Territory by Deb2

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RETURN

NIGHT 32

~~Stars. Hard, bright stars. The ship purred around him. Alonzo left the viewport and walked thru unfamiliar corridors, counting the way to his quarters. Boots rang on metal, a hollow sound. Someone behind him coughed. Alonzo turned, half-waved a greeting to the stranger, a soldier.

He found the assigned cabin/cubicle, dropped his duffle bag on the floor and stretched out on the bunk. He lay there, staring at the low ceiling. After a short time, shouts and the sound of running feet drew him back out into the corridor. Alonzo joined the race for the viewport. The shocked voices of his comrades faded into silence for him, just as the destruction of the station had been silent. He stared, then bolted, his hand to his mouth and forced his way clear, running, hoping to reach the toilet before the vomiting began.

Alonzo skidded to a halt and doubled over the toilet. The violence of his illness left him shaking, exhausted. Trembling, he rinsed his mouth, washed his face and hands. He carefully cleaned the floor, the commode, the sink. The jumpsuit wasn't soiled. He changed clothes anyway, then sat on his bunk. He sat and stared at nothing.

A panel of five officers stared complacently at him. He lowered his eyes. Manacles immobilized his hands. Cuffs attached to the chair encircled his ankles. Alonzo breathed slowly.

"Corporal Brian Charles Lee."
The man standing next to Alonzo jabbed him with a baton and he looked up, disoriented.

"Corporal Brian Charles Lee," the voice repeated. Prodded by the guard, Alonzo stood, struggling to balance. I'm dreaming again.
Another jab from the baton encouraged him to regain his equilibrium.

Julia said, stay with it. Stay with a court martial? If I'm executed in this dream, will I die?

"Corporal Lee, care to join us?" a gray-haired officer asked sarcastically. "Your sentence should be of some interest to you." Chuckles rose up from behind Alonzo.

He inhaled deeply and assumed a military posture. The original speaker resumed. "Corporal Brian Charles Lee, you are found guilty of the sabotage of Station 0119-tw, the destruction of Project Eliot, and the deaths of 183 men and women. Given the highly confidential nature of Project Eliot, it is only fitting that your punishment entail confidentiality. You are hereby sentenced to life on the ninth planet of the G88 system."

Corporal Lee/Alonzo stood straight, face blank. Alonzo's mind raced. What was this? Did this mean he felt imprisoned on G889?

The speaker continued in a conversational tone, "We're uncertain of its habitability. You'll help us determine if human life can be sustained for any useful length of time." The man sighed theatrically. "I'm sorry to inform you that what data we have is not encouraging."

Alonzo's guard released the leg irons. He used the baton to guide 'Lonz/Lee into and down the hall. At the fourth right hand side door, the guard stopped. He opened the door and prodded Alonzo inside.~~

Inside was the Dreamplane. A lone Terrian warbled a question. Did he understand the journey? Alonzo, himself once across the threshold, did not understand. The Terrian whistled and trilled disappointment.

"What are you trying to tell me? The dreams, they're the journey?" Into his subconscious?

The Terrian tilted his head and slowly righted it. He warbled mournfully. Yes, dreams are journeys. But Alonzo's lack of understanding meant trying again.

Alonzo sensed these dreams, so grounded in the human world, so alien, were difficult for the Terrians. He would have offered an apology, but forgiveness was also alien to the Terrians. Speech does not undo action. "Maybe if the message was in another setting it would be easier."

The Terrian told him that the message didn't exist except as it was and slipped into the ground.

Alonzo woke. Julia was right. The dream was wisping away, but he felt relaxed. There was a reason for the dreams and the Terrians were involved.

One-hundred-eighty-three. The number, whatever it meant, was wrong. Should be a little over seven hundred.

DAY 33

Another gray, malodorous candidate for school cafeteria menus everywhere huddled malevolently in the same once white pail its predecessors had occupied before interment. No matter what Bess did with whiteroot, boiled, dried, dried and ground, treated with this potion or that elixir contributed by Julia, within four days it deteriorated into: Tapioca from Hell. Morgan, by virtue of being married to Bess, was charged with its disposal. He hoisted the pail, shouldered the shovel, and tried to think unpleasant thoughts about his wife.

His gear inconveniently sounded. With a martyr's sign, Morgan set the whiteroot down and responded.

"Yes, Mr. Baines?" he said wearily. "Morgan, I just saw van Helsing."
"What?" Morgan slowly lowered the shovel to the ground. "Where are you? Is he alright?"

"I'm about three kilometers east, southeast. Have Denner get a fix on my signal, and get out here."

The bureaucrat reasoned van Helsing took precedence over garbage detail and immediately ran for the comtent. "Is he okay?" Morgan repeated testily.

"As far as I can tell, he's okay. The man won't let me near him," said Baines. "I'm *real* torn up about that," he added.

"You can see him now?" Morgan cried. His excitement drew the attention of Denner and Yale. "Can you see his arm?"

"What is it?" the tutor asked.
"Baines found van Helsing. Lock onto his signal, if you don't mind," commanded Morgan brusquely.

"Barely; he's riding in some fairly open woods, keeps going over the same area. Either he's looking for something or waiting for someone. Like you."

"Listen, Baines, I don't want to keep harping on the same subject, but *how's his arm*?"

"I think it's bandaged. Looks like he's holding it close to his body."

"It probably isn't healing properly," complained Morgan. "The man needed medical treatment the day Danziger broke it for him."

Devon joined them, as did Julia and Alonzo. Denner attempted to brief them as Morgan anxiously urged the doctor to grab some medical supplies and come with him.

"Van Helsing won't let me near him," said Julia. "Remember?" "He was healthy then; an injury would change his mind." "I think--" began Yale.
Julia shook her head. "Not necessarily. The man seems to have a phobia--"

"Of course he has a phobia! He's scared of *us*, and Danziger didn't help matters--"

"Excuse me," Yale tried again.
"Morgan, I think he's frightened by technology. Gear, the diaglove--"

"Excuse me!" Yale demanded loudly. He smiled at the resulting silence. The tutor spoke to Morgan. "I have Baines' location. You'd best be on your way."

Devon advised, "I don't think you should go unarmed. Get the sidearm from John."

Morgan nodded impatiently. Armed? What for? Van Helsing wouldn't hurt him. Probably wouldn't. His horse might. Morgan flushed as he realized that if there was any real danger in this, he'd be burying the whiteroot.

The boss lady wasn't finished. She lightly touched Morgan's shoulder. "Be careful."

He blinked. "Yes, of course." He stood straighter. "I'll be fine, Devon," he assured her awkwardly. Devon's open concern sort of threw him.

Van Helsing was still there. Baines pointed him out, and Morgan peered thru the jumpers at the horseman. Van Helsing didn't look in their direction. With a mix of resignation and conceit, the bureaucrat headed in *his* direction.

Baines and Julia watched. Van Helsing backed away, out of sight in the trees. Morgan disappeared a few minutes later. The two waiting Edenites regarded one another doubtfully.

Morgan plodded thru the woods. He'd left his gear behind, of course. Why hadn't he put a beacon in his pocket instead of the pistol? He shuddered. The pistol hidden in his shirt was useless. The first indication van Helsing meant to kill him would be an arrow in his chest.

"Stop!" rang out from somewhere ahead. Without a thought to do anything else, Morgan stopped. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. The voice wasn't really familiar. It *was* van Helsing, but so loud, his voice sounded distorted.

The man and horse appeared sixty or seventy meters away, half hidden in the trees and underbrush. Slowly they drew nearer, the man constantly scanning the area. No closer than thirty meters, they halted. Van Helsing stared at Morgan a short time, then resumed searching the woods.

His hair was unkempt again. Well, the man could hardly braid it with one hand. And, as Baines said, he was favoring the bandaged arm. The woodsman cradled it against his body. Julia could probably still do something for him, and if van Helsing didn't want the doctor near, Morgan was willing to follow her instructions. It would certainly be better than nothing.

"H-how's your arm?" he called.
Van Helsing flicked a glance downward. Morgan shifted his weight tensely. He'd rehearsed this scene over and over in his mind; having the other player present complicated the matter.

Morgan flattered himself that he recognized duplicitous behavior; granted, he'd missed it in Gaal, but the ordeal of adjusting to planetary life had nearly overwhelmed him. After months here, the old abilities were again operating at optimum capacity. True had left something out. Was it safe to ask van Helsing about it? Surely the man found Danziger's reaction to his keeping the girl safe puzzling, to put it mildly.

The bureaucrat preened nervously a bit, smoothing down the nonexistent jacket. Morgan wasn't aware old habits were in action until his fingers reached to straighten the tie matching the jacket. Self-conscious, he pushed his hand back to his ponytail as if that was what he'd intended all along. After minor throat clearing, Morgan spoke again. "Several of us feel that True--the little girl--misled her father concerning your...day with her."

There was a momentary pause in the survey of the woods. Morgan saw no other response. He licked his lips and continued. "Danziger believes the bruises on her arms resulted from some kind of...abuse, mishandling, something of that sort." A nervous laugh slipped out. "And so he broke your arm, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, you know. Perfectly understandable reaction, if you think about it, considering Danziger's temperament. He's one of those 'shoot first, ask questions later' types." Good Lord, he'd never meant to offer apologies for Danziger!

Van Helsing closed his eyes a moment. It occurred to Morgan the little fellow could be in pain.

"Look," he said gently, stepping forward, "do you need medical attention? I know you don't like Julia, but she can coach me." Van Helsing began moving away, so Morgan retreated. "Or maybe even you yourself. Is it a compound fracture? Did the bone break the skin?"

"No. Thank you. I don't need a doctor." He spoke with sufficient volume to be heard clearly.

"Oh. Well, that's good, I'm glad to hear it. So you're doing alright. Good, good." Morgan had expected van Helsing to accept their aid. Maybe Bess should have come along, charmed him into it. Or not. Things were hard to sort out. Van Helsing was a trifle odd. Conversationally, Morgan asked, "I don't mean to be nosy, and I understand completely if you'd rather not answer, but what really happened? How did True..." he extended his own arms nervously "...what caused...them?"

Van Helsing responded, perhaps even answered the question, but in his soft monotone. Whatever, he spoke only a few words.

Morgan tried to radiate kindliness and caring. Bess did that so naturally. Somehow, the expression just didn't fit on the bureaucrat's face. He waited in silence, willing van Helsing to sense the harmlessness, the trustworthiness.

The horseman dropped a package to the ground. Without a word or backward look, van Helsing left.

"Maps," said Devon. "He gave us maps of the area. They *are* rough, but I believe them to be as accurate as he could make them." She spread the largest on the table, anchoring the corners with bowls and mugs.

Danziger snorted.
"Cloth," noted Yale, fingering the edge. "A type of canvas?" "Wonder what he used for ink?" said Cameron. The lines were crisp and clear, not like you'd expect on cloth.

Devon stepped away to allow others access. Hands on hips, the woman continued. "Van Helsing is very anxious to be rid of us. I think he'd provide maps with accurate information to get us out of his territory as quickly as possible."

Danziger had to concede the point. This large map was crude, showing the major formations and no details. He unrolled one of the smaller maps, compared them. Yeah, the big one was an overview of the entire area, a couple of hundred miles north to south, maybe fifty east to west. At the bottom, an X was marked next to the river. Danziger assumed that was where they'd cross. "Looks like we've got about fifty or sixty miles to go."

"He has a sense of humor," said Magus, finger on the map. More than a few miles west of the river was blank except for a sketch with the caption 'Here Be Dragons'.

"He also has unusual handwriting," said Yale. John studied the map in his hands. Unusual? Nearly illegible, most of it. One of those artistic scripts the notquite -rich affected. "Yeah, well, he's a little unusual himself."

"Looks like some sort of calligraphy," said Denner. "Perhaps I should have described his handwriting as 'archaic'," corrected Yale. He tapped the map. "This is cursive. One can still learn similiar writing in art courses. This, however, is simple, everyday script. It fell into disuse well over a century ago."

Magus gazed at the tutor in disbelief. "You don't think he learned it over a century ago?"

"No telling how long van Helsing's been here, but it ain't no hundred years. He got hold of a historical chip or something and taught himself 'cursive' to pass the time," said Danziger impatiently. "Now. Let's lay the rest of these out, put 'em together like a puzzle. I want to see exactly what we've got."

What they had was a set of directions with the obstacles indicated. The smaller maps charted Eden Advance's course in greater detail, including animal trails of useful width. The scouts would still have to find the actual paths and there would probably be some backtracking, but ravines and steep hills, creeks and dense forest were marked out for them, so they knew which way not to go. Van Helsing had also sketched in dangers, such as Morgan's thorn bushes, kobas, and a vaguely bovine creature they didn't recognize.

The first few days of following the maps, the scouts intentionally went the wrong ways. Van Helsing's maps were accurate on that count, at least.

DAY 38

Baines preferred guard duty to scouting. Even with the maps, finding a path thru the trees was difficult. He was appalled when the thought that it might not be a bad thing to have van Helsing back tried to settle in his brain. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it, wasn't that what he used to hear as a kid?

The TransRover was the problem. The massive vehicle required more space than found naturally in these woods. So, they camped, cut trees, moved a bit, camped, cut trees, camped, cut trees, moved a few centimeters more. Whoever did the scouting on a particular stretch could expect the grumbling and abuse from the other guys to be in proportion to the size and number of trees they had to fell. Or brush they had to clear.

'Lonz had gotten into some kind of shrub with fuzzy leaves. The fuzz rubbed off onto him, and the man had been wild with itching almost immediately. It was hilarious. They sent him back to camp; Julia had said it was an allergic reaction, nothing serious. Alonzo bathed as soon as he could, which stopped the itching, but scarlet streaks showed up anyway, wherever the fuzz had crept. Next morning, it was the strangest thing: Julia had scarlet streaks, too, and not just on her hands, where you'd expect them. Baines grinned. He bet she had more streaks in some pretty interesting places. Probably made a fascinating pattern.

At the edge of a small stream, Baines stopped the ATV. There'd be no problem driving right thru it, but he was getting thirsty and preferred clean water. The water in his canteen was pure, but not as fresh and cold. A clump of those medicinal ferns grew several feet downstream; they'd learned any water the ferns liked was safe. The only qualm Baines had about drinking it was the presence of the animals that lived with the plants. He hoped they hadn't swum this far upstream recently.

The tech slurped icy water from his cupped hands like a pro. It wasn't a difficult skill to master, but the colonists on the way to G889 wouldn't be able to drink from their hands so casually. They'd probably dehydrate rather than drink from a free-running stream like this. Wimps.

In a way, Baines dreaded the arrival of the 2nd ship. Educating those people was going to be a monumental task.

He wiped his hands on his pants and returned to the ATV. Before starting on again, the scout scouted upstream and downstream. Downstream held his attention. A grown koba watched him as two small ones lapped at the water. Baines remained motionless, doing his best to seem nonthreatening.

The babies waded into the stream and splashed about, making churring sounds. The adult calmly watched Baines. It blinked slowly. Baines wondered what might be an attack signal from a koba. Earth animals bared their teeth. Did kobas blink?

Playtime for the koba twins dragged by. They'd be cute in another situation. Eventually, the man had to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

Parent koba mimicked him.
He waved. It waved. One of the babies noticed, then the other. They climbed out of the water and watched mama play with the strange large creature.

Baines rubbed his head. Parent koba rubbed its head. One of the twins decided to play this game and put a hand to its head.

The human held both hands palms out. All three koba did. The human clapped his hands together gently. So did they. Baines grinned spontaneously and was surprised by the kobas attempting to follow suit. "I bet you could be domesticated," he said. The little animals grunted and churred. "You'd have to be declawed."

"I've enjoyed our visit, but it's time to go." He hoped they wouldn't be startled by the ATV. Slowly, the scout headed across the creek, watching the kobas the whole time. They seemed confused. On the other side, he waved goodbye. The three waved back. One of the babies decided to come, too, and sped toward the ATV.

Baines hesitated. What did he do now? Mama koba was trotting after the sprinting youngster, with the remaining baby in tow. Soon, the bold twin climbed into his lap. It sure was an ugly baby. Mama watched with narrowing eyes. Baines instinctively recognized that for an attack signal. What would the koba recognize as a concilitory signal?

Baby began poking around the vehicle. It climbed wherever it wished, sometimes on Baines again. Mama relaxed and Baines gratefully began breathing at a normal rate. Baby inspected the canteen briefly, gave up trying to lift it, and moved on to something far more promising. The unfamiliar smell was a food smell. Strange fruit with a peel that wouldn't open. Baby squawked, pulling at the wrapper. The tiny creature tugged futilely, trying to open Baines' lunch. It looked at the adult and fussed noisily. When Mama didn't help, the baby turned to Baines, fussing and squawking.

He eased his hand toward the baby and lunch. Mama watched closely. Baby allowed Baines to take the food, but hung onto an end of the package. The tech had never unwrapped a sandwich so slowly in his life. Baby tore off a piece of the whiteroot 'bread' and greedily crammed its mouth full. It churred at the other two, who immediately climbed up and helped themselves. They were delighted with the filling, a paste Bess prepared from the dried berries. When the food was gone, so were they. The kobas clambored to the ground and disappeared into the woods.

"Didn't even say 'thank you'," complained Baines.

An empty stomach prompted the scout to head home early. The kobas were waiting for him at the site of their picnic. Another large one had joined the family. Baines' choice was stop or run over them. Neither was appealing. He stopped.

"Hey, guys, I ain't got another sandwich." The babies invaded the ATV again. One explored, the other settled in Baines' lap. The adults approached and offered him whiteroot. Each held up an entire plant, roots, tubers and leaves. He took the whiteroot, amazed. The adults grunted or clucked or something, and the babies returned to them. One protested with a squawk; it was still protesting as the parents dragged it away.

Baines shook his head as he examined the plants. Well, here was proof for the story he'd tell tonight.

EVENING 39

Julia pressed a finger against her lips and stared at the whiteroot plants on the table. Bess stood with arms folded across her chest, waiting for the doctor to realize what was different about these whiteroot.

The tubers were firm and smooth. About half of them were either too large and woody or too small and not worth the effort of preparation. The roots were shriveled into hairlike strands with remarkable tensile strength. Julia poked at the leaves, so dry they crumbled. In fact, some of the leaves were nothing but nets of veins.

"Well?" prompted Bess.
"The tubers appear fresh, yet the leaves and roots indicate these plants have been out of the ground for some time, several days at least." She prodded a tuber again. "It seems the kobas have a method of preserving them."

"So do we, Julia. Look at the plants." Bewildered, the doctor looked at Bess instead. "The *plants*, Julia. The whole plant. We've been harvesting tubers only. We have to dig the whole thing up."

"We'll need to test your theory--" "Julia!"
"--but I'm reasonably sure you're onto something." Bess laughed. "Reasonably sure? Honey, I feel it in my bones!"

The doctor would test the theory, altho' she agreed with her friend. She said excitedly, "We've got it!"

Bess embraced Julia, who awkwardly returned the hug. The Earthress sighed happily. "Morgan is going to be so relieved!"

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