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

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Hiram: Mars–we never needed to stop off at Mars to get to the Jovian system. Bootstrap would still orbit the king of the planets without even one of the seven colonies being built. It was a waste of time. However, it was a very popular waste of time, without which we would likely have lacked the funding for other, more important endeavors.

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Sol 498 FY 26, 04:58 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Landing Pad

The first thing that caught his attention was the air. Just seconds after getting into the seat, it sealed with a harsh thunk sound. Then he heard the whir of little motors tightening screws, clamping everything down, making him vacuum-safe—and probably quite difficult to extract. He tried not to think about it.

The air circulation kicked on. The air was metallic and offensive, but dry. Perfectly dry. It had a musty, strange smell to it. It made his mouth feel dry, almost dusty. His saliva glands began to work overtime.

The walk down the stairs came next. Slowly, slowly. He hadn't expected stairs, but in hindsight, he could understand why. A telescoping, airplane-style disembarking corridor made sense. The thick material of the walkway was probably lined with lead to prevent a direct line of sight between passengers and the engines. Or—depending on what they were burning on the way down—maybe that wasn't the risk. Perhaps it was simply to protect from the Martian dust still billowing from the descent and retro-burn. Also the thermal bloom.

That made sense. It felt like it made sense.

The corridor wasn't very long, as these things go. Still, they must've poured a lot of money into it. At the end: a simple door. No proper knob. Just a latch that lifted and pushed. Apparently, security wasn't really a concern here.

Outside, at last. Looking behind him, Gordon saw that the doorway was set between two great walls of dusty red stone blocks. Carved by giant seams, each block looked at least a meter to a side—stacked without mortar and laid at a 45° angle, so they'd stay where they were put under their own weight. At the top, he could see dust—dirt—regolith, he supposed, piled high. Likely protection for the colony against the retrograde burn. Berms to prevent sandblasting.

He could infer all this because ahead of them, the trail—clearly a trail—was visible. It bore multiple lines of tracks: wheels, prints, marks in the dust. But it had been cleared. No large rocks. It ran between what were quite clearly two berms, sloped earthen walls, similar to those behind him. The slopes faced him now, and he could see loose—or perhaps not-so-loose—regolith piled up against the retaining walls.

They walked. It was a long walk.

The ground was rust-red and dull brown and grey, but the patterns of soil and rock composition were wrong. He'd seen movies shot in the desert, meant to look like Mars, but–in retrospect–they hadn't quite nailed it. Not the skyline, where a blue glow was rising towards the sun's eventual emergence–not the quantity of dust in the air, though that could be due to their landing. He hadn't expected to see so many buildings, each squat and little more than metal siding on top, each roof held in place by its own little regolith brick walls sloped against the dust from the landing zone, each apparently storing some variety of rover adjacent mechanoid. Wheeled platforms, what were obviously sensor bearing robots, cranes, bulldozers. He supposed this sort of thing was what separated a new colony where what you bring is what you have from a mature colony.

The sky was blue and red.

And the two colors were in the wrong places—the blue where the sun was rising, the red everywhere else.

And then he saw her.

And Mars, and the ship, and the corridor, all dropped completely out of his mind.

Marie was beautiful.

For all that he had written her, spoken with her through Q-Link, sent hundreds of corny and less-than-corny compliments—nothing had prepared him for the real thing. The ardent blue light of the Martian sunrise cut her cleanly to one side, casting half of her in soft blue. The rest of her was a dusky caramel. Her dark eyes, with seeming faceted depths—amber, maybe garnet—stayed locked on him.

He could only hope she felt something similar.

She certainly looked like she was feeling something big.

"Oh my gosh," he said.

–––❖–––

Marie was apparently at the front of the greeting party—or nobody wanted to gainsay her. She gave Hiram a quick side-hug—more of a gesture than an embrace—and patted his shoulder before stepping past him. Her hug stopped Gordon cold, a vigorous explosive tackle of someone who had been parted for too long. She was so small.

A crewmember passed by carrying a large suitcase and a small one, then reoriented and pressed them into his hands. Gordon gave him a nod of thanks, not taking his eyes off Marie.

"You came prepared," she said over his suit radio.

"I guess this one must be Dad's," he replied. The large suitcase was unfamiliar and simply labeled Uncle Zebra.

Two more crewmembers followed with additional large suitcases, taking up positions behind his father. Of course Hiram didn't carry his own.

"I suppose this one's mine then, isn't it?" Gordon muttered. He decided to read the tag after removing his gloves. If it was the note he thought, it would say something like: "Gordon. Open this Monday. It's for Marie. —Claire."

–––❖–––

The elevator dropped deeper into the base—one soft thump at a time. The walls were smooth, matte-surfaced, a pale off-white like recycled plastic. Gordon could feel the vibration through his boots, through the soft-stiff fabric of the suit.

The base entrance hadn't been what he'd expected. The security guards, for one thing–guarding against who?–but also it was just scaled larger than he'd anticipated. It made sense–they had to get the bulldozer up somehow.

Each floor down smelled different. First: machine oil. Then rust. Then something musty—compost? Water? And finally, on the last level: warmth. Humidity. Air that smelled like life.

The doors hissed open.

The Martian airlock was built on an industrial scale, cavernous and uncompromising. Its walls bore no paint—scrubbed raw by decades of pressure cycles. The floor beneath was an octagonal grate of machine-cut steel, darkened at the edges by time and boot-traffic. Beyond the threshold, once the inner doors hissed open, came the vestibule: a surprising shift. Green vines curled up from rustproof buckets fed by clear polymer spigots along the walls. Each plant had its own overhead light, no two beams the same intensity or hue. They waxed and waned like sunlight filtered through trees—dappled patterns rippling across the ceiling in soft rhythm. Nothing green belonged here, not truly, but humans needed green. Gordon supposed the plants functioned as humidifiers, too. More importantly, they'd smell alive: thyme and basil, something citrusy, and a single bloom he recognized as a rose.

They stepped into a residential hallway lit with indirect orange panels and a faint glow from viney wall-gardens. It wasn't grand. It wasn't futuristic. But it felt...habitable. Lived-in, not sterile.

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Marie led him three steps down a narrow hall and turned sideways to key open the door. Her gloves tapped at the pad like she'd done it a hundred times, which she had. Then: a click, a brief hiss, and they were inside.

He realized he could hear her walking. He'd been able to hear for some time.

Jackbooted astronauts clanking down a man-sized aluminum corridor should have sounded like thunder. It didn't. He was impressed again.

Gordon reached up, found the release toggles behind his jawline, and detached the clamshell helmet. It came off in two deliberate motions—hinge, lift—and the air that hit him was thick. Damp, oxygen-rich, and faintly sweet. He hadn't realized how hard he'd been clenching his jaw until it relaxed on its own. Even as the suit cracked open, the area was quiet. Good acoustics. Or sound-dampening material.

Marie fussed over his dad, getting the technicians to support the old man while he disrobed, helping him a bit herself. Then, spotting Gordon's newly-freed face, she jogged over to him, her suit apparently as light as a feather to her.

"Feels good?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away. He just breathed.

Then he peeled off the gloves. The seal resisted at first, then gave with a little gasp of pressure equalizing. One hand. Then the other. The sweat cooled instantly in the room's air, and for the first time since landing, he felt human again.

When he looked up, Marie was already removing her own helmet. Her hair was flat and tangled from the seal ring, a line pressed into her forehead. She left the rest of the suit on. No need to strip down yet.

She crossed the few steps to him—and hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then she hugged him. "The first one didn't count," she breathed. "Your helmet was on."

Not the casual kind. Not a lean or a side-shoulder thing. A full, arms-wrapped, grounded hug. The suits creaked slightly, outer fabrics rasping as they compressed against each other. He closed his eyes. Her forehead, smooth clear skin, damp with moisturizer, pressed into his own.

It wasn't the view, or the silence, or the pressure in his ears. This was it.

This was Mars.

–––❖–––

On the way down to the habitation layer, Gordon had plenty of time to look around—and the sights were confusing.

The first thing that struck him was the height of the ceilings. They arched overhead in long, deliberate curves, supported by a network of vaults that looked...aesthetic. Not industrial. He supposed they were structural too—probably part of the crater floor. But nothing felt haphazard.

Everything was intentional.

The walls and ceiling were lined with something like anodized aluminum, but the finish wasn't uniform. There were ripples in the sheen, variations in color—bronze, silver, hints of oil-slick green. It looked expensive. Or at least, chosen. The floor here was textured aluminum—he had to test it with his foot—but solid, insulated. Despite the crowd, footsteps made little sound. Above, the ceiling wore a sort of crystalline fuzz, like spun glass, absorbing echo. Windows glinted at the edges with a faint green tint, oddly opaque. He stared too long. Marie caught him.

"Aluminum-ceramic," she said. "Safe from radiation. Safe enough to look through anyway. Most of the shielding we'll have here comes from being underground though. Come on."

She tugged on his hand. He let her.

The floor had colored stripes inlaid into the metal—like hospital guidance stripes, but beautiful. Integrated directly into the surface. And there were potted plants—real ones, unless he missed his guess—tucked beneath each arch, rhythmically spaced.

Even the lighting was different. Not stark overhead fluorescents, but varied—warm here, cool there, diffused in some spots like sunlight through fog.

It reminded him, strangely, of those college tours his father had taken him on. The Ivy Leagues. A not-so-subtle hint at what was expected of him. A motivational exercise, dressed up as vacation.

He remembered being underwhelmed—small classrooms, low ceilings, a kind of cramped grandeur. Aged elegance that felt like dust.

This was the opposite.

Here, buried under rock on an alien planet, everything felt open. New. Not just functional—but deliberate, ambitious, alive.

"You can take your suit off now," Marie told him.

Getting into the suit had been easier when it was hanging in a frame back on the ship. To get out of it now, without that convenience, he had to lie down on his belly and wriggle—but he managed, without assistance.

Nearby, Hiram carefully climbed out of his own suit, supported upright by several colonists. He moved easily, and with dignity, despite the help.

Marie, standing close, helped Gordon up with surprising strength. He'd expected her to struggle with his weight...but he was only eighty pounds here. He still remembered her awkwardly telling him her biometrics when they were seriously considering the move to Mars.

And his incredulity. Forty-two pounds.

Imperial units? On Mars?!

But the number had been so small. He'd needed a calculator to visualize it.

He pulled her close.

Nothing could've prepared him for how good she smelled.

Like roasted coffee beans. And nut butter. And rosemary. Rich but complex. Clean. There was something like aloe in the mix too, now that he thought of it. Maybe it was the pressure suit. Maybe not.

"Gordon," she said seriously. "You've been wearing that flight suit for two days. There's the shower. I'll leave a towel and some fresh clothes for you on the bench. I'll be outside."

He winced. He'd been stewing in Kevlar, and she'd noticed.

"I'll come back to you," he promised. "When I smell better."

He turned to go, but her hand stopped him.

"I didn't say you didn't smell interesting," she said, with a smile in her eyes. "But I'd better give you some space, or your father might get one of those serious-looking men to murder me."

Yes. Hiram had brought his bodyguards to Mars.

.–––❖–––

The shower was warm and generous but shut off before he expected. Earth habits. At least he'd finished shampooing.

The suit was full synthetic. No matter the thread count, the dry whisper against his skin and hair was distinctive. Still—nice.

He stepped into it. The pants landed mid-shin. The shoulders bit into his traps. He adjusted the collar. No help.

One size fits most.

Marie had guessed. Or borrowed. Or maybe this was just what there was.

He stepped out. She was there.

Out of her suit.

She wore a soft gray outfit—he'd call it yoga pants material, if he didn't also feel it with his hand. But it was more elastic. Softer.

He reached out and ran his hand over her shoulder experimentally. She leaned into his touch.

He looped his arm around her shoulders. Holding her close was just ...intoxicating. Addictive.

"None of this is what I expected," he told her.

"I know," she said. "I didn't show you video or anything because I didn't want to oversell. But...I wasn't trying to lure you somewhere miserable."

There it was.

She looked suddenly conflicted. Afraid. Shoulders curling, head dipping, breaking eye contact.

He'd expected this.

He awkwardly scooted backward into the changing room, her hand in his, and collapsed into the chair, pulling her into his lap.

She followed mutely, without protest.

"I'm an adult," he said. "I can make choices where I weigh two serious things. I did the research. It's not your fault if I make a decision to live my best life where I want to. It's just your choice if you want to join me in it."

She sighed and rested against him, head down. He couldn't see her face.

She smelled nice.

"I know," she murmured. "I talked this through a dozen times. With you. And my mentor—"

"Vera?"

"Yeah. And yeah—I know it. But I don't feel it."

He hugged her head to his chest. Then, impulsively, kissed her hair.

"Be honest with me about the risks, and then let me decide?"

She nodded, silently.

"Good."

He straightened up, and the tough material tore at the seam. Ironed together, probaby, he inferred, examining the damage. "I'd probably better put my own clothes on. Would you mind—"

Her eyes crinkled at the state of his brand new clothing. "Ma! We're going to the hab, be back in a bit!"

Her mother, a shorter Indian woman by the looks of her, was visibly frustrated by the proclamation but didn't comment. He wasn't surprised, given what she said on the stream.

"I'll play chaperone," Vera promised the younger woman lightly, her tanned features creased in a broad grin.

Hiram looked untroubled. "I'd hoped to speak with your administrators about offloading my contribution anyway: You kids go ahead. We'll reconvene in ...two hours, for the suit-up."

"Oh. About that," said Gordon awkwardly. "I come bearing gifts?"