NOVEL NEXT Chapter 111: Regretful
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Gordon: It's such a weird feeling, hearing you say 'sorry'.
Claire: You're not making it any easier.
Gordon: Harry's actually really good for you, isn't he?
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Sunday, November 24th, 2090, about 12:15 pm MST, Montana City
"Am I," said Harry, "allowed to just say I've had the best day?"
He passed her a cup of fruit punch flavored vitamin water. Claire swore by it for hangovers, with the Alka-Seltzer in it.
"All right, shit," Karen said, seating herself on the couch beside him with maybe half a foot of space. "I'm game. Tell me about your great day."
She sounded mostly sober. She looked awful, like she might fall over, but he respected her distance.
"Well," he said, "I got a Sawzall."
"Okay," she replied. "That sounds a lot like manual labor, and I'm going to need more context."
Harry explained, "There's this phenomenon where you live with a problem for a long time because you don't have the right tool to fix it. You just accept it. It becomes normal. But you're never happy with it. Then one day, you get the right tool, and suddenly the power goes straight to your head. You start solving problems you've been putting off for years—not because they were hard, but because you didn't realize how accessible the solution actually was."
She took a deep sip, nodded, and winced.
"It's this weird mix of relief—like, 'Wow, I could've done this the whole time'—and regret that you never asked anyone about the tool in the first place. That's been me, all day."
"For whatever reason, I thought I needed a chainsaw to trim my grandfather's trees. The branches were growing too low—I had to crouch to mow the grass. But guess what? Turns out those little saws I'd been dismissing for years? They can handle limbs that thick. I used one. I don't have to duck anymore when I mow. It's amazing."
She finished the cup. Thirsty.
"I'm not even that tall, so you can imagine how low they were. And now, when I look out from my grandfather's front porch, I can see all the way to the road. It just—it makes me really happy."
". . .Yeah," Karen said, uncertainly. "I think I do get it."
"That's it," he said. "That's the whole good news. I cut some tree limbs. And now, every time I mow the lawn—which I do every week—it's going to be just that little bit less annoying."
"I'm excited for you," she said, still sounding a little bemused. She reached over and patted his knee. "It's nice when things work out."
–––❖–––
Gordon hadn't even realized how much he valued being able to be a shut-in. It was a weird thing to admit, but after the Robbie segment—with all those studio lights and forced cheer—it hit him hard. The shoot had gone well, sure.
But if he never had to be on TV again, it would be too soon.
He'd just gotten his fancy shoes off when the portable buzzed.
[2:00pm] Harry Preston: Hey Gordon, a security drone just flew into a power line! I think it crashed on the porch, wanna check it out?
[2:01pm] Gordon Stone: Heck yeah, be right out.
[2:01pm] Harry Preston: I won't be out for a bit. A bit preoccupied in the bathroom—but I'll text claire.
Gordon found the done, the camera module barely hanging on from a two-pin cord, data already unplugged, two rotors sheared completely off and missing in action. No wonder it crashed.
By the time Claire came out to join him, he had located a screwdriver and was getting to work.
He unplugged it. "It's blind. It's deaf. We can speak freely."
"Gordon, what are you doing? We should just call the security guys and get them to pick up their toy."
"I will, I will. But first I need to know something."
"Gordon, why do you have a screwdriver?"
"Well, the thing is, every time we leave campus, we're being monitored."
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"I'm not."
"Okay, well that's just unfair," he said. "I'm being followed by three drones every time I step off campus. And what I'm checking is—is this security theater? The illusion that someone's looking out for me? Am I actually being protected? Or even worse—is this just monitoring me with zero benefit to me?"
She shook her head, but didn't interfere when he continued working the screwdriver up the seam.
She walked over to the minibar. A moment later she came back with a glass. Could have been anything. He couldn't tell from the color.
"Sherry," she said. "It's cold out here."
"You know that doesn't help."
"Tell my nerves that." She took a sip. "Do what you're going to do."
He cracked the casing open.
"That looked really damaging."
"For all they know, it happened in the fall."
"Did the fall take out the security screws too?"
Gordon glanced at them.
"It could have."
"And leave them conveniently nearby on the deck?"
"No. They would have fallen somewhere. I'll just pocket these."
He did.
"Okay, so—we've got a SIM card. We've got a terabyte drive. Claire, I think they're just recording me."
She took a slow sip. "Dad has been getting worse lately, hasn't he."
"Yeah," Gordon said shortly.
"You should hurry up," she said. "I don't want to be here when someone comes up and finds you taking our security system apart."
"Hiram would get it."
"Dad wouldn't, no." She corrected him. "Not if he's monitoring you with them, he wouldn't."
"Paranoia, you think?"
"No boundaries. Zero."
"Harry says he feels like Dad is micromanaging even his appearance."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes closed. "Yes. He's been on about how 'clean-shaven is a more dignified look'—but Harry grows his hair out so fast it's just not something he's willing to capitulate on. I can't even blame him."
"Poor Harry."
"I CAN HEAR YOU," said Harry through the bathroom window.
"I SAID POOR HARRY, GUY LOST THE GENETIC LOTTERY AND LOOKS LIKE A GORILLA."
There was a beat. Then:
"So now you know," Claire said. "What are you going to do?"
"Not much to do," said Gordon. "Best case, I could build a Faraday cage and keep my portable in it. That'd block tracking, probably. But then my portable's in a Faraday cage, so that's not fun."
"They could still call for help," Claire noted.
"Yeah, but the portable already has a feature where if you yell for help, it'll call emergency services. Like—it's redundant. And this whole drone setup draws attention to me, enables surveillance on me. . . it's just—it's shitty. This is a shitty dad moment."
"I'm sorry, Gordon," she said. "I'm not going to pretend this isn't a problem. But there's nothing I can do about it."
"I didn't think there was. It's not—it's never been you. I'm sorry. Sometimes I take it out on you."
"Awwwwww," said Harry.
"Shut up," the two chorused.
"I haven't always stood up for you," Claire admitted. She offered him her glass. "It really is cold. Sherry?"
"It's not even two yet," he protested.
"Sorry—I forgot you don't live with Karen as much as I do," Claire said.
"Is that a problem?" Gordon asked. "Like. . . we should be worried about it?"
"I don't think so," Claire said. "Karen had a completely different upbringing. She was having Irish Cream—the real stuff, with whiskey in it—in her coffee when she was five or six."
"She was having coffee when she was five or six?"
"With whiskey in it. Her dad didn't know."
"No wonder she doesn't talk to her mom."
"Yeah. But also she has the weirdest sleep schedule. I'm sitting there like, 'You're day drinking,' and she's like, 'I go to bed in two hours.'"
"If you think about it, she stays up until her four or five a.m.," Claire added. "Karen works night shift and takes morning classes. So when she streams with us from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m.? She's giving up her best sleep time."
"I know. That's why I let her sleep on my couch, or my bed, or my breakfast table. . . she really does nap everywhere, doesn't she?"
"It's cute on her," Claire acknowledged. "She's like a cat. Sleeps wherever she drops."
"A feral cat."
"If you're letting her sleep on your bed, though, you should really. . . really think about how that probably looks to her."
Gordon shot her a glance, but didn't have time to say anything before Harry walked up. "Okay, so what's the diagnosis?"
"I'm considering buying a net launcher and shooting a bunch of drones every time I leave the house. What do you think about that, Harry?"
"I think your dad just found a way to make you even more of a shut-in."
Gordon surveyed the wreckage of the drone.
Sometimes Gordon hated being right.
–––❖–––
That evening, Gordon sat at his desk in the half-light of his room. The house was quiet—too quiet. But none of his standbys were quite the right sort of music to relieve the emptiness. He needed—people.
After an eternity of silence, his portable buzzed, and he pounced on it like the relief it was.
A message request. Claire.
With a swipe, her image filled the small screen. No filters, no VR backdrop—just Claire, hair down, hoodie on, sitting cross-legged on her bed like when they were kids, before any of this had started. Her face looked softer without all the overlays, but her eyes were tired. He wondered if she'd been crying.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said, without preamble.
He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. "I think I understand."
"Probably." She sighed. "I've been focused on. . . well, us. The group. Keeping it moving. I knew you could carry the team."
"I didn't want to be that guy."
"Yeah, I know. But you already were. I just dramatized it. Raised the stakes. I thought that would help. I nearly got us wiped with the necromancer. You saw."
He nodded again, without bitterness. Just tired. "Yeah."
"It wasn't perfect," she admitted. "I canceled everything after that. All the other challenges. Everything except the last one."
"The quickdraw," he said, quietly.
"You looked kind of like Dad," she said.
Gordon blinked. "I lost my temper. I apologized. But what the hell just happened back there?"
Claire hesitated. Then, with an exhale: "Someone set you up to take a fall. Someone thought you'd snap—and lose it with me."
She looked down.
"I did that to you. And I'm sorry. I didn't think you would actually lose it. You're the scariest person I know—but I guess I forgot how much of that is restraint."
He frowned. "It's legal to hire someone to kill you in Ghostlands. What's not legal?"
She gave a bitter half-smile. "To hire someone to hurt you performatively. For show. To make you break."
Then she added, voice low: "You looked like Father. I'm not exaggerating when I say you scare me more."
Gordon raised an eyebrow.
Claire gave him a look—half weary, half deadly serious. "You're like him. Without the self-control. At your worst. And you're a fast draw. You might be the most dangerous person I've ever met."
"That's at my worst."
"At your best. . . you're like the version of him before he became bitter. I don't want to see you lose that."
She didn't say it as an insult.
But it landed.
Gordon didn't answer right away. He'd have to think about that. Really think about it.