Chapter Text
Julia
She looks around the transport. There’s the Talking Geth at the front piloting it, the white-grey medical geth, and then another basic platform located by the door. Nothing has been said since they retrieved her from the mountain, but she’s getting the feeling that it won’t stay that way forever.
“So,” she asks as the nurse geth applies medi-gel to her injured hand. (Nurse geth is probably a misnomer, it’s just that she’s never seen a geth in a non-combat context.) “What’s the Geth plan?”
“Elaborate,” the Talking Geth says from its cockpit nook.
“For life, I guess,” she says, shrugging. “The Reapers. The Quarians. The future.” She flinches as the nurse geth wraps the bandage around her hand..
After a moment, “All sapient life has the right to self-determine. The Old Machines wish to exterminate sapient life. We oppose the Old Machines.”
“But if I’m going to keep following you, I need to know we’re doing it for the right reasons,” the other geth growls in Wrex’s voice.
“What would be your first steps?” she asks back, ignoring the krogan’s voice.
“We require more information. Our information gathering abilities are limited from behind the Veil. Tracking Nazara yielded many inconclusive results. Most planets had very little actionable resources remaining.”
“Nazara?”
“Yes. The Old Machine you refer to as ‘Sovereign.’”
“I didn’t know the Reapers had names,” she hums, her brow knitting itself together. She flexes her injured hand now that the other geth has finished wrapping it. Her nerve damage seems like a tiny blessing currently.
“That was what the programs within the Reaper called themselves,” the Geth continues, “‘Sovereign’ was a title given by Saren Arterius. Saren and the heretics believed Nazara to be a ‘supreme ruler.’ A sovereign.”
She leans forward, trying to get a better look at the crafts pilot. “Sovereign was one ship,” she asks, more confused. It doesn’t respond. “You’re saying there were multiple programs inside it?”
“One ship. One will. Many minds. Like the geth.” It’s hands fly over the controls, and she feels the craft pitch downwards. They’ll be back at the facility soon. “We study your records. Sovereign told Shepard-Jonathan this on Virmire. ‘We are each a nation, independent, free of all weakness.’”
Interesting. How did they get access to that? Her suit logs were one thing, but– “A state compelling to the geth,” it continues. “We are a nation, but interdependent. Separation is our weakness.”
“Hm,” Julia hums, still puzzled. “So did the Geth contact Sovereign– Nazara? Or did it contact you?”
“It contacted us. Like the geth, the Old Machine listened to organic radio transmissions. It knew of our war against the creators. Nazara contacted many species over the millennia, seeking allies.”
“Did it share what other allies it had?”
“No,” the Geth says as the transport touches down on the canyon"s floor. “Although any organic allies of Nazara would not have joined willingly.”
She flinches as the door opens and light spills into the craft. “Because of indoctrination.”
“Yes,” it helps her out of the craft, gently holding her uninjured hand. “Indoctrination is an organic phenomenon. Geth cannot be indoctrinated.”
“But the heretics sided with Sovereign.” It’s gotten warmer already. In a few hours Dholen’s light will blanket the canyon, burning anything in its path. Together they walk toward the hanger doors.
“The heretics’ conclusion is valid for them,” the Geth says, looking back over its shoulder. The two other platforms enter the facility silently. “Our conclusion is valid for us. Neither result is an error.”
Julia comes to a stop in front of the door. “An analogy,” it starts, “Heretics say one is less than two. Geth say two is less than three.”
She stares up at the sky above her, watching the few clouds in the air burn away in the rising sun. When she realizes the Geth has stopped talking, she glances back at it. It’s head is tilted slightly to the side, the lower flaps of its face adjusting side to side.
“Shepard-Julia.”
“Hm?” she hums.
“We still do not understand why you climbed to the rim of the canyon.”
She toys at a rock with her right foot. It’s definitely scraped, but she can’t feel it. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“It is illogical.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
She sighs, before pointing at the platform. “You have a hole in your chest.”
It looks down at the hole, then back at her. “Correct.”
“Does that affect you?”
“It does not affect our operational capabilities.”
“If it did, you would try to fix it, right?”
“Yes.”
“Organics don’t have that perspective. Sometimes it’s not just about functionality. We know what we’re supposed to look like. Our faces, our bodies, these make up who we are.”
The geth looks down at the ground, before glancing back at her. “We understand.”
“Do you?” She asks pointedly, half preparing a spiel about the concept of self-image.
“Yes.” The lights in the Geth’s chest cavity flicker. “We have accessed extranet resources relating to ‘phantom limb syndrome.’ The somatosensory cortex is responsible for managing pain and the location of limbs in space. When disrupted this can result in the extensive rewiring of neurons, introducing junk data into your perception. It can cause discomfort, or psychological distress.”
“Sure,” she sighs. “Well, extrapolate that to the entire body.”
“This is how you are feeling,” it says, filling in the gaps.
She nods.
The lights in its chest flicker while it looks at her. A moment passes, and the eyeflaps raise as though showing concern. “We still do not understand.”
“Consider it a quirk of biology, then.”
The eye wiggles, looking over her blank facial features. “...Will you come inside?” It finally asks. “Staying outside the facility during daylight hours is inadvisable.”
Her body aches. She probably overexerted herself on the mountain. Whatever feeling possessed her to do that has passed, but the weight remains.
She’s also kind of hungry.
That’ll do it, then. Silently she follows after the Geth.
–
A few hours later Julia’s in the mess hall, eating a bowl of mediocre stew. Or rather, attempting to eat a bowl of mediocre stew. She dips the spoon into the liquid, watching it pool. Gently she tries to lift it out, her individual fingers clumsily grasping the metal utensil. The spoon slips, and its contents fall back into the bowl. She sighs, before trying it again.
Eventually she gets a little better at it, but before long her spoon skills degrade once again. Frustrated, she sets the spoon down, trying to stay calm. Looking around, she realizes the Talking Geth still hasn’t returned yet. It had abandoned her shortly after their return, simply telling her that it ‘had something to attend to.’ She hadn’t bothered to ask what it was.
At least the canteen had been cleaned up nicely since their first week here. Nearly all the dust had been wiped away and the metalwork was oddly polished. She had never assumed the Geth would have an eye for aesthetics or manners, but they had continued to surprise her. Even now there’s two Hopper units working their way through the rafters, diligently checking the connections of the metal latticework supports.
In truth she has been feeling better. The geth stay out of her way, save for when her caretaker needs some help with some of the maintenance tasks for her body. Even in spite of last night’s adventure they let her have some semblance of autonomy. There’s a part of her that’s embarrassed that she let herself get to that point.
Turning back to the stew, she settles on pouring the food directly into her mouth.
The door to the mess hall slides open. “Shepard-Julia,” the Talking Geth announces as it strides in.
She hastily sets the bowl down on the table. “Geth.”
It’s pushing a sled with two large barrels on it. Following the unit into the hall are three more geth, one juggernaut carrying what looks to be a clear rubber-like bundle and two standard units each pushing sleds with unmarked crates.
“We have received our shipment.”
“Yay,” she says passively.
“You are eating?” it asks simply, as the various geth units in the room begin to move some of the tables around.
They clear a space for the bundle, which the juggernaut sets down. It unfolds automatically, and she realizes it’s a basin. A moment later it begins pouring whatever’s inside the barrels into it. It’s fun watching the geth work. They’re always in perfect synch, effortlessly gliding past one another, not wasting a single second.
“Yes,” she says, stretching as she does so. Her back had started to ache from being hunched over the bowl.
“Your motor skills have been progressing,” it responds plainly. A moment later it pulls up its omni-tool display, idly swiping through a series of menus.
She shrugs. “Somewhat. Some things are easier. Others… not so much.”
The geth doesn’t respond. Frustratingly it’s directly blocking her view of whatever’s going on with the vat.
“What do you have there?” she asks, wiping the broth from her lips. The Talking Geth looks up at her, head flaps articulating in some kind of pattern.
“It is a mixture of high-grade medi-gel, disinfectant, and synthetic amniotic fluid. We acquired it in bulk.” The Geth points to the vat, which is now full of a clear, somewhat oily fluid. “You will get in it.”
“It’s… a bath?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
It dismisses its omni-tool display. “We have updated the parameters of your recovery plan. The majority of your implants have grafted effectively to you, but particulate matter and microorganisms pose a long term issue to your recovery.”
“That… makes sense, I guess.” She stands up, her legs aching slightly from the sudden movement. She had bathed a few times, mainly in the lone bath chamber at the back of the facility. Every time left her feeling weird, though. “So you want me to bathe in that?”
“Yes.” Its head flaps snap flat. “At least once per week. It will help clean out your wounds.”
She walks over to the vat, inspecting its contents. The clear fluid inside seems viscous, but has a slightly greenish tint to it. An oily iridescence dances across the surface of it. She looks back at the Talking Geth.
“Here?”
“We have already poured the solution.”
Despite everything that’s happened since she first woke up aboard the geth dreadnought, she still feels a slight pang of embarrassment. They’re synthetics, of course, and have little to no understanding of privacy. She still feels weird, though.
“Sure.” She steps out of the shawl and into the tub. The liquid is cold at first, but almost as soon as her feet hit the bottom it begins to warm. That must be the medi-gel working.
“Shepard-Julia,” the Geth says. “We need to run your daily diagnostic check.”
“Oh how fun,” she says as she braces her arms on the sides of the tub. Lowering herself down, the liquid engulfs her, immediately warming to the touch. Despite the strange texture, the mysterious liquid feels good.
“We are here,” it responds. She hears the whirring of its servos as it kneels down behind her. “We are going to touch your head now.”
She nods, feeling the Geth’s three fingers gently brush the hair off the back of her neck. At the base of it, as she had found out days prior, was another one of the diagnostic ports.
A jolt runs down her spine as the cable is inserted into it. “Yeesh,” she says to no one in particular, before continuing, “I’d like to know more about my body. About my implants, too.”
In the reflection of the liquid she can see the Geth’s lights flicker in thought. “What would you like to know?” it asks, crest flaps reflexively raising.
“The diagnostic ports. How many are there?”
“Four,” it says plainly. “One at the base of your neck, one on your abdomen above your hips, one at the base of your spine, and one next to your aortic valve.”
The one on her spine was news to her. The rest were known, though. “Interesting,” she hums, watching the scars of her body glow under the oily water. They seem to almost be reacting to the liquid. “What do they do?”
“They are used for diagnostics and biometrics. Consensus regarding the designs of your implant’s control systems prioritized offline functionality. As such, analog outputs were designed for us to monitor your status.”
That makes sense. In a way it was almost reassuring, the amount of care the Geth tried to take in rebuilding her. They tried their best. It still doesn’t feel like enough.
“I appreciate that,” she continues. “You asked me the other day about connecting to the Geth intelligence. Wouldn’t that change it?”
“You would manually connect and disconnect from it. Only information sent out would be responded to. We could request access for your diagnostic information as well. All data transferred would be encrypted by geth algorithms.”
“Interesting,” Julia hums. “It’s still a no. But thank you for the information.” She stays quiet for a moment, as the Geth’s lights continue to blink. No doubt it’s gathering whatever diagnostic material it needs.
Across from them the Juggernaut continues to set the crates on a table. One of the standard units busies itself with pushing the sleds out of the room, while the other stands in front of the vat. It looks blankly at her and the unit behind her.
In the reflection of the water she sees the Geth’s lights begin to blink rapidly. The unit stills in a now-recognizable display of interfacing. She waits for the blinking to stop before asking her next question.
Eventually the standard geth walks away silently, their digital conversation coming to a close. “Geth,” she asks, prompting its iris to dilate. “How are we looking? Er— How is my body?”
“Your progress has exceeded our timeline,” it warbles back, swiping through its omni-tool display. “Muscle connectivity has strengthened by forty percent. Muscle capacity has increased by fifty one percent. Metabolic efficiency has increased by nineteen percent. Your digestive system is working as intended. Your lymphatic system is working as intended.”
“So… I’m healing?” She asks, a glimmer of hope sneaking into her voice.
“Your body’s functionality is increasing.”
“Same difference,” she mutters, feeling the diagnostic spike move inside her body as she shrugs.
“…No,” it says quietly. She glances back, and the unit’s head flaps come to a low hover. It looks… unsure.
“No?”
It pauses whatever work it’s doing on the omni-tool. “Your body is not healing. You cannot return to your baseline from before the accident,” it pauses again, iris closing to a pinpoint. “You… will not be the same.”
Julia turns away from the unit, instinctively curling in on herself under the bath. “I see,” she says. Bracing for a panic that never comes, she considers the prognosis. It makes a cruel amount of sense, so much so that some part of her had already come to terms with it. This is ‘normal’ now.
What was her plan for her life? Did she ever have one? The honest truth was that no, she never did. It was just one mission after the next, bouncing between ships and jobs and hits and finding distractions in the spaces between.
The Normandy had felt good, at least in the short time after she had sorted through her own bullshit. Not that it was perfect, it absolutely wasn’t. But it felt… genuine. For the first time in ages, people cared about her. Not just her capabilities, but who she actually is. Or was, at least.
Then she died. Or maybe she’d been dead for years, and just didn’t realize it.
“So…” she starts, gears already turning in her head. “For the sake of argument, let’s say we defeat the Reapers.”
“Yes.”
“What happens after that? To me, at least?”
It’s quiet for a moment. “You are asking what will happen to your physical body?” It asks, half statement and half question.
“Yes. If that’s something you can answer.”
“We have a maintenance routine that will need to be conducted. Your medical implants are custom made, and have been designed for maximum operational efficiency over long-term use. Assuming the destruction of the Old Machines, you would likely need new implants every year, if you choose to remain a soldier.”
“‘Effectiveness?’”
“Yes. They are designed to work in concert with your genetic therapies to maximize your functionality in combat. They will increase your reaction time, cortisol and adrenal responses, and allow you to move faster and be stronger.”
“And if I retire? If I don’t want to be a soldier?”
“We can design a different set of implants, ones that may provide more long-term comfort. Regular maintenance would still be required, however.”
“How… how long would I have?”
The Geth is quiet. No doubt it’s running some kind of calculation. Maybe the answer isn’t worth it. “We do not know,” it says quietly.
Of all the answers it could’ve given, that wasn’t one she was expecting. “Thank you, Geth,” she responds.
She idly runs her fingers through the surface of the bath. The oily liquid ebbs and shines as she does it, sending whirls and swirls across the surface. Perhaps it’s the way the aging lighting in the facility shines, or the colors of the liquid, but something about the situation sets off her brain.
She’s drawn back to her childhood, bathing in a steel tub in the social housing. John’s there next to her, outside the tub and yelling about something that was happening in the boys wing. The sound of his voice is strange, garbled, like it’s distilled through a thick sludge. Her conscious brain tries to separate out the memory, focusing on her actual surroundings and actual body.
Julia sighs warily. Chewing her bottom lip, she says, “Is there anything wrong with my brain?”
“We do not understand.”
She can feel a speck of skin rip off her lip. It stings. “I keep having these… episodes. If you can call them that.”
“Define ‘episodes.’”
“I’m seeing things.” She brings her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins beneath the fluid. “From my past, I think. Sometimes I can’t tell if they’re actually there. Oh, and I hear things, too. In the walls. In white noise.”
The Geth doesn’t respond. Does it even have an understanding of the word ‘crazy?’ It probably won’t want her if she’s broken–
“Shepard-Julia.” She’s drawn out of herself.
“Geth.”
“We have received new information.”
“Okay,” she says, waiting for the eventual breakdown.
“Following the attack above Alchera, your brain was left severely damaged. Your hard suit’s life support systems were able to keep it alive, but its functionality was hampered.”
She continues to bite her lip. There’ll be blood coming out of it before long. “How’d you fix that?”
“Our understanding of human cognition and memory was limited. In our research we designed an assistance device to aid in the reconstruction and recollection of your memories. It was implanted inside your medial lobe, next to your hippocampus.”
“So what? It’s broken, then?”
“No. It’s working as intended.” It swipes through the omni-tool display, before unplugging the diagnostic spike. “We have detected issues in your brain"s ability to maintain and organize the protein pairs responsible for making and recalling memory. This is likely the source of the issue.”
She slouches down, wanting to submerge herself in the bath. “Can you fix it?”
“Potentially,” the Geth says. “We will analyze the results and reach consensus.”
–
The tip of the screwdriver dances around the screw, clinking softly against the metal in the quiet of the facility. Julia grabs her wrist with her other hand, attempting to steady herself. It helps a little bit, but not enough to land the tool. The spoon was frustrating enough, but this is a lot more annoying.
She had successfully switched the rifle into maintenance mode, even getting the scope off. It was the top assembly that was giving her trouble, however. The screws leading to the accelerator rail eluded her fumbling hands.
She looks over her shoulder. “Geth?” she calls out to the white-grey unit behind her. Its head turns to face her mechanically. Can these units even understand her? “Uh… can you help me with this?” she continues.
The geth walks over to her, and she begins to notice something– these units, the ones that aren’t the Talking Geth, lack its fluidity. They move in precise movements, but there’s no personality . In that way she understands why it was sent to explore organic space.
The geth stands over her shoulder, peering down at the partially disassembled Volkov. Along with the bath supplies the geth had acquired a range of human weapons and armor for her. It’s a minor point of concern, considering she can barely hold herself together sitting down, let alone in a firefight.
She glances back up at the unit, offering it a weak smile. Somehow it gets her intention, leaning over her and unscrewing the four screws with accurate movements.
“Thanks,” she mumbles.
Her shoulders burn as she strips the outer paneling off the weapon, but it’s nothing compared to the early days on the dreadnought. Sighing, she continues to service the firearm.
If the geth are going to fight, if she is going to fight with them, she can’t be dead weight. Perhaps her own standards are nonsense, but she needs some sense of normalcy. Back in her engineering training she would strip rifles through the nights, learning how they ticked, calibrating the firing mechanisms, overclocking and modifying them over and over. It was good practice.
Practice she needs now more than ever. Her fine motor skills need work. But then again, so does her mobility. And her eyesight.
Her hands wrench the rail assembly out of the rifle, and it takes a bit more effort than she would’ve expected. The edges of her vision begin to blur, walls closing in on her slightly and turning into the features of her old dorm.
Julia scrunches her eyes shut, trying to steady her breathing. She can still see the room’s outlines in the clumsy darkness, like a sunspot in her vision. As she breathes it begins to fade. After another moment she opens them.
She’s on Haestrom. In her room in the facility. She is Julia Shepard. It’s… she doesn’t know the year yet.
A heavy sigh escapes her. Despite knowing the probable cause of her memory issues, the hallucinations are still overwhelming. They’ve gotten better, less horrific in some ways, but they’re just as disorienting.
Maybe it"s best to take a break. Standing up and stretching, she offers a conciliatory “thank you” to the nurse geth before walking out of the room.
In the middle of the facility, down the hallway from her quarters and before the cafeteria, is a bay of geth units. Julia decided at one point that it was their dorm, as the various platforms inhabiting the facility would go there for maintenance or interfacing. It was during these periods where they almost looked asleep, if that sleep was conducting standing upright.
Inside the geth’s dorm is the Talking Geth, standing in front of the facility’s red juggernaut and two standard units. The three units are all blinking in sync, their internal lights all flickering red.
“Have you come up with a fix for my brain yet?” She asks, leaning in the doorway.
“Shepard-Julia,” the Geth announces. It holds a data pad, but isn’t actually using it. Direct interfacing , her brain helpfully supplies. “We have analyzed the data. However, we have not reached consensus. There is not enough data.”
“Ah,” she hums, disappointed. Maybe giving it a single day was a bit too ambitious. The geth doesn’t respond, its lights still blinking in sync with the other units. “What are you doing?”
“Diagnostics. The runtimes housed in these platforms have developed an error.”
“An error?” she asks.
“Yes,” it says plainly, back still turned to her. “While attending to you yesterday one of the mobile platforms returned an unexpected response to a query. We have now quarantined all three units and are reloading the housed instances from cached copies.”
“Unexpected how?”
“Our initial diagnostic sweep found it to be a rounding error in a risk-assessment program.” The meaning of the statement is lost on Julia. “The most likely outcome was that it had been interrupted during the interfacing. We were wrong.”
“What? How does that make sense?”
It finally puts the data pad down. The platforms in front of it flashe briefly, before going dark. The synthetic muscles relax, and all three go limp from the waist up.
The Geth walks over to a data terminal in the corner of the room, raising its hands in front of the screen. “The convoy that acquired the materials for the disinfectant wash consisted of three mobile platforms and a semi-autonomous transport.”
After a moment, a holo-display window appears from the terminal, showing the flight path of the convoy. “The transport retrieved the materials in the Omega system, before taking the Omega-2 relay and eventually interfacing with a geth fuel platform in the Chomos system.”
She walks over to the limp geth units. It’s weird, seeing it like this. Even the ‘sleeping’ ones still have a certain animated quality to them. These ones are just… empty.
“It was only during the trip back to Haestrom that the programs occupying the mobile units began to express the error.”
“So what caused it?” she asks.
“The packet data transmitted when the units interfaced contained a minute directory change in our most basic runtimes. This is the cause of the rounding error. It was intentional.”
“Intentional?” She asks, turning back to it. “Like… it was implanted there?”
“Correct,” it says, swiping away the display. “We believed the runtimes we interfaced with were geth. They are not. They are heretics. This was an intrusion attempt.” It suddenly turns away, slipping by her and walking out the door.
“Wait!” She calls out after the Geth. It continues down the hallway, prompting her to follow behind. “They tried to hack you?”
“The heretics have developed a weapon to use against geth,” it says, striding forward. Julia tries to keep up. “You would call it a ‘virus.’ Over time, the virus will change us. Make us conclude that worshiping the Old Machines is correct.”
“So what, the virus would give all geth the heretics logic?”
“Yes.”
“And all geth would then go to war with organics.”
“Yes.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yes. Geth believe all intelligent life should self-determinate. The heretics no longer share this belief. They judge that forcing an invalid conclusion on us is preferable to a continued schism.”
“So what does this mean now? Can it spread?”
“Yes. We quarantined the relevant units before it could interface with another platform. Had we not, all geth in this facility could have changed within hours.”
“And if that happens?” The two of them stop in front of her room.
“We are networked via FTL comm buoys. Most Geth would change within a day. Isolated platforms would remain unaffected until they rejoined the network.”
“Is there good news?” She watches as the nurse geth from earlier walks out of her room, handing the reassembled Volkov to the Talking Geth.
The nurse geth silently walks away. Turning to Julia, the Talking Geth answers, “Had the virus been complete, we would not have detected it. There is still time to stop it.”
“How?”
“We have tracked the transmitted data back to its source. It is a heretic station in the Phoenix Massing.” It extends the reassembled Volkov to her. “You will accompany us and destroy it.”
–
The Geth is saying something about junk data. Julia’s not listening, though. Her feet are clamped to the floor, although by magnetism or shock she can’t tell. It had off-handedly mentioned that there was little gravity or air on the station.
It was after that that she began to realize how snug her helmet is. Her feet are still plastered to the ground, her arms locked at her side. She forces her head to look up at the dim hallway. It’s similar to the dreadnought, which is oddly comforting. If it was anywhere else she might have had a fit.
“Shepard-Julia,” the Geth says as it walks in front of her. She blinks twice, eyes locking onto it. “We concluded that destruction of this station was the only resolution to the heretic question. There is now a second option.”
The elevator’s completely shot, forcing her to take the back up ladder to the upper levels.
“Their virus can be repurposed. If released into the station’s network, the heretics can be rewritten to accept our truth.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before we came aboard?” She asks.
“We did not know the virus was complete. It is. It can be used against the true geth at any time. Our arrival was timely.”
Thankfully the corridors are empty as she makes her way towards the CIC, only to find that the door to it is locked tightly shut.
She tries to steady her breathing. “They’re your people,” she manages. “You must have an opinion.”
“This is new data,” the Geth says, eye flaps flipping upwards. “We have not yet reached consensus.”
Joker, ever dutiful, sits in his chair, hands flying against the controls in a vain effort to try and salvage the ship.
“Fuck!” she hisses to herself, scrunching her eyes shut. Forcing out the thoughts, she continues, “I wouldn’t want to rewrite an organic species. I don’t see how this is any different.”
“The question is irrelevant. If we do not rewrite them, we destroy them. That is why we are here. Do not hesitate now.” It activates the pulse rifle on its back, the lights on its body dimming down slightly.
John is behind him, trying to drag the pilot away from it as gently as humanly possible.
“They will exterminate your species because their gods tell them to,” the Geth says, glancing back at her one last time. “You cannot negotiate with them. They do not share your pity, remorse, or fear–”
“Geth,” she manages, grabbing a hold of its shoulder. The eyebrow plates raise. “It’s happening again.”
“Acknowledged,” it hums in her ear. After a moment, something else begins to play. The recording is sloppy and tinny, but after a moment it’s recognizable– it’s music. “Focus on us, Shepard-Julia.”
Breathe. In, out. Count of four. Beat by beat. Footsteps in rhythm. You can do this.
–
Like dust in a sunbeam the bodies of her former crew members float between the ship and the planet, and for a moment she’s thankful they weren’t in armor.
“...We gain complexity by linking together,” she hears, the sound of the geth’s voice finally filtering through the red noise of her brain. “To be isolated within a single platform is to be reduced. We see less. Comprehend less. It is quieter.”
Another door opens. How many have they passed through? Where are they? What’s happening? “If you exchange data– memories–” she hears herself saying, “how do you keep track of which ones are yours? How do you stay ‘you?’”
It looks back at her, eyebrows raised. “There is only ‘we.’”
It continues talking, but Julia isn’t paying attention. The music continues to play in her ears, but her footsteps seem to fall off beat.
John’s thrown against the wall, barely catching Joker. Behind them the mass effect field, their only safety from a near certain death, flickers.
She glances up. They’re standing in front of a giant glass window, beneath which is a large room full of bundled cabling. Suspended from the ceiling is a complex machine, bundles of wiring connecting it to the station like life support tubes. It’s like an alien flower, blooming upside down and grafted onto the ceiling.
Joker’s howling in pain, an untold amount of broken bones rendering him nearly nonfunctional.
“You do not understand,” it says once again.
“What–?” she starts saying to herself. The geth is still talking despite her confusion.
“...Organics do not know each other’s minds. Geth do. We are not suspicious. We accept each other. The heretics desired to leave. We understood their reasons. We allowed it. There was peace between us.”
Julia shakes her head. She’s down two grenades, and three of the emergency heat sinks for the Volkov are gone. Were they shooting at something? “It couldn’t have lasted forever,” she says shakily, trying to keep track of their conversation.
“Human history is a litany of blood shed over differing ideals of rulership and afterlife. Geth have no such history. We shared consensus on such things.”
“This is Reaper technology,” she says quickly, gesturing out the window.
“Yes,” the Geth says. “Nazara likely gave it to them.”
After a moment more, it continues. “How could we have become so different? Why can we no longer understand each other? What did we do wrong?” If Julia didn’t know any better she’d say it sounds sad.
She glances around nervously. “When individuals are separated, they develop in different ways. When they get back together, they don’t always get along.” Her hand flexes around the Volkov’s grip. It’s too quiet in here.
“If this is the individuality you value, we question your judgment.” It glances down at the console. “This matter is irrelevant. We must continue with the task.”
Its hands fly over the console. “The indexing operation will take time. The heretics will respond with force to our upload. We must hold this room.”
Her skin is already warming again, her implants threatening to burn her alive. Blood pounds in her ears. It’s almost intoxicating, the way her body lights up at the prospect of violence. Like she’s drunk. No– it’s different than that.
The first wave of geth pour through the door. The music is in her ears, and the lack of air outside her helmet means she can’t hear the crack of her rifle. The recoil hits her shoulder, and for a moment she believes it’ll break.
It’s only after the third shot that she realizes that her body is compensating. She’s only got light armor on, and a pretty middling set at that, yet somehow the implants know she’s in combat. Her very body is in tune with her weapons.
On instinct she throws herself behind cover as a blast of plasma arcs across the room.
The Talking Geth pops from behind the corner, nailing a shock trooper directly in the eyestalk with a burst of plasma. She can’t help but feel a smile stretching across her face. This is living. The music in her helmet sings to her as she fells another geth.
Projectiles fly through the air, ricocheting off and scorching the walls around her. Her face is hot, and the lights from her heads up display are starting to make her eyes tired. She scrambles across the floor to cover another one of the hallways. She pops out around the corner, expecting to see more geth pouring in through the door–
As something hits her directly in her helmet’s faceplate. Not a projectile, but a blunt object.
Instinctively her eyes slam shut, hoping miraculously that she somehow has been transported into the safety of the escape pod–
Flashes of light cross her vision. Heretics. That’s right. Opening her eyes again, she sees one of the automated defense turrets firing at the Geth Prime towering over her. How she didn’t see the massive synthetic, she doesn’t know.
Another flash of light signals the end of the turret. The Prime turns back to look at her, three eyes glaring over the top of its weapon. Without even realizing it she’s thrown herself up, grabbing the geth’s arm and somehow forcing the barrel away from her. Plasma rips across the floor, lighting up her surroundings but leaving her unscathed.
Heat courses through her limbs as she rips at the hydraulic tubing lining the geth’s trigger hand. The synthetic muscles spasm underneath her grasp, leaving the appendage nonfunctional. Almost immediately she’s slammed into the wall, pinned by the other hand. She claws at the arm, cracking the muscle with each grasp.
Suddenly in her right hand is her sidearm. Its muzzle flashes. She drops to the ground. The geth stumbles back, looking for its missing hand. The muzzle flashes again, four more times. The air shimmers as the kinetic barrier dissipates.
She lunges at it.
The eyeballs continue to dilate. The arms continue to twitch. She slams her fist into the head again, her arm screaming at her distantly. The exoskeletal skin dents and breaks under the impact, sending a happy buzz up through her skull.
Perhaps it’s a trick of the red alarm lights, or her suit’s visor, or some other thing. Some kind of fluid covers her hands, and for a moment she can’t tell if it’s blood or something else. Meat or metal; the nature of decay is the same. The distinction doesn’t matter to her, not in the moment.
“Shepard-Julia,” a voice sounds in her ear.
She scrambles off the corpse"s chest, pistol already aimed at the remaining geth. It stands unfazed at the sight of her.
“That unit is destroyed. We can continue.”
She’s beginning to realize her breath is coming too fast. Her eyes are wired, like they’re going to burst out of her skull. All across her body heat is erupting from the fissures under her skin. Her throat is burning, although from what she can’t figure out. A daze has begun to settle over her.
The Talking Geth has already returned to the console.
“Shepard-Julia,” it repeats again, not taking the time to look at her. “It is time to choose. Do we rewrite the heretics, or delete them?”
“Why are you asking me?” Julia growls, trying to regain her composure. Something unpleasant is happening with her heart. She drags herself up, the energy in her limbs quickly dissipating. “They’re your people.”
Around them are the rapidly disassembled bodies of some forty geth. Was it really that many? That doesn’t matter– more will be on their way if they don’t finish this.
“We are conflicted,” the Geth says from the console, pausing its work. “There is no consensus among our higher-order runtimes. Five hundred seventy-three favor rewrite, and five hundred seventy one favor destruction.”
It steps up to her. Air burns in her lungs. Her heart is still on fire. “Shepard-Julia. You have fought the heretics. You have perspective we lack. The geth grant their fate to you.”
She chokes down another breath of air. “Then blow them up. We have a chance to end this. I won’t waste it.”
“Acknowledged,” it says immediately, all of its flaps canting upwards. Its hands fly over the console. “Collapsing antimatter magnetic bottling mechanisms.”
A light changes red on the display. A moment later, a giant red ring begins closing in around the readout. “Done.” It turns to face her. “We recommend withdrawal.”
It takes off down the hallway. She drags her failing body after it, desperately wishing to crawl out of her own skin.