Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Any lingering doubts about being asleep are gone by the time the Bloops—or whatever they’re called—are done wrestling me into my new cage.
Because… ouch. Who knew fighting for your life hurt like a bitch?
It’s not like I have a choice, though.
Trust me, I asked.
Sima’s tone lost all traces of empathy as she explained my situation in much simpler terms: humans are terrible, planet-destroying life-suckers. I’ve only been spared my former life on our dying Earth because I can be of “great use to an important alpha.”
According to her, my “utility” outweighs my “shameful origins.”
So. I have that going for me.
As Sima called the Blurps back in to “prepare” me, she rattled off some statistics.
Numbers proving that humans, while useless in most other ways, are exceptionally good breeders for stronger, superior species.
While she offered the final piece of her explanation, the situation finally crystallized in my mind.
I am not an accidental asylum recipient.
I’m not even a rescue animal.
I’m an incubator.
And I’m about to be auctioned off like livestock.
“No!” I shout for the thousandth time. Uselessly, of course. The Boppies have four top-tentacles apiece, each equipped with strong suction cups. My two measly arms and flailing legs are no match for even one of them.
The larger jellyfish-like being tosses me into a cold metal cage as the other slaps the outside.
A button beeps before the front wall slams shut.
I scream again, rattling the box, but it doesn’t accomplish much.
I can’t see in here—the sides are solid, except for the top grate, which only offers a view of the smooth white ceiling above me.
Still, I shriek and scratch, spitting every curse I know and a few I make up, as they plop my crate onto what might be the hovering alien equivalent of a dolly.
Eventually, someone gets sick of my squalling and more mist rains from the translucent bars over my head. I don’t remember passing out, but by the time I wake up, I’m in a much bigger… room? Spaceship? I’m not sure.
I must not be the only “omega” here, though. Unfortunately, whatever “linguistic upload” they shoved into my brain works for about half of the languages spoken here. Meaning I can make out a good portion of the noise emanating from neighboring cages.
It’s a horrifying mix of alien sounds without any translation, and cries for help I understand all too clearly.
Let me out!
Please, no!
Not again!
Then, inexplicably, there’s a separate faction who seems desperate to be chosen. Unintelligible mating calls swirl into a different set of pleas.
Knot me, alpha!
I can be a good omega, alpha, I swear!
Me, me, me!
I am decidedly in the first camp, fighting with the walls of my prison until more spray rains onto me. It happens three times before I finally hear footsteps approaching, along with the crack of a sharp, deep voice.
“Over here.”