(Celeste)
Celeste Morgan wiped the beads of sweat running down her face and squinted up at the suns hovering above her small home. The heat never let up. Every summer was hotter than the last, and every harvest was thinner. No matter how hard she worked, the soil gave less and less.
She had tried telling her Uncle Timothy they needed to move, but he had dug in his heels. This land is ours, he'd said. Stubborn as stone. Now, their fields wilted, their produce dwindled, and the markets would soon stop buying altogether.
"You lazy girl, stop staring off into space. Those weeds won't pull themselves." Aunt Darla's sharp voice snapped from the porch.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Celeste forced a smile. "Yes, Aunt Darla." She knelt back in the dirt, fingers raw and aching as she pulled at the stubborn weeds.
Life on the farm hadn't always been like this. When she first came here—after the shuttle accident that killed her parents—Tim and Darla had seemed kind enough. They'd taken her in, given her a bed and food. But kindness had soured into demands, and demands into labor. Now, if Celeste wanted to eat, she had to earn it in the fields.
"When you're done there, patch the leak in the water hose," Darla called. "It's wasting water."
Celeste nodded, though her shoulders slumped. Her poor hands had been through the ringer: calloused, torn, dirt ground into her nails. She could almost hear her father's voice teasing her—duct tape, super glue, and WD-40 can fix anything, sweetheart. The memory made her chest ache.
Hard work humbled her, though. It kept her grateful, preventing her from dwelling too much on what might happen if her aunt and uncle decided she was more trouble than she was worth. Nineteen now—old enough to be turned out, old enough to be sent back to the cities she'd fled. And she knew what waited there.
In the overpopulated hubs, women were classified. Alpha. Beta. Omega. The law decided where you belonged, who you belonged to. Her parents had been Beta, so she assumed she would be too. But once classified, choice vanished. Mating contracts. Heat monitoring. Stripped freedom. Celeste had slipped through the cracks at sixteen, too young to be tested. Here in the backwater, she'd been safe for now.
She pressed a finger against a thorn scratch, wincing at the sting, then sucked at the tiny bead of blood. Her freckles, her sunburned skin, her wiry curls—none of it made her feel particularly pretty, but what did it matter? No one came here except tourists, and they weren't looking at her. They paid to see the animals. Earth livestock was rare, exotic, worth more than their crops most days. Maybe someday her aunt and uncle would sell a few of them to get by.
By the time the suns dipped low, the fields glowed gold; half the plants had already wilted. Celeste lingered on the porch, watching lightning bugs rise into the dark. She cupped one carefully in her palms and whispered, "I wish to be as free as you are, my little bug." She blew gently, sending it soaring back into the night.
Dinner that evening was… strange. Darla and Timothy were already seated, waiting for her before eating. The table was set with mashed potatoes, corn dripping in butter, and—Celeste blinked—meat—real meat, rich and savory.
She frowned as she sat down. "What's the occasion?"
"Why would there need to be one?" Aunt Darla said lightly, though her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Can't we just have a nice meal together?" Timothy added too quickly.
Suspicion curled low in Celeste's stomach, but the food was too tempting. She dug in, moaning softly at the buttery potatoes. "This is amazing, Aunt Darla."
Her aunt only smiled tightly. "I know, girl. Eat up."
Celeste couldn't shake the feeling of eyes watching her as she cleaned her plate, the heaviness of her uncle's stare, the tremor in Darla's hands. Something was wrong.
The knock at the door confirmed it. Heavy. Deliberate.
The dish slipped from Celeste's fingers and shattered on the floor.
"Timothy," Darla hissed, her face going pale. "Get the door."