"Your times is at an end," said the Intelligence. "You must decide."
Shepard stared into the eyes of the projection, searching for any hint of deception, but they were unreadable.
Synthesis – the Intelligence claimed it was the ideal solution, but that was an assessment coming from the thing responsible for millions of years of organic extermination. There was no way to know what it would truly mean for organic and synthetic to become one. The closest example she'd seen so far were the Reaper troops, and although she had no problem imagining it being the Intelligence's notion of the manifestation of perfection, it was out of the question.
Control sounded like a trap. Sure, according to the Intelligence, she would become the Reapers, but that meant it would no longer be her, not really. It was sold as control, but it seemed more like assimilation, and at the end of it, the Reapers would have gained all the insight they could obtain from her mind; Liara's data caches, the Alliance's plan B's, and an improved understanding of organic psyche – and not the good kind of understanding. The cyclic hunt would be perfected.
Destroy seemed most straightforward of the three, but no more respectable. Killing the geth – and EDI, of course – wasn't victory. It was a perversion, and in a sense, it would mean the Reapers had won, thinking and acting like them, participating in the calculus of war. It would be a diminishment of sentient life, stripping it of what makes it valuable: spirit. It was the spirit, the tension between reason and impulse, that gave rise to free will and hope.
Free will and hope…
It was something the Intelligence clearly lacked, and despite its immense power and might, here it was, negotiating with a measly human. Had she not been surrounded by the sight of ships being blown to bits and Earth being bombarded by Reaper cannons, it would have been amusing, considering how different the old machines seemed compared to when she had first spoken to Harbinger back on Virmire.
This cycle had stopped their surprise attack through the Citadel, destroyed their shortcut relay, built the Crucible, and managed to unite – both organic and synthetic – under more or less a singular alliance. The Intelligence's solution was failing, but it was stuck on a pair of rails built by the misguided Leviathans and couldn't change course on its own. It needed her, because, although perhaps not in this cycle, or the next, or even the one after, it knew, eventually, a cycle was bound to succeed.
She remembered Harbinger's words. We impose order on the chaos of organic evolution.
Chaos – the machine had spoken of the phenomena as if it were a disadvantage. It was, at times, but that was the thing about randomness. No matter how rigged the game was, if you played for millions of years, the house eventually lost.
"No," Shepard said. "We're going to end this war on our terms."
"Then you will die knowing that you failed to save everything you fought for."
"We'll die together," she corrected, "knowing we fought for freedom and the right to choose our own fate."
The Intelligence paused. "You are making a mistake. You have to compromise."
Shepard's thoughts went to Liara, and a specific memory came to mind, when she'd shown her an old human comic book – one of her favourites. The archaeologist had pored over it, and together they'd spent the night flipping through the pages, and just talking about things. It had been a glimpse into a life they'd always wanted, but as things had played out, something they'd never have.
But the hope was enough.
She faltered, recognising that she was in fact extinguishing that hope for trillions of people, hope that they had put into the Crucible and each other – but they would find another way. They always did.
"No. Not even in the face of Armageddon," Shepard replied. "Never compromise."
The holo's expression remained blank, but its voice became Harbinger's, as if it had been disguising itself the whole time, lulling her with its imitation of the kid. "So be it."