Binary Systems [Complete, Slice-of-Life Sci-Fi Romance]

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Karen: Hiram is like a compiler. I can hate how he treats people while respecting him.

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Thursday, November 28th, 2090, about 8:15 pm MST, Montana City, Karen's House

Karen remembered when she'd first seen the grandeur of Hiram's house.

The contrast to her own had been—stark.

She'd felt safe. Nowhere to be cornered.

It had been years later when Hiram had asked about it.

"I have become aware," he said, "that you are spending upwards of three days a week in my home. I don't have any particular problem with that in concept.

What troubles me is my lack of knowledge about your motivation.

My daughter says you live in a troubled home. She also says that this has been driving you to look into cybernetics—of all things—as a potential career field.

Far be it from me to talk someone out of pursuing an advanced degree. I wish more people would.

But I need to know who I am letting into my house. Who is going to be such a formative part of my daughter's life?

Why are you afraid to go home?"

And she told him about her father.

She told him that her father had idiopathic neuralgia.

She told him that she believed there was no reason we shouldn't be able to measure pain—when we can measure how wide an atom is, and write our names with nanomachines.

And he agreed with her.

"When I was in college—at about your age," he said, which was the most ruthless flex in the entire world,

"I also found a low-hanging fruit.

And it took me eight years to build myself into someone capable of snatching it.

I approve of ambition. I appreciate loyalty.

And I will say nothing more about it.

You've been a good guest.

Hiram House welcomes you."

Years later, when as a too-serious teen, Gordon had been approached by her a couple of years later, when she asked him to write some firmware, his father had smiled benignly and given him the week to do it.

There was something very unnatural about bringing him to hers instead.

–––❖–––

It wasn't a big house. The siding was old and sagging in places, the shingles on the roof a faded, uniform brown that reminded Gordon of wet cardboard. But the small lawn was neatly kept, the garage door was shut tight against the cold, and the driveway was tidy.

Gordon's car was very, very much out of place. His Mazda RX Vision sat gleaming under the weak porch light, a symbol of obscene luxury dropped into a neighborhood of quiet, working-class squalor.

"Is it safe to park here?" Gordon asked as she got out, stamping her feet on the recently salted asphalt to ward off the cold. In addition to all of its other futuristic features, the Vision's climate control system had aged poorly, and the drive over had been chilly.

"You could leave the keys in it and it'd be perfectly safe," she joked, "Since it doesn't start."

He'd had to use the jump tool from the boot to get it off the compound and onto the road. Her joke wasn't without merit. "It's my car," he protested. "I was just asking."

He could hear the whirring of the security drones following him–three, to keep him in sight while off the compound. He hated it. He hated more that it was so normal-feeling.

He followed her through the dark entryway. "Dad's out," she said, her voice flat. "Drinking, probably."

Gordon wasn't sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. He took in the house. It was more than bare; it was spartan. There was a broom and dustpan tucked neatly in one corner, but no clocks on the walls, no cookie jars or candles on the countertops, no clips holding chip bags closed. The floors were stained but recently swept. The threadbare couch had no decorative cushions. The blinds were clean but framed by empty windows, without curtains.

It was the home of someone who was just. . . existing.

"Just him here now," Karen said, her voice tight, as if answering his unspoken question. "I come by once a week to clean up."

"Seems clean," he nodded. The words felt lame as soon as they left his mouth, but he didn't know what else to say.

"My room's this way," she said, and took his hand.

Her fingers were freezing, even in her gloves.

The room was sparse, much like the rest of the house, missing the little finishing touches that make a place a home. But here, the sparseness seemed more purposeful. Gordon recognized the layout, the efficient minimalism: bed, desk, dresser, two chairs, a Roomba tucked in a corner.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Looks like my room, he realized. Only pink.

"You're the first person I knew who seemed to have it figured out," Karen said, her voice quiet. "Except for the bedsheets—you were just an idiot for that—but you cut things down to the essentials, and it worked. So I tried to copy you, like. . . six years ago. And then Dad did what he did, and I've mostly been at Claire's since. So. Hope it isn't too weird."

That was incredibly sad, he thought. He looked around. No knick-knacks. The jewelry box on the dresser had its lid closed, as did the makeup chest. She apparently dusted regularly. There was a stark tidiness to the room, a sense of a space preserved rather than lived in.

Where was the daring, confident woman he knew from the gym and the game?

"No candles," he commented, the observation slipping out.

"What?"

"No candles," he repeated. "No hanging photos, not even a music player. Where's the . . . sex, and romance?"

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't bring people home," she told him. "Never dated someone who wouldn't need to be afraid of Dad."

"Are we dating?" Gordon asked, his tone gentle.

"Please don't make fun," she whispered, her shoulders hunching. She looked small and suddenly very cold. "I want you here with me. I brought you here for a reason. I want us to share something important, and it starts with you knowing who I am, and me getting to know who you are."

"Hey," he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. She felt stiff, resistant, then melted into the hug. "I'm sorry. It's been a weird week."

"Listen," he said after a moment, feeling the chill of her skin even through his shirt. "You look really uncomfortable. Do you need a foot rub or something?"

She pulled back, a flicker of her usual wry humor returning to her eyes. "A foot rub? Gordon, I'm a girl in a strapless dress. Logistically, for a foot rub to happen, I have to lie down. The dress gets bunched up. The strapless bra is an instrument of torture, so it has to go. And I'm not wearing pants under this. So what you're actually saying is, 'Hey Karen, I want you to get into your underwear so I can rub your feet.'"

She paused, tilting her head. "Is that really the line you want to go with?"

"It's better than my last one," he admitted.

"Uh-huh," she replied. "Well, you'd better do my zipper."

As the borrowed dress came off, she held it for a moment, the fabric pooling in her hands. "This was really nice," she said, a little wistfully. "Shame about the occasion."

She tossed it onto a chair. "I barely keep anything here nowadays."

She pulled an old jacket from her closet. "Look, this fit me in middle school." She held it up. It would probably only reach her belly button, and the sleeves were comically short. "I used to love this thing," she said, tugging at a frayed cuff. "Can't even zip it now."

"That's because you grew up."

"Did I?" she asked, her voice strange and distant. "Or are we all just fooling ourselves?"

"I think adulthood is mostly a performance art," he said.

She nodded, a genuine, appreciative smile finally reaching her eyes. "Okay. Well, given that, how about an adult performance?" She perched on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, still in her bra, her face solemn. The earlier vulnerability was gone, replaced by a steady, almost clinical focus. "You may . . . hold my foot."

She presented it with solemnity. He pulled up a computer chair and got to it—the skin was cool, the muscles tight—and began to gently rub, his thumbs working into the arch. The big joint in the middle of her foot popped under his thumbs, a sound like dry sticks breaking.

He froze, horrified.

"Fallen arches," she said, letting out a long sigh. "Oh, that was better than sex."

She dramatically threw her bra to the side and collapsed backwards. Her other foot came toward him. "Do it again."

"You bared your soul to me earlier," she teased, "So now we're even: I bared my soles to you." She told him that with a faint smile on her lips. It was a pun, but it wasn't a joke. She had trusted him with a real, physical vulnerability.

If he were being honest, he'd have had to admit that her feet weren't where he found his eyes wandering.

"Do you want me?" she asked, nearly in a whisper.

He met her eyes. "You could have asked this the other night."

Karen didn't look away. "No," she said quietly. "I couldn't. I wouldn't have. . . I'd have hesitated."

He nodded. He could see that. "'Do I want you?'," he repeated. "Apparently, but I'm confused about it. That's honest, but I'm not going to pretend I think it's kind of me to say it."

She stood, a new resolve in her posture. "No. You gave me a truth. I'll give you one."

She slipped out of her panties and rolled to a sitting position, studying his reaction.

"I really. . . like you," she said. "I don't want you to do anything you'll regret. But I want to tear off those fancy clothes and let you touch me."

"But?"

"I woke up next to you the other night. I saw the scratches on your back. It felt weird–I mean, I told you that's not what I want to picture. I got jealous. And then I knew I didn't get to feel that way. Nobody did anything wrong–to me."

She shook her head.

"But we all see where this is going."

"We do?" he asked.

"Classic Gordon. So precise–but I'm not answering that."

She took a deep, distracting breath. "Okay. I think I want you to stay with me. AND I want your clothes to stay on."

"I've still got my suit on."

"Shush. It's hot. Do. . . do you want to stay?"

"It's here or with the screaming children."

"You did NOT just say that. Okay, that does it, you're little spoon."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. If you get a woodie, we'll just call it a perk."

He lay down, bemused.

She curled up behind him: "Shhh. Pillows don't talk."

An arm worked its way over him.

"Um. Karen?"

"SHH. No talking. I need to concentrate on not humping my pillow."

"No–I need to." He rolled over, looking at her face-to-face. "I should have said something sooner. I'm bad about living in my own head and not sharing things with people, but that doesn't mean I get to keep you guessing and . . . make things harder on you. Next time I have something to say–I'm going to do it right, and just say something."

She kissed him. Once, twice. Small kisses.

"That means a lot to me," she said.

He rolled back over. "And, Karen?"

"Yes, Gordon?" Her voice was more relaxed now. Beginning to edge towards sleepiness.

"I really need to take these pants off."

Her laughter was as bright and carefree as bells.

–––❖–––

It was later in the night. He woke to the feeling of her arm crawling across his torso again.

"Are you awake?"

Her breath was hot against the back of his neck.

"I am now." He could hardly have been otherwise.

"I lied. I'm going to hump my pillow."