CHAPTER 1
Ultimate power, when stretched into eternity, does something to a man.
— An ancient philosopher
The throne glowed an eerie green, and atop it sat the supposedly most powerful being for lightyears around: the King of the Milky Way, Alexander Von Harenstein the Third—or, as he preferred, Alex.
Alex wouldn’t call himself a great king. Certainly, a powerful one now, but this wasn’t some triumph of destiny or merit. No, he’d inherited the throne from his great-great-great-great-great grandfather, who had died just five hours ago choking on a chicken bone.
Five hours. That was how long the cabinet had taken to locate the next in line, haul him across the galaxy to the palace, and inform him he was now the ruler of the Milky Way. None of it felt real to Alex.
“He really was a fan of chicken, that old geezer,” Alex mused, still trying to wrap his head around it. “It always amazes me that we’ve solved aging, cured most diseases, and yet the greatest man in the empire can be taken out by poultry.”
In truth, Alex suspected his predecessor’s demise had less to do with chicken and more with a cabinet fed up with his hedonism. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d "retired" a ruler. The last one, Aunt Sherry, had "slipped" in a tub. “We don’t even have tubs in the royal palace,” Alex thought.
Shaking his head clear of dangerous thoughts, Alex surveyed his throne room and sighed. “How much precious titanium-adamantite alloy did they waste on filigree?”
A single scrap of the intricate decor could fund a family’s high-class living for a millennium. It would’ve been far better spent on destroyers—or, at the very least, buoying the treasury.
“Ahem, excuse me, Your Highness?”
The voice crackled from his holosponder, startling Alex. He thought he’d muted the damn thing. Sighing, he responded. Better to humor the cabinet than risk angering them on day one. Who knew when they’d spring the next "bathtub incident"?
“Yes, Gashon, what requires my attention?” Alex asked, infusing as much regality as he could muster. He struck what he thought was the right balance between “please don’t kill me” and “I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“Well, sire,” said Gashon, his blue holographic face flickering, “you have an eleven o’clock with the tailors. It’s vital we have you looking your best for the coronation, especially after your predecessor’s... departure.”
“As if you had nothing to do with that,” Alex thought bitterly but masked his annoyance.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Of course, Gashon. Dispatch the royal transport. And—ban chicken from the palace. It will stand as a memorial to Henry Von Harenstein the XXI.”
“An excellent idea, Your Majesty. I’ll see to it at once.”
The holosponder flickered off, leaving Alex alone in the overly extravagant throne room. He stood, stretching. The throne, despite its impractical materials, was surprisingly comfortable.
The transporter pad was a mile-long walk from the throne room. “Who designs a palace this extravagant but forces the king to walk everywhere?” Alex muttered as he started down the hall.
Midway, a beeping sound interrupted his thoughts. Alex grabbed the holosponder, expecting another pointless interruption. Instead, sparks flew from the device, forcing him to drop it.
“Gashon,” Alex muttered, backing away. “What creative method of disposal are you cooking up this time?”
Suddenly, the lights flickered and dimmed. A sharp pain stabbed Alex’s head, forcing him to clutch his temples.
GREETINGS, FALSE KING.
The voice boomed, impossibly loud yet seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. Alex froze.
“Who… Who’s there?”
WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. WE’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU.
“Watching me? How? Where? Since when?”
WE ARE ALWAYS WATCHING. EVERYWHERE. ALWAYS.
A cold sweat formed on Alex’s brow.
WE HAVE NEED OF YOU. WE WILL FETCH YOU SOON.
And just like that, the lights returned to normal. The headache subsided. The hallway was silent again.
“What the fuck was that?”
Alex leaned against the wall, forcing himself to breathe. Whatever just happened wasn’t in the job description. Assassination attempts by the cabinet? Sure. Random booming voices? Not so much.
“I just need to make it to the transporter. They’ll know what to do,” he thought, trying to center himself.
He quickened his pace, refusing to break into a run. “A king doesn’t run,” he reminded himself, though the resolve was waning.
As the transporter pad came into view, he noticed cracks forming midair around him. Not physical cracks—voids, as if the fabric of reality itself was splitting.
“Dignity can be for the dead,” Alex muttered, breaking into a full sprint.
He drew his personal phaser, firing at the cracks. Slowly, tendrils of nothingness began to emerge. The sight of them sent a fresh wave of pain through Alex’s skull. He shut his eyes and pushed forward, running blindly toward the pad.
“TRANSPORT ACTIVATE!”
Nothing happened.
Alex opened one eye, hoping to see the red carpets and plush drapes of the tailor’s chamber. Instead, he saw one of the tendrils reaching for him.
The transporter had shorted, just like the holosponder.
“Well, I’m screwed,” Alex said, accepting his fate.
The void consumed him.
Alex awoke in his bed, heart pounding. Sunlight streamed through the window, and for a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. Then he rubbed his eyes and said the only word that came to mind:
“Fuck.”