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

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Karen: Code deadlines are hard for you, huh?

Claire: Shush, you're supposed to be Harry.

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Wednesday, November 20th, 2090, about 8:36 pm MST, Montana City

It was late.

It was late, and Harry wasn't there, and Claire was being understanding. Being. Understanding.

There was a good reason Harry had to stay at his apartment. His house. An actual grownup's house. And she was in her dad's.

Focus.

There was a reason he still had a separate house here. He was going to sell it to offset their future house, if need be. And rent it out until then.

Everything made sense.

For right now, he needed a place to live.

If Hiram decided they couldn't cohabitate yet, that made sense.

All his computer stuff was there.

He needed space to code. That made sense—just like everything else. And she hated it.

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hated it.

Her Snuggie was not nearly as Snuggie without a source of heat under it.

Her bed was too big. The room was too quiet. And a little too dark, because his computer wasn't on.

Claire grumped in the stillness and silence of her bedroom.

Then her portable buzzed—sharp against her bones, impossible to ignore. Her breath caught.

Could it be Harry?

She flicked her gaze to activate the phone screen in her implant. The motion, a roll of her eyes, had seemed daring and amusing to 18-year-old Claire of yesteryear. She set herself a reminder to change the function--it wouldn't do to have the head of HR rolling her eyes publicly all the time.

It wasn't her Harry.

Marie Ramirez, blinked the notification. It was a strange name for someone who looked so. . .Eastern. Maybe it came from her father's side.

Claire wondered what combination of features—what combination of heritages—had resulted in her brother's girlfriend's delicate caramel features.

She was suspicious she knew what this call might be about.

"Hello, Claire," said Marie.

Her voice was smooth. Like she was used to talking. Like she was used to thinking about herself talking. And thinking about other people listening to her talk.

It was the sort of voice that implied mindfulness of the way you came across to people. Tone-modulated.

Claire had had lessons in modulating her voice, but they hadn't taken. Her coach had said she was "holding tension in the throat." Whatever that meant.

Marie's had.

"What a surprise," said Claire.

"I'm calling because. . ." Marie hesitated, the edge of her voice wobbling just slightly. "I don't know. I don't really know who else to call."

Claire exhaled softly through her nose. "Gordon isn't answering his phone," she said. "He's currently in medically-induced—medically-assisted—sleep."

She let the correction land, subtle but firm. A beat of silence followed.

"Father told me," she added.

She didn't say what everyone knew: that for Gordon to need tranquilizers, there must have been shouting. Escalation. A situation.

They might have shot him.

Marie surely knew that. Marie looked like she knew.

"I see," Marie said quietly. "That helps. Thank you."

A coughing fit interrupted her then, rough and sudden. She covered her mouth and reached off-screen, returning with a steaming cup. She took a long, steadying sip.

When she met Claire's gaze again, her eyes were glassy but sharp. "Thank you so much for the planter," she said.

Claire raised an eyebrow. "It was a sample. From a sponsor."

"It was a thoughtful gesture," Marie said evenly. "Disguised as a planter. And I really appreciated it." A beat. "Actually, I was hoping that in that same spirit, maybe we could talk."

"More. At all."

Claire didn't answer.

"We don't have to talk about Gordon—"

"Oh, no. No. I won't talk about Gordon," Claire said, a touch too fast. "What you have is between you."

Marie blinked. Claire felt herself retracting, curling away from the subject like it was a live wire.

"This isn't about you," she added. "I hope you understand."

"I do," Marie said. "Very well. But. . .I wouldn't mind having someone else to talk to. About. . ." She paused.

Claire's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Harry," Marie said. "I saw what you did for him."

A rush of warmth filled Claire.

She felt. . .lonely, yes, but also proud. Lightheaded, almost giddy, like she'd been waiting all day—maybe all week—for someone to ask. To care. Maybe she hadn't even known she needed it until just now.

"Well," Claire said, voice lifting, "when Harry proposed to me, he used a doughnut."

She saw Marie's eyebrows flicker in confusion—non sequitur successful. Claire pressed on, riding the beat. "And during the week of our big stream, he went out and bought me a real ring."

Marie's face changed—recognition dawning in a slow, wistful smile that looked borrowed from a younger version of herself.

"And it's beautiful," Claire said. "I love it."

She hesitated a moment, then added, "It looks like fire."

She slipped the ring into view, but the angle was awkward. So, with only a mild groan of effort, she undocked her portable from her wrist, twisted it toward the light, and angled it just so.

"You see?"

Marie squinted. "It's a little dark."

Claire didn't hesitate. She stood, padded across the thick carpet, and flipped on the lamp.

Light flared across the stone. The carved citrine flamed to life—orange and gold hues spiraling through its faceted face, caught in the ridged design that wrapped around it like three tiny tongues of flame.

"It is beautiful," said Marie. "I would never have guessed he had such class."

She coughed again, deep and chesty.

Claire smiled crookedly. "It's the nose-picking that spoils the illusion, isn't it? When I take him to formal events, I'm going to have to invest in handcuffs. Fuzzy ones. That way he can keep both hands under the table."

Marie snorted.

"I'll loop them behind his belt buckle," Claire continued, eyes glittering. "Then I'll feed him with the salad fork."

She realized, then, that she was smiling—unguarded. That she had been thinking about Harry, and that she was allowed to.

She decided that maybe Gordon was on his way home for keeps. Maybe he wasn't. But you can't be upset forever. You can't stay bitter forever.

Because this moment wasn't about that.

It wasn't just about Harry.

It was mostly about maybe—just maybe—making a new friend.

Claire shifted slightly on the couch, turning toward the screen, studying Marie with a more measured gaze.

"You've seen the streams," she said. "And clearly picked your words carefully."

Marie blinked but didn't deny it.

"I don't mind," Claire added, her smile reappearing—this time with a sly, private edge.

"He looks absolutely ridiculous now," she said, voice light. "Goofy. Like someone who owns too many ironic t-shirts. But when he actually makes an effort? He cleans up surprisingly well. And once he's got a little gray at the temples. . ." She trailed off for a second, caught in the image. "He's going to look distinguished. Like a rabbi."

She could picture it clearly—Harry, a little older, with that centered sort of calm that came from knowing who you were. Like his grandfather in the holos Harry showed her. She hadn't met the man yet. Had meant to. She just hadn't found the time.

"I'm going to let him grow a full beard," she mused aloud. "Very well trimmed. Give him thicker rimmed glasses. Maybe even one of those ridiculous old professorial bowties."

She gave a small shrug, self-aware but unrepentant.

"I think he'd look right at home at the kind of events we attend. The ones where menus don't have numbers? People with that sort of free time can be surprisingly well-read."

Her voice softened again, the future still playing out behind her eyes.

"I think he'd like it. I think he's going to like being in my life."

A pause.

Her next words came lower, almost to herself.

"I was worried."

She stopped.

She wasn't going to talk about Gordon.

There was a long moment, and then Marie said—kindly, but without the faintest trace of condescension—"I don't think there's anything for you to worry about with Harry."

Her voice was quiet, deliberate. Her gaze was steady. And when she smiled, it wasn't smug—it was the unfair kind of smile that managed to be both calm and luminous.

"He looks at you," Marie said, "like you're the only woman in the world."

Claire felt her defenses shift slightly.

"Harry says I should try talking to you," she admitted, staring at patterns in the ceiling tiles.

"Would you want to?" Marie asked. Her voice was light, nearly indifferent—but Claire caught the slight quickening behind it. A thread of hope.

Claire gave a half-shrug. "I don't want to talk to most people."

"Rude."

"That's what registers?" Claire's eyebrows lifted. "I wrote 'this doesn't make us friends' in my reply, and this is the moment you choose to take offense?"

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Marie blinked, then gave a small, rueful smile. "Well. Not really. I don't offend easily." She tilted her head, studying Claire. "Honestly, I suspect we might have more in common than we think."

"Martian princess," Claire said dryly. "Earth spare?"

Marie laughed, but it was soft. "Those would both be royalty."

She grew more serious then—eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to land a precise word in a sentence that hadn't fully formed.

"It's more intentional than that," she said finally.

And then she paused, visibly considering her next words.

"I never had a sponsor before—shocker—so when Uncle Zebra Agricultural asked me to promote their vertical spice grower, I almost panicked."

Marie spoke in a tone that was half-confession, half-retrospective wryness. Claire leaned in slightly, intrigued.

"I learned the guide backwards and forwards. I was convinced I'd be the one person with wilted basil and brown, shriveled thyme live on stream—and that everyone would blame the product."

She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug.

"And somewhere in the middle of all that, I got obsessed with plant respiration. Like, obsessed. I learned the nutrient schedules, the water cycles, the LED spectrums. I started cross-referencing them. But no matter what I did, I couldn't stop thinking—what if it all dies? What if it looks like a scam because of me?"

Claire nodded. She knew that spiral.

"And the plants—well, they were already struggling a bit," Marie continued, voice growing quieter. "Because in .7 atmospheres, turgor pressure changes. They need more water just to keep their cells full. The grower didn't really account for that. Algae's fine—it lives submerged. But anything with stomata starts drooping fast unless you overcorrect."

"Gordon would've stopped at knowing that," Claire said, half to herself.

"Right?" Marie smiled faintly. "Take the formula, apply it, call it done."

"He'd have grown a single perfect crop, held it up, said, 'Hey, I won,' and walked away."

Marie laughed once, dry and knowing. "But presentation matters. I had to find the right angle. Clean the room. Make sure there weren't any boots or laundry piles in frame. Sit in the chair just right so I could deliver my thank-you to the sponsor—"

She paused, and her smile curved slightly—rueful, proud, tired.

"—and look like someone who just happens to live in a house full of thriving thyme and sage and basil."

She took a long sip of tea, then cleared her throat. The rasp was deeper now. She definitely sounded sick.

Claire giggled before she could stop herself—a sudden burst, sharp and real.

"It was you!" she said, eyes wide with mock accusation.

Marie blinked. "What?"

"Harry was making turgor pressure jokes the other night," Claire said, still half-laughing. "About his—well, let's just say he suggested we needed more water and sunlight, and then he ambushed me out on the deck."

Marie tilted her head. "That's sort of a tasteless joke."

"I know," Claire said, grinning.

Marie gave a dry little laugh, then took another sip of her tea. Her voice was even, but her eyes were alight with recognition. "Perhaps he got it from my stream. But he would've had to really read into it. I didn't say anything remotely. . .suggestive."

Claire raised her eyebrows. "Have you met Harry?"

"Fair," Marie allowed. "Then again, he could've gotten it from Gordon."

That gave them both pause.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Right. Because they're best friends and my fiancé apparently absorbs bad behavior through proximity."

Marie gave a slow nod. "Mm. My man says tasteless things all the time."

They locked eyes for a moment, and then—unexpectedly—they both laughed.

"They feed off each other," Marie said

Claire let herself lean back a little, relaxing into the moment. The laughter left a warm trace in the air between them—something unforced, finally easy.

Marie cleared her throat again. The sound was wetter now, thick. She set the tea down, carefully out of frame.

Claire frowned slightly but didn't mention it. Not yet.

Claire grinned—rare and real, the kind that stretched slowly across her face without self-censorship.

"Related to your plant thing and. . .I guess feeling like you had to fake it to fit?" she said, her tone quieter now, more reflective. "I was eighteen when I got my implants. Harmless fact."

She glanced down at her tea, then looked back up, voice softening.

"But I was lonely. I wanted someone to talk to, and when I couldn't get that, I turned inward."

There was a beat. Marie waited.

"I got hooked on web novels," Claire continued, with a slightly embarrassed shrug. "The sprawling kind. Millions of words long. I disappeared into them for entire weekends. I walked into lampposts. I zombied my way through class. Honestly, I was a zombie long before I became the Ice Queen."

Marie leaned forward a little, her eyes warm, amused. "I hear tell you're hotter stuff than that these days. People talk to me about it."

She paused, then added, tone tilted just enough to carry a smile: "In my chat."

Claire narrowed her eyes. "You sound like Karen."

Marie blinked innocently.

"Can't anyone in my life get a point across without flirting?" Claire said, deadpan.

Marie gave a wry, crooked look. "Your father and Gordon had best have been exceptions."

Then she grinned—quick and sharp—to show she was joking.

"Honestly, I think there's just a tonal overlap thing. Administrator Flowers purrs to the microphone like it's his lover every time he gives the morning announcements. Unwholesomely popular. I dreamed of that fifty-year-old man when I was, like, ten."

Claire laughed under her breath. "You all right?"

"I bury my shame in old-style rock and roll," Marie said, raising her mug like a toast. "All their voices are better."

Claire had never been much for music. She liked it fine—but remembering it wasn't her strong suit. Besides, no need to linger on insecurities.

Though that thought drifted quickly—toward Harry. His bass murmur. Not quite singing, but perfect for a lullaby.

The grump settled back in, warm and low.

She sighed. "Harry's working overnight. I miss him. He takes up just enough space."

Marie coughed again. This time it didn't taper off quickly—it came hard and fast, racking her chest and dragging on for nearly a full minute.

Claire watched with a mixture of concern and grim resignation. When the fit finally subsided, she raised an eyebrow.

"Are you going to live through this?" she asked dryly.

Marie exhaled slowly, clearly spent. Her shoulders slumped as she set her mug aside. "I think Gordon got me sick," she said, in a tone of exaggerated betrayal.

Claire winced inwardly. Not talking about him. Still, her voice softened. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Marie gave a single nod in acknowledgment, as if to say thanks, moving on, then blinked herself back into the conversation. "I was saying something else, though."

She paused, visibly digging through the haze of sickness and emotion.

"I have to admit," she said finally, her tone measured, careful, "you and Harry have very different looks. He's. . ."

"Jewish," Claire interjected—not harsh, but clear.

Marie's eyes flicked to her, thoughtful. Claire tilted her head. "Can I inquire?"

"I'm a mutt," Marie said flatly, deadpan.

Claire nodded once, equally dry. "Nice."

Marie's eyes moved, catching something just off-frame—maybe a family photo still visible on Claire's feed.

"Jewish by way of Siberia?" Marie mused. "He looks like he could do that kneeling dance."

Claire didn't miss a beat. "He wishes."

Then, after a moment, her tone shifted—still dry, but tinged with real affection. "I'm pretty sure he's half grizzly bear. If I hid his pajamas, I don't think he'd notice."

She gave a tiny shrug. "It's the hair."

Marie grimaced theatrically, placing a hand over her heart in mock horror. "Eeww. More for you."

They both laughed—Claire's just a sharp little huff through her nose, Marie's more open and unfiltered.

And just like that, the mood lightened again.

"So I read your chat," Claire said, tone casual but eyebrow raised. "You. . .climbed him like a tree."

Marie blinked, caught off guard, then narrowed her eyes. "I thought we weren't talking about Gordon."

Claire sighed and waved a hand like she was dismissing herself. "I hate having to be consistent."

A beat passed. Then her tone shifted—lighter, more conspiratorial.

"Okay, then: I am jealous of your cry face. It wasn't ugly at all. When I cry, I flush and blotch like a beetroot. Full root vegetable. Absolutely unsalvageable."

Marie stared at her for a second, surprised into laughter—not unkind, just genuinely amused.

"I'll trade for your eyebrows," she offered, tilting her head.

Claire lifted one brow archly, her expression smug. "I pluck," Marie confessed, deadpan. "If I don't, I get a full unibrow."

Claire blinked, scandalized. "No."

She almost reached for her messaging feed to tell Karen—but caught herself. Wouldn't do.

Marie shrugged. "Gordon guessed. Wildly. I'm sure of it, because I checked in a convex mirror after and there was no way he could've seen any actual signs. My Mexican-American dad gave me his sister's eyebrows. Bastard."

Claire chuckled. "I can't shape mine. They just grow like this."

Marie gave her a long, assessing look.

Claire groaned. "I know. I know how that sounds."

"You're terrible," Marie said, deadpan.

"I really am," Claire agreed with a resigned nod.

She added, "But if I wanted to make them less arched? I couldn't. You could."

Marie tilted her mug in mock salute. "Beauty—through pain!"

"I knew we had something in common," Claire said, her tone shifting into playful authority. "Let me tell you about pencil skirts."

She sat up straighter, adopting the dry cadence of a long-suffering corporate heiress.

"No pockets. Those are for men. But I have a secret."

Marie perked up slightly. "Tell me your secret."

Claire leaned in, like she was revealing a trade secret passed down through generations of power-dressed women.

"A woman can look dignified followed by transport drones down a boarding school hallway."

She paused. "A man. . .cannot."

Marie tried—honestly tried—not to laugh. But her mouth twitched. Then curled. And then the grin hit her full force—broad, involuntary, blazing.

Claire blinked, faintly suspicious. "What's up with the smile?"

"Huh?" Marie startled slightly, blinking herself back into the conversation.

"Your smile is just. . ." Claire squinted at her. "So white."

Marie grinned wider, clearly not even a little embarrassed. "My ma's a biologist. And the colony dentist."

She added, almost proudly, "I've been bleaching since the first Mars-wide speech I had to give. Good thing too—I've done four now."

Claire nodded, vaguely impressed. "That's. . .a bigger number than most people realize it is."

"Yeah," Marie said softly.

"I had to take dance," Claire offered. "Dad thought dancers had symmetry and poise."

Marie winced theatrically. "That may be the worst reason for anything I've ever heard."

Claire shrugged. "I stayed fit. I can still do the splits. And. . ." Her voice shifted just slightly. "Harry's not complaining."

Marie nodded knowingly. "I bet he's not. You look like you could bench-press me in Earth gravity."

"I could," Claire said flatly.

There was a beat—warm and charged.

Then Marie's voice shifted. Lower. A little more serious. "Listen. . .I grew up without any real peers. Gordon respects you, and that means something. So you must be worth respecting."

She met Claire's gaze. "I'm not regretting this conversation. I'd rather have more."

Then she glanced off-screen and sighed. "But my shift's starting in a few. That is, if they don't quarantine me instead."

Claire gave a small smile. "Thanks for calling," she said, voice softer than it had been all night. Gentle. Honest. No sarcasm, no armor.

She hesitated, then added, quieter still: "I liked this too."

Marie smiled back—crooked, tired, but warm.

Then she coughed.

At first it seemed like the others—tight but manageable. But it didn't stop. Her shoulders hunched. She turned her face away from the camera, her hand flying to cover her mouth as the sound deepened and ragged into something harder.

Claire straightened in her seat, the smile sliding from her face.

Marie tried to wave it off, her voice thin and breathless. "Sorry—just. . ."

But she didn't finish the sentence. The next cough hit like a gut punch. Her body jerked slightly, her breath wheezing in after the last convulsion.

"Okay," she rasped finally. "Okay. That's enough. I'm going to have to call my shift manager. See if I can get covered."

Her tone tried for casual, but the effort showed.

"And probably talk to quarantine services. Just in case."

Claire didn't say anything at first, but her thoughts were already moving.

Right. Mars.

Marie's eyes were wet—not from tears, but from the force of the coughing. Still, she looked into the camera, poised as ever.

"I'll message you," she said. "If I'm not locked in a sterile box."

Claire gave a small nod. "Do."

A beat.

"Seriously," Claire added. "I'll be mad if you don't."

Marie's tired grin said more than words could. Then the call ended.

–––❖–––

Harry arrived sometime after 5:30 a.m.

She was still awake. Barely. She'd been lying in the dark, her implants dimmed, the room silent but for the occasional whirr of air circulation and the restless shuffle of blankets as she failed—over and over—to fall asleep.

She heard the soft sound of the entry lock. Then the click of shoes being kicked off. The whisper of fabric as he tugged his lanyard over his head.

He'd been at work? When had he gone to work?

He moved quietly, like he assumed she was asleep.

Fuck that.

Claire kicked herself out of bed—one leg flung the covers aside, the other giving her the momentum to swing off the mattress. Light-footed, she crossed the room in a flurry of light steps and launched herself at him.

Her arm hooked around his neck, her opposite hand gripping her wrist to pull herself up and close. He caught her easily, letting out a soft grunt that was mostly amusement. She heard his tablet clatter.

They'd deal with that later.

He was deliciously cool with Montana winter. She wanted to rub her face on him.

He pulled away slightly, perhaps to breathe, and she jumped on him, wrapping snug legs around his torso and releasing his neck.

Hair got in her mouth. Gross.

Still clinging to him with her legs, she leaned all the way back in a deep backbend to tie her hair in a knot, then pulled herself back up.

"Where were we?"

His smile was luminous against the darkness of his beard.