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

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Hiram: Children are an investment, and like any investment, neither something to take up without research nor something to make a judgment on prior to maturation. . . .

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Saturday, November 23rd, 2090, about 12:50 pm MST, Montana City

The diner had a cracked sidewalk patio and sun-faded umbrellas, the kind of place that pretended it wasn't freezing if the sun was out. There were very few customers, and none of them were sitting in the outdoor section. Gordon had offered his jacket. Karen had refused it, smug in her sheer defiance of the Montana chill.

His mood wasn't exemplary, but it was good to be doing something. Anything. Anything was better than sitting staring at his portable, waiting for a call like a high schooler.

Karen was halfway through her soup and practically glowing.

"I feel like I've finally made it," she said, between sips. "I mean, more than usual."

"I've never doubted you were going to pass your classes and get your degree," Gordon said, supportive.

"Because you weren't the one in the classes," she pointed out, poking her spoon at him. "It's performance anxiety. I've been fighting imposter syndrome every step of the way through two master's degrees, but today it clicked. I've been a complete badass to get here. I've had to be a machine. And I'm going to go the distance."

He nodded. "How much do you have left?"

"I'm almost there. One more semester after this one's over. My program coordinator told me the good news yesterday—in her typically unhelpful phrasing—'You might actually pull this off.'" I just checked the voicemail this morning.

Gordon raised his glass in a quiet toast. "To pulling it off."

Karen clinked hers against his. "To being employable."

He studied her for a moment—the way the sunlight caught in the flyaways around her temple, the faint flush on her cheeks, the contented bounce in her crossed leg under the table. She wasn't just in a good mood. She was proud. Secure in herself in a way she hadn't been for years. The constant humming activity had been allowed to settle at a maintenance level, for the time being. Like watching an idling sports car sitting there, purring.

It made something in his chest unclench. She was okay again.

"Have I told you I'm proud of you?" he asked, out of nowhere.

Karen paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "That was dangerously sincere. Are you okay?"

He snorted. "I mean it."

She set the spoon down gently. "Thanks."

They sat in a comfortable lull, the kind that didn't need filling. Around them, the patio buzzed with small sounds—a dog barking at a passing car, a drone whining its way by high overhead, wind flicking paper napkins off the condiments.

Karen reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

"I like this," she said. "Us. Like this."

"Like what?"

"Nothing in particular," she said. "Just. . . lunch."

"Okay," Gordon said. "Just lunch."

For the first time all day, his smile felt genuine.

–––❖–––

When Karen woke up, it was already five p.m. She liked weekends: no work, no school—just getting to relax, sleep, and follow her body's natural rhythms, insofar as they could be called natural for someone as nocturnal as she was. The stream would be late today, she supposed, but they'd been doing well recently and were far ahead of contracted minimums.

Something smelled nice.

She followed her nose to the kitchenette and paused in the doorway. Claire's hair was pinned back—her usual severe ponytail hidden inside a food safety hair net. She wore an apron. Karen had always thought it a little funny how seriously Claire approached cooking from home. Karen herself was more of a "toss it in a bowl and microwave it" kind of girl, but she could respect the effort—even if spending the money to replicate every implement from her favorite chef's videos would've completely broken the bank.

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Claire glanced over at her. Her face, in this light and this moment, didn't have its usual stoic control. She wasn't in a joking mood either. Just. . . content. The food was probably going well.

"You should put some pants on," Karen said.

"My house, my rules," Claire retorted. "You put your pants on."

"Sometimes a girl's gotta breathe," Karen said vaguely.

"My kitchen."

"Yes, chef."

Karen returned a moment later, yoga pants newly donned.

"So aside from the hypocrisy—where you get to wear Harry's shirt and I have to wear pants—what's going on, friend-o?"

Karen wandered up to the counter, where Claire had laid out the evening's array of ingredients: raw chicken, whole onions, carrots, Brussels sprouts, a cabbage.

"I cannot conceive of a meal that needs all of these at once," Karen said. "Certainly not in one dish."

"Slaw and sprouts are for side dishes, you heathen," Claire said sternly. "Now, if you're going to stand there offering opinions, you might as well help. Dice the chicken while it's still cold?"

"No problem."

The good smell was coming from the sauce pot. Karen snuck an impudent taste. Tomato-forward.

For all that she'd ironically chosen the nickname CutsByKaren, Karen was no expert with either knife or scissors. But cubing chicken wasn't exactly high art, and the cold helped keep it firm.

"I went on a date," Karen said.

Claire stopped and stared, brows nearly hitting her hairline. "Really?"

"Well," Karen shrugged, "a girl's got to have some dignity."

"Okay," Claire allowed.

There was a pause. Karen scraped the last of the chicken to the side and picked up an onion. This was the one vegetable she was supremely confident in. She'd watched many tutorials while honing her personal recipe for Karen Onion Soup. She had the onions diced in no time flat.

She murmured to herself as she worked, reciting from memory:
"Finely dice as many onions as will fit in your biggest pot. Add a splash of oil or butter, cook them down until soft and starting to brown. Fill the pot up to the onion line with beef stock. Add whatever's in the kitchen. Simmer uncovered until reduced by half."

Claire snorted from across the counter. "Add beer for flavor. Yeah, I remember your home cooking."

"You ate it," Karen said without looking up, "and you liked it."

"I did. So. . ." Claire asked, "was it a good date?"

"No," Karen said. "Which is a shame, 'cause he seemed like a good guy. Did magic tricks too."

"Sounds like a winner. But you're not over Gordon."

"No," Karen admitted.

"So where are we avoiding now?" Claire asked. "Did you ask out the cute bookshop guy? Do I have to stop going to the bookshop?"

"No—smoothie guy at the gym," Karen said. "But he was really cool about it. So maybe we don't have to—"

"No more smoothies," Claire mourned. "That's half the reason I visit you at the gym."

"Fitness has nothing to do with it?"

"At. All," Claire promised.

Karen looked back at the counter. The Brussels sprouts had vanished. The microwave was running.

"I will not be eating those, just so you know."

"I didn't invite you to," Claire replied.

"You were going to. You're predictable like that. Mothering."

"I'd be a good mother," Claire said, her tone casual as she began grating cabbage into a mountain of thin green strips. "I'd feed my kids nutrients, ground them from TV, and gain fifty pounds of stress-induced mutton."

Her strokes on the grater were getting sharper.

"But I don't think I'm going to get to for a long time."

"I thought you were in a good mood?"

"You said the magic word, and now my mood is shot to hell, okay? You didn't know."

She grated in silence, then shifted to the carrots.

"I just. . . I've been planning to get an early start. Get a bunch of them out now, while I'm young and have energy. And I think I'm going to be tied up at work for the rest of my life. And Dad doesn't understand about the biological clock, and it sometimes feels like I'm going to have to wait for the bastard to die before I get what I want out of my life. And I totally sympathize with how Gordon feels, but if he gets to skive off then that leaves me holding the bag, and that's—SHIT. OW."

Her finger was bleeding.

Karen brought her a paper towel, which quickly turned red.

"Hey, some of the good stuff in the slaw, right?"

"Shut up."

"Claire."

"Sorry."

"Harry's a good guy," Karen said gently. "Did you talk to him about this?"

"I. . . I've been dropping hints. He's usually so perceptive. But he's stubbornly ignoring them."

"Are you using birth control?"

"No."

"So. . . doing the deed on the regular?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"No. Your 'do not disturb' sign on the door was very classy."

"Thanks. Stole it from the Hilton."

"Uh-huh. So. . . what could he be doing to prepare for kids that he isn't already doing?"

Claire scowled. "You're being too reasonable. You're supposed to say, 'That Harry is a scoundrel and a cad, you're too good for him.'"

"Are you?"

"No. Stupid Harry and his stupid. . ." She trailed off. "I just want my life to have a few things in it. Harry. Kids. A career. You. Is it too much to want them in the right order?"

Karen walked over and hugged her from behind, resting her hands on Claire's crossed arms.

"You're going to be okay," she said softly. "And a great mother, when you are. Whenever that happens."