NOVEL NEXT Chapter 88: Perfect Sync
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Gordon: It's weird we're so. . .in tune.
Marie: We're famous, have major roles in society, and would look good in a photoshoot.
Gordon: I've never been in a photoshoot.
Marie: Every stream is a photoshoot, Gordon.
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Sol 498 FY 26, 07:00 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B
Gordon stretched. It was morning, and he'd slept more deeply than he could have believed. Jetlag–even though the clocks were synced, he'd still been up very early–and exertion made for a powerful combination.
Time to test out the Martian plumbing. He moved out from under the covers, and it hit him: he was naked. No bathrobe. Hers hung by the door–she hadn't bothered to use it yet herself.
He'd packed one, but he'd have to walk to the suitcase. Which would defeat the point, and besides, what was he so worried about anyway? Her seeing him?
He went for it.
"Oh, am I part of the casual nudity club now? I'm honored." said Marie.
"It's a very small club. Members: one." And it was true—he'd never been casual about nudity.
He'd never had to use a bidet before. But–no toilet paper. It was mandatory. Also pretty straightforward.
"So I'm in rarified company," she commented, through the door. "Me, your parents, your doctor, your babysitters, and your exes—but I did specify casual."
"How about you?" he asked. It wasn't a perfectly comfortable topic.
"Well, on Mars it's a little different—because of locker time. Can't pee in your suit; you'll ruin the insert. So we take breaks regularly and have to disrobe to do the business. But getting a pressure suit off in a stall is a nonstarter, so you just kind of go to your gender's locker and try not to be shy. The 'casual nudity club' I was referring to is those you trust not to poke fun at you or be critical while you're vulnerable to their judgment. Vera and you are mine."
"Not Jillian?"
"I said 'to not poke fun'."
She paused a beat.
"But yes—babysitters, parents, doctors, suit techs, etc. No exes for me, though. There wasn't anyone here of the right age."
"On Earth, there's a similar thing with theater professionals—or so I'm told," he said. "Sometimes there's just nowhere to change and no time for modesty. But that doesn't make it about showing yourself to someone. It's just the situation. And like you said—doctors and stuff."
"But to answer your question—or to respond to your answer, rather—I'm honored to be in your club." He hesitated. "But I'd rather not see Vera naked."
"No worries. You're a guy, so you go to the guys' locker room. You'll be with my dad."
Gordon slapped his thighs. "You told me you guys have coffee."
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"Sure! And we can unpack the thing your sister sent while we're at it."
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There wasn't room for the coffee maker. The counter was crowded—it now held a desktop spice farm: Uncle Zebra's 99-Spice Vertical Grower. It came with 12 trays and 99 spices.
Marie was immediately consumed with a need to grow one of everything. She began trying to figure out how to build a second grower herself. Perhaps wall-mounted.
There was a note:
"Marie—
As part of securing sponsors for our stream, I approached Uncle Zebra Agricultural Manufacturing and suggested Martian visibility might be in their best interest.
They've provided this sample unit with an extra bonus refill tray.
All they ask is that you portray Uncle Zebra and his products in a positive light to your fellow Martians and share some practice tips on stream.
P.S. This does not mean we are friends."—Claire.
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"Huh," Gordon said, reading the note over her shoulder. "That wasn't very nice."
Marie blinked like she was coming out of a daze.
"Holy shit," she said.
He looked up. "What?"
"I said—holy shit."
She stood there for a second, hands frozen mid-motion.
"I think I've figured out your stepsister problem."
Gordon exhaled slowly. "You've been trying to figure that out?"
Marie lifted her chin and locked her elbows, snapping into a posture so stiff it was practically mechanical. Her voice dropped into icy precision:
"I am a badass bitch. Armor of steel. Nothing can touch me. I wield power and influence like Hiram. I am a scary frosty princess."
She held the pose, then broke back to her normal voice with a deadpan:
"And you believe her?"
She stepped toward him, gentler now.
"How could you possibly believe her? She loves you. You're her brother. She doesn't think 'stepbrother'—she just wants you to be happy."
"I guess. . .I didn't think it through very deeply."
"Gordon," Marie said softly, "her gift blew yours out of the water. I'm sorry."
He winced.
"There is no way in the world that Uncle Zebra was a good fit for our stream sponsor."
"I can kind of see that. Yeah."
"She went looking for the perfect gift for me. And then convinced an agricultural manufacturer to sponsor us. When did you say she helped you? Noon?"
He nodded. "Right around then."
Marie held up her hand, counting on her fingers.
"Okay. So that means between noon and launch—what, two hours?—she researched the market, tracked down a contact, negotiated a sponsorship agreement, got a sample unit packed to ship, and included a personalized note."
She looked pointedly at him.
"There's no reason for all that effort unless she was trying to be friendly."
She glanced toward the spice grower, already humming softly on the counter.
"I think she's hedging her bets. If we stay together. . .she'll feel content. Like she did her duty as your sister, even if she doesn't really approve of our choices."
She gave an approving smile.
"The perfect housewarming gift."
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Later, they lay tangled in sheets that already smelled familiar. The room was dim now, lit only by the muted yellow of the colony's night-cycle lights filtering through the wall panel. The door chime had returned them both to a state of wakefulness, but neither felt rushed to respond to the drone delivery. Gordon traced her collarbone, then the line of her throat, slow and unhurried.
"I could get used to this," he said quietly.
Marie tilted her head to look at him. Her smile wasn't smug this time—just content, edged with something warmer. "Then get used to it," she whispered. "This is ours now."
She didn't wait for him to answer. Instead, she rose, naked and unhurried, padding across the floor on bare feet to the terminal embedded in the wall. Her arm fished around at the mail slot and out into the hall, modesty intact towards those outside, returning with two small anodized aluminum plates.
"It's official," she said. She slotted one into the awaiting mount on the door with a sharp click. 'Gordon Stone | Marie Ramirez', it said. "We're cohabitating."
"How did I get so lucky," he whispered.
"It's the pecs. I'm a sucker for pecs," she told him briskly.
He smirked. "That's all it takes?"
"You weren't complaining earlier."
She climbed back into bed, curling into his side, her dark hair tickling his ribs in the fan breeze.
"Just try to leave," she challenged him.