Terminal Point: The Hunter Drune Series, #1

By John Jason Lee

On a world devastated by plague—where the only way to survive is to run—a Federation Hunter must track a felon and return him to justice.  But there are obstacles to overcome, and those in power who do not wish him to succeed, plus crazed survivors that roam a dead city.  Add a few escaped convicts, two vials of deadly spores and High Councillor Stanger into the mix. ..  and the Hunter's mission just became harder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Jason Lee
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223767794

Book preview

Prologue

The large truck raged across the plain, driving the scouring wind before it like a howling beast that pounded the wooden storm barriers (the strongest the settlers could build) until they lay smashed and scattered like fire sticks along the ground. 

Women ran screaming, pulling children behind them, stumbling in their panic as the grey-covered truck swerved into one of the habitation blocks and skidded to a halt. A harsh voice barked out a command, and several men jumped from beneath the covering and ran through the settlement ransacking the blocks.

One after another was looted and trashed: treasured possessions thrown into the open, where they lay abused and broken.

A grind of gears and the truck began to move again, picking up speed as it weaved between the blocks, taking the shortest route to the fleeing women.

'Push it, Drydon!' men shouted from the rear of the truck. They had not seen a woman for some time, and here were a dozen of them running for their lives.

The driver pushed his foot to the pedal.

Now he felt good. He was never quite sure whether it was the thought of sex or killing them afterwards that made him feel so good. Maybe one day, he'd let one live just to find out.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He grinned to himself.

Sometimes a day could turn out just great when you least expected it to.

1

The beam of torchlight wavered on the tube panel. Zeranov Ectarr steadied his hand. It was not like him to be so nervous. He punched the security code into the numbered panel and waited, sweat beading his upper lip.

He swept it away with his tongue.

The lock clicked, and the door slid open.

And another door faced him, three feet from the first, the two forming a cubicle, a narrow cell.

Ectarr peered around the doorframe, shining the light to the ceiling, checking the sides. He wasn't sure what he expected to find. If there was a sensor in there, the alarms would have triggered by now, but all was quiet. When he was fairly certain it was clear—after all, you could never be one hundred per cent certain about anything in this life he had found—he killed the torchlight and stepped from the tube onto the pad that activated the door mechanism.

The door opened instantly with a whoosh of escaping air.

The laboratory was dark. Ectarr could see nothing but a bead of blue light set low in the doorframe, indicating the presence of a security beam, which, if broken, would bring armed ISC guards swarming the lower complex with orders to detain any unauthorized personnel. And at that time of night that meant anyone, other than Stanger himself, and he would not be so foolish as to trip his own security beam. To make matters worse, there was also a criss-cross of invisible beams around the large vault at the far side of the lab, Ectarr knew, with nothing whatsoever to indicate their presence.

Okay, Cavett. Let's see if this gismo of yours is as good as you say it is.

Irian Cavett was a wiz at electronics, mostly self-taught. He was a Comstat Operator by Order, and an infiltrator into the Stanger Empire by devious design. Unlike Ectarr who had little choice in the matter. A Bensdraadn agent is not always at liberty to choose his assignments. Ectarr suspected there was a strong personal reason behind Cavett's decision to bring about the fall of Stanger's empire, but he had never asked him what it was.

Some things, he felt, were best kept private.

Stanger, they hoped, would remain unaware of his duality. Else, all that would remain of Cavett's ingenuity would be found splattered (along with the rest of him) down some abandoned tube shaft.

Cavett was unconcerned. 'All life is risk,' he had said.

Ectarr was sure he was right. 'Though I don't wish to risk mine unnecessarily, thank you very much.'

But Cavett had insisted there was little risk. He was sure his circuit breaker would neutralize any beam Stanger's system could come up with. Ectarr hoped (for both their sakes) that he was right and aimed the small device at the bead of blue light, his neck muscles tightening involuntarily in anticipation of the wailing alarm.

But nothing happened other than the light went out.

Ectarr relaxed with an audible sigh and slipped inside the lab.

The slightest light at this point would have triggered further alarms. There were light sensors everywhere but no camera eyes, thankfully. Stanger could not risk any outsider, not even security personnel, discovering his secrets. So Ectarr remained in the dark. But he knew his way around. He had practised enough during the preceding days, counting each step as he moved around the lab, pretending to check the sprinkler and personnel safety systems. One or two of the technicians had looked at him oddly, but they were used to his being around, and Ectarr had never stepped too close to the main vault, just in case he aroused their suspicions. And they were suspicious by nature: anyone working for Stanger had to be. Suspicious and wary. Otherwise, they didn't live long.

Ectarr took a deep breath and stepped forward, counting his steps as he moved. The main aisle was five paces straight ahead, the incinerator thirteen to the left. The main vault to the right. He ignored the vault, though a man could become rich with what was in there, if he could find the right market for it. But Ectarr wasn't interested in money. If he had been, he would have cleaned out Stanger's vault years ago and retired to some pleasure station by now. No, what Ectarr was after—though worth millions to some—and even more to Stanger—was not in the vault, he was sure. He continued counting each step, manoeuvring carefully around the long workstation, keeping his arms tucked close to his sides. He had no intention of knocking anything over. You could never be sure what kind of noxious substances were contained in the numerous vials, bottles and tubes covering the work surfaces. Stanger wasn't manufacturing candy in this place. But Ectarr wasn't after candy. What Ectarr was after was in the base of a locked drawer in the last workstation, twenty-one paces to his left.

The vault was too obvious a place to keep such secrets.

Ectarr continued counting his steps as he moved carefully along the main aisle. 

Eighteen... Nineteen...

Twenty. He eased his foot forward until his toe tapped against the metal base of the workstation, felt around the sharp edges along the base and up the left until his hand touched the third drawer from the bottom.

His fingers felt the lock—

He was well aware of how much Cavett had risked to get the prints of the drawer lock. If Ectarr fouled up—

His hands felt damp. He wiped them down the sides of his coveralls. He was not wearing gloves: he had not felt the need: Stanger would know who had done the job, whether he wore gloves or not. His fingers hit the lock and tapped out the pulses in sequence. He held his breath.

The drawer slid open.

Ectarr felt inside—

There was something awful about fumbling in strange places in the dark, something that made your fingertips over-sensitive and your spine tingle, never quite knowing what you were going to touch. Always expecting something sticky and dead. Or worse, something soft, alive, and hungry. Memories of childhood pranks flooded back to him. Some pleasant. 

Some, decidedly not...

His tingling fingers felt a box, no lid. Cigars. Potent leaves flown in from Drei'pan—rolled here, in Stanger's lab. One of his many illegal (by alliance law, that is) though lucrative side-lines. Ectarr removed one, held it to his nose, and sniffed. Just the smell was enough to make you fly. He stuffed it into his coverall pocket.

He might need that later.

There was another box, sealed. He had a job opening it in the dark. There were two thin tubes inside—cold—glass or metal cylinders, roughly the size of his middle finger. Must be the stuff, though he wasn't about to open one to make sure. Ectarr removed the cylinders, wrapped them in the soft wad he had brought especially, and placed them in his top pocket next to the cigar. Then he replaced the lid on the box (always leave things as you find them), closed the drawer—locked it after some difficulty, and headed back towards the tube, counting each step as he went.

He had just stepped through the first door onto the floor pad when an alarm sounded above his head, almost puncturing his eardrum. Although surprised, Ectarr moved fast and was through the second door before it could shut on him.

Well, halfway through, anyway. The edge of the door bit into his side, jamming him painfully against the frame. All he could think was, Thank God, he'd placed the cylinders in his top pocket and not at his hip (else it would have been Bye bye Zeranov, and a lot of other people as well). He tried to pull free but was stuck fast. There was no way he could move forward, and he certainly didn't want to move back. He twisted sideways, gritting his teeth as the door bit further into his side. Then, forcing it back with his hips, he pushed against the frame with his hands—just enough for him to ease his feet and legs forward before jettisoning his body free.

The door closed behind him, jamming the back of his coveralls.

Damn! He should have known better. But who would have expected a weight detector in Stanger's own private tube? That man don't trust nobody!  Then, being Stanger, it was hardly surprising. Ectarr pulled forward, trying to free himself, but his coveralls were caught tight. So he wriggled free of them and stood—feeling exceedingly exposed, even though it was pitch dark—clad only in his underpants and a pair of size eleven regulation boots.

He didn't stand for long. He heard the clump, clump, clump of the expected military tread along the corridor heading for the outer door of the lab. And Ectarr fumbled for the torch, hit the switch, grabbed the cylinders, gismo and cigar (couldn't forget that) from the coverall pocket (shoving the last two down the front of his underpants) and fairly threw himself into the transparent man-sized capsule of the elevator tube. He punched in the destination codes; sat on the single transparent seat; the front section swung across, sealing him in. Then the capsule whooshed upward at neck-jerking speed. After what seemed but a second, his stomach hit his boots as the capsule slammed to a stop. Gods knew where. Ectarr was just given the codes: he didn't have a clue where they would take him. You need a lot of trust in this business. The capsule door whooshed free, then the tube outer door.

It was still black out there, thankfully. In his state of dress (or undress), he would have had great difficulty looking as if he belonged—wherever it was, he was. Should he risk the torch? He'd have to, he guessed. He didn't like the idea: the cameras (like the alarms) were light activated; he wouldn't be able to hide from them. Still, there was a ray of hope. If he was spotted, his state of undress might work to his advantage. He patted his crotch. He still had the cigar. He wouldn't be the first of Stanger's employees to have been found wandering the corridors, stoned out of his mind.

If he was lucky, they might take him to Med. If he was lucky. If not... He shivered and stepped from the tube.

A cone of light flashed on above him, and a voice whispered. 'Do you have it?'

Ectarr nearly jumped out of his underpants. Sweet Jezrah! 'Of course, I have it,' he said when his heart had settled from a mad gallop to a steady trot. He separated the vials from the torch clasped in his sweating palm, then threw the empty wad at the voice in the dark.

'For God's sake, Zeran! Steady with that stuff.'

'Just kidding.' Ectarr got malicious pleasure from the sound of panic in the other's voice.

The cone of light widened, and a short, grey-haired man moved out of the shadows. He was seriously overweight and sweating profusely. He removed a square flask from a desk drawer, placed it on the edge of the desk, and flipped the lid.

Steam rose from the flask. The man withdrew. 'In there,' he pointed to the flask. 'Put them in there.'

Ectarr held out the cylinders. 'They won't explode in your face, you know.'

The man retreated sharply. 'Put them in the flask,' he almost shouted, then lowered his voice to a hoarse wheeze. He swore: 'Sheiz'a-mei!' Most unlike him. 'Stop frigging about.'

Ectarr placed the cylinders in the flask. 'A little nervous, aren't you, Tawse?'

'Well, what do you expect,' Tawse wheezed. Sweat glistened on his brow. 'You're a crazy man, do you know that?' He stared hard at Ectarr. His state of undress, the red welts on his side, the bulge in his underpants. The small eyes widened. 'Are you on the nod or something?'

Ectarr grinned. 'Now don't go getting all excited. I had to shed the covers, that's all.' He removed the gismo and cigar from his front. 'Now, if you really want to get hot about something—' He waved the cigar beneath his nose. 'Try this. Stanger's finest. Almost worth dying for is one of these. Guaranteed to put steam where you need it most.' He winked at the fat man.

Tawse was unimpressed. He nodded toward the steaming flask. 'Just snap the lid and quit the comedy.'

'You know what they say: A smile a day—'

'Just snap the frigging lid, will you!'

'Okay, okay. Calm down. Sheiz! What's got into you?' Ectarr stared at the little man. Tawse was definitely the wrong man for this job: too nervous, too nervous by far. But there wasn't anyone else—no one who could get past Stanger without causing suspicion.

Ectarr snapped the lid.

With the cylinders safely locked away, Tawse seemed to relax a little, though his brow and the back of his neck glistened in the false light. He was not happy with the situation, not happy at all. 'You can't go about like that.' He mopped at his brow with his sleeve. 'You'll be picked up for sure. You need covers.'

That was obvious. 'Got no choice, though, have I? Unless you want to lend me yours.'

Tawse didn't. He crossed chubby arms over his corpulent chest. 'You should have been more careful. Why can't you be serious for once? You're treating this like some kind of joke. It's not funny.'

Ectarr grinned. 'Course it is.  Life's one big joke, haven't you noticed? Start taking it seriously, and your head's likely to get screwed. Or you wind up with a 5meg Fleisher in your hand and your brains decorating the wall.' He caught the fat man's shocked expression. 'Just kidding. I'm stable. Don't worry about the covers: I'll lift one of Stanger's on the way up.'

Tawse half-believed him. 'You're crazy, you know that? Crazy.'

Ectarr shrugged. 'Need to be—don't I?'

Tawse never understood what it was that drove men like Ectarr and Cavett, constantly with the risk of discovery and death. It wasn't the money that drove them—there wasn't enough in the whole of Phalkn to compensate for the risks they took. Tawse would have sold his soul for just a fraction of that courage. He was cowardly and knew it, always had been. He wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He didn't want it.

But he had been ordered. Threatened, almost. He would have got out of it if he could. Stanger on one side. Torrace on the other. But if Stanger caught him, it meant death. He began to shake. He mopped at his brow. Sweat ran down his sides, and his hand shook as he handed Ectarr the fiche. His voice was none too steady either. 'Here's your pass. You've not much time so use the tubes. These are the codes. They'll override the security locks and take you directly to Base. Don't contact anyone. Go to D-52. It should be safe there.'

Ectarr saw the fear in the small man's eyes. 'You'll do good, Tawse. Don't worry. And you'll be well rewarded. You might even be able to retire to Dresda. I know you've always had a hankering for the place.'

Tawse didn't think so. He was sure he would be rewarded.  AmPAC could be extremely generous when they wanted, though he doubted they would hand him enough to retire on, and certainly not enough for him to disappear from Stanger. 'He won't let me live that long.' His lower lip trembled.

'Hey, what kind of defeatist talk is that? He won't touch you. You have a clear pass to twenty-four colonies and valid permits to— God knows how many stations.' Ectarr pointed to the flask. 'Mining samples. That's what they are. No one will doubt, and no one will check. You were made for this job. It's perfect!'

Tawse was not convinced. But he held his tongue.

'See you on Dresda...' Ectarr entered the tube, punched in the code, sat, held tight to his head, and the capsule shot from the fat man's sight.

Tawse placed the flask gingerly in the square sample box, sealed it and tumbled the lock. 'I'll need somewhere further than Dresda,' he said under his breath. 'Somewhere much further.' Then looked up sharply as light flooded the room. The outer door had slid open. Tawse almost fainted. An armour-clad guard stood silently in the doorway.

The guard stood motionless, but his eyes swept the room through the slit in his helmet, rested on the sweating man, the sample box clasped in his hand. He spoke:

'Eff-Two-Seven: Tawse?' The voice was monotone, almost mechanical.

Tawse nodded.

'ID,' the guard demanded.

Tawse fumbled with the clip of his tag, and removed the ID from his coveralls, handed it to the guard. The guard scrutinised it, then handed it back. 'AmPAC confirmation of flight reservation. Line 24,' the guard intoned.

What? Tawse didn't understand. Just a flight confirmation? He wasn't being detained? He moved to his deskline without thinking.

'Internals dead. Main Outline only,' the guard snapped.

'Dead? What all of them?' Tawse hadn't meant to speak out; but the guard ignored his question. F.27 was just a mining courier. Guards didn't have to be civil to couriers.

Tawse's pulse was racing. If all the lines were dead then Cavett had done his job well. There would be a delay between terminals. Not much, but enough to make all the difference, enough to delay deployment of the ISCs. It was possible Ectarr was right, that Tawse wouldn't be implicated, but he couldn't risk it. He wanted away from here.

'Use MainLine on sub-level Two,' the guard directed abruptly, not seeming to notice the small man's sudden lift in spirits. But if you weren't armed, and weren't running—and they didn't have orders to the contrary—ISCs behaved like mindless drones: Nothing seemed to get through.

Tawse headed for the tube.

'Main elevator,' the guard growled. 'All tubes locked.'

Not all of them. Tawse had a copy of the tube codes in his pocket. And with his arm clasped tightly around the sample box, he followed the guard, dutifully, to the elevator.

2

'You let him escape!'

Ando Stanger stood sharply, toppling the high-backed chair. It clattered noisily to the floor, the sound echoing around the spacious council chamber.

'The guard stood rigidly to attention. 'But Councillor--'

'High Councillor!' Stanger almost screamed at him. He had schemed long enough to gain that title. By the Gods, they were going to use it, give him the respect he deserved. He quietened abruptly and his voice became soft. Syrup almost. 'You will not fail me again, is that understood?'

There was no mistaking the threat. The guard bowed low to the ground and hurriedly left the chamber.

Stanger righted his chair and seated himself with an outer appearance of calm, but inside he was seething. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, fit for his years, which some put at fifty-five, some sixty-five. In truth, he was well into his seventies, though showed no sign of decrepitude. He was certainly well cared for, but then the High Councillor never settled for anything less than the best. His chair was set high on a raised platform so that even when seated, no head was higher than his.

Ando Stanger could not bear to be looked down upon.

Before the alliance, Stanger and his Council of Eight had complete control of Pterron. Any that opposed them disappeared, met with sudden inexplicable accidents, or just plain died.

People were suspicious, of course, and there was talk, but never any proof.

And Stanger's power and personal wealth had grown.

But the alliance put a stop to that partially. Or, more to the point, AmPAC (the Amalgamated Planets Administrative Council) put a stop to it. AmPAC's aim was to unite all the planets along the Qualin-Line—from Mera-sei to Dren—to link them like a strong chain with one governmental head working for the common good; to further developments in science and technology and to bring about an end to profiteering and corruption.

All trade had to be sanctioned by AmPAC. Private deals outside the alliance were forbidden. And any trade between allied planets had to pass through Central Control, the exchange rate fixed, and all profits from outside trading used by the Federation for the building and colonization of out-stations.

The system seemed a good one.

Stanger, though, had fought hard to keep Pterron free from the administrative control of AmPAC, but public pressure was against him. He had no alternative. Either join the alliance or step down. For five years, Stanger had been the sole supplier of the dyonized Erxon, mined on Zevna: an asteroid on the free Aglo belt. He had shown the incredible power of the light-activated Erxon—in energy production, in industry. Not weapons: he was saving that one for himself. With the backing and expertise of Moltek Interactive, the largest corporation financing technology and development, Stanger produced the first Erxon-enhanced engine. Then AmPAC took Zevna. Took the engine plans.

Stanger was furious. He would have gone to war over it, had he enough backing.

AmPAC compromised. Stanger could mine the Erxon for a percentage, AmPAC would keep control. Stanger was smart: smart enough to realise that even a small percentage was better than none. He was still corrupt—maybe more so, but the pickings now were small compared to before. He couldn't make the kind of deals he was used to without AmPAC finding out. And if they had discovered what he was up to, Stanger would be spending the rest of his days slaving on some penal colony. If they had let him live, that is.

The Federation had to go.

Stanger wanted to destroy the alliance, but even with outside help, the force he could muster would never be enough to overcome the Federation. They had twenty-seven planets and stations under their control. Their might was considerable. Force was not the way.

Not military force, anyway.

Damn Ectarr! Stanger had been that close, but he would not be thwarted. He had schemed too hard and too long. Bring back the old days when his word was law, and he didn't have to ask AmPAC for permission to spit when he wanted. He had respect then. And fear—with just cause. But his day would come again. He had trusted Ectarr (As much as he trusted anyone). He couldn't believe he had done that. How could he have been so wrong?

But the man had been good: had taken him in completely. Twenty years Ectarr had been on the Council. Twenty years!  Almost a Brother. And all that time, Ectarr had been plotting against him.

And Cavett—

Well, Cavett wouldn't deceive him again. The man had surprised him, though. He had held his tongue to the very last.

Maybe Cavett hadn't known where Ectarr was. No matter. Ectarr couldn't hide forever; and when he surfaced...

But who were they working for? That was the question.

AmPAC? Stanger doubted it; else Phalkn would be crawling with Feds by now. But if not AmPAC, then who?

An out-planet; had to be. But which one?

Bensdraadn, he would guess. They had put in a fierce bid for the mining rights to Aglo-6 in 12/42 and, he suspected, were responsible for Zevna, a multi-billion's worth project blown to smithereens. Though what they had gained from that bit of action, he had never figured.

Stanger pondered the point. They were all related somehow. Bensdraadn, Zevna, Ectarr. It made him uneasy.

The chamber was dark now: the only light coming from a floating projection of Podesra, the mining station Stanger had intended to build before AmPAC's interference put a stop to it. The station spun like a silver spectre, casting a sheen over the long table and eight high-backed chairs set before the podium. Unoccupied. Only Stanger was in the room. And General J. D. Torrace, who entered through the large double doors and stood uncomfortably to attention below him.

Torrace didn't like talking up to anyone either—even less than Stanger if the truth was known.

Well, General?' the High Councillor breathed. 'My sources say Bensdraadn. How is it you did not pick up on that one?'

Torrace shifted his weight. 'We did, High Councillor. But it was only a rumour. I was awaiting confirmation before speaking. We are now certain Ectarr retreated to Raaga III.'

Stanger smiled thinly. 'Raaga... Interesting. What makes you think that?' There was something sinister in the way he asked.

Torrace stared into pale eyes. 'I also have my sources, Ando.' He would not let the High Councillor intimidate him. They had known each other too long.

Stanger shook his head. 'Bensdraadn ... General. That is where he is.'

Torrace did not contradict.

‘The Hunter—' The pale eyes narrowed.'  He is unaware of the situation?’

Torrace lowered his head and said nothing.

Stanger took this as assent. ‘Let us keep it that way. There will be a council meeting to decide your handling of the affair. At eight... Be there.' Stanger dismissed him with a nod.

Torrace bowed. Only a slight lowering of the head, and withdrew from the chamber cursing silently under his breath.

3

General Torrace stretched in his chair at Phalkn Base and rubbed at the back of his neck, twisting his head in a circular movement to ease the stiffness. He was tired. He had been at his desk since dawn, and a feeling of uncertainty was beginning to replace his usual self-assured nature. Rank might have its privileges, but in his opinion, there were times when the workload and responsibility far out-weighed them. He could have off-loaded some of the work, of course, heaped some of the responsibility onto others, but that was not his way.

Besides, there were too many things General Jerrain Delargo Torrace liked to keep to himself.

The room was dark. Only a narrow cone of light pierced the blackness, projected onto his desk from a point high in the ceiling, the white circle illuminating a small inset screen, a panel of switches and buttons, and two files in yellow binders. One marked Priority; the other open at Section Two: Code references - Deletions, Locations and Movement.

Torrace shifted his position and tried to concentrate on the stream of information that flashed across the screen but his mind kept wandering. He punched a button on the panel and blinds rolled free from the large window set in the wall directly in front of him. The window showed a night scene—stars tumbling in a velvet sky, though it was only late afternoon. Not the most appropriate view perhaps for the time of day, but it was the most relaxing. And Torrace needed to relax. His Med/Count showed his pressure up three bars over normal. He watched the stars tumbling, and breathed in deeply.

There was no real view from the window: his office being below ground as were most installations on Pterron, only a few being above—the Launch Base, various pleasure complexes and the sea and airports. The cities linked by a complex tube system. There were a few freeways cut through the dense vegetation that covered the planet's surface. One or two that linked the major cities: Phalkn which included the launch base, and Egris holding the main airport. A few others linked the sub-cities but