The Adventures of Deacon Coombs: The Case of the Vanishing Vesper

By Ambit Welder

It is 3533, and Earth has bonded with her allies, found peace in new friends, and realized the benefits of space trade and space travel in the form of Vespering, a technique perfected long before man evolved on Earth. Even as goodness seems to reign, however, a powerful malice nurturing a limitless hatred for mankind prepares to carry out his evil mission of conquering all life forms.

As the diabolic being puts his plan into action and unleashes his terror on the galaxy, the Tetrad Alliance commissions Earthling detective Deacon Coombs to investigate the aliens origin and its true, murderous ambitions. Coombs travels to faraway star systems, forges unlikely companionships, and uncovers an age-old mystery. In doing so, he embarks on a dangerous journey into space and mind where only evil has ventured before. With the help of his two androids, Gem and Jim, Coombs answers his own doubts about how to defeat the creature in four startling confrontations.

In this science fiction adventure, a detective discovers the true meaning of friendships and sacrifice, tragedies and triumph, and bonds and betrayalas the future of mankind awaits its destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491705629

Ambit Welder

Ambit Welder resides in Texas with his wife and two children. The Case of the Barille Blood is his second novel in the Deacon Coombs series.

Book preview

In the Beginning

Imagine the shock when Earth and its galactic allies finally come to the realization of the destructive power I hold and of the devastation I intend to unleash. All those years of evolution and peace wasted. In Earth years, it is 3533, I believe.

Yes, Master.

Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo first unlocked the significance of the heavens. Kepler was branded a heretic for suggesting that man’s habitat was not the center of all creation. However, life on Earth survived this shock of discovering that our tiny planet orbited a sun, in a galaxy of suns, in a universe of countless galaxies, where many life forms abounded and where the hunger to travel deeper and deeper into the unknown grew and grew.

Jurgen Peeters first claimed contact with aliens, but subsequent attempts failed as governments grew weary of his claim. Years after Peeters died in persecution, messages were decoded—contact with alien life forms.

Nearly six hundred years after Jurgen Peeters had first spoken to the Aralians, Earth was admitted to the Tetrad Alliance—Tetrad referring to the four star systems in which known life existed. Earth’s sun was known as Solus. The sun Proximus had two inhabitable planets: Zentaur, the watery habitat of aggressive, scaly, reptilian creatures; and Jabu, a desert planet with a paucity of water. The other two stars were the double star Alpha-Beta Centauri and Barnard’s Star. The Alpha-Beta Centauri system was dated as having the oldest life in known worlds.

Earth and Barnard’s Planet were the novices as recent admissions. With newfound friends for Earth, interplanetary trade was established, including the acquisition of Vespering, the technology of interspace travel perfected by the Aralian innovator Luuqus Vesper, who, like Kepler and Peeters, died with his dream.

And So the

Beginning Ends

By the year 3200, Earth had bonded with her allies and found peace in new friends. Earth’s ships were admitted to the Union of Space Traders, and Vesper stations were erected on Earth’s moon. The grand accomplishments of the Alliance were obvious: space travel, space trade, and, foremost, friendship and peace.

In the year 3533, an Earthman, Landrew of Niger, was elected as the high ruler of the High Council of the Tetrad Alliance. Landrew was the first Earth species to hold such high honor. But Landrew and his people would soon have to confront the supreme challenge. It would commence as a series of seemingly unconnected events in the fourth year of Landrew’s reign. It would rise to threaten space trade and then jeopardize the existence of mankind wherever they dwell, until eventually it would lead an innocent Earthling, Deacon Coombs, into the depths of mind and space to confront an unleashed terror witnessed before only in the nightmares of mankind.

You can trust me. I understand our mission.

The sinister creature towered over him and replied, Yes, I know that.

Forgive me, but I feel uncomfortable residing in your space. Do you have any more orders at this time?

No. The black-hooded evil glared down at him. I sense you wish to pose a question about me.

Yes. He felt afraid to inquire but did so as he wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt. Where did you come from? Which part of our galaxy, or universe? Where does your kind dwell?

The creature stood taller, the gaze of its two piercing, glowing yellow eyes impaling the servant below. It is of no concern to you where I came from. The voice was intimidating.

Can I ask, please, respectfully, why you do not come in peace? Why does your alien race wish to bring death and destruction and annihilation to the alliance of mankind? And why do you carry the venom and hatred of Earthlings?

The response was shrill. You will have many rewards for obeying and following me. It is not your business to question me. It is not your concern to know why bloodshed and chaos must absolutely be forged in the path to victory. The voice expressed anger and irritation. It is not your concern to understand my ultimate motives. They are completely justified, as you will eventually learn. You do realize what happened to infidels before you?

The servant stood at attention. Yes, my Lord. I heard you twisted their minds. You used your powers to render them mentally insane. There was an ominous silence as he recalled the dementia.

The diabolic being now rose to enhance the fear that his follower felt. It is time. The campaign to assault those I despise has arrived. You will hear of my first triumphs very soon, and when you do, I hope you will feel the elation and confidence of our mission.

Yes, Lord. I am truly ready to serve.

Death is also a solution for disobedience and betrayal. The being glanced at the mutilated body of the Jabu warrior beside him, the purple plasma still oozing out of the wounds in the torso.

Yes, Master. He bowed his head rather than look into those mesmerizing eyes as his lord spoke again. I must go. My destiny and the misfortune of all mankind are awaiting me.

Yes, my Lord. The space was suddenly empty; the creature had fled. He breathed a sigh of relief and then felt a swell of confidence as he thought of his future promised powers and the important role he would play in the new order that the being would establish. He did feel a moment of remorse for all the friendships that would be destroyed. But only a moment.

A Present Danger

At the Jabu Vesper station

Quobit! said Maretz. You missed an opportunity to navigate the next ship into the disc! You younger generation! I never missed a chance to outsmart the storms! Maretz had just arrived on the deck of the control tower, where Quobit was focused on the chaos before her. She resented Maretz’s comment and crafted a reply.

Excuse me, Maretz, but the risk is too great. Severe electrical storms have been disrupting the normal flow of space traffic all during my shift. Just before you arrived, I attempted to guide the next in line to the alternate Vesper station on the third moon, but I was unsuccessful. The situation is too dangerous to execute arrivals and departures. Have you not been following the intensity of this ion storm?

Maretz was blunt. Of course I have. As senior engineer and today’s traffic director, it is my duty. However, look at the consequences. Departing freighters are now lined up twenty deep. Remove yourself from the chair and give me the controls.

I must exercise what I have learned at the academy, Maretz, which is not to take chances and gamble with human lives. With experience I shall become as proficient as you, but for now, our instructors direct new graduates to err on safety’s side. Tempers are flaring as ships awaiting final instructions to enter the Vesper disc are doubly delayed by the fifth departing merchant vessel, which has unexpectedly lost power. You are distracting me. I must communicate with them. She turned away from him and tossed her full head of fiery red hair behind her.

Presiding over operations, the tall Jabu engineer now eyed the sight before her. A stream of ships, lit up in the respective colors of their homelands, stretched out toward the dusty orange planet of Jabu, all awaiting instructions to enter the Vesper disc to travel elsewhere. From childhood, when she had peered into the heavens, she had dreamed of the moment when she would direct traffic at a Vesper station. Her only regret was that Maretz had been assigned as her mentor.

She spied the vessel from Earth and then thought to herself how Vespering had been perfected before the first appearance of man on Earth, just as new electrical flares from the storm lit up the disc and the control center. While the ions flashed in blue stabs, she pondered back to school days when she had first read in her engineering textbook, A system of trial and error had sacrificed the lives of innocent space pioneers, all of them Aralians. They misunderstood the risks of Vespering; they did not comprehend their chances to meet death. Dismembered or disfigured bodies too frequently assembled at the first primitive relay stations.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Maretz complained. What are you thinking about now?

Just reminiscing on how this process of Vespering has become an infallible everyday procedure, sir.

Maretz had an unusually deep, throaty voice. Let’s keep it that way. That’s our sacred responsibility. I have never, in my numerous years at these stations, tired of this spectacular sight before me. In our technology, in this enormous disc, we hold the power of shaping the history of the galaxy with every execution of duty. We hold the power of Vespering. Look at that Earth vessel. In their measurements, this disc is two thousand feet long, nearly nine hundred feet deep. Look, an opportunity! Quickly position the orange and blue thorbee ion particles around the periphery, Quobit. Observe the monitor as the storm is decreasing in intensity.

Yes, Maretz, I observe the quietude in the signal. You need not remind me of my duties. I know the drill implicitly.

Then pay attention and carry them out. Maretz scratched his foot-long earlobe, held taut by a bulky black earring.

Quobit, with Maretz leaning over her shoulder, continued to listen to the captain’s orders; then she slowly commenced to guide the Earth ship into position as all the precautions were checked to lessen the shock of cellular demolecularization. Maretz whispered, Even with this scientific technology and modern drug advancement, the life spans of Earthlings are shortened by the biological shock of Vespering. To a nine-hundred-year-old Guillianan, the effects remain inconsequential; to an Earthling, the robbery of life is a disincentive to Vesper.

Quiet. You are distracting me, Maretz. Maretz fell silent but appreciated the pleasing wafts of aroma from Quobit’s hair, recognizing the fragrance of her desert tribe.

The procedure was instantaneous. Quobit watched on her screen as the ship dematerialized to energy, the translucent, frozen white figures suspended inside the ship. Then she threw the frenzied blue and orange thorbee ionic rays into the disc to envelop the package before dispensing the fuzzy beam on its way across the galaxy on a voyage faster than the speed of light, the beam propelled by Vesper particles. Maretz stood behind her at attention, checking her process. Perfect. Five point five seven from the time you unleashed the energy to the time of departure from the station. You are a credit to our profession, Quobit. I have served you well as mentor.

Maretz eyed her and mused about her. Quobit was very representative of the female species of her tribe—tall, lacking any substantial fleshy parts, her body best described in the literature as nodose. The protrusions of bony material bulging out under her tough tan skin gave the guise of undernourishment to the eye of any foreigner. Females on Jabu required little daily sustenance to survive. However, Quobit’s head was uncommonly large for her sinewy six-foot-eight body’s frame. Most prominent was her square, protruding forehead, characteristic of all Jabu, which extended above two deep-set ebony eyes. Before her next task, she flexed all of her four arm joints. Then Maretz, in a gesture of what he thought to be respect, rubbed one of his large, bony elbows against one of hers.

Quobit bristled. I suggest you control your urge to rub, Maretz. I am best noted for my athletic ability, a necessity to survive in the harsh desert climate of Jabu, where I originate from, where a daily battle is waged against nature for land, food, and water. I don’t wish to demonstrate my prowess to you. You may outweigh me substantially, but I am a match for you. No disrespect intended, but rubbing by the desert peoples has a different inference than rubbing by metromen like you. You may recall my athleticism has won me awards at the physical tribal games.

Maretz’s stocky frame backed away. Then he used his authority to order her out of the control center, seating himself in the command chair and flipping his protective visors down to prepare for the next Vesper, an Aralian freighter bound for its home planet, Aralia. Perhaps you read my dissertation while training, Quobit, where I captured the Jabu passion for the engineering of Vespering. While seemingly a monotonous vocation to most races, we the Jabu carry a penchant for intricate detail and are compensated handsomely by the Alliance to treat each Vesper as the last—no room for human error, and punishable by death under the Vesper laws of Jabu for blatant mistakes. Thus, we Jabu engineers are recruited at Vesper stations around the galaxy.

Quobit was irritated because Maretz was violating a golden rule—that Jabu engineers be silent while conducting the process of Vespering. She decided not to remind him but instead checked the results as the beam engulfed the Aralian frigate and the ship departed as a taut beam into space.

Six point six three, Maretz. You are slipping. That performance doesn’t deserve a rub. You’d best watch my techniques.

She was kidding him, so he turned and frowned at her. Now the third freighter in line entered the disc, as the ion storm seemed to have dissipated. Quobit resumed her position to maneuver the ship to the proper position by quickly filching the controls from Maretz and sitting in the oversized pivoting chair.

At the Aralian Vesper station

What is that statue? the junior engineer inquired.

It pays direct tribute to all those who sacrificed their lives to make Vespering an indefectible process, to remind those who engage in duty today of this fact. Many a beam missed its target in the early days of Vespering. Read the inscription while I set up.

He stood in front of the sculpture and read. Where are they now? Where are those Aralian souls who travel eternally as pure energy out of bounds of the Alliance? Behind him there was a noisy commotion, as a senior instructor had just arrived and was addressing potential new recruits. He knew he must not be caught being distracted by the scene, but he listened to the instructor’s comments.

This station is one of the original six Vespering stations installed in the Alliance, having logged over four plentha entries since inception. The width of the bowl takes into account even the greatest error in coordinates and transmission. For sure the calculation of error will be one of the questions on your final trials. Ah, we have an incoming ship. Move closer to observe, but please remain away from the engineer’s guide pod and place your visors over your eyes!

The students stood at attention, mesmerized as a thin red veil sailed over the top of the disc, warning outbound ships of incoming traffic. In the distance beyond the bowl, the students observed the blue-white frozen land of Aralia. Aralians were well adapted to the environment of extreme bitter cold, and the cold air inside the Vesper station reflected the temperature of their habitat. Aralians were diminutive in stature, fleshy, covered in white fur, standing on average at five foot six on the bare-boned bottoms of their feet.

The beam carrying the first ship from Jabu arrived. In less than ten seconds, the apparition was being metamorphosed back to steel and flesh. The instructor directed their attention. Look! The ions are aligning on the outside of the disc; soon the final rematerialization will be complete and this crew will signal greetings to the Aralian engineers. The Aralian engineer returned a welcome of Villya and then activated the warning system in preparation for the arrival of a second ship.

The instructor continued. Evolution has provided Aralians with a graceful, calm composure during periods of stress. The Aralian engineer checked and calculated the estimated arrival time of the second ship. Curiously, the ship was overdue. There must be an error in our calculations; perhaps even erroneous data dispatched from Jabu. No arrival. No signal of an incoming vessel. With the vessel now grossly overdue, the senior engineer said, Alert the signalmen to scan the magnetic outposts. In a rare moment of Aralian frenzy, ten engineers now huddled, yammered, scurried about, and then cursed the instruments as the new recruits remained amused. Reminiscent of a flock of irate penguins, the furry, squat bodies paced and deliberated in noisy, cackling voices.

Their debate was intruded by signals indicating a new arrival. Silence gripped the crowd. All eyes focused on the red sheet covering the disc. The beam entered, and the ionized package held at the top of the bowl and then gradually lowered and reassembled. The Aralians cheered until they discovered the true identity of this vessel. This was a different ship bound for Aralia, inbound from Glossis. A message was dispatched to Jabu by a Vesper wave: "Crisis: Aralian trade ship Sleigher did not reach Aralian Vesper station. Please confirm departure time and route."

A probe was dispatched to seek out vapor trails of Sleigher from Jabu. Meanwhile, engineers at both stations played an uneasy waiting game. The investigation determined that the beam had simply vanished. Somewhere, impossibly, in the millions of distant, lonely light-years between Jabu and Aralia, the trade ship Sleigher traveled aimlessly, the victim of a perfect process.

On the planet of Aralia

The temperature was twenty degrees below zero, wind gusts driving it lower. Falling snowflakes shimmered in the purple rays of light cast on the governor’s palace. Inside, the revered statesman Como rehearsed his speech; outside, the crowd swelled in anticipation of hearing their beloved Como. Few would miss his oration, which would be broadcast live into every home on this frigid evening on Aralia, where the nearest sun, Alpha Centauri, was 150 million miles distant, and Beta Centauri only a glimmer at this time of year.

The Aralians, camped in front of the majestic massive stone structure, were huddled close together. Their shiny, soft white fur, which prevented heat loss, covered their entire body except for their bare feet and powerful lower legs. The first reports ever written on Earth describing Aralians noted that they resembled shaggy dogs found on Earth, because of their small, pointed snouts and beady red eyes. The females had significant white hair growth on their faces, while the males had tough, exposed scaly cheeks.

The glossy bottoms of their feet allowed Aralians to glide at high speeds over the icy and snowy surfaces on Aralia. These nude soles were more effective than the best waxed skis of Earth, while their long, awkward limbs served to steer the body by shifting their weight to and fro. Aralians continued to propel themselves into position in the winter wonderland in front of the palace grounds to pay homage to their leader, Como.

More of the crowd assembled toward a specially installed viewing screen that was currently broadcasting the feats of Como over the background music of the national anthem. The biography recalled how the young general had proved his value to his homeland by saving them from the tyrannical clutches of the planet Zublear.

Aralians reached a crescendo with their yowling and fussing as they witnessed footage of Como trading the safety of Aralian lives for valuable Aralian ores to be shipped to Zublear. Aralia would lose income but be allowed to retain the continuance of their precious individual pursuits. Several years later, as deadly bacteria encompassed Zublear, Como silenced his critics as he delivered the antidote to Zublear in return for an end to the exportation of valuable ore shipments and the cessation of Zublearian military strikes. Both nations praised his efforts. The assembly knew this tale but enjoyed revisiting the heroics of Como.

The protruding balcony from which Como would sermonize tonight was adorned in brilliant crimson and malachite—the colors of Aralia. It was situated on the third floor of the elongated, silky, blue palatial hall, halfway down the rectangular square that comfortably held seventy thousand Aralians.

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.

At the Aralian Vesper station

The deaths of Como and his dearest friend, Geor, had cast a cloud of depression and uncertainty over the Alliance. The Aralian engineer making her way into the Vesper station felt this discomfort too, as this state of affairs had touched everyone on Aralia, with Como’s funeral having been televised the previous day. It was a rare day that the Vesper station was closed, and now she, as first on duty, plugged her fluorescent card into the coding machine. The machine accepted the card key and then spat it out, and the security laser evaporated, leaving her free to enter.

She stepped down into the hall and noticed the panoramic view before her. Colorful electric particles danced on the disc in the foreground; one of the distant suns of Aralia was blooming in dusty orange, the stars of a million suns twinkling in white, silver, and red behind it. The planet Aralia, partially obscured by the disc, presented itself in shades of spectacular blue and lavender at this time of day. The vastness of space overwhelmed her. Checking her watch, she saw that the rest of the shift would arrive soon, and she had duties to prepare for their readiness.

She felt a prickliness on the back of her neck—the result of her recognition that something was odd. It was only now that she realized a peculiar shadow existed in the far corner of the amphitheater, which by her intuition she surmised should be fully lit by the light of the dancing electrons outside. Cautiously, she spied the rest of the hall. Only in this corner was there an eclipse.

Her body froze. After a moment, she slowly waddled forward toward the blackout. Objects in the corner were faintly becoming visible. Then she saw it—a well-defined demarcated line on the floor inside.

Terror struck her. Something very large and opaque was outside the control windows, blocking light from entering and causing the shadow inside. Whatever it was, it was juxtaposed against the windows of the control tower. Summoning courage, and squinting hard to recognize the identity of the object, she pressed against the skylight. She reached below the panel to flick a light switch, and the engineering control room was bathed in light. In a moment of disbelief, a shriek jumped out of her as four crazed, withered bald heads, their eyes enlarged, enraged, stared back at her. She realized now that she was looking into the byway starboard control of a trade ship that was jammed against the Vesper station outside. She was gripped with terror, constantly looking over her shoulder for the arrival of others while remaining paralyzed in her tracks.

The crazed crew now clawed furiously from inside their ship. Looking closer, she could now see that these were Aralians who had lost all their body hair. Their eyes uncharacteristically bulged from their sockets. Though she could not hear their tormented screams, their faces conveyed their tortured souls. Her Aralian hair stood on end as she dared to move to a vantage point from which she could read the ship’s name. Finally she saw it; it was the AKA Sleigher.

Long after she ran to summon help, the wily crew hurled themselves against the Sleigher’s control window, attempting to break free of the ship. In one corner of the deck, an Aralian sat quietly praying for an end for the incessant throbbing in his head, praying for an end to the nightmare that he had lived and wished to forget—a nightmare that was now about to invade his homeland.

On Jabu

How very peculiar, she thought to herself. Quobit was sitting alone in a corner of the stark white room, sipping on a hot, dark beverage of borrow leaves. No one else was presently in the large, isolated cubicle at the Jabu Vesper station. She often sat here during her single daily break, cherishing the brief moments to unwind from her intense duties of Vespering, and sipping her favorite desert teas.

Today was different. From the first time she heard of the Sleigher’s return to Aralia and her friend had read to her the disturbing facts about the loss of sanity of the crew, their confinement to the facility on Brebouillis, and the mystery of where the Sleigher had journeyed to, an ugly thought had reared itself. Over and over she tried to justify that horrible thought while her mind kept reminding her of its remote probability. She closed her dark, sooty eyes tight. The silence allowed her to walk through the series of events of that day one by one until she arrived at that flash in time.

She opened her eyes in fear first, and then terror. Yes, she did remember the correct sequence. And something was wrong. Out of instinct, she spied the monitor on the other side of the room. Trepidation caused a chill throughout her arms and legs. Was she being watched? Whom could she possibly confide in? Whom could she share this saturnine result with? Maretz? Certainly not, for he would dismiss it. Her close friends? To be laughed at? No. Maretz’s supervisor—for her to then be personally investigated because of the outlandish corollary? No! She didn’t want to jeopardize her future career. Silence and anxiety—she would live with them.

She consumed the hot tea and was still cold. She reversed her decision; she had to tell someone. She left the break room queasy and fretting, for she knew her conclusion to be true.

Moonlight

Brings a Stranger

At Moonbeam

Waves crashed into the jagged rocks below. Deacon Coombs stood more than two hundred feet above the craggy coastline on an overhanging balcony, savoring the rising full moon, which cast intermittent rays of light across the foamy white tide. After a grueling day’s work, Deacon found the rhythmic hiss of the waves against the chalky cliffs a tonic to soothe his day’s anxiety.

He moved to place his slightly pudgy five-foot-nine frame on a recliner, and then, closing his eyes, he allowed the aquatic fury to penetrate his mind. Moonbeam had been built over eight hundred years earlier on the steep white cliffs of Dover with this isolated spectacular panorama in mind. Deacon ensured that his daily ritual included an hour of relaxation to savor these moments. A cool breeze, coupled with the sounds of percussion, sent him into a deep slumber, and as he dreamed, his right hand released the empty tumbler and it fell to the floor of the wooden carapace, where the final drops of liquid flowed between the cracks of the floor and dripped onto the rocks beneath.

Under the balcony, a sleek orange- and yellow-striped creature slithered over the cold, mossy chalk. As the tumbler hit the floor, the snake reared its head, peering upward to see the presence of the slumbering man through parallel openings between the boards in the balcony. Out of two narrow slits, it focused its luminous amber eyes as its gray tongue rapidly slipped in and out of its mouth. The asp lowered its head and meandered purposefully to the nearest post to begin its ascent.

It wrapped itself around the post, and using its muscles and scales and the friction of the wood to propel itself upward, the three-foot snake wound its way around and around the post until it peeked out from behind the pylon to espy Deacon’s motionless but snoring figure. In his state, Deacon was oblivious to anything but the hypnotic sounds of the sea. The viper traveled over the balcony, reached the detective, and slithered over his black boots, eyeing the exposed soft flesh at the base of his leg muscles. Then, holding its head high and compressing its neck so it appeared three times its normal size before striking, it punctured the skin with two sharp fangs, transmitting elixir into the veins of its master.

Deacon’s trance was interrupted. Ah, my dear Miram, I see that you have brought me a treat.

The snake responded by tautening all of its body muscles, standing on only the tip of its tail, bobbing its head to and fro toward him while appearing as if to smile. In his thirty-two years, Deacon’s body had suffered little abuse. His only vice was the elixir of the royal viper of Globiana, a harmless, short-lasting pleasure that acted as a sleeping agent. Miram was a gift from Geor of Globiana, where these snakes were valuable treasured exports because of their beauty, rarity, and delights.

As he slept peacefully, the snake diligently and proudly patrolled the deck for her principal, gliding gracefully in repetitive patterns, taking an occasional glance over the deck to the rocks and surf below. Her vision, while blurry at great distances, was complemented by a keen sense of smell. In addition, behind her two harmless fangs were four smaller fangs which housed deadly neurotoxins for which there was no antidote on Earth. Death came instantly to victims, as Deacon had witnessed on the sole occasion that a burglar had been the recipient of Miram’s venom.

Hours later, the moon was high but repeatedly blocked from view by streams of angry sinewy clouds racing across the heavens, signaling the first arrival of seasonal precipitation. Miram was disturbed by the sound of a stone falling to the beach below. She wriggled herself into position to see a solitary robed figure climbing adeptly, moving stealthily forward up the craggy slope with conviction. An alarm was sounded.

She hissed into Deacon’s ear. He stretched his arms, arose out of the slumber, and then, rubbing his eyes, addressed her. What has you in a dither? What do you see down there? You are an overanxious sentry. You know that? Deacon leaned his upper body across the rails, his eyes panning the landscape. All he saw was the usual paradise of surf and stars. As he looked upward, Pegasus became visible briefly between two strands of clouds. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps to his far left, at the end of the porch, where the only access to the cliffs, and eventually the beach, lay.

Miram glided over the dewy boards to take a position behind a beam at the top step, coiled and ready to strike upon her master’s command. Deacon possessed no firearms, so he glided to his left to clutch a metal bar used to bolt the doorway to the balcony. Hiding it behind his back, he asked in a commanding tone, Who is there?

A deep, forceful voice answered. Villya, Mister Coombs. I am here to deliver a message to you. I mean you no harm. Please call your snake back or she will surely meet her death.

The confident intruder continued to climb the stairs and now became visible, ascending slowly step by step, his menacing black-robed outline rising higher and higher in the murky shadows. Deacon removed the disheveled brown hair from his eyes with his hand. He saw that the intruder was much taller than he, and very muscular, as the gown was filled. The face was well hidden by the black hood, but as the stranger finally entered the light, Deacon saw two glassy, unflinching green eyes staring out of the shadows—fixated on him. The stranger was soon atop the stairs and stood beside Miram.

I have a front entry for those whom I call friends. Deacon was firm in his delivery.

And I have my orders, Mr. Coombs, to deliver an urgent message to you. There existed an eerie silence as they sparred with their eyes, Deacon straining to see deeper into the hood; struggling to guess the intruder’s identity and agenda. A motion of Deacon’s hand signaled Miram to take her place beside her master, and she did so behind his boot, her eyes fixated on the invader. Her tongue rapidly flicked as she waited for the command to attack.

The stranger spoke again. I come here as a friend.

I shall decide that.

The figure took two more steps forward as Deacon clenched the bar firmly. The visitor spoke deliberately. Mister Coombs, it is indeed a pleasure and an honor to meet you. I bring a message of great importance to you. It concerns a matter of global security with far-reaching implications for the safety of the Alliance and our existence as we know it. The High Council respectfully asks you to attend a meeting—

Deacon grew impatient and interrupted. I am not an employee of the Alliance. I do not entertain cases of global espionage or political intrigue. I handle private cases only upon request by local authorities. Surely the High Council knows this if they have investigated my career.

The visitor waited until Deacon had finished his outburst. Excuse me, Mr. Coombs, for my entry. I shall continue. I have my orders. Your presence is requested in Liberty City, Americana, in two days. If this was any ordinary matter, I would have come to your front door and during daylight hours for all to see. My visitation here tonight must remain a secret, and thus so my message. Here—the stranger thrust forward discs by sliding them on the balcony to Deacon’s feet—are your travel arrangements, your lodging reservation, and, lastly, codes that will prove you are an ambassador of the Alliance.

Deacon bent down to grasp the orders while eyeing his visitor. What if I choose not to accept?

Then I shall return with new orders that delegate you to the employment of the Alliance. Deacon had already guessed from the tone that the new orders would include coercion.

I have found that encounters with politicians have been less than rewarding—with the exception of one called Geor, bless his soul. However, I read from your comments that I have no choice. He opened the disc with his handheld. Time passed. The figure stood statuesque at the end of the porch, waiting for Deacon to complete his reading. "Please inform the High Council that I shall reluctantly arrive on time. You will convey the word reluctantly in your reply."

Excellent, the stranger said with a note of elation. Then we shall meet again in Liberty City, Mr. Coombs. Your departure from your residence has also been arranged, as well as a house sitter for your abode and pet. Follow the enclosed agenda carefully, Mr. Coombs. Do not deviate. Speak to no one of my visit; speak to no one of your absence.

Deacon wished to cross-examine, but the visitor turned and fled down the stairs and into the midnight cover of the rocks. Deacon scoured the cliffs below and spotted the mysterious stranger dexterously bounding from rock to rock. Eventually he lost sight, so turned to open the ticket. One way to Liberty City. Open return. He seldom left his beloved Moonbeam, although inside he was bubbling. Well, Miram, it appears that I am off to Liberty City, the one place I have always yearned to visit, with its museums of history, its libraries, and its simmering teapot of cultures. I often envision it as a living cultural museum of space travelers where one can learn firsthand of other races and species to further embellish one’s own manuscripts and fantasies.

He looked down at Miram. She was the recipient of his feelings. Sorry, Miram, I can’t ignore this challenge. He glanced below, but the stranger had disappeared. In Liberty City he would determine whether his guess as to the identity of tonight’s visitor was correct.

Deacon Coombs, you say?

Yes, my Lord. He is quite well known in our worlds as being a great detective.

You dare to bother me with such bore! He is insignificant in my plans! When we meet, if we do, I shall render him powerless, dismiss him! Go away! Don’t bother me again!

Just as his informant departed, the evil creature smiled and hatched a plan. Deacon Coombs. You dare to investigate me. So I will play a game with you!

In Liberty City

In flight

Deacon was frustrated as he thought to himself, Oh, my intentions to shed pounds. This extra weight on my one hundred ninety-five pounds just never seems to evaporate. Always too much time spent sitting in front of the computer, lounging in