THE EMPIRE CAN WAIT – A NOVEL

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.

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

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, billions of stars.
Volker Chang was the Chancellor of the Galactic Empire. And a Lycan. On nights when the globular cluster rose before dawn, he watched the sky from the highest tower of his estate. The sight of the Milky Way’s massive spiral filled him with longing and often brought him to the brink of the Change.
Not yet!
He had to be patient. The day of retribution was drawing near. For centuries, his kind had plotted and waited in the shadows, infiltrating every key node of the Galactic administration.
The setbacks and obstacles had been countless.
The Chancellor’s lean face creased with hatred as he recalled the misery of his kin throughout their long, tormented history. Humans had persecuted, tortured, and burned them at the stake by the hundreds of thousands. Those who didn’t die were locked away in prisons or psychiatric wards. In the Old Earth days, anyone who looked even slightly different was likely to experience the full brunt of human brutality…
Unexpectedly, the Expansion had been a blessing for the shapeshifters. Since humans had encountered a myriad of alien races, most had stopped worrying about the minor diversities that once would have raised suspicions. Why care about pointed ears when the galaxy was rife with creatures of all shapes and sizes? Why fear a pair of long, protruding fangs? Nowadays, it was commonplace to meet aliens with five mouths, two heads, or even a third eye centered on their brow.
Not that Lycans liked aliens. Not at all. They hated them almost as much as they hated humans. However, the shapeshifters had used the human expansion across the galaxy to spread undisturbed. Now, it wouldn’t be long. The final stage of the Plan was locked in. Within a few months, the Lycan Messiah—the Zha’nkhaij—would sit upon the galactic throne.
Suddenly, a soft chime interrupted the Chancellor’s musings. With a sharp telepathic command, the hologram of Holunder Bai, Minister of the Interior, flickered into existence in midair.
“Your Excellency!” The Minister’s eyes were wide with perpetual amazement. “I expected you to be hunting in the Underworld! It’s one of those rare nights…”
Chang’s voice was low, threatening. “Mister Bai, I hope for your sake you have a good reason to disturb me.”
The Minister was in his seventies, short and gaunt, with a shock of gray hair. His eyes were large and watery, a pale shade of blue. His pointed nose and receding chin made him look like a cross between a fish and a vulture.
“Oh… er… Your Excellency!” he answered jovially. “You asked to be informed the moment the Zha’nkhaij candidates dropped below thirty, so…”
“And?”
“Good news, Your Excellency! The Space Force arrested candidate 0409B on Alshain IV. That leaves only twenty-nine candidates.”
“Who are they?”
“Let’s see…” Bai counted on his fingers. “There are three businessmen, five politicians, a social media star, and… four journalists, two attorneys, seven scientists, and three priests.”
“Priests?”
“Of the Church of Satan.”
“Right. Who else?” the Chancellor pressed.
“Hmm… two Space Force senior officers, a pop singer, and… a soccer star.”
Chang’s voice crackled like an electric spark. “What’s the probability of one of them being the Zha’nkhaij?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about. Given the ten thousand initial candidates and the fact that the Coming is so close, the probability is greater than ninety-nine percent.”
“And the half-life?”
“Well, it’s small-number statistics… However, within due time, at least half of the subjects should be eliminated. As you know, Your Excellency, purebreds suffer from an exceedingly weak personality. Most commit suicide or end up in jail by their thirty-fifth birthday. According to our mole at the Holroyd Society, psycho-evolutionary analysis is best suited for these cases. The historical trend is now irreversible and will peak on October twelfth.”
“Coronation Day.”
“Precisely, Your Excellency. By then, there should be a single candidate left—the one and only Zha’nkhaij.”
The Chancellor settled back into his chair. For a moment, he looked away from the Minister. “Psycho-evolutionary analysis, huh? Yes, I’ve heard of it. But let me raise one doubt, Mister Bai: if our infiltrator could run those numbers, what’s stopping the Holroyd agents from doing the same? Isn’t there a chance our enemies might suspect the existence of the Plan?”
“You’re right, Your Excellency! I admire your insight. However, the Holroyd agents lack the full picture. I am certain this will never happen, but… should they ever uncover a few minor details… No, it’s impossible!”
The Chancellor drummed his fingers on the armrest. “I trust your judgment. Still, one can never be too careful. Mister Bai, you take care of the Holroyd agents. I prefer to be on the safe side.”
“As you wish, Your Excellency!”
“Fine. And what about the other part of the Plan?”
“Doctor Flamsteed is nearly finished. This afternoon he was busy with mind uploading.”
Chang’s face twisted into a sinister grin. “Is that so? I’m surprised. I don’t know about you, Mister Bai, but I’ve never trusted him.”
“Your Excellency! Doctor Flamsteed is an Apostle!” Bai smirked. “Besides, his efficiency has improved dramatically since we took his daughter.”
“Ah, yes. How is the girl?”
Holunder Bai suddenly looked uneasy. “Well… I must admit that… you know… I haven’t seen her for a while.”
Chang squinted, staring Bai down.
“But… Mister Bai!” He faked indignation. “You really disappoint me! You slashed her throat… An experienced Lycan like you!”
“Your Excellency…” Bai snorted. “You’re right, as always, but… that stupid brat!” he growled. “She had the nerve to call me a… dirty old man!”

---

Bjarne Flamsteed hadn’t yet reached fifty, though his lankiness, tousled gray hair, and stooped posture made him look much older than Volker Chang, who was nearly ten years his senior.
He led the Chancellor across a floor cluttered with cables toward an eight-foot-high standing vat.
The slender figure floating in the nutrient solution was that of a young, fair-skinned woman. She had unusual, deep red hair that shimmered in the flickering light of the lab. The girl was unconscious, her body connected to a nearby control panel by a web of cables and sensors. One of the thickest cables protruded directly from the base of her skull.
“Doctor Flamsteed, are you certain this will work?” the Chancellor asked.
Flamsteed nodded. “Absolutely. The microchip’s content just finished uploading through the cortical probe.” He looked away, sensing Chang’s gaze upon him—probing, trying to peel back the layers of his mind.
“Fine. Just make sure everything is ready on time. How much longer?”
The scientist hesitated. “Hmm… It’s hard to say. I still have to run the mutagenic tests, check the neural pathways, assess the learning patterns, and…”
“You have two weeks. No more.”
“But… but there’s no need to hurry! Coronation Day is four months away. Besides…” Flamsteed stammered, nervously running a hand through his greasy hair, “…this isn’t some ordinary, mass-produced synt. Premature inception could ruin years of hard work.”
“Doctor Flamsteed,” Chang’s voice turned icy, “I want the copy ready for substitution in two weeks. At the latest. Otherwise, I’ll begin to suspect you are deliberately sabotaging the Plan—and that wouldn’t please me at all. Need I remind you who would pay for your negligence?”
Flamsteed shuddered. With what little dignity he could still muster, he looked Chang straight in the eye. “My daughter! If you so much as dare…”
He couldn’t finish. The rage on the Chancellor’s face had twisted into a sneering smile. Suddenly, the scientist knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his daughter was dead. It felt like a punch to the gut, like a flash of livid light searing through his brain. Through a veil of desperate grief, he heard his own voice ask:
“What… what will happen to Hannah… and to me, when this is over?”
“Just focus on the Plan. When the time comes, I’ll take care of you.”

---

Many hours later, the laboratory was dark and silent.
​The only light came from the intermittent pulse of the vat’s control panel, where the slender female figure still floated. Bjarne Flamsteed sat at his desk, face buried in his hands. It was the dead of night, but he couldn’t bring himself to retreat to the lab’s storage room, which doubled as his bedroom. He felt hollow—every ounce of strength and emotion drained by what he had glimpsed in the Chancellor’s mind. Three words, relentless and unchanging, echoed in his head:
​Hannah is dead.
​He should have guessed it long ago. She was dead—had been for a long time. Oh, sure, they had occasionally allowed Hannah to call him from whatever secret hole they were keeping her in. In those holo-messages, she always looked happy—too happy, in hindsight. She invariably told him exactly what he wanted to hear: that she was fine, that she was having a great time.
​Flamsteed managed a bitter smile. How easy it must have been for any of Chang’s henchmen to forge a few messages to keep him believing his daughter was still alive. But Hannah was dead. He still couldn’t fathom his own stupid, incredible naivety.
​For a long time, he had feared the Chancellor wouldn’t keep his word to release them both once the Plan was complete. The Apostles couldn’t afford to take chances with a “watered-down” werewolf like him.
​Hannah is dead, and I’m living on borrowed time. What more proof do I need?
​But death didn’t matter anymore.
​Just focus on the Plan. That’s what Chang had told him.
​A desperate, staggering idea began to take shape in Flamsteed’s exhausted mind. At first, it seemed impossible—absurd, even—but the more he turned it over, the more viable it became. He had nothing left to live for, except the chance to avenge what Chang had done to his daughter, and to answer for every abuse and humiliation he had endured during those endless months in service to the Apostles.
​Hannah is dead, and I have to do this.
​She would have done the same for him.

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