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

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Hiram: Past the initial learning curve, dancing is one of the few activities where one is not, at all times, required to maintain a running stream of meaningless commentary. One can think, and move—my more hidebound colleagues used to mock me for wasting valuable research time on the dance floor, but after these years, I can still dance, and they can scarcely walk.

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November 28th, 2090, about 8:00 pm MST, Montana City.

The invitation was not a request; it was a test, in front of the entire room. To refuse would be an insult. To accept was to step willingly into the lion's den.

Karen smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Stone."

"Hiram," he corrected her gently as he led her to the dance floor.

He was an excellent dancer. Not just good—excellent. He was the best dancer Karen had ever met, including her instructors. There was no hesitation in his lead, no wasted motion. He was conscientious, never stepping on her feet, never pulling her off balance. He measured his steps to the length of her stride, to the dramatic potential of the slits in her skirt. When he spun her, it wasn't a showy flourish but a calculated move to give her space, to let her showcase her own skill. For a few stunning moments, they were not adversaries; they were partners, perfectly in sync, a portrait of unexpected grace.

The music was a slow, orchestral piece, something classical and grand. He guided her through a complex sequence, his hand firm but not crushing at the small of her back.

After a few minutes, she got up the nerve to ask the question that had been burning in her mind. "Hiram," she said, her voice a low murmur against the swell of the violins. "Why are you doing this?"

His expression didn't change. "I was a dancer," he said, his voice just for her. "Before I was anything else. At twelve years of age, I won my first medal. I never lost the love for the art. I see that same love in you. This," he spun her out, then drew her back in seamlessly, "is just two similar people sharing a passion."

Karen didn't buy it for a second. This was a negotiation, conducted through waltz.

"You've made quite an impression on my son," Hiram continued, his tone conversational, almost paternal. "He respects you. Listens to you. More than he listens to me, at times."

"He's his own man," Karen replied carefully.

"He is," Hiram agreed. "A man currently making a series of catastrophic, emotional decisions. A man who needs a moderating influence. Someone with a steady hand. Someone pragmatic." He met her eyes, the message clear. He wanted her to be that influence. He wanted her to be his agent in Gordon's life.

Karen let out a short, sharp laugh. She couldn't help it. It was too absurd.

Hiram's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. "You find my concern for my son amusing?"

"No," she said, trying to contain her mirth. "No, not at all. It's just. . . You have no idea why that's so funny."

In context, it was hilarious. The idea of her being a moderating influence. She, who had instigated half of Gordon's stupidest parkour stunts. She, who had just spent the night in his bed, goading him and getting him drunk. She, who was actively trying to seduce him away from his grand, tragic romance.

"I take it you have questions?" he said pointedly.

"Why would you choose. . . me?" she asked.

He didn't hesitate. "Because with some guidance, I believe you could be a useful person to know. Because you could be a good influence on my son and my daughter. Because it cost me nothing to make the attempt, but gained me a dance with an excellent partner, not to mention the envy of the entire room—but mostly because I believe my son would enjoy your moderating influence more than mine."

"Tell you what," she said. "I'll talk with him about it, and let you know."

He wasn't pleased, she could tell. The pressure of his hand on her back increased just a fraction. But he was a man who always had contingencies. The music swelled to a close, and he executed a perfect, formal dip, holding her for a moment before bringing her upright. He bowed, a model of decorum, and released her. The first dance was over. The negotiation had failed.

–––❖–––

Gordon had watched the whole thing with a knot in his stomach. He saw the way his father moved, the effortless control, the way he showcased Karen like a prized possession. He saw the low, intense conversation. He didn't know what was said, but he knew his father. It was a power play.

As soon as Hiram released her, Gordon stepped forward. He met her halfway back to the table, holding out a hand. She'd asked him for a dance. He'd give her a dance.

"My turn," he said.

Karen's smile was a little strained, but she took his hand without hesitation. The orchestra had shifted to something more modern, a song with a driving beat and a synth-heavy melody. It wasn't a waltz. It was something you could get lost in.

Gordon was not the dancer his father was. He was strong, and he was a good lead, but he lacked the fluid, predatory grace. His movements were more grounded, more earnest. Where Hiram's dance had been a performance for the crowd, this felt different. More private.

He pulled her close, his hand finding the same spot on her back his father's had just occupied. His was warmer. Less certain.

"What did he want?" Gordon asked, his voice low.

"To anoint me as your official babysitter," she replied dryly. "He thinks you need a moderating influence."

Gordon groaned. "Of course he does."

"I laughed at him," she added.

"I saw," he said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his worry. "Thank you."

They didn't speak for a while after that. They just moved. And it was here, in the simple act of dancing, that the awkwardness between them began to melt away. The tension from his bedroom, the unresolved kiss from the morning—it all seemed to recede into the mental static of trying to learn a complicated coordination exercise on the spot. That would be awkward with anybody else—but they'd spent so much time doing exactly that, together, or teaching one another, leaning on one another's skill and patience.

He stepped; her foot was right there, and he moved his upper body—relocating hers slightly, her eyes going round with startlement.

"Show me where you want me, Daddy," she said wickedly.

Okay, not startlement.

"What, on a doll?"

"Why bother, you've got the perfect reference right in front of you." This, in his ear, and he was blushing in real time.

He saw Claire and Harry on the dance floor nearby, moving in their own happy, slightly clumsy orbit. He saw the other board members, their faces relaxed, their conversations lubricated by wine. He could almost see why people went to these things.

The song ended, but he didn't let her go right away.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice quiet again. "For making things weird. It's been a long week."

"I know," she said, her blue eyes soft and understanding. "But Gordon? You're allowed to be. Weird."

She winked, then made a beeline for Claire as the next song began.

–––❖–––

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Claire and Karen were a whirlwind of motion on the dance floor, a shared, joyful energy radiating from them. For Karen, it was a physical shaking off of the evening's stress; for Claire, a small, private victory lap. Her mother had left, the hard part of the party was over, and now she was free to simply indulge. They spun and smiled, lost in the music.

Harry and Gordon leaned against the polished wood of the bar rail, watching them.

"You really should get out more," Gordon said quietly. "She loves this stuff. Loves a crowd."

"I could say the same to you," Harry countered.

It was true. Gordon hadn't let himself think about future dates with Karen. The thought was a little painful, an implicit admission that he was giving up on a future with Marie. But watching Karen now, so vibrant and happy, he knew the possibility was real. He filed the thought away in his mental Rolodex under Maybe Later.

"So. Her mom," suggested Harry.

"Yeah, that was a bit awkward," Gordon acknowledged.

Karen dipped Claire during the lull in the music—a dramatic lean, her calves arched in strong relief as she lifted the other girl back onto her feet.

She really is strong, Gordon realized. She might not be able to reliably open a pickle jar, but he'd done that thing again—reduced someone's power and ability to a string of numbers you could plug into a flowchart or spreadsheet. And now, he was surprised to see his stepsister moving with such grace. Such passion.

She did dance. He knew that. He hadn't exactly made it to her recitals, but he knew she'd kept at it—apparently all the way through college.

Why didn't I ever ask about it? He wondered. It's not like she ever tried to pick through old coding manuals with him, but. . .she plays Ghostlands.

I'm her brother. Stepbrother. Whatever. I should've been there. I should've known this was in her somewhere.

"That was awkward," Harry agreed.

His first dance with Claire had gone about as well as Gordon's dance with Karen—except Gordon had cheated.

If you couldn't reliably keep your feet from ending up where your partner's were, but you had a good grip on their hand and waist—and they were capable of stabilizing themselves—you could just move them out of the way before you stepped on them.

That, he knew, was not what anyone would call acceptable dance practice.

For all that it was surprisingly. . .popular.

"Was she always that bad?" Harry asked, also watching the girls. But like Gordon, he wasn't really talking about Karen. He meant Deirdre.

"Long answer? No," Gordon joked.

The girls joined hands and spun tightly, conserving rotational momentum. Karen shot Gordon a look mid-spin—there were embers in it.

"Well," Gordon said.

"I always wondered why she didn't talk about the early days more," Harry said.

"I was sixteen. She was ten," Gordon said. "I suspect I remember her mom better than she does. When Deirdre was in love, it wasn't all bad. She was vain—but about things that were actually good for kids. Good schools. Healthy food. Regular socialization. Things that never really held any intrinsic value for Hiram, but did for her.

"She communicated them to him as status symbols—and she could keep up with him socially. And. . . ahem. Apparently, physically. She was a lovely dancer—Hiram's always prized that in a woman."

"Thus—Claire's dance lessons."

"Yes," Gordon agreed. "Though the evidence suggests it wasn't all Hiram twisting her arm. Not with that big of a smile on her face."

"Agreed," Harry said. "I've got to get lessons."

"Damn right."

Claire was smiling. A full-on smile, her canines, which she was so self-conscious about, were on full pearly display. Good for her.

"Anyway," Harry said, turning from the dance floor, "there was something I wanted to show you. Claire and I have been talking."

"Oh yeah?" Gordon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. We've been talking about children." Harry started walking, and Gordon followed, snagging an already-opened bottle of champagne from a passing tray just in case. They went down a flight of stairs and through a pair of corridors, heading toward Conference Room A. Gordon knew it had been repurposed for the children of the guests during the later wine tasting, an event he'd now be able to skip. With his mother out of the way, there was no need to put himself through a small room with Hiram and his old think-tank cronies.

Besides, he thought charitably, if Hiram is going to enjoy any part of this like a normal human being, it's going to be talking about old war stories with his buddies. They don't need me there. Maybe friendship was still possible for Hiram. Maybe.

"So," Harry continued as they walked, "Claire drops the question on me. 'Hey Harry, what do you think about kids?' And I said they're walking petri dishes with no coordination and bad judgment."

"Well," said Gordon, "at least you're not wrong."

"'Be serious,' she says. And then she talks to me about eggs, and how we're getting married, and how the corporation will take up more of her future as she gets more serious—which, I don't know how much more serious you can get than Head of HR."

"You can," Gordon confirmed grimly.

"She said she'd like for her kids to be around the same age, because what she and you have now is a lucky accident, but the distance you had before is more normal for siblings born years apart. She wants me to think about it. So, I've been thinking about it."

Gordon stopped just short of the conference room door. "Okay. So, just to be clear here. We—that is, two unmarried dudes in our late twenties—are about to go into the children's playroom and stare at them."

"You don't have to make it creepy," Harry insisted.

"Depending on who's shepherding, we might get knifed," Gordon warned. "I will not shoot an innocent parent because you made a bad decision, unless they go for me first."

"Brutal," Harry complained. "But you need to see this. This might matter for you, too."

Harry opened the door. The first thing that hit them was the sheer volume. The second was a dodgeball.

It crashed against the wall beside Gordon's head. The room was chaos. A bouncy castle, looking miraculously intact, shuddered with activity. One of the finger-food tables was upended. And shrieking children ran everywhere, pelting one another with rubber balls sourced from a basket unwisely placed within arm's reach. Anything not bolted down would have been trashed. But. He looks at the kids playing. He felt. . . envy. They were so . . . intent on their games. The king of the hill was king in his mind and it was important. Gordon would have just seen an inflatable set of stairs in his place. When did I hit skip on my childhood, he wondered.

"This is nothing compared to a normal gym," Harry said solemnly. "This. . . this is what she wants me to willingly subject myself to. Eighteen years of this."

Across the room, one of the adult chaperones turned to notice them and started to wander their way. Another dodgeball streaked toward them. Harry tried to dodge but failed, getting clipped on the side for his trouble. Gordon, with practiced ease, scooped the ball off the bounce and pegged the Director of Marketing's shrieking brat right in the foot. "Out!" he yelled.

"2.3 children, white picket fence," Harry said, brushing himself off. "It's not just her. I always thought it was in the cards for me, too. Just. . . later. And now I'm hearing I'll be running out of time. I'm not even thirty yet."

"Thirty isn't that old," Gordon said. "I'm almost there myself, and unless something radically changes in the next couple of months, I have a feeling I'm going to feel just as unprepared as you do now."

"We're already trying. Have been for weeks."

Gordon looked up, startled.

"You're leaving. She knows who's shortlisted behind you. The CEO position has a traditional—thanks, Hiram—restriction on CEO absenteeism or personal leave for the first so many years. But if she can get pregnant now—"

"—it'd be grandfathered in for her to have maternity leave or BSC would look like monsters." Nice one, Claire. "I hope it works."

Harry nodded, looking out at the miniature battlefield. "What would you do?"

"Well," Gordon said, lowering his voice, "if you get the old 'snip-snip,' that would be a really nasty surprise to spring on someone. I wouldn't do that. But," he continued, "I suppose at the end of the day. . . your body, your choice. Just don't quote me on that."

"Why not?"

Gordon gave him a deadpan look. "Because I want to live."

They closed the door on the chaos, the sounds of shrieking children and bouncing rubber muffled instantly. Harry reached for the bottle, and Gordon surrendered it. The man took a long, grateful pull directly from the neck.

"Listen," Harry said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thank you. I've appreciated having you here today. I know there was every chance you weren't even going to come."

"I wasn't," Gordon admitted. "And I'm not going to stay for the whole thing. But what are friends for?" He patted Harry on the back twice, a bit awkwardly. "Claire loves you," he said, his voice softening. "She is head over heels for you. I think you two are going to figure this one out."

As they made their way back up the stairs, they heard the sound of the conference room doors opening again, followed by the thunderous release of the children. Gordon glanced at his portable. 9:00 PM. It had been longer than he'd thought.

"I suppose that's bedtime," he said.

"That's right," Harry replied. "And guess where they're going to bed?"

The guest rooms.

Gordon thought, Oh no.

He had taken over one of the guest room suites a while ago, after the family's residential wing had been converted to offices whole cloth. Claire had done the same. Which meant they would all be rooming in the same wing as a horde of over-sugared, over-stimulated children. The walls were surprisingly thin for a mansion. Gordon could already imagine the quality of sleep he had in store.

They made it back to the edge of the dance floor just as the children began to pour into the main room, weaving through the legs of the adults. Karen took Gordon's arm as he approached, her eyes full of mischief. She glanced around the room, a conspiratorial smile playing on her lips.

"Listen," she said, leaning in close, her voice a low murmur against the music. "I don't know if anyone's told you, but you're about to have a very bad night." She paused, letting the statement hang in the air. "Unless," she suggested, her gaze locking with his, "you want to get out of here?"

There was a question at the end, but it was more than a simple invitation. It was an offer. A new path.

He didn't hesitate.

"It's a date," he said.