Chapter One
Octavia
Six months ago
“Listen,” Sue declares flatly, as I sit at the long table with my tray. “It’s a great deal. Ten percent reduction? Almost no one is actually an omega. I got over six months dropped. I’ll be out next year!”
“What now?” I ask as I take a drink of water.
Bridget shrugs, “Sue thinks all of us should do that alien omega testing. The state just upped the sentence reduction from five to ten percent.”
“Yeah, but what if you’re an omega?” Jill interjects. “Then you gotta go.”
Sue laughs. “Okay, first of all, the lady who did the blood work for me told me it’s like eight in one hundred people that have the gene.
And secondly, she said most omegas don’t get matched for years.
Besides,” she continues as she lifts a forkful of the industrial rehydrated mashed potatoes covered in brown sauce, “Can’t be worse than this! ”
We all chuckle, but my mind is running.
A ten percent reduction would mean a year of my life back. Instead of eight more years, though I’m hoping maybe six with good behavior, I’d be looking at seven, five if I keep my nose clean.
Only five years. Five years until freedom. I can make it five years.
I nod to myself, already imagining a studio apartment with a few plants and windows I can open, and a kitchen I can access whenever I want.
Guess I’m gonna do the testing.
THE MAN WITH THE DYED purple hair smiles at me gently. “There we are, miss.” He smoothly places a bandage over the poke in my inner elbow.
“That’s it?” I question as I sit up.
“That’s it,” he confirms. “Sorry you had to come all the way here for a simple blood draw.” He smiles sadly.
“Oh, no worries,” I answer without thought, “It got me a day trip! It was nice to see the city again.” My eyes drift over to his computer.
He looks at me sympathetically. “I remember you. You did a good thing. I hope you get a match and can get the hell off this shithole planet.”
I blink.
I don’t.
“Um, thanks,” I mutter, again looking him over.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I ask, “Did you test?”
He grins, “Yup. I’m an omega!” He shows me a small tattoo on his forearm of a stereotypical spaceship. “I’m waiting for my pack. I kind of hope I match with an Adrethian pack.”
“Oh?” I offer weakly. I know nothing about any of the aliens. Maybe I should have read that pamphlet.
“They only pack with two alphas, but...” he grins conspiratorially, “they each have two... ya know.”
“Sounds terrifying,” I blurt, eyes wide.
He chuckles easily. “The Dosorians are furry and rut hard, I guess. The Celnoe have a rigid pack structure. I mean, I’d take any of them if it got me away from human men.”
I laugh. That sentiment I can understand.
The tech pulls off his gloves with a snap. “We’ll call you if you’re an omega.”