NOVEL NEXT Chapter 138: Frenemies
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Marie: Just. . .try. Put down some thoughts, and let's see if they flow.
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Sol 510 FY 26, 04:20 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B
Marie logged onto Gordon's computer.
Gordon had told her she could poke around whenever she wanted—get a fuller picture of the man who was supposed to be moving to Mars to live with her. Even now that that was in question—well, she'd been lonely lately. And Gordon had apparently been away from his desk. And he hadn't said she couldn't, yet.
Hopefully, he'd stopped sleeping all hours of the day. That was becoming a worrying trend.
Poetry. Just the one file inside, something outrageous he'd written her ages ago.
The sky is just another sea
Come sail the sunbeams with me
We'll see the stars burning clear
The way you never can here
We'll bob like corks in the endless night
And we'll play dodge-the-Russian-satellite
When we're done, we'll join the falling stars
Or surf the solar winds on our way to Mars
I'll hold you tight to me when we're changing course
As we fight Earth's gravitational force
Suspended, ignoring the stars shining gaudy
I'm wrapped up in viewing your heavenly body
I'll let you do all of the fun parts
You steer while I update the star charts
We'll leave the ship to compute navigations
While we join the stars making new constellations
We'll reach heaven, locked tightly in our close embrace
And get our names put in books about the space race
So what if he wasn't much of a writer? It felt . . . special. Someone had written something just for her.
Boredom lingered. She pressed on. Nothing new in the meme folder.
Marie skimmed the folder labeled Hiram out of idle curiosity. Not just boredom—heartsick, she was looking for something that made her feel like she was on the inside track, up-to-date on all things Gordon. And there wasn't usually anything new. Thus, the poking into unaccustomed folders.
Two files.
One video.
One letter.
She opened the letter first.
You raised me to compare myself to you.
You told me professional success was a rat race—one most people lose. That the average worker would never feel real accomplishment, never reap the rewards of their labor. Just fuel for someone else's ambitions.
You warned me: long hours, sleepless nights, stress without relief. No safety net. That I'd have to step into the unknown and become my own man—or else stay a cog in someone else's game, earning someone else's money.
You said you couldn't respect mediocrity.
You told me about your early success. Your bosses admiring you. Meeting Mom at a fancy work party where you were the keynote speaker. Shaking hands with dignitaries. Gazing down on Saturn's moons with the Jovian explorers.
You said: "Do what I did."
And I'll be honest—my first impulse is to complain. Say you already took all the low-hanging fruit. That your generation opened the frontiers and left us scrambling for scraps. That I can't be like you because there's no room left at the top.
But I can't make that excuse.
Because I did find a new frontier. On Mars, I found something. One of the three biggest leaps we've ever taken, as a species. Living somewhere impossible. Only the Belt and the Jovian moons are harsher. We're not meant to exist there. But we do.
When I was young, I dreamed of Mars because I thought it would make you proud—to be part of that impossible push to the stars.
But you said it was a stupid dream.
That I was nuts.
That running your company was the smarter path.
Even if I'd run your empire, I'd still be following your design, not mine.
I wanted to make that complaint—but I couldn't.
Because I'd already given up before I realized your arguments didn't hold water.
I knew I couldn't handle your level of stress.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
I never wanted to live the way you had to, just to fit your mold.
And if your mold was the standard for mattering. . . then maybe I just wasn't going to matter.
Work to live, not live to work.
I know how much you hate that.
But eventually, I found something else.
I found someone I love.
She gasped. A tear, then four, then a flood trickled warmly down her face. It was like breathing fresh air after days of silent lungs. He loved her.
And I'm not going to Mars for adventure. Not for legacy.
I'm going because of something deeper than ambition.
I think that's okay.
And frankly?
I don't think you went chasing frontiers for the reasons you claimed. Not for legacy. Not for discovery.
I think you did it for power.
For the thrill of being the guy everyone admired—or feared.
I think you told me how cool you were so I'd keep chasing your ghost.
And if I ever surpassed you?
I don't think you'd be proud.
I think you'd be bitter.
Marie paused.
Her fingers hovered over the trackpad.
Gordon had written this—and never sent it.
She could see why. This would be a 'get kicked out of the mansion' sort of event, if he sent it.
He hadn't decided what kind of man he was going to be yet. Or had, and was biding his time.
Clearly he knew, finally, who he wasn't.
Marie exhaled. Tears flowed. She scrubbed at her nose and sniffled.
"I found someone I love. . ."
They'd still never said those words to each other. She wondered if they ever would.
She'd almost done. She said she'd never told him she loved him. On stream, during an impassioned moment, through tears, to an audience, playing up her pathos.
Or maybe she'd been honest?
She didn't know.
Questing fingers opened the video.
The footage was high-res enough to read the tension in Gordon's jaw. Audio crisp. Hiram's voice calm, polished. Unapologetic.
"Sometimes, when one rewards zeal over judgment. . . these things can happen."
Marie paused. Rewound. Played it again.
Hiram's voice was like oil—smooth, viscous, coating everything.
"A regrettable mistake. . . I assure you I will not renew our contract with that man."
Her chest tightened.
She sprawled back on her wire-mesh bed, laptop's heat vents warm beside her, heart beginning to race—not from shock, but from calculation.
There it was.
He'd known.
He hadn't ordered the assault—but he'd written it off. Folded it neatly into his calculus.
Karen was a "momentary disruption."
Gordon was "being unreasonable."
And: "Fear is clarifying."
Marie paused the video, eyes locked on the frozen frame: Gordon, still as his namesake stone. Hiram, smiling faintly, an old spider on its web.
She copied the video.
She added the letter.
Then she opened her portable.
And dialed the only person who'd hate this as much as she did.
It picked up on the third ring.
"You're calling me?" Karen's voice was dry, hovering somewhere between amusement and suspicion. "That's new."
"I don't want to talk about Gordon."
"Oh, thank God. I'm exhausted."
Marie smiled faintly despite herself.
"This is bigger. It's about Hiram Stone. And what he did to you."
A beat of silence.
"Okay," Karen said at last. "You must not have heard the part where I'm exhausted."
"I found a video. On Gordon's machine. There's a full, recorded admission—Hiram knew what his bodyguard did. He covered why. Said you weren't untouchable and needed reminding. 'Fear is clarifying'."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
Karen took a bite of something crunchy and chewed for an eternity.
"So what do you want to do?" she eventually asked.
"I want to leak it," Marie said. "Strategically. Maximum damage. I know a the guy—streamer journalist, big mouth. Hiram tried to publicly squash him. He'd jump at the chance to strike back."
"And you're calling me because. . ."
"Because I know you're not scared of Hiram. And because we both know better than to let something like this lie."
Another silence. Longer, sharper.
"I don't have much to lose to him anymore," Karen said. "Fine. You record the sound bytes. I'll do the legwork Earth-side."
"I'll need a statement from you. As the Montana Ninja Warrior."
"I hate that name."
Marie smiled grimly.
"You'll do it?"
Karen cussed, audibly, but not near the mic.
"Fine. Let's get the bastard."
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"People have called me the Montana Ninja Warrior" she began. "I've never competed in that program, and probably won't, and you can feel free to call me Cuts_by_Karen just like my username. But . . . since the attack, we've all been wondering why big men in vans were chasing down college girls in suburban Montana. You're probably also wondering why you're seeing me in person, instead of in Ghostlands VR, and I can answer both at once: I'm contractually prohibited from saying something bad about Binary Systems Corporation while streaming from Ghostlands, and I found who was behind my college kicking me from my degree program, and who employed my attacker. My. . .Gordon's father, Hiram."
The clip played. Hiram in all his smugness, setting up his downfall. Hopefully.
"And there you have it," came the jarring voice of Elliot, who had turned out to be the annoying streamer who had asked Hiram for a signature of his inflammatory newspaper article. His voice made her eye twitch, and his breath was even worse. Still, he'd ended up losing everything, just like she had. She supposed that made them comrades-in-arms.
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Claire didn't usually watch daytime news.
But someone misplaced her remote—probably Harry—and her suite's flatscreen was still on from the night before, on mercifully low volume. She found it meditative as she shuffled through folder and checked off references.
She heard a word she recognized, snapping back in tune with the show just in time for the words "Montana Ninja Warrior" to appear on the ticker. She blinked.
Then Karen's face filled the screen.
Claire didn't move. Not even to reach for the remote.
"I'm contractually prohibited from saying anything negative about Binary Systems Corporation while streaming from Ghostlands. . ."
Her stomach sank. Not out of fear for Karen, but out of dread for the future.
Then:
"My—Gordon's father. Hiram."
And then the clip rolled.
Hiram's voice. Calm. Groomed. Confident.
Too confident.
"Sometimes, when one rewards zeal over judgment. . ."
The screen froze on a split-frame of Karen's pale, furious face and Hiram's faint smile.
Claire exhaled through her nose.
"Dad," she said quietly. "You idiot."
Her jaw tightened.
"What have you done."
Her portable pinged.
[EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING]
ETA: Emergency!!!
—Sent by: O'Connor, Paul (Board Comms)
She stared at it.
Three exclamation points.
Oh no.