Star Watchmen

  STAR WATCHMEN

  by

  BEN BOVA

  Published by ReAnimus Press

  Other books by Ben Bova:

  The Exiles Trilogy

  The Star Conquerors (Special Collector's Edition)

  The Star Conquerors (Standard Edition)

  The Weathermakers

  The Dueling Machine

  The Craft of Writing Science Fiction that Sells

  © 2012, 1964 by Ben Bova. All rights reserved.

  http://ReAnimus.com/authors/benbova

  Cover Art by Clay Hagebusch

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ~~~

  To Mrs. Jaffe, wherever you are

  ~~~

  I - Shinar

  The Terran Empire stretched over half the Milky Way galaxy, from the lonely fringes of the immense spiral of stars to its richly-packed center. Earth was the capital of this vast Empire, but the planet Mars was headquarters for the Star Watch. The Empire’s military arm, the Star Watch had bases on many planets, in all the farthest reaches of the immense Terran domain. But Mars—covered from pole to pole with mighty buildings housing the men and machinery that ran the Star Watch—was headquarters.

  In a small office in one of those buildings, a noncom was startled out of his usual routine. His desk communicator lit up, and the dour features of the Chief-of-Staff took form on the screen.

  “I want the complete file on Oran VI immediately.”

  “Yes sir.” Before the chief’s image had completely faded from the screen, the noncom’s fingers were tapping out a message on his desktop keyboard to the mammoth computer that held the Star Watch’s master files.

  He decided to check and make certain that he had requested the correct information from the computer. (The possibility of the computer making an error was unthinkable.) He punched a button on the desk and the communicator screen lit up again.

  The screen showed a map of the Milky Way galaxy, with the position of the star Oran marked out. It was on the edge of the Terran Empire, out in one of the farther spiral arms of the galaxy, near the territory of the Komani nation. The map faded, and a block of written data filled the screen:

  ORAN: galactic coordinates ZJJ 27458330194126-3232. Eight planets, one terrestrial (Oran VI).

  ORAN VI: radius 1.04, density 0.91, gravity 1.025. Atmosphere Earth-normal (0.004 deviation). Three major continents, surface 80% sea-covered. Native human population, 3.4 billion (estimated). Economy: rural agricultural; underdeveloped industrial base. Subject to Imperial Development Plan 400R, priority 3C. Former colony of Masters, incorporated into Empire immediately following Galactic War of last century. Native name for planet: Shinar.

  “SHI-NAR!”

  The square was thronged with people. Shouting, jumping, dancing people. It was hard to see how so many people could jam into the city square, but still more were pouring in from every avenue. They waved banners and held aloft placards. Several groundcars were overturned and swarmed over. A bonfire glowed near a statue at one end of the square. The people shouted one word, which rose and fell like the endless waves of the sea:

  “SHI-NAR! SHEE-NAR!”

  The Terran governor stood frowning on the balcony of his official residence, at the head of the jam-packed square. He turned to the garrison commander standing beside him. “This has got to be stopped!” The governor had to shout to be heard over the roars of the crowd. “There’ll be another riot down there in a few minutes. The native police can’t handle that mob.”

  The commander arched his eyebrows. “Sir, if I send my troops into the square, there may be bloodshed.”

  “That can’t be helped now,” the governor said. “Send in the troops.”

  Star Watch Junior Officer Emil Vorgens sat in his tiny compartment aboard the starship and reread his orders for the tenth time. He found it hard to believe that he was finally a full-fledged officer of the Star Watch. School was finished, his commission was safely tucked away in his travel kit, and here—on plastic film—were the orders for his first official mission.

  He slid the tiny film into his pocket viewer again and projected the words onto the bare compartment wall:

  “You will proceed to Oran VI and assist the Imperial Governor there in dealing with certain dissident elements of the native population.”

  Like most Star Watch orders, there was a good deal of meaning in the words that were not there. The Star Watch was the Terran Empire’s interstellar military arm. In fact, the Star Watch pre-dated the Empire, and existed even back in the old days of the Confederation, more than a century ago.

  It had been the Star Watch that fought the successful war against the Masters, the war that had made the Terran Confederation—almost against its own will—the new masters of most of the galaxy. The problems of ruling such a vast territory had been solved only by the creation of the Empire. Now the Star Watch served to control the interstellar space routes. A subsidiary branch, the Imperial Marines, handled any planet-borne fighting that had to be done.

  Vorgens sat back in his webbed chair and studied his orders, a worried frown on his face. It was a youthful face, with a high forehead. His skin was a golden brown, his closely cropped hair copperish red, his eyes tawny. Although born into the Terran Empire, and fully human, Vorgens was not an Earth-man, but a native of the Pleiades star cluster.

  His orders troubled him. To send a Star Watchman to Oran VI meant that the Empire was considering military action there. “Dissident elements of the native population.” That could mean almost anything. It sounded serious.

  Just how serious, Vorgens learned a few days later. A coded message from Star Watch headquarters was beamed to the ship for him. When he decoded it, the order stated:

  “The Imperial Governor of Oran VI has been murdered. You will assist Brigadier Aikens, 305th Imperial Marines, in restoring order to the planet.”

  The starship hurtled on toward its destination as Vorgens spent his days fretfully trying to get more information on the situation on Oran VI. Very little could be learned. The Imperial Marines had landed there and the planet was in turmoil. Evidently a band of Komani raiders, sensing a chance for battle and looting, had also landed on Oran VI. A few days before reaching the planet, Vorgens received a final change in orders:

  “You will seek out the Komani leader and warn him of the consequences of fighting against the Empire. The Komani raiders are to be offered safe conduct back to their homeworld in return for immediately quitting Oran VI. The Komani leader is to be reminded that all Komani clans have sworn allegiance to the Empire, and he can expect no assistance from the rest of the Komani nation.”

  Almost before Vorgens had a chance to digest the news that these orders implied, the starship broke out of subspace and entered an orbit around Oran VI. A planetary shuttle brought him down to the major spaceport, heavily guarded by Marines.

  The major in charge outlined the situation to him quickly:

  “Things are pretty confused here, Watchman. We control the four major cities on the planet, and this spaceport. The Komani raiders have been shooting up the countryside. There are bands of native rebels with them. Brigadier Aikens has the Mobile Force out hunting down the raiders.”

  Without more
ado, the major bundled Vorgens into an aircar and sent the Watchman off, with a Marine pilot and gunner, to find Brigadier Aikens and the Mobile Force.

  II - The Valley

  Sergeant McIntyre had come a long way in the heat of the afternoon, scrabbling over the broken rocks, half tumbling down the steep slope of the valley, while the big yellow sun of Oran blazed hotter and brighter every minute.

  Finally he saw the first outpost of the Mobile Force—a scout car, its turret hatches open, and a few men sitting lazily in the scant slice of shade the car offered.

  As he approached, one of the troopers got up slowly, adjusted his glare visor, picked up his weapon and hailed him:

  “Who goes?”

  “Sergeant McIntyre, K Company, returning from patrol.”

  McIntyre stopped a few paces before the younger man. He could feel the sweat trickling down his flanks.

  “Returning from patrol?” the trooper echoed. “Where’s the patrol, Sarge?”

  “You’re lookin’ at it, kid,” McIntyre answered. “Are we gonna stand here all day? I’m hot, tired, thirsty and I’ve gotta make a report to my company commander.” The soldier swallowed his amazement, “Yeah, sure, Sarge. Come on over to the car.” He turned and bawled out, “Lieutenant!”

  McIntyre trudged over to the shade and squatted down on the bare, dusty ground, leaning his back against the dark, cool metal of the scout car. He took off his helmet, squinted painfully into the shimmering afternoon haze as he mopped his head with a tattered sleeve, then replaced the helmet and slid the glare visor over his eyes again.

  One of the men offered him a canteen.

  A lean, spotless lieutenant climbed down from the turret and confronted McIntyre.

  “Sergeant, are you the man who led this morning’s patrol through here and out to the southern edge of the valley?”

  “Yes sir,” McIntyre said, getting slowly to his feet. “Where’s the rest of your patrol? You had twenty men, didn’t you?”

  “Yes sir. The others were all killed or captured, sir.”

  “What? Impossible!”

  McIntyre shook his head. “I wish it was impossible, sir. I only wish it was.”

  Sergeant McIntyre made his report by tri-di beam from the scout car to the communications center of the Mobile Force’s main body, camped down in the heart of the valley.

  “Sorry we don’t have a vehicle for you,” the lieutenant said a little stiffly, to hide his embarrassment. “We’ve been ordered to remain here at the perimeter.”

  “That’s okay, sir,” McIntyre answered. Then he added, with just a hint of malice, “I don’t mind walkin’ back. I’ll be going away from the Komani for a change.”

  By the time he reached the main encampment of the Mobile Force, the hot, yellow sun had sunk behind the hills. The sky overhead was still bright, but the valley itself was now in shadow.

  As McIntyre made his way through the maze of land cruisers, dreadnaughts, troop carriers, supply vans and scout cars, it became obvious to him that his own report had been matched by equally bad reports from the other patrols of that morning. None of the guard details took the time to ask his identity. None of the shavetail officers stopped him for a lecture about his no-longer-regulation uniform. They knew where most of his equipment had been left, why he had buckled to his hip an extra sidearm (taken from a dying corporal), whose blood was on his ragged shirt.

  The petty routine of military life was finished. They were all too busy with the urgency of self-preservation to bother. They were digging in, all across the valley. The Mobile Force of the 305th Imperial Marines, the military extension of the Terran Empire that ruled most of the galaxy, was threatened with annihilation.

  It was cooler now that the sun had dipped behind the western hills. That was one thing to be grateful for, McIntyre thought as he searched out his company commander in the confusion of men and vehicles. The valley was in shadow, but the hills, where the enemy was, were still bright with daylight.

  Surrounded, McIntyre thought to himself. Totally cut off. I wonder how the Brigadier is taking the news?

  “Totally impossible!” snapped Brigadier Aikens.

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” his executive officer answered quietly. “All the patrols report the same thing—we are surrounded.”

  Aikens’ pinched face, topped by a balding dome, glowered red as he stared at the stereomap on his desktop viewscreen. “Are any of the patrols still out?”

  “Only two, sir. It doesn’t look as though they’re going to make it back. The other patrols were badly mauled. One of them lost every man except a single sergeant.”

  Aikens got up from his chair and crossed the tiny compartment in three restless strides. Though the dreadnaught was huge for a land-going vehicle, all the compartments inside had to be as compact as humanly possible.

  “Surrounded,” he muttered, “trapped in this valley by a horde of barbarians.”

  “They don’t fight like barbarians, sir,” the exec murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  The officer flushed. “I only meant, sir, that they have been using modern weapons—very effectively, sir.”

  Aikens nodded. “I know, I know.” He returned to his desk and sat down again. “I’ve led my men into a trap. Now I’ve got to lead them out of it.” The brigadier stared at the stereomap for a long moment while his aide stood motionless, listening to the faint whir of the air-conditioning system.

  The exec was in his prime middle years, tall and darkhaired. A long stretch of desk duty, as part of the original garrison of Oran VI, had filled out his midsection and softened his face somewhat.

  Aikens, although older by at least a dozen years, was straight-backed and flat-stomached. The brigadier had picked his aide on the strength of the younger man’s first-hand knowledge of the planet.

  Finally Aikens looked up. “Well, we’ll hold our ground tonight. Double the guard around our perimeter.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “They can maul foot patrols, can they?” the brigadier muttered. “Tomorrow morning we’ll see what they can do against some solid armor.” He looked at the map on his desk again. “All right, you may go. Make certain you get a verbal report from all the company commanders after the guard is changed, and tell my staff I will meet them here in two hours.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The exec remained at attention before the desk.

  “I said you may go,” Aikens repeated.

  “There’s one more item, sir. That Star Watch officer who joined the Force two days ago. He’s still waiting to see you, sir.”

  Aikens slammed a heavy hand on the desktop. “The situation isn’t bad enough! Now I have to put up with shavetails from the Star Watch Academy who want to peep over my shoulder!”

  “Sir, he’s been waiting two days, and his orders are direct from Star Watch Headquarters.”

  Aikens fumed silently for a few moments, then said, “All right, get him in here. On the double.”

  “Very well, sir.” The exec saluted, turned, and ducked through the low doorway of Aikens’ cubbyhole office.

  After a few minutes of searching through the dreadnaught’s command section, the exec found Vorgens hunched beside a seated technician in the communications compartment, staring intently at a static-streaked viewscreen.

  “It’s no good, sir,” the technician was saying. “The enemy has every frequency jammed. We can’t get a word in or out.”

  Vorgens straightened up. His black-and-silver uniform was in stark contrast to the bright-colored coveralls that identified the crewmen’s various jobs aboard the dreadnaught.

  “I see,” the Watchman said. “Thank you anyway.”

  “So here’s where you’ve been hiding,” the exec called out. “Come on, the brigadier wants to see you right away.”

  Vorgens stepped out of the communications compartment and into the narrow passageway.

  “I’ve been trying to establish contact with the cities or Star Watch Headquart
ers. No luck,” Vorgens said as they started down the passageway.

  “They’ve got us boxed in pretty well,” the exec said.

  “The reports from the patrols seem to indicate that,” Vorgens admitted. “Any chance of signaling to the orbiting ships?”

  “What orbiting ships?”

  “The transports that brought the Mobile Force here, and their escorts. Perhaps the ships could...”

  “The ships aren’t there, Watchman. They dropped the Mobile Force three weeks ago and left Oran VI immediately. They won’t be back until they’re called for.”

  Vorgens blinked in disbelief. “But... why?”

  “It’s a big Empire, son,” the exec answered patiently, “and transports are too valuable to be tied up sitting at one planet, empty and useless.”

  “You mean we couldn’t retreat off the planet, even if we wanted to?”

  “We could commandeer whatever ships are available on the planet, which wouldn’t be enough to carry all the men, let alone the equipment. We could get Star Watch ships in a week or so if we could make contact with somebody outside this blasted valley.”

  “How in the world did all this come about?” Vorgens wondered out loud.

  The exec took him literally and replied, “It started with some protest demonstrations—some farmers complaining about a nutrient-processing center we were building for them. The next thing we knew, there were riots in the cities. Then the Governor was murdered by some fanatic. The Mobile Force landed a week later, and two days after that these Komani hordes landed in half a dozen places across the planet and started terrorizing the countryside. So here we are.”

  The exec stopped walking abruptly, and Vorgens realized he was standing before Brigadier Aikens’ door.

  “You know what I think,” the executive officer stated, rather than asked. “I think the whole mess is a plan by the Komani to take over this planet, and it’s just the first step in a much bigger Komani plan.”