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

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Claire: Oh, just. . .come as you are. . . .

Harry: It's black-tie only, isn't it.

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November 28th, 2090, about 6:30 pm MST, Montana City.

"So," Gordon said lightly as they left his suite, "Had you ever wondered why the map shows 'Conference room A, Conference room B, Ballroom'?"

"I knew this was a mansion before it was . . . a compound?"

"Whatever it is now, yeah. Well, it's for parties. Work parties, holidays. . . it's a bit of a different aesthetic from the rest of the place. Ready for some glamour?"

"I was born in a double-wide," she told him. "I'll be screaming on the inside the whole time."

"We'll run interference for you," he reassured her. "Just like we will for Harry."

They were only going, after all, to keep Claire's bitch mother from tearing her fiancee to bloody scraps. Anything else was gravy.

"Can I keep this dress?" Karen asked lightly. It was a joke.

His eyes turned thoughtful, though. "Yes–I get to dedicate four items for permanent retention. You can."

"I was joking. What would I do in this?"

"Anything you want, and look good doing it."

She smiled, appreciating the compliment—but after a second, her brows drew together sharply.

"Tell me the truth," she commanded, stopping suddenly and taking his arm. "Gordon. This is important."

He looked at her deadly serious face. "I'm worried, but listening."

"Why does this fit."

"What?"

"I never told you my measurements."

"I didn't go through your underthings in Claire's room," Gordon said quickly.

Karen blinked. "I didn't know you knew I had a drawer in Claire's room."

"When I was switching to Unspool'd Threads, she claimed my chest of drawers. Said she needed it because you were taking up all her dresser space."

Karen's shoulders eased a bit. "Okay. Sorry. I just—felt a little violated for a second."

She took his hand again and resumed walking, their footsteps echoing against marble tile.

Then, lightly: "So why do they fit, though?"

Gordon hesitated. "I pulled some security camera footage and did the math."

She stopped. Again.

Rested her forehead on his shoulder like the sheer weight of his Gordon-ness was physically exhausting.

"Gordon," she said, muffled, "that's not better. That is so you. No woman wants someone to know her measurements without knowing that they know."

"You don't exactly have anything to be ashamed of," he offered, lamely.

She turned her head just enough to glare at him sideways. "No. You do not get to know things like that about me without telling me."

A beat.

He nodded. "Okay. I promise."

She gave a theatrical sigh and bumped her forehead lightly against his collarbone. "You're lucky you're cute."

He opened the stairwell door for her and they started making their way down. "You never take the elevator," she commented.

"Got stuck in it once."

She nodded. Then, her attention clearly not past it yet: "But seriously: Would you have done that if I was Harry?"

"Gathered your measurements?"

"Gordon."

"I already DID do that for Harry–I got him that VR suit as an engagement present."

She considered this evidence. "Those have to fit like a second skin, don't they?"

"The nice ones do. I had his tailored."

"Of course you did. No wonder it takes you an age of the Earth to save up for anything."

A couple steps passed in silence.

Then Karen groaned. "Great, now I'm picturing something sticking to him like a second skin."

Gordon, deadpan: "His body hair sort of fluffs it out."

She clutched her forehead like she'd been shot. "Not helping."

"Body shamer."

"Enabler."

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened with a groan—and let in a blast of frigid air.

Karen recoiled. "I'm going to die."

Gordon was already slipping on the gloves that had come with his suit. "Got gloves? You can borrow my coat."

"How far is it?"

"Not."

"I. . . yeah, let's do that."

She pulled on her own gloves—slim, black, just past the wrist, perfectly matched to the dress.

He offered his jacket—black wool, ivy-embroidered, elegant.

"This is short," she noted, adjusting the fit across her shoulders.

"It's probably so I can reach the holster," he said, gesturing casually toward his hip.

Karen gave him a side-eye. "Unspool'd Threads thinks you're a Western cosplayer."

"I don't hate it," he admitted. "At least it's dignified."

"SPEAKING of," she said, serious toned again, clutching his wrist. He allowed himself to be brought to a stop.

"Which security camera footage?"

"I got them to wipe the naked stuff that morning."

"And the backups. . ."

"Are offsite, but I sent the scrub order and Claire said she'd handle it." He looked her in the eye. "What do you take me for, Karen? I wouldn't do that."

She looked right back at him, then nodded her thanks. A quick flutter of a nod and she was out the door.

The original front of the mansion still looked mansionesque. In the right light, the yellow became a silhouette against the golden sky, mustard becoming gold.

The double doors stood open, and the entry hall beyond was thick with bodies: heavily coated, sharply suited, carefully accessorized guests from either Hiram's in-laws' side or the families of board members. Spouses, siblings, and shareholders all jostling for presence in the Stone ecosystem.

Hiram was a fan of largesse as a sign of success.

Children weren't much in evidence, but Gordon knew where they'd be—one of the conference rooms had a bouncy castle and trays of finger food.

Chandeliers hung at intervals through the entry area and in the ballroom beyond it. Crystal, glamour, gilt, brass. The showy, powerful side of life in the Stone family. Gordon hated it.

He shrugged into his jacket as Karen wordlessly handed it back.

"Showtime," he told her. She nodded grimly.

–––❖–––

Claire's tight black a-line skirt was too short for stockings, which was a real shame in the chill of the entrance hall. Every gust of wind lifted the hem, sending a swirl of freezing air across her thighs, not to mention her exposed lower back. Even Harry, who had eschewed his suit jacket for reasons of "I'd just take it off and lose it" looked uncomfortable.

Her arms were covered with goose pimples.

The press of guests had yet to migrate into the ballroom, though, so short of someone clearing a lane–something beneath her, unless it got a degree or two colder–or a fire, she'd be out here for a while longer.

Doors from the entryway went to bathrooms–which had lines, it being a lesser-known performance art to relieve oneself dressed to the nines–or to the conference wing, once the hospitality wing, where at present the kids of all the notables in attendance would be running wild and screechy. She would raise her children better, she promised herself.

Another gust. She turned to the door in irritation, feeling her sharp bangs fluttering in the wind, and saw them.

When Hiram had been younger, he'd commanded this reaction. Brooding eyes, powerful build, towering over the crowd, and the crowd parting for him. Gordon looked like a killer, from the black gloves to the low slung gun on his hip, omnipresent but a shock to attendees who didn't know him already. Black western jacket with matching pants, the jacket cut off high enough to expose the layering of his vest and his belt, dipping lower in the back. Black leather vest, gunmetal grey shirt, black silk tie. Silvery ivy metal accents across the jacket transforming it from sleek and deadly to an open invitation to look, do something if you think you're hard enough. Or perhaps she was projecting.

Karen was simply stunning. Claire could almost visualize her familiar sabers at her hips, her dress was so martial worn on her toned figure. Perhaps someone could have worn it without looking aggressive, but if someone could have it wouldn't be Karen. Her shoulders were back, makeup severe, hair in a high pony. . . wait.

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"Isn't that usually your look?" commented Harry.

"Plagiarist," Claire complained, insincerely. 'Claire' looked good on Karen.

The crowd parted, and Gordon walked as though there had never been a doubt that they would do so, unfriendly of demeanor, ground eating strides moving deceptively quickly, Karen in perfect step beside him. The camera drones, until then focused on various noteables, pivoted as one.

"I'm going to buy her that dress," Claire promised Harry. "It's the least she deserves."

"You should," Harry said, taking her arm and moving quickly into the wake they'd left behind. "Let's get one of the good seats."

"Harry that's not how this works. There are place cards."

"We've been waiting this long for people to find labelled seats?"

"Reading is hard," she said casually. If anyone heard their exchange, she hoped they'd choke on it.

–––❖–––

The ballroom was a sea of calculated glamour, but Karen's entrance with Gordon felt like parting water. She looked phenomenal and she knew it; the dragon-scale dress was a second skin, a suit of armor for the social battlefield. She didn't feel phenomenal. Every gilded sconce and crystal chandelier felt like an accusation.

Ahead, a small placard holder sat at an empty place setting across from Gordon's. The AI must have registered her as his plus-one. Or Hiram had. The man's omniscience was part of his mystique.

Hiram Stone silenced the room not with a shout, but with a shift in posture. He turned his attention to them, a slow, deliberate smile forming. He wasn't surprised they'd brought a friend, but he was clearly surprised by her appearance. By both of them.

"We don't often get a guest who manages to make my son look like he dressed so purposefully," Hiram said in an easily carrying bass, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. A ripple of polite, scattered laughter followed. "Thank you for joining us, Ms Moore."

"Just Karen," she said, her voice steady.

"Karen," he repeated, nodding once. "Welcome."

The first course was served as guests found their seats. AI-driven carts, their loads suspended on silent magnetic cushions, glided between and beneath tables, their movements so smooth the wine in the glasses barely shivered, the trays hovering high enough to avoid disturbing glassware or table settings. Karen slipped her name card—neatly printed, like the rest, a nice touch—into the holder at her spot. Across the table, Gordon gave a fractional nod.

Hiram didn't sit at the head of the table. That space was reserved for the serving station, where a chef would later carve steak. Instead, he sat adjacent, a position of practical power, with his wife Deirdre seated opposite. Harry sat next to Hiram, looking deeply uncomfortable. It was perhaps the first time she'd seen him that he wasn't wearing something floral. She glanced at Gordon's jacket and snickered–he'd taken that role for the night.

The carts followed a specific serving order: Deirdre first, then the rest of the table, with Hiram served last. The carts left the table and did not return. There were no seconds.

The charcuterie platters were arrays of cured meats, artisan cheeses, and fruit. Tucked near the edge of one platter was a tidy spiral of smoked ham and pineapple slivers. Only a few pieces, absurdly few for a table this size. The platters moved down the line.

Karen took two of the ham and pineapple arrangements. She smiled a little, murmuring to Gordon, "I was always a sucker for Hawaiian pizza. Didn't think this crowd was the ham-and-fruit type."

He didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the platter's slow journey around the table.

By the time it reached Hiram, the ham was gone. He glanced at the empty space on the platter, his expression unreadable, and set it aside.

"Take mine, dear," Deirdre said, her voice saccharine. She was already lifting her fork, scraping her own portion onto his plate in one practiced, aggressive motion. "I would hate for you to miss out."

Her eyes, cold and sharp, never left Karen's. It was the first time Karen knew Deirdre was aware of her existence, and she was already a declared enemy. She didn't count it much of a loss–the woman had been absent from Claire's life for years and years, and had lost Karen's respect.

Hiram assembled his salad like an engineer building a bridge—careful, intricate, with measured bites. He ate quickly, with immaculate manners and evident enjoyment. No noise, no stray dressing. When the sommelier approached with the first wine pairing, Hiram accepted a glass that was, to Karen's eye, surprisingly full for such a formal meal. But then again, she thought, he is a big man. We're in for rounds.

Gordon tried to provide entertaining banter, monopolizing Harry's attention by dint of distracting him every time Deirdre tried to address him. A giddy, triumphant feeling bubbled under Karen's carefully composed surface. He'd been worrying about it. It wasn't just sex for him either. The admissions from their conversation replayed in her mind, a warm, private counterpoint to the room's icy formality. She felt fantastic in her dress, and even better about the man sitting across from her. They'd been so in sync entering the party.

Her gaze landed on Claire, who was currently enduring Gordon leaning across her for the third time. Claire's face was a mask of perfect, long-suffering misery. The urge to share some of her own buoyant mood—or at least offer a moment of solidarity—was too strong to resist. The setting was all wrong for her usual methods, but she wasn't going to let her best friend suffer alone.

She made do by prodding her friend in the shin with the toe of her boot and then immediately fixing her gaze on her wine glass, feigning innocence.

Claire's foot flinched. Her eyes flicked to Karen, full of initial irritation that swiftly melted. A tiny, almost imperceptible huff of air escaped Claire's nose—the closest she could get to a laugh in this viper's nest. The message had been sent and received: I see you. This sucks. But I've got your back. Or, perhaps 'I got your shin'–whatever worked.

The second course arrived: rare steaks, crisp pork belly, grilled chicken. "Each of you may take what you like," the server announced. "If we run out, we will provide more."

Karen, deciding to take them at their word, asked for both rare steak and crispy pork belly. Gordon, across from her, filled his plate only with steak—enough to feed a man twice his size. Not messy, not overloaded—just to the brim, a plate completely filled with steak. He began to season it heavily as she watched him with reluctant awe. If she ate like that she'd be ten thousand pounds.

The final carts vanished down the silent rail, curving into the wall without fanfare. No servers remained. Plates were full, or they weren't.

Hiram had also taken a generous portion of meat, two of each. He saw Karen looking at his plate.

"Did you get enough?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Karen glanced down at her own plate—an 8-ounce steak, a few strips of pork belly. "As long as there's a filler coming, like a potato, I'll be just fine. This is great."

Hiram smiled. "There are two more courses."

"Then that's great. Thank you for checking up on me. So. . . I guess you really like meat?"

"More that I don't truly enjoy potatoes," he said smoothly.

"Karen would starve if she didn't eat potatoes," Claire said loyally from across the table.

"Don't be silly," Deirdre chimed in, her smile a brittle thing. "Most of us could do with a little trimming in our diets. Even you, my dear, darling daughter."

Claire turned to her mother with the fakest smile Karen had ever seen. "Karen is a professional athlete, Mother."

"Is that what they call it these days?"

Claire's voice was placid, deadly. "She makes six figures a year doing wall runs, flips, and acrobatics. Why? What were you trying to imply?"

"I couldn't possibly imagine," her mother said vaguely, stirring her wine.

Hiram, silent through the exchange, continued eating. He seemed to take particular pleasure in a little cone of red spice arranged on the edge of his plate. Karen tried a bit of her own. Chipotle. Smoky, hot, and sharper than she expected.

Hiram's lips quirked into a smirk. He'd seen her reaction. He was as attentive as Gordon. "Do you like it?"

"I see why your wine glass was so full," she shot back.

He turned his attention to Harry, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "Try the spice, Harry."

Harry eyed the red powder. "Those are pepper seeds. I'm also eating broccoli soup. It wouldn't pair. If you'll bring me one of those steaks later, I'll try some."

His wife glared at Harry, but before she could open her mouth, Hiram acknowledged the redirection.

"It wouldn't. I stand corrected," Hiram said with no apparent annoyance. "However, I believe we have chicken parmesan in the next course. Perhaps save some of your soup."

"Dad," Gordon said loudly, cutting through the tension. Karen shot him a glare, but he seemed unbothered. "I finished my steaks, but the servers aren't here. Ping someone, please?"

Twenty-four ounces of steak, gone. Karen was impressed. Claire looked proud.

"Of course," Hiram said idly. He made no visible move, but a minute later a server emerged from a hidden door, heading straight for Gordon with four more rare steaks.

"I'm afraid I don't have any more of that chile," Gordon said, feigning sadness as he looked at Hiram's plate. "Could I borrow yours, buddy?" he asked Harry.

Harry looked from Gordon to Claire to his own untouched spice cone. "No—I'm saving it. In case I need to urgently drop weight later. I think Karen has some."

Karen extended her plate. Gordon pinched a generous amount of the chipotle between his fingers, dusting it over the fresh steaks.

"Remember to wash your hands before you go," she goaded him quietly.

He stared at her. So did half the table.

"It's a real problem," she defended herself to the silent audience. "Your dad uses a spoon for a reason, and it isn't effective distribution."

"How crude," Claire's mother muttered.

Hiram leaned over Harry's plate to inspect Gordon's. "The distribution is quite good," he admitted. "However, germ theory informs my choices more than essential oil contamination. Still, I am sure my son, and perhaps the both of you, will be the better for your diligence."

With the petty drama diffused, Hiram shifted gears, his voice resonating with warmth. "Harry. I've been hoping to have you at my table for a while. I understand the wedding will be in the winter."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, sitting up straighter.

"And I observe," Hiram continued, his words quieting the nearby chatter, "that you've recently purchased your future wife a beautiful engagement ring."

Claire raised her hand, displaying the fiery gem. It wasn't a diamond, but a large, custom-carved citrine, its orange-red tones glowing in the soft light.

"That's like five carats," Deirdre said, her voice thick with envy.

"That is a lot more than five carats, my dear," Hiram corrected gently. "And custom carved to boot. That will not be resized," he warned the couple with genuine admiration. He knew Harry was a contract coder; he knew what this gesture cost. Months of scrimping, of ramen and PB&J sandwiches, or more.

"I think he likes you," Claire murmured, this time not a new discovery but as posturing, just loud enough for her mother to catch it.

"He cleans up very nicely," Hiram said, raising his voice for the whole table. "I would like to bring attention to my daughter and her fiancé. He has purchased her an exquisite ring. For those of you who have yet to propose, take notes."

As if on cue, Claire seized the moment. She reached over, turned Harry's face toward hers, and pulled him into a deep, possessive kiss, silencing his blushing surprise.

"I think she likes it," Karen deadpanned. Hiram nodded in agreement.

"I once put that effort into such things–custom carvings, what have you. It grows tiresome quickly if the effort is not received in the same spirit as the intention."

Karen couldn't tell if Deirdre truly didn't understand what she'd just heard or had an excellent poker face.

The next course arrived—vegetables and breaded items, including the promised chicken parmesan.

"I couldn't possibly," Karen said, "but I do love chicken parm. Harry, can I steal a bite from yours instead?" Harry, still flushed, nodded enthusiastically.

"There will be plenty," Hiram assured them. "For what I'm paying, there had better be."

The food was, as promised, exquisite. "I'm going to gain ten pounds," Karen declared, turning to Deirdre with a provocative smile. "You were right, Mrs. . . ma'am."

"Stone," the woman said, her voice clipped.

"Sure," Karen replied, all innocence. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if that was still part of your name."

A hush fell. Gordon stared at his plate. Claire raised one eyebrow, a little proud. Hiram didn't comment.

"The dessert course is coming," he said pleasantly, folding his napkin.

Deirdre's composure finally shattered. "Some women," she said, her voice arch and venomous, "break their backs in labor for their kids. Some women labor on their backs."

"Deirdre!" Hiram snapped. "Decorum."

The room went silent. In the quiet, Harry's whisper was painfully audible. "Now I know what you meant about decorum."

"The apple hardly fell far from the tree," Deirdre snarled at Hiram. "You are a whore, and your son brings one to the table."

"While the tree can speak for himself," Gordon commented dryly. "I'm just amazed you got this drunk off a quarter cup of wine."

"Mom," Claire said, her voice like ice. "You need to leave."

"Now," she repeated when Deirdre just stared, indignant.

"Hang on a sec," Karen said, rising to her feet. The whole table watched her, not tense, just. . . watching. She walked the length of the table, her heels silent on the marble, her posture easy. She reached Deirdre's chair, paused, and then calmly, firmly, pulled it back from the table. It wasn't effortless, but Karen made it look that way.

"Let me get your purse," she said, her voice like honey. "Some of us have class."

As security discreetly escorted a sputtering Deirdre from the room, the dessert carts arrived.

"Ah," Hiram said into the lingering silence. "My daughter's favorite. Tiramisu."

Claire's shoulders eased. She didn't look at the door. She just picked up her fork. "Finally."

"She was my mistress," Hiram announced pleasantly to the remaining guests. "I wasn't even aware of her husband before she served him the divorce papers. Claire was born of inimitable stock. Fortunately, my daughter does not take after her–intellectually."

Nobody seemed inclined to comment, busying themselves with the dessert instead. After a polite pause, though, conversation resumed.

The woman who had been seated across from Karen—unnoticed until now—spoke for the first time. "So, my dear–how did you meet Gordon?"

"Through Claire," Karen said.

"They met in dance school," Hiram interjected. "In fact, if memory serves, she was one of the better dancers. Of course, you were both. . . six? Eight?" He stood, a man of seventy-two moving with surprising grace. "I know I am not of an age with you," he said, his eyes on Karen, "but dancing is on the agenda. Would you do me the honor of helping me kick off the festivities?"