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

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Hiram: Those who grasp, gain purchase. Those who do not, do not. To say that greed is wholly negative is the province of fairy stories.

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December 2nd, 2090, about 8:00 am MST, Montana City

The smoke from the western stacks drifted in slow, gauzy ribbons. It didn't choke like it used to—filtered, regulated—but it was still there. Always there. Proof that the old engines still ran beneath the glass-and-steel facade of Binary Systems.

Claire walked with her arms folded tight across her chest, half from the cold, half from bracing herself. Gordon's hands were in his coat pockets, footsteps careful along the gravel edge of the hedgerow path.

She had been busy. Far too busy to see him. That she had done so anyway spoke to the seriousness with which she took his admonition that this was company business, the most important she would do today. That the board members training her on her duties and processes as CEO had taken him seriously too—was surprisingly gratifying. And now they walked.

They hadn't spoken much since leaving the admin wing. Out here, the noise of the compound faded—just wind, distant hissing steam, the occasional bird. And their footsteps.

"I was on the way to tell Hiram what I think of him," Gordon said at last. "But then I realized. . . what he thinks doesn't matter anymore."

Claire didn't look at him, seemingly engrossed in the small patches of unmelted snow in the lee of the holly bushes.

He went on, voice quiet. "What you think might matter more."

"I can't help you," she said. Her voice was firmer than her body language.

"Maybe not now. But hear me out." He slowed, matching her stride, walked backwards. "You've got fifteen percent of the shares. You're not allowed to sell or transfer them yet. Same as me, right?"

She nodded stiffly. "Transfer is locked until thirty."

"Right," he said. "Same here. But I checked—nothing says we can't sell the option to transfer. A future sale, conditional on age."

Claire turned her head. Not to face him, but just to acknowledge him.

"I want to option you my shares," Gordon said. "In exchange for a monthly allowance—scaled to your income, unless you'd rather just buy it outright. You can be majority shareholder in Binary Systems. And in return, I want your support getting me to the Belt."

"To the Belt," she repeated, her tone flat. "Of all places."

"I'm not asking you to support my decision," he said. "I just need you not to block me."

She stopped walking. The hedge beside them was skeletal, out of season—sharp branches and dry brown leaves clinging to frostbitten stems.

"You came here behind Karen's back," Claire said, turning to face him at last. "And it's disgusting."

"No," Gordon said, meeting her gaze. "I talked to her. We've been honest. We just. . . we neglected to consider that there were more than two options. In the end it was surprisingly . . . amicable."

He took a breath. The air was cold in his lungs.

"I haven't talked to Marie yet. But I've made up my mind. I'm not going to be beholden anymore. If you say no, that's fine. I'll go to the Belt alone—Joe can buy my stocks outright. Marie can meet me there if she wants to. The gravity's even lower than Mars. She'll be fine."

"And you'll die sooner," Claire said bitterly. "Is this blackmail?"

He looked up at the gray sky, then back to her.

"I'm not pretending I didn't think about it," he said. "You thought it immediately, therefore so did I. But that's not the kind of brother I want to be. If she won't have me, and I can't shake it and don't see a future—I'll come home."

Claire's shoulders softened—just slightly.

"It's one thing to say I'm independent," Gordon added. "It's another to manipulate my sister. I'm not trying to be Dad."

She let out a brittle laugh. "You really aren't like him," she said quietly. "I believe you. It's not blackmail."

"No. He never did anyone the favor of being honest," Gordon said. "Not once in his life. I aspire to higher things."

Claire didn't answer right away.

The factories rumbled faintly behind them—endless, inevitable.

"I guess you're going to Mars," she murmured.

"To the Belt," Gordon corrected gently. "If she'll have me."

Claire sniffed once, tried to blink something away. "No." she said. "That's not the kind of sister I'm going to be either."

They walked in silence.

"If I'm being honest," Claire admitted, "It isn't like I don't like Marie. Just . . . Karen's my oldest friend. You're my . . . step-brother. Not to mention integral to the company I'm beholden to, that we've been building together. I had a hundred good reasons to sit on the fence. Not to stick my neck out for you on this."

"You had your reasons."

"Good reasons," she clarified.

"Maybe some of those too," he allowed. "But . . . thank you. You didn't have to hear me out."

"There's still the board vote," she said. "This isn't a done deal."

"I know. But I've know someone who controls fifteen percent," Gordon said, with a small, hopeful smile. "If I can convince her."

Claire looked at him for a long time, then nodded once.

"I suppose I need shares," she said.

"I suppose I need money," he replied.

The wind rustled the hedge. They walked on.

And behind them, the smoke kept rising.

–––❖–––

When Claire walked into the boardroom next to Gordon—Gordon, of all people—the shareholders were understandably nervous and confused.

He'd just renounced his inheritance.

Yes, he was head of Audits, which was no small thing. But that position didn't normally warrant a seat at board meetings. That alone was cause for speculation. That Claire hadn't stopped him from sitting beside her was cause for more.

There was a time Gordon would have corrected anyone who referred to Claire as his sister. Stepsister, he would have snapped.

There was a time Claire had told him that anyone born of that woman—his mother, the one who had shattered their father—could only ever be a monster.

It's possible they had not had the kindest childhood.

It's possible, in fact, that being pitted against each other from the start had not been ideal parenting.

And it was possible, just barely, that they were now. . . allies.

That was the most surprising part to the board. Not the resignation. Not the audit games. But the fact that Claire had not torn Gordon to pieces for saddling her with the inheritance he'd refused.

Gordon stood.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Per the company's founding document—section twelve, paragraph C, line three—no shareholder may sell shares if doing so would result in a new majority shareholder. . . unless the company is first given the opportunity to buy."

His voice wasn't perfectly smooth. He didn't have the clause memorized exactly. But it was close. And it was confident.

He'd sat through most board meetings for the last six months. Claire had coached him, repeatedly.

"Accordingly," he continued, "I am requesting a vote to authorize transfer of my 15% to Claire Stone, who currently holds 15%, bringing her to majority control as acting CEO. I understand the optics, but the bylaws are clear. The company may vote to buy instead. Otherwise, the transfer stands."

He paused, gaze sweeping the room. And finally, his eyes landed on his father.

Hiram was seated. Present. Real.

They had called this meeting twelve hours ago. Hiram looked well-rested, smug, and impeccably groomed—as if he had expected this. As if he were already deciding which clause to cite.

Gordon tried not to lose his rhythm.

"You all know Claire. My step-sister, my counterpart in HR. Me, with better hair. You already agreed to make her CEO. Now give her the scope of action to match her scope of responsibility. You owe it to the company to put it in the most responsible hands in the room."

He glanced at his father, saying that.

For a moment, he wondered what the old snake had up his sleeve.

His father didn't keep him waiting:
"Let's review what you've done, son."
He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled like a priest at confession.
"You've positioned yourself as the bottleneck for our quality assurance systems—so now, to leave, you'd sabotage our processes and reputation. You'd burn every bridge you've ever walked."

"You own no car. No home. No land. You've signed non-compete clauses with every major stakeholder. You can't peddle your skills to competition, and you're barred from contracting with our vendors for the next five years. You've created a cage, and now you want applause for rattling it."

A pause.

"You cannot win. And frankly, Gordon, this foolish thrashing is beneath you. It's undignified."

Gordon tried, but the weariness came through in his voice.

"I don't need to win, Dad. I need to leave."

He leaned back in the rolling boardroom chair.

"I'll get to the Belt. My reputation alone could take me there. I don't need your money—I don't actually need anything from you. I could walk out the door right now and get to the Belt without your help, and against your wishes."

"You are correct. You hold all the deeds. The car. The house. The contracts. So many ties that bind—holding you to Earth."

He leaned forward, off the chair.

He looked up, met Hiram's eyes.

"Implicitly, I do not."

A beat.

"And I intend to use the freedom that affords. So."

Gordon stood politely.

"If the board is willing to ratify a smooth transfer of control for QA—from myself to Claire's team of analysts—I'll commit to working remotely, full-shift, every day, until the transition is complete."

He glanced around the room.

"Apparently, it'll take a small team to cover what I've been doing. That's fine. It should. I was never supposed to be irreplaceable."

He looked directly at Hiram.

"Everyone can be replaced."

The ex-CEO's glare sharpened, but he said nothing. His expression was pure fury—cornered now.

Gordon pulled up a slideshow presentation, clicking through rapidly. He didn't bother reading any of the data aloud. "For anyone who isn't following why selling my shares would actually help the company, here's the breakdown:"

"We have a fresh CEO—smart, capable, but lacking the political momentum to swing votes. And as you all know, weak leadership is sometimes worse than bad leadership. Which, incidentally, you just voted out."

Some credentials paged past. Claire had been busy.

"By transferring my shares, I'm consolidating your executive leadership. I'm giving Claire the leverage she needs to lead cleanly."

"At the same time, I'm removing a wildcard—myself—from your long-term stress model. I won't be here to confuse your chain of command, I won't make unexpected adjustments to parts, processes, or internal dynamics."

"You get stability. She gets authority. I get out of your way."

He let the silence stretch a beat.

"This isn't sabotage," Gordon said. "It's succession."

He looked at Claire—not seeking permission, just including her.

"I'm supporting my sister."

She stepped wordlessly forward. They hadn't rehearsed, and she hadn't needed a prompt either.

"In return for a smooth transfer of QA responsibilities, I've prepared a list of potential contractual obligations the company may wish to consider for our Head of Audits."

She spoke evenly, her eyes moving across the board without lingering.

"It is my recommendation that we pursue a hybrid approach—retaining his talents in a remote capacity, while my team assumes day-to-day operational oversight."

He shot her a shocked glance.

A few members of the board, previously stiff, relaxed.

"Contingent, of course," Claire added, "on the transfer of his shares."

Her tone made clear: the offer only stood if the deal went through.

A rustle moved through the room—subtle but unmistakable. Several of the more risk-averse members exchanged glances and nods.

Nick Chambers, an older man, was the first to speak. "A remote contract would ensure operational continuity," he said, more to the room than to Claire. "And stabilize investor confidence during the transition."

"Provided the terms are clear and enforceable," came an amendment.

"It's a reasonable compromise." Claire concluded. "The proposed draft terms are in your packets. I'll entertain revisions before finalizing—after the vote."

There was no further resistance.

Gordon turned his head, brow creasing.

This hadn't been part of the plan.

Claire didn't return his look. She addressed the board instead, flipping a page on her tablet.

"There was no workaround that would replace your contributions in a reasonable timeframe," she said, crisply. Then, glancing his way,"So I didn't look for one."

Her father cleared his throat. Every eye went to the erstwhile leader of the company.

He looked thoughtful, then stood. "I will recuse myself from this vote."

He adjusted his cufflinks with surgical precision.

"Obviously, the default stance of any majority shareholder is to oppose any redistribution of power that eclipses their own. That is how my shares shall vote."

"However."

A beat. A flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

"I shall not embarrass myself by playing the smothering parent."

He turned slightly—just enough to include both of them in his gaze.

"My son. My daughter. You are each your own person. And you have stood up to authority to claim your own birthright."

"I have never been more proud."

He smoothed his jacket, turned, and walked out.

Claire's hands were shaking. She kept them flat on the table, fingers spread, like that could anchor her.

"I have never been more proud."

The words ate at her stomach like reflux.

How DARE he stand there claiming credit.

He had reframed her ascendance—turned her coup into a graduation speech. Folded her back into his narrative like a proud professor signing off on a student thesis.

Standing up to authority, he'd said. As if he were the one who gave her that authority to begin with.

Claire had earned this.

Her fingers curled once against the table's edge.

"If someone acts according to their nature. . . well, I'm sorry, but it won't help to get mad about it. Plan around them—you're good at that."

Harry's voice, from a memory. A tear sprang unbidden to her eye.

She exhaled once, steadying herself. Then:

"Members of the board. Are we ready for a vote?"

Her tone was level.

"I'd like to ask our longest-serving members—Joe, Mr. Chambers, Ms. Liu—if you are satisfied with this solution, to please sponsor a motion to proceed."

Gordon spoke up, voice ringing with unexpected projection. He'd been sandbagging again.

"This will be my last vote," he said cheerfully. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen, ladies. I expect you'll be hearing from me virtually from here on out—I'll be available."

He folded his hands, looked at Claire, then at the board.

"My fifteen percent support the sale."

–––❖–––

"So that's it," Claire said.
She didn't smoke as a rule. But today was an exception. She would allow herself that grace.

She took a deep puff.

"That's it," Gordon confirmed.

She offered him the cigarette. He took it, looked at it—then flicked it into the trash.

"Those are bad for you."

She kicked him in the shin.

"You dick. If I don't get to say that, you don't either."

He grinned.

"I'll miss you."

Footsteps approached—soft, unhurried.

"You two looked good in there," Harry said. Then, lighter:
"And. . . hopefully you won't have to miss us for long. Server merge date keeps moving up. I'll probably see you online by your thirtieth."

"I hope so," Gordon said.

Claire sniffed once.

"You'll miss my wedding."

Harry didn't refute her statement.
He just stepped in behind her, letting her lean back against him while he looked over her shoulder at Gordon—for all the world like a disappointed lab retriever.

"Not planning to," Gordon corrected her. "Mars is only one-way after years of degradation—IF you let yourself go. I'll carry you both over the threshold myself. My sugar momma will cover it," he said confidently, winking at Claire.

She burst into tears.