The Angel and the Djinn: The Voidstrider Saga, #3

By John A. Underwood

The Angel's sinister plan for humanity nears completion!

 

Concealed in its lair, aided by the self-absorbed corporate heiress Michaela Cross, the Angel readies for ultimate victory. But that victory is not yet assured. The mysterious Djinn and her far-flung network of agents prepare to make their final, desperate stand against the alien invader.

 

Katia Miranova has returned to Vesta. Her world is under armed occupation, but she has unlikely new allies: a hacker sent by the Djinn who just might be able to override the Angel's mind-control; and the leader of the Earth forces who helped the alien conquer Vesta in the first place!

 

Ex-reporter Francis Drake knows he's the key to the Djinn's plans. He just doesn't know how or why. Rocketing towards Earth and a final showdown, guarded over by the irascible android Summer, Drake struggles with his conscience and fear. Five years ago, he ran from this battle. Now, he must return to save the woman he once loved ... and Humanity itself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Underwood
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393314479

John A. Underwood

John A. Underwood was born in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He began writing at the age of six and believes that, after more than thirty years, he is almost good at it. He has been a college student, cook, contract laborer, receptionist, grocery store clerk, bookstore clerk, bartender, restaurant manager, and a homeless person at different times in his life. In addition to space opera and short works of speculative fiction, John writes absurdist fantasy and sci-fi under the name Johnson Underwood. John currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Book preview

Prologue

Michaela Cross could tell the General Secretary was upset the moment Elsbeth Marbury’s face appeared, slightly larger than life, on her screen. Not merely upset, no. The EarthGov chief executive was furious.

You’ve seen it, I presume.

Mick didn’t have to ask what Marbury meant. The Ghazarian signal. The transmission had come in over an hour ago. Plenty of time to be passed around the Palais des Nations. It hadn’t made any of the feeds yet, not even the encrypted government streams. As a private citizen, albeit the wealthiest private citizen anywhere on Earth, Luna, or the Ring, Michaela Cross had no reason to know what Marbury was talking about. Of course she had seen it.

My name is Jakob Ghazarian. I am captive aboard the vessel Soft Farewell, under the command of a man called Roger Jon Grey. Only he is not a man. Not only, no longer. One doesn’t know what to call him, except deranged. He blames Earth for the death of the woman. It is all he speaks of. The woman, and vengeance.

Mick had never heard of Jakob Ghazarian or Roger Jon Grey. She had set Quibbler to work even before the transmission finished. She had recognized one name from that introduction though, and it was enough to send a chill down her spine. Soft Farewell. Khatami’s ship. One of the anion beam platforms.

He is coming. We are attempting, even now, to thwart his control. One does not think highly of our chances. If we should fail, know this. Grey is coming. He commands this vessel. He commands a weapon of unspeakable power. A beam weapon we have seen used against the Peacekeeper forces at Vesta. Their ships burned in an instant, became vapor on the solar wind.

That was the anion beam, all right. Which meant, if this Ghazarian person was to be believed, that Khatami was dead. The other one, too, what was her name, the nominal captain of the ship. Doggett or something. Didn’t matter.

If we prove unsuccessful, there will be no further impediment to his arrival. He speaks in our thoughts. He seethes in our dreams. Should we arouse his ire, and fail in our purpose, there is no doubt he will destroy us. As he will then surely destroy those whom he blames for the woman’s death. Earth. Be warned. He is coming.

That was all. The message looped back around, replaying itself twice and starting a third repetition when the transmission cut off abruptly. My name is Jakob Ghazarian… Then silence.

She knew why Marbury was calling.

I’ve seen it..

Well? Marbury glared out of the screen. What have you to say for yourself?

I’m afraid you’ve lost me, said Mick, feigning puzzled indulgence. Why should I have anything to say? I’d have thought you’d be on the line with Peacekeeper command, not me.

Don’t fuck around with me, Cross. Marbury leaned closer to her cam with a scowl. You know good and damn well what I mean. The particle weapon. That ultimate deterrent you sold us. Now just exactly how the fuck did it turn up on a goddamn pirate ship?

Elsbeth, I assure you—

Madam Secretary, interrupted Marbury. And you can shove your assurance out the nearest window.

Madam Secretary, Mick began again, allowing some ice to form on the words. You cannot seriously be asking me to explain the nature or existence of pirates.

How did they get their hands on the weapon?

I couldn’t possibly say. Perhaps the answer is in the question. You’ve identified the ship. Pirate, you said. Pirates have been known to steal things, Elsbeth.

She came down hard on the name, emphasizing the reversion. She’d given in once. That was enough show-of-respect for one day. Not for the first time, she wished Marbury was among those they’d converted. But, no. She herself had argued against it. Marbury was too much in the public eye. Subvert half the government, no one noticed. The General Secretary, though… Ah, well.

Let me put it another way, said Marbury. We gave you license to develop and manufacture the weapon on an exclusive basis. Exclusive. Should I spell that word for you?

There’s no need to get ugly, Elsbeth.

"First this noise from the Martians. Those idiotic inspections Saldana insisted on, all that. We chalked that up to his abuction, assuming that was even real. That, or they heard a rumor. But this? It fits everything we were able to learn about what happened to our force at Vesta. Someone’s got the weapon, someone who isn’t us.

I’ll repeat it for you, Michaela. Marbury wasn’t even trying to hide her disdain now. "Exclusive. You were to provide the particle beam device to our Peacekeeper forces ex-fucking-clusively. Well, we’ve not misplaced any of ours. So I’ll ask once more. Where did they get it?"

Mick forced down her anger. It took no small effort. She’d always had trouble with it. Leaning back in her seat, she took a calming breath. She put on the little smile she used for moments like this.

The technology itself could have been replicated elsewhere. Parallel lines of research. It’s a competitive market, you know.

Marbury’s eyes narrowed dangerously. But Mick wasn’t finished. It was time to shift the tone. Pissed as she was, this was still part of the game. She’d learned the moves from her father long ago. Elsbeth fucking Marbury didn’t stand a chance.

What you should be asking me is what I can do to help. Mick let her smile get a little bit bigger, a few degrees warmer. The expression was almost genuine, a reflection of the hot thrill she felt. She was making the sale.

You can start by turning over any ‘backdoor’ base code, Marbury said. I know you’ll have had your people build in some such safeguard.

Elsbeth…

Speaking. Marbury raised one finger in stern admonishment. Her tone was glacial. "And it’s Madam Secretary. The other thing I want from you, Michaela, is options. Possible defenses against the weapon, any weakness that can be exploited. Anything."

If you’d…

Still speaking. We have five days. That’s if the vessel we’ve identified as the source of transmission maintains its course. Five days until this catastrophic fuck-up of yours comes home to roost. One hundred twenty-one hours and… Marbury glanced aside. …thirteen minutes, in which time you are going to solve this thing or, so help me, you’ll wish you had.

In her office thirty-six thousand kilometers below, Elsbeth Marbury sat back in her plush leather chair with an air of self-righteous finality. Mick stared at the secretary’s on-screen image, her face blank and cold. At length, she cleared her throat.

Are you quite finished speaking now?

I am.

Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I have your bloody options already, Madam Secretary. Mick managed to keep her tone civil. Her ire would have to wait. The sale was all that mattered. All it requires is your authorization…

That gray sludge of yours again? No. Out of the question. I won’t sign off suppressing one disaster by letting another out of its box. Think of something else. You’ve got five days.

Marbury cut the connection without waiting for a reply. Mick stared at the empty display, impotent rage swelling in her breast. She decided that Elsbeth Marbury would die. Painfully, and soon.

The Earth leader is going to be a problem. The voice in her head was silent and somehow deafening all at once. It was familiar, a thing beloved yet occasionally resented. Michaela Cross had been hearing the Angel’s voice for most of her life.

Not for long, she isn’t, Mick said with a sneer. Quibbler! Get in here now!

What are you planning?

Mick ignored the Angel. Of all those who heard the call throughout the settled worlds, she alone had that privilege. She alone stood above the rest, the puppets and semi-autonomous agents and all the great, seething mass of humanity itself. She stood above, the Angel’s high priestess, chosen and anointed since she was a girl. And that self-righteous bitch Marbury was going to know it, going to learn her place, before Mick granted her the sweet boon of death. That, she promised herself.

Quibbler scurried in from the antechamber, shoulders hunched over, knees bent. Servile, as always. Mick allowed herself a moment to bask in Quibbler’s obedience. It calmed her wrath somewhat, quenching the fire in her chest and leaving that anger cold. She savored that cold, spiced as it was with the sure knowledge of her power. Her sneer became a smile, sickeningly sweet.

Quibbler, she said, voice silken and deadly soft. Who do we have close to the General Secretary? I want someone of the utmost reliability. There’s a job needs doing.

1.

Lieutenant Colonel Paul Johnson of the United Earth Peacekeeper Marines ducked as a sodden chunk of refuse went flying past his head to splat wetly against the nearby wall. Straightening, he glanced at the resulting stain with disgust. Looked like another tomato.

Johnson shook his head. The colonel was a tall, broadly built man with dark black skin and graying hair cut in a severe military style. He’d been a Peacekeeper for over twenty years. He’d taken fire in South America and lost brothers in Asia. And, in the past two weeks, he’d learned to duck tomatoes.

Who threw that? demanded Major Rayce Okeke, turning angrily on the jeering crowd outside the hydroponics lab. One of Okeke’s hands twitched toward his holstered sidearm. The tomatoes were starting to get to him, apparently. Well? Show yourself!

Let it go, major.

Sir—

Let it go. Johnson’s voice was soft and low, almost sad. But it was also firm, and Okeke recognized a command for what it was. With visible effort, the younger man forced himself to relax.

Satisfied his aide wouldn’t do anything rash, Johnson looked out across the unruly crowd a final time before he resumed his stride toward the waiting cart. They had just come out of the lab when the flying tomato interrupted them. This was the third hydroponics installation they had inspected today, and each had been more of the same. Johnson was eager to be done with it.

It wasn’t only the threat of being pelted with rotten fruit. The Vestans had plenty of other ways to express their displeasure at what they considered an armed occupation. Johnson snorted at the thought. Privately, he had to admit that’s what it was.

In the two standard weeks since his troops had landed, out and out fighting had been minimal. He supposed he ought to give thanks for that. Johnson had close to three thousand marines, but they were effectively cut off following the destruction of the flotilla that brought them here.

Vesta’s population outnumbered his marines more than twenty to one. Civilians, sure. But they were some of the toughest sumbitch civilians Paul Johnson had ever seen. They were Belters, born into the harshest environment humankind had ever known. They lived in space. Most of them worked out in the black, with nothing but home-patched vacsuits to keep them alive.

They were rock miners. They were space hab technicians. Some had softer jobs, sure. A settlement this size had its share of barbers. But they were still Belters. They’d grown up out here, and they didn’t care for Earthers at the best of times. Three thousand Earther marines had invaded their home. It was not the best of times.

He was damned lucky the fighting had been minimal. He had enough fires to put out - some literal - as things stood. The arsons had been limited to the areas where he’d barracked his troops. So far, at least. Other acts of sabotage had been less selective.

Several hydroponic gardens were out of commission, their produce ruined. One had been opened to hard vacuum. It was small relief no one had died in any of those incidents. The med centers had worked overtime to keep it that way.

The saboteurs endangered every life in the habitat. The colonel’s staff couldn’t understand how these people were willing to gamble such stakes. Johnson understood. He was beginning to, at any rate.

This wasn’t Earth. They considered themselves citizens of an independent, self-governing settlement. Ekaterina Miranova hadn’t done anything to deprive them of that conceit. In fact, she’d gone and gotten herself martyred for it.

That was bad enough by itself. Then Marcus Wall arrived. The interim governor came on a fast courier from Earth six days ago. He wasted no time declaring Miranova a terrorist and clamping down - hard - on any attempt by the locals to honor her memory.

Vestans obviously loved that woman. The fact she’d sacrificed her own life for their freedom elevated that love to something almost like religious fervor. Wall’s efforts to smear her name were, in Johnson’s opinion, misguided. He was yet to be surprised by the results.

Another tomato flew out of the crowd, smearing across the electric cart’s windscreen. Okeke tensed, ready to leap off the white faux-leather seat. Johnson laid a gentling hand on his aide’s shoulder. Okeke subsided, mouth set angrily. Johnson shook his head.

Registering both occupants seated, the servitor-driven cart pulled away from the ‘ponics lab. The crowd parted reluctantly in front of it, still shouting and jeering. As the cart picked up speed, their faces blurred to an anonymous mosaic of hate.

Johnson feared he had a much bigger problem than outraged citizenry. His people were disappearing. Soldiers, even Peacekeeper marines, sometimes went AWOL. Johnson could not credit that here. Eleven men, two women, and an enby corporal had all vanished from barracks without explanation. Each had been in their bunk when last seen.

This wasn’t the work of angry locals. The disappearances began five nights ago. Less than a full watch after Marcus Wall came on the scene.

The governor arrived in the company of a small cadre of technicians, each as stiff and unnatural in their manner as Wall himself. They’d enlisted a number of his men to unload dozens of crates marked with the Cross Industries corporate logo.

Wall claimed the crates contained sophisticated communications equipment. Johnson didn’t know much about high tech comm systems. He did know the governor had sealed off the admin wing where the crates had been delivered. No one except Wall’s staff - including Johnson - was allowed inside.

The whole thing stank. Johnson didn’t know what was going on in the restricted area, but he couldn’t shake the suspicion that it was connected somehow to the disappearances. And if that were so…

Sir? The colonel blinked, coming back to himself. They had left the lab and the jeering crowd behind. The servitor-driven cart sped down an empty corridor, cushioned wheels silent against the deck. Beside him, Okeke wore a worried frown.

What is it, major?

We’re heading the wrong way. Okeke held up his handset to show him.

Johnson took in the display at a glance. The location of the final lab scheduled for inspection flashed yellow on the grid-like map on the handset screen. The cart was marked by a slow-moving green triangle. They were, indeed, traveling in the wrong direction.

Query the cart, he said.

Already done, sir. Okeke shook his head. According to the servitor, there’s some kind of obstruction to the optimal path. Debris in the corridor.

That doesn’t sound right, said Johnson.

No, sir. And even if that were the case, we’re still way off course for the secondary route. Do you think…

Let’s hold off on speculation. Johnson scowled in thought. The cart was moving too fast for them to leap clear. The corridor floor was solid alloy, and they’d left their armor behind today. He was getting too old for crap like that, in any case. Where’s this thing taking us?

I’m not sure, sir. Okeke bent his head over the handset, eyes narrowing as he scanned the map grid. Junction coming up. We go left, it could mean the corridor obstruction is genuine. A couple more turns and we’d be more or less back on track for ‘ponics lab seven.

Johnson stared ahead through the pulp smeared windscreen. There was the junction, dead ahead. The main corridor continued around a corner ninety degrees to the left; on the right, a narrower corridor branched off at an oblique angle. The cart slowed minutely and took the right branch.

Johnson and Okeke exchanged a grim look. Walls of brushed alloy closed in tighter to either side of the speeding cart. The major looked down at his handset again. Ramp coming up.

The floor beneath the carts wheels angled down, and they picked up more speed on the descent. The cart slewed alarmingly at the foot, speeding off in a new direction. They rode on in tense silence. The cart took another turn. This corridor was narrower still. Brushed alloy gave way to naked rock walls lined with dirty conduits.

Where the hell are we, major?

Okeke’s handset tried and failed to recalibrate its map. Error tones bleeped plaintively. For the first time, Johnson reached for his holstered sidearm. Without taking his eyes from the corridor ahead, he unbuckled the safety strap and slid his fingers round the stunner’s grip. Beside him, Okeke put away the handset and drew his e-laser.

The corridor terminated abruptly in a dead end, rapidly approaching. Johnson’s stomach flipped and tried to leap out through his back. He braced for impact. At the last second, the cart braked to a screeching halt. Inertia flung the colonel and his aide forward painfully against the windscreen. Okeke’s stunner went tumbling from his grasp, but Johnson managed to keep hold of his.

Wincing at the sharp pain over his left eye, Johnson pushed off the windscreen with his free hand and scanned the corridor hurriedly. Okeke scrambled to recover his fallen sidearm.

No enemy swarmed from concealment. Their cart had come to rest beside a large, hydraulic-powered door on the major’s side. Otherwise, the corridor was empty and featureless.

Falcon One to Falcon Nest. Okeke had reclaimed his electrolaser and, finding the corridor devoid of targets, had dug out his handset with the other hand. Falcon One to Nest, come in.

No reply. Major Okeke mashed at the screen with his thumb, cursing softly under his breath. He glanced back at Johnson and shook his head. They were cut off. Which should not be possible.

Lower your weapons and deposit them carefully on the corridor floor, said a voice emanating from a speaker grille set alongside the hydraulic door. It was highly modulated and altered, rendering it completely anonymous. After a moment, the voice went on. Other option is, we flood the corridor with sleep gas. But we thought we’d try being polite first. So, again. Lower your weapons and leave them on the floor. Please.

Do we have control of the cart? the colonel asked in a whisper.

Okeke repeated his headshake. Johnson bit back a curse. Cut off and without transport. Retreat was a hard prospect going back that long, branchless corridor. Whoever had diverted them still had control of the cart. Their enemy could run them down with ease.

Going to give you guys about fifteen more seconds out there. Then it’s night-night.

Bluff? Johnson conceded it didn’t matter. Their captor - for he had to admit they were, indeed, trapped - had also said they wanted to be polite. That implied a dialogue to be had. Surrendering his weapon went against training and instinct, but Johnson knew there was nothing to win by refusing. If they used knock-out gas, he’d wake up in an hour or so to find himself relieved of it anyway.

Lay down your weapon, major. Johnson leaned over the side of the cart and set his stunner on the corridor floor. He straightened back up and raised both his hands away from his body. He hadn’t spotted the camera, but he knew it was there. Okeke swallowed a protest with an angry grimace and followed suit.

That’s better. Hang tight, fellas. And don’t you move!

With a pneumatic hiss and a groan of improperly lubricated bearings, the large door rose into the ceiling. Three figures appeared out of the thick darkness beyond, clad in baggy, oil-stained jumpsuits.

The two on the outside carried mismatched rifles pointed loosely at the Peacekeepers. They had the leathery look of a couple of rock hoppers who’d spent too much time out in the black wearing shoddy second-hand vac suits, collecting more cosmic rays than mineral ore.

The one in the middle was different.

A woman, Johnson realized as she stepped into the flickering light of the corridor. Tall, slender without the typical weird, emaciated Belter look; dark brown hair pulled back from her face, wavy tresses falling loose over her shoulders. She had sculpted, vaguely Slavic features and a clear, pale complexion. Her eyes shone bright with intelligence. And she had a tail, emerging from a slit in the rear of her ill-fitting coverall to lash the air with irritable strokes of its bushy, gray-striped length. Johnson couldn’t believe it.

Hello, colonel, said Katia Miranova. You and I need to have a little chat.

2.

The entire universe seemed to have flipped upside down, everything changed, in the ten days she’d been lost in space. So it was almost comforting for Katia to see the casual arrogance on the Earthers’ faces as they were prodded into the massive storage bay. Some things never change.

Overhead spotlights blazed to life, banishing the darkness that was no longer tactically useful. Colonel Paul Johnson swept his eyes around his surroundings, never breaking stride. The younger man with him flinched at the sudden glare, but got himself quickly under control.

The bay was long and rectangular, stacked with crates and crowded with equipment. The far end was one enormous industrial airlock, letting into a disused maintenance bay. They were one level above the harbor here, but Katia wasn’t worried about anyone finding them. The Earthers might have taken Vesta, but they could never truly control the station.

Zalesky and Corbin herded the Peacekeepers toward the gantry-like metal stairway set against one wall. Katia followed a few paces behind as they ascended to the protruding, boxy structure of the maintenance office.

They reached the landing, and Corbin shouldered his stolen flechette rifle to open the cheap plastic door for the others. The office was small and cramped. Corbin and Zalesky would wait outside. Katia’s fingers settled lightly on the whiprazor baton at her belt. She didn’t think she’d need it.

She hoped she was right.

* * *

Johnson took in the room, searching for threats. He saw none. It was a ramshackle spaceport auxiliary office, hardcopy maintenance schematics tacked to one wall, the opposite wall an expanse of grime-streaked glass looking down on the bay below. A cheap folding table occupied the center of the room, several uncomfortable looking chairs spread round it. Two people waited within, standing rather than sitting.

The man was short for a Belter, but had the stretched-out, emaciated look common to the space-born. His hair was an unruly mop of graying brown. His inquistive face looked prone to crinkly smiles, and he had bright, curious eyes. The woman at his side had an elfin appearance, with fine, straight blonde hair and ears that rose to the slightest of points. Her expression was dour.

The door swung shut with a soft click at his back. No one spoke for a moment. Johnson felt the major’s eyes on him, questioning.

I suppose we should all take a seat, he suggested.

Indeed. Katia Miranova came