Valerian watched anxiously as they approached the gate. One of the guards nudged his buddy, but by now Bubble had gotten the awkward, lurching gait under control and was lumbering in a more appropriate manner. The huge metal gate swung open, allowing them admittance. The guards were watching suspiciously as they passed by, but they did nothing.
Valerian dared to hope they might pull this off. “Much better,” he said to Bubble. “You’re doing great!”
“It’s harder than playing femme fatales, believe me!” Bubble murmured.
Despite himself, Valerian’s thoughts went back to the cabaret dancer, the maid, the grown-up “schoolgirl.”
And Laureline.
Laureline. Please be okay.
“General,” said Neza, turning to his commanding officer, “we picked up the major’s trail again.”
“Ah, excellent,” Okto-Bar said. “Where is he?”
Neza’s brow furrowed in concern. “In Boulan-Bathor territory,” he said.
Okto-Bar raised his eyebrows and stepped to the map, looking for himself. “Are you sure there’s not an error?”
“Negative, sir. He’s there, all right.”
“How is that possible?” demanded Okto-Bar. “Nobody gets in there!”
“And definitely not out of there.” Neza looked as troubled as Okto-Bar felt. At the moment, the political situation was tense between the station and the Boulan-Bathors. The current emperor, Boulan III, had forbidden any other species to enter the sector. It was rumored that his wife, Nopa the Beautiful, was the real power behind the throne, and that all that Boulan cared about was the cult of personality that had sprung up around him and his next excessive, gluttonous meal.
“We’re going to need backup,” the general decided. “Call the minister.”
“Aye, sir.”
The Creation, as Valerian finally decided to mentally title the compilation of himself, Bubble, and the Boulan-Bathor they were both pretending to be, made its ponderous way through a large kitchen. It was a veritable chamber of horrors, Valerian thought.
On the wall hung items that would have looked more at home in an ancient armory—or a torture chamber: knives, filleting tools, hooks, small axes, saws—everything to prepare large and potentially resistant meat into meals. Strings of dried herbs, fruits, and whole peppers of some sort hung from the ceiling. So did haunches of meat, whole crustaceans and fish, and severed tentacles. While bright lights blazed over the tables, the “supplies” were kept in corners until the moment of preparation. Housed in tanks, cages, or suspended from the ceiling was a staggering variety of creatures.
The tables were covered with blood, ichor, and other fluids. Dozens of Boulan-Bathors, their white aprons looking like the grisly canvases of a mad artist, tirelessly plucked future food from tank or cage and brought it, often writhing in protest, to the table where the huge blades thunked down ominously, killing, chopping, slicing, dicing, and filleting. For the first time since he’d teamed up with Bubble, Valerian was grateful for the fact that she covered his nose so completely he couldn’t smell. He didn’t want to know what the kitchen reek was like. His stomach was skittish enough.
“Boy, these guys are all about food, huh?” Bubble observed.
“Yeah,” Valerian said. “It’s a cultural thing for them. The most powerful among them is entitled to the most food. Eating pretty much everything is a status symbol.”
“Can I ask what we’re looking for?” Bubble murmured.
“My wife,” Valerian answered.
“Oh, you’re married?” She sounded happy for him.
“Well,” Valerian amended, “I will be, as soon as I find her.”
“I see,” Bubble said sagely. “Just before the wedding, right? Scared of commitment?”
“Something like that,” Valerian replied.
“Maybe she doesn’t love you,” Bubble commented as they edged past a Boulan-Bathor chef as he cleaved a frantically wriggling octopod into several still-wriggling sections.
“Oh, actually, she’s crazy about me,” Valerian said, with more certainty than he felt.
“How do you know?” Bubble said.
One of the chefs bellowed to another. He tossed her a sack canister of something that, when opened, looked at first to be some sort of berry for garnishing, but upon closer inspection was revealed to be eyeballs.
“She’s fighting it,” Valerian said. And I’m fighting my impulse to puke. What kind of situation has Laureline gotten herself into? “What more proof do you need?” And, as they maneuvered through the ghoulish kitchen, he hissed, “Don’t touch anything!”
“What about you?” Bubble asked. “Do you love her?”
Valerian hesitated. He thought about his momentary shock as Bubble had transformed herself into Laureline. How he hadn’t even been tempted to seduce the illusion. Not that the fantasy wouldn’t have been nice, but his heart had rejected it instantly. He didn’t want to just make love to her. He wanted to…
“Yes,” he said. “I do love her.”
“And you let her go?”
He opened his mouth to deny it vigorously. After all, he hadn’t exactly walked away from her—she’d been fished up by a Boulan-Bathor lure, whisked away from him in a matter of seconds. But in a very real sense, he had “let her go.” He’d done it every time he had a fling with a “coworker.” Every time he laughed when he reached for her, he had downplayed the seriousness behind their flirtation.
He’d let her go, instead of holding on with all his heart.
And so, he said, almost more to himself than to the glamopod, “Sometimes, you have to lose something to realize how much it meant to you.”
A form abruptly loomed up in front of him, pulling his attention firmly into the present. It was a guard, and he was yelling at The Creation. Bravely, Bubble did her best to pretend to reply. The guard said something back, then grabbed her arm and shoved them toward a line of Boulan-Bathors.
“I think he wants us to join the group,” Valerian said as Bubbles, slightly off balance, lurched forward.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bubble replied.
“Doesn’t look like he’s giving us much choice.”
“Well, here goes nothing,” Bubble muttered, and joined the line. Each Boulan-Bathor was presented with an enormous plate upon which were piled a variety of delicacies: pieces of what appeared to be fruit and vegetables, though none that Valerian recognized, cut up and arranged in small towers intended to be Boulan-Bathor-sized finger foods. Slices of… something… wrapped up in jellyfish skins and covered with a sauce so spicy it stung Valerian’s eyes even through Bubble’s draping. Disemboweled aquatic creatures, part fish and part really bad dream, sprawled on plates while the eyes with which they had seen in life adorned them in death, impaled on small skewers.
There was an astoundingly long line of servers stretching far ahead and behind The Creation. Initially Valerian assumed they were attending to a large, hungry crowd. The doors opened and they, along with the small army of waiters, bore their delicacies into a room that made the vast kitchens look like a cupboard.
The Boulan-Bathors might eat grotesqueries, but as their main gate and now this hall indicated, they must have had a word in their language for “lavish.” The hall was enormous, easily a hundred yards long and at least half as tall and wide. The flooring was intricately decorated—warm brown tiles covered by a long red and yellow carpet that stretched too far ahead for Valerian to see. The walls were made of a clear material, curved and reinforced with thick metal bands, which opened up to a grand vista of stars and ships. Huge pillars were spaced evenly along the room… as, Valerian noticed, were guards. Quite a lot of them.