Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

by Christie Golden

  Tsûuri hesitated. Then he took a small white spherical object out of a pouch at his side.

  Her pale fingers cupping radiant spheres and bathing her perfect face with them. Fishermen, harvesting pearls in tiny nets, bringing them joyfully to shore—

  Valerian angrily wrenched himself out of the dream recollection.

  Tsûuri held the object in his gloved fingers for a moment, then set it down in front of Igon. The “antiques dealer” delicately picked it up in one great hand. The other reached for a large magnifying glass lying on the table. Siruss peered at the pearl through the lens, which made his tiny, beady eye appear enormous.

  “Amazing!” he murmured. His voice was hushed and filled with awe, and he was obviously forgetting the first rule of haggling: don’t seem impressed. That spoke volumes to Valerian. His gaze fell again on the box on the table, and the small creature within. What the hell was this animal? And why were these pearls so valuable?

  Siruss continued to gaze at the small white object, compounding his violation of the first rule of haggling. “I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime!”

  The unknown alien snatched it deftly from the other’s large palm.

  “You’ll have hundreds of them,” he promised Siruss. “Just as soon as you give us what we came for.”

  Igon regarded him with mock sorrow. “Ah, now… that’s where I have a slight problem, my friend. You see, I’ve been thinking. I’m a big fan of cutting out the middleman.” He indicated the pearl Tsûuri held.

  “If you’re going to knock out copies of this baby for me… why shouldn’t I do it for myself?”

  He smiled. It was ugly, cruel, and intelligent, and Valerian abruptly hated him with an intensity that surprised him.

  Too late, the slender aliens realized their mistake.

  Both leaped to their feet, drawing weapons, but Igon’s six mercenaries had beaten them to it. While everybody leveled their gun at everybody else, Valerian slipped behind the Kodhar’Khan crime lord.

  “Easy, my little lambs!” soothed Igon.

  A female voice snapped, “We absolutely need this converter!” Now she, too, had broken the first rule of haggling. “You told us you could help! You know we are fighting for a noble cause!”

  “I know,” Igon said solemnly. “I’m fighting for a noble cause, too.” He grinned. “Mine. Here’s the deal.”

  Igon casually pulled a gun and pointed it at the female.

  Time to end this. Valerian lifted his visor so he could see himself again, and began to type in the code at the end of his Sleeve.

  “I get the converter and this pearl,” Siruss was saying. “You get to stay alive. How about it? A good deal, right?” He guffawed at his own feeble humor, then sobered. His voice was utterly without warmth as he said, “You have ten seconds to accept.”

  He began a countdown as the muzzle of his gun split in two, with each muzzle curving away, as if with a life of its own, to point at each of the aliens.

  “Five, four…”

  Valerian quickly punched the last figures of the code into the keypad.

  “Three… ”

  Valerian flipped down the visor—

  “Two…”

  —and saw his arm manifest in the virtual world as he jabbed his gun into the smuggler’s neck.

  Igon abruptly ceased the countdown, but his gun did not waver. Nor did those of the mysterious aliens. Those of Siruss’s guards, however, immediately turned to take aim at Valerian. Or at his Sleeve-encased arm, at least.

  “Federal Agent Valerian,” he introduced himself. “Sorry to interrupt this great deal, but I’m also here for a noble cause called the law!”

  The unknown aliens flipped back their hoods—and it was all Valerian could do not to gasp.

  Pale, luminous skin. Eyes as blue, bluer than the sky. Delicate features, now drawn in anger and fear, their foreheads black with it. The beautiful faces did not carry such expressions comfortably.

  Pearls, came a thought, drifting and easy as a summer zephyr. They are called… Pearls.

  “Wrong place, my friend,” drawled Igon confidently. “There is no law around here.”

  “There is law wherever I am,” Valerian stated with surety. Even as he spoke, though, his gaze drifted back to the aliens. “Haven’t I seen you guys somewhere before?”

  The alien named Tsûuri—the Pearl, Valerian thought— looked very ill at ease.

  “Hey,” grunted Igon, “I’m not running a tea room here. What do you want from me, Mr. Law?”

  “Igon Siruss,” Valerian stated, “you stand accused of stealing a Mül converter belonging to the Human Federation. But before I drag your sorry ass in, I’ve got to recover stolen property.”

  The moment stretched out in silence. No one moved.

  Valerian continued to press the muzzle of his gun to Igon’s neck. The Pearls kept their weapons trained on the guards, looking increasingly panicked.

  “Valerian,” came a familiar and welcome female voice in his ear, “I’ll be on your right, three o’clock, three feet away.”

  He smiled, slightly. “Got it.”

  “Huh?” Igon said. “What do you mean?”

  “You,” Valerian retorted, pressing the muzzle even more firmly into the thick neck, “don’t move.”

  A moment later, as if by magic, a large carrying case appeared at Valerian’s right—at three o’clock, three feet away.

  Laureline.

  “Now,” said Valerian to Igon, “take it nice and easy and put the critter’s carrier into this box.” Even before he spoke, Valerian saw growing horror on Igon’s face as it dawned on him that he was about to A) lose the converter, B) get arrested, and C) could do nothing to prevent either misfortune.

  “That converter is ours,” blurted Tsûuri suddenly. Fear and determination mingled on his face. “We are prepared to buy it back. Name your price!”

  “I’ll double it!” yelped Igon.

  Despite the illogical, bizarre, but very real dream connection Valerian had with the Pearls and the critter, he shrugged slightly. Whatever was going on here was no concern of his; he had his orders.

  “Sorry, guys, I’m not into sharing. Move it!”

  Slowly, reluctantly, looking almost as if he wanted to cry, the smuggler placed the converter into Laureline’s case.

  Gibson’s voice spoke into Valerian’s ear. “Guys, move on, now.”

  “Converter in the box,” said Valerian to the listening Gibson.

  “Copy,” said Laureline’s disembodied voice beside Valerian.

  Valerian kept his weapon trained on the smuggler. A moment later, Gibson’s voice spoke in his ear. “Good job, Sergeant. Undetected. Back to base.”

  “Affirmative,” Laureline’s voice replied promptly. “Valerian? We’re good. Get out of there.”

  “I’m on my way,” Valerian responded. He hesitated, then grabbed the pearl from the table. It, too, was evidence. Igon watched, helpless, fuming.

  “I’ll find you, Federal Agent Valerian,” he sputtered, almost choking on his rage. “Wherever you are in the universe, I’ll find you! And I will kill you!”

  Valerian grinned. “Good luck with that!”

  He was done with this. The whole thing with the Pearls was too weird for him to handle right now, his arm was itching inside the encasing Sleeve, and Laureline still owed him an answer to his question.

  Keeping the Sleeve-hidden gun trained on Igon, Valerian slowly moved around the table back toward the door, punching the code into the rear keypad of the Sleeve as Cooper had instructed.

  The Sleeve should have disappeared.

  It did not.

  Valerian glanced at the guards at the door, who were staring in utter confusion as a disembodied arm holding a gun floated toward them.

  “Tell your guards to step aside,” Valerian ordered. Igon, still seething, did not obey immediately. “Now. Or not. I think removing your head would do wonders for your looks.”

  Igon growled in anger,
sounding almost exactly like the angry Pit-Ghor straining at its leash. “Let him pass,” he snarled, finally.

  The Kodhar’Khan guards obeyed reluctantly, taking a few steps backwards. So did one of the Pit-Ghors, though it snarled.

  The Pit-Ghor named Fluffy, however, wasn’t as well trained.

  Just as Valerian had stepped through the curtain, out into the street and had almost finished a second attempt at keying in the code, the animal gave a great bellow of frustration and lunged after him so violently the leash snapped.

  Its massive jaws closed on the enticing floating metal box that covered Valerian’s arm.

  “Ahhhh!” Valerian shouted. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

  The Sleeve was not just a piece of cutting-edge technology, it was also made of very strong metal, so Valerian’s arm was not in danger of being severed in a single bite. But the beast had put the rest of him in jeopardy. He tried to turn the cumbersome Sleeve against the animal, squeezing the gun’s trigger.

  The sound of gunfire was like a spark of flame to an old-fashioned powder keg. Suddenly everyone was firing. Bullets whizzed past Valerian, and he threw himself into an odd, contorting dance so they wouldn’t be able to guess where his invisible body was.

  The sound of combat was coming from inside, too, and out of the corner of his eye, as he continued to attempt to detach a ravening Pit-Ghor from his arm, Valerian saw that the two Pearls had taken advantage of the chaos to flee.

  The female glanced over her shoulder as they ran down the street, and even in the midst of the madness Valerian was struck by her ethereal beauty and wondered again just what the hell was going on.

  “Valerian’s in trouble!” Laureline’s voice, in his ear. Valerian dropped to the ground, flailing wildly, trying to dislodge the monster-dog.

  “Your mission takes priority,” Gibson replied. “Keep going. Cooper? Cover him!”

  Finally, with a well-placed kick to the Pit-Ghor’s belly, Valerian managed to wrest free. Dodging the hail of bullets, he raced around the back of Igon’s shop to join Cooper.

  Cooper had already “armored up,” wearing two Sleeves and carrying a machine gun in each hand.

  “The keypad’s broken!” shouted Valerian. “I can’t get my arm back.”

  No sooner had he gotten the words out than Igon’s goons came pelting around the corner after him, guns blazing.

  “Get back to Gibson!” Cooper shouted. “I’ll cover you!’’

  Valerian obeyed, sprinting off as fast as he could while Cooper opened fire and the guards returned it.

  He wanted to believe that Cooper—he who would win a bar fight against anyone, any size, any time— would survive the attack. He had two machine guns and military experience.

  But the Kodhar’Khans had guns, too, and they had more of them.

  Cooper, if he fell, would do so in the line of duty.

  Valerian had experienced a plethora of bizarre things in his twenty-seven years. But this situation was right up there in the top few. He was in one world, and his arm was in another, and the result was comical and potentially deadly chaos.

  His body, firmly grounded in the “real” world, was invisible and untouchable thanks to Cooper’s spray earlier. He wasn’t about to bump into anybody or anything in Big Market other than tourists—or, he amended, real bodyguards and those they guarded. But his Sleeved arm, trapped in the virtual part of the current reality, was completely uncooperative. Try as he might, that damned exposed arm kept smacking unreal heads, catching on non-existent merchandise, and in general putting the rest of the real body at high risk.

  Normally Valerian was on good terms with his appendages, but not today.

  Definitely not today.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lumwak’s duty shift at Siruss’s “shop” was not due to begin for over an hour, and he was permitting himself a much-needed break. The pay was good, excellent in fact, but Lumwak could not help but notice the high attrition rate of the crime lord’s “staff.”

  Lumwak considered himself a bit of a philosopher— something unusual among the Kodhar’Khans. And after three years of working for Igon here in Big Market, he had formed a philosophy about it. He leaned back in the café seat, sipping something sludgy and potent and wonderful while his enormous gun—which ensured his privacy; few wanted to chitchat with someone who had his weapon out and obvious—lay on the table within easy reach, and examined his thoughts as he watched the tourists bustle and buy.

  There were three kinds of people who came to Big Market per Lumwak’s philosophy. One was the original, intended customer base: tourists, with too much money and too much room in their homes, who wanted the delight of visiting a thousand worlds without the hassle of, well, actually visiting a thousand worlds.

  The second group was composed of those who made money off the first group. This group had subsets. The first was the merchants, who supplied the goods to the eager, greedy tourists. The second was comprised of those who preyed on them—pickpockets, muggers, that sort of riffraff.

  The third group was physically located in Big Market— and this made Lumwak chuckle to himself, because “physically” was a relative term—but had little or nothing to do with the business conducted within the confines of the compound. His employer was one such member of this group. Oh, Igon sold antiques, yes, and made a respectable income through the legitimate business. But his primary business was smuggling, and at that, he excelled.

  Lumwak took another contented sip, musing on the concept of what was real, and what was not. Was this drink real? This café? In a manner of speaking, yes, but one could make the argument that it wasn’t.

  Was he real? What about the theory of the soul, of—

  An alert began to beep on the small screen he wore around one wrist. Reality asserted itself quite solidly as the words flashed up with the urgent order: Seek and destroy. Top priority. Target’s photograph follows.

  On the tiny screen, a photo of a humanoid Sleeve appeared. The Sleeve presumably concealed a hand with fingers—probably five, or fewer—curled around a gun pressed to the throat of Lumwak’s employer. Lumwak recognized the angle—this image had been taken from Security Camera 4A in the boss’s back room.

  He looked up just in time to see the selfsame Sleeve float down the street in front of him.

  Lumwak was a philosopher. And his overriding philosophy was entirely centered around what was best for Lumwak. He fully intended to be the one to slow this running Sleeve—and the person attached to it—way, way down.

  He grabbed his weapon with both hands, sprang to his feet, and took off after the disembodied Sleeve.

  * * *

  Valerian was fit, but he had been running at top speed—as top a speed as he could reach while his Sleeve-encased arm slammed into unwitting merchants and knocked over virtual merchandise—and he really hoped that he had shaken his pursuers. He risked a glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of the Kodhar’Khan thugs. Panting, but still moving, he said, “I think I lost them!”

  “Good,” came Laureline’s voice.

  Valerian allowed himself a smile. He glanced down at himself, and the smile faded—because he could glance down at himself. The spray was wearing off, and parts of his body were now becoming visible.

  He swore.

  “What was that?” Laureline again, a hint of humor in her voice. “I didn’t quite copy.”

  He looked up from the sobering sight of his left foot, right kneecap, and three of the fingers of his left hand and his heart kicked.

  One of Igon’s guards was in hot pursuit—and carrying an enormous weapon. Valerian knew exactly what it did, and all of a sudden he felt up to running at top speed again. But even as he turned to flee, the guard opened fire.

  Valerian was struck, and he knew he was about to go down.

  The weapon was specific and, in a way, merciful. Law enforcement often used it to bring down criminals, enabling a speedy capture that ensured little to no harm befell either party. But it w
ould be no mercy to Valerian. Igon Siruss obviously preferred him alive… and that was not a good thought.

  It fired thousands of steel ball bearings at the target— the cumulative weight of which would eventually cause the unfortunate target to slow and eventually collapse, unable to move. Valerian knew he was lucky. The goon could only target the Sleeve, not his entire body.

  But it proved to be enough to get the job done.

  Abruptly, his arm felt as though it weighed a metric ton. He kept running, stubbornly, doggedly. At first he was able to lift the arm on its own, then he had to hold it up with his good hand, and, finally, his body surrendered. His weighted arm plunged down to the ground, and he followed, lying flat and gasping as he struggled to lift the unliftable.

  The guard approached, taking his time. Well, why should he rush, I’m not going anywhere, Valerian thought with morbid humor.

  “You know,” the bodyguard said affably, his deep, growling voice almost pleasant, “the way this weapon functions can serve as a metaphor. One of these tiny metal spheres would be completely unnoticeable. A few hundred will slow you down. A few thousand—well, now, here we are, aren’t we? The right number will slow anything. Which illustrates the point that so often, when we stand alone, we cannot succeed. When several join together, however, that’s an entirely different story.”

  Valerian couldn’t believe the bodyguard was taking the time to spout such platitudes. Stuck where he was, unable to move, he imagined he was a captive audience in all senses of the word. Maybe that was why. Probably no one else listened to this guy.

  But even as Valerian mused, the guard had given him an idea. For all his words about how one alone couldn’t succeed… the guard was trying to take him by himself.

  In the time it took for Igon’s goon to meander toward him, Valerian had already spotted a means of escape. A grate a few inches away opened to something below. He didn’t know what, and right now, he didn’t care. Slowly, both to not attract notice and, well, because he couldn’t move quickly even if he had wanted to, Valerian forced his Sleeved arm over the grate.