Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

by Christie Golden

  “Boy, these guys are all about food, huh?” Bubble observed.

  “Yeah,” Valerian said. “It’s a cultural thing for them. The most powerful among them is entitled to the most food. Eating pretty much everything is a status symbol.”

  “Can I ask what we’re looking for?” Bubble murmured.

  “My wife,” Valerian answered.

  “Oh, you’re married?” She sounded happy for him.

  “Well,” Valerian amended, “I will be, as soon as I find her.”

  “I see,” Bubble said sagely. “Just before the wedding, right? Scared of commitment?”

  “Something like that,” Valerian replied.

  “Maybe she doesn’t love you,” Bubble commented as they edged past a Boulan-Bathor chef as he cleaved a frantically wriggling octopod into several still-wriggling sections.

  “Oh, actually, she’s crazy about me,” Valerian said, with more certainty than he felt.

  “How do you know?” Bubble said.

  One of the chefs bellowed to another. He tossed her a sack canister of something that, when opened, looked at first to be some sort of berry for garnishing, but upon closer inspection was revealed to be eyeballs.

  “She’s fighting it,” Valerian said. And I’m fighting my impulse to puke. What kind of situation has Laureline gotten herself into? “What more proof do you need?” And, as they maneuvered through the ghoulish kitchen, he hissed, “Don’t touch anything!”

  “What about you?” Bubble asked. “Do you love her?”

  Valerian hesitated. He thought about his momentary shock as Bubble had transformed herself into Laureline. How he hadn’t even been tempted to seduce the illusion. Not that the fantasy wouldn’t have been nice, but his heart had rejected it instantly. He didn’t want to just make love to her. He wanted to…

  “Yes,” he said. “I do love her.”

  “And you let her go?”

  He opened his mouth to deny it vigorously. After all, he hadn’t exactly walked away from her—she’d been fished up by a Boulan-Bathor lure, whisked away from him in a matter of seconds. But in a very real sense, he had “let her go.” He’d done it every time he had a fling with a “coworker.” Every time he laughed when he reached for her, he had downplayed the seriousness behind their flirtation.

  He’d let her go, instead of holding on with all his heart.

  And so, he said, almost more to himself than to the glamopod, “Sometimes, you have to lose something to realize how much it meant to you.”

  A form abruptly loomed up in front of him, pulling his attention firmly into the present. It was a guard, and he was yelling at The Creation. Bravely, Bubble did her best to pretend to reply. The guard said something back, then grabbed her arm and shoved them toward a line of Boulan-Bathors.

  “I think he wants us to join the group,” Valerian said as Bubbles, slightly off balance, lurched forward.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bubble replied.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s giving us much choice.”

  “Well, here goes nothing,” Bubble muttered, and joined the line. Each Boulan-Bathor was presented with an enormous plate upon which were piled a variety of delicacies: pieces of what appeared to be fruit and vegetables, though none that Valerian recognized, cut up and arranged in small towers intended to be Boulan-Bathor-sized finger foods. Slices of… something… wrapped up in jellyfish skins and covered with a sauce so spicy it stung Valerian’s eyes even through Bubble’s draping. Disemboweled aquatic creatures, part fish and part really bad dream, sprawled on plates while the eyes with which they had seen in life adorned them in death, impaled on small skewers.

  There was an astoundingly long line of servers stretching far ahead and behind The Creation. Initially Valerian assumed they were attending to a large, hungry crowd. The doors opened and they, along with the small army of waiters, bore their delicacies into a room that made the vast kitchens look like a cupboard.

  The Boulan-Bathors might eat grotesqueries, but as their main gate and now this hall indicated, they must have had a word in their language for “lavish.” The hall was enormous, easily a hundred yards long and at least half as tall and wide. The flooring was intricately decorated—warm brown tiles covered by a long red and yellow carpet that stretched too far ahead for Valerian to see. The walls were made of a clear material, curved and reinforced with thick metal bands, which opened up to a grand vista of stars and ships. Huge pillars were spaced evenly along the room… as, Valerian noticed, were guards. Quite a lot of them.

  “What’s going on?” asked Bubble, sounding worried.

  “I guess it’s lunchtime,” Valerian replied.

  Bubble’s voice was just a step below a sob. “Bussing tables! Every artiste’s worst nightmare! Never mention this to anybody, okay?”

  “You should be thanking your lucky stars we’re not the main course!” Valerian hissed back. “Think of it as a role, not a job. You’re a down-on-your-luck girl trying to make the big time.”

  Bubble sniffled. “Am I plucky?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “You can be plucky.”

  They had moved down far enough so that Valerian could glimpse the diners. Well… the diner. At the far end of the room, on a massive throne that appeared to have been hewed from a single chunk of gray stone and then adorned with intricate carvings in gold leaf, slumped a Boulan-Bathor wearing a golden crown. His Majesty nibbled every dish presented to him. Behind him was a circular window that opened onto an incongruously beautiful space-scape, and beside him towered a pair of statues.

  Valerian identified him as the species emperor, Boulan III. His eyes were large and glowing red, and scarlet markings had been painted or tattooed all over his body. It was both mesmerizing and horrible to watch that mouth drop open and food disappear into the yawning gullet. What he didn’t eat off the plate, which usually wasn’t much, the server emptied into a grate beside the throne.

  Next to him, his wife, a strange crown of her own topped with jutting red feathers, watched keenly for the tiniest flicker of satisfaction on her husband’s face.

  Valerian felt Bubble trembling around him as they drew closer. “It’s okay,” he reassured her. “He’ll eat the food, then we go right back to the kitchen. You got this.”

  Nonetheless, even he felt uneasy as The Creation stood before the bored Boulan III while the emperor reached out one giant hand, grabbed the head of some unfortunate creature from an offered plate, brought it to his mouth and devoured it in two bloody chomps.

  “I’m going to be sick!” Bubble whispered.

  “No, no,” Valerian pleaded desperately, “you’re going to wait and be sick later! Just follow the line.”

  The Creation merged with the long line headed back to the kitchen with their empty plates. The food kept coming, and as he looked about, Valerian’s heart surged in his chest.

  Laureline! She’s alive! And, apparently, enlisted as a serving girl.

  They had dressed her in a long, trailing white dress, which was really quite pretty, and plopped an enormous white hat on her head, which was not. The hat was, essentially, nothing more than a large brim, and her blonde hair poked out of a hole in the center. Boulan-Bathor fashion was never going to set the galaxy on fire.

  In her arms Laureline bore a large platter of fruits of all shapes, colors and sizes, which were likely intended as a light dessert after a heavy meal, given her position as the last one in line. It was the only dish of all that Valerian had glimpsed that looked even remotely appetizing.

  Valerian suddenly felt a little light-headed with relief. “There she is!” he said to Bubble.

  “Wow,” approved Bubble. “You’re right, she’s a ten.”

  “You already knew what she looked like.” Valerian was still bothered that Bubble had assumed Laureline’s appearance earlier.

  “Yes, but there’s a lot more to being a ten than appearances,” Bubble said.

  The glamopod confounded Valerian. She was so i
nnocent and, well, ditzy sometimes, and so strangely wise at others. And of course she was right. He thought about what he most loved about Laureline, and to his surprise it wasn’t her lithe, fit body or gorgeous features. It was her. And that was why Bubble hadn’t been able to tempt him.

  He was going to get them both out of here. And, hopefully, she was going to say yes to his proposal.

  Laureline’s line advanced inexorably towards the emperor, whose wife was bouncing a little in her seat as the human girl approached.

  Valerian frowned slightly. “Something’s wrong,” he said as he watched the empress, whose yellow, froggy eyes were fastened on Laureline. The emperor followed her gaze and now he, too, sat up, abruptly interested in the girl in white carrying the platter of fruit.

  He’d dealt with humans before. Why so interested in Laureline? What could be special about her to a Boulan-Bathor? Frantically Valerian tried to recall everything he knew about the species and Boulan III in particular. He’d grown up traveling. He loved food—unique, different, perfect food…

  “How about I do a little dance to create a diversion?” Bubble offered.

  “No, thanks,” Valerian said quickly.

  Laureline now stood before the salivating emperor. His wife applauded ecstatically. Boulan III plucked a huge slice of juicy fruit from Laureline’s platter. But instead of popping it into his mouth, he squeezed it over the top of her head that protruded from the hat.

  Comprehension slammed into Valerian.

  She’s not carrying the dessert. She is the dessert—and the hat’s a plate!

  The emperor reached for a sharp set of tongs. An enormous drop of saliva splattered on the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Just as Valerian drew breath to shout out a warning, Laureline herself realized what was going on. She hurled the platter at the emperor and bolted, but was caught by two of the guards. Shrieking and kicking, she tried to struggle free, but they were too strong and too big. The emperor grunted his approval as his wayward dessert was returned to him.

  “I think we should go!” Bubble squeaked.

  “I think you should let me handle this!” Valerian shot back.

  “Okay!” Bubble readily agreed.

  “Valerian!” Laureline cried out, still twisting in the grip of the two guards.

  Even in the direness of the moment, Valerian’s breath caught and his heart swelled. Here she was, facing certain death, and Laureline still had faith that somehow, some way, Valerian would find her.

  And, dammit, he had.

  “I’m here, Laureline!” he shouted past the lump in his throat. “It’s me, Valerian!”

  Bubble had indeed given all motor control to Valerian now. He broke into a run and headed for the gap between two guards. The first guard took a swing at Valerian with a massive sword. Valerian dodged the sweeping strike, ducked in, and seized the second guard’s sword. Before the stunned guards could react, he had stabbed the second one with his own weapon, whirled, and brought the bloodied blade sweeping across the vastness of the first guard’s belly. Both of them fell, and Laureline was free.

  Valerian was hoping to draw the emperor’s attention away from his dessert, and he succeeded. The emperor’s red eyes were firmly on him now. Good, Valerian thought. Watch this.

  Thanks to Bubble’s talent, Valerian had the form and strength of a Boulan-Bathor, but his own speed and agility. The result was, he was sure, going to go down in the species’ history. He bellowed with the voice of one of their own as he raced toward more oncoming guards, sword flashing as it lopped off arms, severed heads from their long necks, and pierced bulging bellies. The fact that the guards didn’t appear to have much in the way of armor—well, much in the way of any kind of clothing, really—made it that much easier. They did know how to use their weapons, but he seemed to be quick enough to dodge them without any harm.

  More guards surged into Valerian’s path, trying to protect their emperor. Valerian cut and ducked and pressed on, leaping over the bodies that were starting to pile up. The empress was quailing off to the side, but the emperor was bellowing and pointing, his red eyes glaring at Valerian.

  Valerian yelled, sprang the last few feet, and brought his sword slashing down.

  The emperor stayed seated and still. The only thing that moved was the top of his head, right below the crown. It slid to one side, then toppled off.

  The crowd gasped. Emperor Boulan III was dead.

  Laureline had plastered herself to the floor to the side of the throne, staying safe amidst the flashing blades and toppling bodies. Panting from exertion, Valerian cried out to her.

  “Laureline!”

  Startled, she glanced up at him. He reached down to her, grabbing her arm with one hand and trying to pull off the awful hat-plate with the other. She thrashed fiercely and abruptly, and Valerian realized that, to her, he looked like just another Boulan-Bathor—one crazy enough to attack a room full of guards and kill the emperor.

  “Bubble!” he shouted, “Get off of me!”

  Bubble obliged, slipping from around Valerian and returning to her original gelatinous form. Laureline’s eyes went from the blue blobby alien to her partner.

  Valerian couldn’t resist. “Let’s get married,” he quipped, “You’re already all in white.”

  Those beautiful eyes narrowed and those perfect lips drew back from white teeth in a snarl, and the next thing he knew, she’d landed a solid punch to his jaw.

  Blinking, dazed, he peered at her incredulously, and then suddenly she had thrown her arms around him. When she pulled back, she was beaming at him, her eyes shining. He leaned in to kiss her, but as she had done earlier, she lifted a ringed finger and blocked their lips from touching. He frowned, questioning. With the same finger, she pointed behind him.

  He followed her gaze.

  Every single remaining guard in the room—and there were a lot—was charging toward them, screaming at the top of their lungs and brandishing weapons.

  Valerian grabbed Laureline’s hand and shouted, “Bubble! Come on!”

  The three started running back toward the kitchens. A dozen snarling warriors, gripping pikes and spears, hastened to block their path. The trio skidded to a halt. Valerian looked around wildly and saw only space surrounding him. There was no other way out. Or was there?

  “Back to the throne!” he yelled.

  “Are you crazy?” shouted Laureline.

  He didn’t answer, but it was the only shot they had. He tightened his grip on her hand and they hurried back the way they had come, Bubble hard on their heels. The move was so suicidal that it took the guards completely by surprise and the path was clear.

  Valerian headed straight for one side of the throne. The empress was nowhere to be seen, and there was no need for guards to stay and protect a dead emperor. And there it was, as he had hoped.

  A grate.

  He dropped to his knees and, with the help of Laureline and Bubbles, managed to move the grate to the side.

  The howling guards were approaching. “Go, go!” shouted Valerian to the other two. They slid down into… whatever awaited them below. It had to be better than what was running toward them, mouths open in those awful screams, weapons flashing.

  They were three strides away when Valerian hurled himself through the floor.

  * * *

  “Third Regiment approaching, sir,” said Sergeant Neza.

  Okto-Bar was pacing and glanced up at the screen in time to see three huge vessels materialize from exospace.

  “No further news of our agents?” he inquired, although he knew the answer. Neza would have told him immediately.

  “None,” Neza replied nonetheless.

  Okto-Bar’s frown deepened. Two humans in the Boulan-Bathor area of the station, and no further news. It did not bode well for their survival.

  He thought, too, of the dying words of the brutalized alien they had found in the interrogation room, when the general had questioned why they had attacked
the station.

  You have what we need.

  If that were true, why were the aliens not communicating with them?

  “And the commander? No ransom demands?” How can we help you when we don’t know what you want? Okto-Bar thought helplessly.

  “Negative,” replied Neza. “Sir—I have the minister online.”

  “Put him on,” Okto-Bar said, rising and straightening his jacket.

  The minister of defense appeared on-screen. “My respects, Minister,” said Okto-Bar.

  “General, you have been authorized by the Council to assume command of this operation. Congratulations,” the image of the minister said.

  At any other time, this would have been a moment of quiet, joyful satisfaction to Okto-Bar. He had served steadfastly and without fanfare for years, striving steadily toward this goal.

  But now, the long-anticipated promotion had lost some of its luster in the wake of the horror that surrounded it.

  “Thank you, sir. But to fulfill my mission, I will need temporary access to all of Commander Filitt’s data and passwords.”

  The minister looked troubled and didn’t respond at once. Finally, he said, “According to regulations, that is impossible without his explicit agreement.”

  “I’m well aware of that, sir. But even as we speak, the commander may well be dead. If I am to succeed in my new assignment, I need to know everything. It’s too dangerous for me to be operating in the dark about anything at this juncture.”

  Again, the minister hesitated. A military man born and bred, Okto-Bar understood and sympathized with the other man’s dilemma. But he also knew he was in the right.

  Then, finally, “Access granted,” said the minister.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Okto-Bar, relieved.

  The face of the minister disappeared from the screen. To his captain, Okto-Bar said, “Authorize docking.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said, suiting word to action. Okto-Bar took a deep breath. He had learned over the years to trust his instincts, and right now they were telling him that dark things were at play—things that, perhaps, he would later wish he didn’t know.