A Space Opera with Werewolves.

The Empire Can Wait is my debut novel—a Sci-Fi/Fantasy adventure set centuries into the future, when humanity has expanded throughout the entire Galaxy, achieving Kardashev Stage III civilization. Follow a young hero and his remarkable friends—two aliens and a synthetic girl—as they battle to save the Galaxy from a sinister conspiracy.

Please read on if you love space opera with intriguing political drama, thrilling supernatural elements, and heartfelt romance.

The Empire Can Wait – Prologue

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

(William Shakespeare, Macbeth)

New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000

June 2nd, 666 GE

Stars. Millions upon millions of stars.

Volker Chang was the Chancellor of the Galactic Empire—and, secretly, a werewolf. On nights when the globular cluster rose before dawn, he watched the sky from the highest tower of his mansion. The immense spiral of the Milky Way filled him with longing, often pushing him to the edge of transformation.

Not now!

He had to remain patient. Retribution was close.

For centuries, his kind had plotted quietly in the shadows, carefully infiltrating every crucial sector of the Galactic administration. They had faced countless hardships and obstacles.

The Chancellor’s face twisted with hatred as memories flooded him—the suffering of his kin throughout Earth’s dark and troubled past. For generations, humans had hunted, tortured, and slain werewolves. The clever ones concealed their true nature but still often ended up imprisoned in mental institutions or jails.

Unexpectedly, human Expansion had become advantageous for werewolves. Contact between humans and aliens had made people indifferent to unsettling physical traits. Why care about pointed ears in a galaxy teeming with creatures of all shapes and sizes? Why fear a pair of long, protruding fangs when encountering beings with five mouths, two heads, or a third eye had become routine?

Werewolves did not like aliens. Not in the slightest. They despised them almost as intensely as they despised humans.

Nevertheless, human Expansion had unknowingly provided perfect cover for the silent spread of shape-shifters. The final stage of the Plan was imminent. Within months, the Werewolf Messiah, the Zha’nkhaij, would ascend to the galactic throne.

A soft ringing interrupted the Chancellor’s thoughts. At his mental command, a hologram of Holunder Bai, Minister of the Interior, flickered into view.

“Your Excellency!” the Minister greeted cheerfully. “I expected you to be hunting in the Underworld! It’s one of those rare nights…”

“Mister Bai, I trust you have a good reason for disturbing me…?”

Minister Bai was in his seventies, short and lean, with thinning gray hair and watery, pale-blue eyes. His pointed nose and receding chin gave him the unsettling appearance of a shark crossed with a vulture.

“With all due respect, Your Excellency, you instructed me to inform you as soon as the number of Zha’nkhaij candidates dropped below thirty.”

“And?”

“Good news! The Space Force has arrested candidate 0409B on Alshain IV. Only twenty-nine candidates remain.”

“Who are they?”

“Let’s see…” Bai counted on his fingers. “Three CEOs, five politicians, a holo-star, four journalists, two lawyers, seven scientists, and three priests.”

“Priests?”

“From the Church of Satan.”

“Right. Who else?” pressed the Chancellor.

“Two senior Space Force officers, a pop singer, and… an alien-rights activist.”

“Probability that one of them is the Zha’nkhaij?”

“Over 99%. As you recall, we began with approximately ten thousand candidates.”

“And the half-life?”

“Most subjects will be eliminated within two weeks. Purebreds frequently develop severe mental conditions and rarely survive past thirty-five. Our Holroyd Society contact assures us that psycho-evolutionary analysis techniques are extremely accurate. The historical pattern is irreversible and will culminate on October twelfth.”

“Coronation Day.”

“Precisely, Your Excellency. By then, only one candidate will remain—the Zha’nkhaij.”

The Chancellor leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

“Psycho-evolutionary analysis, huh? Mister Bai, answer me this: if our mole can perform these calculations, what stops Holroyd agents from doing the same? Could they uncover the Plan?”

“An excellent question, but fear not. The Holroyd mathematicians lack the complete picture. Even if they suspected, they’d never thwart the Plan—not in a million years.”

“I trust your judgment, Mister Bai. Still, caution is key. Eliminate every Holroyd agent you find.”

“As you command, Your Excellency.”

“What about Dr. Flamsteed?”

“Nearly finished. Last I checked, he was working on the clone’s mind.”

“Good. Keep him on a short leash. He tends to slack off.”

“Your Excellency, Dr. Flamsteed’s productivity has significantly improved since we took his daughter.”

“Ah, yes,” Chang smiled coldly. “How is the girl?”

Holunder Bai looked away nervously.

“Well… you know, I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Chang stared. “But Mister Bai,” he chuckled darkly, “you surprise me. An experienced werewolf like yourself!”

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but—that insolent brat!” Bai growled. “She dared call me an old creep!”

Chang laughed, his amusement quickly fading. “Ensure Flamsteed stays motivated. And Bai, dispose of any loose ends.

---

Despite being younger, Dr. Hageman Flamsteed looked at least a decade older than Volker Chang. His lanky build, gray, disheveled hair, and stooped posture gave him the appearance of a weary old man.

He led the Chancellor across the cable-strewn floor toward an eight-foot-tall containment vat.

Within the tank, a slender figure floated gently in a nutritive solution. The young woman’s fair skin seemed almost luminous, and her striking, deep-red hair shimmered beneath the lab’s flickering lights. She remained unconscious, numerous cables and sensors connecting her body to an elaborate control panel. One thick cable protruded ominously from the back of her skull.

“Dr. Flamsteed, are you certain this will work?” Chang asked coolly.

Flamsteed nodded nervously. “Absolutely. The microchip’s data has just finished uploading through the cortical probe.”

He averted his eyes, sensing Chang’s probing gaze.

“Very well. How much longer?”

Flamsteed hesitated. “It’s hard to say. I must run mutagenic tests, confirm neural pathways, assess learning patterns—”

“You have two weeks. No more.”

“But—but there’s no need to rush! Coronation Day is four months away,” Flamsteed protested, running a hand anxiously through his greasy hair. “This isn’t an ordinary synth. Premature activation could destroy years of research.”

“Dr. Flamsteed,” Chang’s voice hardened to ice, “I expect the double ready within two weeks. Fail, and I’ll suspect deliberate sabotage. Need I remind you who will suffer for your incompetence?”

Flamsteed shuddered, then mustered the courage to meet Chang’s eyes.

“My daughter! If you dare—”

He stopped abruptly. The Chancellor’s rage had shifted into a sinister grin. Flamsteed suddenly understood, with agonizing certainty, that his daughter was already dead. The realization struck him like lightning, flooding him with despair. Barely audible, he whispered:

“What happens to Hannah… and me… afterwards?”

“The Plan is all that matters now,” Chang said coldly. “I’ll handle you when the time comes.”

---

A few hours later, the laboratory was dark and silent, illuminated only intermittently by the soft glow from the vat’s control panel, where the slender female form floated motionlessly.

Hageman Flamsteed sat at his cluttered desk, head cradled in his trembling hands. It was late, yet sleep eluded him. He felt utterly drained, his strength sapped by what he had glimpsed within the Chancellor’s mind. Three words echoed relentlessly in his thoughts:

Hannah is dead.

He should have realized it sooner. She had been gone for a long time. Occasionally, they’d allowed Hannah to call from her supposed place of captivity. Her holo messages had always shown her happy—too happy, he now realized—always reassuring him she was safe and well.

Flamsteed’s lips curled bitterly. How effortlessly Chang’s agents must have fabricated those comforting messages! He cursed his foolishness, his naive trust.

He’d long feared Chang wouldn’t honor his promise to release them after the Plan’s completion. Flamsteed knew he was disposable—a weak werewolf was dangerous baggage for the Apostles.

Hannah is dead, and I’m living on borrowed time. What further proof do I need?

Yet death no longer frightened him.

The Plan is all that matters.

A desperate resolve filled Flamsteed’s exhausted mind. At first, the idea seemed impossible, even absurd, yet it quickly took root. He had nothing left but vengeance—revenge for his daughter, revenge for every abuse and humiliation he’d endured under Chang’s oppressive command.

Hannah’s death won’t be in vain. It’s time to act.

She would have done the same.