by Mike Resnick
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The Soul Eater
by Mike Resnick
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Science Fiction
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Fictionwise, Inc.
www.Fictionwise.com
Copyright ©1981 by Mike Resnick
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
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“I don't like this,” said Lane.
“The damned animal ought to be doing something.”
The creature came to a complete stop, and Lane found himself within a thousand miles before he could bring the Deathmaker to a halt.
“Damn it!” he muttered. “Why doesn't it move?”
With an enormous effort of will he forced his hand back to the acceleration controls and began approaching the creature.
The creature began retreating, and finally burst from the cloud into open space.
“What's he doing out there, Lane?” asked the Mariner.
They both looked at the creature in the view-screen—and as they did so, it stopped drifting away and began approaching them.
“Let's run,” said the Mariner.
Lane wanted to; he wasn't used to fear, but decided the only way to conquer it was to meet it head-on.
He moved his hand—and fired a blast into the creature...
All the fear and apprehension he had felt vanished, to be replaced with something strange and alien and painful that threatened to tear his consciousness to pieces.
* * * *
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* * *
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1981 by Mike Resnick
All rights reserved.
Questar is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
This Warner Books Edition is published by arrangement with the author.
Cover illustration by Dorian Vallejo
Cover design by Don Puckey
Warner Books, Inc.
1271 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
A Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Warner Books Printing: July, 1992
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Carol, as always,
And to my daughter, Laura,
With love and aggravation
* * *
PROLOGUE
There is a world, toward the core of the galaxy, where the evening sky is so bright that most of the cities—outposts, really—have never bothered to install artificial illumination The stellar configurations are all different, and sophisticated astronomy is extremely difficult, but if you look very carefully through a powerful telescope you can just barely see our sun, the tiny wart at the tip of a constellation known as the Witch's Nose.
The name of the world is Northpoint, though it is neither north nor pointed. It consists of a lot of land, a little water, a pair of mountain ranges, one huge canyon, and seven Tradertowns, small outposts consisting of bars, restaurants, survey offices, banks, hotels, brothels, dope dens, and radio centers. The permanent populations of the Tradertowns consist of the employees and (infrequently) the owners of these establishments; the transient populations, which are occasionally nonexistent and sometimes enormous but usually somewhere in between, consist of traders, miners, explorers, prospectors, gamblers, cargo loaders, a few of the bolder and hardier scientists, and a handful of other wanderers, wayfarers, adventurers, and misfits. They hail from all across the galaxy, though their seed traces back to Earth, and they have very little in common other than a love of desolation and a continually receding vision of instant riches.
On Northpoint, the smallest, grubbiest, grimiest of the Tradertowns is Hellhaven, which makes sporadic efforts to live up to its name; and in Hellhaven, the only building capable of holding more than thirty people at once is Tchaka's Emporium.
Tchaka's is primarily a tavern, specializing in the most exotic concoctions of a thousand worlds, but depending on which level and room you are at in the unbelievable maze of levels and rooms it is also an opium den, a whorehouse, a currency exchange, and an antiquarian cartographic chart shop.
But it is the bar at Tchaka's that is the social and financial center of Hellhaven. Here men and women of every background and color—including some that have never been seen on Earth—meet and bargain and occasionally battle; here traders speaking more than ten thousand tongues wheel and deal, more by signs and signals and grimaces than by words; here used-up old men live out their final pitif
ully short years, swapping lies about the Dreamwish Beast and other monsters of the rapidly growing mythology of the spaceways; here, in this strange-smelling, ill-lit marketplace, one can buy anything that possesses a cash value, from gold to flesh to virtue.
And it is here, in Tchaka's bar, that we shall begin our story, since it is here, more than four millennia after Man first left his home system, that Nicobar Lane began his strange, haunted pursuit of the Soul Eater.
[Back to Table of Contents]
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CHAPTER 1
Tchaka's was crowded.
At the bar sat a trio of prospectors from Rakhvad, their bluish skins glistening like no other human subspecies; a pair of traders, brilliantly dressed with the spoils of their latest dealings, huddled over a small table near the door, where the lighting would make them brighter still; in the back of the tavern, playing jabob—an offshoot of blackjack, with a 52-48 break for the house—were five members of the native humanoid race of Dabih Minor, with their wide-set cat's eyes and almost nonexistent ears. Two of the whores from another part of the building were taking a beer break, casting don't-you-dare-come-hither glares at anyone who chanced to look in their direction. Men with money and men without, scaly men and hairy men, the momentarily rich and the momentarily poor, all squeezed and jammed themselves into Tchaka's.
Into this mass of humanity and semihumanity stepped Ector Allsworth, a portly, balding man of enormous proportions and a deathly gray cast to his leathery skin. He looked prosperous, even by the boom-or-bust standards of the tradertowns. His yellow eyes scanned the room for a moment, and then he walked over to the bar. The bartender pointed to a lone man sitting at a small table in the farthest and darkest of the oddly shaped tavern's many corners. Allsworth nodded his thanks and walked over to the man.
“Is this yours?” he asked, dropping a small, pale-gold business card onto the table.
The man stared at it for a moment.
“What can I do for you?” said Lane, slowly sipping his Cygnian cognac.
“Mr. Lane,” said Allsworth, “I won't mince words. My name is Ector Allsworth, and I represent the Vainmill Syndicate.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I don't doubt it. They're one of a number of holding companies controlled by Ilse Vescott. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“You're looking at me as if it should,” said Lane.
“She's just about the richest woman in the entire Deluros system,” said Allsworth.
“That's a long way from here,” said Lane. “This is the frontier, Mr. Allsworth. You'll have to forgive us if we don't keep up to date on the social and financial doings back at Deluros. However, I am properly impressed with your credentials, so please go on with whatever proposition you have in mind.”
“Among the more philanthropic aspects of the Vainmill Syndicate are a number of museums and zoos,” said Allsworth. “I have been told that you're the best hunter in this area, and there are a number of specimens we need at this time.”
“You must understand, Mr. Allsworth,” said Lane, “that I never supply specimens to zoos. ‘Hunter’ is perhaps too broad a term.”
“If you're not a hunter, just what are you?”
“A killer,” said Lane, taking another sip of his drink. “That's what I do for a living: I kill things. Which does not preclude my working for your museums. What is it that you need so desperately that you came all the way to Northpoint?”
“First off, I need three dozen Sillyworms,” said Allsworth.
“Not impossible,” said Lane. “How much are you prepared to pay?”
“Five thousand credits apiece.”
“Unacceptable,” said Lane. “The people out here don't have too much faith in the longevity of your Democracy. Credits aren't worth the paper they're printed on.”
“All right,” said Allsworth. “You name the currency.”
“The new-series Maria Theresa dollars they're using in the Corvus system.”
“The Corvus system!” Allsworth exploded. “That bunch of wild-eyed insurrectionists!”
“I don't give a damn about their politics,” said Lane. “Just their money. Twelve thousand dollars apiece.”
Allsworth seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looked up and nodded his head. “I also need five Baffledivers.”
“You may have to wait a year or so for them.”
“Twenty thousand apiece, and a forty percent bonus if you can deliver them in four months.”
“The price is fair enough,” said Lane. “Forget about your bonus. It'll take more than a year. Anything else?”
“Just one thing,” said Allsworth.
“I was wondering when you'd get around to it,” said Lane, the trace of a smile on his lips.
“I don't quite know what you mean,” said Allsworth.
“Sillyworms and Baffledivers aren't exactly pedestrian, but they're not rare enough to cause a man of your obvious station in life to chase all the way to hell and gone just to tell me that you want them. We could have consummated this whole thing by radio. So you rather obviously want something else.”
“You seem to think you know what it is,” said Allsworth.
“Of course I know what it is,” said Lane, irritated. “It's the only reason anyone ever comes out here to see me. You want me to hunt down the Dreamwish Beast.”
Allsworth nodded. “We'll pay anything within reason.”
“There's nothing reasonable about it. First of all, the odds are about twenty to one that the Dreamwish Beast is just a myth, a fable made up by some demented old cargo hand who cracked from the boredom and started believing in his nightmares. Second, if it really exists, it's the only life form we've ever run across that lives in space and the only one that eats energy. And if you know a way to kill something that eats energy, I'd be mighty indebted to you if you'd tell me about it.”
“All I'm prepared to tell you about is how much we are willing to pay.”
“Not interested. It's just a story to scare children with. Even the name is crazy. Look, we happen to live in a sexual universe. If there is one Dreamwish Beast, there's got to be more: a parent, an offspring, an original body that this creature split off from. But there isn't anything like that. There's just one Dreamwish Beast—which is paradoxical, which means there isn't any such thing.”
“It's been spotted,” said Allsworth.
“Bunk.”
“I can give you its coordinates as of five days ago,” said Allsworth.
“No you can't,” said Lane. “What you can give me are the coordinates of some loony spacehand who fantasizes a little better than his shipmates.”
“How does ten million credits or its equivalent in any currency you name sound to you?”
“Like a lot of money,” said Lane. “Why don't you offer it to someone who feels like spending the rest of his life chasing a dream?”
“That's your answer?” said Allsworth.
“Of course that's my answer,” said Lane.
“What if we pay your expenses while you hunt for it, once you've rounded up the other stuff?”
“Forget it,” said Lane, rising. “I'll radio you once I've got your Sillyworms and let you know where I've dropped them off. I assume a message to the Vainmill Syndicate will reach you?”
“You won't reconsider?” asked Allsworth, also rising.
Lane shook his head. “Try asking some hunter who's out to make a name for himself and isn't too bright.”
“We've got about two hundred of them,” said Allsworth, trying to suppress a guilty smile.
“Why not?” Lane shrugged. “You're only going to have to pay one of them at the most.” He shook Allsworth's hand and walked out onto the dusty unpaved street. The wind was blowing from the west, and as he walked the five hundred yards to his combination office and hangar, he had to pull down his facemask to protect his eyes from the flying dirt and sand.
Once there, he opened the door and walked directly to the antique
desk which was tucked neatly into a corner of the room. It was covered by piles of papers: orders, some new, others dating back five and six years, all waiting to be filled. He added Allsworth's requests to the pile, then lit a pipe and settled back in an easy chair, surrounded by tokens and mementoes of a quarter-century of stalking exotic creatures on even more exotic worlds.
He dozed for a few minutes, then awoke suddenly as he began choking on the smoke from the tobacco. He put the pipe out, rinsed his face off, opened a bottle of Alphard brandy, poured himself a small glass, and sat down at the desk, pen in hand. The Deathmaker was stripped down completely, its hull repaired and strengthened, its engines overhauled, its nuclear pile replaced, and he would have to equip it from scratch before going out again. He glanced over some of the orders and began estimating what he'd need: a laser cannon, two vibrators, a molecular imploder (if he could get his hands on one somewhere on Northpoint). There'd be the standard hand weapons: the stungun, the screecher, and an old-fashioned laser pistol. He checked his source books for the correct taxidermy kits for the various animals he planned to slay, computed the amount of food and air he'd need and then tripled it, marked down the proper star charts to incorporate into the ship's three-dimensional Carto-System.
Then he checked out the worlds he'd be visiting on this particular hunt—three oxygen, two chlorine, one methane, two ammonia, one unknown—and estimated the number and strength of the protective suits and systems he'd need. He also made a note to check the decontamination chamber and one of the airlocks that hadn't been functioning properly toward the end of the last hunt. Going over his back orders more thoroughly, he decided that he'd have enough cargo space for a five-month hunt, possibly six if he had trouble with the Devilowls.
Then came the crew. The Dabihs made the best skinners, and he decided to take a pair of them along. He considered hiring a chlorine-breather, but decided he'd waste too much time going to Asterion VIII—the nearest outpost of sentient chlorine-breathers—to make it worthwhile. As usual, he rejected the idea of adding a methane-breather to the crew; not only were they rare as hen's teeth, but they tended to shatter like so much glass if they weren't totally insulated from noise.