Halcyon is a piece of writing set in a non-canon alternate future of THE OUTER SCIENCES, the book I currently have on submission. This is a pretty self-indulgent bit of fiction, and I think you can see some of my writing roots & inspirations a bit clearer than in my more formal writing.
The original idea for the short story, as well as the characters of "Steller" and "Canary," were designed with the input of my friend Rura (@shutuprura on twitter and rurascarlet [18+] on Ao3).
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BALANCE
STELLER-JAY, Head of Intelligence
CANARY, Intelligence Resources
RAPTOR, Planetary Defense
SHRIKE, Halcyon Research Director
DOVE, Xenobiology R&D
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Balance Research Base Halcyon is built into a mountain overlooking the Tensung Rift. The darkness is ever-present out here in the wastes, beneath the featureless eye of the Lightless Star. Most humans on the planet Yeneter live along the coastline, where the darkness is broken by the light of the amphytrum sea.
It’s not as oppressive as you might think, observes Canary, looking out the window of the shuttle. What would otherwise be a crushing weight of blackness is broken by the thin blue light of countless stars, thick as glitter on the vault of the sky.
“I can feel the causal lock,” he says as the shuttle comes close to Halcyon.
Most planets in weak reality space are uninhabitable, but despite the dangers, Yeneter has sustained human colonies for thousands of years. Within the last century, the hazards of paracausal events have been substantially reduced by the introduction of the causal lock generators. Most research bases like Halcyon are kept under the effects of positive causal fields to make sure the results of the experiments aren’t affected by the Lightless Star or any passing paracausal aberrations.
Canary himself grew up outside of a causal lock, and feels the presence of this one as a faint pressure in the back of his head and the urge to sneeze. Steller, sitting in the seat next to him, seems unbothered.
“Just don’t let them see that you’re reacting to it.” He sips at his cardboard cup of coffee.
“Of course, sir.”
Steller is always composed. Black suit, white shirt. Black coat, black tie, black shoes with white buckles. He’s the youngest ever head of Balance Intelligence, still somewhere in his late thirties. His face is boyish. He smiles often.
Canary is all edges and long lines. Sloping nose, upturned amber eyes. He has his suits tailored to narrow his waist, where Steller doesn’t bother as long as the hems are in the right place. He’s been the personal bodyguard for three heads of intelligence now. They cycle through quite quickly, though none have ever died on his watch.
The lights of Halcyon are visible out the shuttle window, a constellation of yellow light sunken into the mountains. Canary wonders how far the light reaches out here in the dark. Twenty miles? A hundred?
It’s several minutes before their pilot lands the shuttle in the concrete bay. Immediately, Canary’s eyes flick around the docking bay and take a count of the guards on the platform. He would guess two military, three contract security. Contract security seems risky to have at a place like this, though– he’ll ask Steller about it on the way back to Command.
Halcyon Central Research is a vaulted room lit by floor lights that cast their faces in strange, soft shadow. Open cubicles line the sides of the room, and a group of researchers are gathered around what Canary takes to be a large, pressurized glass sphere in the corner. Almost everyone is staring at the two intelligence agents, though some of them are doing their best to bury their heads in notebooks or computers.
Canary has not met many women who make the effort to look really fashionable in lab-safe clothing, but Shrike, the director of Halcyon, is one of them. Black jeans, a cream turtleneck, and red boots. She has close-cropped hair and a small frown etched in dark red lipstick. No jewelry. A Morgan Cascade pistol is in a holster at her hip, worn openly. Most Cascades are single-shot. Not a threat, with two of them here.
Canary switches his attention to the other members of the welcoming party. He lingers on Shrike’s mild-faced assistant, who is tapping rapidly on a tablet and occasionally glancing up anxiously to make sure she hasn’t missed a cue, and decides that even if she is armed she won’t be much of a threat. The third member of the group is a tall man whose attention is focused entirely on the notebook in his hands and not on Steller and Canary. His hair is ocean-black and long, plaited in coils at the back of his neck. Unlike Shrike, he wears a side-buttoned lab coat like an Old Earth mad scientist, but judging by the expensive shoes and neatly pressed pants visible underneath he’s probably just as immaculately dressed.
Ah. This must be Dove.
While Canary has never actually met Dove, he’s heard stories of Halycon’s mad scientist that border almost on cartoonish. (“Don’t mention the coat,” Steller had said, without elaborating.)
According to the other members of Balance Intelligence, Dove is eccentric, perhaps insane, and allegedly keeps a zoo of deadly animals, or a garden of poisonous plants. He’s vain. He has a short temper. He has all the patience in the world. He has a monster from the old days trapped under Halcyon that will eat all the stars in the universe if it ever gets out.
“Steller,” says Shrike, with a sharp smile. She ignores Canary entirely. “So good to see you, and so soon after the last time. We don’t often get you out here in person to look at the newest toys.” She steeples her fingers. “So, shall we start with something mechanical, something biological, or can I have someone get you a drink first…?”
Steller tucks his hands into the pocket of his coat and smiles. “I’m sure you have some clever script already prepared for us. Hostess’ privilege– show me whatever you think I’ll like.” He smiles pleasantly, the way he would if he were about to be shown a wine cellar instead of a variety of experimental military technology.
Canary stifles a small sneeze, the causal lock still crawling under his skin. Dove’s eyes snap up at the sound and meet his gaze with an amused half-smile, bordering on a smirk. There are a few patches of vitiligo trailing down his face, his right eyebrow bisected shockingly white. Canary has the sense that the scientist is mocking him. He less than casually casually flexes his right hand against his other palm, letting the knuckles crack softly.
The intern flinches, their eyes darting over to Canary for a nervous second. Dove’s expression remains mild, a little amused. If anything, his mocking air is increased by the momentary, questioning tilt of his head.
“Weapons division it is,” says Shrike, smiling. She seems to enjoy her work. A woman of science, they say, just the kind the Balance needs. Terribly efficient at manufacturing death. Her heels click on the floor as they leave Central Research, and Canary thinks he can hear the other researchers in the room heave a collective sigh of relief when the doors close behind them.
Two floors down, they enter the showcase room of the weapons division, with Shrike’s newest toys spread on a low, gleaming white table. Target dummies line one wall, and comfortable leather chairs are arranged near the table. A creature of some sort emerges from under the table, and Canary throws out an arm to prevent Steller from entering the room. “What’s that?” he asks, looking at Shrike. She seems a little irritated, but not alarmed.
“I’m sure it’s fine, Canary,” says Steller mildly, pushing his arm away and advancing into the showcase room.
“My fault, I’m afraid,” Dove says. “This is one of the newest hatch of Fusion-Core Lizards. It must have escaped from the nursery and come looking for me." It’s the first time he’s spoken. His voice is a monotone, but almost cooing in the way it inflects up at the end. Softer than what Canary expected. Dove holds out his hand and the lizard trots across the floor, twining around his legs with a chiming sound of bells. It’s pale green, a soft light clear in its torso and flecked through its scales. Now and then, a soft band of yellow pulses over its translucent scales.
“Is it safe?” asks Canary. “Is it radioactive?”
“You’re making those for Raptor, aren’t you,” says Steller. Not a question. They met with the General only a few days ago. “Doesn’t it seem a little friendly for his purposes?”
“It’s only a baby,” murmurs Dove, picking it up. It’s the size of a small dog, pooling happily in his arms when scooped up. The glow brightens and fades with another crystalline clinking noise. “And it’s not notably radioactive at this age. Quite safe.”
Canary doesn’t like that qualifier. He can see the pink outlines of its organs through the scales, which continue to clink gently as it adjusts itself in Dove’s arms.
Shrike continues to completely ignore Canary, directing her commentary exclusively to Steller as she begins to go through the display of weapons on the table. "Wrist-mounted explosive darts," she says, picking up something that looks very much like a watch and popping open the face to reveal a small screen. Canary raises an eyebrow, disliking the spy-movie look of the thing. It’s tacky, isn’t it? He glances over at Steller, whose face is impassive.
"We started with classic heatseekers and then my robotics team designed a set that could be controlled manually, in case you have a very specific target or one that isn't necessarily biological." She draws her finger across the screen and a single dart fires from the watch, whistling around the room and then impacting one of the target dummies.
Shrike’s heels click across the floor, and she picks up a small orb of silver metal. At the touch of her hand, it clicks open to reveal a softly glowing red stripe. "This one is more difficult to demonstrate safely under the effects of a causal lock, so I'll direct you to video instead." She gestures at a screen on the wall, closing the device and replacing it on the table.
"Our newest work in sonic demolitions. Some of the team refer to them as audio black holes. They paraphysically divert sound from the surroundings and release it in…well, an explosion, effectively similar to an LRAD.” What was it you called them, Dove?”
Dove is handing the lizard off to an assistant, and seems a little surprised to have been addressed directly. He raises an eyebrow. “I called them a lot of things. They’re certainly a benchmark in human paraphysical engineering.” He sounds less than pleased.
“Crowd control,” murmurs Steller as Shrike turns off the TV demonstration and moves to the next item. Canary nods. Niphel and Ein Terminus have had trouble with riots lately.
“They’re nonlethal?” he asks.
Shrike’s careful smile wavers. “In theory,” she says. “It depends on how close you are to the detonation point.” She shrugs. “If that’s an issue, we can leave it in production.”
“It should be fine,” says Steller easily. “I wouldn’t want to overwork your staff. Are they ready for rollout otherwise?”
She nods. “And I have one more thing to show off today. This would be most effective if it were demonstrated live.” Her dark eyes flick to Canary as she picks up a small plastic case and flips it open, withdrawing a small disk of green-black plastic in her gloved hand.
“Of course,” says Steller. “I mean,” he adds with a small chuckle, “I trust you won’t kill him while I’m here, so feel free to give us a field test.” He gestures for Canary to step forwards.
“Sir,” Canary protests softly. He hates paracausal research, and that disk looks like no kind of weapon he’s ever seen. Only last month one of Balance’s best agents was reportedly killed by a Lightless Star cultist “reversing the effects of weak force” on her– Canary doesn’t know what that means, but it was apparently a mess.
Shrike rests a hand on his shoulder. He tries to keep his face impassive, mouth set in a hard line, and prays that this thing doesn’t make him wake up teleported into next week. She raises the disk and turns it in the light, then presses it against his cheek for a moment.
There’s a sharp sting against his skin below the eye, and then he can’t feel his body anymore. Shrike’s hand tightens on his shoulder (wrinkling the suit jacket) and lowers him partway to the ground with a surprising amount of strength before letting go.
“What happened to him?” asks Steller. His voice is far away, the words blurring softly into each other. Canary is staring up at the ceiling, though he doesn’t really know if he has eyes or not anymore. He’s relieved, honestly, it seems like he’s just been drugged. He can handle this.
Dove steps into Canary’s field of view and smiles briefly down at him before addressing Steller. “Just a nervous system disruption. It’s an…aberrant conceptual venom, modeled after how tteuda hunt in the wilds. Once the aberration accesses a sensory input– touch, in this case– it replicates into the brain. Not particularly long-lasting, but exceptionally effective.”
“Your design?” asks Steller. “Also, how long is he going to be out? I have a few things to talk to Shrike about in private.”
“Technically speaking he’s perfectly conscious,” Dove says, in a tone that Canary thinks might be an attempt at a joke. It upturns at the end a little more than his other statements have. “He should be able to move again in about five minutes, but it could be up to an hour before he’s consistently functional again.”
Steller moves back into Canary’s vision, a vague shape. “How is this different from a normal poison? Effectively.”
“It’s based on sensory input,” says Dove.
“But any contact poison could do the same thing.”
“...Yes. Effectively. Most aren’t so potent though.”
There’s a pause.
Shrike says, “This room is perfectly secure, but I think my office upstairs will be more comfortable for us to chat. Dove, stay here and look after the agent. Bring him on your rounds if you must but I want you both in one piece when I get back.” Her tone is warning.
“Well,” Steller announces, “As Shrike says, the room is perfectly secure. I’ll be back soon, Canary.”
Asshole.
There’s a sharp click of heels fading into the distance as they walk away. Dove crouches next to Canary and observes him carefully for a moment, putting his head on one side in that mockingly curious way again. "I have an experimental antidote," he says softly, "but the issue here is that sometimes it kills people through mental overload or leaves them in a coma instead of properly fixing them. So I don't think I'll be doing that."
He sits on the floor at the very edge of Canary's vision, carefully smoothing down his old-fashioned coat as he does so.
Very slowly, Canary starts to be aware of his own heartbeat again. His heart must have been beating the whole time, since he's not dead, but he realizes he wasn't able to feel it before. Here and there, he can feel disconnected flickers of sensation. Pain. Faint itching. The tip of his nose and his right hand feel, inexplicably, green, and there's something on the left side of his body that briefly smells strongly of roses.
Dove smooths Canary’s hair back into place. “In the wild, a tteuda would use this opportunity to lay eggs in your digestive tract,” he says pleasantly. “But we’re not that mean.”
Canary is pretty sure manages to shoot a glare at the scientist, but given that he can’t feel his face he isn’t entirely certain. He seethes quietly, waiting for the smell of roses/silk/indigo to fade out of his arm. He could probably try to sit up now, but it would be ungraceful. His arms twitch and convulse for a few seconds, and then he finds that he feels…normal again.
He sits up in a single movement and makes an attempt to dust off his jacket. Once his foot stops twitching he stands up fully, thankful that pretty much everyone else has left the testing lab already. Dove stretches when he stands up, picking up his clipboard from a table and consulting it.
“Not a fan of doing things digitally?” asks Canary. Dove has been working with a notebook and clipboard the entire afternoon. If he’s keeping all his work on paper, that means that there’s a lot of it that might never end up on the Balance network. A physical paper trail isn’t the easiest to follow when all your monitoring is remote. Something else to bring up to Steller, he decides.
“It’s more secure,” says Dove mildly, without looking up. “I need to check in on the deep-sea habitats today. Shrike says I should bring you along. Try not to fall in.”
“A little far inland, aren’t we? What are you keeping in deep-sea habitat?” Canary bows slightly and sweeps an arm to gesture Dove in front of him.
“Mostly leviathans.”
It’s a long way down.
“Only a few of the animals in our research habitats are going to be directly of interest to your department, I’m afraid,” says Dove calmly. “But my bioengineering work for Balance brings in enough funding that I can comfortably pursue a few side projects.”
“Where are you getting leviathans from?”
“I work with a xenobiologist who studies the amphytrum sea. Independently funded. And some of them have been shipped in during research projects, or beached on Balance controlled lands and had to be relocated.”
“Which xenobiologist?”
Dove turns slightly to give Canary a long stare. “Not relevant,” he says after a moment. “Like I said. Independent funding.”
Canary leans against the elevator wall and thinks about how much the stone must weigh on the base, and how deep into the mountain they’re descending. His ears pop a few seconds before the elevator finally chimes a halt.
The deep sea habitat is far underground, dimly lit. Massive fiberglass tanks line the walls. Some of the tanks are filled with water; some with amphytrum, mercury-thick and casting a silver glow on Dove’s dark hair as he walks by. Canary watches something press up against the side of one of the amphytrum tanks, a mass of narrow, undulating white strands, and he feels rather small.
Dove seems a little more relaxed here, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about the leviathans. “Halcyon Base hosts a few other major habitats to keep specimens for research, but my favorite is the deep-sea habitat. A lot of the maintenance is automated, but I check in on my rounds daily to make sure the tanks are all properly maintained.”
“Is there anyone else who works down here?” It’s quieter than Canary would like. The distant singing of the causal lock is muted here, behind the tons of amphytrum pressing against the glass around them.
“Not many people. We might see Davies later. Follow me.” Dove walks up a narrow flight of metal stairs and onto a damp metal catwalk over one of the tanks. Canary follows the xenobiologist a little more cautiously, assuming that if the catwalk were dangerous Dove wouldn’t be strolling across it so easily. Then again Dove is, apparently, insane.
A pair of massive tentacles break the surface of the black water, and Canary draws his gun. Dove gives him a sharp sideways glance, the corner of his mouth tightening. “Not very level-headed for a military man,” he says, reaching over the catwalk railing. The tentacles are blue-black, almost painful to look at. Blue so dark it burns. At the tips they branch into fingers, almost childlike hands. Its fingers brush over Dove’s hands and then make a flurry of gestures. Canary relaxes slightly, though he carefully backs up to the far side of the catwalk. If it made a lunge for him it could probably reach him easily.
“It wants a toy,” says Dove. “Toss it one of those rings.”
Canary glances over at the wall and sees a rack of rubber rings with small bells attached. He holsters his gun and examines them. “...What color?”
“Hmm. Red.”
He chooses the red ring from the rack and gingerly tosses it into the water. The tentacles vanish back under the water, briefly breaking the surface again to gently jingle the ring. Dove leans an elbow on the catwalk railing, smiling slightly. “Actean Leviathan,” he says softly. “The only leviathan species that can survive in both water and amphytrum. She’s the last one we know the location of. They have a tendency to get stuck in the engines of freighter ships and torn up. And Balance forces killed a few.”
“Not that many,” protests Canary.
“I don’t think there were many to start with. Let’s circle around to the aquarium observation deck, shall we?” And Dove is off again, his footsteps ringing on the floor. Canary feels like he’s doing a lot of following the taller man around. Worse, he’s getting the feeling that Dove enjoys it.
“This aquarium is one of the tanks that uses folded space engineering to increase the capacity of the habitat,” Dove says. Light filters down through the tank, dim and blue. Now and then, the bulk of the Actean Leviathan moves near the fiberglass panes, tossing the ring from tentacle to tentacle. Soft lights glow in the walls. Dove takes a moment to look at a small screen next to the observation window. “We have to monitor the spatial folds to make sure there’s not too much hadal strain, but the system is very stable. Actually it’s the same as what Military Intelligence uses for some of the orbital cannons.”
Canary stares at the massive tanks around them. “And the darkness was on the face of the deep,” he says softly to himself. The leviathan’s bulk presses briefly against the glass, blocking out the dim light that filters down from the catwalk above. A shadow over the moon.
“Raptor claims you’re hard to work with,” Canary says, looking over at Dove. “It seems like you do care about what you do, though.”
After a moment, Dove straightens up from the screen, tapping a green button and shutting it off. “Producing weapons for Raptor is quite frankly my least favorite part of my job,” he says. “He is…not to complain. But he is careless with what I give him, and rarely pays attention to the instructions. I sent Davies along once to monitor the creatures that Raptor requested I send, and it did not go well.”
Canary is surprised that Davies got out of that in one piece. Raptor dislikes oversight. “Raptor can be like that,” he says. “He’s a blunt instrument, but he’s useful for suppressing threats from the Lunus side of the continent.”
“Mmmm.”
Dove taps his fingers idly against the glass. The leviathan taps back. After a few taps, Canary realizes that it’s morse code. -E-N-H-O-M-E-W-A-N-T– he doesn’t like listening to it. He hates that it talks. Is Dove messing with him?
Dove really hates this job, doesn’t he. Or he hates Balance.
“Why not go somewhere else?” asks Canary, the words coming out before he can gather himself.
Dove smiles, sicklesharp, and removes his hand from the tank.
“Balance sponsors most research these days, you know,” he says. Behind them, the leviathan writhes slowly in the artificial deep. “There is nowhere else.”
“You wouldn’t have to make weapons.”
This time, Dove laughs, or makes a sound that might be laughter. “You’re not a diplomat like Steller or Shrike,” he says. “You might not understand how they manage things. It’s all set up very neatly. The people who are comfortable building bombs are paid to build bombs. Everyone else is simply paid to build parts for targeting systems.”
Dove’s phone beeps, and he looks down at it. “Ah. Shrike and Steller are on their way back. I told them to meet us here. I think Steller might be interested in seeing the aquarium.” He shrugs slightly and returns to watching the leviathan.
Not wanting to interrupt, Canary leans back against the opposite wall. The soft glow of amphytrum from the tank around him gleams on the face of his watch and on his polished shoes.
Steller and Shrike look…harried when they reappear. Steller straightens his cuffs, sparing only a quick glance up at the massive tanks overhead, and nods politely to Dove. “I hope you had an educational time,” he remarks to Canary. “Sorry to leave you for so long.”
Shrike stares at the floor for a moment and then takes a visible deep breath. When she looks up, she smiles at Canary. “Canary! A gift,” she says. “I almost forgot.” She’s holding a small briefcase with metal clasps. She clicks it open, revealing a gun nestled into the red interior.
“A Cascade,” he says, examining the gun. “But barely noticeable as one.” Morgan Cascades are built on the hadal strain from folding and unfolding space in a constrained compartment. Usually, the casing that holds the folds is visibly oversized and equipped with causal stabilizers to keep the fold from expanding outwards and consuming the metal elements. This one must be highly optimized. Ideal for an enforcer who doesn’t want anyone to know he’s using a paraphysical weapon. “Thank you, Shrike.”
She smiles. “I thought it might be useful to you. Do write back if you experience any hadal instability, though– the pistol has been tested extensively, but it’s still a prototype.”
“Of course,” says Steller, smiling. “Thank you for the help. Now, I suppose Canary and I should take our leave before we overstay our welcome.” He looks relaxed. No sign of whether his meeting with Shrike went well or not.
“I’ll walk you back to Central Research and Davies will show you back out from there,” she says, checking for nonexistent dust on her red nail polish. “The interior of Halcyon can get a little confusing for people who aren’t used to our organization, and I’d hate for you to wander into one of the more dangerous areas of the base. And of course I’ll contact you once my team finishes that project.”
Canary suspects she just doesn’t want them walking around Halcyon unsupervised. He wouldn’t let any of the research division wander around Command, either.
“Excellent,” says Steller. “Someone from Balance will be in touch tomorrow about putting your new prototypes into mass production, and about the funding distribution for next year.”
As they follow Shrike out, Canary looks back over his shoulder at Dove. The tall man is still standing silently in front of the aquarium, half turned away. The long lines of his face are silhouetted in the stygian light.
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