The Hunters of Vermin

by H. Paul Honsinger

  Let’s see what they have to say about that.

  “Not an acceptable response, vessel purporting to be KMRH-7239.” How these guys managed to sound offended, officious, and condescending at the same time was a source of continual wonder to Max. “Please stand by while we run your registry and attempt a transmitter subcode ID match. This may take a few minutes, so null your drives, lower your deflectors, and do not arm any weapons or you will be fired—“

  “Who in the bloody blue bleeding blazes is that?” A gravelly, unmistakable voice thundered in the far background, cutting off the bored, bureaucratic drone of the flag comms officer with enough sound energy to rattle the wardroom coffee cups in their saucers. The poor man on comms in Flag Plot was so rattled by Zeus’s thunder and by the undoubted stormy approach of the sky god himself that he forgot to cut his mike. “C-c-c-commodore, sir, it’s an unidentified ship, sir” the comms officer said. “Its transponder is broadcasting an old ID saying it’s a Union SFR-52, but that class is so stealthy that even with its countermeasures disabled Sensors isn’t getting enough of a return for a POSIDENT. Besides, OPS says that there are no vessels of that class anywhere near here.”

  “Well, then,” the Commodore said in a didactic tone, “establish visual comms and check the pixel subcode sums and products to verify the ID. Do I have to think of every . . . Woah, Nellie! Vasquez, did you say the transponder ID was for an SFR-52?”

  It did not surprise Max at all that Hornmeyer knew the name of the clearly greener than new-cut grass junior comms officer working that watch in Flag Plot.

  “Yes, sir. It reads as registry number KMRH-7239.”

  “Goddamn, son,” the Commodore said with mixed relief and astonishment. “Did I hear you right: 7, 2, 3, 9?”

  “Yes, Commodore, sir. KMRH-7239.

  “And, pray tell, did the pilot of this supposed SFR-52 happen, by chance, to identify himself or did he decide to just leave us guessing?”

  “Yes, sir. He said his name was Maxwell T. Robinson. Or . . . something.”

  “Something? Something! I expect my fucking flag comms officers, even if they are only Goddamn shiny little nuggets, to do better than to retain an approximate rough-ass in the fucking ball park recollection of the identities of the personnel they are using all this fancy-ass commo gear to talk to. This is serious fucking business, boy. You are in the Flag Plot of a Union Task Force within spitting distance of the enemy, using the most sophisticated communications equipment ever devised by the human race, to communicate with another warship, not in your mommy’s Goddamn kitchen talking on the Viddyterm taking a message from your bloody Aunt Emma! The Union didn’t invest half a billion—that’s billion, with a ‘b’ as in ‘bonehead’—credits on all this signal equipment so you could carry on casual God-damned conversations with other naval personnel without bothering to be certain of their names. Might this ‘something’ have been, oh, I don’t know . . . ‘Robichaux,’ perhaps?”

  “Yes, sir. Commodore, sir. I think so, sir.” Max could hear the poor fellow’s sphincters puckering. Hard.

  “Then open a fucking channel. [Pause] Or, as I see from the little red blinking light right there as plain as the boil on my planet-sized ass that a channel is open and I’m already talking to him. Good thing it’s probably just an adolescent fuck-up Coonass out there rather than someone of any importance. So, that you, [pregnant pause] Robichaux?” Hornmeyer said “Robichaux” so loudly and emphatically that Max was sure everyone in Flag Plot could hear it. “It’s been a long time since your last contact. [Pregnant pause.] Just about everyone here but me thought you were dead.” Again, Max had the impression that the last bit was for the benefit of others in the compartment. It wasn’t too hard to imagine the legendarily ferocious Hornmeyer looking pointedly at people in that compartment who had been firmly of the opinion that Max was at that very moment eating seafood gumbo with his long departed ancestors.

  Max keyed the mike. “Not dead yet, sir. Came a bit closer to it than I’d like, but yes, sir, it’s me. But, I don’t have the current ID codes, sir.”

  “Fuck the codes, son. I’ll validate your identity right now. What’s the Holy Trinity? I’m not talking about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Onions, bell pepper, and celery.” Pause. “You think the Krag don’t know that, sir?”

  “Oh, it’s probably in some goddamn rat database somewhere.” Hornmeyer chuckled. “But there’s no way the ratfaces could derive a context for the question and find the answer in a second and a half like you did. Besides, when you said ‘onions, bell pepper, and celery,’ some of your Cajun accent leaked through. So, it’s a good enough ID for me. Now that we’ve established that you are, indeed, Lieutenant (JG) Max Robichaux, by all rights I should give you the ass chewing of five or six lifetimes, but since you just brought my Nightshade back, and made me more than 40,000 credits richer, I’m inclined to be merciful.”

  “Regardez donc!” Max exclaimed. “That’s some serious money. How’d I make that kind of lettuce for you?”

  “Bets, son, bets. When word of your capture leaked out on board the flagship—where we have kept it pretty well contained—there were lots of people who were willing to bet that you wouldn’t make it back to the Union alive within a year. So, Robichaux, think about this . . . there were nearly fifteen hundred people on this ship who were willing to bet against you, while just a handful, like yours truly, let their money ride on your screwy Coonass luck. Looks like I’m the one who made the smart bet. As usual.”

  “I suppose you did,” Max said quietly. This was going to take a while to process.

  “Anyway, God damn, son, how the hell did you make it back? Middleton is going to want to hear the news and all the details as soon as I can get them to him.”

  “I’ll make a full report as soon as you like, Commodore but, with your permission, I won’t be staying long.”

  “You ‘won’t be staying long’?” The Commodore’s voice rapidly cooled to the temperature of liquid helium on a cold day. “Did you have some other pressing fucking engagement? Since when do wet-behind-the-ears junior officers in this man’s navy just come and go as they please, like they’re members of the Goddamn Core Systems Consolidated Interstellar Fucking Yacht Club?”

  “It’s the Vaaach, sir,” Max said, struggling to suppress a smile. It was hard not to admire Hornmeyer’s amazing virtuosity in the music of profanity and invective. “They’ve given me a chance to train with them further and fight as one of the Hunters of Vermin.”

  Long pause. Max could visualize the Commodore salivating at the prospect of having one of his subordinates learn tactics from the Vaaach, while weighing that prospect against the hazards of sending Max back among them. “Did you ever figure out what the hell ‘Hunters of Vermin’ means? I’m really not all that fucking enthusiastic about having one of my officers running around the galaxy killing exotic alien cockroaches, termites, and attic squirrels.”

  Max managed to suppress a chuckle. “Well, sir, I think it’s kind of like their version of the French Foreign Legion, but without the boudin. The Hunters of Vermin fight the Krag and other ‘inferior and honor-less races’ that are beneath the dignity of being fought by mature Vaaach warriors. I’m thinking that it would be a good idea for me to take them up on it. I’d be killing Krag, sir.”

  “Never join the Foreign Legion for their boudin. It’s not like they make it in Lafayette or Lake Charles, Louisiana or in Ville Pionniére down the road from where you grew up. But, as much as I hate to say it, an outfit like the Foreign Legion might be just the thing for an off the bulkhead, impulsive damn Coonass like you. That business in their marching song about being crafty, rogues, and no ordinary guys sounds almost like an engraved invitation with the name ‘Max Fucking Robichaux’ on the envelope. As much as I hate the idea of one of my officers continuing to be at the mercy of powerful aliens we don’t know jack shit about, there is something to be said for the idea. OK, son, I’ll see if someone on t
his immense tub knows how to give hangar deck approach and landing instructions to a fighter, get you on board, and we’ll talk about it. But, right off the top of my head, I’m thinking that if the Vaaach are crazy enough to want you pulling your Coonass stunts as part of their operations, I’m just crazy enough to let them have you.”

  “Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing.”

  Appendix:

  Fundamentals of Naval Leadership

  Version adopted 19 June 2292.

  As an officer of the Union Space Navy, I will strive to instill within myself these qualities which are essential for excellence:

  Discipline. Officers follow as well as lead, knowing that they must master themselves before they can command others. Officers obey their superiors as they would have their subordinates obey them.

  Competence. There is no substitute for total preparation and complete dedication, for the rigors of naval operations in space will not tolerate the careless or indifferent. The costs of incompetence are high—and human lives are the currency in which they are paid.

  Confidence. Officers believe in themselves and in those with whom they serve. They master their own fear and hesitation, communicating clearly and acting decisively.

  Responsibility. In victory and defeat, in triumph or disaster, officers take responsibility for what they do and for what they fail to do—and the results thereof--without shifting blame to others. The buck stops here.

  Toughness. Officers make the hard decisions and do the difficult things. They stand for what they believe to be right, even if that belief is unpopular, or casts themselves or others in a bad light.

  Tenaciousness. Officers try and try again, even if that means they must walk the lonely and more difficult path.

  Honesty. Officers tell the truth to the greatest extent allowed by the exigencies of military secrecy. Honesty is more than just not telling lies, absent secrecy requirements, it means NEVER misleading naval personnel in ANY WAY—by statement or omission--that pertains to any operational matter. Officers fulfill their promises and meet their commitments. Their word is their bond.

  Loyalty. Officers are scrupulously loyal to the Union, to the Navy, to their units/ships, and to their shipmates. They breach one of these loyalties only when absolutely necessary to fulfill a higher one and would choose death before disloyalty.

  Example. An officer exemplifies to those junior to him every quality that he would wish them to possess. He must not expect his men to manifest any trait that he does not conspicuously demonstrate to them to the highest degree every hour of every day.

  Fairness. An officer is always scrupulously fair and impartial to those under his command, showing neither favoritism nor undeserved reprimand. He gives praise when warranted and punishments when necessary, and never punishes more harshly than justice requires. He never takes any action against any subordinate out of anger or malice.

  I will conduct my duties at all times with the awareness that suddenly and unexpectedly, I may find myself in a role where my performance has the ultimate consequences.

  I will never forget that the greatest error is not to try and fail, but that I did not give my very best to the effort. When I fail in anything, large or small, I will learn from my failure and try again.

  I will never yield to despair, fear, or defeatism, but will continue to lead my men and command myself, as best I am able, to stay in the fight unto the very end.

  Acknowledgements

  In addition to the acknowledgements expressed in other volumes, the author offers the following thanks:

  To retired NASA Flight Director and Director of Flight Operations, the immortal Gene “General Savage” Kranz for giving to the world the “Fundamentals of Mission Control” on which the “Fundamentals of Naval Leadership” herein are based, and for his exemplary leadership at NASA during what these stories call the “Jurassic Space” era. If every organization followed the “Fundamentals,” the results would be astounding. This nation Mr. Kranz a great debt for the excellence of his work and the brilliance of his example.

  To my old friend from the University of Michigan, Linda Marie Tullio, for the lessons she passed on to me from her acting studio classes in Chicago about “vocal score” and similar matters. They were brief, but deeply learned. I can still hear her rendition of the “Wherefore Rejoice” speech from Act I, Scene I of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. That speech appears in this story because of her, and as a small token of what her friendship through many, often difficult, years, now long ago, still means to me.

  To my late father, Harvey G. Honsinger, who created a Texas Ranger character named “Handlebar Simms” for his yet unpublished Western/Historical novel, working title The Man from Salt Hill. The name was just too good not to steal. I don’t think he’d mind. The registry number of Max’s Nightshade is derived from my father’s old Citizen’s Band call sign, KMR-7239.

  And, most of all, to my dearest wife, Kathleen. Getting back to writing after a long illness has been a long road—a road I could not have navigated without her spot-on advice and continual encouragement. She has also to this work made the mundane but stupendously significant contributions of substantive suggestions, editing, formatting, and cover design (as well as sounding board). I don’t know what I did to deserve the precious gifts of her love, assistance, and companionship, but I do know that they are beyond price and I will cherish them, and her, every day of my life.

  Author’s Note

  A few words are in order regarding one historical reference in this volume.

  Max’s grandfather is depicted in this book as having served as a Machinist’s Mate on a naval transport, the USS General M.L. Hersey. The name of this vessel is taken from the name of an actual General G.O. Squier Class transport (Registry Number AP-148) that carried United States troops to and from many of the pivotal battles in the Pacific Theater, particularly the Leyte landings, where she came under heavy fire from Japanese aircraft. My maternal grandfather, John Simon (“Sam”) Arceneaux (1916-1971) served as a Fireman 2nd Class (later promoted to 1st Class) on that ship from when she was launched in July 1944 until after the end of the war.

  Little is known about what he experienced during that time. What is known is that the man who came back from the war was not the man who went to war only a few years before. He became an abusive alcoholic resulting in my devout Roman Catholic grandmother divorcing him when such things simply “were not done.” He died in August 1971, only 55 years old, his death almost certainly brought about by his heavy drinking. I remember meeting him only once, when I was about ten years old.

  Perhaps he was an “ordinary alcoholic” or, as most of those who knew him believe given his lack of any drinking problem before the war, perhaps he suffered from some sort of psychological issues resulting from his war service, such as PTSD or a related malady. War has many casualties who don’t show up on the official lists. I regard “Paw Paw Sam” as being a probable delayed casualty of World War II. That war, as do all wars, continued to hurt and maim and kill long after the ink dried on the peace treaties. I cannot say whether he was a good man. I can say that he served his country when called to do so and for that, at least, he deserves to be remembered.

  About the Author

  H. Paul Honsinger describes himself as a “recovering attorney” with lifelong interests in space exploration, military history, firearms, and international relations. He was born and raised in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and is a graduate of Lake Charles High School, The University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, and Louisiana State University Law School in Baton Rouge. Honsinger has practiced law with major firms on the Gulf Coast and in Phoenix, Arizona, and most recently had his own law office in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. He currently lives in rural Mohave County, Arizona beloved wife, Kathleen, and stepson, Chris, along with two highly eccentric cats and the occasional visiting feral burro (really!).

  Paul is a frequent panelist at Science Fiction conventions in the Western United States, so if you happ
en to be in attendance, he would love to meet you. He also welcomes (sane, polite) email correspondence from fans: honsingermilitaryscifi@gmail.com. Keep up with future Max Robichaux books at http://hpaulhonsinger.com.