Recombinant Bridgehead: Recombinant Saga, #1

RECOMBINANT

BRIDGEHEAD

T. R. & H. M. Green

Original Concept by

James Cameron

Story by

Heidi and Tiffany Green

Written by

Tiffany Green

Edited by

Heidi Green

ALL RIGHTS ARE NOT RESERVED

Full permission is given for any part of this book to be reproduced, transmitted in any form or means; electronic or mechanical, stored in a retrieval system, photocopied, recorded, scanned, or otherwise. Any of these actions does not require the proper written permission of the author.

Dedicated to

Stephen Lang

Hope for Quaritch

Recombinant

Volume 1: Bridgehead

Volume 2: Wild Lands

Volume 3: Pandora

Disclaimer

All recombinant names are based on the ones listed in the Avatar: The Way of Water Visual Dictionary. Later sources claimed that a few recombinants were mislabeled. Since we conceived these characters prior to discovering this, we decided to keep the incorrect names. Additionally, we envisioned Fike based off the concept art and not the final design.

Prologue

Jake Sully was a paraplegic Marine who arrived on Pandora to serve in the Avatar Program: an ambassadorial effort by the RDA (Resources Development Administration) to help improve relations with the local indigenous, known as the Na’vi. An avatar was a Na’vi body hybridized with human DNA that could be temporarily possessed via a brain link, but a driver can only link to an avatar of their genetic equivalent, so when driver-in-training Tom Sully was killed in a mugging, his fraternal twin brother, Jake, was offered his contract.

It takes nearly five years to reach Pandora from Earth, and when Jake arrived, relations with the Na’vi had taken a turn for the worse. This race of giant blue humanoids were a primitive people at one with nature and actively protested the RDA’s destructive mining operations for the valuable mineral, unobtanium, exclusive to their world.

Grace Augustine, head of the Avatar Program and sympathizer for the Omatikaya—the clan the RDA had the most contact with—distrusted the Marine, fearing he’d be another trigger-happy moron. However, the Omatikaya saw differently. After receiving a sign from their goddess, Eywa, they decided to take Jake under their wing and train him in their ways.

This arrangement pleased the chief of security, Colonel Miles Quaritch, who had trusted Jake to gather intel from the Omatikaya in his mission to force them out of their village—a giant tree that rested atop the moon’s largest unobtanium deposit. Jake was vigilant at first, but something threatened his mission that couldn’t be prevented—he fell in love.

She was Neytiri te Tskaha Mo’at’ite, daughter of the clan leaders. Before the Marine knew what was about him, he had pledged himself to her, heart, body and soul.

When Quaritch discovered that Jake was showing signs of expatriating to the enemy, he rescinded his mission and had him thrown in confinement. The gunships were rolled out, and in one hour, twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds, twenty thousand years of history was destroyed in a blink.Quaritch felled Hometree, and more than half the clan was crushed to death under its mighty trunk, never to rise again.

Jake was later rescued by his friends, and together, they escaped the RDA base known as Hell’s Gate. However, as their tiltrotor took off, the colonel opened fire, and Grace Augustine was hit. Jake’s mentor was fading fast by the time he got her to the Omatikaya. He begged the help of Eywa, and Mo’at, the tribe’s tsahìk (shamanic matriarch), had a plan. The Omatikaya gathered at the Tree of Souls—a site considered to be their strongest connection to Eywa—and attempted a ceremony to transfer all that Grace was into her avatar body. Unfortunately, there was not enough time, and the beneficent Dr. Augustine slipped into Eywa’s embrace.

Dawn came after the mourning, and on wings of fire flew Toruk Makto, Rider of Last Shadow: a warrior who forms a bond with the king of the Pandoran skies. Only five others in all Na’vi history had ever succeeded, and Jake had just become the sixth. He now had the authority to rally all the great clans together to war against the invaders.

Quaritch knew when he learned the clans were amassing that his only option was a preemptive attack. Converting miners into a militia and loading every available gunship to the hilt, he set out to bomb the Tree of Souls, knowing this would forever demoralize their enemy into submission.

The Na’vi were overrun, and just when all hope seemed lost, a miracle happened; Quaritch’s fleet was brought to ruins. The fight now boiled down between him and Sully. Battling from within his great mechanical AMP suit, Quaritch held Jake’s life in his hands, but fate intervened in the form of Neytiri.

With two arrows fired from her fallen father’s bow,

the princess sent into the void, the demon’s wayward soul.

With the battle won, the invaders were expelled from Pandora. The Na’vi once again knew peace, but this did not last.

A decade later, the threat returned as an overwhelming force. Profit no longer being the drive; the goal now was survival. The fleet adrift in space was all that was left of the human race; another loss would spell their extinction. In the span of five years, they quickly built Bridgehead: a heavily armoured city of impenetrable defence. Yet despite their strength, their numbers were small, and resources stretched thin. The unobtanium deposits they needed to expand were heavily guarded by Sully’s troops. With the future of humanity looking grim, they needed a miracle of their own.

T. R. and H. M. Green

Recombinant Bridgehead

Awakening

The cold halls of the ISV Jules Verne rang with the cries of re-dying soldiers. From the shrieks of a woman being disembowelled by a banshee to a man’s cry for help as he’s ripped apart by viperwolves, each wail was indistinguishable from the rest but all peerless in their tragedy. SciOp personnel scrambled to stay on top of each reviving case. With no intel as to how they died, it was any man’s guess how they would react upon waking. One had to be strapped down before he could claw out his eyes, trying to remove the incisors lodged in his corneas. It took eight men to do so and cost several broken bones—their bones.

These were no ordinary soldiers returning, and the latest one being revived was someone no one wanted to oversee, especially after witnessing their colleagues hauled away on stretchers. They had joked about how this was the last guy they ever thought would be born again, but he wasn’t being born again—he was being ripped mercilessly out of the one thing he deserved for making the ultimate sacrifice. Yet, Hell deemed itself too good for him and spat him back onto the mortal plane without ceremony.

His chest swelled but took in no air; his mouth gaped but tasted nothing. In his case, the risk was losing their man to asphyxiation right out of the starting gate. They rushed over with the carbon dioxide he needed, but the moment they set mask to mouth, he hurled it away. His memory recognized the taste and knew what breathing it would mean for him. His fingers darted frantically for his chest to grab something that wasn’t there, clawing his skin raw, trying to dig it out. Though he couldn’t breathe, he still screamed all the same, voiceless cries of unknowable pain. The observing scientists knew panic mode usually lasted for about ten seconds until the sobering reality finally kicked in.

Quaritch saw his blue hand.

It hovered motionless over his face before, one by one, a finger curled as he registered the digits as his. Disoriented and confused, the colonel struggled to lift his hulking body off the patient table. He wobbled to his feet, but his mind spun, and he stumbled hard against a wall. He fell down the icy metal onto the equally cold floor. The incessant whine in his ears grew louder, and the white lights above stung his eyes. He couldn’t understand what was happening or where he was, only that his mind was exploding from sensory overload. Then his lungs heaved, and his senses began to calm. The whine in his ears clarified into the numerous voices demanding him to take it easy.

Where…am…I…?

The white goblins—for that is how the science operatives looked to him, dressed in their cellophane scrubs—swarmed around him, poking and prodding him for any sign of damage.

What’s going on? he further demanded, authority returning to his tone.

Colonel Miles Quaritch? How do you feel?

Why am I in an avatar?

You’ve just linked to your body. You might be experiencing some light-headedness and/or nausea. Can you stand okay? Try returning to the table.

The colonel ignored their entreaties and scanned his surroundings, wisps of his new black hair dangling before his face. He was in a freezing, desolate room with grey walls and grey floors, all dead to his touch. He felt cold, trapped and helpless, like an infant left to die on the hospital floor—he hated the sensation. Discovering the door, Quaritch tore off the strange wires taped to his scalp and plodded towards it. It burst open with one push from his colossal arm, but he couldn’t make it three steps before black dots swarmed his eyes, and he fell against another wall. This one housed a window, and Quaritch found himself staring back at his reflection as he came to. It was an unfamiliar blue face with ridiculously large yellow eyes, but what stunned him more was the view beyond the glass. It wasn’t a landscape teeming with life…

But cold, dead space.

For a long moment, his eyes focused on the vast emptiness before him, that endless expanse of nothingness. No warmth, no sound, no light—nothing but that space in between worlds, rare oases of life so far apart from one another, they might as well not exist. Quaritch had no poetic thoughts staring into the abyss; he actually felt nothing, thought nothing, as if his mind drifted so far into the void that he lost connection with his form, and it stood frozen against the window with mouth agape.

Quaritch?

The voice was familiar and called him out of his trance.

Selfridge?

Standing further down the hall, with a breathing visor over his face, was the shirt and tie combo he knew so well: the administrator in charge of Hell’s Gate, Parker Selfridge. Quaritch already towered over him, but in that body, he was Goliath looking down at David. Only this David wasn’t backed by a Greater Power, or any of his own, for that matter.

Christ, you’re a tall drink of water, Selfridge mumbled, a bit taken aback by the colonel’s new size.

Before Quaritch could assault him with questions, he was startled by a harrowing cry that echoed into the hall before fading into nothing—another soldier had been born.

What the hell? Quaritch gaped, pivoting around.

Selfridge winced when he saw how inadequate the hospital gown was and whispered to one of the operatives who wandered into the hall to please get some pants on him or something. He then turned to the Marine. After you change, come see me, and I’ll fill you in on everything.

Quaritch would have followed after him if not for the distraction of another unsettling cry.

In the privacy of the cabin that was shown to him, Quaritch took a moment to reflect on what little he remembered. He had no explanation for why he was where he was, in the body he was in, only that he had been woken out of a deep sleep, and all his vivid dreams turned vague upon waking. Trying to collect the fireflies of his memories with his bare hands, he pieced together an outline of a dream. He remembered Pandora; he remembered a battle; but, above all, he remembered dying. Quaritch reached for where the arrows had pierced him and rubbed the uninjured spot. How did they rescue him in time? He asked himself. His old body—where was it? What state was it in? He had to be linking from somewhere, somehow, but knew the damage he took was fatal. There was also the question as to why it happened. It wasn’t just a battle; there was a name—a figure at the centre of it all—but who? He couldn’t wait to squeeze the answers out of Selfridge’s pointed, little head.

Stripping the pathetic hospital gown, he took a moment to get a feel for his new form. He was covered in dark stripes resembling tongues of flame, licking his entire body. The face in the mirror was freakish with its leonine fangs, ears, and nostrils. Yet, despite this, aspects of his old image shone through—when he was a young man. The body was a clone, after all, that genetically underwent the Na’vi treatment, and what a treatment too. Hundreds of tiny bioluminescent dots covered his skin that twinkled like stars in the night.

Great, he thought to himself irritably. I’m coated in glitter.

He donned his tank and felt a bump under the back of his shirt. He reached behind him and drew out the long braid, having forgotten all about the Na’vi queue. Flipping aside the tufts of hair that sheathed the neural tendrils, he watched the barbs curl outward like a baby’s fingers trying to make contact with its mother. He knew the Na’vi used this extension of their nervous system to link to their mounts, but that was the extent of his knowledge, as he never cared to learn more.

Quaritch flipped the braid over his shoulder and had to tuck several long hairs behind his ear, which didn’t help his sense of virility. He vowed to get his crew cut as soon as possible and would’ve had that queue whacked, too, if he could.

The other open slot in his army pants confused the hell out of him until he realized it was for the new addition dancing about behind his legs. He understood that the avatar had many physical advantages; it was tougher, stronger and faster than Hercules himself, but in his mind, all that ferocity was stymied by its several adorable features. And no matter how much it was lauded by scientists as an evolutionary advantage, the tail would always be just plain stupid.

After rolling his eyes, he finished getting dressed. It felt good to him, being back in his old clothes, albeit ones resized to fit his new frame; it was something he recognized. He told himself that he was only linking, and even if it looked like a pincushion, he could eventually go back to his old body; however, there was an undercurrent of dread that told him this wouldn’t be the case.

Selfridge stood before an immense hologram of Pandora that rotated over a concave metal bowl in the centre of the room. The area was alive with activity as crewmen of the flagship vessel oversaw fleet operations. Parker was largely ignored as he stood around pretending he had a purpose of similar importance. He dragged his finger across another sleek surface when the reason for his presence walked in.

It only took the colonel seconds to lock in on the little man and begin marching over, but the moment he unhinged his lips, Quaritch found himself struggling to breathe.

"Your breather," Selfridge instructed, pointing to the apparatus that hung from Quaritch’s neck. Take a few sips from it.

He did so and instantly felt better.

Your body needs more carbon dioxide than us, so you’ll have to suck that back every few minutes. Didn’t anyone tell you that yet?

No one’s told me much of anything, he fired back.

Parker’s lips tightened as the Marine glared down at him. Right. As you may have guessed, your mind has been transferred into that of a chimaera—a recombinant.

His brow raised. ‘Recombinant’? I thought these things were called avatars.

Parker’s hands ducked under his armpits. How much do you remember?

I remember dying, he replied flatly.

That’s because you did. August 23rd, 2154. You were killed in action fighting that treacherous sack of s***, Jake Sully.

Sully. The name hit the gong inside his mind and rang out, stirring every sleeping memory awake. All at once, it came back to him. The kid who arrived on Pandora in a wheelchair: a Marine who paid a high price in the line of duty. When he saw him roll in on that chair, Quaritch set out to dig up everything he could on him; it spoke to the old warrior’s soul to see a fellow brother aid their cause despite a disability, holding true to the adage once a Marine, always a Marine. He was impressed with Sully and trusted him with a high-stakes reconnaissance mission that proved fatal—fatal for himself and, if he guessed rightly, nearly one hundred other lives. Sully had sold them out for a giant blue filly. To add insult to injury, it was that screeching banshee of his that had plugged him.

I remember now… Quaritch growled.

Good. Saves me time from explaining everything.

Where’s my body?

Somewhere back on Pandora. He shrugged. After the battle, Sully had us packed up and shipped out. We didn’t have time to collect your remains.

Quaritch paused. You weren’t able?

Parker looked up at him with a twinge of fear; he could no longer delay the inevitable. You want to know how you’re linking?

That’d be nice… Quaritch hummed ominously, his lip curling upward to show his fangs. Selfridge gulped, then scratched his brow, trying to think of how he would word this. As he hesitated, Quaritch stepped forward and loomed over Parker’s trembling frame. "This isn’t a temporary address, is it!" The murder in his tone sent Parker’s heart racing, and he broke into a cold sweat. His eyes darted around the room, hoping one of the many crew members would come to his rescue. Instead, they watched the interaction with amusement.

"Now, look, I know it’s a bit of a shock, but would you rather you were dead?"

Quaritch immediately grabbed Selfridge by the collar and hoisted him high. For the crew watching, things were getting good. The former administrator of Hell’s Gate pleaded with the Marine to set him down.

"You mean to tell me I’m permanently stuck this way!"

Q-Q-Quaritch, wait! Wait, wait, wait. Listen! There are many advantages to your new body.

"Like what? Tripping on my own tail as I get out of the shower? Using my fangs to pop open a quick beer? Great advantages, Selfridge, not to mention the retractable dick! Howbout looking like a goddamn Christmas tree? Why, with these glowing freckles, I look prettier than ever! He stopped for a breath. You know, I never realized just how stupid these bastards looked till now."

The man could do nothing as the giant shook him with each line. Eventually, his anger subsided, and he set Parker down. How did you get me in this body if I died?

Back on his feet and ignoring the giggles he heard in the background, Parker smoothed out his shirt, trying to recall the explanation he was working on before Quaritch showed up. That was no easy task. It wouldn’t even have been possible if not for some forward planning. That morning, before the ships set out—you remember? We called you aside?

Quaritch recalled being woken out of his sleep and told to go with some men to the ninth level of Hell’s Gate. Up to that point, he didn’t know there was a ninth level. He was then asked to hand-pick eleven of his best men, who were soon brought into the lab. From there, they were ordered to rest in link beds. At the time, he was told they were merely backing up his memories for the endeavour of making better soldiers or something. He didn’t understand what was happening, only that he blacked out inside the chamber and woke up on a gurney with wires taped to his head like an experiment in some cheap science fiction movie.

We weren’t backing up your memories, Parker sighed. It was a hard transfer.

What do you mean?

Selfridge signalled to an operator standing by, and the hologram of Pandora transformed into a brain or a facsimile of one, which looked like a clump of phosphorescent roots crudely tied together.

Project PMTR. Permanent Mind Transfer Research—since declassified, now with you walking about. Back then, it was kept under wraps. The shareholders weren’t keen on this kind of research leaking back to Earth and disrupting the public’s perception of death. You know how religious radicals can be—‘playing God,’ ‘dealing with the Devil’—that sort of thing.

Selfridge, if you don’t get to the point, I’m going to have to get mean again.

Right, right. So, the shareholders put in the funding for several projects on Hell’s Gate that wouldn’t necessarily ‘fly’ back home. They wanted the money the unobtanium brought in, but some were more concerned there wasn’t going to be a future to spend it—‘Preserve the human spirit’ was their motto. My job was overseeing the mining operations and let the ones in charge of these projects to just ‘do their thing’ and not ask questions.

What did I just say? Quaritch warned, getting increasingly annoyed.

I know, let me explain, he pleaded. One of these projects was focused on how to preserve a human mind. Remember Dr. Augustine?—what she said about the Na’vi uploading and downloading memories into trees?—‘connections to the hundredth connections-whatever’?

Quaritch tried to follow the man’s blathering as best he could and nodded, not that he understood; he just wanted him to get on with it.

"She was right, and we know she was right, but we couldn’t let her know that, as it was her research that this project was benefiting from. Project PMTR operated on the science that a mind could be preserved using the neural-like root system that Pandora creates—transferring a person’s consciousness into an artificially made…‘plant brain.’"

Plant brain?

Plant brain. I forget what they called it—some Latin word or something. These brains were meant for the shareholders—twelve, to be exact. The permanent transfer worked on several species of Pandoran animals. The problem was, there was no way of knowing if it’d work on a human, with our species being more complex and not native to the world and all. It couldn’t be tested, as no one volunteered to be turned into a vegetable. Go figure. But that’s how the transfer would work. The mind would go into the artificial brain while the body went brain-dead.

The Marine finally started to understand where he was going with this. Are you trying to tell me that during the battle, I wasn’t actually in my body? he droned incredulously.

Pretty much. You were operating it via the psionic link—just like Sully with his avatar. Only in this case, your avatar was your human body.

The Marine’s mouth hung agape. My mind was in a jar!

Tank, actually.

Selfridge, I didn’t think it was possible to screw a man this effectively! I’m almost impressed!

The battle was something no one saw coming! Selfridge argued. We didn’t have time to test the project in a controlled environment. We knew you guys would most likely die, so—

So you used us as a bunch of guinea pigs?

To preserve your lives!

Was this your idea? he barked.

I thought it’d be a good opportunity to—

To impress your shareholders and say, ‘Hey, look! You can put a brain on ice, stow it in the freezer, and save it for a rainy day!’ Which is what you seemed to have done with yours!

It worked, didn’t it?

Quaritch backed down. Parker was right in that at least—he was kept alive; he just wasn’t sure if this body was a better alternative than a plant brain floating in a tank. To think that the company he worked for could delay his passing into the afterlife—if there was one—to call him back whenever they fancied was a thought that disgusted him to no end. Not even suicide could protect you from their incessant greed. He sighed, his eyes falling to the floor along with his spirit. Guess this means I’ll never see Earth again…

Selfridge winced. About that…

Harkening

The rotating hologram of a dead Earth was surreal to Quaritch. The projected image did not adequately portray the extent of the desolation. It was a world without atmosphere, oceans and trees—nothing but barren landscapes filled with debris. While Man was away chasing dreams of wealth, the mother they had left behind died overnight.

When our ships reached Earth, Parker went on to explain, It was too late. We discovered the planet was in a state of emergency. The RDA was already cobbling together a massive migration operation.

What happened to it? he asked distantly, looking upon the grey landscapes of his former home.

Nuclear warfare. Things were already in a critical state. When the fight broke out for resources, it just accelerated. It lasted less than a year, but it was enough. Millions of lives… The images were just… Jesus Christ, it was a nightmare. Selfridge sighed; this wasn’t something he wanted to go over.

Mutually Assured Destruction… Quaritch commented grimly after taking another sip of carbon dioxide.

It was pure hell, what we came back to, but it had one good outcome. The armistice reached meant everyone would work together on the Xenogenesis Fleet—what we’re on right now. That right there was where my childhood home used to be. Selfridge pointed to a section of the world that came into view; he was from Minneapolis. Quaritch’s eyes wandered south, and he realized they were being drawn towards his hometown.

Hopewell was never a city on the map, just a set of homes you’d drive past on your way to more important places. Before now, that’s all it was to him. He looked at the indistinguishable speck in the vast desert that swept across America and realized that all history of his hometown was regulated to a memory. The people he knew, the kids he played with, and the friends he made were all buried in that desert. Only through his recollections could their souls ever rise out of the sand and feel alive again. Only through him would anyone ever learn of Hopewell, USA. His lips rolled, holding back a strange feeling welling inside him; then, all at once, Quaritch pulled away, seemingly unaffected.

Parker resumed, So if it’s any consolation, you’re in the same boat as us. No one’s going back to Earth—there’s nothing left. This fleet has been orbiting Pandora for five years. At least with your body, you can go wherever you want, land-wise. The rest of us are stuck until Bridgehead completes production.

Bridgehead?

The one settlement we were able to build. Selfridge then shouted to a nearby operator to draw up the image of it. Earth was reduced to a footnote in history as the hologram morphed into her successor. The city of Bridgehead was still undergoing construction, but what was presented to the Marine still managed to impress. Built on a coastline, it was a giant city, circuited by nineteen miles of defensive wall. Half the ring incorporated the ocean, granting them a massive, heavily fortified port. The extraterrestrial boom town was a marvel of human ingenuity, with most of its sections devoted to processing Pandora’s resources for better use.

"The site has a two-mile thick kill zone, as you can see. It’s strewn with weapons that automatically shoot anything that gets within radius. Since coming back, we’ve found that the animals have gone berserk. The whole planet is on high alert. It sends out anything it can after us. I heard even the plants are attacking people now—crazy down there."

Quaritch recalled that battle against Sully’s horde. The humans had the upper hand when, suddenly, all manner of beasts showed up to join the fight. Flocks of banshees came out of nowhere and attacked their gunships. Hammerheads stampeded through their defences and crushed his men. It was a bizarre phenomenon he didn’t have time to process, seeing as how he died not long after.

Anyway, that’s why we’re confined to the area. Which also makes all military ventures to retake the old unobtanium mines a bit tricky. We’re not interested in its monetary value—we need that superconductor to boost our growth—but Sully’s not letting anyone near it. We’re struggling to fight his insurgents too. He’s been training the Na’vi, and they’re armed to the teeth with weapons stolen from Hell’s Gate.

Quaritch chuckled to himself, then turned to face Parker directly. Is that when you remembered my brain collecting dust among the apricot and peach preserves and said, ‘Hey, why don’t we use one of these? A gyrene in a Na’vi body might be just the ticket for fighting off these blue mother****ers.’ So you baked us some avatars or—what did you call them, again?

Recombinants.

Recombinants. So you whipped up a fresh batch of recombinants with the hope that we would help you colonize your new world.

Selfridge nodded throughout. "And our only batch."

What do you mean?

We only made the dozen. The science to produce the, uh… Selfridge snapped his fingers, trying to remember the name but couldn’t. "Plant brains—was lost during the assault. We can’t make more or reuse the ones we had, or did have."

Why not?

"The brains died the moment we uploaded your minds into the recombinant bodies—not sure why. To make matters worse, the man behind the research also decided to die on us. Parker rolled, then continued, But we have his head assistant, Dr. Gavin. He’s on a different ship. The shareholders—I mean, investors—that’s what they’re called now—are keen on getting him moonside to have the research reinstated. They want their minds preserved for the day they can be transferred into cloned bodies. However, that transfer isn’t possible without the…" He snapped his fingers again.

Plant brain?

Gah, yes. What was the word for that stupid thing? It sounded like a woman’s-only disease.

"I noticed you didn’t bother cloning us human bodies."

It was either that or remain floating in a tank. The investors would never have agreed until I explained to them the advantages of having you back in blue, such as not triggering that immune system of Pandora.

Quaritch chuffed. Pandora’s a touchy gal. How can you be sure?

"Your body’s a chimaera, just like Sully’s, and clearly, no animals have eaten him, unfortunately."

What about the others?

What others? Selfridge blinked.

The other recombinants. Have they been debriefed yet?

Oh. No, that’s your job.

Quaritch knew he had to get a move on. For all he knew, they were huddled in the fetal position somewhere, waiting for someone to explain to them what the hell was going on.

The recombinants floated about the crew chamber as some hung in midair without purpose while others applied themselves in locating their locker. The former SecOp soldiers were in strange bodies, in an environment even stranger. They drifted around the white geometric chamber where the only thing familiar to them was the world of Pandora, visible through the porthole. Although they were anxious, they took comfort in knowing that there were others going through the same nightmare, and that shared emotion made the whole experience a little less frightening.

This is all some weird dream, one said aloud, with arms stretched out like he were adrift on the open ocean.

A woman hovered past him. It’s not a dream, Fike. You really are blue. She nudged his side, and he listed into a roll.

Am I dead? I remember dying, the only other woman commented.

We all do, CJ, answered another. He was busy combing over his locker marked L. WAINFLEET. An empty rifle cartridge, something he always kept for good luck, drifted out from his locker. He grabbed it delicately and held it between his large fingers to study the engraving written on the side. It was a well-wishing for his trip out to Pandora, gifted by his only living relation. He had forgotten about it until now. As he looked upon the engraving, he felt its importance more than ever—a connection to someone the Marine felt he’d never see again. He gently set it back inside with a wordless goodbye.

Lyle? a cocky voice rang out. So that’s what you look like blue. Sorry, Corporal, but looks like the pukes did ya dirty.

The corporal’s eyes brightened the moment he saw his old colonel swimming down to meet him. Sir? He beamed, then called out to the others. Guys, it’s the colonel!

Everyone rejoiced. They had been miserable, adrift in their feeling of abandonment, but when their leader arrived, having undergone the same alien treatment, their dread abated. They weren’t forgotten, and more importantly, they weren’t alone.

Lyle shot up to meet Quaritch with a chortle he couldn’t contain. Is that really you, sir?

The blue makeover aged me back a couple decades, but it’s me. Too bad you’re still a hideous bastard.

You have no idea how good it is to see you again.

Alright, Lyle, don’t make it gay. Quaritch shrugged, pushing him aside.

Hard to believe it’s you, Colonel. You look so different.

Which one are you? he replied, eyeing the largest of the team.

The Marine saluted. Thomas Hardy Warren, sir.

Ah, Thomas—I see you now. In that body, it’s hard to tell you’re even black.

Don’t remind me.

The younger of the two women levitated into view. Can you tell which one I am?

Hell, Prager, did they ever screw you over.

They all laughed as Samson Prager, the 32-year-old male from Pennsylvania, prodded the colonel’s shoulders from behind in jest. "She’s CJ. I’m Prager."

Could’ve fooled me.

The more serious-looking one came forward and spoke in a thick Russian accent. Sir, none of us understand what is happening.

Yeah, we’ve been told nothing, Fike complained.

With the general humour dispersed, it was time to break the news. There’s no gentle way of putting it, kids. You’re soldiers. You knew the risks. Fact is, every one of you here is legally dead.

There was a moment of silence as the floating spirits accepted what they had been dreading; the awful nightmare they had woken from wasn’t a nightmare at all but their last living memory.

Quaritch moved down to the porthole, landing firmly upon the glass as his boots rested over the vision of Pandora. His lips curled maliciously, and a tongue glided over his fangs as he leered down at the slumbering moon. He readdressed the others. All of you paid the ultimate price fighting the enemy. He then pointed to the world. Even as we speak, our carcasses are down there, being used as fertilizer. The colonel took a brief pause. Only our minds were preserved. And you’re probably wondering how this was possible. Turns out, none of us were in our bodies when we died but linking to them instead, just like them avatars.

Over the murmurs, Lyle spoke up. How could we be linking to our own bodies?

Here came the hard part. It was Quaritch who had forever sealed their fates to a permanent tour on an alien world, a decision he never would have made had he known the true outcome. To say he felt guilty didn’t do it justice. Before that battle, you were all asked to do a backup of your memories. The soldiers nodded along. "Well, we weren’t backing up. We were hard-transferring our minds to a holding bed. Afterwards, we were linked back to our then brain-dead bodies. And before any of you ask—no. I had no idea at the time. If I did, I’d’ve never gone into battle with that kind of coward’s reassurance."

CJ sank to her colonel. So… That battle… We were all just avatars?

Just us dozen.

But why us? Lopez rued.

Quaritch took a moment to draw the words to himself. Because I was asked to select eleven of my best. He stopped there and awaited their reproach; however, instead of the blame he expected, their faces gleamed with pride.

Wait, Alexander said with a growing smile. "We were your best? Us?"

You thought we were that good, sir?

That’s right, Brown—You—All of you, the heartened colonel declared with an affirming nod.

The soldiers looked at one another with a badge of honour across their hearts. The outcome of this decision didn’t matter anymore. They were hand-picked by the colonel himself.

Cranes among chickens, Zhâng laughed.

"We are now with these stilts!" CJ beamed as she pointed out her giant legs.

Now, the situation below isn’t pretty, warned Quaritch, returning to centre. It’s been fifteen years since our DOD. That’s right, it’s been that long. He watched their faces stiffen as slow gulps rolled down their throats. "The fight now is to help our race’s effort colonize Pandora. Make no mistake, the planet’s ticked the hell off. What we saw in that battle was just the beginning. You thought the wildlife was rabid before? It just got a hundred times worse. Pandora’s now in a constant state of PMS. Any man who so much as sets foot outside the settlement gets a viperwolf to the balls—and he’d be considered a lucky one. That’s why they need us recombinants—resurrected soldiers in bodies made from human and Na’vi DNA. You see, we won’t set off this pretty miss’ immune system, and it’s high time we dealt this mad b**** some payback of our own!"

Spirits roused, every soldier pumped and pounded their fists. The time for mourning was over. They were back and ready to fight. Quaritch opted not to tell them the situation regarding Earth. They had only just found out they died; there was no need to tell them their families did too.

Voiceless

The family gathered around the limp body of the adolescent Na’vi girl. Pungent smoke rose from the smouldering embers of a fire that had long since gone out; no one had diverted their attention long enough to reignite it. Jake Sully’s face was thick with worry lines as he looked upon his girl, her pained expression still frozen on the moment she first collapsed to the floor. There was nothing he could do to pull her out, no word that could draw her back to him; he could only wait. He had been heartsick throughout the night that, come morning, he was physically nauseous.

Neytiri touched his hand. He turned his head, having forgotten there were other people in this world who needed him. The empathy in her refulgent eyes reminded him that she, too, had waited for a certain loved one to pull through this passage. Jake took the limp fingers of his daughter into his creased palm and rested his forehead against his wife’s. His eyes were dry, but his heart was weeping.

Then her chest rose, and her mouth gaped for a cry.

She had woken from a dream that overpowered her and was desperate to run away. The girl convulsed about the floor as Jake and Neytiri rushed to hold her down, for she risked hurting herself in her mad writhing.

Neteyam, help her! Jake cried to his son.

Before Neteyam could make a move, another swooped in. The human was no older than seventeen, clad in a loincloth and sporting a mane of dreadlocks. The boy propped up the giantesses’ head onto his knees, holding it steady as she thrashed about. He pressed his visor to her forehead and breathed gentle whispers.

Kiri… Kiri…

Like strange magic, his incantation put her seizure to flight. Kiri’s body relaxed, and her breathing steadied. Her eyes opened to the sight of him upside down in her vision, and all hints of the terrible night left her face. He smiled at her, and the girl took her two hands, crossed thumb over thumb, and fanned her eight wiggling fingers while smiling back. The boy leaned far over Kiri, and they locked in an upside-down hug that could not be undone.

Jake issued a long sigh of relief. His daughter survived her Dream Hunt, and he could relax knowing she’d never have to go through something like that again. How did you do that, Spider? the Australian exhaled.

The boy was well entangled in the gangly limbs of Kiri when he looked up at Jake. I don’t know, old-timer.

‘Old-timer’? he chuckled. This body isn’t that much older than yours.

Avatar ages don’t count, Spider joked as he continued rolling about the floor with his Na’vi. The family smiled at the sight of these two cubs of separate litters, playing like there wasn’t a world of difference between them.

Kiri, Neytiri called gently. The girl stopped her play to give her mother her full attention. The clan is waiting.

She left Spider’s side with reluctance as Neteyam offered his hand to lead her out of the great tent. Outside, the whole of the Omatikaya clan awaited her triumph. She stood motionless before them, but a discreet tap on the back from her supportive brother encouraged her to step forward. Then Jake emerged from the tent, now adorned in the feather mantle of olo’eyktan (chief), and stood proudly before Kiri. With his hands hovering over her shoulders, he addressed her in the Na’vi tongue.

|My daughter, you are a part of the people. Forever.|

One by one, the entire clan linked hand to shoulder around Kiri, forming an interconnected ring that spanned to the edge of their great cave. She was nervous to be the focus of so much attention and looked to Spider with pleading eyes. He stood off to the side, unable to enter the clan’s ceremony and gave her a half-smile with a shrug, indicating he was just as helpless as she.

Mo’at sat cross-legged before her fidgeting granddaughter, who was running her fingers through her unkempt hair. Even though she was now considered an adult member of the tribe, Kiri was far from such maturity. She moved her head this way and that, trying to figure out how to describe her dream.

With her wooden scoop, Mo’at sprinkled incense into the fire between them. It burned fresh, pleasing scents that heightened the mind, helping Kiri to draw out the dream locked in her memory for her tsahìk to interpret.

Spider knelt by the two women, acting as Kiri’s translator. Sign language was common among the Omatikaya, but rarely was it used as a sole form of communication. Kiri and Spider spoke it so often that it evolved into something more complex than the original language. They had their own dictionary of words that only they understood, and while it made for fun jokes at the expense of others, it crippled Kiri from articulating herself without Spider’s aid. He was her tongue, and seldom did he let her suffer a separation from him because of it.

|Let your hands speak, Kiri. I see you,| Mo’at cooed.

Kiri took a deep breath and flashed a series of complicated signs that Spider was somehow staying on top of.

|It began like this. I was in the hall of my mother. She sat in her chair, busy with her work of studying life…| Spider translated.

Mo’at gave him the stink eye. A Dream Hunt interpretation is a private matter that should only remain between dreamer and tsahìk. She tolerated Spider at first for Kiri’s sake, but the elder soon found her patience wearing thin. Kiri, no matter how much she loved her human, still deserved her privacy.

|Skychild, this is for Kiri to tell me. The dream is not for your ears.|

Kiri reacted by throwing up her hands in protest.

|I’m trying to help, Mo’at. Kiri needs me,| Spider insisted.

|She must learn one day to do without. Go, I must talk with my granddaughter alone.|

|But—|

|Out,| Mo’at hissed and shooed him out of the tent with her incense scoop like an annoyed grandmother catching her grandkids near the cookie jar.

Kiri clutched herself tightly after seeing him leave and leaned forward on her knees.

Spider tumbled out of the tent on all fours and leapt from rock to rock. He was well accustomed to flying away from annoyed Na’vi—being a dwarf among giants, that was a healthy skill to have.

|Mo’at kicked you out, didn’t she, clan brother?| Neteyam smiled, stepping out from behind a tent. Some of his braided hair was wrapped around a small bun, while the rest dangled freely and bounced as he shook his head. |Should not have insisted on your presence.|

Spider, while squatting like a Gibbon atop his stone perch, shimmied his head in response. |What’s wrong with that? You know people struggle to understand Kiri.|

|That’s because you two turned finger-speech into your own private language. I, myself, can’t understand half your gestures,| Neteyam teased, running his fingers across the head of his father’s ward.

Neteyam was a handsome Na’vi of fifteen, the first and only son of his parents. His face was sculpted like his father’s but bore the features of his mother. What surprised Jake the most was how much Neteyam took after his great-grandfather, not from his Na’vi heritage but his great-grandfather from Earth. Jake remembered him as a goofy old codger who always slipped money on his guests without their knowing. Neteyam had the good breeding of both Omatikaya nobility and outback hospitality. Paired with a winning smile, he had all the makings of a great leader.

Spider flicked up three fingers—the sign for cut it out. He had a brotherly love for Neteyam, as both were raised under Jake’s tutelage. While Sully trained his son to be the next leader of the Omatikaya, he taught Spider with the intention of one day being a leader for the humans—of those who were allowed to stay. However, Jake soon discovered that it was Spider who took more to the Na’vi way of life, and it was Neteyam who enjoyed learning from humans. He’d catch his son writing his ideas on paper while Spider was off catching prolemuris’ in trees.

|I fear Kiri is getting too old for you,| Neteyam said. |Soon, she’ll be too big to play with.|

|She’s already too big for me,| Spider laughed, pointing to a bruise he earned from his hug earlier.

|To receive that from a soul as gentle as Kiri only proves my point.|

Spider raised a brow. |What point?|

|That you two are no longer children. At least, she no longer is. I forget Skychildren do not go on Dream Hunts.|

|We do, too,| Spider argued before slipping into English. But Pops won’t let me take the drugs.

What is ‘pops’?

It’s slang for ‘father,’ Spider replied, surprised he hadn’t asked what drugs was instead.

"Again, with this slang." Neteyam grimaced, always struggling with that informal speech. If we’re going to be speaking in English, at least be more eloquent.

Eloquent? Spider snorted. Now I know you didn’t get that word from the old man.

"I learned it from your sages who live here. You should be more diligent in learning the lexicon of your race."

Piss off! Spider then grappled Neteyam, and the two wrestled one another in play. He may have been small, but he could still hold his own with the other Na’vi kids. Being well versed in their physical advantages and disadvantages, he discovered their thin waists made them top-heavy—a clasping of the legs around their stomachs and a grabbing of the tail could bring one down every time, as Neteyam soon suffered.

The room turned into a—

Mo’at waited patiently for Kiri to think up the correct gesture. The girl huffed, trying to come up with something before floating her hand over her palm.

|Flatlands?| Mo’at suggested.

Kiri’s face pinched, and she shook her head. She mimicked a person sweating under a hot sun.

|Desert?|

Kiris’ eyes lit as she directed a yes to her tsahìk.

|The room became a desert. Interesting. Have you ever seen a desert, Kiri?|

She shook her head and signed, I know them through my father’s stories. When he talks, it is real in my mind.

|Yes, I have only heard them through stories too. How do you know this was a desert you were in?|

There was no green.

|What happened when you were in this desert?|

Kiri hesitated and cast her gaze downward.

|What is wrong?| she inquired, massaging Kiri’s ankle.

The girl strummed her anklet of twine and looked away wistfully. Her eyes returned to her grandmother when she was ready to sign again. I was on the surface, and I stood. Something bad happened. I…changed.

|Into what?|

Kiri gulped. A tree.

|A tree?| Mo’at mused. |That does not sound terrible.|

It was! Kiri screamed by throwing her fists onto the ground. It was terrible. My arms stiffened. I could not move. I grew, and I grew. My mouth was stone—wood. No moving. I grew until I grew no more. The horizon was everywhere far below, and my body was a kelutral.

Mo’at leaned back, ruminating over the dream. |You turned into a Hometree?|

Kiri nodded, turning sullen once again. Many ikran rested on my arms. I couldn’t move.

|Did The People dwell on you?|

Kiri paused to think. I don’t know… I felt like no one cared that I became a tree.

Mo’at pondered long on the strange vision. The kelutral trees were the largest and most ancient trees across the moon. It was inside one of them that the Omatikaya made their previous home—a once happy memory now steeped in mourning. |I do not know what Eywa is saying to you, Kiri. To become a kelutral can have more than one meaning. None of them are bad.|

Kiri was still pouting that her Dream Hunt had the nerve to turn her into a tree.

|The kelutral are ancient spirits. They came before all other trees. The kelutral are also very strong. One can house a multitude and not break.|

The girl perked up from this flattering description.

|A tree takes root and grows into many branches. This could also mean growing into a family.|

With that, Kiri lost all patience for Mo’at’s words and locked up. Shaking her head in tight motions, with freckles glowing from embarrassment, she gestured to Mo’at that she wanted to hear no more.

|What is wrong, child?| her tsahìk gasped. |It could mean growing into a great line—|

Kiri cut her off by smacking her palm onto the ground. She shook her head and replied, I don’t want to have a family. I’m a freak.

Kiri. Mo’at tried to console her, but the petulant girl flew from the tent.

Outside, Spider and Neteyam watched Kiri run from the scene. The cavern filled with the pitter-patter of bare feet dashing over wet rock as the boys exchanged worried looks.

|What could have upset her?| Neteyam wondered.

Spider said nothing as his eyes followed Kiri heading towards the human camp.

Kiri pushed open the vaulted door and let it shut behind her. She was now inside the avatar clinic, where drivers took their bodies when injured. For this reason, the field cabin was not pressurized, allowing the carbon dioxide-rich air to circulate within, making it the only unit that Kiri could linger in for longer than two minutes. Mindful of her flicking tail, she carefully threaded past the delicate lab equipment. The white overheads washed out the colour of her skin and muted her glow; this was a lifeless environment, unlike the world outside, but she endured it for one reason, and it was floating inside an amino tank. It rested behind white partitions that Kiri drew aside with the utmost respect. Closing them behind her, she quietly approached the avatar of Dr. Grace Augustine. The undressed body was devoid of spirit but preserved via an artificial umbilical cord so it would not decay.

Kiri pressed her face against the glass and started to weep. It wasn’t long before Spider arrived, with her wet eyes following his shadow as he approached the curtains. He drew the drapes and entered her sanctum with the same reverence.

He took his two fingers and tapped his mouth twice—her sign name. She wasn’t deaf, but he still used finger-talk. He found it brightened Kiri’s mood when he shared in her limitations.

She looked up at him from under her brow, then brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. Since she was on her knees at the foot of the amino tank, Spider scooted down next to her.

Didn’t go well?

No.

You disrespected Mo’at, he was loath to remind her.

She blew out a long breath. I know. I’m going to have to apologize to Grandmother later.

Spider’s eyes studied her inquisitively. Why did you run off?

I… I was embarrassed by what Grandmother interpreted.

What did she say?

With limp fingers, she replied, Grandmother thought my dream meant I would one day have a family.

Spider suddenly became withdrawn, with his eyes falling to the tiles. Kiri tapped his shoulder, for he had slipped from their eye contact, meaning the conversation had ended. He apologized. Why did that bother you?

Kiri huffed. I know I’m different. I don’t feel comfortable with others. I was born strangely. Her head nudged to the body in the tank. That’s why I can’t talk.

You don’t know that.

I was cut out of my mother, Kiri insisted. A Skyperson birth—wrong. I can’t talk. I have five fingers. I am not true Omatikaya. Why would Mo’at speak of family? I don’t want to be a mother. Mothers die. Spider reached to rub Kiri’s shoulder as her tears started up again. I can’t even speak to her in the tree, she lamented, wistfully mimicking long weeping sprays. After a respite, the girl managed a weak smile and gestured to the boy. I only want to be with you, Spider. I’m glad the boys leave me alone. After she signed her sentiment, she returned to gaze upon her mother.

At least you know who your mother was.

Kiri looked at him apologetically. I forget you know not your parents.

Spider shrugged it off. I have my adopted family back at Hell’s Gate. Kiri then asked when he would go to see them again. Jake’s taking me over soon. He wants to go over our security. He says every day that’s quiet is another day for the enemy to plan an attack.

I’m sorry the others chose to leave.

Don’t worry about it. Anyone who took Ardmore’s package of easy living at Bridgehead isn’t worth a fart.

She chuckled. Spider was a crass little monkey-boy, but he was her crass little monkey-boy. Sitting cross-legged, Kiri threw her spidery limbs around him and began rocking back and forth. He breathed her scent of freshly broken seed pods and thought to himself how much better his Na’vi was than all the rest. She was gentle and caring but also misunderstood. Only he knew the private language Kiri spoke. Only he was privy to the innermost areas of her heart. She was the one child he spent the most time with; not even the other humans interested him as much as her. It was Kiri’s jungle he played in and her campfire he sat around. Though Jake was his tutor, he existed for Kiri.

Having been a long day, the two leaned back and slept in a huddle beside the amino tank, as was their habit. There was no other world outside of them. There was only this Na’vi and her human.

Sully’s Grotto

High Camp was the Omatikaya stronghold located deep within the floating mountain, Txurseng, also dubbed Sully’s Grotto by the humans who lived there. When the invaders returned five years ago, the Hallelujah Mountains were the safest place for Jake to hide his people, as the same magnetic flux which levitated the mountains was also known to disrupt their navigational instruments, making detection impossible. The former tree dwellers had to adapt to the unpleasant, cold stone, but they were grateful to Eywa for the sanctuary. However, the labyrinth wasn’t entirely naturally occurring, as Jake and his friends cleared out a better portion using explosives. He knew the Omatikaya would denounce this Skyperson technique, so it was all done in secret.

The cavern’s threshold was roughly forty-five metres high and fifty metres across and housed the bulk of the Omatikaya’s living needs; this ranged from tents to field cabins to, most importantly, their ikrans. The cave entrance was a five-hundred-metre drop into the dense jungle below and acted like a moon pool for ikran riders to fly in and out of High Camp.

Parked precariously to the side of this deadly drop, amongst the supply crates and weapons, sat the great Toruk Makto. His braided hair was frayed, and his feather mantle slumped over a box of ammunition. Haggard from the awful night, he had set out to douse his wrought nerves through drink.

Squatting next to Jake was his best friend, currently operating his avatar in order to survive the Na’vi liquor. He was Norman Spellman of the Omatikaya—the only outsider aside from Jake to enter the tribe officially. He, too, had gone through several gruelling rites of passage, including his Dream Hunt, to become another respected member of the clan.

Norm, as he was more commonly called, came to the world as a greenhorn anthropologist. He had spent years training to become an avatar driver along with his dorm mate, Tom Sully. The two would while away many nights talking about Pandora and the Omatikaya tribe they would one day get to meet. Together, they’d revolutionize the field of xenoanthropology—then Tom died. And the shock of his friend’s death nearly killed his resolve to go, that is, until he learned the timely news that Tom’s twin would take his place. Norm prepared himself for his eventual encounter with Jake, but it still took him back.

There, rolling in on two wheels, was Tom, staring right at him as if he’d never died.

He made it his goal, then and there, to befriend Jake despite him being nothing like his educated brother. Jake was a deadbeat, tossed out of bars, wheelchair and all: an idiot who knew nothing about science; this was why Augustine overlooked him in favour of Norman. She filled his head with starry-eyed dreams that he could be the one—the one who could bridge the shattered relations between humans and the Omatikaya.

Norm wasn’t the one.

A bunch of stupid woodsprites decided to land on the Marine, and you’d think it was the second coming of Christ with the amount of attention he got. The jarhead was accepted into the Omatikaya village and taught by their sexy princess, while Norman had to spend several hours alone, monitoring Jake’s vitals as he waited for him to finish up his dates with Neytiri. To say he was salty would be putting it mildly.

That is until Norm discovered Trudy Chacón, their cute little helicopter pilot who didn’t think he was bad-looking either. Aside from Jake and Dr. Augustine, who was mostly out studying plants, Trudy was the only other person staying at their remote link shack. After the two made eyes at one another, Norm quickly became exceedingly grateful for how long Jake would take during link sessions.

Trudy sadly perished during the Assault on the Tree of Souls. Her name lived on through Omatikaya songs and the sole heart tattoo inked on her lover’s arm. Though he received several propositions over time, Norman never took another lover.

With the loss of his woman and a critical gunshot wound to