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

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Claire: You're still playing that thing?

Gordon: Not my fault humanity peaked with Todd Howard.

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November 15th, 2090, about 8:30 pm MST, Ghostlands, Ruined Keep (11,200 viewing)

Mopping up took moments after that, and they were climbing the tower. Unlike the rest of the castle, the path to the manor structure wasn't particularly realistic in a historic accuracy way—the towering building had been constructed on a square-topped butte—the sort of natural structure any fortress-builder would salivate over the opportunity to use—but instead of following a switch-backed path up one side, the path tunnelled into the side and followed a corkscrewing path up and around, the road open to the elements on one side but protected by the overhang, which was itself supported by carved stone columns and archways. It was all very fantastic and atmospheric—but probably not practical.

The building on top was similar—beautiful, its octagonal-topped stone towers tipped with sharply pointed spires and banners trailing from it in the breeze, the distant stained glass windows glittering in the fading sunlight like gemstone mosaics. Gordon was pretty confident he'd be seeing those up close before all was said and done—level designers tend to put light sources and points of interest near challenges and important quest stuff to make sure the users don't miss it.

Onward and upward, said Gordon. He hefted the zweihänder over his shoulder and let it lay flat down his back. His ribs hurt—in real life, where the electric shocks of the pain simulator had mimicked the arrow hits. He could see that he had lost some blood in-game. If his HUD had been on, he'd probably have seen the number of hit points decrease—but where was the fun in that? Where was the immersion?

Harry caught him looking and Gordon gave him a quick, half-hearted smile.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't entirely fine.

Harry inviting himself along had turned what was meant to be harmless entertainment—a way to blow off steam—into something serious. Something with stakes. That wasn't what this had been about. Not in Gordon's head.

The butte on which the castle was built had a path etched into its side, wrapping all the way around—like, Gordon thought whimsically, the red stripe on a candy cane. Or the threads of a screw. On the open-air side, it was supported by carved columns with decorative arches between them, frescoes adorning each arch. The images depicted what he assumed were unknown gods and goddesses.

He could almost follow the story, moving from one column to the next:

Two bearded men befriending one another.

Meeting a woman.

A rivalry over the woman's affections.

A murder.

He wasn't exactly sure what kind of religious site they were climbing toward, but it reminded him of Mont-Saint-Michel in France. The spiraling path emphasized the journey, and the curving nature of it controlled the sightlines, so that whatever waited at the top would—he was sure—evoke majesty and grandeur properly.

He heard the running footsteps of ghouls as they approached the base of the winding—though surprisingly level—path. Its incline must be really gradual, he thought. And then the gong sounded—deep, brassy, thunderous.

"What's that about?" asked Harry, thoughtfully.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

But as they began the spiral climb, part of the answer revealed itself. Silent as a tomb, still, neither looking right nor left, still armed with scavenged weaponry and armored in mismatched gear, two rows of ghouls stood sentinel: one line with their backs to the inner wall, one with their backs to the open air. A ceremonial procession. They made no move to bar the two as they passed.

Gordon shrugged and started walking.

"If it's a trap," he explained, "it's a really obvious one."

Besides, this was new.

Harry couldn't help but agree, though the look on his face suggested he was wondering whether Gordon's recklessness had more to do with his mood than with any real tactical decision.

The path was paved with large square stones, each bearing one of a handful of symbols. Gordon began associating them with the religious carvings: Peace, he thought. Prosperity. Riches. The god of wealth and greed, he guessed, was the one who had slaughtered his brother—or friend—for the affections of the goddess of peace and plenty. It was all starting to come together, but there wasn't enough context yet to be sure of the slain god's identity.

The two surviving gods—whom he took to be Wealth and Peace, or Prosperity and Plenty—seemed, from that point forward, to rule side by side. They presided over farmers, merchants, vessels, captains, nobles of all kinds. The carvings that followed depicted the follies of man and the wisdom of gods in easily digestible vignettes:

A merchant shortchanging his customers.

A farmer neglecting to weed.

Et cetera.

Gordon wondered what kind of temple this had originally been, and what sort of quest it had once centered. The paucity of religious options in the game had always struck him as shortsighted on the part of the developers. Or, he thought, maybe the other religions just haven't been discovered yet.

"Wouldn't that be something," he muttered under his breath.

"We should come back here," said Harry. "After. I'd like some pictures of those carvings. Some time to think about what it all means."

Gordon could see that his friend had been studying the statues and stories, putting them together as he himself had been.

He remembered what it was like trawling through the forums, chasing elusive fan theories. It had been one of the things he and Harry shared—one of the early interests that had brought them together. Gordon wondered when he'd stopped. But it didn't really matter. He had all this free time now, with nothing left to bang his head against—the brick wall of in-game scripting languages behind him. Maybe he'd find the time to dive a little deeper into the lore. Enjoy the game for more than just its mechanics.

Growing up, Gordon had loved the classics—heroic tales of some chosen one climbing the Ten Thousand Steps or reclaiming the shards of a broken staff. The lore didn't have to be deep—as long as it was consistent. And he knew Ghostlands' lore would be consistent, for sure. Too much depth, though, made it inaccessible. And maybe that was the reason he'd never really looked into it before.

Too much time spent trying to figure out foot mapping.

Too much effort poured into hitbox accuracy or recording the perfect Quickdraw.

Maybe he'd lost some of the fantasy from his fantasy game.

Maybe that was just part of growing up.

He made a mental note to pull up a wiki page after the stream. Maybe do a breadth-first dive, just to see what he was missing.

The top of the path was, as promised, stunning.

Gold, lapis, black and white marble, with inlays of some green metal, Gordon was fairly certain only existed in the game. A huge fresco had been embossed into the stone wall of the building ahead—what Gordon recognized as probably a monastery before being repurposed into a castle. Or perhaps it had always been a militant monastery.

The gods were depicted reaching downward, each holding one half of a crown, as though to place it upon the head of a kneeling supplicant. Above it all were the words, carved in old script:

Wisdom is a crown forged in grief.

"I can see that," said Harry. "That makes sense to me."

"You're not allowed to take philosophical lessons from a game," said Gordon. "Or if you do, you're not allowed to tell anyone where you got them. And we're streaming right now, so this is one of those lessons you'll have to rephrase in your head before you say it out loud."

"I think you can take wisdom where you find it," Harry replied. "Besides, the writers of this game are pretty good. And we naturally reject writing that doesn't have common sense, which means—really—to write well, you have to have some wisdom. So if you've got some wisdom, then I should listen to you."

"I decline to dignify that with a response. Shall we see what our host wants?"

The entryway was, presumably, once simply a dining hall. What were probably later expansions—two stairs arching up the sides to reach the second story and the entrances to the other wings—now flanked what would once have been a throne. At the head of a feast table, maybe. The banquet tables still stood, along with their benches and chairs, empty but clean.

Two doors, set into the walls beneath the stairs, led further on.

"Okay, try this one—lefum tzaʿara agra. Old wisdom. Gotta grind before you get good," said Harry. "Rephrased."

"Harry."

Everything was bright. Everything was clean. It was all exposed wood, well-waxed.

"It smells like a hospital," Harry complained.

"I wouldn't know," said Gordon.

"You're really missing out on a lot of the experience," Harry told him. "No smells, you don't really eat—"

"I keep my clothes on," Gordon continued, as if that had been the next item Harry was going to complain about.

His friend shoved him in the shoulder—his virtual frame, so much larger than he was in real life, nearly knocking Gordon over.

"I'm just saying you should enjoy your life sometimes," said Harry. "Lord knows you don't get enough free time to fritter away what little you have."

Gordon gave him a companionable pat on the shoulder—well, on the pauldron—and began walking forward. A livestream was not his idea of the perfect place to discuss whether or not he had a happy life. As far as his viewers were concerned, he was dating Marie. He had three awesome streaming partners that he played with all the time. His dad was rich.

No, this was not the time or the place to show anybody any cracks in any facades. No thank you.

Beyond the open door—with light streaming through it—lay the chapel. A cathedral, really.

A gallery—or more accurately, a wraparound balcony with tiered seating—swept in a U-shape around half the room, elevated at second-story height, overlooking the massive empty floor where congregants might once have stood in rows. Once, they would have looked upward at a priest performing some sacred rite beneath the colored light streaming through floor-to-ceiling stained glass.

But now?

Now the room stood stark in a wholly darker theme.

Slabs upon which corpses reposed.

Circles of etched symbols.

A chandelier of bone, atop which black candles burned fitfully.

And the gallery—lined with the silent dead.

Where the altar might once have stood, now stood a gong.

And in front of it, a low chaise lounge.

Upon it reclined what could only be—

A Matron.

"Nice to have visitors," she said cheerfully. Her voice was old, but not cracked or decrepit—resonant, her words carefully enunciated. Her face had probably once been quite stunning, before the years took their toll, and even now would be best described as handsome and dignified. Very much like Professor McGonagall—but without any of the warmth in her eyes.

She straightened crisply. The hat on her head was an entirely unnecessary extravagance; it was obvious at first sight that this was a witch.

Women in similar outfits—but without her gravitas and presence—were promptly ushered away as the pair approached. She waved her hand, and they scurried. The creatures, still partially assembled on the slabs as they walked past, offered disturbing insight into how the ghouls were made—or meant to be made. Gordon reminded himself of that. Amazing how quickly immersion could take effect.

"It's been so long," she said. "What have I done to earn the attentions of two such strapping young men as yourselves? Ah—but where are my manners? Drinks, I think."

She waved a hand toward one of the lesser witches, who hopped to with aplomb.

"Nice place," said Gordon. "Shame about the décor."

She tittered. "Isn't it just? But needs must. Needs must."

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

"Are we just going to stand here and talk to the necromancer?" asked Harry.

"To be honest," said Gordon, "I was wondering what she was planning to serve us."

"A piping hot cup of mint tea," assured the woman. "I would hardly bother with poison when I have so many quicker methods at my disposal."

Gordon nodded solemnly. "And you were telling me I never try the food," he chided Harry. "For shame."

"I was rather pleased," she said, "with your athleticism in the courtyard—though of course you understand you've cost me somewhat in components. Still, I have always been the sort of lady-witch who enjoys watching a cobbler cutting his leather, or a butcher trimming the fat. It is a subtle pleasure to see a craftsman at his craft."

"But," she added, "I was somewhat concerned that you might continue to make use of my staff freely. And they are a limited resource."

"So I thought to invite you here instead. If you have grievances, you may take them up with me. And should you need to be dispatched—well. It can be arranged swiftly. You will be interred with dignity. And with your effects."

She trailed off.

"It's just poor manners," said Harry, "to go directly to the death threats before the mint tea."

She nodded. "My apologies. Despite my best efforts, we are not exactly set up for hospitality."

She gestured, irony dripping from her tone, toward the nearest occupied slab.

"Please, feel free to pull up a slab. We've just cleared one off. If you can't find room to sit, do let me know."

To his surprise, Gordon realized he was grinning.

This had been totally worth it.

A junior witch scrambled up bearing a tea set—fine china, all done up with the symbol Gordon had decided probably meant Peace.

"We're about to fight," he said, "and we're drinking out of this?"

"That," she replied, "is a very nuanced topic. I have read so many theories on the names of the gods. But my personal choice for the goddess would be: Opportunity."

Gordon nodded. It fit.

He noticed that Harry had the absent-minded look of someone who had given his character to the AI so he could write himself a sticky note.

"When Opportunity knocks," Gordon began.

"Oh, hush," she said. "You asked a pertinent question, and now you're trying to derail the conversation. I have little enough clever commentary as it is."

She shot a derisive look at the other witches, who scurried away.

"You will not ruin my fun without offending me," she added archly.

"A gentleman never offers offense without good reason," said Gordon.

"A gentleman," corrected Harry, "can communicate anything necessary without unnecessary offense."

They both ignored him.

"If I were to serve you from the set marked with Opportunity's crest," she said, returning to her point, "the symbology might be… that I am not invested in any particular outcome."

Gordon nodded.

If he had been playing a necromancer, this sort of AI behavior would have made complete sense.

And depending on the AI he was working with… perhaps she didn't know his class.

It certainly wasn't obvious by his garb.

"You've been very polite to me," he said, "despite my commoner apparel."

"You've been very injurious to me," she countered, "despite your commoner weapon."

"Should I leave you two to it?" asked Harry. "I would hate to be a bother."

The witch made a gesture. Both outer doors swung open.

"Be my guest," she said. "Take the tea to go."

Hot damn, thought Gordon.

"I appreciate your candor," he said. "So, fine. I'll bite. What about Opportunity?"

She took a deep breath.

"There is a common misapprehension about Opportunity," she said. "You referenced it: 'Opportunity knocks.' No. It doesn't. It never does."

She leaned forward, voice sharpening. "Your best personal opportunities do not come to you. Similarly, the goddess remains in her temple for those who wish to brave the dangers inherent in seeking her out. They may come and find her."

She scooted her lounge slightly to the left, revealing an altar—a small, eight-faceted pedestal inset with emerald and polished stone.

Gordon's portable buzzed.

"I'm sorry, I have to take this," he said. It was a pulsing buzz—live, work, audio call. "It's been a pleasure!"

He switched to AI mode and took off his headset. Claire. At this hour?

He answered. Claire, audio only.

Claire's voice came through the headset, crisp and dry. "Hey. Quick thing—Malik filed an HR complaint."

Gordon closed his eyes. "Of course he did."

"He says you made him feel accused. That you treated him like a criminal in front of his staff. That you were—quote—'preparing a noose before asking if anybody died.'"

Gordon sat forward, the headache already beginning to stir behind his eyes. "He lied to me, Claire. About a production-relevant log. To cover for a guy with a fractured arm. That's a compliance issue, a safety violation, and payroll fraud. All at once."

"I know," she said. "I'm not saying he was right. But he's not malicious. He made a judgment call. You checked it. It didn't hold up. That happens. If you just apologize—"

"For what?"

Claire paused. "For making him feel cornered. Not for being right. Just… acknowledge that your tone made it worse. Empathize. You'd be surprised what that unlocks."

"I'm not doing that."

"Gordon—"

"No," he said firmly. "I didn't raise my voice. I didn't insult him. I didn't threaten him. I didn't log it as misconduct. I didn't call security. I handled it clean."

"That's not the bar."

"It is for me. Because if the standard is 'apologize because someone didn't like being found out,' then we don't have accountability—we have politics. And I don't play politics. I absolutely refuse to sell my dignity to this company."

There was a pause.

"Blame Dad if you have to," Gordon added. "Say he's cracking down. Say I'm impossible to manage. Say whatever you want. But I'm not apologizing for proving he was a liar."

Claire sighed. "You're impossible."

"You wouldn't do it either, in my shoes."

Another silence, thinner this time.

"Fine," she said at last. "I'll make it go away. But next time, could you just pretend to be a little human?"

"Next time, tell the humans not to lie to QA."

He ended the call.

The office fell still, the only sound the soft hum of recycled air. Gordon leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes shut. The ache was spreading now—temples, behind the eyes, down the neck. He didn't move.

–––❖–––

On the other side of the line, Claire didn't hang up right away. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment before switching channels.

"Rough day?" Harry asked. His tone was cautious. Friendly. His helmet was still on, Ghostlands still playing over his face, but he'd been listening. He was always attentive.

"You know what makes it rough?" Claire said. "Not Gordon. Not even Malik. It's that I have to assume guilt. Because someone felt bad. That's the system. Someone gets upset, and I'm supposed to empathize first, think never. And if I don't? I'm the problem."

Harry hesitated. "You're head of the department. Empathy… well, I don't mean to invoke stereotypes, but that's HR-optional anyway, right?"

"I'm supposed to empathize first, think never. And if I don't? I'm the problem."

She rubbed her temple. "Even when I know they're gaming the system."

–––❖–––

"Okay, I'm… back?"

The matron looked at him dryly. "So you are. As I was saying, about opportunity:"

Her voice was solemn. "Opportunity does not knock. It waits. But there is one more element to this riddle: Striving must come before satisfaction."

She straightened, briskly dry-washing her hands in front of her. "I suspect that has been quite enough time for the poison to set in. Here is your reward:"

She gestured towards the altar. "Now earn it."

–––❖–––

Shit.

She moved fast. The matron was clearly not meant to be a human. The gallery overlooking them and its teeming ghouls was a good twelve feet to the lowest corner of the gallery, slanting upwards from there at a thirty-degree angle or so.

She ran, using the stained glass framing, kicking off the metalwork without damaging the panes more than they already were. There were some missing—perhaps she'd done this before, or her minions had. And then she was among them, at the top.

"Anything worth doing," she said, "is worth doing right. Wouldn't you agree?"

The ghouls around her charged, seemingly with no prompting on her part.

Gordon didn't have much time to react to her sudden repositioning—arcs of green spellflame fountained from each of her subordinate witches. He cast his snowball twice in quick succession. This was a spell he'd had to learn after the developers nerfed shooting spells out of the air. They still wanted physical collisions—like spells being blocked by shields—but no more bullet-style interruption. Since he had to pick up a spell anyway in order to use Karen's ring, he'd hit two birds with one stone by going for the harmless level-0: Snowball.

Snowball just summoned a handful of perfectly normal snow into your hand. That's it. Handy if it was hot outside. Handy if you wanted to put some ice in your drink. And—critically—perfectly valid for blocking incoming spells.

The trick was aiming. You didn't have to lead the target nearly as much with a shot as with a thrown snowball. It was a great system. He was a big fan.

Two spells vanished in mid-air, the others continuing on to hit Harry.

Spells began to flash from the gallery as even more minions—or lesser witches—began to support her with their spellcraft.

If I'd had a gun, this would have been over already, he thought. But no. I'm straight out of luck.

Ghouls began to tumble freely into midair—some of them landing with catlike grace, some of them crashing into the floor and struggling to their feet. All of them getting in each other's way. There were just so many of them.

"Hack and slash," said Harry. A spell made an angry, buzzing rattle as it impacted the side of his helmet—ruinous scarlet bubbling faintly on the polished steel.

"Pick your poison," joked Gordon.

"I'll take the sidekicks," said Harry confidently.

Toxic-looking spells peppered his shield with a rapid pap-pap pap pap pap sound. Gordon bapped another out of existence with a snowball.

"Better you than me. I'll go see what our hostess wants," Gordon suggested.

The gallery was connected to the main worship area by means of two stairwells, each a spiral in its own octagonal column. Having attempted to fight in a stairwell with a two-handed sword once before, Gordon had no intention of trying it a second time, though. There was a reason castle stairs were spirals. It meaningfully handicapped attackers while giving the defender clear swinging arcs.

He'd have to go up the hard way.

He ran. One foot on the sill. One foot on the metal frame of the stained glass–which shattered and fell away, the thin lead flexing under Gordon's weight, but he'd already gripped the stone column with one hand, and his other foot was landing–and he took off.

He was heavier than the ghoul matron and didn't manage her impressive air time, but he got a hand onto the edge of the gallery, and that's all he needed. Swinging his leg up, he kicked off, vaulting up and over and landing on his feet within a widening circle of ghouls. The matron was nowhere to be seen.

The two-handed sword was meant for situations where you were either fighting something with reach or where you would otherwise have been in need of a scythe–however, it wasn't magic. Every critter hit with the sword, even with good edge alignment, would slow the swing, and make it that much less likely to harm the next ghoul–ad mortuum.

Not to mention the suspiciously athletic matron, and whatever the poison was doing to him.

He didn't waste time. Instead of hacking and slashing like he was meant to, he simply gave in to the intrusive thoughts he'd always had when on balcony seating at churches or theaters: Planting a boot firmly in the middle of a ghoul's chest, he shoved it clear over the rail. A roughly grabbed fellow followed it instants later, and suddenly he wasn't feeling quite as much like this was a one-sided fight.

His vision was tracking just an instant slowly, though.

Gordon had had dreams like this–where his vision wasn't quite as big a field of view as normal, or he seemed to be squinting, or no matter how he moved his eyes were lagging behind. It was quite disagreeable to experience in real life, through the auspices of VR or not.

"Harry, it's getting to me," he said. "Dunno what the half-life is, but this isn't going to be pretty."

Whuuum went a sudden object intruding into his physical space, swung so fast it seemed like the whole arc was a single solid shape. The halberd intersected one of the ghoul's own brethren, edge alignment nowhere near true, but smashing straight through its chest cavity anyway. The smell would probably have been indescribable if Gordon were making use of that particular feature.

As it was, things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

One does not simply block a polearm with a greatsword–there's relative momentum to consider, but also simple mechanics. The grip points on a polearm can be very far apart–the pole in the name suggests as much–and this means the ratio of lever to fulcrum to pointy bit can be personalized just about however much the polearm wielder wants. Greatswords have the wrap partway up the handle to enable some grip adjustment for leverage, but in the end, a sword is meant to be held at the non-pointy end, and the design makes doing otherwise risky.

So, no reach advantage, no leverage advantage. Swords are also not significantly sharper or more weighty than the half-moon-shaped blade of a halberd.

It's the perfect weapon–with one major downside. Whuuumph, whuuuumm went the halberd. He ducked, bobbed, more thankful with each movement that this wasn't a modern theater seating section or a church with pews. Whoever made this cathedral was old-school–you could stand to revere the eternal.

And, at the end of the arc, as the halberd blade was brought back into rough edge alignment for another swing, the halberd stopped. It had to. There's no other way to change directions but to stop or to spin all the way around and go again, and this was a swing, swing ghoul, not a spin, spin ghoul. Gordon's names for things were getting muzzy.

"Harry!" he said. "I'm definitely feeling it."

Whuuuumph. This time he stabbed, nowhere near the ghoul either. His sword bit into the wood planks of the floor–after just barely missing the head of the halberd as it paused pendulously at its arc's end. It was stuck.

Halberds have hook shapes on them, good for getting ankles or disarming. But if his sword was outclassed, Gordon saw no reason to keep using it–so he wouldn't. The bind wouldn't last, but Gordon didn't need it to. Two steps, a second's wrestling, and the ghoul was flying out over the balcony edge to join its fellows. And Gordon had a halberd.

"Hey!"

Gordon looked down, just for an instant. The ghouls who'd made room for the halberdier were crowding in once more.

Below, Harry stood in a circle of witchy corpses, a cross look on his face and the remains of the ghoul Gordon had just defenestrated–did it count if there was no window?–in one hand. "Watch where you're throwing those."

"My bad. Any sign of her?"

"Are you kidding? She jumped up there, we both saw…"

The blade came out of nowhere. Literally.

It was only Gordon's vertical grip on the polearm that saved his character's life.

Up close, when choking down on the grip of a polearm, the long handle gets in the way. It's not meant for close combat. So, the solution is to carry it like a broom. If you want to hit something next to you, the 'bristles' part (the handle) goes backwards, while the business end now has enough space near you to come into use. Gordon wasn't extremely proficient with a polearm, but he'd defaulted to that position–it made as much sense for a ready stance as any. And, as it turned out, for deflecting a blade, all you have to do is turn your shoulders to completely overpower a stab.

The matron's blade, a wicked green light dripping from it, deflected cleanly.

"That looks …shiny," Gordon said woozily.

He had more than enough arc to hit her while she digested his statement. So he did. She caught the haft with one hand.

"It is such a shame, to come down to this when we having such a - pleasant - chat," she said pointedly, a gimlet smile showing teeth that, now that they were exposed, seemed a bit too long. "I'd enjoyed our exchanges of wit: but no matter. I believe were were speaking of striving."

"I like to think of myself as extremely witty when I feel like this," Gordon countered. Left hand forward, right hand back. Her hand was suddenly trembling from the effort of countering his grip and leverage. It was a nice weapon, with a steel-backed haft all the way down to the center. She wouldn't be breaking it. She stabbed again, but he didn't have anything close enough to be in serious danger. "Most of the time Harry disagrees with me, though."

Harry's laugh downstairs was audible up in the balcony.

"Striving is at its core a refusal to accept your own limits, seeking to surpass yourself–without failing to acknowledge your current state. 'I am what I am, but I can be /more/' starts with self-awareness." Her knees bent, and like someone power-cleaning a weight she maintained her control over the point while maneuvering herself under it.

"Situational awareness helps," he told her. The pivot was clean. Her grip, so much effort expended to hold the point from her body, was fully focused on holding his weapon up. His left hand didn't move. His right simply went from pushing upwards to pushing downwards, and with a bit of a hip pivot the matron, supernatural strength or no, described an arc prescribed by physics, terminating in the great stained glass window with more than enough speed to keep going.

It was a very long way down.

"The wise man takes the opportunities he can," Gordon said thoughtfully. "Hey Harry? I think I know the names of the other gods."