The Rings of Grissom: Tales of a Former Space Janitor

by Julia Huni

  The Rings of Grissom

  Tales of a Former Space Janitor

  Julia Huni

  IPH Media

  The Rings of Grissom Copyright © 2021 by Julia Huni. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Editing by Paula Lester of Polaris Writing and Editing.

  Cover designed by Les of German Creative.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Julia Huni

  Visit my website at http://www.juliahuni.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: Jan 2021

  ISBN: 9798588646079

  IPH Media

  Books by Julia Huni

  Colonial Explorer Corps Series:

  The Earth Concurrence

  The Grissom Contention (Spring 2021)

  Recycled World Series:

  Recycled World

  Reduced World

  Space Janitor Series:

  The Vacuum of Space

  The Dust of Kaku

  The Trouble with Tinsel

  Orbital Operations

  Glitter in the Stars

  Sweeping S’Ride

  Triana Moore, Space Janitor (the complete series)

  Tales of a Former Space Janitor

  The Rings of Grissom

  Krimson Empire (with Craig Martelle):

  Krimson Run

  Krimson Spark

  Krimson Surge

  Krimson Flare

  If you enjoy this story, sign up for my newsletter, at juliahuni.com and you’ll get free prequels and short stories, plus get notifications when the next book is ready.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author’s note

  Also by Julia Huni

  For my friends Jim and Nancy,

  who knew a thing or two about marriage.

  We miss you, Jim.

  One

  The barista is in a foul mood. Her nametag, labeling her Sunshine, hangs at an odd angle from the top of her apron. Her hair sticks out crazily, as if she combed it with the micro-whisk she’s using to foam a venti mocha-cherry skinny-fat mud-pi-chito.

  She slams the huge mug and saucer onto the counter and bellows, “Train!”

  Ty O’Neill and I look around the coffee shop. We’re the only occupants. “Is that Triana?” he asks with his shiny smile as he approaches the counter.

  “Who else would it be?” she snarls. “Here’s your plain coffee, too.” She drops a mug a few centimeters above the faux granite. It lands with a crack, the steaming beverage splashing out.

  “Is something wrong?” He’s too nice to just take the coffee and run.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Sunshine spits out. “Everything is peachy!”

  O’Neill nods uncertainly, takes the cups, and drips across the room to our table. “I’m not sure how this is going to taste.”

  “The machine dispenses the ingredients.” I blow on the foam. “Hard to mess that up.”

  He sits across from me and smiles. As always, it sends a flutter of warmth through my chest. His eyes lock onto mine, and I’m lost in their chocolate beauty.

  After a few seconds, it feels a little weird. “Are you just going to stare at me all morning?”

  He laughs. “Sorry. I’m just happy to be here with you.”

  The door swings open, and two women in Peacekeeper uniforms enter the cafe. Sunshine looks up with another scowl, but the officers ignore her. “Are you Annabelle Morgan?” the shorter one asks.

  O’Neill goes still and turns to face them. “What’s this about?”

  “Sera Morgan, you need to come with us.” The taller one—her nametag reads Watson—flicks her holo-ring, and a message pings me. “You don’t have a visa.”

  “She just arrived on the CSS Vesteralen,” Ty says. “The cruise ticket includes a tourism visa.”

  “Sera Morgan, your visa expired when the ship departed.” The women ignore O’Neill.

  I pull up the message on my holo-ring. It’s from the Peacekeepers, detailing a list of infractions I’ve committed by being on the planet and a list of fines and penalties for each infraction.

  “The ship only left twenty minutes ago,” O’Neill says.

  “And she wasn’t on it.” Watson pins a glare on O’Neill. “Who are you, her lawyer?”

  “I’m her security detail,” O’Neill says, flicking his identification to the peacekeeper.

  “This says you work for SK2, not Sera Morgan.” The midget—Kato—eyes him speculatively.

  “Sera Morgan is the daughter of the chair of the SK2 board.” O’Neill stands, staring down at Kato.

  “And on the planet illegally.” Watson straightens her spine, bringing her eyes level with O’Neill’s hairline. She gives him an icy once-over that would impress my mother and turns to me. “Sera Morgan, come with us. Now.”

  It’s odd that they’re immune to O’Neill’s charm. Most women find him irresistible. Most men, too, for that matter. Maybe they’re a new breed of android. I get to my feet and put a hand on O’Neill’s arm. “I’m sure we can fix this. Let’s go with them and work it out.”

  O’Neill’s gaze softens when he looks at me. “I can take care of this.”

  “No, you can’t.” Kato’s hand moves to her side. She’s carrying a weapon, but her fingers reach toward the handcuffs clipped to a ring on the belt. “Sera Morgan must come with us.”

  I pick up my mud-pi-chito. “Can we get these to go?” I ask Sunshine.

  She growls. I take that as a yes and carry the mugs to the counter. She dumps the coffee into plastek cups and slaps a pair of lids on the counter next to them. “Make sure you recycle ‘em. That’ll be two more credits.”

  Before O’Neill can move, I flick the credits from my holo-ring and snap the lids onto the cups. “Thanks for your help.” I add a huge tip, hoping to brighten her day. And that she’ll remember me if I disappear into the Grissom legal system, never to be seen again.

  Not that I’m worried about that. Grissom is a civilized planet. As far as I know.

  Coffee in hand, we step into the sunny street. It’s more crowded than when we arrived—the Vesteralen departed shortly after dawn, and I got off just before it left. The two peacekeepers flank us, and civilians on the st
reet give us a wide berth.

  We arrive in front of a marble building with tall columns and wide steps. The words “Grissom Justice Department” are engraved in weird, spiky-looking letters across the top. Inside, O’Neill is directed to a waiting area.

  “I’m her security detail,” he protests. “I need—”

  “You need to take a seat, Ser.” Watson smiles—an expression that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Surely, you aren’t inferring the Grissom Justice Department would do anything to endanger your client.”

  O’Neill holds up his hands. “Of course not.” He leans in to give me a quick kiss. “I’ll be right over there.”

  “Security, huh?” Kato mutters as she opens a door. “That’s not what we call it.”

  Watson chuckles and herds me through the door. It closes behind us with a strange feeling of finality.

  It turns out leaving a cruise ship before your ticketed departure station causes problems. Who knew? When I left the CSS Vesteralen at Station Cristoforetti, I didn’t worry about my luggage. Or my pre-paid ticket to SK2. Or my entrance fee to the Dancing in the Stars competition.

  Actually, I didn’t know anything about that last one until I got the bill this morning. It came in a few minutes after we arrived at the coffee shop. Someone must have signed me up—probably Joan. She’s on the CSS Caledonia, but she appears to have friends throughout Pleiades StarCruises.

  I had abandoned my cabin on the ship because I couldn’t let O’Neill think I didn’t care about him. He’d taken leave to visit his family here on Grissom while I returned to SK2. After all the misunderstandings between us, I knew it was more about getting away from me than seeing them. Vanti, his old partner and another SK2 security agent, was returning to SK2 with me and R’ger Chaturvedi.

  “You took the shuttle from Cristo at oh-six-twenty?” James Shu-Arya, an immigration agent assigned to my case, sits across the metal table from me. He makes a note on his tablet and sighs. He wears a threadbare suit, and his bad comb-over and the deep grooves by his eyes and mouth show he hasn’t had any rejuv. I hope his apparent destitution is not an indication of his professional abilities.

  “Yeah.” I shove a hand through my own messy hair. “I needed to see Ty—Ser O’Neill—and the ship was scheduled to leave at six-thirty.”

  “You had no intention of returning to the ship?” He sighs again and yawns.

  “What makes you say that?” I’m not sure admitting to anything is a good idea.

  “You packed a bag.” He points to the small tote bag laying by the door. “And you left the station ten minutes before the ship sailed.” He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t make eye contact.

  “I didn’t realize it was a big deal.” My fingers tap the table. I shove my hands in my lap. “I can pay the fines.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me?” His head pops forward, and he fixes his bloodshot eyes on me. “Because I’d be okay with that.”

  “No, I’m trying to do what’s right.” I indicate my holo-ring. “I can flick the credits over right now if that helps.”

  “Aw,” he moans. I’m not sure if he was hoping for a payout or that he’d be able to shake me down for attempted bribery. “I’ll take you to the desk sergeant.” He pushes the chair back and stands. “This way.”

  He leads me through the barren hallway to a barred window at the end. “Sergeant Nenge will take your payment.”

  “Name?” Nenge asks.

  “Triana Moore,” I say automatically. Then I shake my head. “Or Annabelle Morgan.”

  Nenge’s eyes flicker with interest. “Which is it?”

  “Both. Annabelle Morgan is my birth name, but I use Triana Moore—for privacy.” My mother is one of the wealthiest people on Station Kelly-Kornienko, which means she could buy most of the galaxy if she thought it would turn a profit. I ran away when I was eighteen, changed my name, and attended the Techno-Inst. Then, in a move that would make my therapist—if I had one—a star on the vid circuits, I took a job as a maintenance worker on SK2. I lived under the radar for a few years until I met Ty—and came to my mother’s attention once again.

  I flick my holo-ring to bring up the PayNow app, and Nenge sends me the bill. It’s an astronomical amount—or would be for a maintenance worker. Fortunately, Annabelle Morgan’s account holds more than enough credits to cover it.

  “Thank you for visiting Grissom,” Nenge says, his voice devoid of sarcasm.

  “My pleasure.” I glance at the door. “Can I go now?”

  “Please.” His hand moves, and the door clicks open, accompanied by an ear-splitting buzz. “It’ll stop once you go through.”

  “Thanks.” I hike my bag onto my shoulder and hurry out.

  Two

  The door snaps shut, and the buzz stops. I’m standing in a large, echoing room. A couple of bubbles with the word “Peacekeeper” emblazoned across them hang from cables on the far side. I seem to be in the garage.

  “Hello?” I call. No one answers.

  I turn and pound on the door, but nothing happens.

  “Ah, the fugitive.”

  I spin around to face Watson and Kato. “Can you tell me how to get back to Agent O’Neill? He’s waiting for me.”

  “It’ll be a long wait.” Watson takes my arm and hurries me toward the first bubble. “You are going back to the Vesteralen.”

  “But I don’t want to go back to the ship!” I try to dig in my heels, but she pushes harder. The woman is like a tank. “O’Neill is staying here!”

  “He’s a resident.” Kato opens the bubble door, still fingering her handcuffs. “He can come and go as he pleases. But you’re an illegal alien, and you’re being deported.”

  “I paid the fines!” I protest as they shove me into the back of the bubble. Automated security restraints wrap around my body and pin my arms to the armrests.

  “Those fines were for breaking the law,” Watson says. “You still don’t have a visa, so you need to leave.” The two women take seats at the front of the bubble, and a purple haze snaps across the space between us. A force shield—probably intended to keep violent offenders away from the arresting officers.

  “I can get a visa!” I cry. My words bounce back to me. Watson and Kato speak, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. The force shield has an audio damper built in. If I could access my holo-ring, I might be able to circumvent it, but my hands are immobilized.

  The bubble pops off its charging cable, and we shoot out of the garage. A wailing siren blares as we streak into the street. The bubble lifts off the ground, travelling a couple of meters above the road to avoid traffic. In minutes, we’ve reached the shuttle port.

  Watson releases the restraints. Before I can flick my holo-ring, Kato has her cuffs on my wrist. She yanks me out of the seat by one arm and twists it around behind me as she shoves me out of the bubble. Watson grabs my right arm and pulls it around for Kato to lock the cuffs. Then they push me across the tarmac.

  An unmarked shuttle, small and sleek, stands on the apron. As I stumble across the plascrete, I try to send a message to O’Neill. It’s hard to do with my arms behind my back, but I manage to send something. At this point, I’m not sure who it went to or if it was gibberish, but at least someone will know something is wrong. Or they’ll think they got drunk-dialed.

  The women hand me off to another peacekeeper and shut the shuttle hatch in my face. I turn to the black-clad officer, but he’s wearing a mirrored helmet and has no nametag. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “You can call me Bill,” he says, his voice deep and clear. “Get yourself strapped in. We have a launch slot in three minutes.”

  “Are you really going to chase after the Vesteralen and dump me?” If I move slowly and keep him distracted, maybe we’ll miss our launch window.

  “Not going to work, sweetheart,” Bill says. He’s already strapped into the single seat in the front of the cabin and is swiping icons on his control holos. “I’ve never missed a launch, and I’m not going to ruin m
y record for you. If you don’t want to get splatted across the back of the cabin, you’d best get strapped in.”

  “But what about my cuffs?” I turn so he can see my hands. He flicks a finger, and the cuffs fall away from my wrists.

  “Fancy.” I kick them across the cabin and move toward the three seats in the rear.

  “You might want to pick those up,” Bill calls over his shoulder. “Loose items become projectiles in high-velocity situations.”

  It sounds like a quote, but I can’t place it. I stomp across the tiny cabin and snag the cuffs, shoving them into my bag. Then I strap into a seat and activate the messaging app on my holo-ring.

  The first message is a non-deliverable with a string of gibberish in the subject line. So much for my behind-the-back message sending. I swipe it away and write a quick text to O’Neill. When I flick send, nothing happens.

  A yellow icon pops up near Bill’s head, and he swipes it away. “Sorry, external messages are quarantined. You’ll have to wait until we reach the Vesteralen to send.”

  I grind my teeth and start digging into their security system.

  When we dock with the CSS Vesteralen, I still haven’t cracked the message quarantine. I consider leaving a couple of my favorite trouble-making viruses behind then decide burning my bridges might not be my best action. I may want to return to Grissom someday—especially since I’m planning on a long-term relationship with O’Neill.