Warp rinse repeat, p.1
Warp, Rinse, Repeat, page 1
WARP, RINSE, REPEAT
TALES OF A FORMER SPACE JANITOR
BOOK 6
JULIA HUNI
Warp, Rinse, Repeat Copyright © 2025
by Julia Huni.
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.
Cover designed by German Creative
Edited by Paula Lester of Polaris Editing
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.
Visit my website at juliahuni.com
First Printing: December 2025
IPH Media
20251211
For everyone who has ever dealt with a chocolate-covered toddler, past, present, and future. May your clothes come clean and the tantrums be few.
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author notes
Also by Julia Huni
CHAPTER ONE
I stand in the middle of my living room, staring in terror at the scene before me. Three monsters run wild through the room, dripping disgusting brown glop across the white sofa and carpet. They smear their goo—undoubtedly acidic—across every surface, their tongues lolling and weird pink teeth gnashing. A strange, stomach-turning stench rises from the one nearest me. I back away, hands up to ward off the horror.
My husband, Tiberius O’Neill y Mendoza bin Tariq e Reynolds, wades into the fray. He looks a little less shiny than usual, with monster goo staining his formerly pristine and excellently tailored trousers. A tear in his shirt gives him a rakish look, although the slobber on his cheek detracts from rather than adds to the effect. And something is making his hair stand up in a very un-O’Neill-like way. He zeroes in on one of the monsters and lunges.
“Got you!” He lifts the squealing, squirming thing and deposits it into a highchair, holding it in place until the auto restraint locks. With a slightly manic grin, he looks up at me. “First one is restrained! Go to a man-to-man defense! I’ve got that one!” He jumps over a pile of colorful toys and lands near another of the creatures.
I look down at the one currently clutching the hem of my skirt in her chocolate-covered fingers. “I guess that means you’re mine.” With a sigh, I lean over to lift the adorable but unbearably sticky baby.
And discover from whence the acrid stench emanates. I turn my head away and blink the newly formed tears from my eyes. “BabySim, off!”
The babies and their chocolate mess disappear, leaving me and O’Neill in the middle of our stark, and now clean, living room.
“Why’d you turn it off? We were winning!” O’Neill looks at his clean hands, dusts them against his once-again spotless slacks, and drops onto the hard but fashionable settee. “Oof.”
“But were we winning?” I lower myself onto the couch beside him. I’ve sat on it enough times to know it will not gently cradle my ever-expanding pregnant body, but will, in fact be like landing on a plascrete bench. Only harder. “Imogen Junior needed a change. I don’t care how good this simulator is, I do not need to practice that.”
He bursts out laughing, then frowns. “We are not naming our daughter Imogen Junior. Your mother already has a big enough head. Wait, what did you name the other two?”
My face heats a little. “Well, the one you restrained is Brad. After your dad.”
“That’s sweet. But I feel like if we name one after my father, we’ll have to go with Imogen.” He cocks his head at me and his eyes narrow. “What did you name the other one?”
My cheeks get a little warmer and I try to deflect with humor. “I was going to call him Fredrico, after that super-hot vid star, but I went with Jared.”
It takes a second, then recognition sparks in his eyes. “After Hy-Mi’s grandson? Your old ‘friend’ who teamed up with terrorists and helped them break into your mother’s house and nearly got you captured?”
“Yeah.” I duck my head. “He helped save us in the end, though. And we had a lot of fun together when we were kids. But don’t worry. Those are just simulator names. I’m not married to any of them.”
“Nope, you’re married to me. For better or worse.” He slides across the granite-like couch and slips an arm around me, moving in for a kiss. A centimeter before his lips touch mine, he pauses. “Can we please get rid of this sofa?”
I snort a laugh and kiss him soundly, then sit back. “You don’t want to wait until the triplets are here and smear chocolate all over it? I’d love to see my mother’s face…” I thump the hard white surface. “Although it probably cleans up with a damp cloth. Maybe we should keep it.”
“I’d much rather get my old Lether sofa out of storage. It wipes clean, too, but is actually comfortable to sit on. I’m still not sure why we let the Ice Dame convince us to use her decorator.” He rises and reaches down to help me up.
“We didn’t ‘let’ her do anything. She decided. It happened.” I groan as he pulls me, and the three babies on board, to my feet. “Is it really supposed to be this hard at only eighteen weeks? I can’t imagine what I’ll feel like at thirty. Or fifty.”
He laughs again, as I intended. His laugh still makes me all squishy and warm inside. “I’m pretty sure at fifty weeks you’ll be recovering from birth while the nannies change the diapers.”
“I hope it doesn’t take that long to recover.” I head for the AutoKich’n. Carrying triplets is hungry work. All. The. Time. And while I love food, I’m actually starting to get a little annoyed with having to eat this often.
Yeah, I don’t believe it either.
O’Neill flicks his holo-ring and pulls up a list. He stretches it wide so I can read it easily from across the room. One line is written in red and crossed out: Imogen, Junior. “See, definitely not allowed. We removed that option months ago. Should I add Jared to the list?” He doesn’t sound excited by the prospect.
“No. I only thought of him because Hy-Mi is visiting him this weekend. He’s been released from probation on Sally Ride and is back home.” Jared and I used to play together when Mother took me dirtside as a child, then when we got older, we competed in our tech classes. Of course, when I ran away, I lost touch with him. Until he showed up with the “Tereshkovan Liberation Front” and tried to kidnap me. Twice. Then turned against them and helped save the day. And his own neck. “And I knew I was going to hate those little monsters by the end of the simulation, so I gave them names of people I don’t like.”
“But you love my dad!” He frowns through the newly added red, crossed-off name. “Don’t you?”
“I do. But I ran out of pseudo enemies. I’m not going to name any of our children, even simulated ones, after people I really hate.”
He swipes the list away and laughs again. “True Triana-style reasoning. This is one of many reasons I love you. Ready to go again?” He flicks his ring again and the Immoyvable Tech logo appears.
“No, I think we’re as trained up as we’re going to get for today.” I pull a dish from the AutoKich’n. “It’s time for elevenses.”
CHAPTER TWO
I lean back in my creaky chair, watching my favorite Ancient TēVē in the Maintenance Control Center. My feet rest on the console, and a take-out box of noodles from my favorite restaurant nestles warm against my chest. The spicy, sweet aroma makes my mouth water. I stretch out a hand to grab my bottle of FizzE Colah, but it’s just out of reach. Setting the noodles on a side table I don’t remember noticing before, I stretch a little farther. The tips of my fingers graze the bottle as I teeter on the edge of my oddly comfortable chair.
Wham! I land on the ground. And a tell-tale pings.
“Good morning, Sera Morgan.”
I groan and refuse to peel my eyes open, laying on the plush carpet beside my bed. The compartment OS insists on calling me by that name. I’m sure my mother could change it—if she wanted—but it refuses to accede to my repeated requests. Time to hack in and change it myself, I guess. “I told you to call me Triana.”
“Of course, Sera Morgan.” The chipper voice pauses, then starts reeling off a list of appointments for the morning. “At eight, you’ll meet with—”
“I know. Please go away.”
“I can’t do that, Sera Morgan. I’m integrat ed into the station—”
“I know.” I shove up from the floor and drop onto the bed. The smug “smart house” turns the lights on full bright, and I slam my arm against my face. “Lights, down seventy percent.”
“Turning lights down seventeen percent, Sera Morgan.”
They can build a space station to house ten thousand people with artificial gravity, automated cleaning bots, and a zero-G gym, but the automated operating system still can’t hear correctly. I give up, squinting as I rise slowly. “Where is Ser O’Neill?”
“Ser Morgan is in his office.”
O’Neill did not take my name when we got married. The house is purposely trying to aggravate me. A twinge in my abdomen as I straighten brings a protective hand to my rounded stomach.
“Your heart rate has increased, Sera Morgan. Please retire to the medsuite for a full scan.”
I glare at the upper corner of the room near the door where I’ve apparently decided the OS is located. “Keep your nose out of my heart rate.”
“I don’t have a nose, Sera Morgan. And my preset parameters require me to investigate when your primary stats stray outside the baseline parameters. Your high-risk pregnancy requires—”
“Your preset parameters are not my concern. I didn’t preset them. And I’m hungry, not sick.” I wave a hand at the door, and surprisingly, it obliges by sliding open. Maybe the Smug House can be reasoned with.
I stalk into the living room which has the Ice Dame’s fingerprints all over it.
Not literally, of course. She can’t be bothered to come all the way down to Level 80, but the décor is one hundred percent Ice Dame. Glossy black and white Sorvarian tile floors. Heavy Marterin brocade drapes. Sleek but uncomfortable white furniture with frighteningly sharp corners. The Internal Relocations are supposed to be moving this stuff out and bringing in the furniture O’Neill and I put in storage when we moved into this larger compartment after we found out about the triplets, but one problem after another has derailed our plans.
Today, that changes.
After breakfast.
At two minutes to eight, I’m sitting in a plush chair in the Ice Dame’s office. Dav, her incredible pastry chef, has provided me with a buttery croissant and a cup of pregnancy-approved decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. And he promised me a bag of protein-enhanced cookies for later. He knows I’m eating for four.
I sip my coffee, trying to remain calm as I wait for my mother to arrive. She didn’t send me an agenda for this meeting, which is highly unusual and makes me slightly nervous. She probably wants me to visit Lewei again. Or Gagarin. Not going to happen while I have babies on board. I draw in a deep breath, preparing for battle.
At five minutes after eight, a holo appears over her desk with the ubiquitous SK2 logo. It dissolves, and my mother stares out at me. “Annabelle.”
“Mother.” I frown and put my coffee aside. “Where are you?”
“I am at Sierra Hotel. Why aren’t you here?”
“Because I’m on the station.” I wave at her office as if that should be obvious. Which it should.
“You were supposed to come down for this meeting.” Her sharp eyes flick to my plate, then to my stomach. It’s uncanny how perfectly the holo transmits her disdain for my breakfast. The one her chef baked.
“My calendar says we’re meeting here.” I’m pretty sure. There’s no way I’m pulling it up just in case I’m wrong. Besides, after this morning’s incident, I’m pretty sure the Smug House will have changed it to put me in the wrong. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here, you’re there. What did you need to discuss?”
“I had hoped to do this in person—”
“Then you should have come up here. Multiple trips to the dirt are not good for the babies.” This is not true. Artificial gravity on the very expensive SK2 shuttle makes traveling to the surface as safe as taking a float tube, but she doesn’t know that. Or at least I don’t think she does. She outsourced all three of her pregnancies, so I doubt she’s up on current medical standards.
Her nose wrinkles the tiniest bit. “Yes, that’s part of the problem.”
I cross my arms. It’s going to be one of those meetings. “Let me guess. I need to move the triplets to an AutoWomb so I can travel whenever you think I need to.”
She presses her lips together and looks off cam for a moment. “That would be one option. But, since you’ve made your opinions on modern medical care extremely clear, I’ve had to evaluate other alternatives.” Her chin lifts a little, as if daring me to argue. She knows I won’t because no one ever does.
My stomach twists, making me wish I’d skipped the croissant. “What does that mean?”
“Your services are no longer required.”
I gawk at her holo for a long moment.
“Close your mouth, Annabelle. You’ll catch flies.”
To a former maintenance worker, that’s a passive-aggressive insult. “There are no flies on SK2, Mother.” I cross my arms. “Are you firing me?”
“Don’t be silly. I can’t fire my daughter. Even when she gives me ample reason to do so.” She lifts a finger, cutting off my hot retort before it leaves my lips. “I’m simply relieving you of your duties.”
“What’s the difference?” And why do I feel like a failure?
“You are clearly occupied with more… domestic responsibilities.” She waves vaguely at me, then looks away again. Is someone sitting over there?
“Who’s with you, Mother?”
Her face goes still for a second—or maybe it’s a comm glitch. Then she flutters a hand at me. “Just your father.”
“R’ger?” I haven’t seen my father since my wedding—not the real one. While on our aborted honeymoon, we ran into the sleazy, alternate reality R’ger, but this universe’s R’ger has been home on Armstrong for a few months.
The view pulls back to include him, and he waves. “Nice to see you, dear.”
“I didn’t know you were coming back to Kaku. Will you come upstairs?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” He glances at my mother, a furtive look that makes the croissant I ate pick a fight with the coffee sloshing around my stomach.
I lean forward to stab a finger at the holo. “What is going on?”
The two exchange a guilty look, which is an emotion I’ve never seen on my mother’s face before. Then her expression blanks. “We’ve talked it over, and we think you should take a sabbatical.”
I poke a thumb at my chest. “You think I should take a—I’ve been working for you for less than a year.”
“As I said, it has become increasingly obvious your attention is focused elsewhere. Therefore, I am offering you the opportunity to make that project your sole priority.” She sits ramrod straight on the edge of her elegant desk chair.
“You are firing me! For being pregnant! I’m pretty sure that’s discrimination!”
“You aren’t fired.” Her lips press tight again. “You may return to your current role when you have completed that task.”
“That task? You mean after I’ve given birth?” My jaw works for a moment, my mind unable to corral my scattered thoughts.
“Or once your children have—” She makes a fluttering motion with both hands.
“Been weaned? Started school? Left home?”
“Exactly. We can firm up the details later.” She leans forward and swipes a hand through the air, cutting the connection.
CHAPTER THREE
I wander across the Level 83 lobby and take the float tube down to 82. The woman at the security desk smiles her perfectly measured smile—equal parts deference, competence, and pride—that sets my teeth on edge. “Sera Morgan.”
“Good morning, Al-Hedrani.” I want to ignore her, like top-levs usually do. Not because I’m a typical top-lev but because I’m giving all of the trappings of that life the silent treatment. Which is extremely unsatisfying when the recipient—or is that non-recipient?—doesn’t realize you’re doing it.
My stomach growls, so I exit the little lobby and find a bench in the Level 82 concourse. I’d prefer to return to one of my favorite haunts—the hidden park on Level 20 or the Quantum Slurp on 11, but this will have to do. I unfold the top of the stasis bag and pull out one of Dav’s perfect chocolate chip cookies. He told me once that the key to the perfect cookie is the tiny variations the Autokich’n can’t reproduce—an extra chip here, a little more butter there. Whatever the reason, his cookies, made by hand, are the best.
