Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets: The Official Movie Novelization

CHAPTER TWENTY

The dancer had smooth, dark skin and wore a black sparkling vest over a see-through body stocking. Her legs were long and sleekly muscled, and her face had wide, mesmerizing brown eyes that looked as though they knew the darkest secrets of his soul.

The cane vanished, dissolving into her hand, and that hand reached up to remove the small hat. Her black hair melted into a pale yellow, cascading down her shoulders and the black vest morphed into a form-fitting white sequined dress as she strode downstage toward Valerian, licking her lips.

He couldn’t tear his eyes off her and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She strutted across the stage as if she owned it, tossing back that lustrous, pale yellow hair as the sequins on her gown glittered and gleamed.

A pole rose from the floor, and the dancer leaped onto it, her strong arms and long legs propelling her through an acrobatic and almost aerial routine. The sultry blonde was gone, and suddenly she was clad in black leather from head to toe—with pointed feline ears and a lashing tail. Then in the blink of an eye she had pigtails and was wearing a schoolgirl uniform on a decidedly adult female form.

The giggly “schoolgirl” was replaced by a dynamic dancer, with strong muscles and dark skin that gleamed as she moved with powerful, strong steps, throwing back her head, lost in the ecstacy of an ancient rhythm. Bare feet stamped the stage—then were abruptly encased in roller skates. Valerian blinked, stunned to think that anyone could dance on roller skates—but dance she did, zooming around in tight shorts, a tube top, and long striped socks.

His heart jumped into his throat as she leaped upward, turning a somersault, then transformed in mid-air into a maid with a short black skirt, white apron, and a feather duster. With a wink of one dark eye, the maid used the feather duster like a wand, waving it about playfully in Valerian’s direction before leaping into the air, rolling, and coming up as, again, the tawny-skinned cabaret girl with the hat and cane.

She tipped her bowler hat to him and smiled. She was not even out of breath. Jolly the Pimp winked, closed the piano, and left the auditorium discreetly.

“So,” purred the dancer, walking toward him slowly and putting a foot on the chair next to Valerian’s thigh, “what’ll it be, soldier?”

“Look,” stammered Valerian, trying desperately to drag this whole debacle back on track, “that’s pretty cool, but not exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

She extended a finger and tilted his chin up. “I have a whole lot more in stock. Just tell me what you have in mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, trying to put some distance between the two of them. “I have a lot in mind. And no time for this. I’ll pass.”

Her eyes widened and she withdrew her leg, standing in front of him. The cane and hat melted back into her hands and her breath came quickly. Tears sprang to her large eyes and she started to tremble. “You—didn’t like my performance?”

“No!” He got to his feet, distressed that she was so upset. He hadn’t meant that at all. Unfortunately, the word only seemed to devastate her more. “I mean, yes!” Valerian amended desperately, frantic to placate her. “I mean I loved it, absolutely! You were amazing!” It was, in fact, absolutely true. He’d never seen a glamopod performance before.

His chest eased as a proud yet shy smile touched her full lips and she beamed up at him. “I started very young, and learned my trade at the top schools. I can play anyone or anything.”

A variety of extremely awkward scenarios marched unbidden into Valerian’s mind. “I, ah… I’m sure you can.”

“Well,” she amended, either not seeing or not acknowledging his discomfiture, “except Nefertiti. I’m still honing that performance. It’s not ready to show anyone yet. I’ll master it though!”

She looked up at him searchingly. “Let me guess. You’re a classical kind of guy, aren’t you? I know all of Shakespeare by heart, if you want. Or I can quote the complete works of Molière. Or poetry, maybe? You like poetry?” She closed the already short distance between them and came and draped her soft arms around Valerian’s neck.

“Uh, sure,” Valerian stammered.

“Rimbaud? Keats? Verlaine?” she continued.

Valerian was lost. He knew not a thing about poetry. “Difficult choice,” he managed. His mouth was desert dry and he couldn’t seem to stop looking into the dark pools of her eyes.

One hand played with the nape of his neck, then she dug her fingers into it slightly, the lacquered nails pressing against his skin. “‘I’m afraid of a kiss, like the kiss of the bee,” she whispered, quoting, “‘I suffer like this, and wake endlessly…”

And then, kicking off a cascade of emotions in Valerian, she morphed into Laureline.

“I’m afraid of a kiss,” she whispered.

Valerian stared at her, stunned. How had she known? It was Laureline, down to the last dark blonde strand of hair, to the curve of her mouth, even to the scent that was unmistakably and uniquely her.

And she was in his arms. Willing, wanting him, her lips slightly parted, her blue eyes wide. All he had to do was lower his head, put his arms around her, and pull her against him.

He lifted one hand and reached down toward his waist. Then in one smooth movement, he pressed the button on the gun to render it visible and held it against “Laureline’s” temple. The blue eyes widened in shock.

“How about I tell you what I really have in mind?” Valerian said in a cold, almost cruel voice.

The false Laureline recoiled in fear and began to scream. Her form shifted yet again, but this time not into the shape of a beautiful woman. The cabaret performer melted into a pale blue, gelatinous, transparent mass. Three boneless arms with three fingers each undulated and waved about, and two large eyes, slightly bluer than the rest of the creature’s body, blinked rapidly. In its fear, the glamopod had reverted to its true form.

“Hey!” exclaimed Valerian. “Quit screaming!”

But it was too late. Jolly burst in and assessed the situation instantly, his eyes going straight to Valerian’s hand and the gun in it.

“I said no weapons, pal!” he snapped. He reached for his own and brought it up, but Valerian got two shots off before the pimp could open fire. Valerian whirled back to the glamopod and found himself staring straight into the angry face of the minister of defense.

“Major Valerian,” the “minister” demanded, “I advise you to put that gun down!”

But Valerian was done with its games. The performance was over. It had been over the minute the creature had chosen to assume the shape of Laureline.

He leveled the gun at the glamopod. “And I advise you to sit down.”

It obeyed, plopping into one of the auditorium seats, and immediately morphed into the form of a ten-year-old boy with dark hair and wide, tear-filled blue eyes. “Please!” sobbed the boy. “No! Don’t hurt me!”

Valerian stared, appalled and slightly sick. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “What the hell is this?”

But he knew. He knew.

The boy looked up at him with eyes that Valerian recognized. “This is you, when you were ten. You’re not going to shoot yourself, are you?”

Emotions flooded Valerian. Five. When he’d lost his mother and, along with her, his innocence about so very much. When ugly revelations and brutal realities had come crashing in on him, which kicked off his own sort of transformation—from Valentin Twain into Valerian into a devil-may-care agent.

“Cut it out!” he snarled. The form the glamopod wore shrank back, terrified, and Valerian took a deep breath. “Go back to normal, please.”

“Okay,” the child said in a small, frightened voice. The boy who wore Valerian’s face was absorbed into the jelly-like quivering mass.

Valerian winced. “Not that normal! The other one. The first one. With the hat.”

Anxious to please, the glamopod obeyed, and turned back into the cabaret dancer with the sexy vest-and-fishnet outfit and bowler.

That was not going to work either. Valerian forced himself to be patient. She—it?—was trying to cooperate. “Can you put on something a little more casual? We need to talk.”

The vest and stockings became solid fabric and spread out to cover her whole body. She tweaked it slightly, and the outfit rippled and changed into an austere men’s suit.

Valerian sighed a little in relief. “Thank you,” he said. “Okay. So, what’s your name?”

She smiled at him. “Whatever you want it to be, sweetie.” Valerian still had the gun trained on her, and now he waggled it in annoyance.

“I have no time for games… sweetie. Come on, what’s your name?”

“They call me Bubble,” she replied.

Valerian felt a sudden quick, guilty pang. He wondered if she even knew her name, or if her species had such things. He wondered how long she had been in this place.

“Look,” he told her, “I lost my partner, Bubble. You help me out for an hour, and in return, I’ll set you free.”

He thought she’d be pleased. Instead, she looked even sadder at the words. “What good is freedom when you’re an illegal immigrant far from home?”

“I work for the government,” Valerian persisted. “You’ll be doing something very helpful for me and for them. I can get you an ID pass. You have my word.”

Bubble squirmed in her seat, seemingly uncertain as to what to do. Part of her face and a leg reverted to the blue jelly of her original form, and a third arm tried to form before she refocused and looked up at him.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “If I leave here, Jolly will kill me.”

Valerian glanced over toward the door. A red pool had spread out from it, and he could just glimpse a pair of boots with their toes pointing toward the ceiling. “Jolly won’t kill anyone ever again.”

Bubble followed his gaze and her eyes widened. She did not strike him as malicious, but a hint of joy and relief commingled on her gorgeous features. Then she looked back up at him.

“…You really liked my performance?” she asked, hesitantly, almost shyly.

His anger at her melting away, Valerian gave her a genuine smile. “Best I ever saw,” he said, and meant every word.

Bubble smiled like an angel. She again glanced toward the door and seemed to reach a decision.

“So,” she asked, “what do you need me to do?”

It had been a comparatively quiet evening, and the pair of bouncers flanking Jolly’s club hadn’t seen much action, which was okay with them. There had been a bit of a ruckus earlier, when someone had spotted a cop who seemingly had been turned into stone. Or maybe it was just a statue someone had snuck onto the street for a laugh. Regardless, the policeman/statue was now wearing a huge floppy hat, sunglasses, a fake beard, three scarves, and a garland of flowers, and had lewd messages painted on him in at least four different languages. That had been more entertaining than bashing heads.

Both of them, though, straightened up to look imposing and scary as their boss sauntered outside and looked at them each in turn. “So, ahhh,” he said to them, “I’m gonna take ten!” He smiled, almost baring his teeth. “You two, keep an eye on old soldier boy in there… He seems like a real freak to me…”

“Okay, boss,” one of the bouncers replied. His eyes widened in confusion as Jolly patted him on the cheek and walked away down the street.

“You think he’s been smoking some of that stuff that’s been floating around the clubs?” one of them muttered.

“No idea,” the other replied, “but that was weird.”

“Okay, Bubble,” Valerian said. “Get us out of sight. That’s the place, right there.” His voice felt muffled to him, but she heard him.

“Wow, those are some gates,” she said in awe. Her voice floated to him thickly.

“Yes, they’re big. Get off me!”

“All right, all right, I’m doing this,” the glamopod replied. He felt the warm, gelatinous flesh—could you even call it flesh?—peel back from his face and body as she climbed off him. Valerian shook himself and took a gulp of the not very fresh but still welcome air.

The plan had, it seemed, worked. Bubble had expanded her form to engulf him and had adopted the guise of her hated late employer. Wearing Jolly’s face and body, they had made it from Paradise Alley back to the Boulan-Bathor palace. Bubble resumed her suited cabaret dancer form. She’d located a sheltered area across the plaza, and was now gazing at the huge gates—and the guards who patrolled in front of them.

The entrance to the palace was hewn out of the same black rock that composed the deep canyon from which Valerian and Laureline had been fished. The Boulan-Bathor species was a contradiction in terms—hideously ugly, at least to human eyes, but capable of designing things of great beauty. The palace was justifiably named, row after row of exquisitely carved pillars covered in gold leaf that towered into the air.

Huge braziers made the gold pillars glow warmly, and gave off intense heat even from a distance. Black carved steps led up to the gate, and more pillars receded into the heart of the palace. It was almost overwhelming… and clearly Bubble was indeed almost overwhelmed.

“You want to go in there?”

“Yes,” Valerian replied, “but no foreigners are admitted. The only way to get inside is to look like one of them.”

“Sure, but…” she hesitated, then said, “I’ve never played a Boulan-Bathor.”

Valerian debated telling her how profoundly glad he was that she’d never had an audience wanting her to assume the form of one of these hulking creatures, but decided not to go down that path right now.

Instead, he appealed to her justifiable pride in her skill. “Hey,” he challenged, “are you an artist or not?”

“Yes, but I need time to get into a role,” she said, “to capture behavior and movements and understand the character’s arc. What are their motivations, their backstory? That sort of thing. Then we do a couple rehearsals, you give me some notes—”

Valerian knew the Boulan-Bathors better than most, but he didn’t think that sharing that information with Bubble would boost her confidence about playing the role. More than likely it would send her running in the opposite direction—which, honestly, would be a pretty sane response. What they were about to do wasn’t. But Laureline was in there, and he knew what she was up against, and he had to get her out.

“A little improv won’t do you any harm,” Valerian interrupted. He wasn’t particularly eager to once again be engulfed by the glamopod, but time was racing past. Laureline was still in that palace, and the commander was still missing. He thought about her recent performance of Laureline and his younger self; now that his anger had faded, he had to admit Bubble had done an amazing job. “Come on!”

Bubble sighed. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Turn around!” She stepped behind Valerian and extended her arm, slipping them around him. For a second, she rested her head on his shoulder, but then she swiftly shifted.

Valerian moved awkwardly, wearing the alien like some kind of weird cloak, checking out his new body while Bubble lamented, “This is not right! Those claws—I should get a manicure!”

“Let’s go,” Valerian insisted, and they emerged from their hiding place and headed for the palace gates.