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

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Claire: It's that time of year, people! IT tells me everybody's laptop is going to reboot and install updates, whether you want it or not. Campus will be closed Thursday, the 28th, for Thanksgiving, with normal operations resuming on Monday. Happy Holidays!

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Friday, November 8th, 2090, about 7:15 pm MST, Montana City, Binary Systems Compound

Gordon's footprints meandered up the long asphalt drive, past a security gate, several garages, and scattered outbuildings, until he reached the mansion proper. Once a typical McMansion, his dad had retrofitted it into the nerve center for Binary Systems Corporation. The imposing building with its many doors, twin wings, and multi-story facade loomed from its perch on the hill with a tyrant's mien, its shadow falling over the sprawl of factory and finance buildings below. The circular drive's asphalt didn't quite match the rest of the pavement—a slapdash addition meant for function, not form—and the house's walls were clad in yellowish stone-like brick that reminded him of dried mustard. The house, like his father, tried to project both sophistication and modern industrial efficiency, but fell short of either.

His gun was ice-cold from the frosty air as he removed gun and holster and secured them in the gun safe. Wearing it felt performative—but he knew better than to tempt fate by going without it. On Mars, he would not have that particular problem.

It was hard, the sum total of their interactions being a video call every other day, on average, a constant stream of texts, and access to one another's Ghostlands recordings notwithstanding. It wasn't enough to see her, he wanted to. . .meaningfully help her. Uplift her. Thus, the Gallant project.

Soon.

Cold fingers unlaced frozen footwear.

It used to feel awkward, hanging up his coat and kicking off his boots in what looked a lot like an office building's reception area, but it was just part and parcel of the soulless homemaking of the Stone residence. Gordon wondered if, had Claire's mother chosen to stick around, a woman's touch would have improved matters. One of Claire's mother's touches—the floral print he replaced in front of the gun safe—provided nearly the entire personality of the empty little room.

His father spent most of his time on the second floor of the east wing, so Gordon climbed the steps, taking them two at a time as was his habit—like many tall people, he found the steps a little small for his feet. As elsewhere in the house, the stairwell felt anything but residential—it could have been transplanted straight out of a university building. Gordon elbowed the push bar on the stairwell door and entered the east wing, his father's domain.

His father had always preferred Chinese food. He'd been ordering takeout for as long as Gordon could remember: a big spread was the sign of big success, but having staff around the house? That was a potential security weakness—and it required being polite to the help, something his irascible father couldn't sustain for long. In fact, his father couldn't seem to consistently remain civil with anyone these days.

His usual head-of-the-table spot was now occupied by his stepsister—a consequence of having gone for that walk, and for the brief delay resulting from it. Gordon took the chair beside hers, opposite his father's accustomed spot nearest the outlets. She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the reader display only she could see. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled back into a severe, high ponytail, but it was the bangs that defined the look. They were cut in a sharp, perfect arch—shortest at the center of her forehead and sweeping down to frame her sharp, intelligent face. Even in the dim light, her eyes, when she finally flicked them toward him, were a startling, icy blue—a direct inheritance from Hiram. She wore a tailored blazer, the lines as sharp and uncompromising as her posture.

"How was work?" he asked solicitously.

Claire shrugged. "Once you've heard one newly graduated twenty-something explain why they deserve access to highly classified projects, you've heard them all."

Gordon leaned back, amused. "You realize you're a twenty-something yourself, right?"

She smiled at the admitted irony. "True. But I, at least, am self-aware."

"Did you hire anyone?" he asks.

She gave him a flat look. "Of course not."

"Harsh," he commented, pulling up a chair and one of the numerous unopened rice containers.

"Perhaps a little bit. But if you're confident in your twenties, it's because you think you know everything. If you're confident in your thirties, it's because you finally know something. I'd take option B every day of the week."

Gordon applied a soy sauce packet. "So—when I'm thirty, if I still don't have overwhelming confidence, you're saying that's me thinking I'm not worth much?"

She nodded. "And I'll likely agree with you. Hypothetically."

"Of course," he graciously agreed.

"Confidence isn't your problem anyway," she told him.

Gordon took a sip of cold water from one of the bottles she'd placed in the middle of the table. The temperature didn't quite agree with him after his walkabout, but hydration was hydration. He chose not to follow the rabbit hole of his own deficiencies. "Do you often find good matches, interviewing?"

"No." Her mouth was full. She swallowed. "We're a small company. There's less pressing us to grow the workforce than there is pressure to keep everyone we onboard—nobody wants to train the competition."

Too right. Binary systems was what Gordon had heard referred to as a 'bespoke' tech company. Small batches, sky-high value per finished product. Part of keeping the whole thing running smoothly was keeping good people right where they were—on the assembly floor, not jumping jobs to train the competition on how to properly balance reactor cores.

He chewed his mouthful of rice and broccoli thoughtfully. It needed salt.

"Any interesting developments around the water cooler?"

He didn't go on-site very often and wasn't much for the company gossip, but eating in silence with his step-sibling staring off into space, reading something off her optics, was fundamentally uncomfortable.

"Sorry—I try not to listen to that stuff. If it ends up being HR-relevant, then I suddenly have to change hats in the middle of socializing and I'll feel like the Gestapo."

Gordon could picture her ice blue eyes and flaxen hair beneath the brim of one of those hats with minimal effort. "You could pull it off," he suggested. At her inquisitive glance, he elaborated: "The hat. I can picture it."

She snorted. "Pot, meet kettle."

His own hair, currently in a crew-cut, was darker than hers—nearly brown—and his eyes a vivid green rather than an icy blue—his mother's genes overcoming his father's for once. Still, he had to admit that he too fit the stereotype fairly well. So would Karen. He hung out with too many blondes. "Touche."

"So," Gordon said, going back to eating. "I hear the head of audits has been spending his entire shift in a bathrobe again."

She gave him a level stare. "I'm not going to fire you."

"No harm in trying," he quipped.

Disapproval and disappointment flashed across her face before she assumed her typical, reserved look.

She hoped for more from him, he knew—but he just wasn't going to be invested in the company. That wasn't the right life for him. He'd tried it.

He tried to lighten the air a bit. "So—you didn't hire anybody. You ignored company gossip. You didn't fire the guy in the bathrobe. That sum up your day?"

Her eyes looked a little bit hurt, now, when she glanced over at him. "HR work is invisible when things are going right. Just like audits."

"Uh-huh. So what about the personal side of the big, bad HR lady? How's things with Harry?"

"He's good. Says he plans to have you over for cards sometime soon."

"I can probably make that work. His being good doesn't answer the question, though."

"We're good, then. Just a slow week. Been talking about the future, a bit."

Gordon nodded. He was happy that his best friend had decided to date and propose to Claire. It, in theory, meant he'd stick around for the long haul—on both counts. "Picket fence, 2.5 children?"

She shot him a furious glare. "I don't know, Gordon. That's partly up to you."

"That's not—Claire."

He'd never meant to hurt Claire. But in the end—

He wasn't going to do it. He was going to walk away.

She wouldn't. But she could.

That wasn't Gordon's fault. He had places to be.

The far door opened, and with it came the murmur of male voices. His father's, a clear and precise tenor, the bodyguards, both men with rumbling voices. The three came through, his father's towering presence sandwiched between the brutish bulk of Sanders and the whipcord shape of Carson, who held the door. The two made themselves comfortable at the staff table, as usual, while Hiram's long strides continued toward his children, pausing for a parting comment of some sort. His father moved with the easy confidence of a man who expects space to be made for him, outdated briefcase swinging wide as he turned, head held aloof and broad shoulders back—almost regal. His ego, Gordon mused, probably helped his posture via buoyancy.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Claire leaned in slightly, her voice low and tight.

"It's going to be one of us," she hissed, her words almost swallowed by the approaching sound of their father's footfalls. "But it should have been you."

And just like that, she was back to perfect composure, back into her book, eyes flicking side to side, her face again impassive. He wouldn't get anything from her like this. Gordon began shoveling his food. Best to get eating out of the way, since he was probably going to say something he regretted in . . . oh, a minute or two. And then he'd have to get up and make his exit.

It was practically inevitable.

It wasn't Claire's fault, but every time her name came up, his father made a point of calling her "his sister," despite the fact that she wasn't. Gordon's mother had died, and his father had remarried—that part was perfectly fine. But Claire had already been 6 when she followed her mother to their new home. Gordon might view her as a sister—but even if the disrespect to his mother was just another way his father's constant needling manifested itself, it still had cemented the term 'stepsister' in his mind.

She didn't share any of the little family quirks that Gordon and his father, unfortunately, had in common—their know-it-all attitude or obsessive drive to succeed. Claire didn't exactly lack for drive—she was a corporate monster, even. Just, she'd been perfectly happy to coast on his father's money, having spent her youth attending fancy prep schools more focused on the social scene than academics, while Gordon was run through the gauntlet of tutors and internships designed to make him the perfect heir. It had engendered a certain resentment on both sides, something only now fading as Claire stepped up and took an active interest in the company—and Gordon stepped back.

If she weren't also dating his best friend, Gordon probably wouldn't have regained as much ground with her as he had. And yet, here they were—she, closer than Gordon had ever been to their father. He knew why. She'd always been a daddy's girl—obedient, affectionate, and eager to please.

Gordon's opposite in every way.

His father arrived before Gordon could finish opening all the containers and immediately claimed the sesame chicken box in its entirety. Claire, who had likely set out the food in the first place, was already eating, her face blank with the telltale look of someone using their optics to read.

Hiram had always favored a utilitarian, brutalist aesthetic: lots of exposed concrete and steel, plenty of glass panes. Few soft furnishings, no wall hangings. Everything was hard, cold, and stark. The only real color in the room came from the food on the plates.

The industrialist sat under the brightest light in the room—an affectation that Gordon despised. The glare threw his father's deep-set eyes into shadow beneath his strong brow, giving his face an even more imposing quality.

"No reading at the table," he said by way of greeting. He dropped into his chair and pried open his container, sparing Claire only the briefest glance.

Claire blinked back into the present, her gaze shifting to Gordon for a moment before she picked up her chopsticks again. Her expression didn't change, but she sat straighter now, more focused on the room around her.

Gordon's wrist buzzed—a subtle vibration. A message. He glanced down at the holograph glowing above his wrist. It was from Marie. Sent all the way from Mars.

[6:42] Marie: Hello, darling. I hope you're ready for a long, sleepless night.

Her attached image, in-game, showed her face against a maritime background, ringlets dancing in the wind, an impish smile on her lips.

Gordon suppressed a smile in response—not at the table.

The text was flirtatious and teasing, but also ironic, given the laggy connection between them. Their Q-net call, later that night, would be peppered with silences from each end, the distance between them stretching just that little bit beyond what technology could bridge. Still, he couldn't wait to hear her voice, see her occasionally pixellated face. Their talks were sometimes the only part of the day that he felt sane.

He glanced up at the table. Claire was laughing softly at something his father had said—a rare warmth in his otherwise controlling personality. She was his special little girl, in a way Gordon had never been his special anything. Gordon's father barely acknowledged his wife anymore, and in her absence, Claire had somehow become the focus of all his affection.

[7:31] Gordon: I'd like nothing better.

Hiram leaned back in his chair, snapping his chopsticks together idly as he looked between Claire and Gordon. "So, Claire," he said, his tone light, "how's Harry these days? I haven't seen as much of him around the house lately."

"He's doing well," Claire replied. Her voice was calm, but there was a faint edge of hesitation. "It's almost winter, so that means layoffs. He's been picking up extra shifts at Last Mile to cover the gaps."

Hiram nodded, a flicker of approval passing over his face. "Good man. Always willing to step up."

"With that and the stream, he hasn't had much time to spare," Claire added quickly, as if to sneak the word through unnoticed. "I could invite him over for dinner this weekend, if you like?"

"The stream," Hiram repeated, his expression tightening. His gaze slid from Claire to Gordon, and the air seemed to cool by several degrees. "You're still doing that, then?"

Gordon paused mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering above his plate.

"Cutting corners at work so you can fritter away your time on a computer?" Hiram's voice had now gone flat and sharp. He didn't look at Gordon as he reached for another piece of sesame chicken, as though the words were barely worth his attention. "I once thought I'd raised someone with professional pride. Someone who understood what it means to set priorities." He picked up the chicken carefully, almost delicately, and popped it into his mouth.

"She's right here," Gordon said, sotto voce. "I think she can hear us."

Hiram's mouth thinned. He was not amused.

Gordon scooped up a large bite of stir-fried chicken and potatoes, shoveling it into his mouth with mechanical efficiency.

Claire shifted in her chair, breaking the tense silence. "The stream's not a big deal. It's just a way to unwind with Karen and Harry."

She'd often taken the role of peacemaker. Even angry at Gordon, she was still willing to step into the ring, again and again, trying to keep the peace in their little, screwed-up corner of the world.

"Unwinding is for after the work is completed," Hiram said briskly. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes now fully fixed on Gordon. "And from what I've seen, Gordon, there is still a long way to go."

Gordon scowled. "I've automated the audits. They're more thorough than ever, I'm hardly cutting corners: I work my whole shift, and my deliverables hit your desk every Monday at 7 sharp."

Gordon took a long pull from his water bottle. The plastic crinkled under his grip, water sloshing against the sides. He knew how ridiculous aggressive water-drinking looked, but it was better than saying something he'd regret.

For a moment, Hiram didn't say anything. He folded his napkin slowly, laying it beside his plate with precision as if Gordon's response hadn't deserved an immediate reaction. Perhaps it had been the undignified display he'd just been put through. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but heavy with dismissal. "You lack focus," he said. "That's always been the problem. Automation might source the numbers, look good on paper—but leadership isn't about shortcuts. It's about owning the work. About setting the example. You're supposed to be preparing for your future. The work doesn't end merely because the clock strikes five—not for the company as a whole, and not for a future CEO."

"Good thing I'm just head of audits," Gordon shot back, his scowl deepening.

"I care about the lack of ownership you are exhibiting toward the company that has given you everything. I care that the trajectory of your life does not currently lead towards success. You waste the time you could be spending readying yourself for when you take your place in this company, playing knights and magic instead. You could at the very least, be making an investment in your future, as is Claire, or even Harry—forging social links with a value of their own. Finding a good partner, someone with whom you could have a future."

Gordon shoveled his food again, knowing he was about to hear something he couldn't let lie.

"And instead, you have to find the one girl in the solar system with whom there can be no future. One cannot be CEO from Mars. One must be present for meetings, tours, calls, handshaking, and speech-making at events and functions. No matter her charms, your Mars girl is a waste of your time."

"Father. That, even more than the rest of this, is none of your business."

"The business has an investment in your future," Hiram said icily. "By virtue of your employment, of resources spent on your development, by dint of the millions of dollars worth of stocks in your name. This is your inheritance, both of you. Claire, however, has borne what she must with grace."

"Your successes," his father continued, "and failures are linked together. Her shares go down if yours do, as do mine. Investor confidence requires management, and you are playing fast and loose with the investments of others! And . . . for what? As an investment, Mars is . . . deplorable."

"Humanity will never live on Mars, not long-term, not in numbers. It's not sustainable. Do you have any concept how bad Earth would have to get before Mars would become a better option?"

"For God's sake, Gordon," Claire said suddenly, her voice quiet but all the more distinct for that, after Hiram's harshness. She set down her chopsticks, leaning forward. "He's right. You can't do your part for the company from Mars: not even if you just stayed head of audits."

Gordon's jaw tightened. "Claire, this isn't—"

"It is," she interrupted, her voice rising. "You're not thinking this through. Any of it. Mars isn't a life—the radiation, the gravity—do you even know what it'll do to your body? You're going to die there, years early, and for what?" She hesitated, her voice softening. "I know you like her—"

"—Enough," Gordon said, glaring at her now. "This isn't the place for that discussion, Claire."

Claire shook her head, frustration bleeding into her expression. "Don't you see what this is, Gordon? You're running away. You're running from Dad, from the company, from all of this. And if you go, you're not just ruining your own future, you're—"

"Claire," he cut her off, "Stay out of it."

But she wasn't finished. "No, I won't stay out of it! You're abandoning me, and we both know why you're doing this—Marie or not, this is about you. You're throwing away everything we've worked for. Everything Dad built." She gestured to their father, who sat silently, his sharp gaze trained on her, for a change. "You're being selfish."

"Sometimes I am," he admitted. "Maybe I am being, right now—but it's my future. I think I get to be a little selfish about it. You don't have to like what's important to me, either of you." He paused, letting the statement sit for a moment. "But it would be nice for you to respect me enough to keep your opinions about it to yourselves."

"This future you say you are choosing leads toward nothing: what matters to you most, I think, is that it leads away from your responsibilities," his father said, directing his full, steely focus at Gordon. "I could respect ambition, but I will not condone cowardice."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint clinking of Claire's chopsticks against her plate as she avoided looking at either of them. Gordon exhaled sharply through his nose, then stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I think we've exhausted the possibilities of this conversation," said Gordon, standing. He swiped the Mongolian Beef without the slightest pang of conscience, despite Claire's indignant squawk. "I'll see you online, Claire."