The Rings of Grissom: Tales of a Former Space Janitor

by Julia Huni

  “Same reason you did. He certified my ship.”

  “Why did you ask me to help you if Kate’s already working all of this?” O’Neill asks. “If she’s got it under control, I’d prefer to have Triana away from potential danger.”

  Bill flushes and glances at the security guys. They’re both engrossed in the files O’Neill sent. Or at least appear to be. I suspect they’re listening to every word we say. Best way to keep your principal safe is to know what they’re up to, right?

  “I called you because Aretha wanted you to come home.”

  O’Neill stares at Bill. “What?”

  “Wait a minute,” I break in. “Akiko got me deported. Then, when Ty came back to SK2, Aretha tried to pull him away again? Is this all about getting him away from me?”

  “It might be,” Bill mutters. “Aretha didn’t think you’d come along. And she did think Ty would help me.”

  “What is wrong with those women?” O’Neill demands.

  I put a hand on his arm. “They’re your family. They’re trying to do what’s best for you. And since you quit working for the board, there wasn’t any reason for you to stay on SK2. Except me.” I smile, feeling all warm and melty at the thought that he stayed only for me.

  “I still have a job.” He stares at me. “Did you think I left board sec? I quit working for Dame Morgan.”

  “But you said you resigned.” The warmth drains from my body. “You packed up your compartment and moved out.”

  “That’s when I thought you were dumping me.” He shifts in his seat to face me better. “Once we got the whole deportation thing ironed out, I asked Don Said if I could come back.”

  “But why were you living in Mother’s guest compartment?”

  “It’s not easy finding a place I can afford on SK2.” He chuckles. “You should know that.”

  I do. A maintenance tech makes way less money than board security. The place Kara and I had on Level 6 was better than our studio on Level 2, but it took months on a waiting list to get in. Everything on the station is fully occupied.

  “I’m on leave without pay right now,” O’Neill says to Bill. “I already used up my vacation time. But when family asks for help, you go.”

  Bill’s face turns red. “We thought you’d quit. That you were just hanging around the station because of her.” His eyes dart to me then away.

  O’Neill rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, we’re here now. You’re going to get help, whether you want it or not. And if there’s a connection between this al-Petrosian and the one we put away, you’re going to get a lot more help than you expected.”

  “This pod will arrive in Levaward Station in fifteen seconds.” The countdown appears above the door again. The invisible restraints, which had loosened while we traveled, tighten across our laps.

  “Arriving in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Welcome to Levaward Station. Please collect your belongings before departing the pod.”

  The clock clicks to zero then goes blank. The pressure across my hips vanishes, and I stand, turning toward the door. The men get to their feet, blocking the doors.

  We wait. Nothing happens.

  Then an explosion throws us to the floor.

  Fifteen

  O’Neill shoves me under the seats, his chest and shoulders protecting my head from the outside world. Dust sifts down, dropping grit into my eyes. I blink, tears blurring my vision. Blood pumps in my ears, drowning out the ringing left by the blast. “What happened?”

  “Stay down,” O’Neill says, pushing me against the wall. The struts supporting the seats dig into my back and legs, but I don’t say anything. I flick through my audio implant channels, trying to find the frequency the men are using. They must be talking via the implants—there’s no way they’re silent right now. Unless they’re injured.

  “Are the hulk and the android okay?” I whisper. My stomach clenches at the thought of the death and destruction an explosion that size could cause.

  “They’re fine.” O’Neill rolls away and springs to a crouch. After a minute, he reaches out to me.

  I take his hand and let him extract me from my hiding place. My back burns as my shoulder comes away from the strut—I’ll have a bruise there. “How’s Bill?”

  O’Neill glances around the pod and pulls me to my feet. “He’s good. No injuries. We need to get out of here.”

  “Station door is blocked,” Andron says through the implant.

  Hah, I found the right signal.

  The pod has cracked across the top. A chunk is missing behind our seats, and dust fills the air. I peek through—a ragged hole gapes in the wall between the tracks and the station. The lights inside our pod have failed, but the one behind us glows, giving the whole scene an eerie atmosphere.

  The screech of plastek being forced rips at my eardrums. “Off-side door is opening,” the hulk says. “I can’t get it all the way open, but we can get through.”

  “Get out there and check for threats.” O’Neill’s voice is calm, decisive. “Stay off the pod-rail in case they’re still sending traffic through.”

  “Roger.” There’s more ear-splitting noise as the hulk pulls the doors farther apart. “Clear. There are three other pods in the station. I’m going to check on them.” There’s silence for a few moments, then his voice comes back. “No one is responding when I pound on them. Returning.”

  “Triana.” Ty’s whisper comes through the audio. “Let’s go. Set your audio to channel thirty-four.”

  “Already there.” I grin and swipe some dust off his shoulder. Bill coughs. “Sorry, Bill.”

  He waves me off. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I slide through the gap in the off-side door. Taking the hand Ferrigi holds out, I jump the meter to the ground. The soft glow of the other pods through the dust gives the tunnel an eerie atmosphere. Bill and Andron—still inside our pod—show as faint shadows on the translucent material. The other pods appear to be empty.

  “Stay to the left of that red line.” Ferrigi releases my hand and points at the floor. A small blaster has appeared in his other hand. “That’s the pod track, and if one comes through here, it will smash you like a bug. Stay behind me.”

  We make our way along the narrow path, past the three other pods, and into the empty parking stalls beyond.

  “Don’t stop here—when emergency vehicles arrive, they’ll pull into the unoccupied spaces.” O’Neill points over my shoulder. “There’s a maintenance catwalk up there. Ferrigi, take Triana there while we get one of these doors to the station open.”

  The hulk turns to take my right arm in his left hand—the one not holding a blaster. “This way, Sera.” My shoulder pulls and aches when he moves my arm.

  “Are you sure we want to go in?” Bill asks. “There was an explosion in there. Aren’t we safer out here?”

  O’Neill exchanges a look with the other two agents and nods. “Good call. Let’s see if we can access the surface another way.”

  Their feet clatter on the metal ladder as they follow us up to the catwalk that runs alongside the pod tunnel.

  A glimmer in the distance precedes a waft of oily smelling air. “Pod coming!” Bill calls out.

  O’Neill pushes me against the wall, standing between me and the narrow railing at the edge of the catwalk. Burning sears my back—I must have wrenched something pretty good.

  “I’m not going to fall off,” I mutter.

  “The station just blew up.” He doesn’t look at me—his eyes are trained on the approaching light. “That could be anyone. Andron, watch our six.”

  “If they were trying to sneak up, wouldn’t they leave their light off?” I lean against the wall. My legs are starting to shake—probably a delayed reaction to the explosion. My heart is still pounding in my head, but the ringing in my ears has eased. I take a shaky breath.

  Ferrigi stands to my left, legs apart, blaster aimed at the oncoming light. O’Neill takes a half step away, giving me a little breathing room. “Get dow
n, Triana,” he whispers over his shoulder.

  I slide down into a crouch, the rough wall tearing at my bruised back. At the bottom, my legs decide it’s time to rest and slide out from under me, dropping my butt to the coarse metal grating. The floor is cold—it seems to leech all the warmth from my body.

  “Triana?” O’Neill’s voice sounds sharp.

  I try to answer, but it’s too much effort. He knows where I am. If I look up, I’ll be staring right at his fabulous rear end. I try to lift my chin, but my head doesn’t want to obey my commands. A heavy weight settles on my shoulders and chest. My eyes close. I’ll just rest while they figure things out. What’s the point of having bodyguards if you can’t let them do all the work once in a while?

  “Triana!”

  I blink at O’Neill’s face, right in front of mine. “Wha—?”

  “Where are you hurt?” He picks up my arm and moves it around. I don’t feel anything. It looks funny, just flopping around so bonelessly, but I can’t muster the energy to giggle. Plus, I’m so cold.

  “Ty, there’s blood on the wall.” Bill’s voice seems to come from far away. “She’s bleeding.”

  O’Neill lowers me to the catwalk. A pod whooshes by, the light stabbing through my closed eyelids. Then it’s gone. Two or three more scream past, red and blue lights flickering. Emergency vehicles? I don’t care—someone else can worry about that.

  “Triana.” O’Neill’s hands hold my face, blessedly warm against my cold cheeks. “We think you took some shrapnel to the back. We’re calling a med team. I’m going to roll you over.”

  When they ease me onto my stomach, a thin piece of fabric protects my cheek from the rough grating. Someone’s shirt? It’s still faintly warm. I breathe in. Smells like O’Neill. I rub my cheek against it, feeling safe and protected. Ty will take care of everything.

  Sixteen

  I’m lying on the deck of a sailboat under the warm sun of Sally Ride. Water sloshes against the hull, and a bird squawks overhead. The salt of the sea breeze tickles my nose but disappears under a stronger one—roasting meat and garlic. O’Neill must have fired up the barbeque.

  “Would you like a margarita?” Vanti appears suddenly, her head blocking the sun. “We’re supposed to get a blizzard this afternoon.” She holds out a puffy snow boot with a tiny umbrella and a straw sticking out of the top.

  I look around, but the deck has disappeared under a layer of Christmas ornaments. When I sit up, tinsel slides off my chest and shoulders, leaving strands of metallic icicles clinging to my thick sweater. A vague sense of dread pours through me like honey. I hate this stuff—it wraps around the vacuum bars and destroys my bots.

  Vanti, now a meter-tall food-delivery bot with spectacular copper hair, grins. I’m not sure how I know she’s smiling—the bot doesn’t have a face.

  “This is a dream, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “Of course.” The voice sounds just like Vanti when she’s playing her college recruiter role—relentlessly cheerful. “Would you like fries with that?”

  My eyes peel open. With the hiss of an air seal breaking, the curved translucent surface above me hinges up. A med pod. Light stabs at my eyes, forcing them shut. I blink furiously, trying to see who’s waiting for me.

  The room is small and bright. White walls gleam and the smell of antiseptic fills the cool air. I glance down at my body, which is covered by a thin blanket. Med pods can treat some injuries while the patient is fully clothed, but mine is apparently not one of them. I clutch the blanket to my chest and sit up slowly.

  O’Neill sprawls across a chair in the corner. Stubble covers his chin, and his skin looks waxy. His perpetually perfect hair sticks out at all angles. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when we visited Bill, so not too much time has passed.

  “Are you okay?” I croak.

  His eyes pop wide. “Triana?”

  “I’m fine.” I think for a moment. It feels true, and if I just came out of a med pod, it probably is. “I’m fine,” I say again with more conviction. “What happened?”

  “A piece of the pod must have sliced into your back.” He gets up and crosses the small room. His fingers trace a line down my back. “We didn’t notice it until we were on the catwalk. Didn’t you feel it?”

  I shrug, and a tiny pain zings through my shoulder. “I thought I bruised it when you pushed me under the seat. I guess I was operating on adrenaline.”

  “We got lucky.” His arms slide around me, pulling me close. “You lost a lot of blood. Luckily, the emergency responders got there quickly, and they brought us here.”

  “Where’s here?” I don’t really care. He’s holding me against his chest, warm, strong and comforting, while his hands slide over my bare back. Through the thin blanket, I can feel his solid chest, his heart thumping fast against my cheek. I burrow closer.

  Behind him, the door whooshes open. His hands drop as he spins to meet the threat. I scrabble at the blanket as it slides away.

  “Oh, it’s you.” His shoulders relax, and he rises from the half-crouch.

  I get the blanket secured and peer over his shoulder.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Vanti says. “But there’s press gathering outside. Someone must have leaked the Runner’s involvement.”

  The Runner. That’s their so flattering code name for me. Aretha and Akiko would love it. “Can we please change my code name?”

  “Hi, Triana.” Vanti doesn’t smile—she saves that expression for her undercover personalities. She holds out a pile of clothing. “I brought you some gear. Griz, let’s give her some space to get dressed while we plan our escape.”

  O’Neill nods. His fingers graze my cheek in a warm caress, and he leans in for a fast kiss. “I’ll be right outside.”

  When the door closes behind them, I use the facilities and get dressed. I try to avoid the mirror, but the horror of my unchecked hair is unavoidable. My frizzy red curls stand out in all directions, like a clown after a hurricane. Fortunately, Vanti’s got my back. I find a pair of her industrial-strength hair ties in my pocket. With the mess contained to the back of my head, I can face the world.

  I wave the door open and step out. O’Neill and Vanti glance up from their conversation, and he holds out his hand. I cross the narrow waiting room. It’s deserted except for us and Andron standing guard by the exit. The door behind Vanti opens, and she spins, hands up. A white-coated med tech stops in surprise.

  O’Neill moves Vanti aside. “Is she cleared to go?” He nods at me.

  The woman looks at the holo-file in her palm then at me. “I need to do a final check.”

  “Really?” Vanti crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t trust the med pod.”

  “Not for high-profile patients.” The tech shrugs. “I’m sure she’s fine, but everyone knows SK2 folks are litigious by nature.”

  “If the pod says I’m fine, I’m fine,” I mutter.

  “The Ice Dame is gonna want proof,” Vanti says.

  “Send her the med pod file.” I glare at Vanti. “I’m not a child, and I can be released under my own recognizance or whatever.”

  “Let Dr. Tyson do a final check,” O’Neill says. “Please? We want to be sure.”

  I roll my eyes and stomp back into the examination room. The doctor—they really must be worried about a lawsuit if they sent an actual doctor—runs her scanner over me. She peers into my ears and throat and even pulls out an archaic stethoscope to listen to my lungs and heart.

  “Satisfied?” I heave a sigh. “Wouldn’t it be more effective to have me sign a waiver?”

  “Oh, I have that too.” She swipes a file out of her holo-ring and flips it to me. “Standard release paperwork. Oh, and here’s a snack. The agents said you’d be hungry.”

  I grab the chocolate and rip it open. “First sensible thing you’ve said.” I run the waiver through the LegalCheck app and swipe my hand through the accept icon. “Can I go now?”

  “You’re cleared.” She smiles a profession
al smile. “Thank you for choosing Blenheim Hudson Foretelli-Smythe Summit Medical and Technical Group.”

  “I didn’t really get a choice,” I mutter as I wave the door open. “But you’re welcome.”

  “We’re going out the back,” Vanti says as I emerge again. “Through the kitchen, to avoid the press. Dame Morgan will issue a statement once we’re clear.”

  I try not to roll my eyes again. O’Neill takes my hand, his fingers warm against mine. His hair has magically fallen into place again, as always. “How long have we been here?”

  “Couple of hours,” O’Neill says, pulling me down a deserted hall behind Vanti. Andron falls in behind. “Bill went home. Luckily, Kate reached the inspector’s office early, so she wasn’t caught in the explosion.”

  “Where’s the hulk?” We turn and start down another empty corridor. “And where’s everyone else? This is a medical center, right?”

  “We asked them to clear the halls along our route,” O’Neill says. “Ferrigi is by the back door.”

  We pass through an empty kitchen. Gleaming white cabinets line the walls. Pots full of bland-looking food lay abandoned. I yank my fingers out of O’Neill’s grasp and turn off the heat under a soup pot that is close to boiling over. Nobody wants to clean that up.

  We work our way through a storage and delivery bay to a large loading dock at the rear of the building. Ferrigi stands in an open doorway, watching. He turns his head and mutters through the audio implant. “Clear to exit.” Late afternoon sunlight streams in around him.

  The O’Neill family carriage stands half-hidden behind a delivery truck. At least it looks like the one we rode in earlier. It’s a boxy, black vehicle with a translucent gray top. We move forward as a block, with me in the middle and the four security people surrounding me. I feel like an actor in a cheesy political drama.

  A drone buzzes around the corner of the building. With a wave of O’Neill’s hand, the carriage door opens. He checks inside, then Vanti pushes me into the vehicle. The others pile in behind me, and the door slams shut. Before I’m strapped in, the carriage moves forward.