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

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.

But he didn’t have that luxury, and so he placed his hand on the scanner.

“Pull up the file on the Mül operation.”

“Request authorized.”

Documents flashed up on the screen. Okto-Bar skimmed the information as it scrolled by. It was a list of the names of hundreds of warships, their identification numbers and firepower.

This was the army humanity had fronted in one of the worst wars of its entire checkered history—the War against the Southern Territories. It was largely because of this war, with its years of violence and astronomical numbers of casualties on both sides, that humanity had firmly rededicated itself to pursuing peace if at all possible.

Peace bought with the bloodiest of prices, Okto-Bar remembered his father saying. He continued to read the list of ships and their captains.

But one piece of information was conspicuous by its absence. “Who was commanding the operation?” Okto-Bar asked the computer.

A message flashed up: Information not available.

The general frowned. He was not fond of mysteries or puzzles. He was particularly not fond of things that seemed to make no sense at all.

And this didn’t smell good.

They had fallen some forty feet, but had landed safely, if malodorously. Valerian had noticed the Boulan-Bathor servers dumping the uneaten food beside the emperor’s throne, and sure enough, it had been a room-sized trash can. Valerian didn’t want to think about what might be composing—or decomposing—the orchestra of smells that were assaulting their nostrils.

Above, the guards were shouting in anger and frustration. “They’re too big to get through,” Valerian reassured his companions.

“They’ll find a way to get to us, and we’re trapped in here!” Laureline retorted.

“No, we’re not,” Valerian replied. “There’s got to be a way to empty the trash, so that means there has to be a door.”

They looked at each other, then down at the dead carcasses, rotting fruit, and other unsavory items that were doubtless piled layers thick beneath their feet.

Abruptly, they were falling again, this time along with all the trash surrounding them and tumbling over their heads. Gasping, they clawed their way desperately to where they could breathe. Valerian looked around triumphantly.

“I told you there was a door,” Valerian said reasonably.

Laureline got up awkwardly, plucking a scale the size of her palm from her hair. “You didn’t study the plans before you came rushing in. As usual.”

As she finished extricating herself, she came face to face with a humanoid skeleton. She blinked, swallowed, checked out its clothing, and began to remove it. Valerian did think it was somewhat less filthy than what she was wearing.

“You’d rather I got here after the main event?” Valerian asked, indicating the skeleton.

Laureline sighed. “I’d rather you took me someplace other than a giant trash can!”

Valerian scowled. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be brainless right now!”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Laureline grinned. “That would make two of us.”

“Oh yeah?” Valerian shot back. He was starting to get really pissed off now. “And who got it into her head to go butterfly hunting near canyons?”

“And who can’t even drive a Sky Jet?” She glared at him.

“And who nearly got me killed because she can’t read numbers the right way up?”

“Who would be one arm lighter if I hadn’t been able to repair a transmitter in under thirty seconds?”

Valerian was almost purple with outrage. “I just saved your life and that’s the thanks I get?”

“I saved yours, remember? And I nearly got my brain sucked by a jellyfish to find you!”

“What is it with you and almost losing your brain?” exclaimed Valerian.

“Hey… guys?” The soft voice belonged to Bubble.

The arguing pair turned and, as one, snapped, “What?”

“I don’t feel so good…”

Valerian’s anger vanished, to be replaced by concern. Bubble had almost, but not entirely, resumed a female human shape. And instead of the cool blue he remembered her natural color being, she was turning the ugly purple of a bruise. She lifted a featureless face up to him as he slogged through the trash over to where she had propped herself up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worried now.

“I must’ve been injured during the fight.” Her voice was faint, and as she spoke her body began to turn from purple to red. Bubble strained, wincing, and for an instant the features of the cabaret dancer flitted across the blank canvas of her face.

The fight… Valerian had fought like a madman, certain that the blades wielded by the guards weren’t even touching him because he was just that good. Of course the weapons hadn’t struck him—Bubble had protected him with her own body, taking blows meant for him. He hadn’t even thought about her—he was too busy being headstrong, impulsive Valerian. And now—

“Bubble!” he murmured. “No, no… I’m so sorry. Tell me what to do!”

The slit of her mouth turned upward in a lopsided attempt at a smile that broke his heart.

“There’s not much you can do. It’s all right. Where I come from, death is less painful than life.”

The words were a knife. “Don’t say that!”

Bubble gave him a faint smile. “Unfortunately, it’s true. Life’s a drag when you never have an identity to call your own.”

Taken aback, Valerian suddenly smiled at Bubble. He cradled her in his arms, very tenderly. “But you do have an identity. You’re a hero. And more than that—you’re the greatest artiste I have ever seen.”

Bubble’s blank eyes filled with scarlet tears. “I thank you. It was a pleasure performing for you. Just… one last role…”

Her face screwed up with effort. Then, suddenly, her color shimmered, cutting through the red into white cloth, gold jewelry, smooth brown skin, and sleek black hair. Eyes decorated with exaggerated black lines crinkled in a smile.

Nefertiti.

“I leave you my kingdom,” she said, her voice sonorous and strong, though her body was failing. “Take good care of it.”

“I will,” Valerian promised her solemnly.

Through her pain, Bubble continued to struggle to speak. “Most importantly…”

“Yes?”

The Queen of Egypt—or more importantly to Valerian, a big-hearted glamopod—extended an arm in the direction of Laureline, who stood a few steps away, eyes wide and silent. “Take good care of her. Love her without measure.” She smiled gently. “‘There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.’”

Bubble closed her eyes and sank back into Valerian’s arms. As he held her and watched in grieving, respectful silence, her body began to solidify until it became rock hard—an ancient statue of Nefertiti. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she crumbled into sand, trickling through Valerian’s arms till nothing was there.

Valerian stared at the pile of sand, feeling lost and alone. Something brushed his shoulder, and he looked up to see Laureline gazing down at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Valerian’s own eyes filled as well as he reached up and took her hand.