?"
"Why you're so down on the colonel. And here I thought your advice was coming from concern, not jealousy."
"Jealousy has nothing to do with my criticisms."
"For your sake, you better hope so because that green-eyed monster is a b****. Believe me, I know," she warned, and the way she delivered it caused Zhâng to reconnect with her eyes.
"What are you…?"
"Casey's not the only one who had feelings. The thing is knowing when to back off and accept facts." Her cadence mellowed with empathy, and her stance loosened to take in the changing tide, where it was not all barriers and masks but openness and understanding. "He would never choose someone like me. I'm too aware of what he is—and a woman like that scares him. It's why he prefers men. In all truth, he wanted Casey because she was younger—that's where he's at. Idiot doesn't know what he needs."
No response.
"Hey. I'm not looking for a shoulder to cry on. I'm over it. I'm just warning you. Don't let your jealousy of him blind you. I think you're the only one who could actually take over his role—if it comes to that. And I don't want to see that potential get corrupted."
The distant squees of stingbats, sleeping in their nooks, played in lieu of a reply, for there was little he could say to counter her words, even if he wanted to. She figured as much and carried on her way, but as she made it to the top of the steps, he finally responded. "Bridgette?"
"What is it?"
He appreciated her, standing there, as the brash and unapologetic definition of a reliable woman. He reflected on how she was the more stable choice and that whoever she picked, he thought, would be the smartest man of their lot. "Will you consider what I said earlier?"
A sarcastic but relieved huff was forced out of her system. "Don't worry. That's already taken care of. But thanks to your advice, I'm ready to go public."
A cacophony of banshee screams interrupted them before Zhâng could learn her meaning. The pair stepped back and watched as a horde of fliers shot through the opening, penetrating their quiet sanctuary with unrestrained howls of victory. The team had completed their mission, done their ceremonies, and were now free to feast on the fruits of their success. Feet smacked onto the cave surface as arriving hulking bodies ploughed into careless others who weren't watching where they were landing, hissing, snarling and snapping at anyone too near. The ikrans were no better.
Quaritch jumped to his feet and took in the scrumptious air of his new home. The cave was damp, dingy, had a terrible draft and completely free of law; it was the best place he had ever lived. "Walker," he sang, crashing his boots across the stone as he strutted over. "I'm home."
"Want a kiss?" She sneered.
"Nah, I'm good. But thanks for offering."
She hissed at him as he proceeded past with a wicked cackle.
"What's the damage?" Zhâng asked up to Lopez.
Angel threw his pack of pillaged goods, letting the items skid across the floor. "I gave a man his last rites," he said on climbing down.
"Oh?"
"Then the colonel killed him."
"Oh."
Warren flung out his arms, touting two stuffed backpacks, one in each hand. "We took 'em all down like that. Never knew gunships were so easy. No wonder we died last time."
"They didn't stand a chance against us," Fike bragged, brandishing his automatic pistol in the air. "We were too fast—too quick. On these birds, we're more deadly than any Apache. You should've seen us, brother. We were death itself."
"Diving down on Lazarus"—Brown shook his head—"my target in sight—I felt immortal. Nothing can take us."
His best friend agreed. "We practised that manoeuvre for weeks, but when we actually did it, it was like—like—"
"Like making love for the first time." Mansk smirked as he brushed past, toting a chair seat on his back.
"What were we doing before?" Prager asked everyone. "Under Bridgehead we were barely keeping up with the Na'vi. Two months in the wild, and we're strong enough to take on gunships."
"It's because we're not held back anymore." Others roused Johnny's sentiment, so he rode on that current. "We're not restrained by any leashes." The agreeing whoops invigorated him. "Not controlled by any more collars!" He promptly stripped off his throat mic, and his audience loved it. "We're our own law." He swaggered into the middle of the congregation and sent a final gesture into the air. "F*** Bridgehead!"
Everyone cheered.
"Those bastards get what's coming to them!" Walker shouted over the claps.
Lyle's bellow was frightening. "Shoulda thought twice about f***ing over reanimated Marines."
"Here, here!" the voices rang.
Fike advanced. "We'll give them a case of the Deja Blus!"
If it wasn't a "Yeah," it was a "Hell, yeah!" The whole antechamber rumbled with their roaring vows, but the moment they heard the approach of their olo'eyktan—instant silence.
Quaritch, cool as a cucumber, reentered the scene while casually giving his face a few more wipes that further distorted his make-up, resulting in a look more nightmarish than first application. "Gentleman," he started, then dipped his head to Walker. "Ladies." And Zhâng wished he hadn't been standing behind her at that moment. "We just had a victory." The heads nodded with lip-licking leers. "We should celebrate." They all hooted. "And I happen to know what it is the Na'vi forage for stimulus of the alcohol variety. For that, you can all thank the good doctor, Augustine, whose little field guide prepped me with all I need to know about Pandora," he finished mischievously.
"What do we need to get?"
"The kalsuktspang. And don't worry about 'the gettin'.' We already have a chamber full. Don't we, Zhâng?"
Every eye was filled with excitement and fell on the humble man who offered a simple one-arm shrug. "I had nothing better to do while you were gone."
"What are you praising him for? I did all the carrying," Walker complained.
"Well then, don't just stand around, woman!" Quaritch berated. "Bring on the drinks!"
Unphased, Walker took it on the chin by imitating a gorilla.
Sully's Grotto, or High Camp as it was otherwise known, was once the primary hideout for the Omaticaya, but after their location was compromised, they were forced to abandon it. Bridgehead came, inspected the place, and left after seeing nothing of value worth the cost of airlifting out, thereby clearing it for use for future opportunists. On the day the recombinants arrived, they were cold, wet, tired, and hungry. The shivering team stumbled in the dark through High Camp, where they eventually found a cavity of adequate size and lit with bioluminescence from the filament tapestries of an extensive root system. The eleven recombinants unanimously decided, then and there, to bed down in that recess, not from any spoken decision but because each one was drawn to the comforting glow of nightlights that Eywa always left on for her children. They lay next to each other in a heap, letting their combined body heat insulate the cool space and keep them warm. They were fresh from betrayal and still in mourning, yet that first sleep felt euphoric. Uncertain about the future and practically at the end of themselves they may have been, but there was a spirit born of their being in that cave that infused all of them as they slept. Never before had any of them—as they used each other for pillows—felt more at peace.
The next morning, they were ready to face the challenges of their new existence. Their colonel went to work reminding all of them that this was not the end but the beginning—that they would take on the land and live off of it whether it wanted them or not.
So the recombinants formed their new home in the hollowed-out remains of Sully's; the stoney womb that once sheltered his people now protected Quaritch's team. Instead of Omaticaya songs and flutes, it was now rowdy laughter and clacking boots. The halls no longer echoed with families, only testosterone and unbridled virility—and never before had it reached such decibels as it did on their celebratory night. The ex-humans decorated the interior with the appropriate trappings, making use of the ones the Omaticaya left behind in their hurried departure. In a chamber that was open to the heavens, the recombinants started a bonfire and sat on the natural steps around it, playing the instruments of the natives while backdropped by the abandoned storage tanks of the humans. Discarded items, both primitive and modern, made up the aesthetic of these frugal jungle rats.
Two pairs of recoms came in lifting packed crates of the forged kalsuktspang where it was eagerly passed around—a bizarre fruit that fermented inside its own husk. The intent of such succulent flesh was to bait the kawka'ongs—or any other creature witless enough—into eating its seeds, for the plant's saprophytic children needed decaying flesh in order to germinate; and after eating the fruit, the inebriated animal would most likely get themselves killed—sad for the creature but perfect for the sapling emerging from its corpse. Augustine's written voice from the past warned Quaritch that even the Na'vi exercised caution when eating the kalsuktspang, so, of course, that made it even better.
The men had no manners as they ripped off chunks with their teeth, so much so that their clothing ended up tasting more than their tongues. They cackled from the rush of intoxicating juice and how it tasted exactly like tequila infused with the devil's tango. The night grew older, and the fire brightened, actively feeding on all their laughter. As the ten enjoyed their liquor fruits and pounded on Na'vi drums, Walker, wanting to make her own fun, shocked them all when she entered dressed in her undergarments and an iridescent feather shawl she'd discovered abandoned. She had painted her bare arms and legs in Mendhi patterns using white mud so that her natural glowing freckles were not the only tantalizing lines shaping her figure. To the beat of drums, claps, whistles, and many excited howls, she began dancing around the fire. She stirred her feet into the earth to tap into the ancient spirit flowing beneath and filled herself with stamina to increase her performance. Her limbs flicked and swayed; her tail mixed the adulterated air. After she made enough leaping turns around the flames, she halted before it, gyrating her winding body near the undulating heat. Racing with adrenaline, her wild eyes reflected the orange light as she grew high on the power she held over the men. All were captivated by her bizarre performance; some nudged shoulders with their buddies, others raised smiling brows at her audaciousness. One set of eyes, however, was more intense than all the rest. He wasn't distracting himself with claps or drums or shouts rooting her on; instead, his thumb drew to his smiling teeth, in not a grin but a leer, as he silently followed every enticing spasm of her half-naked body. Nearby, Mansk pulled from the celebration to share a joke with Prager when he caught the ongoing lust in his peripheral vision—a stare even more intense was born. Without explaining a word to his friend, he got up and drifted his way past the spectators to the one taking things too far. Very quietly and with his fists clenched, Sasha Mansk came to face the oblivious lecher.
Quaritch was belted across the jaw.
The drums and dancing ceased immediately as eyes spun to catch Mansk tackling the colonel to the ground. Quaritch thrust his assailant off him and sprang to his feet; he was delirious from all the drink, but the moment a fight was in question, he was instantly sober. His lips flicked, and he raced over the steps to return Mansk's treatment. The men ripped into each other, swinging fists that ruptured blood cells and kicks that would have cracked human bone. They gripped their ears and butted heads. They dipped their shoulders and threw the other across their back. When a fist missed its target and hit a spectator, a brawl broke out. Lopez retaliated and rocketed his boot into Quaritch's abdomen, so the colonel hurled Mansk into the impudent Latino. The assaulted man's reprisal came through Brown's left hook, and then Sasha's reprisal was in Prager's uppercut. As every man pummelled the other for reasons they were too drunk to know, Walker sashayed up to the highest step, where she crossed her arms and sat down next to an incredulous Zhâng. When she jutted her lips in satisfaction as her mate of choice beat their commander's face in, Zhâng was no longer confused by her provocative dance.