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

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Harry: Well. We can't all be Gordon—

Gordon, modestly: I try—

Harry: —Ramsey. Let's get takeout.

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Thursday, November 21st 2090, about 1:40 pm MST, Montana City, Claire's Suite

The chef flipped noodles in his pan, the pasta flying high in a little arc with green chopped herbs, and oils and sesame all following. As the pan expertly tilted, it arrived in time to catch it again. A whisk with a wooden implement. Another flip. And it was time to plate.

Yummy.

Claire looked thoughtfully down at the non-stick high-tech in her hand. It was the same one the chef used. That was on purpose.

The noodles were the same. Hers looked several shades darker. She wasn't sure why. Her spices looked more vibrant—maybe they hadn't cooked enough. It said sesame oil, but his looked bright yellow and hers looked brown. His sesame seeds looked tan, and hers looked white.

And that's not to mention the question of what is a pinch? Her fingers were small. Home row when typing had really reinforced this—where other people were supposed to put pinky on A, fourth finger on F, and thumb on space, she had found the pinky positioning consistently falling on S or Z. Her teacher had called her petite. She wasn't that short, but sometimes different body parts had different proportions.

She decided that she was going to like her hands anyway. If she didn't, she'd have to admit that there was something wrong with the ring on her left hand.

And she would never admit something like that.

But she did put two pinches in for each of the televised chefs one—just in case.

"And we top it with soy sauce," he said. He poured a little golden mixture into a small restaurant cup meant for condiments.

She was in her own kitchen and had no such cup. Claire liked buying nice things. She liked matching silverware, matching plates. She liked it when all the fabrics in the room fell in the same spectrum—even when they didn't match perfectly. She was aware of her usual taste in makeup when she had the decorators select the wall colors, so that she would always look good in her own photos, in her own house.

She intentionally played down aspects of herself that read feminine and happy and alive when giving to board meetings—because she wanted to be taken seriously. Or feared. Rather than hit on.

Thus, it was with great reluctance that she opened Harry's cabinet and removed a Solo cup.

She had chosen the dark soy sauce. She wasn't sure what the difference was, but she liked the bottle. It had a sort of scale motif on it, like a fish.

She poured a generous side portion, and—because she knew she would want some—went ahead and added a little to the pan.

The chef did not.

But she also added her chopped chicken. She hated having to clean multiple dishes after the meal. It made her feel like a housewife.

Nothing wrong with being a housewife, she hurriedly corrected herself. It had been a dream—to raise children, live in domestic bliss. But for some reason, Harry had always seemed like the one most likely to take out the trash and do the dishes.

She could cook and wear pantsuits and read the morning paper while brewing coffee for everyone. Harry would have to grill, though. She wouldn't supplant him in every role. That would be rude.

It was for the best that he didn't seem to mind that idea.

She wondered if she could have stood to date someone so insecure as to be unable to see the obvious advantages—never work again, live in a nice house, be married to Claire.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She liked to stay fit. Her diet was very careful—whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it, in carefully metered quantities.

And sometimes—and sometimes, when she couldn't avoid it—she would also go on runs with Karen. This morning had been one of those mornings.

It wasn't that she despised the outdoors. It was that she despised running. But she couldn't say no to the golden retriever face her friend kept making.

"You're going to die young and skinny-fat," her friend had poked, needled, and woken her up repeatedly through college. And perhaps without the emphasis on fitness, it would have been true. She was grateful for that.

But she still hated running. It got all the blood moving, and once her blood was moving, her brain couldn't stay still.

Thus: opening a cooking video on her Optics and trying to recreate it for her future house-husband for breakfast. He liked to sleep. He slept in fairly often. She also liked to sleep—thus the resentment.

It smelled great.

She twirled a few noodles around her fork. She didn't own chopsticks. Besides, she had used Worcestershire sauce, so it couldn't possibly be authentic anyway.

She felt vaguely rebellious.

–––❖–––

The portable buzzed.

She flicked her wrist to answer it. "Claire," she said.

"No shit," said Karen. "I made it all the way back home without my purse again. What do you think about that?"

"I think I just made some pasta, if you're coming back this way anyway," said Claire.

"I don't want to impose."

They both giggled—as if her perennial houseguest ever had to worry about that.

"You could still ask Father for a suite," Claire pointed out. "It would be no trouble."

"That would be too much like having him as a landlord. And I'm comfortable being beholden to you instead, Claire. But I don't think I'd be comfortable being directly beholden to him."

She had a point.

"I'll leave some in the fridge. I'm plating food now and going to surprise Harry with it," Claire said. "If I'm not out, don't come looking for me."

"Not a group activity?" her friend teased.

"If that ever changes, you'll be the first to know," Claire promised. "Because you're the only one asking."

"I'm wearing you down," Karen said gleefully.

Claire would never admit it, but she deeply appreciated her friend's restraint when it came to her fiancé. Harry often joked that he was the only person Karen never flirted with—and it was true. It was clearly intentional. Karen liked him fine. She just. . . there were some boundaries that were sacred.

You don't try to hit up your best friend's future husband.

They were solid.

Her mobile buzzed.

She saw the number and froze.

"Actually," she said, "let's make that drinks. Mom's calling."

"Yeah, you'll need them. Bye."

She considered hanging up anyway.

Despite Karen having ended the call on her side, Claire had no interest in talking to the woman who had cut her off so thoroughly, no interest in helping her play innocent. Intellectually, she could understand why. That didn't make it better.

Hiram being who he was, Claire wasn't sure how her vivacious, domestic mother had ever met him—much less fallen for him. It had only taken half of Claire's life for her mother to decide that staying together for the kids was a mug's game. And Hiram didn't seem to care that an insignificant fraction of his vast wealth was being used to keep his estranged wife happily buzzing around the world and out of his hair.

Claire suspected she wouldn't have gone to boarding schools if her mother had stayed in the house.

The house probably wouldn't have been partially renovated into office space either.

That might have been the final nail in the coffin. Who wants to come home to that?

"Hello, Mom," she said.

"Darling!" said her mom.

Her voice was slightly slurred. Classy.

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"I have just moved into the cutest little Spanish villa. You have no idea," said her mom.

Not Spain, she thought. Please don't take Spain too.

It's not like it was a rational thought. She was well aware.

But the memories were sacred.

–––❖–––

It had started with monkeys.

"You want me to draw what?" Claire had asked.

Gordon's proffered marker didn't waver. "The three monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."

"Why?"

"No reason."

"You want me to draw the three monkeys. In Sharpie. For no reason," said Claire, suspicious.

"It's not really. . . It's not important. Your handwriting's better than mine," said Gordon.

"You have the cleanest linework in the family," he followed up—a better compliment, and a lie. Their father's linework was exemplary.

Not that he ever drew anything anymore.

She took the Sharpie and drew him his monkeys. He asked for several, on different sides of a cardboard box, and went away pleased, apparently.

She didn't find out why until several years later.

Someone passed her in the hallway near the HR offices while close-of-business was being handled. He locked doors with keys on a large keyring. When he saw Claire, he greeted her respectfully.

"The monkeys are out for the assembly line," he said. "So we're good to close up."

This had not made any sense.

"The monkeys are out?" she asked.

He didn't look up. "Yes," he repeated—as if she simply hadn't heard him.

"What are the monkeys?"

He looked up, a slow grin spreading. "Oh. You don't know."

She'd gone to confront the source of the nonsense in person.

"Gordon," she said. "I have a question."

"Yes."

"What are the monkeys?"

He blinked. "I forgot I never told you."

"That's my system for a security shutdown. You drew it."

He pointed to his monitors. He had a whole dozen of them always on display in his room—each of them a literal camera feed of a screen in one of their manufacturies. His air gap to keep the AI systems from talking.

Security sometimes looked stupid.

Many of the screens currently showed brown backgrounds with black Sharpie monkeys.

"I recognize those."

"Yeah. You did a good job," he said.

She stared at him, utterly blank. "Why?"

"If the AI controller sees a blank screen, there's always the possibility that the camera died. Or the monitor died. Or somebody threw a coat over it. But if it sees the monkeys, it knows this is an authorized shutdown. I got tired of getting security alerts."

"So. . . you made an integrated company security function dependent on my doodles?"

"Very nice doodles."

–––❖–––

It had been months before she found the weakness of his method—when he approached her with another marker and another cardboard box.

"You aren't serious."

"I've been getting automated systems reports of unauthorized interference," he said, "and now you're bringing me a box. Is this about the monkeys?"

"Yes. We trained the system to recognize your handwriting. Not on purpose. But as part of the whole 'this is a valid form / this is an invalid form' thing. Validating schedules, etc. You had the cleanest handwriting."

"Gordon."

"Your monkeys have the same loops, line widths, pressure—all the same as your normal writing. Not on purpose. But the AI knows you make them."

"So it's sending alerts because. . ."

"I made some new camera-monitor pairs. Because we got a bunch of new machines to audit. But I was out of cardboard with monkeys. So I sketched some up myself."

"And it doesn't like them."

"They are unauthorized monkeys."

He handed her the Sharpie.

"I'm the only one with the authority to shut down the cameras?" she asked.

"As of right now?"

"Basically yes."

"It thinks yours are the only authorized monkeys."

–––❖–––

It was a little later, at the board meeting, that it came back to bite her.

The head of the board, Joe, had looked twice and blinked cartoonishly when he saw the next agenda item for the day's meeting.

"There's a problem. . . with the monkeys," he read aloud.

He leaned back in his chair. "Gordon, explain, please?"

Everyone knew Gordon hated going to meetings. So when he showed up for a meeting with such a strange agenda item, everyone knew who to ask.

"It's AI overfitting," said Gordon. "My sister has signed so many documents that the system doesn't accept anyone else's handwriting as authorized. This includes the monkeys I drew for the security system. And if you need to know how that works, we can talk about it after the meeting."

Joe met Hiram's gaze.

Hiram nodded minutely—he had approved the security measure. Because, in his words, if it's stupid but it works, it's not stupid. Joe wouldn't push it. Not if Hiram had cosigned.

"And that," Gordon said, "is why I put this on our agenda."

It was highly irregular for the head of audits—newly raised—to put anything on the agenda. But they were willing to hear him out.

"Claire needs a month off. For the AIs' sake. I need to train them on other people's handwriting. She does too much. Way too much. If her handwriting is the only handwriting we're feeding it. . ."

He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure she's owed three."

"Gordon!" Claire had shrieked, betrayed.

Then realized what she'd just done—in front of the entire board—and covered her face, mortified.

But the rest of the board was nodding thoughtfully. They knew she was always working. They knew nobody had a bad word to say about her work ethic—including her father, who had something bad to say about everyone's work ethic.

The man himself was nodding thoughtfully.

"All those opposed?" asked Joe.

No hands were raised.

Joe's voice was warm and smooth. "We are so proud of you, young lady. Truly."

Then, a beat.

"But I spend half the year in France. You should. . . branch out. Take a page from my book. I'll lend you my cottage in Spain for the month."

Claire slowly lowered her hands. "Is this an intervention?"

"No," Joe said. "A sabbatical isn't a gift. It's a hedge. Against losing good people."

Her father had authorized the three.

–––❖–––

It had been the best three months of her life.

Which made her mother's cheerful babbling about Spanish beaches feel like a violation.

"Mom," she said, trying to stem the tide of meaningless babble coming from her phone.

She didn't care about the terracotta roof. It wasn't important to her whether her mom thought the local beach bodies were attractive or not.
Or how many mojitos she'd had.

Sometimes, Claire resented the fact that she liked the taste of peppermint—because her mom liked it so much.

Her mom was nattering on about her tan, and how she'd finally found—in her fifties—the courage to go out to some of the European swimsuit-optional beaches, and her tan lines were amazing now. . .

"Mother," Claire said, acerbic—nearly barking the word. "I have been trying to tell you I am cooking for my husband, Fiancee. And the food is getting cold. I know you understand what that means. I need to go. Thank you for keeping me in the loop. I appreciate it."

(She didn't.)

She decided to throw her mom a bone. "He got me a new ring. I'm looking forward to telling you all about it—but you have to let me go. For now."

She was firm.

"You don't have to be so hostile," her mom complained.

"Mom. I'm in a hurry," she said, flatly. "I will talk to you later."

She hung up.

Her hands were vibrating with adrenaline.

It was always that bad.

Her mother just didn't care.

–––❖–––

Harry was awake.

His portable was projecting a laser scene on the ceiling—his preferred viewing space.

"I will never understand," she said, "how you can enjoy sudoku."

"It's a good way to wake up," he said. "There's no pressure. The rules are simple. You just plod along, letting your brain warm up. It's nice. Hey—that smells good."

"I made you breakfast," she said.

Some of the excitement had gone out of the gesture. "Like Chef Daniels does."

He didn't watch Food Network stuff—or rather, he still watched ancient Food Network stuff from fifty years ago, like Hell's Kitchen. He wouldn't have any idea who Chef Daniels was. He wouldn't know about fusion Chinese cooking.

But he would eat it. And he'd be grateful.
And he would kiss her afterward.

"All right," he said, happily accepting the tray. He peered into the Solo cup with excitement. "What's this? Sake?"

"Soy sauce."

"That is dark soy sauce."

Sometimes she forgot that he was a bad cook.

He just seemed so domestic.

She sat next to him. He was warm.

The shakes were starting to wear off, a chill following them. He seemed to cotton on to something being the matter, because as he took his first forkful in one hand, he took her hand in his other. He chewed thoughtfully, looking her in the eyes.

"Okay," he said at last. "The food is good, but that's not what you're upset about. Gordon, Karen, Hiram, or Giselle?"

His instincts were good. But even though her secretary had been on her last nerve recently, Claire didn't think she'd merited inclusion in the short list of people she cared enough about to let them close enough to hurt her—even by accident.

With her father, it was mostly by accident, anyway.

"Mom," she said.

He stopped chewing, then nodded thoughtfully before resuming.

"Mmm-hmm. That would do it." He put down his tray. "C'mere," he said playfully.

But she needed it.

She allowed herself to be pulled back to his front, his arms around her, his head resting on the back of hers. Warm. Safe.

"Does she have a new. . . boyfriend, girlfriend, poodle, manicure? What's the hot goss?" he joked.

Her mother never had anything of substance to say, but seemed driven by the urge to talk anyway. It was a well-established pattern.

"Great tan lines," she told him. "Apparently, she's a nudist now."

He nodded wisely. "I was thinking of trying that myself later, if you were interested."

"Oh, shut up, this isn't the time," she said—but there wasn't any heat in it.

He kept holding her, rocking slightly, and squeezed.

"I'd have great tan lines," he told her.

"I'm never tanning again," she whined, performatively.

She felt his lips on the back of her neck as he smiled, his beard tickling softly.

"My porcelain goddess," he murmured.

She smiled involuntarily. "I'd look like a ghost. All one color."

"My monochrome angel."

She was hungry, she realized.

"If you're not going to eat that, then I am," she threatened.

He kissed the back of her neck once before letting her go.

"I'll get myself another plate from the kitchen," he said instead.

He stood up, hairy body unselfconsciously on full display. His beard needed to be a little longer, she thought critically. She'd tell him later.

"Put clothes on. Karen's on her way over."

"Yeah, yeah."