The Adventures of Deacon Coombs (2 page)

Como finally appeared on the balcony and on the screen. A thunderous applause reverberated across the square, climbing into the high-pitched shrill of “Co-mo, Co-mo.” He savored this moment. Then, to demonstrate his power to himself, he lifted his arms over his head to ask for silence while relishing his frenetic patrons.

His shaggy silver hair betrayed his years, as did his hair loss, which resulted in random patches of bare skin and bone over his body. In place of his usual enthusiastic countenance, the red of sadness prevailed in his eyes.

He welcomed his viewers from around the planet and then dwelled on the economic state of affairs for some time before focusing on his main agenda. In a melancholy tone, he commenced.

“My dear, dear Aralians, I stand before you tonight with the shame of all Aralians, for it is disgrace that I must speak of.” Curiosity and attentiveness now gripped the gathering. “For years, the Union of Space Traders has been conducting illegal trade practices.” He paused and glared below to silence a group who dared to speak while he orated.

“Corruption among the traders has led to bullying tactics, such as holding precious cargoes for ransom, selling contraband for healthy profits, and providing arms to subversive organizations. The traders’ actions have been well monitored by agents of the High Alliance. In an attempt to put an end to these activities, one of our own, Travers of Revonna, was brought to trial. I know that I speak for all Aralians of how relieved we were when the charges against him were dismissed, as Travers hails from a respected house here on Aralia.”

He sighed, portending unpleasant news. Leaning over and out of the pulpit, he strained to speak. “Now it bereaves me to inform you that new evidence has been uncovered to prove that the man that we love, admire, and respect, known as Travers, is indeed the foul perpetrator of crimes by the trade union.”

The crowd erupted in disbelief, hurling angry shouts across the plaza. The viewing audience across the planet was equally offended. But Como continued undaunted, recognizing the uncomfortable task tonight. “Of all the Aralian traders, Travers is held in highest esteem by our people, serving as a hero to our youth who hope to one day journey into outer space in the name of peace, trade, and friendship. He has been honored on our planet and others for his accredited actions. He is without doubt the best-known Aralian in the worlds outside Aralia.”

Como felt that he was losing his audience. “Silence! Please, I ask of you.” Como was known for his bluntness. “I know this is difficult to accept, my comrades, but… I have reviewed the evidence personally, and it is with a heavy heart that I stand before you tonight to declare that… Travers… of Aralia is guilty of smuggling, inciting conspiracy, promoting bribery… and even… abetting subversives.” Barely discernible, he theatrically said, “I am so ashamed.” The crowd was numb, deadened. The entire planet was shrouded in hush.

Como painfully elaborated on each charge in length, and he then summated his speech. “Aralians have played the most vital role in the colonization of space, have forged the evolution of space trading, have conquered space travel through Vespering, and have formulated and executed laws for safe interplanetary migration. No Aralian has ever been implicated in such a scandal as Travers’s. Our record as Aralians was one to be proud of—until today.” Como bowed his head as each spectator contemplated the gravity of his remarks.

“I pray as you do that Travers is found not guilty again, but the evidence speaks to another conclusion that will bring pain and shame to us all.” A moment of silence engulfed the planet.

“Furthermore”—he waited for dramatic effect—“it is my sad duty to inform you that Vespering has proven impaired today, as the Ministry of Transportation and Vespering has informed me that the Aralian trade ship
Sleigher
has met with tragedy. The ship is now officially declared lost, as it never docked in our port today after dispatch from the Vesper station at Jabu. Its whereabouts are unknown. My sympathies rest with the bereaved families of the crewmen, who were contacted just before our assembly.

“In conclusion, I sorrowfully say to you that everything possible is being done to find Travers and bring him to justice. The sadness in my heart has been shared with you tonight.” With that, he turned and disappeared.

Como was tired. He shuffled back into the cool of the main chamber, where his political comrades were lined up to salute him—the normal custom after an official public address. Dreveney approached. “Brief but effective, Como. I know how disappointed you are in Travers, but this had to be done in the interest of sharing what will become public information soon.” Como nodded in agreement.

“I am so tired, Dreveney. Please remain to discuss the repercussions of my address with our fellow comrades while I retreat down the hallway to the sanctity of my personal library. I am not willing to partake in conversation tonight.” Dreveney was about to place his arm on his friend, but Como turned and departed.

His body ached. An uncomfortable light-headed feeling spun wildly in his head as he shuffled down the dimly lit hallway. Once inside his sanctuary, he locked the door for privacy; crossed the palatial room of desks, sitting areas, and book shelves; and then slumped in his favorite chair to construct how he had grown impatient with these recent Aralian imperfections. He shook his head. Then a smile crept across his face as he thought of the good old days of Aralian pride, leading the Alliance into uncharted frontiers, establishing new trade routes, negotiating new treaties, and achieving victory against Zublear when he planted the raging disease in exported ores and then arrived ceremoniously later with the serum. But times were changing. “The past glories… they were the best times,” he said to himself.

In his oasis of serenity, he sat in his high-backed command chair and stared to the other side of the room at the glorious portrait of himself as captured upon his triumphant return from Zublear. Then, without warning, it struck him—that uneasy light-headed feeling that had overtaken him before. His eyes throbbed without warning; he rubbed them as he stood. A sharp pang passed across his forehead from side to side. He eyed a razor-sharp pen on a desk across the room whose end gleamed in the soft light like a beckoning razor’s edge. While his innards pounded, his eyes opened wide.

“No, I don’t want to die!” He could not believe that he had just uttered those words. And why? And for what reason? Quickly he advanced to one of the many mirrors that adorned the four walls, hanging among the many bookcases, and gazed penetratingly at his image. His eyes were still red with sorrow; the hair on his scalp seemed to be thinning more than he recalled. The white hair of Aralians was turning to silver. “Am I going mad?” he stated in both earnest and jest.

More importantly, he wondered if anyone had heard him utter this indignity. He skied across the room on the glossy polished-stone floors and opened the door just a crack to peer back down the corridor. No one was in the hallway, and his associates seemed still to be engrossed in the analysis of the situations outlined by his comments. Their remarks were vaguely decipherable at this far distance.

Breathing systematically harder, he stepped back into his office and sealed his sanctity, leaning his back against the door. As he turned, he found the stylo enticing him again with its glittering sharp edges. In the darkness, it summoned him to admire further its stiletto-like spire protruding from the leather handle. Now sweating profusely, he slowly moved to the desk, placed his fingers around this weapon, and positioned the end of the spire so that it pointed between his eyes. Como stood bewildered by his actions but mesmerized by these events.

As he moved to stand in front of a mirror, the pen began to pulsate in his grip. His limbs involuntarily hoisted the dagger above his body and then thrust it into his chest. His body expelled a torturous shrill that penetrated the halls of the royal palace and sent his advisors scurrying to his library only to find the fortress locked. Again and again he shredded his skin, plunging the dagger deeper into his vital organs, spewing the purple plasma out, staining his dignified silvery fur as he wept and wailed. With each successive stab, he squealed for an end while his comrades valiantly tried in vain to break into the sanctuary.

His friends comforted his body too late. Desperately, they searched for an assumed intruder while perplexed by the locked room. Outside, the fires on Aralia burned lower and lower as the news spread. There grew a feeling of despair. Something evil lurked there on Aralia that night. Laughing it was, in a cold, calculating sneer, as the little statesman Como, his eyes wide open, whispered his dying words to his kinsman Dreveney.

On the planet of Globiana

Geor stood nine feet tall, weighing in at a rotund seven hundred pounds. His six limbs, whether he was standing upright on two or crawling on all six, could serve as powerful deadly tools on defense or attack. He stopped in his tracks and twisted his head to look back into the gardens toward some disturbance. Ripples of green fatty tissue on his neck contorted as he strained to see. On the top of his oblong head, a thick crop of short black hair sent strands over his ominous reptilian face. High cheekbones and fat hid two deep-set azure eyes.

“Did you hear that, Geolo?”

“I heard nothing, Geor, except you rustling about anxiously, as you have been since I arrived here. Come and sit down, my husband. Relax.”

Geor, as all Globianans, relied on his keen sense of smell. His upturned piggish nose snorted and sniffed for signs of unwelcome visitors to his estate. He opened his large eating vent under his pink nostrils, flicked his tongue to sense the air, and was satisfied that all was calm in his flowery garden. Then he moved to the round granite table, where he proceeded to position himself close to his mate. He picked up the manuscripts and perused the transcripts of the first trial of Travers while Geolo stared intently at him with admiration and affection. Geolo’s chest heaved as she inhaled the fresh fragrances from an arboretum in full bloom. With her middle limb extended to him, she softly said, “Take time out, Geor, and smell the wondrous odors of the blooms.”

The table was situated under a canopy of hides but positioned so they could admire the vine-laden walls and the magnificent gazebo, adorned in colors of Globianan spring flowers. Instead of following Geolo’s request, Geor slammed his fist in anger. “How could this have happened?” He was angry and vented at her. “I have convinced myself to not read any further. The original trial of Travers was error-filled, blundered by the prosecution, even by myself. If Travers is to receive justice, a clever prosecutor must be personally selected to prepare the retrial. Perhaps even me, Geolo.” He hunched forward, his head cupped in his hands, breathing heavily, peering into her huge hazel eyes. “Geolo, I now realize there is a lack of hard evidence to convict Travers. How disappointing.” He shook his head. “Where is the evidence we require? Perhaps, Geolo, it does not exist. I know I startle you with this conclusion because of all my tirades against Travers, but I am failing to find concrete facts to commence this retrial. The evidence is circumstantial and leads to not guilty, just as the first trial. I must dig deeper to uncover damning truths.”

Geolo was surprised and disappointed. “Geor, I cannot believe you say this.”

Geor stood to stretch his aching muscles. The soft, rippled green flesh of his underbelly bounced as he kneaded the twelve fingers on the hands of his upper limbs. The underbelly was the only place on his body where tough scales had not evolved. Geolo stood too, walked beside him, held his arm tightly, and said, “I will retrieve a refreshment for you.” She then left, puzzled at his last remarks. As she did so, a branch brushed against the garden wall, attracting Geor’s attention. Geor peered to the spot the noise had come from. “Who goes there? Who disturbs my solace?”

He toddled out of the sheltered area. “This is my private time at sunset.” He followed the red crushed-stone path to a far corner of the arboretum where the vegetation closed in on him. “It is off limits to all during these hours.” There was no reply, yet he was convinced that someone had intruded his privacy, as a scent foreign to him now wafted his way into his vents. He sniffed vigorously to verify, his nostrils ever widening and twitching, his tongue flashing quickly in and out of his mouth in thrusts. The stench disappeared.

“It must have been the moving shadows of the sunset; it must have been the wind,” he said to himself. The permeating aromas of the multitudinous flowering shrubs filled his air intake now and pleased his floppy red tongue as he limberly strolled upright. His pleasure was suddenly interrupted by a putrid odor that shattered the pleasantry of the stroll of the evening. The trail led him back to his granite table, where he found a vile liquid in a glass. Immediately recognizing the foul stench as the juice of the chiachia tree, he shifted his head from side to side in quick thrusts to ascertain who had deposited this tumbler here while he was engaged in his momentary pleasantry. Certainly Geolo had not left this liquid for him.”

The silence was broken only by the soft breezes. Puzzled, Geor lifted the murky brown contents to eye level and examined their translucent color. While his limbs forced the glass away, his mind became preoccupied with the idea of gulping down this deadly potion.
Why
should
I
entertain
such
a
vulgar
thought?
He wondered.
Is
this
a
dream?

In the next second, his body trembled from the frightening tincture as the contents snaked down his throat and into his body cavity. The elixir, finding its way, cast its enigmatic spell, paralyzing his three hearts. Geor suddenly felt the scorching blaze within. His body convulsed; his mind screamed a too-late note of regret.

Crying for his beloved companion, Geolo, the servants arrived just as his body fell with a thud into a soft bed of soils and foliage. Geor’s tearful wife stood at his side as his mouth frothed, his body rejecting the poison too late. In an isolated corner of the garden, an evil creature watched the scene gleefully.