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

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Marie: I think he's just going to have to accept that Ma isn't going to like him right away.

Jillian: Attempted vetoing of your mantoy as a stand-in for absent parenting is a weird cope, but okay.

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Sol 498 FY 26,15:27 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, Cafeteria

The dinner table was simple but well-used, its edges nicked from years of service. Plates of vat-grown steak, sautéed vegetation that looked suspiciously similar in color to algae, and a small bowl of Gordon's now-famous chocolates took center stage. The atmosphere felt heavy, though not hostile—Marie's parents wore polite, guarded smiles, but Gordon could feel the weight of their appraisal, like Martian gravity was pressing just a bit harder than it should.

Marie, radiant as a star, sat beside him, her hand brushing his arm occasionally as if silently encouraging him. She was the only thing keeping him from fidgeting too much under her father's sharp gaze.

"Welcome to Mars, where secrets are impossible, and everyone knows what you had for breakfast," she'd whispered to him just before opening the dining hall's doors. It had been scant warning for all the eyes that fell upon them—upon him, he felt, judging, weighing. Her father, Vincent, he remembered, had been chief among them, his face impassive as Gordon took a seat at his table. Adya, her mother, was warmer, but it was a thing of slight degrees.

"It'll be nice having you to dinner," she said by way of greeting. Her voice was much like Marie's, musical and light, but had the faint trace of an accent Gordon couldn't place.

Adya leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze fixed on Gordon as if she were dissecting him piece by piece. "So, Gordon," she began, her tone polite, if distant, "tell me about your family. Your father made quite an impression earlier, but I'm curious about your mother."

Gordon blinked at the question, feeling the weight of her scrutiny pressing harder against him. He forced a small, apologetic smile, his hand brushing against the edge of his plate. "He can be a bit. . .dramatic," he admitted, choosing his words carefully and glancing at his father, who was picking through his own meal at a nearby table, stoically ignoring them. One of the bodyguards gave him a chilly look. "Sorry about that. And there isn't much to tell about Mom—she died when I was nine. I don't have many memories of that long ago."

He hesitated, glancing briefly at Vincent, who avoided eye contact but shifted slightly in his seat, the movement subtle but noticeable. Gordon continued, his voice softening. "She. . .she was strong-willed. Divorced my dad when I was seven, raised me by herself for almost three years."

The table fell silent for a moment, the sound of a fork scraping a plate briefly filling the void. Adya tilted her head, her lips pursing slightly as though weighing his words. "Strong-willed, divorced, and raising a child alone," she mused, her tone still carrying that pointed edge. "That says a lot about her. What do you think she'd say about your father now? About how he's handled things?"

Caught off guard, Gordon frowned, his shoulders tightening slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, buying himself a moment to think. "I'm not sure," he said finally, his gaze darting briefly to Marie as if seeking reassurance. She gave no outward sign, her expression neutral, though her hand shifted slightly under the table as if resisting the urge to reach for his. "They didn't. . .see eye to eye on much," Gordon continued. "I think she'd probably have plenty to say about how he's handled things, but it's hard to guess. I was too young to really understand their relationship."

Adya's silence stretched, her gaze unwavering. Gordon resisted the urge to shift in his seat, the weight of her judgment a tangible force. Finally, Vincent cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. "It's not easy to speak for someone who isn't here," he said, his voice calm, even. "You were just a boy—it's natural to have gaps in what you remember."

Vincent folded his hands on the table, his tone almost inviting, offering Gordon an out that he gratefully took. "Yeah," Gordon murmured, nodding slightly, though Adya's gaze remained fixed, unrelenting.

"Still," Adya pressed, her voice sharpening again, "she must've left an impression on you. You've said she was strong-willed. What else?"

Gordon's jaw tightened ever so slightly, the hint of annoyance flickering across his features. "I'm afraid I don't remember very much," he said, his voice gaining a fraction of an edge. "She liked her swimming pool a lot, taught me to swim."

The words had barely left his mouth when Vera, seated at the end of the table, leaned forward with a grin, a plate in hand. "Potato?" she asked, sliding the bowl toward him. "I wish I could say you'd find a lot of use for that skill here."

Gordon couldn't help but let out a small laugh, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction as he reached for the bowl. "Thanks," he said, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, I figured swimming's not exactly a big thing on Mars. Though. . ." He paused, offering a half-smile as he glanced around the table. "I guess it's a useful skill if there's ever an emergency water tank leak."

His attempt at humor landed awkwardly, the response muted, though Vera chuckled softly. Adya, however, wasn't letting up. She straightened slightly, her tone pointed. "Sounds like you had a cozy life. Mars life calls for a certain—resilience."

"Adya," Vincent murmured, his voice carrying a subtle warning as he shot her a sidelong glance. He didn't push further, but his tone left little doubt that he thought she'd gone far enough.

Gordon, however, wasn't finished. His hand tightened slightly around his fork as he leaned forward, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. "The idea of raising your children to be physically resilient by the time they reach adulthood has always sounded a bit cruel to me."

Before Adya could respond, Marie jumped in, her voice smooth and confident, cutting through the growing tension. "I'm sure he learned how to work hard, Mom. In fact," she added with a sly smile, "I've been struggling to get him to balance his work and personal lives better because he keeps taking on new and exciting ways to lose sleep—"

"—brand new, media-attention-gathering ways, no less," Vincent cut in dryly, his lips twitching faintly in amusement.

Marie didn't miss a beat. "—and I haven't found any issues with his resilience in our relationship either—"

The table froze for a split second, the innuendo hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge. Vera coughed suddenly, covering her mouth with a hand, though her twinkling eyes betrayed her amusement. Vincent glanced sharply at her, his expression stern but not entirely disapproving. Gordon, meanwhile, froze, unsure whether to acknowledge the comment or pretend it hadn't happened.

"Alright, so we're fine on that front," Marie said finally, tilting her head playfully. "I got a bit carried away there."

Adya's smile was tight, her voice cool as she responded. "Of course. It's good to know everything's in order."

Gordon shifted in his seat, the tension still palpable. Under the table, Marie's fingers brushed against his, the small gesture grounding him as he fought the urge to fidget.

The silence lingered until Vincent leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "So," he said after a pause, his tone lighter but still carrying weight, "traditionally, I'm supposed to ask what your intentions are for my daughter."

And just like that, the atmosphere, which had begun to lift, slammed down again.

"Well," said Gordon, who had known this would be a question because he too read those sorts of how-to guides about social stuff on the internet, and unbeknownst to him was following the same playbook Vincent was himself, had thought about his answer to this question a long time before deciding to make it blunt and rely on humor to carry the day. Marie hadn't wanted to put a ring on it or anything across four light-minutes of distance they didn't know if he could cross. He wasn't going to just say 'she's claimed me, so now you're stuck with me' because he wasn't sure if saying that to her parents was a smart play, and plus he hadn't known she'd have said that to him at the time he'd been rehearsing. But. "I was thinking I'd probably move over here, use her shamelessly, and then spend the rest of my life stuck in a tiny box with all the people who love her holding it over me."

The words hung in the air for a split second before Vera let out a laugh, her grin widening as she leaned back in her chair. "Now that's an answer," she said with obvious amusement. "I like this one."

Marie bit her lip, fighting a laugh of her own, her dark eyes dancing as she glanced at Gordon. "Nice," she said, her voice dry but affectionate. "Way to sell yourself, Gordon."

Vincent's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement breaking through his otherwise stern expression, but he steepled his fingers and leaned forward, his gaze steady and unrelenting. "Stuck in a tiny box, huh?" he said, deadpan. "Sounds cozy. And what happens when the box gets too cramped?"

Gordon felt Marie's gaze shift toward him, her presence grounding him even though she said nothing. He took another breath, his voice steadying as he pushed the humor aside. "That's something I've been thinking about how to get across anyway," he said, his tone quieter now. "Might as well clear the air a bit."

He turned toward Marie, his focus narrowing as the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. "Marie," he said, his voice earnest, "I think I know why you're so worried I'll hate it here. It isn't the work. It isn't the company. You think I'll miss Earth, and be trapped and never get to go back."

Her expression softened, her big eyes focused intently on him as she nodded, silent but attentive. The room seemed to fade away, and for a moment, it was just her.

"At home," he continued, "I spend as little time outside as possible. I work out, escape into books, call you, or play Ghostlands once the workday's done. I can just do those same things here. You're not asking someone who barefoot hikes or goes on camping trips in the great outdoors to uproot himself from Mother Earth. You're asking a willing shut-in to leave the place he shuts himself in to escape from. And no, it's not fear of the wide open spaces or anything." He paused, glancing briefly at Adya, whose expression remained sharp and unreadable, before returning his gaze to Marie. "I just don't have anything grounding me there. No connection. No investment."

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His voice softened further as he met her gaze again. "Because I made it somewhere else."

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of the habitat's air circulation system. Gordon let the words hang, his chest tightening as he waited for the verdict. Vincent leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, though something in his eyes seemed to shift, softening just enough to suggest he was weighing Gordon's words carefully.

"Well," Vincent said at last, his tone even, "that's certainly one way to put it."

Gordon barely had time to process the words before Adya spoke, her voice cutting in with a pointed edge. "And do you think that's enough?" she asked, her gaze unwavering. "Charming your way in and hoping the rest will sort itself out? You're willing to leave everything behind because you feel like you didn't have anything tying you to Earth in the first place? What of your family, your friends? That sounds. . .a little thin."

The sharpness of her words landed squarely, but Gordon didn't flinch. Instead, he shrugged, his voice steady but firm as he replied, "I wouldn't frame it that way. I see it as seizing an opportunity—to build something new, somewhere that matters to me. A concept I'm sure resonates with everyone at this table."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement—his father, seated at a nearby table, watching the exchange with a sharp frown etched across his bitter face. Gordon's jaw tightened briefly, but he forced himself to refocus, to meet Adya's challenging gaze head-on.

"I trust her to be worth the risk," he added simply.

The tension in the room shifted as the words settled, and for a moment, Adya didn't reply. Her gaze tracked briefly to Marie, then back to Gordon, her expression softening just enough to suggest she was still skeptical, but perhaps less so than before.

Marie, who had remained quiet through the exchange, finally spoke, her voice quiet but warm. "That's. . .good to hear."

The corners of her lips curved upward into a small, genuine smile, and for a moment, the tension seemed to lift, though it didn't fully dissipate.

Vera broke the silence with a grin. "Alright, alright," she said, her voice light and teasing. "Stop staring at each other like a pair of love-struck teenagers. You're making the rest of us feel awkward."

Marie laughed softly, her gaze flicking toward Vera with a mixture of amusement and gratitude. Gordon rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing slightly as he looked away, though a faint smile lingered on his lips. Vincent, meanwhile, gave Vera a pointed side-eye, but she ignored it with practiced ease, her grin unwavering.

"Well, Gordon," Vincent said after a pause, his tone lighter but still measured. "It sounds like you've thought this through. I'll give you credit for that. Just remember—it's one thing to leave your old life behind. It's another thing to make a new one work."

Gordon nodded, meeting Vincent's gaze. "I understand," he said simply. "And I'm ready to work for it."

Adya folded her hands neatly in front of her, her expression still guarded but less overtly critical. Under the table, Marie's fingers brushed against Gordon's again, the small, reassuring gesture grounding him as the tension in his chest began to ease.

–––❖–––

Marie was carefully breaking down her tray, methodical as ever. First, the plastic bottle—emptied, capped, and slid into the marked chute. Whirr. Gone. Then her food scraps, scraped with brisk, practiced flicks into the organics slot. And finally—unexpectedly, to Gordon—the tray itself.

He blinked. "You don't wash your dishes?"

She didn't even look up. "No. That's less efficient than recasting them."

She dropped the tray into the metal chute and wiped her hands clean. "We scrape the food off carefully. Religiously. Then yeah—we dump it. It's trash."

Gordon hesitated. "So. . .you recycle?"

Marie let out a dry snort. "No. That wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"Because recycling only makes sense when you've got scale. Cities. Global trade. Here, we'd just burn resources we don't have trying to pretend it worked."

She moved to the wall, snagging a nutrient packet from the shared shelf. "Instead, we pre-limit. Design around reuse. One plastic. Cast it, melt it back down when it breaks."

Gordon frowned. "That still sounds like recycling."

"No." She finally turned to look at him. "It's reuse. Recycling fails because Earth didn't plan ahead."

He studied the chute for a long moment. "You're just trying not to make Mars less livable."

Marie gave him an arch look. "Yeah," she said dryly. "Imagine that."

–––❖–––

"SO," drawled a familiar voice. It was the older engineer Marie had asked to find Gordon a bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, a twinkle in his eye. "I hear you're a menace with a six-shooter on your hip."

The engineer had what was clearly a 3D-printed aluminum 'pistol' tucked into a low-slung denim-printed faux leather belt, complete with a holster. He had assumed a credible Western duelist stance. Gordon grinned. Finally, something he could do.

"Got a spare?" he asked, playing along. "No open carry on Mars."

The engineer grinned and produced a duplicate from behind his back. It was nearly identical to his own: an aluminum cap gun, gleaming faintly under the colony's dim lighting. The belt and holster were thick, stiff denim, clearly repurposed from a toolbelt—grippy, but just functional enough for the job.

"Mind if this goes on the live?" asked one of the Martians Gordon hadn't met yet, a taller, seriously-dressed man with a broad, goofy grin. He held up a camera, the red light blinking. "I think the meta will want to weigh in on your performance."

"No pressure," Gordon said easily, nodding his assent. He was fairly used to cameras—it wouldn't add anything to the nerves he was already feeling from Adya's frosty unwillingness to participate in the fun.

Tables were moved, and a solemnly measured-out span of floor cleared for the "fight." The cameraman took up position, muttering, "No pressure. Just the whole colony watching, cowboy."

Gordon strode to his marked spot, the aluminum cap gun heavy on his hip. "Feeling lucky?" he asked, his tone a low, serious growl, his face cold and purposeful. He'd learned this particular scene by heart when he first started posing in front of a mirror with a prop gun, figuring out the basics to build credible animations. He was going back to his roots, here.

The engineer took his stance, eyes narrow and hands hovering. Behind him, Marie, tied to the chair, screwed up her features into a mock plea for help. Her 'gag' muffled whatever she said, but Gordon caught the clear sound of her cackling.

"ON THREE!" the gruff-looking man roared.

The cameraman took up the count. "One. . .two. . .thr—"

Gordon's hand blurred for his cap gun. The denim was grippy and stiff, snagging slightly, but his fingers tightened just enough to spring the pistol free. It cleared the holster cleanly, the barrel rising in one fluid motion. "CRACK!" went the cap, sharp and precise, the smell of powder faint in the air.

The engineer staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. "He got me!" he croaked, to the laughter and applause of the room. Marie's muffled cheer—or maybe it was a laugh—was unmistakable behind the napkin.

Gordon grinned, twirling the pistol once before slipping it back into the holster. "Well, that'll work," he said, his voice light, but his grin widening as he met Marie's gaze.

Marie spat out the napkin, letting it drop to the floor with dramatic flair before flashing a grin. "He doesn't use stored animations for that move in-game," she bragged, her voice casual but carrying like a trained speaker's does.

The room rippled with murmurs of interest. This might not have been new news to everyone—those who followed the meta closely would've heard the rumors—but hearing confirmation from Marie herself was a different matter.

The engineer, who hadn't even managed to fire his pistol, let it drop back into the holster with a theatrical sigh of defeat. Swiping at his forehead as though drenched in sweat, he gave Gordon a long, assessing look and grinned. "Yeah," he said, "I'd believe that."

Gordon examined the gun in more detail. Its surface was oddly pitted—and though it had been polished, the polish couldn't remove the occasional areas of missed material. "Local print? Sintering?" he asked, confirming his hunch.

"You got it."

Gordon did a quick twirl of the gun, finger through the guard. "Well, you guys do good work."

The engineer sketched a shallow bow. "We try. Had a bed in storage, by the way. It's all ready and waiting for you."

Just like that, the room quieted down again, Adya's chin rising high in an incredulous posture of affront.

"Young lady. This is not acceptable."

Marie's eyes narrowed. "Why? Because he's not 'one of us'?"

The quotes were audible.

There was a beat of silence. Adya stood motionless, processing the sting.

Then: "Excuse me? I married a white guy."

–––❖–––

"It wasn't your fault," Marie told him as they left the dining hall behind them. "Marks is usually a bit more circumspect."

"Mmm," Gordon grumbled, noncommittal. "I can't believe there's already somewhere for us."

"Almost all of the blocks have an empty hab or two queued up," she admitted. "We use the unused ones for extra storage if nothing else, so whenever they excavate a new block they just finish all the rooms ahead of time."

"Honestly," he said, eyes for once not looking towards her but at one of the many potted plants spaced along the hallways to try to soften the harsh metallic aesthetic, "I've been in board meetings which—hell, I've been present for disciplinary meetings and firings which were more convivial than that. Your mom is tough."

She pulled his hand up to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, then looking at him over them, eyes sparkling like garnets.

"If it makes you feel better," she told him coyly, "I let Marks know on the way out that we'd be using it tonight."

"Unsurprisingly," he said, his tone moving further toward the warmth she knew and loved—"yes, it really does."

They walked in companionable silence for a moment. "So. They actually did it," he said, circling back around to the topic as though he still couldn't believe it. "Reallocated colony resources, valuable storage space—for us. I mean, I'm grateful, don't get me wrong. But I thought I'd have to make my residence official first."

She pursed her lips, blowing out a short puff of air. "I'd been kidding, sort of. I really don't know—not my department. But I'm not going to complain about it."

"Should we thank them? Help them pick curtains?" He gave her a helpless look.

She smiled. "Thank them—yes. We can do that later though."

He arched an inquisitive brow.

"First," she said, a sly grin spreading across her face, "we should probably stress-test the bed."

–––❖–––

The bed thrummed.

Gordon shifted his weight. He understood now why they built beds this way: spun wire, suspended, firm but flexible. Metal was cheap. Fabric wasn't. The electrolysis-based systems meant they had oxygen, but the process also created byproducts—possibly including the metals used for crafting. Or maybe it was the other way around: oxygen as a byproduct of metalwork. It was hard to say.

The bed was comfortable—cool, a little firmer than he expected. The sounds it made as he moved were unlike anything he anticipated. When Marie first joined him, the frame hummed and groaned as it adjusted to their combined weight.

He wasn't sure what most Martians used as comfort items for their beds, but Marie had added a thin mattress pad—reminiscent of a towel—and a duvet that looked just like something from Earth. It had flowers and interlocking art deco patterns. He liked the contrast: a warm, recognizable blanket against the bare metal headwalls and futuristic suspension wires.

The bed didn't sway. It wasn't mobile, just spring-loaded to give a little bounce. When he woke with Marie in his arms, one hand had gone numb, trapped between her head and the metal surface. But if that was the worst thing he had to deal with, Gordon figured he could live a happy life on Mars.