The sky over the Tree of Souls was no longer blue; it was a shifting tapestry of leather, scale, and war paint. The reconnaissance data streaming into Mark's comm-unit from the Tanhì a Txampay was staggering. Every hour, the biological signatures of incoming clans increased exponentially.
By noon, the high-altitude cliffs were lined with the Tayrangi and their coastal Ikrans. Below them, the Tipani master hunters moved through the brush like shadows, their bone-carved armor clattering softly. But the most impressive sight was the Sea of Grass moving to the mountains; thousands of Mangkwan Horse-Lords had arrived, their Direhorses creating a rhythmic thrumming that felt like the heartbeat of Pandora itself.
Mark sat on the edge of the ship's outrigger, watching Jake and Tsu'tey walk among the leaders of the far-flung clans. The tension was palpable, but the presence of the Toruk tethered at the center of the valley kept the peace.
"Trudy, what's the word from the front porch?" Mark asked, tapping his comm-unit.
"It's getting ugly, Mark," Trudy's voice crackled, dampened by the interference of the flux vortex. "Hell's Gate is a hornet's nest. They're seeing the same thing you are on their long-range thermal. They know the party is starting, and they aren't happy they weren't invited."
Back in Hell:
Inside the sterilized, pressurized walls of Hell's Gate, the air tasted of ozone and recycled oxygen—a stark, artificial contrast to the thick, honey-sweet humidity of the jungle outside. The RDA Ops Center was no longer a hub of corporate logistics; it had become a hive of total war.
Director Parker Selfridge stood before the massive holographic strategic table, the blue light of the display making his skin look sickly and gray. He watched as the long-range thermal scans updated in real-time, revealing massive heat signatures congregating at the Tree of Souls. The red clusters weren't just growing; they were merging into a solid wall of biological defiance that spanned the valley.
"This is a disaster," Selfridge muttered, his hands trembling as he adjusted his glasses. "The projections said they'd scatter after Hometree. They were supposed to be demoralized, broken. Instead, they're... they're building a goddamn nation out there."
"They aren't building a nation, Parker. They're building a funeral pyre for us."
The heavy hydraulic doors hissed open, and Colonel Miles Quaritch stepped onto the command floor. He looked like a man who had finally found his true calling. He wasn't wearing his usual dress uniform; he was in a tactical combat vest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal corded muscle. The jagged scar on his head looked angry and inflamed under the harsh fluorescent lights.
The Jurisdiction Shift:
Quaritch threw a data pad onto the holographic table, the impact echoing like a gunshot. "We've got a leader. A Toruk Makto. And we've got that... blue anomaly. The ship that's been hovering over the flux vortex. My boys in Intel say it's the same craft that's been jamming our low-orbit sweeps and hiding their movements for weeks."
"We need to talk to them, Miles," Selfridge said, his voice reaching a desperate, high-pitched frequency. "If we hit a site as sacred as the Tree of Souls, the PR fallout back on Earth will bury the company. There are environmental groups, stockholders... the board will have our heads for this."
Quaritch leaned over the table, his shadow looming over the holographic map of Pandora. "The board is four point four light-years away, Parker. Out here, the only thing that matters is the bottom line, and the bottom line says that if we don't move now, those savages are going to march on this base and tear your precious bridge-head to the ground. You want to explain to the shareholders why their three-billion-dollar investment is a smoking pile of rubble?"
"I haven't authorized a strike," Selfridge countered, though he backed away as Quaritch stepped closer, the Colonel's physical presence suffocating the room.
"I'm not asking for authorization," Quaritch snapped. He turned to the room full of SecOps officers, who were already standing at attention. "Under the RDA Emergency Security Charter, Section Eight, I am declaring a state of total insurrection. Corporate jurisdiction is suspended. I am taking full command of all assets at Hell's Gate. Director, you're officially a passenger. Sit down and stay out of the way."
Selfridge looked around the room, searching for a single face that would support his "diplomatic" approach. He found none. The soldiers were tired of the "science experiments" and the "negotiations." They wanted a target to vent their frustrations on.
Mobilizing the Machine:
"Lock down the civilian sectors," Quaritch ordered, his voice booming through the comms. "Get the Valkyries on the tarmac. I want them loaded with every daisy-cutter and fuel-air explosive we have in the magazine. We aren't going in for a surgical strike. We're going to erase that site from the map and salt the earth behind us."
In the hangars, the sound of pneumatic wrenches and heavy machinery drowned out the natural sounds of the world outside. The Dragon Gunship, a monstrous four-rotored titan of steel and cannons, was being wheeled into the center of the bay. Technicians swarmed over it like ants, loading missiles and checking the twin-linked 30mm auto-cannons.
"Colonel, we have reports of a rogue Samson in the area. Chacon's bird," an officer reported.
"She's a traitor," Quaritch growled, his eyes fixed on the display. "If she gets in the way, swat her down. We have enough loyal wings to blot out the sun. We move at 06:00. By 08:00, the Tree of Souls will be a smoking hole in the ground, and the Na'vi will be a memory. Let's show them what happens when you kick the hornet's nest."