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

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Hiram: Gordon. We need to talk.

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Friday, November 22nd, 2090, about 3:00 pm MST, Montana City

"Son, we both know this isn't just a question of what's efficient for getting the audits accomplished. Let's say I let you hand off your project to your sister and her team. Then what? You quit? Laze about all day, complaining that you can't move to Mars to be with your paramour? Play knights and castles and 'stream'?"

They had been at it for a while.

"Why not? It's my life."

Gordon was getting tired of going around in circles. Hiram seemed to be running out of passion, as well. It was about time.

Hiram didn't comment, but Gordon saw the wheels turning in his eyes.

The hedges passed slowly, the cart barely at a walking speed. Hiram was in no hurry.

"Have you ever wondered," asked Hiram, steering the golf cart with one hand and changing the topic completely, "why I chose the name Binary Systems Corporation?"

Gordon had never wondered that. "No," he said—though his tone made it sound like a question.

"Perhaps you'll get a chuckle," Hiram said. "Our Twin Sun prototype was such a success, we knew we had to name the company after it."

That didn't sound unreasonable. Gordon nodded.

"Binary Systems," he said. "Named after the Twin Sun prototype, naturally. But the focus group fixated on the initials."

He paused.

"/Pedestrian/ BULLSHIT," he said with passion.

It was so surprising that Gordon burst into laughter.

The cart proceeded along the pavement placidly.

"See?" said Hiram. "A little father-son time isn't so bad."

He turned the wheel a sharp forty-five degrees. They were headed for the assembly shop—the place where all the desperate parts came together into one unified machine.

If Gordon had known they were going to the clean room, he thought irritably, he would've worn a tie.

She would be there. Isabelle—the ex he couldn't ask Claire to fire.

Dammit.

"Hiram," he began. Then corrected himself. "Father. . . I know you know the kind of week I'm having. Please. Don't make me stand in a tiny room making small talk with that woman."

Hiram glanced over at him, mildly.

"I assumed things had become amicable between you. I haven't heard any complaints. No requests for transfer. No. . . anything."

"That would be abusing my power."

"Ah."

The silence that followed was awkward, though Hiram didn't acknowledge it.

"However," he said finally, "I did already say we were going. So—we shall simply attempt to waste as little time as possible."

Hiram drove in silence for a moment longer.

"You have reasonable grounds for animosity," he said at last.

"She tried to sleep her way to the top," Gordon muttered. "I was just the rung she could reach."

Hiram nodded. "A beautiful woman. One hopes it wasn't too painful a process?"

"You cared too, once," Gordon snapped.

Another beat of silence. Then Hiram gave a slight nod.

"I apologize," he said. "Listen: I'll assign her a meaningless task and remove her. You'll finish your audit. I'll finish mine. And with luck. . . that will be the end of it."

"Your friend Harry," said Hiram, "—I understand he has a competent backend and coding background. I also observe that, of the myriad background checks and investigations, no one has found him to be anything but the most admirable of young men.

"I acknowledge that you're not happy with your position. But perhaps it would be more bearable with a friend. My understanding is that his work is high-quality—and it would be better, from a VIP security standpoint, to keep Claire's husband on campus."

Gordon's jaw tightened. "Are you offering me a consolation prize?"

"I'm offering your friend a job he'd otherwise spend a decade trying to reach."

"Let's say he goes for it," said Gordon. "If you do it, do it for Claire. Because it won't even the scales between us."

Hiram nodded once. "Speak the truth to power," he said. "A clever man need never lie—I taught you that. But a clever man also ensures his enemies aren't in a position to take offense when he speaks. Some truths, however. . ."

He dismounted the golf cart.

The facility manager was already waiting. Gordon got a nod of acknowledgment—nothing more.

"Listen," Hiram said, turning to the manager. "My son is thirsty. Please let Miss Clark know I'll need her to make a run to Starbucks. A refresher."

Gordon blinked.

Oh shit, he thought. That is /dirty/ pool.

"Our AI analysis lead needs to go to Starbucks?"

"Yes," Hiram said, unflappable. "I'll ensure she's reimbursed."

"It's nearly lunchtime," the manager said carefully. "That may take her a while. I could call a drone—"

"Oh, nonsense. You know I hate those things." Hiram waved the suggestion away. "She can take the Mazda. I'm sure she remembers where it's parked."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He turned to Gordon.

"Gordon. . . the keys?"

Gordon hesitated. "It doesn't always start."

"Then she'll figure it out," Hiram said mildly. "She's very resourceful."

The manager hesitated. "Right. Of course." He didn't look at either of them as he turned to make the call.

When Isabelle swept out, chilly professionalism in a lab coat but with narrowed eyes, he wasn't sure how to feel. Discomfort, predominantly, but the type of discomfort was hard to nail down.

She was beautiful, in a poisonous sort of way. Vain, even now wearing a push-up bra, as if she needed one—it seemed a bit ridiculous, almost pathetic, in a lab coat—classic dark-haired refinement, interpreted through tawdry excess.

Without having met Marie—or Karen, or even Claire—you might not notice the absence of a soul. But he had been young. Younger, anyway.

She didn't say a word.

Just took the keys, turned on her heel, and walked past him. No stumble, no hesitation. Only a look—cool, level, deliberate. A stare that said everything she wanted to, without giving him any new information.

Of course, the audit was spotless.

Hiram had pre-audited the plant the week before.

This wasn't about systems or compliance. This was about parading the prodigal son in front of the movers and shakers—with subtlety.

So subtle that, on the way out, Gordon thanked his father and said he had a call to make.

He'd walk back.

Then he called Claire.

"HR disaster incoming," he reported.

"What did you say to her?" Claire demanded.

"Hiram made her do a coffee run. For me. In the Mazda."

A pause. Then:

". . .Motherfucker."

"We could lose that lawsuit."

"I didn't ask for coffee, I swear."

"No, I know. But. . ."

She exhaled hard. "It kills me seeing him like this. He wasn't always this bad."

". . .He was never /great/," Gordon countered.

"He took me to SeaWorld and was my hero for six years, okay?!" Claire snapped. "I'm sorry he left your mom. I didn't do it!"

"I love you, Claire," he said, simply.

"Deirdre has her own crosses to bear—and debts she owes. You didn't do anything. Nobody's blaming you."

Then, with a dry note: "Now, could I please go back to being the most wronged party in the room?"

–––❖–––

She never hated him. That was what made it hard to hate her for what she'd done.

She'd made love like she meant it, laughed at his dumbest lines, helped him pitch the hardware conversion of the neural network to Hiram—a speed savings of 2% for which the whole production workflow had been redesigned. Hiram had believed in his idea, and invested, and it had paid dividends.

It was one of his few good memories with the man. And it was tainted by the knowledge that Hiram had seen right through her from the beginning, and had been, in his own words, 'letting you learn what lessons you were capable of learning' before cutting it short.

But she was never honest—not once—about what she actually wanted: to trade her future intimacy and presence for security and luxury. Maybe she liked him, in her own way. Maybe she was willing to grow to.

But it had been soul-crushing.

On the other hand, dragon fruit refreshers were pretty good.

Gordon wasn't willing to risk having the inevitable confrontation in front of friends and family. He dropped a note with her boss that he'd be around back, and found a sheltered bench to sit on to wait. It was cold, a ludicrous climate for an iced drink, but at least his bottom didn't have to be soaked through.

It took her almost an hour to return with his drink. He wondered if she'd spat in it, but the concern was muted and, when the tall Portuguese woman approached he simply accepted the drink from a manicured, long-nailed hand, inserted the proffered straw, and took a small sip.

He'd never been sure why women wore claws like that. It practically reduced one to voice-to-text only, and who wanted that?

"It should be obvious that I didn't want you to have to do that," he said. "But I wanted to make sure you know—I didn't enjoy watching him do that to you."

Her hair, shaven down to the scalp on the sides and mid-length on top, gusted fitfully as her deep hazel eyes considered him, lips pursed. Her voice, when it emerged, was a rough contralto, husky with her Latin roots.

"I figured as much," she told him. "Pissed him off again."

She had an irritating habit of not asking questions when she could declare possible answers instead.

He acknowledged the accuracy of her guess with a nod. She stood stiffly, her white lab coat drifting slightly in the breeze. Her pale skin was paler with the cold.

"Are we going to have a problem?" she asked at last. "We haven't talked in years. I hoped you'd forgotten me."

"No—and no, that's probably not going to happen," he admitted.

"You moved on," she said. "I told you you would." She also liked to remind people when she was right about things.

"Big of you," he said before he could stop himself.

"You went to Mars for love," she said. "I was in the chat stream. Like, there were no options left down here anymore."

He found himself replaying that chat, wondering which handle she'd used.

"Why?"

"Why does it matter? You found what you wanted."

"If you've been watching, you know what Father did next."

She nodded dismissively. "Delaying tactic. Just wait him out. The UN'll process you in a year or two. You're telling me someone who had the capacity to build 'Gallant' can't keep it in his pants for a whole year."

Sarcasm.

"Thanks for the drink," he grated out.

She didn't move. Just looked at him.

"I thought I'd ruined you for other women, you know."

He stared at her.

"But now I'm thinking maybe I did you a favor. Took the local catch off the table."

Her eyes were weirdly intent. "You wouldn't go as far with a nobody on your arm, but a celebrity—easy on the eyes, built in fanbase—is different."

"x_TremeSnooze," he accused her.

"Great in the bedroom," she commented.

Wind blew.

"You're still so afraid of commitment," she accused him. "But you're going to go to Mars and knock up some innocent little girl and make her watch her kids die early from microgravity."

For one thing, Isabelle was only five years older than he was; that wasn't the same—he stopped himself. She was not going to get in his head and make something beautiful seem degenerate.

"What is wrong with you?"

"It's not like I wasn't good enough, Gordon."

"Are you hoping to start a problem?"

She ignored him, intense eyes nearly glowing in the reflected light from the snow. "I remember you too, sometimes." she told him.

The snow crunched as she walked away.

"What the FUCK."

–––❖–––

"Claire?"

"WHAT NOW?"

"We have a problem. It's Isabelle."

"Listen, that's between you two. You're both adults, you interacted off the company grounds proper—"

"—During company time, on Hiram's request."

"—Shit."

Gordon continued: "She's unhappy. She could be disruptive. It's not worth the risk. I want to offer her a clean exit."

Claire sighed heavily: "You want me to fire your ex-girlfriend."

Gordon reframed his request. "I want you to offer her a generous severance package in exchange for an NDA and a non-compete. Let her feel like she won."

Claire was silent. The frustrated silence of someone visualizing paperwork looming on the horizon.

"Look, this isn't personal anymore. This is a liability. Father already used her once to get at me. He put her, me, and the company in an unprofessional and potentially litigious situation. This is the smart move for the company—AND it protects me from a constant distraction."

"I suppose there's no use asking what you saw in her," grumped Claire.

"In the future, I will keep my hands to myself," promised Gordon.

"I would settle for you wearing pants."

"Perk of the job," said Gordon.