Valerian yelled, sprang the last few feet, and brought his sword slashing down.
The emperor stayed seated and still. The only thing that moved was the top of his head, right below the crown. It slid to one side, then toppled off.
The crowd gasped. Emperor Boulan III was dead.
Laureline had plastered herself to the floor to the side of the throne, staying safe amidst the flashing blades and toppling bodies. Panting from exertion, Valerian cried out to her.
“Laureline!”
Startled, she glanced up at him. He reached down to her, grabbing her arm with one hand and trying to pull off the awful hat-plate with the other. She thrashed fiercely and abruptly, and Valerian realized that, to her, he looked like just another Boulan-Bathor—one crazy enough to attack a room full of guards and kill the emperor.
“Bubble!” he shouted, “Get off of me!”
Bubble obliged, slipping from around Valerian and returning to her original gelatinous form. Laureline’s eyes went from the blue blobby alien to her partner.
Valerian couldn’t resist. “Let’s get married,” he quipped, “You’re already all in white.”
Those beautiful eyes narrowed and those perfect lips drew back from white teeth in a snarl, and the next thing he knew, she’d landed a solid punch to his jaw.
Blinking, dazed, he peered at her incredulously, and then suddenly she had thrown her arms around him. When she pulled back, she was beaming at him, her eyes shining. He leaned in to kiss her, but as she had done earlier, she lifted a ringed finger and blocked their lips from touching. He frowned, questioning. With the same finger, she pointed behind him.
He followed her gaze.
Every single remaining guard in the room—and there were a lot—was charging toward them, screaming at the top of their lungs and brandishing weapons.
Valerian grabbed Laureline’s hand and shouted, “Bubble! Come on!”
The three started running back toward the kitchens. A dozen snarling warriors, gripping pikes and spears, hastened to block their path. The trio skidded to a halt. Valerian looked around wildly and saw only space surrounding him. There was no other way out. Or was there?
“Back to the throne!” he yelled.
“Are you crazy?” shouted Laureline.
He didn’t answer, but it was the only shot they had. He tightened his grip on her hand and they hurried back the way they had come, Bubble hard on their heels. The move was so suicidal that it took the guards completely by surprise and the path was clear.
Valerian headed straight for one side of the throne. The empress was nowhere to be seen, and there was no need for guards to stay and protect a dead emperor. And there it was, as he had hoped.
A grate.
He dropped to his knees and, with the help of Laureline and Bubbles, managed to move the grate to the side.
The howling guards were approaching. “Go, go!” shouted Valerian to the other two. They slid down into… whatever awaited them below. It had to be better than what was running toward them, mouths open in those awful screams, weapons flashing.
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.