Riding the Red Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  “They’re just holding position,” he said, slowly. “Why?”

  John shrugged. “Waiting for someone to come along and fall into their trap?”

  He considered the problem for a long moment. The moment they tried to activate the freighter’s drives, the aliens would realise that someone was still alive on Canopus and come back to finish the job. But if they tried to stay quiet, the ship would eventually fall into the planet’s atmosphere, killing them both. And, if they were very unlucky, someone else would come along and the aliens would ambush them, having used Canopus as bait. No matter how he looked at it, they seemed screwed.

  “We have to take her out,” he said, slowly. He outlined the situation as he saw it, hoping that Richards would think of someone he’d missed. “There’s no other alternative.”

  “Great,” Richards said. He spun around in his chair to glare at John. “And how do you propose we kill her?”

  His skepticism was justified, John knew. The alien point defence was light years ahead of humanity’s best and hundreds of starfighter pilots had lost their lives in trying to attack alien starships. There were only two of them, with two starfighters armed more for scouting missions than engaging an enemy starship. Simple logic stated that they had about as much chance of survival, let alone actually completing their mission, as a snowflake in hell.

  But, when they were about to die anyhow, such considerations no longer mattered.

  “I have a plan,” he said. “This is what we’re going to do.”

  “This is madness,” Richards said, when he’d finished explaining. “We’ll get ourselves killed for nothing.”

  “It will be worth it if we take that bastard down with us,” John reminded him. “And besides, did you really want to live forever?”

  “I chose the wrong career for that,” Richards pointed out. “I don’t suppose we have time to find a privacy tube first?”

  John laughed. “Not a chance,” he said. “And even if we did, how could we do it in an airless hulk?”

  They made their way down to the armoury and inspected the missiles within. Thankfully, none of the warheads had actually detonated, although a number had lost their control processors and would have to be rearmed at the factory. Four were left, though, ready to be launched. John stumbled through a half-remembered manual arming sequence, then took advantage of the lack of gravity to float the missiles down towards the gash in the hull. The equipment normally used for manoeuvring missiles was broken and useless.

  “Need to switch oxygen tanks again,” Richards said, as they pushed the third missile into space and tethered it to the ship’s hull. “You too?”

  “Yep,” John said. In the long term, they would have to move to one of the shuttles and hope it was in working order. Canopus’s life support system was beyond repair, at least with the tools they had at their disposal. “Swap it around, then see if you can rig up a control circuit.”

  “They shouldn't be able to detect it at this distance,” Richards said. “But if they can…”

  John shot him a sharp look. There was no point in worrying about what the aliens might do, if they decided to use the hulk for target practice before the missiles were in place. Instead, he swapped his oxygen tank for a fresh one, then made his way down to the makeshift hanger deck. The remainder of the carrier’s starfighters were smashed beyond repair – several bodies were missing completely – but he managed to find a handful of life support and power packs for their craft. It had been months since he’d done any form of manual replenishment, but he hadn't forgotten how. Richards hopped back into his starfighter and powered up her systems long enough to check that everything was working, then linked his targeting computers to the four missiles.

  “They’re online,” Richards said. “Can you get the beacon?”

  “Will do,” John said. “Can you draw a live feed from the passive sensors?”

  There was a long pause as Richards worked his systems. “Barely,” he said. “The signal strength is very low. Our friend hasn't changed position, though, as far as I can tell.”

  John made a face. Passive sensors couldn't be detected, unlike active sensors, but they depended on the enemy radiating something – anything – into the inky darkness of space. If the aliens took a few minor precautions, it would be impossible for Canopus to track their ship until it was far too late. No doubt that was how the aliens had sneaked up on the carrier in the first place. He honestly had no idea why the aliens hadn't returned to stealth mode once the carrier had been disabled.

  Unless they’re using their own ship as bait, he thought. And they have more ships waiting in stealth.

  He pushed the thought out of his head as he made his way back to the bridge. Somehow, the wreaked ship seemed eerier now he was alone, the sight of bodies drifting in space sending chills down his spine. They’d be preserved, he knew, long enough for the carrier to be recovered—assuming the aliens didn't vaporise her—but it still felt wrong to leave them where they were. The Royal Navy buried its personnel in space, unless they made other requests, yet they simply didn't have time to handle the burials. It felt like he was betraying his former crewmates.

  The bridge looked dimmer now, he noted as he stepped through the hatch and sat down at the helm console. It took several tries to figure out how to use the console to access the other systems, something that would have been harder if Canopus had been a military starship, with embedded security protocols. Thankfully, civilians were less anal about the whole thing. He made a mental note to raise the issue with the Admiralty if they ever made it home, then started to test out the emergency beacon system. It was ready for activation, along with one of the drive units. There was no hope of powering their way into a stable orbit, considering the damage, but he hoped the aliens wouldn't know that. They’d come back to destroy the hulk before she could make it to the tramline.

  Unless they want to point and laugh while we struggle and die, he thought. There had been no evidence of any real sadism, at least not in the battles so far, but there was no way to be sure. Humans had been known to be sadistic to their enemies, particularly when there was deep hatred on both sides. They could do that, if they wished.

  “I’m linking the system into the starfighter control panels,” he said. There was no point in remaining on the hulk, once the beacon was ready to be activated. “We can trigger it at any time.”

  “Get one of the shuttles out too,” Richards said. “I’ll join you in the shuttlebay.”

  Canopus had carried two shuttles, both old enough to date from the same production run as Ark Royal. John had been nervously anticipating their destruction, but one of the shuttles was definitely functional. The other had been knocked free of its moorings and slammed into a rear bulkhead when the freighter had come under attack. Richards checked the damaged shuttle for anything they could cannibalise while John powered up the shuttle’s systems, then prepped her autopilot for a trip outside the ship’s hull. It took longer than he had anticipated, but in the end the shuttle was ready to go.

  “We’ve got a supply of emergency drugs inside,” he said, finally. “We might just be able to wait it out.”

  “Good,” Richards said. There was the sound of a yawn. “Shall we go before we collapse?”

  John nodded. Now they'd done everything they could, the exertions were finally starting to catch up with them. He felt utterly exhausted, his body aching in places he hadn't known he had; hell, starfighter pilots were normally spared the rigorous exercises mandatory for all other crewmen. It was a morbid reminder that their time in service was expected to be short, no more than five years at most, even in peacetime. Now, their life expectancy was far too short for comfort. He wanted to get back to Pilot Country, undress, shower and rest for a few hours. But it was impossible. Even if they could set up an airtight compartment, the carrier was drifting towards the gas giant. They would have no time to launch their plan after taking a rest.

  “We’ll rest when we’re dead,” he agre
ed. “Let’s go.”

  Space felt welcoming as they slipped through the gash in the hull and walked back to their starfighters. The missiles hung next to the hull, waiting for the command to power up their drives and engage. John climbed into his cockpit, ran through a careful check to make sure the life support packs had installed properly, then let out a sigh of relief. It was silly, he knew, but he felt better now he was back in the cockpit. At least they’d have a chance to claw the aliens in the face before they died.

  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Richards said. He snickered, loudly. “Consign their parts most private to a Rutland tree.”

  John chuckled. “The original was more inspiring,” he said. “But less funny.”

  Richards laughed, then sobered. “The missiles are online,” he said. “Once we bring up the beacon, we’ll have bare minutes before they react.”

  “Five, at best,” John said. He wished, with a sudden bitter intensity that surprised him, that he’d had more time with his comrades. Or that Richards and he could go on leave together. They’d planned to visit Soho together when they’d next shared a leave ... he sighed, then dismissed it all as wishful thinking. There was no time for woolgathering. “The beacon will be active in ten seconds, then the drive will come online.”

  He counted down, then tapped the switch when he reached zero. The distress beacon on Canopus activated, pulsing out an emergency signal across the system. He watched the passive sensors warily as the signal rocketed towards the alien starship. They’d be able to tell the freighter was trying to bring up her drive, if they were watching. But would they know the freighter’s desperate attempt to escape was doomed to fail?

  “She's altering course,” Richards said. On the display, the alien craft tilted and started to drift towards Canopus. “I think we caught her attention.”

  “Good,” John said. “Now all we have to do is reel her in.”

  The alien weapons system had one weakness; its range was terrifyingly short. John had read a report suggesting that the aliens had tailored their weapons mix to match and exceed humanity’s best weapons, although it still struck him as odd that they hadn’t built anything designed to engage the enemy at long range. In their place, he would have preferred to open fire from outside the enemy’s engagement range. But, given their weapons, it was possible that they’d dismissed missiles as wasted energy. It didn't matter how many Weber missile swarms a starship could put out if they could all be swatted out of space before they got into engagement range.

  He found himself wondering just what the aliens intended to do as they glided closer. In their place, he would have boarded Canopus and taken her for study, and the fact the aliens hadn't tried to salvage the ship bothered him. Were they that convinced they had nothing to gain from studying human technology? Or were they well aware that Canopus had little to offer them, beyond dead bodies. And they could pick up no shortage of those from New Russia, if they wanted more human biological samples.

  “She’ll be in engagement range in two minutes,” Richards said. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah,” John said. “We’ll go in one minute.”

  He braced himself, feeling sweat forming under his gloves, as the alien closed in. By any reasonable standard, the plan was suicide, particularly if the aliens were already suspicious of trouble. But there was no real alternative. Bitter experience had shown that only overwhelming numbers or the advantage of surprise could allow human starfighters to score on their enemies. The only other option was mass drivers and Canopus had none.

  “Go,” he said.

  He yanked on his stick, pulling the starfighter out from behind the freighter and barrelling towards the alien craft. Up close, he had to admire the design; her power curves suggested a technology considerably in advance of humanity’s. But there was no time to do anything other than charge right at the alien craft, weapons and sensors ready to go. Behind him, Richards followed, while the missiles brought up the rear. The aliens seemed to hesitate, then opened fire, spitting endless streams of plasma towards the human craft. But, thankfully, they didn't seem to have any starfighters of their own.

  “Evade,” John ordered, as he pulled the starfighter into a tight turn. In the atmosphere, it would have ripped the craft apart within seconds; in space, it was just a simple trick. He fought hard to keep his course as unpredictable as possible as he screamed towards the alien craft, wincing as bolts of plasma fire passed his hull, almost close enough to touch. “Keep them focused on us.”

  He keyed his weapons as they slid into range and sprayed the alien’s hull with pellets. None of them would do real damage – naturally, out-of-the-way Canopus hadn't been equipped with any of the alien-derived plasma weapons – but it would keep the aliens focused on the two starfighters. He had the satisfaction of watching as a handful of weapons mounts exploded into sheets of flame, crippling the alien ability to fight back. But there were always more.

  “A piece of cake,” Richards cheered, as he picked off another alien sensor node. “Wait, what–”

  The alien altered course rapidly, lancing upwards with a speed no human craft could match. John swore, then yanked his craft away from the hull. He’d never heard of anyone trying to force the starfighters to ram, just to get rid of them, but the alien commander seemed to think it could work. And maybe it would have done…he shook his head, then checked on the missiles. They were coming into engagement range now.

  “Two missiles down,” Richards said, suddenly. John cursed again. The aliens had refocused their fire and he hadn’t even noticed! “The other two are taking fire!”

  “Distract them,” John said. “I–”

  The alien plasma cannon fired, once. John’s sensors blurred, then cleared, just in time to show Canopus vanishing into a ball of expanding plasma. He felt a sudden pang; Canopus might not have been a fleet carrier, but she’d been home to him and his entire squadron. Her crew had deserved better than vaporisation by alien weapons. His starfighter flipped over as the aliens altered course, then lanced back down, distracting the alien gunners as he raced towards their hull. Hundreds of brilliant streaks of plasma reached out towards him…

  “Missile detonation,” Richards said. He yelled in delight. “Take that, you bastards!”

  The missile detonated, blasting a ravening laser beam into the alien hull. John watched with cold delight as the alien craft staggered, envisioning her interior being ripped apart by secondary explosions, just like she’d killed Canopus. A stream of water, already freezing rapidly, blasted out of the gash in the hull, followed by shapes he thought were alien bodies. But the aliens were still firing.

  “The last missile is down,” Richards said. “There's nothing we can do.”

  “Pull back,” John ordered. “Pull back!”

  There was a final desperate burst of fire from the alien craft. And Richard’s fighter abruptly vanished in a single flash of light.

  “No!”

  John stared in horror. Richards had been his friend, his lover, his partner…he’d deserved better than to die after the fight was already won. But a single moment of carelessness had cost him his life. John felt the sudden urge to reach for the switch and eject himself into open space, to die beside his partner. But there was no point in suicide. Richards wouldn’t want him to give up his life for a gesture.

  Stricken with grief, he pulled back and watched, from a safe distance, as the alien craft struggled for life. She was no longer the enemy, somehow; she was just another ship struggling against the cold unfeeling vacuum of space. But it was a struggle she was bound to lose. There was a final explosion, knocking the craft towards the gas giant, then nothing. The alien craft would die when she plummeted into the planet’s atmosphere. He took some cold satisfaction in that as he turned his starfighter and rocketed towards the shuttle, now drifting some distance from the combat zone. If the aliens had survived, he was sure, she would have been picked off seconds later.

  He cracked open his c
ockpit when he matched course and speed with the shuttle, then pushed himself through space and into the shuttle’s airlock. There was no point in altering his position, he knew; he keyed the emergency distress beacon to activate when it picked up a signal from a human starship, then sat back and reached for the small collection of suspension drugs. Using them without proper medical support was a risk, he knew, but there was no choice. The alternative was waiting until the shuttle’s life support gave out. He recorded a short message for his family, in the event of the drugs accidentally killing him, set the shuttle to drop the temperature sharply within ten minutes, then pressed the first injector against his arm. A strange cold feeling ran up his arm, followed by darkness…

  “He’s waking up,” a voice said.

  John opened his eyes, utterly disoriented. His body felt weak and hopelessly floppy, but he managed to look up at the ceiling. It was studded with sensor nodes, telling him that he was lying in a sickbay. It seemed someone had found him and rescued him.

  “Welcome back to the world,” the voice said. John turned his head, just enough to see a red-haired woman bending over the bed. “Do you remember your name?”

  “John,” John said. The drugs sometimes had bad effects, he recalled now. And he’d used enough to put him in suspension for years. Memory problems were the least of them. “My name is John.”

  “Good,” the doctor said. She ran a scanner over his body, then smiled down at him. “You seem to have escaped the most dangerous side effects, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

  “Thank you,” John said. Something seemed to be wrong with his hearing. No matter how he tried, he couldn't hear an accent in the woman’s voice. “Where am I?”

  “HMS Victorious,” the woman said. “Welcome home.”

  She paused. “There will be a debriefing, sooner or later,” she added, “but for the moment you should rest. You can tell us what happened later.”

  “Sure,” John said. He felt numb. Richards was dead, but he couldn't mourn him yet. “It was a piece of cake.”