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

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Marie: What do you think about kids?

Gordon: We don't even live on the same planet yet.

Marie: No, I didn't meant that, just in general do you hate them, love them?

Gordon: 'Fear' is probably the right word. We're talking in groups?

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Sol 498 FY 26, 05:44 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 92.12 Bioreactor Bay F

They emerged into the hub: wide corridors, sun-tinted panels, steel latticework warmed by directional lights. The space was bright enough to grow plants by—because it did. Lining the walls were tidy rows of potted herbs and flowers: sage, mint, rosemary, thyme, even roses. The scent hung in the air—pleasant, but unfamiliar.

The Forum was enormous. Two vast hemispheric domes formed its ceiling. Three tiers of galleries climbed the walls, lined with schools, libraries, and workrooms. Below, a field of cafeteria tables sprawled beneath programmable LED arrays that mimicked a solar arc. Buffet lines glowed, drink fountains hissed, and the scent of spiced meat wafted through the air. On an upper gallery, children played. Somewhere above them, drone tracks crisscrossed between the tiers.

Gordon blinked. "How do you have sausages?"

"Artificial pork," Marie said. "Bio-printed. Bacon too. Come on."

She led him to the floor near the main entry. Color-coded chevron lines spread from that central hub in every direction, like the legs of a neon octopus. "If you know the color, you follow the line," she explained. "If you follow it opposite the chevrons, you'll always come back here."

"That's. . .really intuitive."

"It is. Everything's adjacency-mapped, so you can always find your way. And if you can't, the drones will."

He rapped a knuckle on a massive support arch.

"Space-age steel," Marie said, deadpan. "We spared no expense."

Gordon squinted. "I thought you said it smelled like algae all the time."

Marie grinned. "It does. Without the plants, anyway. Or just always, in the bioreactor." She turned to him. "Want to see what I do?"

He was still taking it in. "What—you mean like. . .now?"

She tilted her shoulder. "Unless you'd rather talk to the administrator with your old man."

He gave her a flat look. "Tempting."

She tugged at his hand, playful and expectant.

He held his ground, just enough to make it clear he was being difficult on purpose. "You'll have to really want it."

Marie narrowed her eyes and pulled harder.

Gordon braced, grinning. "I'm still eighty pounds of dead weight, you know."

"Dead weight," she echoed, mock affronted. "That's a terrible thing to call yourself."

Eventually, he let himself be dragged—reluctantly cooperative, still smirking.

They passed through a transparent plastic curtain into another vaulted space—the farm. It smelled of yeast, steam, and sun-warmed soil. Columns of green climbed toward the ceiling, vertical tanks lining the edges. Planter beds alternated with strips of clover. Children darted between rows. Chickens pecked. Crickets chirped.

"Sometimes they escape," Marie muttered. "Sometimes the seedlings arrive with hitchhikers. Worms. Mantises. They're part of the biosphere now."

"Where'd you get the dirt?"

"Processed sewage. UV-sterilized. Carefully reseeded with a curated bacterial load."

They stepped into one of the colony's twelve environmental chambers, each carved directly into the Martian bedrock. The scale struck Gordon immediately—this was no narrow corridor or sealed lab. The space felt massive. Aircraft hangar massive. From the rough-hewn ceiling, nearly two stories above them, a forest of cables, rails, and ducting snaked through reinforced struts. Condensation glistened here and there, catching light from long, low-spectrum fixtures recessed between metal bracing.

Rows of shallow pools stretched away from them like lap lanes, each the size of a swimming pool and covered in overlapping plastic trays. The trays held different colors of algae—emerald, dark green, even purples—each strain luminous under its custom-spectrum LEDs. Pipes ran along the floors and ceiling like vascular bundles, marked with faded stenciling in Martian-standard color codes. Some were wrapped in heat tape, others dripping from micro-leaks already tagged for repair.

The tanks were everywhere—ten feet tall, six feet wide, modular and curved, made from pale composite panels sealed at the seams. Some were bone dry, others filled with sloshing yellow-green slurry.

Marie led him through the maze like someone born to it.

It was loud in here. Not the mechanical din Gordon had expected, but a dense ambient hum, punctuated by clicking relays, flowing water, and the occasional pop of pressure equalization. The scent was strange—damp plastic, nutrient slurry, biological but certainly cleaner than sewage.

Marie took a breath like someone returning home. "This," she said, "is my office."

"So," Gordon asked, gesturing at the maze of tanks, pipes, and panels, "This is where the magic happens. Where Martians do whatever Martians do all day."

Marie exhaled and gave a crooked smile. "Yup. I just. . .don't know where to start. This is what I do. I live and breath this stuff. I want you to see . . .to really understand me, and that's bits of me in every inch of it—but it's a lot."

"Then start with your biggest gripe," Gordon said. "That's always where the juicy stuff is."

"Alright. I want a forklift."

That didn't sound like a big deal.

"Okay? Should I buy you one?"

She snorted. "First, that would delay your immigration. Second, that's not how it works. The first engineer who built a forklift drove it through a wall. He didn't cause a decompression, and it's not like atmosphere loss never happens, but administration still cracked down."

"Understandable."

She nodded glumly. "Since then, strict rules: only certified forklift operators can train new forklift operators—and certified operators are needed everywhere. Even if we fabricate a forklift, we can't legally use it unless someone's trained us, and no one is free to do the training. I'd been on the waiting list for over a year this time before the denied me."

"Sounds like there's a bureaucracy problem. Is there a workaround, or can you argue that the forklift is essential?"

"Technically? Yes. A team lift would work if everyone cooperated. But they won't. They're worried about job security, raises. . .some of this stuff is too heavy for that anyway. OSHA only wants you to lift fifty pounds per person. Even on Mars some of this is heavier than that. It's complicated. Are you sure you want to dive in?"

Gordon grinned. "I live for complexity."

"Okay, then: I handle everything from the moment you flush a toilet to the moment you breathe in, or eat a bite of broccoli. Or shower."

"If that's a single interconnected system," he said, "there's a violation of human rights in there somewhere."

She laughed. "That would be gross. Technically there are three systems."

He nodded.

"We have three closed waste loops: human, chicken, cricket."

"Cricket? Wait. Chicken?"

"Yes. Each loop grows vegetables—rice, sugarcane, bamboo. The system relies on biological stepping. Bacteria go into the root layer but don't come out in the edible greens. Human waste feeds algae and leafy greens. Those feed crickets. Crickets feed the chickens. Chickens make eggs. Chicken waste and occasional leftovers go into a separate compost line that eventually helps fertilize food for colonists."

"So. . .three interlocking loops, hydroponic chains."

""Pretty much. Each loop has its own algae strain—different temps, different gas mix. The algae strip out our CO₂ and pump back O₂, giving us air and protein. We still lose a trickle of trace elements through filters and airlocks, so we top those up with the occasional orbital drop, but the loops cover ninety-plus percent of everything we breathe and eat."

"And the algae are food too?"

"Some strains are protein-rich. Others feed the bioprinters."

"The steak?"

"Exactly. Printers use animal cells–they wouldn't work otherwise–but those cells need food to grow."

She led him deeper into the space.

"Mars is a heat sink, one big planet-sized heat sink, so we run heaters. Lots of failure points: circuit breakers, coils, crawlspaces. . . ."

"Don't you have drones?"

"Yes. With IR sensors that can go offline or have faulty readings. Command doesn't trust them. So I have to quality test–you know about that part."

He nodded. "And drones can't do plumbing anyway."

"Correct. Piping needs a human. There's someone qualified on every shift."

"Sounds manageable."

"It was. Until admin saw too many 'on-call' hours and reassigned two of us to hydrolics. We need the new pipes, but we're short-staffed."

"Someone's not doing the math."

"Oh, they are. It's just. . .more complicated."

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She brought him to a tank—ten feet tall, six feet wide, full of trays stacked with glowing water and algae.

"What do you see?"

"Looks. . .compact?" It looked like a bee hive, if bees made hives of spun wires and tiny pipes. The heating coils were invisible, probably on the inside, but he could see the tank with its submerged trays within the contraption. The whole thing balanced on four little metal legs–he couldn't imagine someone setting up something that heavy on so few points on contact on Earth.

"Too small, or too portable. Modular design means seams. Hard to clean. Even drones can't reach some spots. Hans—he's your father's height—can't either."

She tapped the metal.

"Biofilm forms here. You know the slick feeling on dishes you left too long in the sink?"

He nodded. "Staph. E. coli. Yeast."

"Yes. It builds up in the seams. We scrub, refill, and boom—contamination again. I need seamless tanks. Maintenance on these things is eating my life. UV can't get 100% coverage unless you disassemble, so the automated decontamination doesn't work. Guess what that means I'm doing?"

He nodded understanding. "So fabricate a new tank? Weld the seams shut?"

"No authorization to weld the existing ones–I'm a finisher, not a manufacturing tech. Also it's lined material–this isn't just metal. And while I can swap parts, that won't alter their design, which is the actual problem. And I can't move the old tank without help, so I can't print a new one and install it–the old one's in the way. See?"

She pointed to a ceiling-mounted hook. "That's our lift system. Goes everywhere. . .except industrial forging. Because why would we ever need anything from there. Like, say, forklift tines. Or new tanks."

"So what happens if there's a heavy load where the hook doesn't reach?"

"Team lift."

"And if it's too rickety for that? Or too heavy?"

"Forklift. Which I can't requisition unless I can't move it. But I can't clear a spot for a new tank without a team or a forklift, so the whole thing is a moot point."

Gordon smiled. "Actually, you can. Do you have a dolly?"

"Of course I have a dolly. Closet, far left."

"Then I can move the tank."

–––❖–––

Gordon was massive by Martian standards. Strong for a human, but on Mars—twice Earth's gravity difference made him a one-man team.

"It's 1,600 lbs," she warned him. "But it's got the full mass it would have on earth."

"On four little stupid legs," he commented. "I think it's doable. I really do. . .we only need to move it about six feet."

He did some math on his portable.

"Drain it just a little," he said. "Top it off afterward."

He wandered off in search of the dolly. She was committed now. She started draining it.

It didn't take him very long to come back. He stood there with her, watching it drain, and put his hand on her waist. She liked it there.

"That should be okay," he said eventually. It was hard hearing him over the pump. She shut it off.

"It's a vacuum-rated housing. Forklift-safe."

"Then it's Gordon-safe."

This wouldn't fix everything. But it would trigger a response. Admins would be forced to send a forklift to reposition it—and once that was done, they couldn't justify not moving the new tanks too.

Or if they did, when a forklift operator came, they wouldn't ignore Marie's needs.

And they couldn't fire her. She was too valuable. Too well-liked. And hadn't been the one to move the tank, besides.

Gordon grabbed the dolly—not dragging it along the floor like she usually did, but holding it one-handed by the upright, balanced like it weighed nothing. It probably did, of course. To him. Here. He slotted it into place beneath the tank. He walked like gravity barely touched him. There was no caution in his step, no heavy-footed Martian awkwardness. Just control. Earth muscle translated into effortless momentum.

He pushed his sleeves up past his elbows, showing brawny forearms. Her eyes tracked them involuntarily for an instant before she caught herself.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

He laughed. "Let's make your problem their problem."

Marie stood still, watching as he sized up the tank, shrugged. Then leaned in.

He planted both feet, grunted, and the dolly's pan chirped as it scraped under the tank's metal legs.

Sixteen hundred Earth pounds of composite and slurry. Moved like a couch.

She didn't even realize she'd taken a step closer until he started strapping it in. His hands worked fast, threading the tie-down through buckles, ratcheting it tight.

This part wasn't weightless. Moving the whole thing into the walk path took effort. She could see it in his shoulders, the way he set his jaw before every little shove. He grunted, strained, gave it another push, and the tank lurched forward six more inches. The wheels made little ping noises under the weight.

He grinned—broad, unselfconscious—and looked up at her like a kid who'd just won a prize at a fair. "The dolly might not be built for this." No fears about whether he was.

That was the moment it hit her.

He was going to lose this.

The grace. The strength. The effortless precision that came from a lifetime of training against Earth's pull. He'd waste away here—no matter how careful he was, how often he worked out, how smart they were about resistance training. Mars was unrelenting. He would lose this effortless strength. And it would be her fault.

Not the gravity. Not her decision. Her. She didn't dissuade him from coming. She wanted him here.

She looked at him—still standing by the tank, catching his breath, clearly proud—and felt her throat tighten.

"You okay?" he asked, catching her expression.

She nodded, too quickly.

"Yeah," she said. "Just. . .impressed."

He wasn't buying it.

"Hey," he said, his voice gentler now. "I saw that face. We talked about this—there's nothing for you to be guilty about. You're not manipulating me. I'm going into this eyes open."

He dusted off his palms—grime smeared with algae flecks and whatever metallic residue came off the dolly handles. Predictably gross. He held them up in mock surrender.

"Let's wash up," he said.

Marie didn't answer right away. She was still staring at the tank, now parked cleanly in the walkway. The solution to her longstanding problems, delivered in . . .five minutes of light work. It was too far from the crane to be lifted again. It would take a forklift, now.

"It wouldn't hurt to be far away when they find this," she murmured.

She imagined Administrator Flower's face. The surprise, the horror, the impotent bureaucratic rage. Her mouth twitched.

Then she giggled.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "That's the smile of someone about to be very unrepentant."

They walked down the corridor he'd just blocked. "I have to admit, in all fairness to the Admins," he said "this would be a terrible place for a new forklift driver to learn. Just the worst I can imagine, really. One wrong move and water, with algae and all your sterilization ruined, . . .all over the floor. . .greywater mixing with steak proteins. . . .

She hit him. Gently. "I wouldn't do that!"

She walked beside him, arms folded. He wasn't wrong, she admitted. But it wasn't like she'd planned to learn forklift driving in this corridor of all places.

Her original plan had been much more reasonable: donuts in the power junction corridor. Nice wide space. Flat floors. Walls lined with delicate superconductive conduits just begging to be punctured.

She glared at the side of his head. He had a point.

She didn't take offense. That would've been like getting mad at someone for pointing out that a parking garage wasn't the ideal place to learn parking.

No—this was just two people who both knew better.

That part felt. . .good.

"The landing pad," he suggested. "THAT would be a good place to practice. Do you have hardened circuits and radiation suits?"

"In a word—no. We send robots for that sort of thing. With standard electronics—we can't make hardened circuits at scale, it's easier to accept that the pad is going to eat one of them now and again."

He chuckled. "You have no sense of how . . .expensive the things you think are disposable are, on earth. Even your toilets—"

"The silver is locally sourced, and electroplated on. It was the cheapest, most hygienic option."

"Silver. Shitters," he said, emphasizing his point. He wasn't wrong.

He ducked under some hanging hydraulic lines.

"You know," Gordon said, gesturing vaguely, "there are entire continents on Earth where they do it in a hole in the floor."

Marie gave him a look. "You're going to make me live in a box and poop in a hole in the floor?"

He raised his hands. "Well, no. Not now that you've put it like that."

Mollified, she took his hand again. No matter how gross it was.

"You're adapting faster than I'd thought you would," she told him.

"I'm EXHAUSTED," he told her truthfully. "This is like . . .six am, and we've been up for hours. And I tried to sleep on the ship but the crew kept stomping up and down the hallway. Magnetic boots. Clank clank clank"

She smiled. "Must be nice to be down here in the peace and quiet. I've never been in a spaceship. . . ."

Her voice was wistful.

"Well, it's . . .mostly really scary, and then it's really boring and uncomfortable."

She gave him a quick nudge with her shoulder, something he couldn't quite read.

"Penny for your thoughts," he offered, watching her face.

She blinked at him. "What?"

"It's. . .money," he clarified. "A penny. Zero-point-zero-one dollars. Copper coin."

"Ah." Her lips quirked. "I've never actually seen money. Physical money, I mean. Just numbers. Debit readers, transfer codes."

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I guess we could make pennies here. Copper's not the issue. But they'd just get in the way. Slower, heavier, easier to lose. Everyone just uses cash apps. It's faster."

Gordon nodded slowly. "Makes sense."

"That's Mars," she said. "If it's not better, it doesn't survive."

They stopped at a small bench. It was bracketed by flowering rosemary. Pretty.

"So your pay—sorry, your contribution credits—are tied to the U.S. dollar?" Gordon asked.

Marie nodded. "Technically, yeah. One credit equals one dollar. That's how they justify transfer rates and resupply valuations."

"Why not use something Martian? Like. . .an independent system?"

"Because nobody at the UN wanted to sponsor a new currency," she said. "Too much legal baggage. They argued about it for a decade. So in the end, they just defaulted to the dollar."

She smirked. "America didn't win. Everyone else just gave up."

He wiped his hands on his pants. The synthetic material didn't cooperate.

"Your guest gift," she said, an afterthought, "made me realize all the good I could do with my share."

She didn't look at him as she spoke. Just kept walking, eyes ahead.

"Tablets and computers for the children. A real VR setup for me—" she hesitated, "—for us. Seeds. New varieties of potato. More greens."

She took a breath, then smiled faintly. "I'm still working on my Christmas list, though. It's not ready yet."

"Glad something good came of it," Gordon said softly. "But don't feel like you owe him anything for it. Like I told you, this was just Hiram being Hiram—"

She stopped walking.

"You didn't call him Hiram to Ma, did you?"

He hesitated. ". . .I might have done."

"Gordon," she said, rubbing her forehead. "She's really conservative. In India, they don't do that."

"I thought it would be better that I avoid saying 'that asshole'," he admitted.

Marie stared at him for a second, unmoving. Then her eyes crinkled at the corners again.

"At least my dad will probably like you. . ."

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "That's. . .reassuring?"

"He thinks Hiram's an ass," she said cheerfully. "You'll have common ground."

"Really?" Gordon asked, a hint of a smile on his face.

"He's from Iowa. Loves hot dogs, beer, and cornbread. Calls himself an 'all-American mutt.' White, with some Mexican—'for flavor'."

"He seemed friendly. I keep comparing the him–and your mom–that I see in front of me with the 'them' on the stream, though."

"He took up for you on the stream, too."

"Yes. No, you're entirely right, he did. I'll have to buy him a beer."

"Like I was saying–You call Hiram 'that asshole,' and he'll buy you the beer."