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

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Harry: I've gained five pounds since Claire started cooking weeknights. She's an amazing woman, Gordon.
Gordon: That's doubly your fault, then. She only cooks when she's happy.
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Thursday, November 14th, 2090, about 2:36 pm MST, Montana City, Binary Systems Compound HR Office

Thursdays were always Hiram's day. Claire never quite understood why. If you were going to run a full-week reporting cycle, the board meeting probably ought to happen on a Friday. But Hiram was Hiram. Maybe he was jealous of doctors and their four-day schedules. Maybe he liked to leave himself a day to react—to plan a countermove if the meeting didn't go his way.

He was strict about weekends. No work on Saturdays. No meetings on Sundays. What did a transportation mogul do on the weekends?

He invested.

That was the word he used. Invested in the community. Met with regional officials. Spoke at infrastructure boards. Attended local forums, ribbon cuttings, and honorary luncheons. He shook hands that still believed in industry. Played the part of benevolent empire.

Claire, on the other hand, had less on her docket today, at least until the afternoon meeting.

Three interviews, two of which she already knew she wouldn't enjoy—the nervous systems analyst who smacked his lips, and the assembly tech that gave her the creeps. One disciplinary hearing. Chronic absenteeism. The last interview: a data tech with a long and exhausting portfolio she'd have to actually read and understand. And then lunch.

She was looking forward to lunch.

Harry had picked the place, of course. He always picked the place. Said he had a system—find what isn't already known, what isn't already hyped. Said the trick wasn't to beat the algorithm, but to ignore it entirely. Ask old people where to eat, instead.

Today's experiment: a French café–themed lunch buffet with chalkboard menus, bistro chairs, and allegedly "sublime" mushroom vol-au-vents, according to Yelp.

Claire remained skeptical, but open to being proven wrong—it had happened before. Once Harry had taken her to a bakery in the middle of an industrial corridor—looked like it sold carbs by the kilo. He'd promised her the best cheddar broccoli soup of her life. She had smiled, nodded, and expected disappointment. Then tasted it. He was right. Sometimes appearances were deceiving.

She leaned back in her chair and checked the time. The office was silent. No calls, no appointments for another fifteen minutes.

She looked again at the rose and the card Harry had left on her desk that morning. His meandering handwriting curved over the cardstock, a sincere and detailed apology that showed he'd thought about why she'd been uncomfortable last week and actually wanted to fix the underlying issue.

"Hey, I thought about it and there are some differences I didn't take into account, and when I made my equivalence statement I made what you do for me performative instead of personal and that was pretty …cheapening of me. I would love to make it up to you with a "French" themed lunch at this buffet I found. Usual time?"

The time and place were underneath the note.

He never had been one for just going through the motions.

It had also been a Thursday when she met him, she recalled.

–––❖–––

The room hummed quietly, screens cycling through diagnostics, temperature hovering two degrees cooler than comfortable. Claire stood just inside the door of Gordon's suite, folder drive in hand, watching her brother already halfway into a technical fugue.

"I've got a folder—like, four hundred gigs' worth—of copier scans," she said. "All pre-digital onboarding stuff. I need to import it into the new system so it's searchable."

He didn't look up, but there was a flicker of awareness.

"My assistant said the OS has something for recognizing text in images," she added, "but it's not working. He's not a programmer either. He's a secretary."

Gordon perked up slightly, already typing. "OCR. Built-in tools are garbage for anything that's not flat, high-res, and undistorted. Send it over."

"You want it now?"

"May as well look at it now." He paused just long enough to glance her way. "Anything confidential I should be careful with?"

"Nothing more than normal HR stuff. Socials. Birthdays. Address changes. That sort of thing."

"Okay. No public-facing tools then. I'll do it locally."

She raised an eyebrow. "...That means something to you."

"It means I'm going to hand-craft you a scan-in solution from scratch."

"I appreciate that," she said after a beat, surprised.

She hovered for a second, waiting. One minute passed. Then two. Gordon mumbled something about format parsing and ducked his head further into the code window. The chair she'd been offered had a hard edge. She didn't sit.

Across the room, Harry was spread across the low couch, one socked foot under the other knee, watching a movie on the suite's secondary screen. A detective comedy—mid-2000s, competent cast, no pretensions. He caught her glancing around, gestured loosely, and slid his coat off the cushion beside him without saying a word.

It wasn't a pickup. It wasn't anything. Just... room made.

She crossed the room and sat. The couch dipped slightly. Onscreen, someone was threatening a suspect with a bag of frozen peas. Harry chuckled, soft and full.

Time passed. Gordon disappeared deeper into a tangle of windows. Every once in a while, Claire got up and asked for a progress update. Once, she and Harry both leaned in. He looked over Gordon's shoulder and muttered something about parser conflicts.

"You've got three different form versions across two paper standards," he murmured to her, keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt Gordon's trance. "Half the scanned copies are warped, and the other half were manually corrected by your assistant using handwriting recognition—which doesn't work, because she writes in cursive."

He gave it a beat, then added dryly, "Which, by the way, it's 'current year'. There's no reason for cursive."

Claire turned her head and gave him a glare. "I can read cursive."

"Yeah," he said, "but you shouldn't have to."

She exhaled through her nose and pinched the bridge of it. "...She really has to stop doing that."

They went back to the movie.

By the time it ended, she realized she'd fully relaxed. That Harry hadn't tried to impress her. That he laughed when she laughed, and said nothing when the plot got dumb, and let her sit there like she belonged.

As the credits rolled, she said softly, "I liked that."

Harry smiled without turning. "If you want to watch another, I'd enjoy your company."

Gordon was still typing, headphones now on, some unreadable debugging tool dancing across his second monitor. Claire hesitated, then reached for the remote.

She picked a romantic comedy. Stylish, quippy, emotionally sincere in ways that didn't often land. Harry was into it. Asked questions during scenes that could take it. Laughed in the right places again.

And when it ended, they didn't move right away.

"So," she said, "do you think the best friend would've been a better match?"

"Yes. Absolutely. She was grounded, and she never made him chase her through traffic."

"She didn't challenge him."

"She didn't lie to him either."

It was almost an argument. Almost. But neither of them raised their voice. It was lively, but kind.
Eventually, Harry checked the time, and stood, patting down his pockets.

"I had fun," he said. "I've got to run, though. Optometrist." He pulled out a card at length, scribbled something on it, and held it out. "Here. Just in case."

She took the slip of paper—his phone number, his name, a little smilie drawn at the bottom.

Then, with a wink—confident, if not practiced—he was gone, sandals slapping against tile, jacket half-on, keys in hand.

Moments later came the soft electric whir of his scooter peeling off down the path.

Claire stood at the window and watched him vanish behind the hedge.

And she called him the next day.

–––❖–––

Fifteen minutes passed in a blink, or else her next interview was early. She shook away the fog of memory and stared at the door as the interviewee pounded more loudly than was warranted. That...didn't bode well either.

"Come in," she said politely, engaging the door automation to swing it away from his last attempted knock. As he walked in she noticed her makeup pencils still out on her desk and swept them into her purse with efficient motions.

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Amos T Burges, lately from Colorado, stepped into the room like he owned it.

"You look real pretty," he said, settling into the chair like it was his kitchen table. Knees spread wide, hiking boots barely laced, jeans speckled with flecks of primer, flannel open at the collar. He smiled like it was a compliment he thought she'd be pleased to hear.

Claire gave him a once-over. Not hostile. Just… clinical.

"Let's keep the conversation focused. This is a hiring evaluation, not a personal interaction."

He nodded. Too easily.

"Saw you touching up your makeup earlier. Just saying—you don't need the help."

She made a note in her head—not about his outfit, not even about the line. About how lightly he took things. She doubted he'd even remember what she'd just said.

But she would.

"There's no reason to comment on my appearance," she said, coolly. "I'm not relevant to your future in any way except through my veto. Do I make myself clear?"

He looked taken aback, wounded innocence clear on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

Good scores on the welding test—very good scores. Top marks, even. Passed his qualifier for safety, drug screen a-okay, background check had cleared him for low-security work—his eyes were on her legs.

"Excuse me!" she said sharply. "My eyes are up here. Now—if you'll pay attention for a moment—it looks like you've passed every hurdle with flying colors, Mr. Burges. I will be assigning you a keycard to enter Fab building 2—that's gross assembly, I'm sure you'll fit right in with your background."

There were no women in Fab building 2. It was for the best.

–––❖–––

Montana City Campus – April 4, 2086

She had asked, "Why Human Resources? You know I'm specializing in procurement and supply chain."

Her father had told her, confidently, "I know. But wherever your career takes you—and I hope it will be here—we must ensure that you have the social connections to make the most of your opportunities, whatever they may be. Whether it be marrying into an influential family, running circles around boards of investors—wherever your career takes you—even if you choose to be some sort of specialist in procurement, you would want to know who to talk to, how to pass an interview, who the industry professionals are, who the headhunters are. What better place to learn?"

He took her hands in both of his, an earnest gesture he rarely made in public. But then, they were alone. Hers were dwarfed as always by his.

"This will provide you with a solid foundation. As for procurement—we could certainly use your talents—but procurement is not where you would have the most relevant advantage. Trust me. Here, I will not be refusing to give you a meaningful position simply because you have yet to work ten years at an entry level. Once you graduate from high school next year, you can rotate through procurement if you still want it. For now, build the foundation.."

"Yes, Dad," she'd said. It beat working through college at McDonald's.

She'd been working in HR since her senior year of high school, continuing through college during breaks and summers. By her junior year, something had started bothering her. She saw problems everywhere—inefficiencies, contradictions, processes that made no sense. And more and more often, when she pointed these out or suggested fixes, she found herself outcompeting the 9-to-5-ers who just accepted things as they were.

It confused her. They had more experience, more credentials. But they weren't invested in the company like she was. They had no real reason—other than a paycheck—to care.

"I'm noticing confusion around this topic, Dad."

"Tell me."

"On the one hand, if you go here for the money, you'll go there—with me having trained you—for just a little more money in the grand scheme of things."
"Correct. And I would rather onboard someone who is devoted to learning the ins and outs of fusion, who hopes to one day graduate to running an efficient power plant—if he's a professional about it, I hope he does. I would gladly train the next responsible power plant administrator. I would do it for free. Instead, he's working for me. I get the benefit of his mind, and he gets the benefit of my infrastructure and knowledge. Mutual benefit. How infinitely better that is than a mere yearly salary."

"I do understand that. But that—a lot of those HR questions. I know most questions on here are traps, but that one is particularly bad. When you ask someone, 'Okay, so why did you go into—well, any of the big filter jobs, doctor, lawyer, engineer—so we're like, "Why do you want to do law?"' 'Well, because there's job security, and they pay well.' 'Okay. So we don't want you.'"

She had squared her shoulders. "Why not? That's planning ahead. That's someone who came out of high school, doesn't know anything, knows he doesn't know anything, finds two wise criteria, and acts on them. That's forethought. We should want that. But I also see that people who only care about the paycheck don't care to fix little issues if it doesn't stop them from being paid. There has to be a better way."

"Okay," Hiram said, leaning back in his chair. "You've identified the problem. What's your solution?"

"I... well, I'd need to actually try it to know if it works."

"Then try it. You are now old enough for some real responsibility: I'm appointing you Acting Head of HR, effective immediately. Show me your better way."

And she did. Instead of relying on keyword matching and standard interview questions, Claire started calling the department heads. What did a good agile developer actually do day-to-day? What problems did they solve? What frustrated them about candidates who looked good on paper but couldn't perform? Then she'd design questions around those realities, looking for genuine understanding rather than rehearsed answers.
Her AI could call BS when candidates tried to fake their way through technical discussions—but as time passed, it rarely needed to. She had learned to spot the difference between someone who had studied buzzwords and someone who had actually wrestled with the problems those buzzwords were supposed to solve.

"You have learned to spot a liar. Well done, Claire."

"I still don't know your tells."

"I don't lie."

–––❖–––

The buffet was better than expected—though more French-themed than actually French. There was a giant canvas print of the Eiffel Tower mounted at a slant over the drink station, some accordion music piped in over the speakers, and a sign above the pastries that said croissants are happiness folded. Claire wasn't convinced, but at least the table was clean and the cutlery matched.

Harry returned with a plate full of eclectic optimism: some kind of lavender chicken skewer, a too-perfect wedge of quiche, and a scoop of red cabbage slaw. In the center of the plate, nestled with care, was a tidy pile of steamed crab.

He set it in front of her with a familiar smile.

"Not French," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "But they had it. Thought you'd want it."

Claire blinked, then let a breath out through her nose—more of an exhale than a laugh. "I do," she said, picking up the tiny fork. "Thanks."

"Did you read my note?" The question had a note of uncertainty to it.

"I did, yes—thank you for the flower. And I accept your apology. I was mostly in my own head about Karen and Marie stuff, it wasn't ever really about me anyway."

He relaxed into his seat with an exhalation. "Good. And anyway, I haven't told you enough, but I do like your avatar. And more than hers, too, if that matters."

"It will always matter."

They ate in a quiet rhythm for a few minutes. She cracked the first claw cleanly, and it smelled perfect—salty, fresh, not at all like it had been sitting under a heat lamp. It grounded her a little. Still, her brain hadn't caught up to her hands. Her mind was still in the office. Or on the next planet over.

She didn't mean to say anything, but the words came anyway.

"He's actually going," she muttered. "Dad's taking him to Mars. I mean, literal Mars. So Gordon can 'see what life's really like' out there."

Harry didn't flinch. Just dipped a chunk of bread into something that might've been eggplant mousse.

"Figured that was coming," he said. "Your dad's the one who thinks firsthand experience is a moral instrument."

Claire sighed. "He thinks if Gordon sees how rough it is—how little infrastructure, how few supply shipments, how much you have to build for yourself—he'll change his mind. He's trying to show him it's not a dream, it's mud and low gravity and ration packs. That being in love with someone on another planet isn't enough."

Harry looked at her across the table, half-serious. "And you think it'll backfire."

"I think there's a fifty-fifty chance Gordon just doubles down," she said, poking at the crab without really tasting it. "Because it is rough. And that'll make it more real to him. And when something feels real, he digs in. And if he thinks she needs him there, he won't care how bad it is."

Harry wiped his fingers with his napkin, leaning back a little. "Gordon's not dumb," he said. "Romantic, maybe. Definitely stubborn. But not stupid."

Claire gave him a skeptical glance. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"They aren't," he agreed. "But if it's really as bad as you say, he'll know. He's not going to lie to himself about it, even if he wants to stay for her. He's too detail-obsessed for that."

Claire hesitated. That was true. Gordon had a faultless eye for operational failure. He could stomach discomfort—but he didn't ignore risk. He couldn't.
She let her fork settle on the plate, and with it, a bit of tension she hadn't realized she was holding.

Harry reached across, pulled half a croissant from the pastry basket, and passed it to her. "You've been carrying this all day," he said, not unkindly.

She accepted the croissant, warm and slightly over-buttered, and said, "It's hard not to."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The accordion music behind them switched to an instrumental version of Something Stupid. Claire took a bite of crab—sweet, surprisingly tender—and glanced up at Harry's ridiculous shirt, some blue-on-orange floral thing that made him look like an off-duty cruise director. He was watching her tenderly.

And for the first time that day, she started to feel like returning the favor.

She took another bite. The food was good. The company was better.

–––❖–––

"It's a common misconception," Claire said, sawing busily at her crab. "You see Binary Systems stamped on every major piece of infrastructure from here to Jupiter, and you assume we must have tens of thousands of employees. In truth, we just make a product that can reach Jupiter. Not many firms do, so of the few engines burning out that far, most are ours, and we end up in the spotlight because of that—​not because we're huge."

She wiped a glisten of butter from her knuckles while the accordion loop hiccupped in the background. "So you're thinking, Head of HR—she must be swamped. Well, no. On a good day, I interview a couple of candidates for welder or electrician positions. HR alone would leave half my week empty, so I also handle procurement."

"Just‑in‑time procurement," she added for the camera. "That simply means we don't keep warehouses full of parts gathering dust. We buy what we need when we need it and trust our suppliers to hit the delivery window. If you're smart about it, you eliminate a lot of waste."

Rao—the local tech correspondent—tilted her head. "And I suppose you are smart about it?"

"We do our best." Claire cracked another claw cleanly and smiled.

"I came up here expecting the infamous Head of HR serenely managing a whole solar system's worth of assets," Rao said, glancing at her drone's feed, "and instead I find you—"

"—Binary Systems' resident multi‑hat wearer," Claire finished, gesturing at the table, "currently out to lunch with my fiancé."

"How's that going? We haven't heard a whole lot about you," Rao said, turning to Harry. "No offense."

"None taken," Harry replied with a mild shrug. "I'm just a private kind of guy."

"I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere," she said, like she'd just stumbled across a happy thought and didn't have that question pre-planned, just like she also hadn't been tracking Claire's movements by drone. "How'd that happen?"

"She just wanted me for my body," he told her with a deadpan shrug. Claire's eyes crinkled. They couldn't use that clip.

Harry took a bite of croissant, chewed with obvious satisfaction, and said brightly, "Hey—this is actually pretty good."

They couldn't use that either.

Claire gave him a warm look, an unfamiliar relaxation of her manner in a venue this public—then straightened, placing her fork down. If that was how Harry was playing it, she'd lean in.

The question hung there, trite and ridiculous.

So she answered it.

"He wasn't like everybody else—throwing themselves at me even though I wore fuck-off makeup and clothing. He just invited me to watch a movie with him since I looked uncomfortable, and then I wanted to watch another, so he suggested we order take-out and do that, and he was just natural to talk to. I felt like someone understood what I wanted to say without me having to spell everything out, and I just never stopped finding new things I liked about him. I won't."

The air changed—just slightly. It wasn't performative, but there was a charge between them.

The reporter shifted, the cameraman adjusted his grip, both of them visibly uncomfortable about interrupting something so personal.

The reporter cleared her throat. "Ah... so, marriage is in the works? I've heard an expensive silk dress is on order."

Harry didn't miss a beat. "I can't think of a better way to spend my life."

Claire liked that answer.

A flush of warmth rose under her makeup—not from embarrassment, exactly, but from something similarly unguarded. She had been gazing at him, blinking slowly like a cat. In public. How embarrassing. On the plus side, the reporters looked very uncomfortable.

The reporter stood abruptly. "You two are... refreshing," she said, tucking her tablet against her chest. "The next generation's in good hands."

And then they were gone, drone trailing behind them like a leashless dog.

Claire sat back, letting out a long breath through her nose.

Getting jumped by the press when outside the compound was just a fact of life—but she didn't have to like it.

Harry slid her a napkin without looking up. "You handled that like a champ."

"It comes with the territory," she murmured, taking it. "You were awful, giving them nonsense lines like that."

"You liked it."

She smirked. Yes, she had.