CHAPTER 4
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That all journeys start with a single step is a lie. While the sentiment is true, momentum often requires movement—and often many steps—before even reaching the starting line. Do not lose hope, young one; you will make it there in time.
— A teaching philosopher
The landing vessel descended with a WHOOSH, stirring up dust and loose foliage as it touched down. From the ship emerged Gashon, ever-impeccable in his tailored suit, flanked by members of the royal guard.
Alex stood on his porch, finger extended in a universal gesture of defiance.
Gashon glanced at the protruding finger but remained utterly unphased.
Of course, Alex thought. That’s just like him.
Taking a moment to straighten his suit, Gashon yelled over the deafening noise of the ship’s propulsion system, “BY THE ROYAL CHARTER AND CONTRACT, YOU ARE HEREBY NAMED THE KING OF THE MILKY WAY. COME WITH US AT ONCE TO GREET YOUR SUBJECTS!”
“WHAT?” Alex shouted back.
Gashon’s eye twitched. “I SAID—”
“YES, I HEARD YOU,” Alex interrupted. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
Gashon scowled, visibly irritated. “JUST... COME WITH US. I’LL EXPLAIN INSIDE.”
Feigning confusion, Alex cupped his ear. “I’M SORRY, WHAT WAS THAT? IT’S TOO LOUD.”
Gashon marched forward, closing the distance between them. Alex took a step back and, with theatrical flair, "accidentally" tripped, spilling the last dregs of his tea directly onto Gashon’s polished shoes.
For the first time, Gashon’s composed mask cracked. He stared at the tea-soaked mess in momentary shock.
First time I’ve seen the old man surprised, Alex thought, suppressing a grin.
With a pointed glance, Gashon nodded to the guards. One of them approached Alex, whispering, “Sorry about this, Your Majesty,” before gently taking him by the elbow.
“TO ENSURE YOU DON’T TRIP AGAIN, YOUR MAJESTY,” Gashon barked, turning sharply to head back toward the ship. “WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS.”
Alex sighed. Well, here we go again.
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4.5 HOURS EARLIER – IMPERIAL INTELLIGENCE DIVISION (I.I.D.)
The room hummed with the sound of machinery, walls covered in panels blinking with red and blue lights. The sprawling space, the size of a ballroom, was filled with the best and brightest minds of the Milky Way. Their task: finding a suitable replacement for Charles Von Harenstein the XXI.
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Gashon, standing at the center, sighed heavily. Charles. Another Charles. The family line is riddled with them, he thought grimly.
Two years. That’s all Charles had lasted before dying unexpectedly.
I’m getting too old for this, Gashon mused, rubbing his temples.
In his 10,000 years of service, Gashon had never once considered retirement. Not after Alexandra had saved his life, making him promise on her deathbed to protect the galaxy.
Not that I realized immortality would be cracked shortly thereafter, but the sentiment remains, Gashon thought, turning his attention to the sophisticated AI system that had become the backbone of their operations.
“Do we know what killed King Charles?” he asked, voice weary.
The AI’s mechanical tone responded, “CAUSE OF DEATH: UNCONFIRMED. TIME OF DEATH: 13th OF 10000 YEAR POST IMMORTIUM.”
“Great,” Gashon muttered, glancing around the room. “Does anyone have a plausible cover story?”
The room fell silent. With nearly a thousand unexplained deaths in the past century, coming up with creative explanations was becoming increasingly challenging.
Finally, an intern named Sara, barely 120 years old and brimming with youthful enthusiasm, piped up, “How about choking on a chicken bone? The public knows he loved his chicken dinners!”
Gashon closed his eyes briefly. It’s times like these I truly consider retirement.
But he couldn’t. Not without plunging the empire into chaos. With inexperienced rulers cycling through the throne faster than they could learn the ropes, Gashon had become the glue holding the bureaucracy together.
“Anyone else?” he asked hopefully.
Silence.
“Chicken bone it is. Ronald, draft the press release. Maria, get the AIs ready to spam both sides with commentary. Usual approach.”
The room buzzed back to life, teams scrambling to execute Gashon’s orders.
Molding public opinion had become routine. Even without outright suppression, the right resources made it easy to nudge the masses. But even that had limits. People had started catching on by the 100th death, much less the 999th. With Alex, they’d hit a clean 1,000.
“Time to find the next in line,” Gashon said. “Who’s still alive?”
The AI displayed the royal family tree on a massive holoscreen. One by one, it filtered through each branch, each name crossed out until only a single line remained.
Alexander Von Harenstein the Third.
At least he’s not another Charles, Gashon thought, reading through Alex’s dossier. A veteran of the Fifth Xeno Wars, Alex had even survived the brutal chaos of the outer districts. That spoke to a level of competence Gashon hadn’t seen in centuries.
So how had Alex gone unnoticed until now?
Digging deeper, Gashon found the answer: Alex had retired to a quiet, sparsely populated sector. His implant revealed he was currently in Sector 9. Conveniently, a spike in heart rate had registered mere minutes after Charles’s death.
Interesting, Gashon thought. Should be an easy retrieval. A four-hour round trip.
“Prepare the X450,” Gashon ordered. “We leave in 20 minutes.”
The room buzzed with activity as preparations began.
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PRESENT
Gashon stood at the base of the landing vessel, staring at Alex with a look of resigned patience.
Of all the possible reactions, he hadn’t anticipated being flipped off.
Perhaps I got my hopes up too soon, Gashon thought, exhaling sharply.
As the royal guards escorted Alex onto the ship, Gashon took a long, steadying breath.
Here we go again.