Assistant for the Alien Prince by Tammy Walsh
Zai
The next twodays were a whirlwind of meetings, presses, and photo ops.
And I hated every moment of it.
Having to smile through my teeth at the journalists who’d for decades made their living off my poor choices was like grinning in the face of a pack of hyenas.
They would turn on me the first chance they got.
The key was to not give it to them.
They hurled questions at me about where I’d been, about what I’d done during the four years I’d disappeared.
I shared the story Mom and Jessica had helped me craft—how I’d decided to see a friend on Arvah but was waylaid by pirates.
After a brief skirmish, I crash-landed on a nearby planet where I was rescued by a local family by the name of Bal, who took me in and nursed me back to full health.
After the drugs and alcohol were out of my system, I helped them around the farm, finding a new, humble lease of life.
I could have returned home but wanted to see more of my father’s kingdom and the people I would rule over one day.
The journalists loved it.
Who didn’t enjoy the story of a powerful bad boy prince forced to live anonymously among the common people?
They ate it up and I wondered how the story would turn out when it was published.
Stories had a way of morphing when it came to the press.
I had one ace card up my sleeve and that was that I would soon be the king.
Did they want a positive relationship with the crown or a negative one?
It would have to be a very juicy story for them to turn their back on a potentially long and lucrative relationship with the palace.
Still, I hated having to play a part in front of them.
The only part of the entire process I enjoyed was meeting the people.
I tried my best to ignore the cameras and listened to their wants and concerns.
I drew the line when our PR department suggested I kiss a baby or two.
I flat-out refused and said that was best left to politicians.
Were the tribe leaders watching? I wondered. And if they were, what did they think of my newfound streak of kindness?
Did they turn off the holo-TV immediately?
No doubt they could see through the display and understood why I was doing it, but even then, they might respect the strategy, even if they didn’t respect me yet.
We were coming to the end of the second day of promos, visiting some of my old famous haunts—including the club and bar scenes—and I shook hands with the workers.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked one of the hostesses by way of conversation.
“About six years,” she said.
“Six years? Then our paths must have crossed at some point.”
“Oh yes,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Several times.”
She leaned in close, glanced in the direction of the cameras, and whispered in my ear:
“I’m still available if you’re interested.”
I smiled nervously and quickly moved on to the next employee.
It was a chef who looked liked he consumed most of what he cooked.
Finally, I came to the end, exhausted after a very long day.
I turned to the journalists and thanked them for coming.
“I hope it’s been eventful enough for you,” I said.
Jessica was at my shoulder and smiled up at me, each of us relieved the ordeal was finally over.
“Do you think it worked?” I asked.
“We’ll have to wait and see,” she said. “Even if it didn’t, it’s good the people got to meet their future king.”
She was right, and it felt good.
And that, of course, was when things went wrong.
