Christie Golden - Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

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—