Recombinant Bridgehead

Homestead

The colonel was driven to the barracks on the bed of a heavy-duty truck. He jostled about among the rattling gravel as he lay back to watch the oncoming twilight. The darkening expanse was dominated by the gas giant, Polyphemus—Pandora being but one of the bigamists' many moons and the envied Favourite among her barren sisters. Quaritch could only observe this planet as something to look at, as he was no Van Gogh—someone who might've spent hours gazing at its surface to then depreciate his own masterpieces in comparison to the streams of swirling blue wonder. Rather than admiring beauty, Miles' attentions were wrapped up in the nostalgia of his surroundings. It harkened back to days buried in his distant past—days of him being driven home in the back of his father's pickup, wearing overalls caked in mud after fighting one of his friends who cried, "Foul!" at a "ball." He'd watch the rolling acres of yellow farmland, the once green section of America turned barren by the dust bowl, and wonder why his family was dumb enough to scratch out a living in that hellscape while others migrated to the cities. He learned to appreciate their hardiness when he got older after witnessing the nightmare of overpopulated cities with their weak and dying residents. It drove him to the military, where he found kinship among the strong: fellow grunts from other backsides of hell who didn't mind a bloody nose or getting caked in mud.

The truck stopped, and Quaritch looked around with surprise. They had reached the recombinant barracks located against the inner wall of Bridgehead, but what he hadn't expected was a homestead straight out of his childhood. It was a row of a dozen adjacent cabins, each with a porch and barred windows draped with mosquito nets. The primitive structure, juxtaposition against the highly militarised one-hundred-foot wall, made for a curious sight. Quaritch jumped off the truck bed and landed with a satisfying thud on the soft dirt. He stepped aside to give the driver plenty of room to perform his U-turn, as he was a tired worker, eager to get back to the human quarters and call it a day.

Now alone, Quaritch stood like a minaret on the flatlands, casting a long shadow. He looked out at the greater structures in the distance and was grateful to be away from them at last—away from the din of machinery and the air thick with debris.

His ears flicked to pick up the sound of Wainfleet on approach.

"What was the general like?"

"Piece of work," he grumbled.

Lyle paused pensively, and his ears went flat. "You know they have Na'vi living on-site?"

"I know, those are the serfs. Bridgehead's using them to work the fields over there."

Lyle studied his stony expression, hoping he'd explain further. "They're cooking our food right now. Have they been instructed to serve us like domestics or something? Their living quarters are right across that field from ours," he felt the need to point out; the proximity was bothering him and everyone else.

Quaritch sighed in frustration. "That's because Ardmore wants us to keep them in line and make sure they don't act up."

Lyle stripped off his blue shades, revealing a look of surprise. "They brought us back to babysit?"

"No. Only a part of it."

"Then are we here to fight the Na'vi or what?"

"Look, I'm not happy about the situation either," Quaritch snapped, the day finally catching up with him. "We still got enemy combatants skulking in the jungle, but it's a different world now than what we knew at Hell's Gate—this is a colony, not a mining operation, so if the higher-ups want us to moonlight as plantation masters, we toe the line."

Lyle nodded dully, about as happy with this arrangement as his surly colonel. "Do we get a cat o' nine tails?" he drawled sarcastically.

Quaritch returned Lyle's comment with an impish grin. "You could probably borrow one from Ardmore. She was flaying one of the devils when I spoke with her."