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Prologue
Excerpt fromThe Alpha and the Omega: Historiographical and Sociological Considerations
Written by: Author Unknown
Alphas and Omegas are the building blocks of life on Earth. The beginning and the end of the DNA strands that encode society. Upon meeting a new individual, we notice their designation first, whether through scent and pheromones, physical appearance, or other identifiers. (For instance, there is evidence of old cultures in which Omegas were required to wear garb that denoted their status. See Hollingsworth’s treatise for a more thorough exploration of the topic.) Determining a person’s designation will lead to assumptions about their life, preferences, and future.
A common misconception is that Omegas were created for the rest, refreshment, and pleasure of Alphas. In my opinion, this is highly reductive. The Alpha temperament is aggressive and dominant; therefore, in today’s highly militarized society, Alphas tend to occupy positions of command. These traits are complemented by the Omega nature, which is contemplative and peacekeeping and effectively knits people together.
Communities are fastened by Omegas but protected by Alphas. Does that mean Omegas are inferior? This is a matter of constant debate, one unlikely to be settled anytime soon. Where one falls on the debate is often informed by their view on a controversial and not widely accepted notion: it did not use to be this way.
Ancient Terran societies were technology rich and well-documented, but most records were lost in the Great Natural Catastrophes and then again in the Artificial Intelligence Disruption. Therefore, historians have been unable to agree that several millennia ago, all humans were Betas, that the neurochemical variations that produce other designations did not take place, and that the rhythm of life was not dictated by the ebbs and flows of mating cycles, such as the ruts of Alphas and the heats of Omegas.
This is a radical notion, and even those who advocate for the Default Beta Hypothesis do not have conclusive evidence for it. Some (see Hollingsworth, again) argue that it was caused by a random genetic mutation that affects development at the embryonic stage (although the Alpha/Beta/Omega trimorphism only appears once a person reaches their late teens, following the process of presentation). Others (see Anand) believe that when scientists locked themselves in laboratories to find a cure for the diseases decimating the dwindling population, they created a microorganism that changed the entire organic makeup of the species.
Regardless of their origins, designations tend to be constant: Betas of all genders are sexually neutral; Omegas of all genders can be identified by their scenting glands and are highly fertile; Alphas respond to Omegas both hormonally and anatomically. Betas and Alphas each make up a little over forty percent of the population, with the remaining fifteen percent being Omegas. Given the relative scarcity of the latter, it’s not surprising that Beta/Omega pairings are fairly rare and that many Alphas raise objections to them.
Chapter1
THE GENERAL
Gabriel
My sword slides out of the Alpha’s abdomen with a lurid squelching sound.
Around me, the battle swirls on, plasma blades clashing against metal armors, bones shattering, shrieks of pain swallowing grunts of effort, but I ignore it. My fighters know how to defend themselves from a surprise attack, even one in which they are vastly outnumbered—if they didn’t, they would have fucked off to Valhalla a long time ago. So I leave them to their fun and crouch to inspect the lifeless body crumpled on the stone floor of my operations suite, where a viscous blood puddle is already seeping into the grout lines.
I am flooded with instant irritation. At myself. “Fucking hell,” I mutter.
“Everything okay, General?” Martia, my deputy commander, asks, winded. She quickly finishes strangulating the Alpha man wedged under her armpit, drops him, then wipes a sweaty blond curl off her forehead. “Did they get you?” She pouts. “Do we have a boo-boo on our hands, Gabriel?”
I grunt my displeasure. “I fucked up.”
Her eyebrow lifts, and she glances around the room. The fight has wound down, and the ground is now strewn with the corpses of Alpha soldiers. “Killer’s remorse? That’s new.”
“I meant I should have just broken their necks. Goddamn bleeders.” Now the stench of iron will linger around the suite for days, and this is where I take all my fucking meetings. In petty retaliation, I wipe my sword on the head of the closest body—when it comes to soaking up blood, there is nothing as dependable as hair—and once the memory-alloy blade has returned to its more compact original form, I sheath it in my back scabbard, then ask, “Who the fuck were these assholes, and how did they get into a high-security zone?”
It’s a fair question, especially considering that the raid interrupted a private council between me and three of my closest aides, one I called to discuss the latest string of increasingly bold attacks. And yet, an uncertain silence stretches across the bloody room, until Martia starts talking in her report voice. “It was ten Alphas—nice round number, and twice as many as the last group, which is…flattering, maybe? Six of them men. They barged in and headed straight for you, General, so we can easily infer who they were after. I believe you and I each killed four. Ivar got one?—”
“Two,” Ivar corrects her, looking profoundly bored. My brother, who also serves as my chief political advisor, may be a skilled fighter out of necessity, but he finds physical violence beneath him. Deviousness, scheming, Machiavellian plots—that’s how he prefers to take care of his enemies. Typical Omega.
“My apologies. Ivar gottwo, which leaves none for Bastian. Bastian, did you try to get any, or did you just quietly step out of the way to avoid blood spatters?”
“This is a new shirt,” Bastian says primly.
“I know it is, because Iboughtit for you. So Bastian got zero, and?—”
“Thank you, Martia,” I interrupt. “I am delighted to discover that you are able to count to ten.Who are theyis what I asked.”
“Right. And I ignored that part of the question because, just like every other time, the attackers are wearing cheap, unmarked armors and using low-grade weapons anyone could buy on the black market.”
“Next time,I don’t knowwill suffice.”
Martia snorts and mumbles something unflattering about my ability to deal with uncertainty, and I consider forgetting that she’s my oldest and most loyal friend and reminding her of our respective ranks.
But Bastian interjects: “This might be a clue.” With the tip of his still-immaculate leather boot, he rolls the corpse of an Alpha woman. On the inside of her arm is a shapeless brand, as though someone meant to mangle the flesh to hide the mark underneath. A tattoo, possibly. “Just big enough to cover the Larsen symbol,” he muses.
Larsen.
