Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Norabi wrinkles her nose the second we step onto the Selection Station.
I’d taunt her about letting a few random omega scents get to her, but damn. The air in here is so thick with various smells, I feel like I should be able to see it.
One inhale has my body on high alert. A blend of distress and carnal demand prickles through my blood, igniting both violent and sexual instincts.
It’s been generations since a Roktusian omega was born, but many other species have their own versions. I know this station only holds a small sampling, based on whatever the Galactic Council collected from nearby planets.
But… Fuck.
This is Khanos’s first time being offered a shot at Selecting a foreign omega for any of our alphas. I wonder what unholy trade Zolkan—or, more likely, Mortana—struck to get us here. Scores of my soldiers, I’m sure, sent off to fight more dark planets.
More reasons to hate the crest currently burning my chest like a brand.
The messy assortment of scents puts me off my game. I didn’t know what to expect, but I never imagined this many omegas. In cages.
The people of Khanos would be appalled. Roktusians have always held omegas in the absolute highest regard.
At one point, our entire planet revolved around alphas caring and providing for their omega mates.
I knew that wasn’t true for other worlds, but to me?
An alpha from Khanos? This is fucking offensive.
I try to calm myself with the details Norabi shared on the way here.
She explained that the Selection process adheres to strict rules.
The omegas must be from planets in peril, and they have to surrender themselves willingly.
Once they accept help, though, they belong to the Galactic Council—and they’re distributed among its members as deemed fit.
Apparently, a private Selection is a privilege. One reflecting our planet’s status. The Galactic Council may rule the rest of the galaxy with an iron fist, but they need Khanos, our warriors, and our king’s cooperation.
The last centuries have cemented our role as their interstellar army.
Over the past few decades, they’ve wandered into a hell of a fight with the dark planet, Drakos.
If Drakosians don’t stop destroying every Galactic Council vessel within spitting distance of their ugly rock, there’s going to be a serious shitstorm for me to deal with.
But, hey. At least Zolkan gets first pick of all this pussy, I guess.
Normally, a vessel like this would be overrun by alphas from neighboring solar systems. I suspect, as emissaries for the Zortaire, we’re receiving special treatment because the Council wants to keep him happy.
And I fucking hate that.
Glowering, I shoulder past my sister, determined to choose the absolute worst omega of the bunch. Let the king go to bed with someone toothy and prone to flesh-eating, perhaps. Or a species with stone cunts that will rip one of his spoiled, royal pricks off.
My latest brand itches. Probably a twinge from the goddess herself, reminding me that Omega Selection is just as sacred as anything else pertaining to potential mates. And I shouldn’t be trying to sabotage it.
Morfu’s dick.
Fine, I grouse to our goddess, feeling like a grumbling buck. No cock-eating omegas.
It’s hard to access my honor, but I manage within the few moments it takes to navigate the circular hall leading to a showroom. Two bulbous Boplopes lead the way, speaking in nervous Galactician.
Rightfully so. Such uselessly thin necks. I could rip their heads from their bodies without even touching my axe.
While they prattle, I do my best to think of our planet’s needs. Which are, unfortunately, tied to Zolkan’s.
According to Norabi, the Zortaire only directed us to choose someone strong. A noble order, I have to admit. And I agree with him.
Roktusians don’t suffer weakness. We are the hammer and sword for the entire cosmos—we’ve easily destroyed as many planets as we’ve saved.
This omega will face severe judgment. After what happened to crown Zolkan as king, there are many who believe him unworthy. Clearly, our gods agree, since they haven’t given him a mate or an heir. Many would argue he shouldn’t even have access to an omega.
It’s our last hope, though.
The Zortaire is the King of Khanos. Our Prime Alpha. And, therefore, our breeding leader.
Until he reproduces, none of us can.
Trust me. I have tried.
History claims this shit used to be much simpler. Back then, Prime Alphas found their omegas and created pips as effortlessly as exhaling. Mates—which could be any mix of designations—had them even easier.
Until the omegas began to dwindle—and so did mated pairs. Bondings became a rarity, then more or less went extinct.
Now, it’s been twenty orbits since a single pip was born. And over two hundred since we’ve had any omegas.
Norabi and Zazt were the last mates on record. A rare alpha-alpha couple—they recognized each other a decade ago. No one has found a mate since.
When I was a buck, I had the delusionally cocky notion that I would be the first of my kind to find one. Never mind that I wasn’t our planet’s Prime Alpha—or even a particularly great male. I figured my earnest devotions to Stelaris would not go unanswered.
Now that I’m grown, I see the utter idiocy of that belief. Just like I acknowledge how stupid this plan is.
There’s no guarantee the king will even be able to… connect with an alien omega. And—if he does—will his ability to knock up a random breeder really do anything for the rest of us? Will it work, as it always has, if the Prime Alpha’s offspring don’t come from a Roktusian?
I don’t know. But I know for a fact the rest of us are fucked if he doesn’t try.
So, alright. Gods-damn it. I’ll help.
I should probably be content knowing how much he’ll hate this. It must be killing him. Our oh-so-honorable Zortaire, brought down by his own biology. Needing a box-breeder because he has no heir and no mate.
I’m surprised he wanted me to witness his shame up close. He could have just sent Norabi.
I’m guessing he wanted me involved because, for better or worse, we used to be best friends. So I know Zolkan would recoil from most of the omegas on the right-hand side of this loading bay.
The center section, too, actually.
Urgency crackles in my veins as I pace along rows of containers, peering at all the options.
My stomachs turn when I see the panicked state of some of them.
Thankfully, their alien appearances keep my alpha instincts from rearing too high.
I can sense their distress, but it’s hard to get worked up over something that looks like a prickle-bush.
When I turn to the left, though…
My wings rustle, their thin skin breaking into shivers. Norabi senses the shift in my mood. Pools of black expand at the center of her silver eyes, betraying her own reaction.
One of the gelatinous Boplopes speaks in the galaxy’s universal language, wringing its handless appendages together. “An excellent choice!” it cries, seeing my interest. “The life-forms on this wall have been collected from planets parallel to Khanos. Their make-ups should be most pleasing to you.”
There’s some scientific reason why races from planets on the same plane of space tend to look and live more similarly. I’m no scholar, so I don’t remember it. But I suppose it makes sense. Just for the sake of symmetry.
Sure enough, the creatures in the cages over here feel more familiar. They have heads and torsos, some assortment of arms and legs. A few even have wings or horns.
One of the cages moves more than the others, rocking and thumping as the omega inside goes wild. I’m instantly drawn to it, intent on finding out what sort of being can be so vicious while confined to a box smaller than my hoxud.
The noises from the crate don’t register with me, so the omega’s language must be an exotic one. It’s clearly not speaking Galactician.
Instead, high-pitched syllables, each with soft sounds smattered throughout, ring in my ears. One of them pricks, listening intently as I stalk closer, waving to Norabi.
“Over here.”
The axe at my waist clangs quietly against my borrowed breastplate as I close the distance and jerk to stop, inhaling the richest sweetness to ever exist.
Morfu’s fucking mother.
What is that?
It looks… sort of Roktusian? Its body does, anyway. Although this creature is much softer and rounder.
It has a head and a face, like we do. A proper mane in a warm, unfamiliar color, although the hair is woven with auspicious threads of gold.
The caged being shouts again, its odd, flat features creasing while it bares equally flat, useless teeth. Alarmed on its behalf, I search for claws. A scythed tail. Back-blades. Poison sacs. Anything.
But, no.
The delicious-smelling omega is utterly defenseless.
Fierce little thing, though. Daring to threaten me with no way of protecting itself.
I find that admirable, I realize, taking stock of the way the creature’s face is laid out. It’s nearly a mirror of mine, without any of the protective plating under my scales.
One nose and a mouth. Two—
Eyes.
My own blink, disbelief swelling in my stomachs. Stelaris, help me.
“This one,” I declare, staring into the opalescent orbs. “Now.”