Valerian sighed a little in relief. “Thank you,” he said. “Okay. So, what’s your name?”
She smiled at him. “Whatever you want it to be, sweetie.” Valerian still had the gun trained on her, and now he waggled it in annoyance.
“I have no time for games… sweetie. Come on, what’s your name?”
“They call me Bubble,” she replied.
Valerian felt a sudden quick, guilty pang. He wondered if she even knew her name, or if her species had such things. He wondered how long she had been in this place.
“Look,” he told her, “I lost my partner, Bubble. You help me out for an hour, and in return, I’ll set you free.”
He thought she’d be pleased. Instead, she looked even sadder at the words. “What good is freedom when you’re an illegal immigrant far from home?”
“I work for the government,” Valerian persisted. “You’ll be doing something very helpful for me and for them. I can get you an ID pass. You have my word.”
Bubble squirmed in her seat, seemingly uncertain as to what to do. Part of her face and a leg reverted to the blue jelly of her original form, and a third arm tried to form before she refocused and looked up at him.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “If I leave here, Jolly will kill me.”
Valerian glanced over toward the door. A red pool had spread out from it, and he could just glimpse a pair of boots with their toes pointing toward the ceiling. “Jolly won’t kill anyone ever again.”
Bubble followed his gaze and her eyes widened. She did not strike him as malicious, but a hint of joy and relief commingled on her gorgeous features. Then she looked back up at him.
“…You really liked my performance?” she asked, hesitantly, almost shyly.
His anger at her melting away, Valerian gave her a genuine smile. “Best I ever saw,” he said, and meant every word.
Bubble smiled like an angel. She again glanced toward the door and seemed to reach a decision.
“So,” she asked, “what do you need me to do?”
It had been a comparatively quiet evening, and the pair of bouncers flanking Jolly’s club hadn’t seen much action, which was okay with them. There had been a bit of a ruckus earlier, when someone had spotted a cop who seemingly had been turned into stone. Or maybe it was just a statue someone had snuck onto the street for a laugh. Regardless, the policeman/statue was now wearing a huge floppy hat, sunglasses, a fake beard, three scarves, and a garland of flowers, and had lewd messages painted on him in at least four different languages. That had been more entertaining than bashing heads.
Both of them, though, straightened up to look imposing and scary as their boss sauntered outside and looked at them each in turn. “So, ahhh,” he said to them, “I’m gonna take ten!” He smiled, almost baring his teeth. “You two, keep an eye on old soldier boy in there… He seems like a real freak to me…”
“Okay, boss,” one of the bouncers replied. His eyes widened in confusion as Jolly patted him on the cheek and walked away down the street.
“You think he’s been smoking some of that stuff that’s been floating around the clubs?” one of them muttered.
“No idea,” the other replied, “but that was weird.”
“Okay, Bubble,” Valerian said. “Get us out of sight. That’s the place, right there.” His voice felt muffled to him, but she heard him.
“Wow, those are some gates,” she said in awe. Her voice floated to him thickly.
“Yes, they’re big. Get off me!”
“All right, all right, I’m doing this,” the glamopod replied. He felt the warm, gelatinous flesh—could you even call it flesh?—peel back from his face and body as she climbed off him. Valerian shook himself and took a gulp of the not very fresh but still welcome air.
The plan had, it seemed, worked. Bubble had expanded her form to engulf him and had adopted the guise of her hated late employer. Wearing Jolly’s face and body, they had made it from Paradise Alley back to the Boulan-Bathor palace. Bubble resumed her suited cabaret dancer form. She’d located a sheltered area across the plaza, and was now gazing at the huge gates—and the guards who patrolled in front of them.
The entrance to the palace was hewn out of the same black rock that composed the deep canyon from which Valerian and Laureline had been fished. The Boulan-Bathor species was a contradiction in terms—hideously ugly, at least to human eyes, but capable of designing things of great beauty. The palace was justifiably named, row after row of exquisitely carved pillars covered in gold leaf that towered into the air.
Huge braziers made the gold pillars glow warmly, and gave off intense heat even from a distance. Black carved steps led up to the gate, and more pillars receded into the heart of the palace. It was almost overwhelming… and clearly Bubble was indeed almost overwhelmed.
“You want to go in there?”
“Yes,” Valerian replied, “but no foreigners are admitted. The only way to get inside is to look like one of them.”
“Sure, but…” she hesitated, then said, “I’ve never played a Boulan-Bathor.”
Valerian debated telling her how profoundly glad he was that she’d never had an audience wanting her to assume the form of one of these hulking creatures, but decided not to go down that path right now.
Instead, he appealed to her justifiable pride in her skill. “Hey,” he challenged, “are you an artist or not?”
“Yes, but I need time to get into a role,” she said, “to capture behavior and movements and understand the character’s arc. What are their motivations, their backstory? That sort of thing. Then we do a couple rehearsals, you give me some notes—”
Valerian knew the Boulan-Bathors better than most, but he didn’t think that sharing that information with Bubble would boost her confidence about playing the role. More than likely it would send her running in the opposite direction—which, honestly, would be a pretty sane response. What they were about to do wasn’t. But Laureline was in there, and he knew what she was up against, and he had to get her out.
“A little improv won’t do you any harm,” Valerian interrupted. He wasn’t particularly eager to once again be engulfed by the glamopod, but time was racing past. Laureline was still in that palace, and the commander was still missing. He thought about her recent performance of Laureline and his younger self; now that his anger had faded, he had to admit Bubble had done an amazing job. “Come on!”
Bubble sighed. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Turn around!” She stepped behind Valerian and extended her arm, slipping them around him. For a second, she rested her head on his shoulder, but then she swiftly shifted.
Valerian moved awkwardly, wearing the alien like some kind of weird cloak, checking out his new body while Bubble lamented, “This is not right! Those claws—I should get a manicure!”
“Let’s go,” Valerian insisted, and they emerged from their hiding place and headed for the palace gates.
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!”