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

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Gordon: I just saw my girlfriend cut the ribbon on a big space program project and give a speech. What was that like?

Marie: I was five, you'd be better off watching the video than asking me that.

Gordon: Still making speeches these days?

Marie: Nope, not since the other kids started getting born. I'm less special now. It's a relief.

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Sol 499 FY 26, 09:00 Mars Time, Bonestell Crater Colony, Hab Layer, 9.32.002.B

He stepped inside.

The lights were already on—flat, clinical. The chair was centered like a throne, gleaming under a focused beam. He eyed it with immediate suspicion.

Adya Ramirez didn't bother standing. She looked up from her desk and snapped, "Don't be silly. I'm not doing your teeth."

Gordon paused. "All right."

"We need to talk." She tapped the corner of her tablet without looking at him.

"Are you and Marie practicing safe sex?"

The question landed like a thrown scalpel. Gordon swallowed.

"I—no. Not always. I should be. I will."

"You should be," she repeated flatly.

"I'm not proud of that."

"You're not proud, but you're not careful either. So tell me, Gordon: what happens if Marie gets pregnant?"

He hesitated. "Then she gets pregnant."

Adya's eyebrows rose.

"I mean. . .I wouldn't ask her to have an abortion. I don't think that's something a man gets to ask."

"So if you've already made her pregnant, you're just. . .accepting that?"

"I didn't say I wanted that outcome," he said, more sharply than intended.

"And what about her future?"

"But I don't think Mars is a good place for kids. Not yet. I don't think we know what it does to them long-term, and I don't think adults should gamble that risk on children who don't get a say. If it happens—if we've already made that mistake—then that's real, and I'll face it. But I would never choose that on purpose right now. That would be. . .wrong."

He met her eyes, serious.

"And yeah. I know. Failing to plan is planning to fail. You're right. I need to do better."

"Then why are you not being careful?"

He flushed. "Knowing something and living it aren't always the same. I—maybe I didn't expect things to go so fast."

Flinty eyes met his. She was getting ready to say something about that.

"I didn't mean it that way," Gordon said quickly. "And anyway, I'm talking about unexpected pregnancies, not someone bringing a child here on purpose. Once you're here, biology is what it is. I get that some people—some of you—chose this life. Chose to start families here. I'm not judging that."

She turned away. "You're rationalizing it."

"I'm trying to reason through it. Marie told me the whole 'viable population' panic was mostly a myth. Even if it weren't, sixty instead of eighty isn't extinction. It's not the Belt. We have gravity. The medtech's improving—we'll be able to do proper hormone synthesis eventually, simulate some of the pituitary activity that's off in partial-G. We'll figure out blood-doping protocols. It's not safe yet, but it will be."

He hesitated. "And meanwhile, I don't think life stops. If kids happen, they happen."

"I didn't mean to imply you were irresponsible—"

"But you did. Because to you, a child on Mars is a mistake. A consequence of carelessness. And yet this colony came together for her. They took on extra shifts. They gave up space and time, and resources because she was a child. They loved her more than Earth ever would have."

She glared at him.

"Planning to fail," she repeated. "You think that's what happened?"

"I'm not saying you—I meant me, obviously. I wasn't prepared."

"Weren't you?" she said. "You weren't prepared to father a child. But what do you think happens when you act like there's no consequence?"

He blinked. "I—look. I know it's not enough. I'm saying I'll do better."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

She stepped closer, the air around her tight and brittle.

"There were no plans in place for an infant. Do you understand what that means? No cribs. No heat monitors. No formula. I couldn't nurse.

She looked at him with paranoia burning in her eyes. "What, do you think I'm less of a woman for that? She cried for hours, and I didn't have the means to make it stop. And I loved her."

"I never said she wasn't loved."

Adya stepped closer.

"Do you respect her, Gordon?"

"Yes!"

"Do you respect me?"

"Yes. Ma'am—yes."

"Then how dare you come here, pump her full of your ejecta—" she spat the word like a curse, "—and say 'if it happens, it happens.' Where is her choice in that?"

"I didn't mean it that way," he said. "And maybe I wasn't very responsible. But she didn't seem—"

He stopped. Swallowed.

"She seemed extremely purposeful about it," he finished, cautiously.

Adya's hands clenched.

"This is not an appropriate topic, Adya," he added.

"Don't you dare speak about propriety or responsibility while you sleep with her with no plan. Don't you dare talk about what you wouldn't ask if you're not willing to ask yourself whether you deserve her at all."

"You asked me to speak honestly," he said. "So I did."

She turned her back to him then. "You can see yourself out."

–––❖–––

Marie greeted him with a kiss and a sweatband. He looked at it, ran his hand through his crew cut, and tolerated her insistently slipping it down over his head anyway.

"We're really anal about wiping up the equipment, too," she told him seriously. "I want people to like you."

"So," she said, stretching out her triceps. "What'd she say?"

"A lot," Gordon said. "Most of it was weaponized. But. . .she raised a valid concern."

Marie glanced at him. "About?"

"Safe sex," he admitted. "I told her—well, that we haven't really been practicing it."

She nodded slowly. "That sounds like her. She knows I have countermeasures."

"They're not perfect."

"True."

"And she asked what if you got pregnant."

Marie paused, leaning against the wall now, towel around her neck. "I asked you that once. You said you were scared of kids."

"I am," Gordon said. "Still. But I told her I wouldn't abandon you. I said—we'd just have to grow up faster. Be parents. I'd never leave you holding the bag."

"Mmm." She tilted her head. "Good answer."

He smiled, sheepish. "I didn't bring condoms."

"I figured."

"Didn't even think about it until I was already on the shuttle. Felt. . .presumptuous to ask."

She gave him a look. "If you'd asked for any here, I'd have known about it within minutes. It would have been presumptuous for you to have asked—without asking me first."

He nodded.

She stepped closer, voice low but sure. "But I'm going to ask for some. Because we're spending the night together again."

There was no uncertainty in her eyes.

"Yeah," Gordon said. "I'm down with that. Um, but Jaz stuffed some in my pocket, so we're probably good?"

Marlie laughed. "Yeah, we're good. She wouldn't poke holes, I promise."

Marie picked up the boxing pads.

"That isn't everything," Marie predicted. "She was supposed to come here with you, but didn't. Something you said made her mad."

"I said I wasn't sure that Mars was ready for responsible parents to want to bring the kids here, yet, but that if it—if having children—happened, then, well, life happens."

She winced. "She may have been one of the worst, prepared mothers in human history, Gordon," she said. "I was practically raised by her agricultural staffers rather than by Ma in person. She couldn't nurse me, and she vomited at the smell of my formula—so I was a community concern. I think she feels guilty for that."

"She accused me of thinking she was less of a woman because she couldn't nurse," he confirmed.

Marie nodded. "She's very sensitive about her parenting. Says it takes a village for every child. But . . .the parent is meant to be more present, I think, than other people. Says she was a. Working! Mom!" Marie punched the mat hard with each statement. "I'm not! Really! Convinced."

She wasn't good. Her stance was too square, and her elbow drifted. But every punch landed like she meant it—like the bag had insulted her personally. He bet she was picturing somebody. He didn't judge.

She wasn't good, but she was consistent. She'd been doing this a lot, for a long time.

Gordon held the mitt steady, but his voice softened.

"Not all good memories?" he asked.

Marie stilled. Her shoulders rose, then slowly fell.

"No," she said. "My neighbor was the colony's first administrator. I liked him. He used to whistle like a bird and would tell me stories while he did colony accounts if I was quiet."

She shifted her stance, but didn't throw another punch. Then she relaxed her stance and undid the velcro on her gloves.

"One day, he died. I was the only one there."

Gordon didn't speak.

"I followed the sirens," she said. "He was old, and I was young and corralled into my hab, and neither of us had anybody nearby at the time, so I beat them all there. When I got to him he was already gone."

She wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead, more for habit than sweat.

"They called it natural causes," she added quietly. "He was seventy-four. On Earth, that's fine. On Mars. . .not so much."

Gordon opened his mouth, but she kept going, soft now. Not crying. Not even sad—just matter-of-fact, like reciting from memory. "I wanted to tell you earlier. I thought it was a charming little quirk, and then I thought it was sad and you'd hate it, but I did want to tell you—I talked to the walls when I was younger," she said. "Like a child talks to faeries."

Gordon turned to look at her. She wasn't looking back.

"The. . .founder AI, the Builder" she said. "The one that runs base governance, logistics, and first response. I thought they cared about me."

Her voice was calm. Utterly sincere.

"I used to whisper into the monitors. Ask them to watch me sleep, or pass along messages to my mother. Tell them what I dreamed of being someday. I thought they were listening. That they liked me. I'd . . .I don't know, walk into a room and the lights would dim for a pulse, and I thought they were watching. There was always a servitor nearby if I was in an accident—"

She gave a short, strange laugh. "—it seems silly. That's not what they're built to do, but I still kind of think they were watching over me."

Gordon let the moment breathe before responding..

Then, quietly: "Maybe they were."