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

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Administrator Flowers: While the board acknowledges the significance of your recent engineering work—including the tank replacements on Subsystem F—it was unable to justify the risks inherent in adding another, younger forklift operator to the ecology at this time. Given the density of piping in your sector, the board recommends continued reliance on experienced personnel in this role and invites reapplication following the next review cycle.

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Sol 510 FY 26, 12:40 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B

She'd failed the exam on Thanksgiving. It would be another full month before the next scheduled charter—time enough to make up for it, maybe pass the next.

But—a month of hell. And she didn't know what to tell Gordon.

Marie was sulking again, and she knew it.

Reluctantly, she called Vera through Q-Link, the display pinging in quiet pulses until her holographic presence flickered into the room, translucent blue and full of warmth. The rig compressed her rib cage, constrained every motion. Everything was so hard and heavy and hurt from yesterday's effort come back to bite her again.

She needed a distraction.

"You look like you feel well." Vera said immediately, squinting at her. The sarcasm was heavy in her voice.

Marie snorted softly. "Thanks. Fever's back, but it's the suit's fault this time." She waved an arm as emphasis. It squealed slightly, resisting the motion.

"At least we don't have to have you in quarantine anymore." Vera tilted her head. "You watching his streams again?"

"I wasn't looking for them," she said.

"That's not a no."

A pause.

"I don't know if I should go to Earth," she said finally. "I don't know what I want. I don't know what I can want. I'm still in therapy and every decision feels like it's months away and also already behind me, but I really am racing the clock. I don't know if I should keep fighting for this or step back and let him find his happiness somewhere easier."

Vera's expression softened. "Then you should certainly ask the question. Figure out what you want yourself. But I think you'll find it's easier than you're expecting."

"I don't know whether I can get through this. So I don't know what I want to do."

"Well. There are two options: You can, or you can't. Sometimes binary choices aren't binary, but this one . . . is. If you know the question which will make up your mind, and you know the possible outcomes of the question, then you can model your future decision state given either outcome—and making decisions earlier means you can plan for them better, so you shouldn't put it off."

"So. . . I need to know if I should go to Earth."

"That's not quite the question you're actually trying to answer. You said it yourself—but let's work back to it."

Marie frowned. "I just told you—"

"No," Vera said. "You gave me the surface question. We'll get there. For now, let's work the problem," she said. "What variables matter?"

Marie swallowed. "If I can get through therapy."

"Which is uncertain. Got it. But what else?"

Marie's voice came out smaller. "If I can make it a year."

Vera nodded once. "A year of long distance. Of friction. Emotional lag. Risk of drift. A long, slow crawl through uncertainty. You already did eight months of it—but you know how unusual that was, and you don't want to push it."

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Marie closed her eyes.

"I don't think we'd end up lasting through it," she said quietly. "He has too many easier options, he'll notice eventually."

Vera leaned forward slightly, hands loosely clasped between her knees, translucent in blue light.

"So you can get through therapy. What happens?"

"I go to Earth and try to make it work."

"And if you can't, are you stuck there forever?"

Marie hadn't thought about that.

"No, you're not. Mars to Earth—very hard. Earth to Mars? Piece of cake. Walk in the park."

"I suppose so. Yeah." A happy thought.

"So you can't get through therapy. Suppose that, instead. What happens?"

"I wait a year and hope he doesn't lose interest in me."

"Wait and hope sounds pessimistic. Why are you feeling pessimistic?"

"I don't know."

"And yet," Vera said, "you don't want to step back."

Marie's eyes opened.

"No," she said. "I really don't."

Vera smiled, but not kindly. "Then that's your true answer."

Marie blinked.

"Stop trying to be noble," Vera said. "Stop trying to be a good, self-sacrificing woman who lets love go gently into the void. That's not integrity."

"I'm just trying not to trap him—"

"No, you're trying to pre-reject yourself to save him the trouble. What were we saying about protecting people's autonomy?"

Marie sat very still.

Vera's voice softened—but didn't lose its precision.

"Duty is for the parts of your life where it belongs," she said. "Your mission. Your obligations to the station. Your commitment to staying alive. But love? Love isn't duty. It's desire. It's wanting someone and having the courage not to smother that wanting just because it might go unreciprocated."

"I've never said that."

Oh no, Marie thought.

"You did once," Vera reminded her. "In the heat of the moment, to a bunch of strangers who would never make you feel like you had to really justify what you were saying. Perhaps you were performing a role."

Marie looked down at her hands. Her fingers were shaking again.

"But he'll know what the therapy means. It's a love letter, writ in sweat and tears and lost sleep."

Marie drew her knees up awkwardly on the training bench, exosuit creaking faintly with the strain. She rubbed at her temple, trying to will the heat in her skull down.

"I didn't tell Gordon about the therapy," she said finally. "I didn't want to disappoint him."

Vera's expression didn't change.

Marie added, quietly, "If he knew I was struggling this much, I think it would break something in him. He always looks so. . . tired. I don't want to add to that."

Vera exhaled slowly. "All right, let's untangle that."

She circled around Marie like a lecturer pacing in front of a particularly frustrating whiteboard.

"You think that telling him you're hurting—struggling, fighting to get through therapy—would disappoint him?"

Marie nodded once.

Vera stopped. Tilted her head.

"You know he'll know you love him, right? If you tell him you're suffering like this for him. That's what makes it hard."

Marie blinked.

Vera stepped in close now, voice soft, direct.

"Because then if you fail? You'll feel like you failed him personally. Not just your body, not just the program. Him. And that's the weight you can't bear."

Marie stared at the floor. Her throat worked, but she didn't speak.

"But girlie," Vera continued, with a tired sort of fondness, "you already moved in with him."

Marie looked up.

"Everyone knows how you feel about him. He knows how you feel about him."

She leaned in slightly. Her smile was razor-thin and patient.

"It's just one little word."

Marie closed her eyes.

"You're not protecting him by refusing to say it," Vera said. "You're just protecting yourself from having to admit the obvious."

Then, gently:

"Say it. To him. To yourself. To the damn ceiling. But say it, Marie. Because if he loses faith in this—if he thinks you're drifting, or holding back, or hiding—it won't be because you weren't strong enough."

She paused.

"It'll be because you were never honest enough. So. If you were being honest, what would you say?"

"That I want him," she said. "Even if it's messy."

Vera scowled at her, but nodded. "Okay. Messy is real. You made a decision. You know what comes next."

Marie nodded.

"We're going to talk about that little word and all your hangups, young lady. But later. You did good work today."