Chapter 34
High Commander Alistair Crane's speech dragged on for exactly twenty-three minutes.
Elias was asleep. Actually asleep. Head slightly tilted, mouth half-open, breathing steady. At one point, he even started snoring softly.
Charlotte, seated to his left, shot him a sideways glance.
Borin, on his right, chuckled silently.
Mara, standing behind Elias's chair, felt her jaw tighten. She counted to ten. Then to twenty. Her fingers clenched almost imperceptibly behind her back.
"…and that is why," High Commander Alistair Crane finally concluded, "we are today awarding the Medal of Exceptional Merit to the Ironveil, Clover, and Jaeger Companies."
Polite applause. Flashes. Cameras swiveled.
Crane approached Borin first. He sprang to his feet, chest puffed out, and accepted his medal with a dazzling smile.
Then Charlotte. She stood, accepted the medal—a silver disc stamped with the Association's crest—and shook the High Commander's hand with a crisp salute.
Then it was Elias's turn.
Crane waited. The crowd waited. The cameras locked onto the third chair.
Elias didn't move.
Mara closed her eyes.
'Please. Not now.'
She leaned forward slightly, placed a hand on Elias's shoulder, and squeezed. Hard.
Elias jolted, blinked, looked around.
"Mmm?"
Mara squeezed harder.
"Up," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Elias rose slowly, yawned—actually yawned—and shuffled toward the High Commander.
Crane stared at him. His eyes scanned Elias from head to toe. Then, without a word, he pinned the medal to Elias's wrinkled coat and shook his hand.
"Congratulations, Captain Mercer."
"Thanks. It's heavy."
Crane blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The medal. It's heavy. Solid silver or plated?"
Crane withdrew his hand. "Solid silver, Captain."
"Cool." Elias went back to his seat.
Mara wanted to vanish. Literally. Melt into the floor. Evaporate. Anything to no longer be associated with this man.
The applause resumed. Protocol took over again.
An hour later, the banquet began.
The Grand Hall had been transformed in record time. Chairs cleared, dais dismantled, replaced by thirty round tables draped in pristine white linens. Servers in livery circulated with silver trays of canapés, champagne flutes, and elaborate petits fours.
A monumental buffet stretched along the entire east wall: beef Wellington, smoked salmon, platters of French cheeses, miniature desserts that looked more like works of art than food.
Guests naturally clustered by affinity.
The foreign hunters formed a small circle near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kazimir Volkov spoke quietly with Jin-Soo Park, their voices too low to catch. Amara Chen listened politely, a glass of white wine in hand.
Théodore Beaumont, meanwhile, flitted from group to group, shaking hands, laughing loudly, effortlessly drawing attention.
At a table near the center, two division commanders were seated.
Victor Ashford, commander of Division 1—Londinium Central. Forty-five, silver-gray hair perfectly groomed, three-piece suit. He held his whisky glass, eyes sweeping the room.
Duncan Highlander, commander of Division 11—Northern Scotland. Fifty, bushy red beard, visible scars on his hands and neck, uniform jacket open over his shirt. He laughed boisterously, slapped people on the back, and seemed utterly immune to protocol.
"Victor, old man," Duncan said, raising his glass, "loosen up. You look like you swallowed a broom."
Ashford didn't even glance at him. "Some of us, Duncan, prefer to maintain a semblance of dignity."
"Dignity's for the dead," Duncan shot back, downing a swig of whisky. "We're alive. Enjoy it."
At the same table sat Aris, vice-commander of Division 7, representing her commander for the occasion.
"Your captains behaving themselves, Merrick?" Ashford asked without really expecting an answer.
Aris sipped her wine. "Define 'behaving.'"
Ashford raised an eyebrow.
"Captain Vanpelt is perfect as always," Aris continued. "Captain Borin is fearless, and his ambition got us here today. As for Captain Mercer… he's being himself."
Duncan roared with laughter. "I like that kid. He's got guts."
"He's got a complete disregard for protocol," Ashford muttered.
"Exactly," Duncan agreed, raising his glass again. "A man after my own heart!"
Near the buffet, a line had formed. Hunters in uniform, bureaucrats in suits, a few handpicked journalists. Everyone waited patiently, filling their plates.
Then it was Elias's turn.
He stepped up to the server—a young man in white livery—and held out his plate.
The server placed a portion of beef Wellington.
Elias didn't move.
The server waited. "Anything else, sir?"
Elias just stared.
The server blinked. "Sir?"
Elias kept staring.
Ten seconds passed.
The server, uncomfortable, added a second portion.
Elias still didn't move.
"Uh…"
A third portion.
Elias gave a small nod, satisfied, and walked away.
Mara, behind him, closed her eyes. "You have no dignity."
"Correct," Elias replied, shoving a bite of beef into his mouth. "But I've got three portions."
They settled at a table near the edge. Mara pulled out her tablet, swiped the screen.
"With this commendation and the medal," she said without looking up, "Jaeger is now only forty-six points behind Rustbucket."
Elias chewed slowly. "We're still dead last."
"Yes, but…"
"So technically," he interrupted, pointing his fork at her, "you're not doing your job very well."
Mara's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"You've been vice-captain for a month and a half. We're still last. Logical conclusion: you're incompetent."
Mara set her tablet down. Slowly. Her fingers tightened on the table's edge.
"Captain."
"Yes?"
"If you keep going, I'm going to strangle you with your own medal."
Elias smiled. "That'll be tough. It's heavy."
Before Mara could reply, a figure approached their table.
A man in a plain gray suit. Thirties, short brown hair, military posture.
"Captain Mercer, Vice-Captain O'Connell."
Elias looked up, a bite of beef halfway to his mouth. "Mmm?"
"The High Commander requests your presence. Top-floor office. Twenty-seventh floor."
Silence.
Mara froze. The hand still holding her tablet trembled slightly.
Elias chewed slowly, swallowed, then asked, "Now?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can we finish eating first?"
The man hesitated. "The High Commander said now, sir."
Elias sighed, set down his fork, and stood. "This is a human rights violation."
Mara didn't move. She stared at the table, eyes slightly wide.
'Why? What did we do? What did Elias do? What did I miss? Incomplete report? Procedure violation? Protocol breach?'
"O'Connell," Elias called.
She didn't respond.
"O'Connell."
Nothing.
Elias leaned in, snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Earth to Vice-Captain. Let's go."
She jolted, blinked, then shot to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair.
They followed the man in silence, crossing the banquet under curious stares.
In the elevator, Mara stood ramrod straight, hands clasped in front, eyes fixed on the climbing floor numbers.
Elias leaned against the wall, yawning.
"You're stressed."
"No."
"You're shaking."
"It's cold."
"It's seventy-three degrees."
Mara clenched her jaw. "Captain. If you screw up even once up there…"
She turned to him.
"…I will kill you."
Elias met her gaze. Then smiled slowly.
"Noted."