The Hunters of Vermin

by H. Paul Honsinger

  If he were hiding from me, I’d never find him. Not in a million years.

  Max shook his head.

  I’ve got a lot to learn.

  Before he did anything else, Max started a timer on his wrist chrono with an alarm at 21 minutes, so he would be certain to be ready for whatever Trainer had in store for him next. That done, Max found his own pack beside the log on which Vllgrhmrr was sitting when Max regained consciousness. Although he was hungry, something told Max that now was not the time to pull out a three or four course meal with a hot entree. Instead, he pulled out a ration bar, formulated by the navy to serve as handy, “on the go” nutrition.

  These came in two sizes that had the same nutritional value per gram: “meal,” which supplied 1100 calories and tasted like a granola bar with a little chocolate and caramel mixed in, and “snack,” which supplied 550 calories and tasted like a chocolate and caramel bar with a little granola mixed in.

  That’s the kind of “choice” the navy gives you: not only are there only two flavors, the two flavors taste almost exactly alike. “Variety is the spice of life.”

  Of course, the navy doesn’t like spice.

  Max had selected a “meal” bar, knowing that if he were still hungry when he finished, he had enough of the “snack” bars that he wouldn’t deplete his supply too much by having one (or even two) as dessert. He sat down on the Vaaach ground cover on which he had regained consciousness, quietly munching on the meal bar and sipping water from his canteen. Max had roughly ten thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven questions he would have loved to ask Vllgrhmrr, but thought it was a pretty safe bet that the testy Vaaach wasn’t in the mood for chit chat at this particular juncture.

  Are Vaaach ever in the mood for chit chat? How do they talk to their mates? “I greet you most strong, shapely, and honored spouse. I bring fresh-killed prey for our earlydark meal, still warm and dripping blood. Perhaps even still twitching. Have our young-Vaaach killed any beasts of note today?”

  All too quickly, the alarm on Max’s wrist chrono went off. While the break had been too short, the food, water, and few minutes of respite had done Max a great deal of good. He stashed the ration bar wrapper in his pack, re-holstered his canteen, and got to his feet to await the Vaaach’s return. Max scanned the trees and listened carefully to give himself some warning of Trainer’s approach.

  To no avail.

  Precisely at the promised minute and second, the Vaaach dropped right in front of Max from somewhere high in the trees. Max started to render the Vaaach salute, but the alien stopped him by putting a large, furry finger on the hilt of Max’s boarding cutlass. “You have already given me your Mrrzhrr. You need not so honor me again until the sun has set and risen again on the world where you stand. If in the future you stand not on a world or know not the world’s sunmeasure, the Mrrzhrr is given again once the Vaaach’s crecheworld has shown all its trees to our sun: which is 22.8 of your standard hours. Until then, you show that you remember that you are bound by your Mrrzhrr by touching the hilt of your bladeweapon with the palm of your hand.”

  Max did so. Apparently, there was some deficiency in how he performed that observance as well because the Vaaach’s nostrils narrowed to about half of their former diameter before returning to normal. Vllgrhmrr, however, said nothing.

  “We also greet each other verbally, senior first. You remain silent until greeted by your superior. I greet you, human.”

  “I greet you, Trainer,” Max replied in kind.

  Peace be with you. And also with you.

  “A perfect Mrrzhrr is a matter of form only. You know so little that I must teach you first that which may save your life before teaching matters of form. Even you should understand this.”

  Damn straight. I’ll take being alive over getting high FITREPS in Courtesy and Deportment any day of the week.

  “Yes, Trainer, I do,” Max said.

  The Trainer let loose an inarticulate roar, followed by the most vicious snarling Max had yet heard from the enormous alien. The translation was not long behind, not to mention entirely unnecessary

  “Silence. Your frivolous monkey chatter has no place here. Focus on your training and only your training. You will speak only when spoken to or under the demands of war. Do you understand me, primate?”

  “Yes, Trainer.”

  “It is well.”

  Vllgrhmrr then took about ten long strides into the woods, stopping beside a log about a meter in diameter and turning back toward Max.

  “There is a knife-which-does-not-cut in your pack. When I turn my back to you and sit on this tree-without-life, you are to take the knife in your hand, creep toward me with silence, and strike at me with that knife. If I hear your approach, you will know. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Trainer.”

  “Then, proceed.”

  The Vaaach turned his back to Max and sat on the log.

  Max hurriedly rooted around in his pack until he found an unfamiliar polymer box that was the right size and shape to hold a fighting knife. The lid of the box was inscribed with a few words of same type of writing as he had seen back in the medical facility, as well as one line in Standard: “ROBICHAUX TRAINING KNIFE: NOT FOR USE IN COMBAT.” Max had trained with mock blades of various descriptions since he had been a middie. These training aids were utilitarian at best, and some were even downright crude. So, Max had clear expectations of what he would see when he opened the box. Without bothering to think about the matter in depth, Max lifted off the top of the box to find . . . .

  Something exquisite.

  The object had the same dimensions as Max’s K-Bar and the grip was covered with a transparent polymer showing the wood underneath while providing a feel that resembled that of the real weapon. Max picked it up. Its weight and balance felt exactly like those of the K-Bar, meaning that some kind of weights and been undetectably inserted into the wood to mimic the heft of the real weapon.

  The implement was carved from the most exquisite, knurled and layered wood that Max had ever seen. The wood’s finish brought out iridescent layers of almost golden radiance flowing through a sea of café au lait and varying shades of chocolate that glowed and faded, slipping in and out of sight with any movement of wood, light, or eye. The wood grain ran down the knife lengthwise, not in ruler-straight lines, but in subtle waves and curves. Like the notes of a brilliantly written instrumental accompaniment, the grain sometimes flowed in the same contours as the curves of the knife, and sometimes went their own way to create here a visual harmony and there a counterpoint, but always the beauty of one accenting the beauty of the other. Clearly, this simple practice weapon had been hand-fashioned by a master woodworker, who was gifted, not just in the technical skill of carving the wood but also in the arcane art of selecting the wood that suited the object and being able to look at a branch or a log from the outside and visualize the grain within.

  This thing was made with patience and dedication and joy of the craft. It’s a museum-quality work of art, not something I should be practicing with in an unnamed forest on an unknown world.

  If the Vaaach lavish this much care on their practice weapons, I wonder what their actual weapons are like.

  Max gave a quick shudder, thanking God that the Vaaach were not enemies of the Union pointing those actual weapons at actual humans.

  Suddenly realizing that he had allowed too much time to pass, Max put his K-Bar in the box that had held the training knife, put the box in his pack, set his pack beside some of the other gear in the campsite, and took up the training knife in a combat grip.

  Mock knife in hand, Max crept through the forest, doing his best to be silent. In fact, he rather impressed himself by how little noise he made. There were only a few times when he winced at the sound of a trig snapping, or a branch rustling as he moved past it. After about five minutes of surprisingly silent stalking, Max was in striking distance of the Vaaach, who continued to sit immobile on the log showing no sign of being aware that Max was
near.

  Only four steps to go. Max picked up a foot and set it down in almost perfect silence.

  Vllgrhmrr didn’t move.

  Now, the same with the other foot. Still no reaction from the Vaaach.

  Another, careful, almost silent step. Not even a twitch.

  Finally, the last step. In one fluid motion, as he had been taught on his third full day as a junior midshipman, Max stepped into the same stance he would use when wielding his dirk: left foot slightly forward, right foot planted hard to push off and provide power, inhaling as he put his weight on the right foot. Then, exhaling as he moved, he pushed off on his right foot and struck with a savage upward jab aimed for the Vaaach’s spine in an attack designed to paralyze his opponent (if Max had been wielding a real blade) and so timed that the blade would plunge into the enemy just as Max put his left foot down. Max could almost feel himself smiling at his success as he sensed his whole body move just as he had trained and as he had actually fought against real enemies.

  WHACK!

  Stunned and disoriented, Max lay on the floor of the forest, watching the opening in the trees above him spin counterclockwise and slowly come to a halt as he tried working out why he was lying flat on his back and feeling as though he had been kicked in his chest by a mule. Before he could get all the pieces put together, the enormous, hairy head of the Vaaach entered his field of view, blocking out more of the sky than the head of any sentient being had any right to block.

  Apparently, the Trainer’s idea of letting Max know his approach had been heard was to swat the young human hard enough to send him flying five or ten meters through the air.

  The Vaaach made an elaborate show of conducting a careful visual survey of the vicinity. “I seek in vain the cattle, sheep, and other herd animals you were driving before you as you came up behind me, for surely no single being, much less a being as puny as you, could have made such a din merely by walking on those two tiny feet.” Vllgrhmrr used its thumb and forefinger to grasp Max by the collar, lift him effortlessly, and set him on his feet. “But, as I can find no herd animals, the din of your coming must have some other cause. I must watch.”

  At the Trainer’s direction, and making every effort to move as silently as possible, Max walked back and forth across the forest floor for several minutes with Vllgrhmrr walking first behind him, and then at his side, bent over nearly double watching Max’s feet. Then, for several more minutes, he had Max walk through the brush, while walking ahead of him with his back to their direction of travel, turning around only for a few seconds every now and then to check his course, but otherwise focused on how Max moved his upper body.

  After about half an hour of this, the Vaaach gestured for Max to be seated on the ground. Vllgrhmrr remained standing and spoke.

  “What I have seen and heard thisday would be cause to think that your race cannot move with stealth.” Long pause. “But, what I know from the Vaaach’s long study of your people tells me that woodstealth is not beyond the reach of humans. The Vaaach have seen and heard your kin slip through the forests and stalk across plains of your world with speed in near-silence. Mohawk, Seneca, Zulu, Kongo, Murri, Anongu, and even sparse and distant fathers in the tree of your own fathers who stalked and hunted as members of the Coushatta, Karankawa, and Comanche, all possessed these skills.”

  When did the Vaaach observe the indigenous hunter-gatherer peoples of North America, Africa, and Australia? How did they know that some of my Texas and Cajun ancestors had what people used to call “a few drops of Indian blood”? Great questions, Max, but you’d better not ask them right now.

  “Your long-still fathers and your kin walked this path. Some on worlds of your Union still walk it, as they live the ways of their ancient fathers and mothers. Thus, some small hope remains that your feet can follow this trail well enough for you to live to become a Hunter of Vermin. Follow me.”

  Vllgrhmrr led Max back to the campsite and bade him to sit down. “Remove your boots.”

  Max almost hesitated. He didn’t like being barefoot. It made him feel unprepared. Vulnerable. “Feet without protection are feet that are easily injured,” an old Mother Goose had taught him. “And injured feet are a handicap that you can’t afford when an entire race of murderous rats is out to kill you.”

  He almost hesitated. He didn’t think that Trainer would be particularly tolerant of any delay. So, Max quickly removed the boots.

  At this point, he did hesitate for a few seconds. He was loathe to ask a question, but he didn’t know how to proceed without more information.

  “Trainer, am I to remove my socks as well?”

  “Yes. Good question,” Vllgrhmrr said.

  Max complied.

  “Now, show me your feet.” The Vaaach bent over and grasped Max’s feet in his paws, firmly but not painfully pressing his thumbs against the soles, as if to test their resilience.

  “Soft.” It was merely an observation, not a criticism. “Soft feet, but large, hard boots that make much sound.” Vllgrhmrr made a popping sound in the back of his throat that Max was tempted to think of as the Vaaach equivalent of “tsk.” Whatever the sound meant, Trainer reached into one of his supply packs, pulled out a thick-ish envelope-like package, and tossed it at Max’s feet.

  “Open it.”

  Max did so and regarded the contents with considerable puzzlement.

  Toe socks?

  The pack contained what looked like two toe socks—that is, the kind of socks, often worn indoors and without shoes by people of a certain whimsical disposition, that separately enclosed each toe. Except that these toe socks were made of tough, stretchy, almost rubbery material that felt something like what wetsuits were made of, but far stronger. And they were the same dark brownish-green as the forest floor. The envelope also contained a small tube of what looked like some kind of ointment.

  “Cover your feet with the oil from the tube, then put these on. They are frrmthrr: our Bwhoid brothers and sisters call them ‘boots of silence.’ Stones and thorns will not penetrate them. They are warm when the ground is cold but not hot when the weather is warm. They move sweat away from your skin but do not let other water in. Through them you feel the ground but without pain. With frrmthrr, soft-footed warriors can stalk their enemies in the forest.”

  Max did as he was told, sitting on the ground, covering his right foot with the slippery ointment from the tube, putting on the right frrmthryn and then repeating the process with the left foot. It did not escape Max’s notice that his implant informed him that frrmthrr was a plural construction applying to the pair while frrmthryn was singular applying to just one of the peculiar-looking boots.

  No time to sit around thinking about Vaaach grammar. I’m almost afraid to think of what their verb forms must be like. He stood and moved around a bit.

  Damn. These things are fucking amazing.

  “Leave your Union Navy issue boots with your other equipment. You will have no further need of them when you serve the Vaaach. Be rid of your leggings as well. Wear these.”

  When Max removed his standard-issue leggings, Vllgrhmrr tossed him another, somewhat larger, package, which Max opened immediately. It contained a pair of meter-long forest camo pattern sleeves that apparently served the same function as leggings. He slipped them on over the legs of his uniform from his ankles up to mid-thigh. They adhered at the bottom to the tops of the frrmthrr and at the top to the legs of his uniform without any visible means of attachment. Somehow.

  “These are brbrr. The skin-over-skin you wear is slow-to-burn but quick-to-speak. The brbrr trap the sounds made by the legs of your skin-over-skin but make little sound of their own as they glide through brush and leaves. They are also guards that do not sleep—no tooth of any beast in this forest can pierce them, including those of what we call the ‘greenpig.’”

  “Greenpig?” That’s what I call it too. Coincidence? Naaaa. Great minds, and all that.

  Max put the empty packages back in his pack and put the pack aw
ay, after which he stood in front of the Vaaach as though he were presenting himself for inspection. The Trainer looked him over, then clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Now that what you wear fits what you must do, you shall be a cub again. I shall teach you how to walk.”

  And, for the next five hours, without a rest, the Vaaach did precisely that. Max learned to walk in a “stalking crouch,” hunched over with his hands on his knees for support. He practiced stepping by lifting each foot high so that it did not drag through the underbrush, lowering it slowly, coming down gently on the outside ball of the foot and gently placing more and more weight, stopping at the first sound, until the ball of his foot was resting on the ground, and then slowly lowering his heel. He also learned to weave and dodge his upper body around branches and, when they could not be avoided, to grasp them gently and then slowly move them out of the way. Vllgrhmrr also demonstrated how to pick out a path through the woods that was most conducive to silent movement, avoiding dry leaves, crackly vegetation, and fallen limbs festooned with noise-making twigs.

  Once shown these skills and techniques, Max practiced them. Over and over and over again. Then he practiced them some more. When he was done with that, he practiced them again. And, when he needed to take a leak, the Vaaach showed him how the Vaaach urinate silently: dig down to the dirt and make a loose pile of soil, then find a stick or plant shoot long enough to extend from the penis to the pile, dig the stick into the soil, and then urinate gently on the stick allowing the liquid to run down into the dirt.

  The silent movement practice continued until it was too dark for Max to see, at which point the Trainer led Max back to his camp, where he directed Max to eat of his own food and drink as much water as he wanted from the Vaaach’s portable water condenser. Then Vllgrhmrr made a fire, produced some meat from a camouflaged cooler, and roasted it over the fire with a portable rotisserie that was large and sturdy enough to roast several kilos of meat at a time, but that broke down and folded up into a space no larger than a cigar box. The roasting meat smelled very much like beef.