Omega Academy

  Omega Academy

  Lily Archer

  Omega Academy

  Lily Archer

  Copyright © 2019 Lily Archer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Lily Archer. This book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art & Character Art: Zakuga Art, © Lily Archer

  Cover Font Design: Deranged Doctor Designs

  Copy Editing: Spell Bound

  Contents

  Alphas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  To Addison Cain for telling me to just write the dang story myself instead of rambling about it in long-winded messages to her. To Sara Fields for assuring me I could do it and not ruin the Omegaverse forever and ever. To Zakuga Art for taking my words and bringing them to life in three extraordinary Alpha portraits that I’ve spent way too much time staring at. And to James for going along with me when I described a new galaxy filled with Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, Oh My.

  Omegaverse (n): A set of story-telling conventions that include the character archetypes of Alpha (powerful, dominant warriors), Beta (regular beings), and Omegas (strong-willed and often bonded to an Alpha … or perhaps three).

  1

  Lana

  My phone pings with an incoming text.

  Mr. Morgan looks up, his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his beady eyes narrowed. “Who was that?”

  I look around innocently, searching for the culprit along with everyone else in detention.

  Van points to me, his thick finger crusted with dirt under the nail. “Lana.”

  No honor among thieves, I suppose. “Fuck you, Van.”

  “One day.” He sticks his tongue out, showing me the stud in the center he’s been bragging about ever since he pierced it himself. Yick.

  “Ms. Key, that’s quite enough. Come to my desk.” Mr. Morgan slams his book closed and crosses his arms over his red sweater vest. How did he manage to get detention duty today? It’s usually Mrs. Deaver. Maybe the other teachers are punishing him for his ridiculous bowtie.

  I stand and take a few steps.

  “With the phone.” His tone could saw through my biology textbook.

  With a loud sigh, I grab the phone from my backpack and glance at it on my way to him. The message visible on my home screen is just lines of some gibberish, images and symbols that cut off toward the bottom when there’s no more room left.

  “Hand it over.”

  “I didn’t know the ringer was on.” I give him my best puppy-dog eyes.

  He holds his hand out, not giving me an inch. I should have known I wouldn’t get anywhere with him. The sweater vest is a dead giveaway.

  “You know the rules. No phones in detention.” He takes it from me without looking at the screen, opens the desk drawer, and drops it in with a plunk. “Return to your seat. You still have an hour to go.”

  “Two hours of detention for telling Mrs. Simon that she had mustard on her shoulder seems pretty cruel and unusual, don’t you think?” I try again, this time giving him what I hope is a regretful look.

  “You and I know very well that you received detention not for telling Mrs. Simon that she had mustard on her shoulder, but for putting it there in the first place by miming ejac—” He clears his throat, his face almost as red as his vest. “By miming an inappropriate act today at lunch.”

  “I didn’t realize the bottle was open on the end.” I shrug. “I was going for a big windup with no actual finish.” I shoot a look over my shoulder. “You know, the way Van is with his sister on the weekends.”

  Van’s eyes widen, his hands fisting. I don’t have to be proficient in reading lips to tell he’s calling me a bitch and promising retribution.

  Mr. Morgan slams the drawer with my phone in it and points to my desk. “Ms. Key, that is quite enough from you. Take your seat.”

  I give him a pleasant smile, then return to my desk. Mr. Morgan reopens his book, the spine cracking as he resettles his reading glasses.

  Van steams next to me. Good. Maybe he’ll burn off some of the grease from his hair.

  He leans closer. “You’re dead, bitch.”

  I take a pencil from my pouch and begin sketching a chibi—a cute little anime girl with big blue eyes and her hands on her hips in a confident pose. I think I’ll make this one a cowgirl, something with a western hat and boots.

  “Did you hear me?” Van huffs.

  “You said the same thing when I stopped you from cornering Brenna Pointer in the back of the gym. I’m still alive, and you’re one fuckup shy of a sex offender record.”

  “Keep running that stupid mouth. It got you held back in elementary school. It’s about to get you destroyed right now.”

  “Really, Van? Are you my stalker? No one else remembers that little fact. Creep.” I flip him off and continue drawing.

  He settles back at his desk. “Bitch.” At least he stops mouth-breathing in my direction.

  My phone gives a muffled ping again, this time with an email notification sound.

  Mr. Morgan looks up at me, ire rising in his cheeks.

  I shrug. He has my phone. It’s not my fault he didn’t ask me to put it on silent first. But I do wonder if it’s a notification from my gamer clan about tonight’s meet-up. We’re supposed to join forces and attack an enemy base, with me as lead pilot of course, though I haven’t gotten confirmation. I need this mission, especially after my shitty day. But I don’t think Mr. Sweater-vest-and-bowtie is going to let me peek at my screen, so I’ll have to find out after detention.

  I keep sketching, my chibi growing in shades of dark gray pencil. I erase here and there, getting rid of the guidelines and filling them in as I go. Drawing and gaming are my only escapes from this dreary school, my even more dreary home, and the constant douchebaggery of guys like Van.

  My chibi has the cutest little boots. I think I’ll name her Dolly. Sassy and sweet, she’ll rule the rodeo circuit with an iron fist that’s adored by all. Before I know it, Mr. Morgan calls time, and I rise from my seat. Van follows, but Mr. Morgan points at him. “You have one more hour, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Fighting is not allowed, and today was the third time this semester. You’ve got another hour.” Without looking at me, Mr. Morgan retrieves my phone and hands it over.

  I don’t bother to say thanks as I shoulder my backpack and head out into the hall. The school is quiet now except for the sounds of the marching band wafting from the football field. A whistle in the distance tells me some sports team or other is practicing. I’m not a joiner. I’d much rather do my own thing with
my art or spend time fighting hordes of ogres or searching for the one true crystal or dive-bombing enemy forces on my makeshift gaming computer.

  A twinge in my hips makes me stop and lean against the nearest dark blue locker. What the hell? It’s been happening more and more often for the past few days. It must be my period, though I don’t remember it ever hurting like this. Not to mention it never comes on schedule, sometimes hopping over months at a time. Is eighteen old enough to have some incurable lady-parts cancer that will lead me to be the muse in one of those “Fault in Our Stars” sort of movies? Because if so, I’d like to choose the girl who plays Sansa Stark to be me. I look like her, though my hair is darker, and my hips are wider. She’s a bit more dainty, definitely more ladylike. But she’ll do.

  “I’m queen of the north,” I say in my best British accent. It sounds just as ridiculous as I figured it would.

  The pain lets up, so I straighten my plaid skirt and walk into the spring sunshine while plotting my untimely demise and wondering when my doomed love interest will show up. I pass the football team on the practice field. Some of them whistle at me. I give them the same salute I gave Van. Football players are just greaseballs in helmets, I find. Same Van, different attire.

  I turn toward the poor part of town, the houses growing shoddier with each step I take away from Greenfield High. Popping in my earbuds, I listen to some tunes as I wrestle with the growing dread I feel as I approach my house.

  Don’t let her be here, don’t let her be here, don’t let her be here. It’s the same litany I’ve chanted for years, ever since my dad skipped town and left me with my mom. It’s funny, I don’t remember her ever hitting me when dad was still around. But she was just hiding her temper, letting it ferment so she could bring it out later when it was full-bodied and rich. She did just that in the months after he left, busting my lip for asking if I could go play with my friends. The first time, I cried. She apologized and promised it would never happen again. But that was before she started drinking.

  The glint of her car in the driveway makes my heart sink. Hopefully, she’s asleep, tired after a long night of working third shift at the tire factory. If she’s awake—I stop and glance at the park across the street. Weeds grow around the play equipment, the seats to the swings long since disintegrated. It looks like a serial killer’s dream. Turning, I head right for it. At least there I know she can’t yell at me, slap me, or tell me how worthless I am. I shake the thoughts away and stride through the weeds, then sit on the merry-go-round that’s covered in a full coat of rust and hasn’t turned since before I was born. No amount of yanking by any of the neighborhood kids has ever freed it from its rusty prison. A nice metaphor for what growing up poor in this shithole town means. Maybe I’m stuck, too. God, I hope not.

  Leaning back, I stare up at the sky, the endless blue bearing down on me. A bird chirps in the tree overhead, the sound reminding me of my phone.

  “Messages,” I mumble to myself.

  Pulling it from my pocket, I use my thumbprint to unlock it and tap on the text notification. The first part is in the unintelligible symbols. The next is almost as bad:

  ** 亲爱的Omega，Omega学院的Centari系统需要你的存在。您的指示将尽快开始。运输途中。因为Alphas作为邻近的阿尔法学院的学生和教师都在场，所以请确保你是最新的抑制剂 ** Уважаемая Омега, Ваше присутствие обязательно в Системе Centari в Академии Омега. Ваша инструкция начнется как можно скорее. Транспорт в пути. Пожалуйста, удостоверьтесь, что вы в курсе вашего супрессанта, поскольку Альфы присутствуют как студенты в соседней Альфа Академии, так и в качестве инструкторов. **Dear Omega, Your presence is required in the Centari System at the Omega Academy. Your instruction will begin as soon as possible. Transport is en route. Please ensure you are current on your suppressant as Alphas are present as both students at the neighboring Alpha Academy and as instructors.**

  I stare at the message, then glance at the number, which isn’t a number at all but a series of symbols. “What the hell?” I close out of it, then go to my email. It’s the same message all over again, though this time there are even more languages included. I re-read it, but it still doesn’t make any sense. “Wrong number. Wrong email. Wrong whatever.” I dismiss the text and the email, then pocket my phone and stare up at the tree. Wind ripples the new leaves, and I’m certain a fine dust of pollen falls all over me.

  Closing my eyes, I soak in the dappled sun, the scent of grass, the creak of rusted swings, and the inconsistent hum of passing cars.

  Footsteps. I sit up and rub my aching lower back. How long have I been lying here? Glancing around, I find the playground steeped in dusk. The house across the street has a flickering porchlight, and the one next door has a big TV visible with some kid playing Fortnite in high definition.

  Late. I jump up like the white rabbit. I should’ve been home an hour ago. What if I missed the air raid on the enemy camp?

  “Shit!” I reach for my phone. It’s gone. Right along with my backpack. “No, no, no.” I spin in a circle, but the playground is still empty. No backpack in sight.

  I press my palms to my face and take a deep breath. Not because it will help, but it will at least keep me from screaming in frustration or kicking the unmoving merry-go-round.

  Something pale catches my eye in the little patch of woods separating the play area from the nearby drainage ditch. I hurry over to it and recognize it right off. It’s the chibi I’d drawn earlier, but now it’s impaled on the limb of a rambunctious weed.

  “This isn’t funny.” I rip it off and push through the underbrush. Another white sheet is just ahead of me—this one a piece of my calculus homework. Now I’ll have to redo it. Gritting my teeth, I snatch it down and keep going as the pine trees overhead block the little bit of daylight left. A creepy sensation rushes up my spine, and I realize I shouldn’t be here. This is a trail, and I’m following right along like an idiot. But I need my backpack. If I don’t get my phone back, Mom won’t buy me another one. She controls everything in our house, and spending money unnecessarily is high on her list of gripes to take out on me.

  I glance behind me, the flickering of the house’s porchlight still in view. If I screamed, the people who live there would hear. Right? Hovering on the edge of indecision, I peer through the dark and see another piece of paper just ahead.

  I’ll grab that one and if I don’t see the rest, I’ll go.

  I ease towards it and yank it down. It’s a page from my biology textbook, an image of the female form without skin.

  “That’s plenty creepy. I’m out.” I turn to dart back toward the playground when a hand clamps over my mouth and someone yanks me back into the brush.

  2

  Ceredes

  “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” I throw a half-eaten plumari fruit at Jeren’s head.

  He catches it with ease, his Larenoan reflexes so quick they’re a blur. “You want to sit around at Alpha Academy and wait for them to say we’re ready?” His dark eyes glint in the light from a nearby star. “I say we’re ready now. Why not see what’s out in the universe instead of letting the fleet tell us who we are?”

  “I know who I am.” I settle back against the uncomfortable seat and lace my fingers behind my head. Coming along with Jeren had been a last-second impulse when I’d seen him boarding the shuttle, but I’d quickly grown to regret it. It was a particularly odd move on my part, especially given that I’m commander of my Alpha house and well-known for following the rules as stringently as I enforce them. I shrug. “Maybe when we get back, I’ll turn the both of you in and claim I jumped aboard to apprehend you.”

  “Or you can admit you wanted to have a little fun.” Jeren finishes off the red plumari fruit and peers out the front window o
f the small transport as a blue planet comes into view. “What’s this place?”

  “Earth.” Kyte taps a few buttons and pulls up a floating map of this galaxy. “Looks like we’re here to pick up an Omega.”

  “Great.” I roll my eyes and lean back. Omegas are rare and prized, but not within my interests. Commanding a legion of the Gretar Fleet is at the top of my list, and I intend to achieve it at a younger age than any commander before me. Having an Omega hanging around and mewling for attention isn’t part of the plan.

  “The Omega is supposed to be something called a human.” Kyte turns around, his bright green eyes framed by blond brows. “Maybe it has tentacles or gloopy eyes or can shoot lasers from its fingers or what if it’s a beautiful female with golden ridges down her back and a budding set of horns? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “I’m curious about how long it’ll take us to get back to Centari once the pickup is done.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Jeren tsks and runs a hand through his black hair. He is a member of the Lareno—a loose band of nomadic warriors that travel through the galaxies looking for their fabled home planet, though never finding it—and bears the ceremonial markings along the sides of his neck. Dark ink that swirls and dips, it tells others the sad story of his people. But once he was marked as an Alpha, he was pulled from his tribe and placed in the Alpha Academy. Same as me. Same as Kyte. Alphas are born to rule the galaxies, not flit about from planet to planet on a hijacked Omega transport. I groan at my impulsiveness. What was I thinking?