His dizzy gaze and bemused brain were both sharply redirected when something soft, squishy, and foul-smelling landed on his visor with a plop.
A sound that was unmistakably alien, and also unmistakably giggling, reached his ears as he wiped it off, wrinkling his nose at the stench. It was, lamentably, exactly the substance he had suspected.
He turned to regard the small Da child, who gazed at him, still giggling. He looked like a toy, too, about two feet tall, round, soft, and peachy-pink. His eyes were very tiny, as was his mouth, and there was no noticeable nose. He wore a yellow hat, and orange and yellow overalls. His three-fingered hands were closed about a bright orange and red toy gun. It operated, on a much simpler scale, the same way as the Mül converter did. You put something in the top, and it came out the barrel of the gun in large quantities.
In this the “something” was—
“I got you!” the child said triumphantly, his tiny mouth barely moving. “You’re all poopy now!”
Valerian forced a smile. “Very funny,” he said, wiping his hand on the floor, “but I’ve got something even better. Watch this.”
Fishing inside his shorts pocket, he took out a small device. One-handed, he maneuvered the scanner. In two seconds, it had analyzed the cluster of ball bearings on his arm and reproduced one. Valerian tossed the small metallic ball to the young prankster, who caught it deftly with his mitten-like hands.
“Here you go, kid,” he said, grinning. “Put this in your gun. It’s way more fun.”
Elated, the child did exactly that, and just in the nick of time.
Junior came barreling through the door. Almost three times as tall as the small Da, he was fast and he was angry. His small remaining eye glowed with rage, and he would be on Valerian in a heartbeat. Junior was so focused on killing Valerian with his bare hands—or at least roughing him up pretty severely before handing him over to Pops— that he didn’t draw his weapon.
But the kid, the wonderful, marvelous, poop-gun-toting child, turned to the intruder and gleefully opened fire. Though much healthier looking than his father, Junior appeared to lack Igon’s sinister cunning, because all he could do was stare in slack-jawed confusion as thousands of tiny ball bearings sped through the air to fasten themselves on his metal armor. He grunted, baffled, as the weight forced him to drop to his knees.
“So long, Junior!” Valerian exclaimed cheerfully.
He hit a switch on another small piece of equipment he’d fished out from his kit. All the ball bearings on his Sleeve, every last one of the tiny, cursed things, flew across the room to latch onto Junior’s already laden shoulder plates.
The weight of two rounds of ball-bearing fire, plus Junior’s own weight—which had to have been considerable—was too much for the floor. With a crack that sounded like a groan, it gave way, and Junior dropped down to the floor below. Valerian strained to listen and heard the satisfying sound of another crack, and then, more faintly, another.
After being so horribly weighted, his muscles were quivering on the Sleeved arm, which felt like it was about to float away. Valerian got to his feet and went to the kid, clapping him approvingly on the shoulder.
“You’re right! That was fun! Who do we shoot next?” the child exclaimed gleefully.
“Hey now,” said Valerian sagely, “there’s a time for everything, son. Don’t you have homework to do?”
The child’s face fell. On impulse, Valerian wiped another stinky gob from his visor and dabbed it onto the child’s face. The child gaped, then took a deep breath and let loose a mighty wail and began to sob.
“Go on. Go on home. Run to mommy. Get yourself cleaned up!”
He heard a sound behind him. Turning, Valerian looked up…
…and up. Before him towered a being that was obviously the same species as the poop-anointed, sobbing child. In fact, its proportions were almost identical—right down to the soft shape, large head, and tiny eyes and mouth.
Except it was seven feet larger and probably weighed as much as Junior.
Valerian felt the blood drain from his face as he blurted out, “…Mommy?”
Her tiny mouth went from the size of a fingernail to the size of Valerian’s—no, Junior’s—fist. It occupied the entire lower half of her face, showcasing an impressive set of sharp fangs.
From that enormous mouth came an equally enormous bellow that left Valerian’s ears ringing. He wasted no time pelting out the door as fast as his legs would carry him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next several minutes or… however long it was, were a blur.
Igon Siruss’s team was highly coordinated, restricted, apparently, only by the fact that they seemed to want to take the spatio-temporal agent alive. For now, at least. Siruss struck him as someone who could easily change his mind about such niceties.
So for now, Valerian ran. He scrambled onto the virtual representations of expensive antiques, launching his rubber-soled feet off the heads of ancient alien rulers to scrabble atop a roof. He ran across illusionary old tiles, unable to see his own body—well, most of it, anyway. He tried to judge if his single available arm was strong enough to grab onto a thick, dangling creeper and swing from one faux rooftop to another—or in one case, crash through a window right in the middle of what appeared to be a formal ceremony involving priceless dishware, which he shattered.
“It’s okay,” he shouted back over his shoulder, “remember, they’re only virtually real dishes!”
This appeared to be of no comfort to the six-legged gray-green alien merchant, who waved four of her legs at him and grated out something blistering.
Valerian had not had a lot of time to study the map, but it had been enough to let him know this place had vertical subway cars—and where they were located. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was at this point, but “up” was an excellent direction as it would be at least somewhat harder for Igon’s henchmen to give chase. “Up” would also get him back to the main level, which was the only way to reach the gate and safety. He couldn’t risk getting into a car—but he sure as hell could get on one.
And there was one of the lines, not too far ahead. No convenient car was in sight, though—not yet. “Keep the faith,” Valerian muttered to himself as he kept running. And sure enough, when he was only a few strides away, he was rewarded with the sight of a car crowded with tourists, all with faces—or what served as faces—pressed to the clear sides of the car and oohing and aahing at the view.
They were not oohing and aahing thirty seconds later when Valerian leaped and clung as best he could with his own face pressed to the side of the car. They drew back, startled. Some started to laugh and one of the kids made faces at the Sleeve with both his mouths.
Valerian couldn’t risk craning his neck to look around, as any movement might dislodge his tenuous grip. Nonetheless, he found the fact that he was not being fired upon an encouraging sign indeed.
He made it to the top and leaped off, threading his way through the unexpected volume of tourists. This level was obviously the equivalent of a checkout line. Bored-looking aliens and several humans wrapped up objects of all shapes and sizes. Once wrapped, each item went into a gray box bolted into the flooring.