Page 1 of Flight of the Omega

I

It was late,the landscape almost pitch black, when Jack made his way home from the forest around Midlothian Ranch. It had been a long, trying day, starting with the fact that part of the fence had broken and the whole dang flock of birds had decided to go for broke and file out the hole before Jack could get to it. So he’d spent most of his day chasing a bunch of speedy avians all over, through hill and dell.

He was just grateful the lot of them couldn’t fly like most Earth birds, or he really would’ve been up the creek without a paddle.

Once he’d rounded up the miscreants—which had taken far too long—he’d had to patch that fence. Now that it was mended, he could rest easy knowing Mr. Crane’s prized flock of very rare, very expensive, veryimportedbirdbrains weren’t going to run off anywhere in the night. They were all home to roost, fast asleep in the stables.

It simply wouldn’t do for Midlothian, the most famed Alerian ranch on Earth, to lose all its feathered residents. Mr. Crane counted on the birdbrains to earn him his millions. His birds had won all kinds of prestigious prizes, from Triple Crowns in racing to bird shows. And because his birds were so prestigious, they were in high demand as sires and dams for future generations of Alerian racers. The sport was growing in popularity and prestige, largely thanks to efforts by Mr. Crane and a few other ranchers. It was expensive, because the birds had to come all the way from the planet Alerian, which had first been visited maybe five or six decades before. Mr. Crane and his ilk were second-generation ranchers, if they were lucky; their parents had been pioneers, and their successors were now codifying and enlarging the sport—as well as their flocks and their pocketbooks, of course.

Jack didn’t know much about any of that; he just took care of the birds.

Oh, well, that wasn’t quite right—Jack knew enough. He knew the humans had showed up on Alerian some years back, and he knew that the natives, shapelocked birds, had put up a dang good fight for being a bunch of feathered critters who lacked thumbs and hands and guns and stuff like that. Hadn’t been a fair fight, if you asked him, but the humans had prevailed and the flocks of Alerian had been subdued. There was money to be made—ranching, mostly, for feathers and eggs and meat. Someone had gotten around to riding the feathered fiends, and now they were beasts of burden too. And, after that, someone started training them for racing. That was how the whole industry began.

As he meandered back across the dark, dewy yard, Jack paused to watch a crowned head bob past one of the fences further afield. He frowned, then watched the shadowy bird wander back and forth, as though it couldn’t decide which way it wanted to go.

Jack reached for the rope hanging from his belt loops. He’d thought he’d caught all the birdies, but apparently he’d missed one. Pretty clever bird, he figured, to have evaded him.

He stole across the lawn as quietly as he could. The bird didn’t seem to notice him, pacing back and forth instead. Jack frowned as he approached; he’d been pretty sure he’d rounded up all his feathery charges and, upon closer inspection, this one seemed too tall, too gangly to be one of his.

The bird finally took notice of him, but it was too late. The avian squawked loud enough to wake up the devil in hell, but Jack already had a lasso looped around the bird’s neck. It thrashed and flailed, flapping its wings and jumping up and down, kicking as Jack reeled it in and led it to the barnyard for inspection under the lights.

When he turned back, he frowned. A gorgeous blue bird peered back at him, blinking golden eyes. Like the rest of its brethren in the barn, it was a large bird, with a long, slender neck that towered above its body. Two long, muscular legs ended in two feet with three claw-tipped toes. With its crown lifted, the bird was probably two or three feet taller than he was; its jewel-toned wings spanned about six feet, its magnificent tail dragging on the ground. The Alerians reminded Jack of a cross between ostriches and peacocks.

“I ain’t never seen you around here before,” Jack said to the bird, who tilted its head. “You aren’t one of ours, that’s for sure.”

The bird trilled, as if it agreed with that assessment. It fluttered its wings impatiently.

“Well,” Jack said, “don’t suppose we can let you wander around, ya miscreant. To lockup you go.”

The bird squawked indignantly as Jack gave a mighty tug on the rope. The bird jerked along behind him, flapping its wings furiously. It tried to dig its feet into the soil.

“Now look here,” Jack said with a good deal of impatience. He was tired, after all. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

The bird cawed at him, eyeing him warily. It bobbed its head again.

“Up to you,” Jack said. “You can come along nicely, or I’ll drag you over there. One way or another, you’re going.”

The creature tossed its feathery head, as though it were insulted. That was followed by a renewed round of squawking and clacking and screeching, all while the bird flapped furiously.

Jack sighed. “Have it your way then,” he muttered, then gave another mighty yank on the rope.

A few minutes later, Jack was sweating and breathless, but he’d dragged the foul-tempered featherweight into the barn. The rest of the flock looked on curiously as Jack led the new bird to an isolated stall at the end of the row. The bird squawked and protested, pulling as hard as it could on the rope. He had to fight it to get it into the pen; it slammed its feet against the doorframe and flapped its wings and generally made a nuisance of itself, but finally, Jack managed to slam it into the pen and shut the door.

Just in time too, since the bird roared back and started pecking furiously at the wood where Jack’s hand had just been. It crowed in sheer rage, and Jack backed away slowly. He understood how the humans had nearly lost the war to a bunch of birdbrains on Alerian. Sounded ridiculous—until you met an Alerian who’d been crossed.

“Now,” he said, “you stay put like a good little birdie and tomorrow we’ll get the vet to come look at you, see if you belong to anyone ’round these here parts.” He didn’t imagine it would take long to find an owner; someone would be missing their pricey intergalactic import, surely.

The bird squawked at him again, like it was protesting. Jack tipped his Stetson. “Take care of our pretty blue friend here,” he told the rest of the flock. Then he sauntered out of the barn, listening to the bird scream bloody murder.

Jack frowned the second he woke; the morning crackled with some kind of madcap energy. He’d been working at Midlothian for a few years now and never had he felt anything like this. Normally, the aura of the ranch was calm and soothing, even when there was a big to-do going on downstairs, like the annual Rose Plate race and all its attendant events or the midwinter feast days. He knew the Rose Plate was just a couple of months away, but this seemed like too much, too soon. And it was different somehow.

He sauntered downstairs, pondering the blood-red sunrise. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

“Hey Burr,” he said when he came across the lead hand in the hallway.

Burr was an intimidating wall of a man, but Jack had never met anyone more gentle with the birds, excepting maybe himself. “Morning,” Burr said with a slight nod, his deep tenor rumbling pleasantly. Normally, it soothed Jack. Today, it felt wrong.

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “What’s going on? Everyone’s wound tighter than a cat on a hot tin roof—I can feel it.”