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

––––––

Hiram: There has never been, and there shall never be, a scandal at Binary Systems Corporation. Scandals derive their weight from drama, and we shall simply be above such theatrics.

––––––

Wednesday, November 13th, 2090, about 7:48 pm MST, Montana City, Gordon's Suite

A hot shower was just the thing for his headache, and Gordon was feeling almost human by the time he walked back into his room, falling heavily on the bed. He rubbed the stress of the stream session away with both hands for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure, then took up his customary chair at his computer. "Hmm," he mused.

The cameras still showed Karen's car in the driveway. Probably spending time with Claire, he guessed. The two were thick as thieves.

He'd managed to lose himself in coding again by the time he heard his door gently close.

Karen stood with her back against the door, Claire's white bathrobe held closed with both hands.

"If you guys were doing pedicures, you should have said," he joked.

The robe hit the floor.

There was nothing beneath. Just bare, glowing skin in the soft light, toned and real and right there. Warmth bloomed in his chest, throbbed in his throat. He opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

Karen took a deep, eye-catching breath, moving further into Gordon's room. "I've been trying to get up the courage to do this for a long time," she confessed. She stepped closer, her fingers curling into his shirt as her eyes searched his face. "I know you've thought about it too."

"Karen," he started, his voice catching as her lips brushed his jaw. "I… I don't know if this is…"

He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't come. We shouldn't do this, died stillborn in his throat. Karen was here. Now. The warmth of her breath, the quiet certainty in her eyes—deliciously immediate, and overwhelmingly possible.

"It's never been the right time," she acknowledged, not retreating an inch. "But someone told me you make time for things you care about. What if it won't ever be the right time unless—"

Her lips were feather-light and soft, the warmth of her radiant even through his shirt. He felt goosebumps rise across his back, and shuddered.

"—It's now?" she said. "Look at me. I'm here for you, now," she told him, with subtle emphasis, her kiss burning hot on his skin. "I've been here. You just didn't see me."

"Karen…," he managed. His breath hitched, and he hated how much he wanted this—how much he wanted her. His hand tightened on her bare shoulder, and she leaned into the touch without ever breaking eye contact.

Her fingers fluttered up his sleeves, hooking over his shoulders with her ever-surprising strength, drawing him closer to her and pressing herself against him. Soft touches, a warm embrace. He recognized those gestures, the touches that said you matter, and I just wanted to be near you. He had put a great deal of thought into the importance of those touches, wondered what they'd feel like. Her toned fingers were focused and eager—and so real it ached. He thrummed with energy, with the urge to do something. He just couldn't decide what.

"It's not fair," she murmured in his ear. "Why do you have to be so tall?"

Her palm pressed against his chest, gentle but insistent, and she nudged him toward the bed. He let her do so, unsure whether he wanted to stop her—or whether he could. He could barely breathe.

He sat down suddenly, the mattress behind the backs of his knees, and her firm pressure on his chest, and then she was straddling his lap, taking his hand in hers, her lips pressed to his own.

Hot, sweet breath, minty. The soft pressure of her against his chest, her hands guiding his to her waist, returning to run down his sides—.

A sudden knock at the door sent his stomach into free fall.

"Son. We should talk," came his father's voice, firm and abrasive.

The knock hit him like a thunderclap, every muscle in his body locking up at once. Karen's eyes widened in alarm, staring into his from inches away.

"Hide," he whispered.

Her reactions were as quick as his were, her movements smooth as she swept the room. When his hand brushed her shoulder blade, she glanced at him and followed his silent guidance, slipping toward the closet on silent feet.

She was just in time to close it behind her as his dad opened the door, uninvited. The door creaked open, and his father's shadow stretched across the room before the man himself stepped inside, his expression unreadable. The man's tie was slightly askew, the small detail arresting Gordon's compulsive tendencies.

Heart hammering in his chest, Gordon walked from the closet to his bed as naturally as he could manage, seating himself instead of standing and waiting for his father to finish perusing the state of his room. The tie twitched with anthropomorphized disapproval as his father shook his head. Doubtless, his father found the Spartan space wanting in some way. To distract himself from the naked woman in his closet, Gordon focused on not letting his father make him nervous. You're twenty-eight years old, he told himself. Time to grow a spine, or at least fake it convincingly. His scalp felt cool from the sweat wicking from his crew cut.

"What would you like to talk about, Father?" he asked. He'd never been able to stomach calling the man Dad, not since he could remember. Absence, harsh words, an ugly divorce, and a stepfamily who didn't particularly like him were most of what the man had provided in Gordon's life—that and money. Gordon appreciated his father as a provider—but he wasn't a dad.

"Your sister tells me you've cultivated quite the following," Hiram began, his tone as neutral as a press release. "This… Ghostlands project. It appears your hobby has become a non-trivial revenue stream."

The man talked like a corporate accountant. No emotion, no feeling. It made Gordon's blood run cold.

"My contacts also confirm your continued correspondence with the Martian girl. I had hoped that was a passing fancy, but I see now your intention is to anchor your future to that sad ball of rock. Very well. As it happens, Binary Systems' business puts me in the neighborhood. I will be taking you there myself. It is time you had a practical demonstration of why that world is unsuitable—not just for an heir, but for any man of sense."

Gordon had tread this ground before. Earlier that week, even. "You. You're going to take me to Mars."

Hiram looked down at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched, not with a sneer, but with something colder: pity. "Where an abstract truth fails to move you, perhaps an empirical one will."

He took a seat in the chair opposite Gordon, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, as if explaining a complex but obvious formula. "Let's clarify your position, Gordon. You believe you possess a unique destiny. This is a common illusion of youth. What you possess are opportunities afforded to you by the system I built."

Gordon's vision swam as the first drops of adrenaline hit. "Father," he warned.

"You are not yet a useful asset," Hiram continued, his voice calm and didactic. "You are an educated young man whose life is subsidized by my success. That is not an entitlement; it is a debt. To those to whom much is given, much will be required. That is the fundamental equation of legacy."

He was warming to his theme.

"You have a duty to this family and, by extension, to the company that ensures its survival. Your responsibility is to become the man capable of managing that system. Anything else is a dereliction of that duty."

Gordon's fist clenched without his making the choice to close it.

"You mistake your fear for a desire for freedom," Hiram said, his voice unchanging. "You dream of Mars because you are rightly terrified of the weight of your inheritance. But responsibility is not a choice, Gordon. It is a reality. The chair you are so desperate to avoid doesn't just change a man. It reveals him. I am still waiting for you to be revealed."

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

He stood and began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, his movements measured, like a lecturer moving across a stage.

"Let us be honest with each other. You do not truly believe Mars is a viable future. It is simply a convenient narrative. An escape from the complexities of adult life into a simpler, more dramatic one, much like your game. It's a profound misallocation of your potential. A man of your capabilities, spending his prime years mastering a simulation."

He paused by the window, looking out over the compound.

"When we get to Mars, you will see what I see: a fragile terrarium. A colony of brilliant people living in a burrow, sustained by machinery that will inevitably fail. A low-gravity well that ensures a shortened, unhealthy existence. It is a logistical dead-end, not a frontier. It is no place to build a future or raise a family. You will see the data for yourself, and you will have no alternative but to accept the conclusion."

Gordon couldn't argue that last point—it would be irresponsible to have children on Mars. He'd wondered about Marie's parents in the past.

"Love," Hiram said, turning from the window, "is a strategic partnership. You have mistaken it for a motivation. Using it as a justification to flee to another planet is simply a mask for your avoidance of duty. It is a tactical retreat, not a noble pursuit."

He walked to the door, then looked back at Gordon, meeting his eyes. His expression was not angry, but one of finality, like a professor ending a lecture.

"This is the last time I will indulge this particular fantasy. You will be presented with the facts. You will see the world for what it is. And then you will do your duty. It's time to put away childish things."

The door closed harshly, like his father stopped bothering with self-control at the last moment.

Gordon sat in silence for a moment, just controlling his breathing. He didn't hear her leave the closet—the first he heard from her was the soft sound of fabric against skin as she once again donned the bathrobe and came to stand beside him.

"I heard everything," Karen whispered, her voice trembling as she pulled the robe tighter around her. "I heard what he said to you. I'm so sorry, Gordon. I didn't know it was… like that."

"It's fine," Gordon said automatically, though his voice cracked on the words. He wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on her hair. "He can act nice when he wants to."

"It's not fine," she murmured, her tears dampening his shirt. "Nothing is. I don't want you to go. I should have–I could have said something earlier. I just don't want you to die, Gordon. And I'd miss you."

He held her in silence for a moment, aware of her warm figure pressing into his side—and aware of her mascara streaking from still-flowing tears.

"You'll be alright," he murmured. "You're so strong–I can't imagine a world in which you won't."

"No matter what, I want you to be the you you want to be. Not what some arrogant ASS tells you you have to become," she told him, ignoring his wooden attempts at comfort. "I care for you, for who you already are. Even if you don't know who you want that to be, yet."

She leaned in and kissed him, lips soft and tasting of coconut balm. He felt like he was in a dream. There was too much happening, too quickly. A teardrop stained his nose with dark makeup. She leaned back, eyes intent on his, then pulled the robe more fully closed around her form, hunching her shoulders slightly.

"Whether you stay on Mars, or come back home and tell your dad to f–himself after, I want you to be who you want to be. And ... I want you to know I'm here." Tears ran down her face. "For you, if you want me to be. But—I'm sorry I was pushing your boundaries. It looks like you have enough of that in your life already." He held her, but didn't know what to say.

An endless moment passed, and they both knew when it was over. She squeezed his hand–when had they been holding hands?—and stood up. "I'd better get dressed," she said ruefully. He admired her confidence in herself—she showed no shame as she turned to matter-of-factly address her nudity, so thinly veiled by his robe.

"In case Hiram walks in again," he agreed. Wow, he thought involuntarily, shaking his head to drive out the intrusive thought. "Right."

They stood, he peering around his room. Usually, he would be embarrassed at the long perusal of his slightly messy bedroom, though the fast food trash was not, in fact, his. Now he was mostly focused on what he didn't see strewn about the floor: e.g. a bra, panties, shirt, skirt, leggings, shoes.

"I suppose Claire is holding your clothing for you in her room, then," he concluded. "Was this 'event' sponsored by dearest stepsister?" he asked lightly. A bit intrusive of her, he thought.

"I'm sorry if that's embarrassing," Not a denial.

He groaned but didn't comment—his feelings on the topic were too complex for commentary at this point. "Hiram's up and about, but I'll try to get you a clear path to Claire's door," he said instead. She'd walked it in just a robe once.

"You could just go get them."

He nodded. That was a better idea. Just… he was going to have to ask Claire for her best friend's clothing while said friend stayed behind, in his room, naked. Under a robe, he corrected his subconscious mind hurriedly.

"I'll just go do that," he said quickly. He heard the door lock behind him as he left, and he didn't blame her.

Claire's door wasn't even on the same hallway—his dad had sprung for a roomy mansion and seemed to be aware that they didn't always get along very well. Gordon had only the vaguest memory of claiming or being assigned his room—he no longer knew which was real for certain. Still, it only required navigating a dog-leg before he found himself reaching his step-sister's unadorned door. She answered immediately upon his hesitant knock, eyes searching his intently before sagging and sitting down on the bed in a flumph. "You moron," she told him.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I need her clothes, Claire."

She pointed to the laundry basket next to her closet. Karen's things were neatly piled, waiting for her return. He picked it up. "Did you expect her to make a walk of shame back?" he asked.

"A girl could hope. Maybe if you weren't an idiot. She loves you."

So intrusive. But … yeah, there were too many thoughts on that topic. He wasn't sure what to say, and should probably not say anything at all. Claire's hostile eyes didn't offer any guidance when he looked up to meet them—the woman just scowled at him, arms folded.

He sighed, leaving her to fume in her room, pale blue eyes following him down the hall with a gimlet stare.

Karen took the basket upon his return without comment, but her movements slowed as she turned toward the bathroom. She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow—not in amusement, but in question. Are you going to stop me? The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken. Electric. She didn't seem to realize that she'd released her hold on the robe when she took the basket—didn't seem to mind that it was hanging open just that little bit.

She waited, standing there, just a fraction longer than necessary, perhaps breathing a shade harder than necessary, her hand tightening on the handle of the basket. Her bare feet shifted slightly on the hardwood floor, the tiniest gesture, like she wasn't quite ready to leave.

Gordon noticed the pause, but he didn't know what to do with it. His throat felt tight, his mind racing with too many thoughts he couldn't pin down.

Her dark eyes gazed into his, then she gave him a small smile and ducked into the bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind her.

He sat there on his bed, mind racing with unaccustomed indecision. Everybody might not know it, but he knew what he wanted, in general. He woke up, and knew what he was doing each day. There was a plan. Maybe not a good plan, but—he was used to being decisive, if passive. No, I do not want to engage, wasn't the same as not making a choice, after all. But this—he couldn't decide what he felt, or what he was even allowed to feel, and didn't know what he wanted. His thoughts spun. She'd been waiting for him to say something. To invite her back to his bed, he thought. I'm not single though.

That inner voice was smaller than he meant for it to be. He looked at the Portable on his wrist, feeling a surge of guilt.

After a longer pause than Gordon would have expected, Karen emerged into his room, folded robe in hand, and put it by his pillow before taking a seat beside him on his bed, putting her head on his shoulder. "I've thought about kissing you a lot," she told him softly. "Every time you make that doofus smile when you land a kick-flip or tell a dumb joke. But I've been keeping my distance because you have a choice to make. I—meant to make where I stand much more explicit today."

She exhaled, shaky. "But I think you've got enough to process right now."

"That was… fairly explicit," he said weakly, his blush creeping up his neck like heat. "R-rated at least."

A breath of laughter between them. Close. Shared.

She didn't pull away.

"I'm so glad your dad didn't see me," she confirmed, cheeks reddening too. She took his hand in her two.

"I dunno, I think that would have made him like me more," Gordon confessed, "It'd have been something he understood, a beautiful naked woman in my room. Something he could respect." She stayed still on his shoulder, balancing acting with mock outrage at him suggesting it would have been okay for her to have been seen with him, having called her beautiful, choosing to act on neither. He didn't push her away.

"I really would miss you, if you left," she told him quietly.

He might not have been sure what to say in most cases, but this was perfectly clear: "You know I'd miss you too, don't you?"

Her lips formed the faintest semblance of a smile, and she pulled their clasped hands to her chest. "I certainly hoped."

Claire's voice floated in from the hallway: "Karen? You okay in there?"

Karen groaned softly and stood smoothing her shirt as she moved toward the door. She paused for a moment, glancing back at Gordon, her eyes lingering. "Just think about what I said," she murmured. And then she was gone, leaving Gordon alone with his thoughts—and the Karen-scented robe by his pillow.

–––❖–––

[1:42] Claire: Really? You're just going to let her dangle there, huh? Real classy, Gordon.

[1:42] Gordon: It's not that simple.

[1:43] Claire: No, it's really not. But you know what is simple? Deciding if you care about her. Figure it out before you hurt her worse than you already have.

He started to type, "I'm trying," but stopped. It wasn't true. He wasn't trying—he was still reeling, hoping the decision would somehow make itself. He locked his screen with a sigh and tossed it on the bed beside him.

An hour later, the active indicator blinking slowly beside Marie's name went unheeded.