The tests that had Maya on edge proved to be a genuine challenge. When I caught sight of the problems, I rued my lackadaisical study approach. Nonetheless, I felt I had managed to answer them all, although there were a couple of instances where I questioned the accuracy of my solutions. Christian, on the other hand, looked utterly defeated as I exited the classroom. It's all right; perhaps failure and the subsequent reprimand from Gabriel will knock some sense into him. Falling in love is, of course, a wonderful thing, but if he neglects his studies, he'll be expelled from the special group sooner than he realizes, which I'd rather not have happen. So, if the count's admonition proves ineffective, I might have to step in, though I'm hoping it doesn't come to that.
After dinner, a two-hour lecture on the history of the first century of Lemurian settlement was scheduled. As I sat in the cafeteria, listening to Claire and Christian's languid squabbling, I contemplated whether to skip it. The thought crossed my mind because I had recently read a book on the same topic, which was part of Gabriel's recommended reading list that we were strongly advised to study.
On one hand, it could be intriguing to hear the lecturer in person and pose a few questions on the subject matter. On the other, I yearned for some respite after the grueling exams. Moreover, the next day was a holiday, and by skipping the lecture, I could head to the city immediately, find a quaint café, and spend the night in my apartment instead of on campus. The latter option seemed particularly appealing. I checked with Claire and Christian about their plans for the day, and neither had considered skipping. Christian especially hadn't, as he realized that poor attendance would only exacerbate his situation. I was just about to concede that skipping was a bad idea when my official phone, registered under Izao, buzzed. Normally, Melanie was the only one to call on this phone, yet an unknown number was now showing on the display.
"Hello?"
"You're being contacted by Mirage Comics Publishing," a woman's voice, professional yet pleasant, responded. "Am I speaking to Andre Vaillant?"
"Vaillant, yes." Trying to ignore the curious glances from my classmates, I answered as my throat went dry.
"The editor would like to meet with you. Today at three in the afternoon or Monday at nine-thirty."
"Shouldn't the response usually come via email?" I asked for confirmation.
"Young man..." The woman, presumably a secretary, replied with a hint of exasperation in her voice. "Should I inform him that you declined the meeting?"
"No! Please schedule me in for today."
"In that case, we'll expect you. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
As I ended the call, I noticed my fingers trembling slightly.
"Whoa!" Claire rubbed her hands together, noticing my uncharacteristic nervousness. "Unflappable Izao seems to be rattled! I wonder what's got him so worked up?" She nudged Christian with her elbow as she posed the question.
"I only heard 'publishing house,'" the black-haired guy spoke up.
"Oh?!" The redhead tensed up like a predator ready to pounce. "A publisher? Have you finished your comic?"
"Maybe," I evaded giving a direct answer.
"Did someone take interest in those weird pictures you drew on the benches?" Christian asked, surprised.
"What a dummy," Claire slapped her forehead. "Those 'weird pictures' aren't the comic itself, they're the storyboard."
"What?"
"Sort of like a rough draft," I explained to the black-haired guy.
"Exactly!" Claire's eyes sparkled. "And the actual comic are the drawings he didn't show us. Can you believe it?" She turned to Christian. "We're not even his friends - he didn't show us anything!"
"You're overreacting," Christian grimaced at her tirade but nevertheless, he looked at me attentively.
"Showing it beforehand is bad luck," I shrugged.
"If you want to be forgiven," Claire leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, "then you must give me the first copy with an autograph. An autograph that says it's your first one!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I spread my arms. "No one's published my comic yet! What if they reject it?"
"You're kidding," the girl dismissed. "They don’t invite a newbie for a face-to-face just to reject them. They do that by email!"
"She’s right, actually," Christian chimed in.
"It would be sweet if your words were true," I responded, hoping they were correct but not wanting to end up disappointed.
"I want the second autograph!" the black-haired guy gave a thumbs up.
"We'll talk after the class!" Rising from the table, Claire glanced pointedly at her watch. "We need to hurry now."
"Absolutely!" Christian sprang to his feet.
"I'll have to skip it. I have the meeting today."
"We'll cover for you," the girl reassured me as she walked by, laying her hand on my shoulder. "Secure a good contract!"
"Beginners don't get good contracts," Christian retorted.
"Ugh!" Rolling her eyes, Claire pushed the black-haired guy out of the canteen, throwing me a victory sign as she left.
Smartasses, both of them. They made a quick exit but didn't bother to clean up their dishes. I had to make two trips to clear both my and their mess. Then, I dashed to my room, grabbed the documents, and without changing, ran to the bus stop. Of course, it would have been faster to get to the capital through the Break. But, after some thought, I decided it would be better if my departure from the university was, as they say, documented, as well as my entire journey to the publishing house.
I boarded a tram in the northern district of Wilflaes that took me to my apartment. For nearly ten minutes, I contemplated my outfit. My past encounters led me to believe that a formal attire would be appropriate. Izao did possess an almost brand new, classy suit, worn just once for his graduation. However, after putting it on and evaluating my reflection in the mirror, I did quite the opposite. I swapped the suit for a vibrant T-shirt and shorts. Naturally, similar to everything else in Izao's wardrobe, the attire was adorned with robot prints. But then again, I wasn't headed for a job interview, I was going to a publishing house as an author. In my previous life, I had known a few authors who never bothered with formal attire during contract negotiations. They would show up in whatever they found comfortable. The formal business world had accepted this behavior from creative individuals. Where a businessman would have been reprimanded for not adhering to the dress code, authors got away with it. Perhaps, I should follow in their footsteps and not dress formally. Moreover, given the weather, a T-shirt seemed practical. However, despite these thoughts, I still replaced my shorts with linen trousers and picked a less conspicuous T-shirt. Casual clothing is one thing, but outrageous attire is a different story.
I had spent so much time deciding on my outfit and admiring myself in the mirror that I was almost late for the meeting. Refraining from traveling through the Break didn't help either. Mirage Comics Publishing House was located in the old part of the city, which was considered very prestigious. But trams also ran here, and I only needed one transfer. However, I even had to jog a bit from the nearest stop to the publishing house.
As I ascended the steps of the office building, I straightened myself out and walked through the double doors. I was greeted by a small lobby with a reception desk at the center. The well-lit room instantly drew my attention to the walls adorned with the first editions of the covers of the most popular comics published by the house. Some of them had an impressive circulation, exceeding ten million copies over the span of several years. The numbers never ceased to stun me. After waiting in a short line of three people, I greeted the secretary, a pretty woman dressed in a strict business suit.
"Vaillant, I have an appointment," I said, striving to maintain an air of calm.
I already regretted using my grandfather's name on the envelope instead of my own. As I hadn't altered my real surname, this didn't count as a fully-fledged pseudonym. I pondered if introducing myself using this pseudonym would be considered a lie by Word, or if it was more akin to a nickname, hence acceptable. En route to the publishing house, I attempted to pose this question to my sword, but it remained silent. I certainly didn't want to gamble and end up with a rusted spiritual blade.
"Give me a second," the secretary said, consulting her notes before pointing towards the stairs behind me. "Second floor, office two hundred and twelve."
I thanked her and, resisting the urge to hurry, ascended the staircase. Finding the door with the desired number proved straightforward. I knocked and, upon hearing the standard "Come in," crossed the threshold.
The interior resembled a typical office. An elongated table, a visitor's chair, a large filing cabinet spanning the entire wall, and a high-end, conspicuous leather armchair comprised the furniture. A stout, elderly man occupied the armchair, his hands resting on a bulky envelope. Surprised, I paused at the entrance - I had envisioned meeting a young editor. From what I gleaned, the inexperienced are usually tasked with dealing with newcomers. The man in the chair didn't fit this profile at all; he radiated experience, confidence, and an underlying authority. Even his slight corpulence, concealed by an expensive suit, didn't tarnish my initial impression of him. At first glance, I found the office owner likable, his natural charisma such that his physical flaws weren't noticeable but rather added to his appeal.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
As soon as I stepped forward and the doors shut behind me, the man leaned forward, scrutinizing me over narrow, high-end glasses. For ten seconds, he remained silent, his gaze piercing. I felt like a rare butterfly, pinned and under examination. He didn't even invite me to sit. An astute businessman. His stare and the ensuing silence made even me, a man living a second life, feel uncomfortable. I felt like a mere student named Izao, standing before an examination board. After what seemed an eternity, the man blinked and leaned back in his chair.
"Who put you up to this, young man?" The owner of the office, barely concealing his irritation and a sense of hidden disappointment that I couldn't comprehend, slid the envelope I had recently sent to the publishing house across the table towards me.
"Good day." Since I was clueless as to what this was about, I decided to stick to the script.
"Do you expect me to return your greeting after this absurd prank of yours?" What's going on? Where is this flagrant and naked aggression coming from?! "Don't harbor any illusions, young man." The man nudged the envelope back towards himself with his index finger, and that's when it hit me - it was unopened...
It seemed that Claire and Christian had gravely miscalculated the potential outcome of these negotiations. Damn! I initially assumed that the office owner's reaction was because I might have unwittingly plagiarized a renowned science fiction novel or film. That I had inadvertently replicated something that already existed, hence his hostile reception. However, the envelope remained unopened! Meaning, my comics hadn't been read yet! This made the whole situation utterly perplexing.
"I don't know where you dug up this information, but I checked, and it's not available online..." The office owner picked up a pencil and firmly underscored the surname and name written on the envelope. "But I can tell your prank stinks to high heaven."
"I'm sorry, but I..."
He cut me off mid-sentence.
"I did not give you permission to speak..." His voice was steady, but his tone sent shivers down my spine. "I have no idea who you are, and frankly, I couldn't care less. All I want to know is, who suggested you label the envelope with that specific name and surname?"
What's he getting at? What in the world is happening? This isn't right! Shaking off the imposing aura of the man seated across from me, I attempted to regain control of the conversation:
"Wilflaes has one thousand one hundred forty residents named Vaillant, and André is the first name of five of them."
"Yes, yes..." The rotund man casually dismissed my statement. "And of course, one of them decided to create a comic and submit it to my publishing house!"
Did he just say "my publishing house"? Am I actually speaking to Elcott Bragwali himself?! The founder and perennial head of the nation's premier comics and manga publishing house, "Mirage Comics." A legendary figure - under different circumstances, I would've been thrilled by this encounter, if not for his inexplicably frosty reception.
"You're not the first person today to try and make a fool of me with some nonsense." Mr. Bragwali scowled as if he'd just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. "So, who put you up to this?" His fingernail dug into the ink on the envelope, emphasizing the name.
"But my last name really is Vaillant." I wanted to shout it out, but restrained myself. Instead, I uttered the words calmly and took out my student card, though I didn't hand it over. This gesture seemed to score some points with my interlocutor, who for the first time in our entire conversation, pulled his hand away from the envelope – a good sign.
"And your name is truly Andre?"
"No," I found myself admitting.
"Curious," he remarked, the annoyance having left his voice, though it still lacked warmth. "And what is your name?"
"Izao. Izao Vaillant. Here." I offered him my student card.
"Leave it," he dismissed, shrugging off my offer. "I likely made a mistake, assuming you had ulterior motives. Please, sit down and accept my apologies for the cold reception."
As soon as I settled into the not-so-comfortable chair, Mr. Bragwali leaned slightly forward and asked, "If your name is Izao, why did you write down a different one?"
It wasn't appropriate to explain the convoluted thought process that led me to such a decision, especially since I didn't fully understand it myself. So, I answered simply and honestly, "In honor of my grandfather."
"Even more curious," remarked the office owner, folding his hands over his stomach. "Tell me about him."
His questions were peculiar, but if I didn't play along, with his influence, my comic would never see publication.
"Regrettably, I didn't know him. He died a year and a half before I was born."
"A pity, indeed..." Disappointment flickered in his voice.
Casting another curious glance at me, the office owner picked up a pencil and scrawled on my envelope: "Department two. Check it out and report to me personally!" From my understanding of business negotiations, this signaled the end of my visit.
"I once knew an Andre with your last name," the head honcho of the country's largest comic and manga publishing house mused, endorsing what he'd written with his signature. "He had an unusual habit... Three times a day he... Never mind." Mr. Bragwali brushed aside the memory only he knew. "Our editors will review your work and you'll receive a response no later than next Thursday. I won't keep you any longer."
Three times a day... A habit... Really?!
Ignoring his clear hint that it was time for me to leave, I instead made myself more comfortable in the chair and said, "My grandfather's habit... He drank whiskey... Three glasses a day."
Mr. Elcott's left eye twitched, and the overweight, obviously non-athletic man shot up from his seat, looming over me like a mountain.
"What did you say?!"
"Three shots of Glen Grant, 1979... Every day..."
"Ahem..." Mr. Bragwali coughed as if all the air had been suddenly expelled from him. He slowly sank back into his chair, never taking his eyes off me.
"Glen Grant"... It was a secret known only to me," he said, pressing the selector button.
The secretary peeked through the door.
"Yes, Mr. Bragwali?"
"Coffee as usual, and for the young man..."
"Tea, green, no sugar, not chilled."
"And tea, yes," the local boss confirmed.
"Yes, Mr. Bragwali!" With that, the assistant promptly vanished, quietly closing the office door behind her.
"I didn't even know he had kids..."
"A daughter. Melanie Vaillant." Something deep inside me was saying this man could be trusted.
"I only found out that he was Andre and his surname was Vaillant, a month before he vanished without a trace."
"Did my grandfather have a different name?"
"A nickname. Barnes Golchowski. Judging by your reaction, young man, this name doesn't ring a bell. Ahh... The youth quickly forgets the legends of the past. Barnes... I mean, Andre was the best editor the Earth has ever had. And I'm not exaggerating! Without his assistance, my publishing house would have never reached the level it has today. He was a genius. And again, there's not an ounce of exaggeration in my words."
"I didn't know..." I wonder if Melanie even knew this side of her father's life!
"Yes, he was, in some ways, an extraordinary and enigmatic man." The owner of the office's face lit up with a smile, as if recalling a pleasant memory. "Ah... If it weren't for Dalaasi's disease... He could have achieved so much more..."
Dalaasi's disease? I knew it by a different name - Alzheimer's disease.
"I hope you can tell an old man where his friend is laid to rest?"
"Troyusse, it's a town..."
"I know." The man waved his hand as if to hurry me up.
"City Cemetery, block G-eight, plot nineteen."
Apparently doubting his memory, Mr. Bragwali quickly jotted down the information. As he did so, the secretary silently appeared, placing a tray of drinks on the table before disappearing just as quietly.
"Interesting... Barnes' grandson also draws comics." His hand rested on the ill-fated envelope. "May I?"
"Of course!" Why would I refuse such a request?!
Opening the envelope, the publisher took out the printout, all forty-eight pages, ran his finger over them, and then critically assessed the cover.
"Did you draw this yourself?" Not waiting for my answer, he continued, "Very, very good. And I'm not just talking about the quality of execution, but the presentation. There's a palpable energy and dynamism; despite the simplicity of the image, one can almost guess what the mechanic in the background is thinking. Even the robot has an uncommon design, unrestrained, aggressive, bold, its hidden power practically radiating from it."
This praise was gratifying, but the credit wasn't entirely mine; the cover was a slightly tweaked sketch from Ketsu Sugavara.
"If the rest of the content..." The editor leafed through the pages, "...is at least half as good, then I'll be impressed."
He then delved into reading. He skimmed through some pages almost instantly, giving them a cursory glance, while he scrutinized others meticulously, studying each detail. I would have felt more at ease if he had commented on what he was seeing, but no, Mr. Elcott read in silence. His eyes occasionally betrayed different expressions, but I couldn't decipher their meanings.
A full half-hour had passed when he turned the last page, assembled the entire stack neatly, and placed it in front of him. He then looked up at me with a hard, penetrating stare. There was a lot to read in his gaze, but it certainly wasn't delight at having discovered a potential bestseller.
"How old are you, young man?"
"Seventeen."
"And at seventeen, you created THIS?" He slapped his hand loudly on the printouts.
"I'm not sure I understand the question." With my response, I was treading on thin ice. Word vibrated as a warning but did not rust.
"Giant battle robots." The head of the publishing house rose and walked over to the window. "I get it. The dream of becoming a pilot - I understand that. Vivid, yet in some details, quite realistic action scenes, a stretch, but I can accept it. Excellent grasp of story layout... Let's say you've read a lot of screenwriting books and, unlike most, you've actually learned something from them. That's possible. A fantastic cliffhanger with a princess, hinting at an unattainable but desired love line - excellent. But that could be easily explained by your youth. The quality of execution is on par with professionals, but you could have hired someone to do the drawing; we'll set that aside for now. But..." The editor pivoted his robust physique towards me and spoke in a quiet, yet penetrating voice. "To put SUCH depth into a light-hearted comic at the age of seventeen?! I don't buy it! Even I, a person with extensive experience, stumbled upon the hidden meaning rather accidentally. I don't believe it. Who's backing you, young man? Who suggested this plot to you and brought you to me?"
"This is a personal project," I stated as calmly as possible. "Nobody prompted me, and I designed the plot and all the storyboards myself. And choosing your publishing house was my personal decision."
"Really?" He didn't seem to believe me.
"I've saved all the drafts. I can bring you... all seven hundred and twenty-three pages."
"And they're all drawn by your hand?"
"Yes."
"Interesting." He turned back to the window, speaking as if to himself. "They say that genius is inherited through one generation..." He then turned back to me, his voice rising. "Izao, what are you trying to convey? Not the plot, not the desire, but the essential point? What is the message you want to deliver to the people with your work?"
"It's complicated."
"One idea," the editor interrupted. "The main one."
"Technological equality!"
"Elaborate!"
"The more advanced the technology, the less significant the inherent differences between the genetically enhanced and the naturally born become. The further science advances, the more important the mind becomes, not the physical condition of the body."
As I spoke, I was formulating all this for myself. And as I did it, I realized it was true! That I hadn't chosen Battletech for my project by chance, but followed my intuition, which led me to the correct universe. Having said all this, I understood that I would renew the Treaty because I clearly saw... In fifty or a hundred years, all the advantages of shapeshifters will become obsolete, yielding to technology and science. I asserted this without taking my eyes off the editor, who was the first to look away, returning his gaze to the window.
"I like your message," the owner of the office said after a moment of silence. "Will a standard contract for the first publication suit you?"
"Yes."
"Send your details to the secretary, and you can collect the contract at the reception tomorrow."
"Alright."
"The publication will be in the next issue."
"That soon?" I asked, surprised.
"Congratulations, young man," Elcott Bragwali extended his hand to me.
After we solidified our verbal agreement with a handshake, the editor leaned back in his chair and picked up my printouts.
"We will publish the first volume as it is, but from the second one, you will have to work with an editor!"
"Will there be a second one?" I couldn't help but exclaim.
"If my experience means anything, there will be," the old friend of my grandfather smiled for the first time in our entire conversation.
"Oh!"
"Now, you should go celebrate your success with your friends, and I need to get back to work. It was nice to meet you, Izao Vaillant."
"It was an honor to meet such a legendary figure."
"Pf-f-f," the editor snorted, gesturing for me to leave his office.