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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

This felt very different from walking in tandem with Bubble to portray Jolly the pimp. From within the disguise, Valerian noticed that they were lurching from side to side. The effect must be that the creature they were impersonating had had a bit too much to drink. He wondered if Boulan-Bathors even got drunk.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Valerian asked.

“Give me a second to get the hang of it,” Bubble replied crossly.

“Hurry,” Valerian hissed, looking through her, “people are staring at us!”

“I told you I needed rehearsals!”

Valerian watched anxiously as they approached the gate. One of the guards nudged his buddy, but by now Bubble had gotten the awkward, lurching gait under control and was lumbering in a more appropriate manner. The huge metal gate swung open, allowing them admittance. The guards were watching suspiciously as they passed by, but they did nothing.

Valerian dared to hope they might pull this off. “Much better,” he said to Bubble. “You’re doing great!”

“It’s harder than playing femme fatales, believe me!” Bubble murmured.

Despite himself, Valerian’s thoughts went back to the cabaret dancer, the maid, the grown-up “schoolgirl.”

And Laureline.

Laureline. Please be okay.

“General,” said Neza, turning to his commanding officer, “we picked up the major’s trail again.”

“Ah, excellent,” Okto-Bar said. “Where is he?”

Neza’s brow furrowed in concern. “In Boulan-Bathor territory,” he said.

Okto-Bar raised his eyebrows and stepped to the map, looking for himself. “Are you sure there’s not an error?”

“Negative, sir. He’s there, all right.”

“How is that possible?” demanded Okto-Bar. “Nobody gets in there!”

“And definitely not out of there.” Neza looked as troubled as Okto-Bar felt. At the moment, the political situation was tense between the station and the Boulan-Bathors. The current emperor, Boulan III, had forbidden any other species to enter the sector. It was rumored that his wife, Nopa the Beautiful, was the real power behind the throne, and that all that Boulan cared about was the cult of personality that had sprung up around him and his next excessive, gluttonous meal.

“We’re going to need backup,” the general decided. “Call the minister.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Creation, as Valerian finally decided to mentally title the compilation of himself, Bubble, and the Boulan-Bathor they were both pretending to be, made its ponderous way through a large kitchen. It was a veritable chamber of horrors, Valerian thought.

On the wall hung items that would have looked more at home in an ancient armory—or a torture chamber: knives, filleting tools, hooks, small axes, saws—everything to prepare large and potentially resistant meat into meals. Strings of dried herbs, fruits, and whole peppers of some sort hung from the ceiling. So did haunches of meat, whole crustaceans and fish, and severed tentacles. While bright lights blazed over the tables, the “supplies” were kept in corners until the moment of preparation. Housed in tanks, cages, or suspended from the ceiling was a staggering variety of creatures.

The tables were covered with blood, ichor, and other fluids. Dozens of Boulan-Bathors, their white aprons looking like the grisly canvases of a mad artist, tirelessly plucked future food from tank or cage and brought it, often writhing in protest, to the table where the huge blades thunked down ominously, killing, chopping, slicing, dicing, and filleting. For the first time since he’d teamed up with Bubble, Valerian was grateful for the fact that she covered his nose so completely he couldn’t smell. He didn’t want to know what the kitchen reek was like. His stomach was skittish enough.

“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 innocent 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.