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

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Gordon: I think I look kind of like an action figure. I don't see the appeal.

Marie: Shh, just be pretty.

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Friday, November 15th, 2090, about 3:45 pm MST, Montana City

"Boots," Gordon said, his voice muffled as he dug through the textured felt bag. Without missing a beat, he tossed a sleek black boot over his shoulder.

Karen caught it midair and slid it onto her left foot, snapping the strap into place with a quick tug. "So there I was, fending off two freshmen who wouldn't stop sniffing around, they're following me like ducklings, and Gordon pulls up in his stupid sports car."

"Gloves. Also, it's the company's, not mine—"

Gordon glanced at the pair he pulled out before tugging them on himself. Karen waited, her bare right foot flexing absently against the carpet.

"—yeah. So he pulls up in his snazzy rich boy car, and I piled in like I was in one of those witness protection movies, and he squealed off, burning rubber, and they stood there all wide-eyed and watched us go."

"Waist,"

The girdle-like component went on the outside, not the inside—it was unique in this respect—and Karen slid and synched it into place without breaking stride. "So right around the corner the campus cop lights up, we pull over but it's past where the guys could see us, so they didn't know we got ticketed—"

"Shoulders," added Gordon. "And prices for speeding ten miles an hour have gone up, recently. When I was your age I'm almost certain it was only in the low hundreds—"

"—Nope, this one's yours," she corrected, sending one spinning back to him to be fielded by a practiced hand and clipped into its place.

"Right. Anyway. Belt"—the routine picked up, each item flying across the room in a practiced rhythm. Karen caught every piece effortlessly, threading the rigid components beneath her clinging bodysuit through slits in the elastic fabric. The modular parts locked into place, flush against the skin for conductivity. As each insert slid through the slit in the bodysuit, the smooth, form-clinging surface transformed, obscuring the contours of the flesh below and shifting the appearance from a second skin to something more like sleek, futuristic armor.

Claire had been on board with shifting all the maintenance activities to do with the stream to Thursdays since she couldn't play anyway due to her board meetings, and laundry was part of that—sweating all day in a haptic suit, even if you sink-washed the inserts afterward, still ended up stale and grody after a couple of days, and the decontamination sprays and little modular steam-cleaners never really got all the moisture out like a good dry-cleaning would. For whatever reason, though, the gear tended to be jumbled all in one bag when it arrived back at the compound on Friday morning, while Gordon worked. Karen would be at school, Gordon and Claire working, and they'd get fifteen minutes or so before the stream to untangle everybody's belongings and dole them out. This routine was Gordon's answer to the problem—and it was a mess.

"—and that's why they were looking at you like that," Karen explained. "Same car, same slack-jawed idiots. Different hero there to rescue me."

"And here I thought they were respecting my ability to pull hot chicks," Claire complained.

She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression complex. "You know," she said, "this is like watching a group strip tease in reverse, but worse, because you're my brother, and you're my bestie."

Karen didn't look up, focused on tightening the straps around her ankles. "We're just suiting up for the stream," she said. "It's not awkward unless you make it awkward."

"It's awkward," Claire insisted, eyes cutting toward Gordon just as he pulled out two curved, cup-shaped modules connected by firm black straps. He froze. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough.

Claire pounced.

"Gordon. Propriety. Stop fondling the bra."

"It's not a bra," Gordon insisted.

Claire almost cracked a grin, but resisted. He'd chosen the wrong point to argue.

Karen held out a hand, not even glancing away from her shin insert as Gordon, red-eared, tossed her the chest module.

She caught it one-handed and fed the linked, curved components into the two vertical slits framing her upper torso. The suit shifted subtly around the insert as the elastic fabric conformed to the module, smoothing and reshaping the visual profile beneath into something plastic and neutral.

Claire raised her eyebrows. "Pretend what you want to: it straps on, you don't wear anything under it, and it supports you while obscuring your shape. It's a bra."

"She's not wrong," Karen admitted. "Don't worry, though, Gordon. I don't mind."

"Who's pretending?" Gordon interjected.

"You're pretending not to be flustered by all this… this," Claire pointed out, gesturing at Karen. "I think if neither of you had realized there might be just a little impropriety here, you'd have the cameras rolling already."

She gestured at the streaming cameras and their monitors, conspicuously dark.

Karen grinned, finally lifting her gaze toward him. "It's the suit," she said innocently, snapping the last shoulder insert into place. "Everyone gets self-conscious in motion capture gear. You can see everything. Thus, our resident voyeur's gracing us with a visit," she finished as an aside to Gordon.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Gordon asked, reaching back into the bag.

"Immensely," said Claire, scowling at Karen's back.

"She likes the view," Karen told him confidently, bending at the waist to thread a strap through loops down the back of her thigh, suit pulling taut with a rubberized squeak.

"Oh my, it's a butt," Claire said theatrically. "Never seen one of those before."

Karen smirked as she pulled her straps tight. "You're just jealous."

Claire opened her mouth to respond, then switched tacks smoothly. "That much gym time is too big a commitment."

They'd had this conversation before.

"Mother nature said 'no backside for you'"

"Stop"

"And I said R&B. Behold the middle ground: ham hocks."

Karen shrugged. "Could be worth it. You still have to get naked to get suited up, same as us. I could start waking you up when I head out—"

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"—Not a chance. Besides, Neurolink's suit is zip-up, and you're done, it's different."

Gordon reached back into the bag—and surfaced with the groin insert.

Claire's eyebrows arched. "THAT," she said, mock-solemn. "Is even worse than the bra—"

"I had mine on when she got here," Gordon said quickly.

Karen looked over, saw the piece in his hand—and immediately burst into laughter. "Smooth move, Gordon. Very subtle."

She sat, legs bent, and caught the insert one-handed. Then, with the fluid ease of someone who did this on a daily basis, she spun on her tailbone, turning her back to him to line up the insert with the seam just below her hips.

A soft click. Then another. She shivered.

"Ugh. Why are these always cold?"

The silvered contacts wicked away heat. Claire didn't like it either.

Claire turned her attention back to Gordon. "You had yours on already—who were you reassuring?"

Gordon knew when he was outgunned.

Karen shook her head in comic regret, further securing the haptic panel with a quick series of muted snaps. "You didn't have to say anything. Now it's just weird."

"All right, all right," he said, hands raised in surrender briefly before they busied themselves with his last legging.

Karen stepped into her omni treadmill, clipping her shoulder straps into place and giving the cables a test bounce, suspending her off the floor with her legs curled up to her belly before relaxing back to earth. She grinned at Claire, adjusting her gloves. "Jokes aside, you're missing out. Gym time is bonding time."

Claire considered commenting that she was comfortable with their current amount of bonding time, but her expression shifted to something more curious as she studied Gordon's suited form. She felt her eyebrows frown in puzzlement. He was almost fully suited now—groin insert snug in place, chest sealed, shoulders locked. The gear transformed his frame: tall, lean, lines cut by the tight elasticity and gleaming hardware. The suit hugged every detail until it didn't—until the modules took over, smoothing flesh into silhouette.

Her eyes narrowed. Thoughtful. Confused.

"Why are you wearing that?"

Gordon froze mid-motion. "…What?"

"You play with adult content off," Claire said, frowning. "So why are you even wearing the—" she gestured vaguely downward, "—that?"

Gordon flushed a deep red, his hands involuntarily shifting slightly as if blocking an incoming missile. "I'm on camera," he elaborated, "And the suit is really, really tight… Any kind of outline—any wardrobe malfunctions would be really obvious and kind of invalidate the whole point of keeping the stream PG-13."

Karen burst out laughing again, practically doubling over as she clipped the final shoulder straps into place. "Are you saying they'd… stand out?"

Gordon stepped into his own frame, clipping somewhat heavier cables to his own shoulders. He didn't comment.

It's okay," she wheezed, "we get it, Gordon—!"

"I don't want to worry about it," he said firmly, pulling at his sleeve. "It's practical."

Claire, who'd turned away, grinning, now shook her head. "Wow. That's gotta be the saddest reason I've ever heard to wear a fully-loaded rig."

"I'd say 'can't get a date' is a sadder reason, Claire."

Claire paused, picturing the sort of person who typically used that kind of gear. "Touché."

Karen shot him a grin. "You know, Claire," she said, voice all honey and mischief. "He's not the only one running fully loaded—Neurolink comes that way out of the box. Tried taking it for a spin?"

Gordon turned, slowly, to Claire—whose expression snapped from smug to oh no in less than a second.

Her voice came out sharp. "No."

Gordon smirked at her. "Harry's an open-minded guy,"

"I am not a part of this conversation—" Claire turned—

"But, Claire—" simpered Karen.

"Nope!" she yelled, bolting into the hallway.

Her indignant retreat was followed closely by the sound of Karen's delighted laughter.

–––❖–––

It was good to see Gordon smiling, Claire admitted to herself as she hurried along the curving mansion hallway toward her own suite. It had been worth it to join in the Ghostlands stream—even before the money they were now poised to make.

She remembered vividly a time when that had not been the case.

They'd walked in near silence, the outdoor mall a hushed corridor of closed storefronts and display glass. She'd been searching more to bond over, happy her brother—stepbrother—had agreed to come out, he so rarely saw the light of day anymore—but casting about for common interests. The faint scent of ozone hung in the air—maybe from the nearby tramline, maybe from the rain. Then came the quiet hum of activation.

A convex billboard ahead came to life—curved outward like a lens, throwing highlights against the polished pavement. The NextDimension screen shimmered, then deepened into proprietary 2.5D projection. Holographic elements scintillated in the softly misting rain.

Onscreen, a shape coalesced—oblong, roughly fifteen feet long, standing on a low rotating stage. Two three-meter spheres protruded from a bristling coppery cylinder the size of a bus. It glowed faintly with heat, and distortion shimmered in the air above it. Beside it stood Hiram Stone. Not a hologram—a full-capture rendering. High-res. Uncanny.

His suit was precise as a scalpel, but his limbs looked just a little too long, his neck a little too tall. His skin showed no moisture despite the furnace beside him—makeup, maybe. Or not. He made the engine behind him look small by comparison. That might've been a trick of the lens curvature. Or maybe not.

He stepped forward—almost too quickly—into the projection field, swelling unnaturally. His austere features loomed past the screen's edge with that uncanny 2.5D exaggeration. Unsettling, but clearly intentional. A larger-than-life CEO for a larger-than-life product.

His voice was velvety and commanding, filling the mall from hidden speakers:

"Utilizing proprietary twin-core harmonics, Binary Systems Corporation is proud to introduce the first viable single-stage-to-Mars fusion engine. This bespoke transport solution is fully adaptable to your mission parameters—military, industrial, or private—and performs to the most exacting standards."

Then, quieter—almost to himself, a cocky, corporate-approved smile ghosting across his lean, hawkish face:

"Mine."

Gordon was frozen beside her—pale, shaking, a deer in headlights.

"I won't be doing it," he said, twenty minutes later, as they sat in the chilly air with the first comfort food Claire had been able to get her hands on. "I can't."

Having yet to reach her twenties, Gordon's fragility at twenty-five had shaken her. She hadn't realized adults could still... hurt, like that. Be that afraid.

Even as a college freshman, adult still seemed like a word with mystical trappings—something you became, like molting into armor. Once you made it to your second decade, you were supposed to be ready. You were supposed to know things.

Her brother was... well, stinky, and obnoxious, and serious all the time. He was supposed to take over the family business someday. And she was supposed to help him.

This was the moment she realized that probably wasn't going to happen.

Looking back, Claire would later admit to Karen that the sight of her father—striding confidently toward the screen, smiling like he owned the future—would've set anyone off who'd been wound as tightly, and for as long, as Gordon had. His final words—emphasizing his exacting rubric as a gold standard—had been the final straw.

That was when Claire began asking Gordon about the hows and whys of the job. He hadn't known then why she was doing it—only that someone, at last, seemed to see the hours he was putting in. He'd worked it out soon enough.

And when Karen asked her to join them in Ghostlands—a new game her best friend and her brother had started to bond over—and Gordon finally started to unbend, even a little?

She said yes. She had to.

Back then, Gordon didn't look so different. Leaner, maybe, not yet bulked up with muscle—but still tall, still sharp. His clothes were expensive. Flashy without being too performative: an onyx inlay on his portable, a tailored jacket pulled taut across his frame. Every inch the heir apparent.

The mall had been Claire's idea. Her wish. Nineteen and reaching for something—anything—to bond over. She hadn't known he was already coming apart.

–––❖–––

The wind picked up. Snow swirled. Ice was beginning to form along the edge of the window.

Claire watched as Hiram paced—much like her brother would pace next to the full-length glass balcony door.

"I hate unnecessary delays," said Hiram. "The orbital window was perfect tomorrow. It would have been—literally—the ideal time to leave. I would've left Mars in synchronicity with Earth time."

"I'm sorry," Claire said.

She couldn't have done anything.

Of course, that wasn't the point. Hiram had to fill the silence.

"But," she added, "did you have time to prepare?"

"Expound on that," he said.

His word choice was ridiculous.

She'd gone to the same private schools he had—real intellectuals didn't talk like that.

Real intellectuals were dumber than that.

Real intellectuals didn't keep a thesaurus in their working memory.

They said things like "y'all" and "I want to see Three Jesus's widths between you gals afore I call the principal."

"Hey," she said. "If you think about it... Mother Nature just gave you a window of opportunity to prepare more than anyone there thought you could prepare. Maybe you show up with a bribe."

"They would be unlikely to accept a bribe," he said, "but you've given me an excellent idea."