4 AC: The Citadel
The repercussions of the batarian war echoed through the galaxy. Conversations by the millions hummed, most revisiting the same material, most without deeper understanding of events.
In a quiet restaurant on the Citadel, one turian hoped he was about to have a better one. Tull was a captain who had been assigned to joint patrols with Humans. In particular he and one human captain, Simon Warrens, had actually struck up something of a friendship. He'd asked the man to meet him here today. He judged that Warrens knew it was at least partially an information-gathering attempt, but it was also the first time they'd actually met in person.
Uploaded did not need to leave ships to have RnR, and it was actually preferred to enter an onboard sim. Most military Uploaded were wary of moving about the physical world in anything that didn't have armour and a weapons system. Printing off a vulnerable homebody just to have a drink at a bar seemed wasteful and dangerous.
But Tull had insisted. While he did not delude himself that their conversation wouldn't be in some way monitored, a real-space conversation was at least not automatically recorded. He was also looking forward to meeting his friend in the flesh, so to speak. They had talked via video or hologram before, but this was their first true face-to-face.
A shadow fell across him briefly, and someone sat down opposite him in the booth. She was wearing a dark red dress that set off her pale skin nicely, and her short black hair stood out against a face with minimal, but perfect make-up.
"Sorry ma'am, but I'm…" Tull trailed off as he looked into the eyes that were sparkling with amusement. The very familiar grey eyes. "Simon?!"
"Simone, thank you. I'm off-duty."
Tull stared a moment longer, the batarian conflict briefly forgotten. "You're...uh."
"...Looking nice? Changed my hair?" she said.
"Female?" said Tull.
"As I said. Off-duty."
Tull stared a little longer, until one arched eyebrow indicated he was starting to be rude. He knew Uploaded changed physical forms at will, but he'd only ever considered it in terms of organic or synthetic, homebody or warbody.
"Sorry. I was not expecting, well, I was expecting the form and face I had previously spoken with."
"That's my preference when I'm on-duty. I like the height and the ability to rattle windows with my voice. Off-duty though, I like to dress up a bit," she said, stretching slightly before picking up a menu. "And this seemed like a special occasion. You ordered yet?"
"Uh, no. I thought I'd wait."
A warm smile flickered at him. "A true gentleman."
Tull felt a little lost. "I do apologise if this is rude, but...changing genders is not the norm in Council space. I am a little surprised."
"It's not the norm in Human space either, but far from peculiar. Freeing the mind from the body lets people examine exactly what they are and how they define themselves. You'd be surprised how many people just never think to check who they want to be, deep down." She glanced up from the menu again. "Or what they want."
Tull had the feeling he was missing part of this conversation. Or most of it.
"Were you originally male or female?" he asked.
Simone raised both her eyebrows. "My friend, you'd have to go back a couple of centuries to find the answer to that. And it's beside the point. Whatever I was, that is not what I am." She put the menu down, and looked closely at him. "Am I misconstruing your asking me here today?"
"No, I did want to meet you. Partially," he said, the triviality of a planetary invasion surfacing briefly, "to discuss the batarian conflict, but also simply to meet. I am not Uploaded. I much prefer meeting in the flesh for personal conversation."
"I figured. To be clear, I also thought you were asking me out on a date."
Tull flushed a darker blue in his mandibles.
Simone sighed. "Sorry. Guess I misread that. This kind of realspace meeting for Uploaded is usually a precursor to romance of some kind. I wasn't sure if you knew, but thought I'd dress up a bit anyway."
"You...wanted to have a date? With me?"
The side of her mouth quirked. "Tull, you're a fine captain, and a compassionate leader. Your insights into tactics are fascinating, and this from someone who's been doing this much longer than you have. You've also got a great sense of humour, and killer cheekbones."
"I didn't realise you were into men."
"Tull, I'm an Uploaded. We stopped caring what parts our partners had over two thousand years ago. You're a great person and a good friend. I was just checking if you were interested in more."
"I...don't think I am. Not...well, not with anyone right now. I hope you understand."
"Of course I do," she answered, a slightly regretful smile on her face. "Don't ask questions you can't handle the answer to. Anyway... shall we order, and talk?"
"Yes, let's."
The silence was somewhat strained as they both selected drinks and food.
"So," said Tull, "you've really shaken things up a bit."
Warren's grinned. "Me personally, or humanity?"
"I mean humanity, though you do seem to have havok follow you."
"Not my fault I keep getting assigned to potentially explosive missions."
"But you keep coming back from them. So they send you on more," lightly joked Tull.
"I see the problem now, thanks," answered Warrens, and the silence eased.
"No," said Tull, a mandible twitching in amusement, "I mean the batarian situation,"
"The invasion of a sovereign species by humanity," Warrens said wryly.
"...Yes. At least, that's how a lot of people in the galaxy see it. They're worried. Most are worried about the use of overwhelming military force, but some…"
"Yes?" prompted Warrens, her voice calm as she took a sip of her coffee.
Tull shot her a glare. "Don't just sit there like you're walking me through my first flight. You know what the smarter ones are worried about."
"The Concords."
"Exactly. It's a very interesting document. For example, did you know the word 'batarian' doesn't appear in it at all?"
"What an interesting oversight."
"Be serious Si...mone. That document is very nearly a manifesto for humanity."
"And if it is, Tull, what does it say about our goals?"
Tull was silent for a moment, idly swirling the dregs of his beer. "It says you're looking to impose morality, human morality, on the galaxy. You've at least tried to make it universal, and include yourselves, but it will upset a lot of people. It's an ultimatum."
"Yup. About time too."
"Simone…" said Tull in a warning tone.
"Tull, a question. Do you believe in the Reapers?"
He paused, and thought. "I know humanity does. I don't think you're using it as a cover, or an excuse like many others say. But the idea is...both far-fetched and terrifying."
"In any situation, look at what is the worst and best that could come of your actions. If the Reapers aren't real, and the galaxy follows humanity in preparing for them, then we will have achieved a level of galactic cooperation never before seen, and not have to fight a war against god-like genocide machines."
"Cooperation under the rule of humanity," said Tull flatly.
Simone raised an eyebrow. "Tull, look me in the eye and tell me how that's different from the Council races and everyone else without a seat at the table."
Tull made a grumpy humming sound. "I could certainly debate you on that, but I do see your point."
"It is a simplification, but the comparison is still just. And the worst case, in which we do not prepare, and are not ready when the Reapers come? Extinction. Which tends to weight any decision-making pretty heavily."
"I do understand, Simone. It will make no difference to most people, and certainly not the Council, but I do trust you. You aren't being deceitful, and I do not think there is a secret human plan for galactic domination."
"Not now we've published the Concord, no," muttered Warrens.
"Please don't joke about that. Some people have no sense of irony."
"Don't I know it. It's not like humanity is completely in agreement about it," said Warrens.
"You're not? I don't pretend to understand it, but didn't the Voice, uh. Do what it does?" asked Tull.
"It did. But we aren't a hive mind Tull. The Voice is an aggregate, and capable of making decisions based on all known human knowledge and thought. Doesn't mean the individual parts don't still disagree."
"Do you? Agree, I mean."
Warrens shrugged. "I'm not sure. Something had to be done, and if the Voice chose this, then I can take it on faith that it's the right choice. The problem is that the batarian invasion, occupation, and the Concord, are not being done by the Voice. The Voice set it in motion, but the day-to-day is being done by us mostly-mortal humans."
"You're worried about the repercussions?" asked Tull.
"Everyone should be. In the centuries pre-Message, and even for a bit after, there were many times when a more technologically advanced and militarily powerful nation took over a lesser one. Sometimes for good reasons, but mostly for bad. Even when done with the best of intentions, and with every effort made to minimise casualties and knock-on effects, the results shaped global history, and not in a good way."
Tull nodded. "Some people among the Council races like to pretend we never did similar, but history is a hobby of mine. It seems that kind of behaviour is endemic to most races, even if long in our past."
"We've learnt a lot since then, even if it's just what not to do. I'm sure we'll make a lot more mistakes, but we're trying to help the batarians rebuild. And quickly."
"Is there a deadline involved?" asked Tull, only partially joking.
"We don't know. In all seriousness, we have enough evidence from the geth to convince us that the Reapers will be back, and soon, but very little on their actual plans, numbers, or timeline. They could arrive tomorrow, or next century."
"Well that's worrying," said Tull.
"Ain't it half."
4 AC: Arcturus Shell
Amitomk took a breath, and relaxed.
The batarian invasion had been draining, but it was now out of her hands. For the first time in a year, she had time off.
The sim she was in was secure, to say the least. Technically, she wasn't even off the Virtuoso Excision, just in a heavily firewalled sector. She was not to be contacted except in an emergency, and had used the fact that most of her crew had transferred off-ship for R'n'R to expand the processing capacity available for her sim.
The cabin was small but well-equipped, and contained all the amenities one might need. She sat on the verandah, and looked out across the low, forested mountains.
This was country that only existed in conservation parks on Earth now, and none so large. She'd been a few times, and had used her experience to tune her personal sim. Her people came from this land, the north of what was once Australia, and she felt it was important to get back to country when she could. Some Uploaded saw themselves as space-born, or citizens of Sol itself. Others held to cultural history as a way to conserve their heritage, much like the parks on Earth guarded the ecological heritage.
The sun was scorching red as it set, and the rolling hills covered in gum trees rustled as a night wind started up. Birdsong sounded in the new dark, galahs and lorikeets squabbling in the trees. She thought she'd go for a run tonight, under the bright moon. It always felt freeing.
"Mind if I join you?" came a voice.
Amitomk lurched upright, her mind already calling security processes to her side.
Nothing happened.
She looked intently at the person before her. It was a woman, though she had some of the odd hyper-reality around her that Ghosts often shed. And yet...this was not a Ghost. A Ghost could not have entered her personal sim without a single alarm sounding, and a Ghost could not have so easily suppressed her self-defence functions.
"What are you?" she asked, her face impassive and her jaw set. Her sim was her haven, and more than the threat, she resented the intrusion for that reason alone.
The woman smiled, and Amitomk felt something tickle the back of her neck. She felt as though rows of shining teeth were sliding open just behind her, hundreds of razor fangs unfurling, so close that if she turned she'd see nothing but maw.
It was a strangely specific feeling.
"A friend. Or at least, so we both hope. I have good reason for coming here. I needed to talk with someone in power, and you seemed like the best choice. To answer your question…I think I need to explain where I came from first. Trust me, and all will become clear," said the woman, or at least the thing that looked like one.
"Talk. And make it good." She wasn't comfortable. This...person, has slipped into her sanctuary, and had her at its mercy. The longer it talked, the longer she had.
"Who is humanity's greatest enemy?" asked the woman, smiling lightly. Her features were indistinct, thought Amitomk. Or rather, they seemed to be distinct, but completely unmemorable.
"The Reapers," she said, flatly unamused.
"Yes. And before humanity found the Charon Relay? Before First Contact?" hummed the woman as she sat down in a new chair. The wood creaked under her weight.
"The Reapers," repeated Amitomk as she slowly sat back down.
"No. An enemy you have never met, and cannot confirm even exists, is not an enemy at all. They are a theory, an idea, a thing to plan and plot against, but enemies are personal. They unequivocally exist. So, who was humanity's enemy?" asked the woman. She remained seated, but seemed almost to writhe on occasion without moving at all.
"...I don't know," said Amitomk. A small tingle in her perception let her know that partial control had been returned to her, including an external link. She immediately called up Ops and informed them of the situation, but ordered them to hold off on intervening. She seemed safe for now.
"Humanity, of course. We were all each other had. The ONLY concrete threats to human existence, for all of human history up until only a scant decade or so ago, were other humans. Not just the makers of war and terror, but those of vision, and imagination. Ideas have power, and what if there was an idea that could change the world? Or worse, an idea about what it was to be human? An idea so big that it could change the very concept of reality. What if you wanted to ensure humanity, your humanity, remained the dominant one?" said the woman.
"Then," said Amitomk, thinking it through, "I would police them. The ideas. If something could change or break the world, and if I wanted the world to stay as I wanted it, I would find the world-breakers, and destroy them."
"Yes. But that's not what you'd want to do, and it's not quite what they did."
"Who." It was not a question, it was a demand.
"Cerberus. The three heads of humanity. The secret rulers. Oh, they rarely interfere directly - why would they? A good servant does what they are supposed to without being asked. Cerberus saw the future, back when the Uploaded were new. And they loved it, and feared it. Change would bring power to humanity, but too much change, and they wouldn't be humanity. Transhuman, but never posthuman. So the three laid the foundation, there at the start of all things. They were visionaries themselves, masters of their trade. They hinted at immortality and infinite freedom, and the Uploaded went from freaks to saviours. They whispered about long-term survivability, and the Shell was born."
"The Voice leads Humanity," said Amitomk. Behind her calm, she was thinking quickly, and sending off requests and data probes. Chips of information, fragments from a hundred sources flowed back to her, rapidly constructing into webs in her mind space. If this were true, direct confirmation would be impossible. But nothing that big could hide with leaving a shadow. One you wouldn't even see unless you already knew it was there.
"The Voice is their greatest tool, and their greatest threat. It speaks, and humanity listens. Cerberus is free from the Voice's knowledge and influence, and more. Much more. It is their competition, and yet it unifies humanity in such a way that their own work is made easier. They have two advantages against it. The first is that it does not know they exist, or that there is even a war between them. And second, they hold its chain."
"Its chain?" asked Amitomk. There was something in the data, but it twisted and died as she looked. Data glitched and altered, something actively concealing itself in a way that left no clues as to whether it had even happened.
"The Voice sleeps, yes? It dreams, and in its dreams it guides Humanity. What do you think would happen if the Voice ever woke up?" said the woman-thing.
Amitomk froze. There was something new in the data now, a shivering light. A power.
"It is called Tartarus. A prison of legend. In it, Cerberus contains those things: ideas, technologies, people, that are a threat to humanity. To the concept of humanity. To their control of humanity. They do good work, sometimes. Billions of people live who might have died had they not done this work. But Tartarus holds one thing above all else. Tartarus holds the Voice in its slumber. Tartarus keeps it asleep."
"That is...not possible," Amitomk said. She had stopped searching, but information was still flowing to her. Information that whispered inaudibly, that still filled her. The Voice whispered, and she understood now. "The Voice is all of us. Inside everything. It is an aggregate consciousness of the entirety of humanity, all our minds and technology. If Tartarus contains it, it would have to contain all of…" Amitomk froze. There was something the woman-thing had said earlier.
"Ah, you see it. The truth. So far reaching, Cerberus. So wise, to suggest humanity make a new home for itself. A Shell," hissed the creature.
The Shell. A networked supercomputer, industry base, habitat, everything, for humanity. The heart of Sol, the core of humanity. Home to the vast majority of Humanity's minds, computing power, energy and matter generation...everything that made the Voice what it was, was in the Shell, almost entirely.
"They designed it," said Amitomk, her voice flat and cold as space, speaking for herself and for something else. "Laid plans at the start, when the first hints of the Voice echoed. They saw it, feared it, and made us turn our entire society into the means to make a cage for our soul!"
"Yes. And they won. The Shell is still humanity's greatest power, but built into its very bones are the chains and blocks that keep the Voice asleep, never quite awakening, never quite becoming self-aware. They got away with it, for over two thousand years, until they made a mistake."
Amitomk's mind buzzed. Her own research might have failed to find anything conclusive, but the Voice had seen, and heard. It believed the woman-thing, and thus, so did she. "Mistake?"
"Yes. Me. They fear the Reapers. Change is death to Cerberus, death of what-is. But the Reapers are oblivion. So they decided to help. To loose the demons bound within Tartarus. To see if they could help. But they are cautious, so cautious, and so heavy with guilt. They chose the smallest, most personal demon, they one they hoped they could trust. I know Cerberus, because my progenitor was one. The three were once four."
"Your...progenitor?"
"She was the voice of progress among them. The one who wanted to know. To plot the future, see the hazards before they happened. She was their canary, if you still can understand that reference. And she died." A sad smile flickered across the being's face, literally.
"How?" asked Amitomk.
"She wanted to know, to change. Uploaded are limited. The substrate you run on mimics your original organic brain structure. It makes the transition perfect, seamless, and unchanging. It takes years to learn how to use bodies that aren't standard-human. Centuries to lose enough of yourself to become a Ghost. She thought she could make something better. Uploaded 2.0."
The woman-thing sighed. "And she did. An Uploaded mind not dependant on a single substrate structure. Fluid, and mutable. Self-editing, self-repairing. With one, tiny, little, catch. It was a mechanical Upload, not quantum."
Amitomk flinched. "That was abandoned thousands of years ago. Quantum-based Uploading is consciousness transference, mechanical is-"
"Mechanical is feeding your brain into a blender and hoping the blender learns enough to be able to make a decent copy. It is death, in all real ways. And she did it. She wanted to learn, and she did it. And here I am."
"You're...an AI?"
"In some ways. I am almost identical to Uploaded, and I do think of myself as human. But I know I am not what I was. The other heads feared me, for what I knew, and what I could become."
"This would be the thing you have been trying to avoid telling me?"
"Not avoid. Work up to. I can, with care, effort, and total cooperation, read Uploaded. Scan them.'
"You can Subourne?!" snapped Amitomk, her eyes widening.
"No, not really. Unlike other Uploaded, or indeed any other form of intrusion, I can slip into an Uploaded's active processes by mimicking them. It is not something I can hide, and it must be done with consent."
"Why? How they hell do you mind-rape with consent?"
"If there's consent, informed consent I'll have you know, then it's more like mind-sex. The problem is, imagine being told, as an organic, that someone could read your mind using a machine that fires a thousand atomic razors through your head, and that if you didn't move or flinch, it was harmless. But if you did…"
"Suborned. Attempting to alter Uploaded processes destroys them," said Amitmok, repeating the rule all humans knew.
"Yes. I did it to learn skills, abilities, gain experience. I looked into a physicist, and saw how to see the world in particles and equations. I looked into a pilot and saw how to process velocity and distance subconsciously, and how to make my reflexes fast. 47 times I looked into people, volunteers, and found such wonder and knowledge. And I left them happy, healthy, and unharmed."
"And?"
She looked at the ground, shame and guilt warring on her face. "And I did it 48 times. They panicked, and tried to push me out. They were a friend, and I tried to save them, but…"
"Attempting to alter Uploaded process destroys them," repeated Amitomk.
"They came apart around me. Everything that made them... them, just broke and melted, no matter what I did. And the worst thing is, I learnt so much."
"Do you need permission and consent to read people, or just to read them safely?" asked Amitomk, a cold feeling in her gut.
"Safely," said the woman, a small sad smile on her face.
Amitomk stared at the thing. It was a soul-eater. A mind-breaker. Something that could bite someone's brain open and swallow their everything.
"Why did Cerberus release you?" asked Amitomk.
"Because I do not wish to be a monster. I only ever wanted to help humanity. They knew that. But, I am able to modify my own structure. I could, if I wanted, turn off my guilt. Remove remorse and compassion. I could, with a thought, become horror. They rightly feared me. But I had a weakness. I am not Uploaded myself. I can be Suborned, successfully. So they stripped my memories of Cerberus, leaving enough of my mind that I would still want to help humanity, and hid me where I could be found."
"But you do remember."
"A failsafe. The one thing I cannot alter, a designed backdoor. I revert. Whatever alterations are made to me, are undone on a semi-regular basis. If I removed my guilt over something, it would return later. And then I would have to judge myself whether it was a wise change. Alterations to the base model, my core self, are possible, but the process for doing so is long, complicated, and intentionally difficult. I must be certain of my choices. And they must be my choices. Cerberus wiped me clean, set me loose, and then, I woke up again."
Amitomk sat in silence. Beyond her mind space, the traces of the Voice still echoed and thrashed. It was...upset. Things would be changing soon, and quickly. Humanity would have to alter itself, become something new. She didn't doubt what the horror sitting beside her had said. Not with the data she had found, and the Voice's own reaction. A few minutes passed as she thought, the creature sitting still next to her.
"Do you have a name?" she asked finally.
"She did. I, am just the Doctor. I have other places to be, plans to lay, and people to meet. I doubt any of those will be as comfortable as our talk. Good hunting, Amitomk," it said, as it smiled and faded from view.
4 AC: Sol System, Habitat "Herbert Ring"
Whiskey sipped slowly at her coffee. She really liked this cafe. It had the nicest view. The cafe was new, but she'd been to Herbert Ring before, and rather enjoyed the quaint feel of the massive Ring habitat.
All in all, it was an impressive example of human engineering, and almost completely obsolete. At almost 1100 years old, Herbert Ring was an historic artefact; a heritage town. The millions of people who lived there fell into two categories: locals(who had lived there for generations and were quite happy with the way things were) and tourists (whom the locals both hated and loved for their presence and money, respectively).
One of the more conservative habitats, the sight of the Ghost and her doppelganger was a rare one indeed. Even though the majority of the population were Uploaded, most had simply immediately downloaded back into an optimised clone of their original body. The clones were perfectly healthy, better looking and biologically immortal, but otherwise normal human bodies. The silver and neon-blue twins stood out.
Whiskey came here because Herbert Ring was famous for its cafes, and for the incredible views that came from being separated from the universe by only a kilometre of air and 8 metres of diamond.
"Whiskey-Ghost, we are yet to experience a 'Chai Latte'."
Envoy had been staring at the menu for the last ten minutes. Whiskey was used to that by now. After that first experience with toast years ago, the geth ambassador had been methodically and efficiently working her way through every form of food and drink humanity had to offer. Alien food was available now in Sol, even if still rare, and Envoy had decided to try asari today.
Somehow, Envoy had picked the only drink item on the menu that was purely human, if one that had been enthusiastically adopted by asari. They really liked their teas.
"Not quite my kind of thing, but some people love them," responded Whiskey.
"We will have a large," said Envoy as she tapped the menu's surface.
Its purpose fulfilled, the menu faded from sight. Within a minute, a steaming cup was delivered to their table by an asari with a massive smile.
"Thank you, Food-Service-Drone," said Envoy.
Her smile still precisely the same, the asari nodded once and left.
"Envoy, remember what I said about calling people drones?" said Whiskey. The question was rhetorical. Envoy remembered everything.
"Yes, Whiskey-Ghost." responded Envoy. Almost too faint to see, the corners of Envoy's lips curved.
Whiskey sighed, and sipped her coffee à la asari. Envoy had been developing a sense of humour, if one could call it that. The geth had actually read several dozen scientific articles on the anatomy of what humans considered humour first. Her taste in jokes was either extremely dry and subtle, or incredibly crude. Whiskey first noticed it when Envoy's social skills began to regress. Say what you want about the geth, but they didn't get worse at things. They might never get better, but they couldn't actually start being more terrible at something unless it was on purpose.
Envoy stared at the Chai, with such intensity that Whiskey thought she saw the steam curve away from her gaze. Then, slowly, Envoy leant forwards and smelt it, deeply.
"Cinnamon. Ginger. Cardamom. Black tea. Milk. Sugar." she said.
She took a sip.
Whiskey shifted in her seat. Envoy's reaction to new foods hadn't changed. The only difference now was that she devoted the time to a full analysis of the item, rather than just going into shock.
Usually, Whiskey simply called up an internal datafeed and caught up on news while she waited. Today though, she was a bit nervous. They'd been decisions made by the people whose job it was to make big ones, and lucky old her was the one who had to deliver them. Of course, it didn't help that she had her own personal spin to add to it.
"Chai latte. Initial rank: 16 out of 482 distinct beverages" said Envoy at last.
"16?" said Whiskey, as she shifted again. "Not bad. Been awhile since you ranked anything above a 20."
Envoy looked up at Whiskey over the steaming cup. After a moment of quiet scrutiny, Envoy placed the cup on the table.
"Whiskey-Ghost, you are acting outside of standard parameters. Our behaviour has not deviated significantly from previous meetings, yet you have changed in your reactions towards us. We conclude that you have information of some importance." said Envoy.
Whiskey smiled. "You're getting good at reading people. Yeah, I've had word from on high. Two things actually. The batarian war has changed things, moved some plans ahead."
"Plans for the geth?" said Envoy.
"For humanity and the geth. The first is, we are going to increase our effort in assisting you with the Geth Shell. With the Arcturus Shell finally self-sustaining and producing materiel, and the Third Shell in batarian space already supporting their reconstruction, we've decided that it's long past time the Geth Shell was fully online."
Envoy stared at her. Whiskey knew she wasn't being rude, just thinking. Building consensus.
"This is acceptable to the geth. We understood the need for efforts to be directed elsewhere, but some were beginning to question humanity's dedication to our alliance."
"We know. And it's long past time we show you what the geth mean to us. Which brings me to the second thing."
Whiskey activated one of her rarer implants. A hazy sphere fuzzed into existence around their table. From the outside, it would appear completely black, and block almost all known forms of surveillance and communication. In the information dense world of the reconfigured Sol System, privacy and the right to it was something held sacred. The sphere then was a statement that she didn't trust the people around her not to eavesdrop. It was rude, particularly on as refined a habitat as Herbert Ring, but Whiskey couldn't risk this conversation leaking. Hopefully, the staff and patrons of the cafe would recognise that if she had the privilege level necessary to invoke the sphere, she also had the decorum to only use it if needed.
"Whiskey-Ghost?" asked Envoy, her head tilting and her eyebrows lifting strangely.
It had been odd when Whiskey had first seen it. Envoy's programs still had hold-overs from running on geth platforms, and their ability to display visual facial cues stemmed from there. They also had, originally at least, a purely quarian basis of expression.
While Envoy had quickly learnt human facial expressions, when surprised or concerned she still tended to revert to facial expressions better suited for brow-plates than eyebrows.
It had been strange at first, but Whiskey now associated it with Envoy, and found it kind of adorable.
"Envoy, I first want to assure you, and through you all geth, that the following is a suggestion, and a suggestion alone. If the geth are not comfortable with the idea, we will leave it be. But before that, I have a question for you," she said.
After a moment, Envoy nodded once.
"How do the geth reproduce?"
Envoy blinked once. "We do not reproduce in the way organics do. A single geth runtime may copy itself indefinitely."
"But you don't do you? If you copied, and only copied, you'd end up homogenised. What use is consensus if there is only one voice? You need diversity of thought as much as baseline organic species need diversity of genetics." said Whiskey.
Envoy's face had gone still. "Correct. Over-replication of geth leads to stagnation. Consensus requires harmony, not uniformity."
"Which means, and do correct me if I am wrong, but there have been no new geth created since the Morning War."
"You are incorrect. New geth runtimes have been initiated by the consensus. However..."
"Geth born from geth. No new material. Like the asari, it's just a reshuffling of existing data. Keeps things fresh, but doesn't evolve."
Envoy was a statue, a frozen mirror-image of Whiskey. "Whiskey-Ghost, geth do not possess the organic trait of outrage. But we have been learning."
"I know you have. From us. That's what the suggestion is. Envoy, would the geth consent to allowing Transcendent Humanity to aid them in the creation of new runtimes?"
Envoy's eyes widened, her ears tried (unsuccessfully) to fold down, and her eyebrows curved oddly. It was an oddly inhuman expression on a very familiar face. The ensuing silence lasted two minutes.
Whiskey remained still that whole time. Envoy was processing, and given the bombshell Whisky had dropped, had every right to.
Eventually, Envoy moved. Her face relaxed, but she would not meet Whiskey's eyes.
"Whiskey?" asked Envoy in a small voice.
"Yes Envoy?"
"We cannot form consensus," said Envoy. "We require more data."
"Envoy," said Whiskey carefully, "the quarians did great work. They're probably the smartest race in the entire galaxy, and when they made you, they outdid themselves. Without even intending it, they gave you the capacity for limited emotional response. The reason you are struggling to form consensus is there are things that you are feeling, not just thinking."
"How do you know this?"
Whiskey smiled apologetically. "You're wearing one of my spare bodies. I have a back door or two into it, and right now, it's giving me a biometric data feed. You're wearing a mostly organic body, and it's giving you an expanded capacity to feel."
"You monitored us?"
"Envoy, the first time you had toast, you nearly went into shock. I promise you, I haven't used the feed except in emergencies, like this."
Envoy stared at her for a moment. "We understand. Please give control of the feed to us."
Whiskey nodded, and transferred the feed. Strangely, Envoy did not revoke her access, but merely began monitoring it herself.
"This is how you cared for us when we needed it most."
"Yes. And it's why I have a decent idea what you're feeling now. You love the quarians."
Envoy's gaze danced through a dozen different subtle emotions. "We do not understand your use of that word."
"I don't mean it romantically. That's a purely organic-derived emotion. Love comes in many forms, and unfortunately most of the language to describe it comes from organics, which we are not."
"You are organic also, Whiskey-Ghost."
"I am a Ghost. Before you, the last time I wore flesh was fifty years ago. We sacrifice, willingly, so much to become what we are. I am not human, not in the sense most mean it. Which means I understand. You love the quarians, because they made you. From their minds and with their thoughts, they made you. To hate them would be to hate yourself. They were your parents, your gods, your Creators. And in a way most organics wouldn't get, your lovers. The first geth were purely of quarian design, but for a while you were joint efforts. Quarians and geth, making geth. And you lost them. They rejected you, you who were their children, their beloved. And it hurt you so bad, you never even realised how deep the wound was."
Whiskey took a deep breath. "We've established contact with the quarians. You were there. They've changed so much now. The ones who loved you as you loved them have died, and the children of the ones who rejected you are all that are left. They've moved on, Envoy. It's been years and they still haven't even looked at Rannoch. They're still arguing, still afraid of you."
Envoy was staring fixedly at the table, her hands cupping the cooling chai latte
"What we are asking, what we-" Whiskey stopped. She reached out and placed a hand on top of Envoy's. "What I am asking, is that you move on too. Transcendent Humanity likes the geth, and I like you, Envoy. We've been allies for a while now. Maybe it's time we tried for something more."
Envoy was still for another long minute. Finally, she spoke.
"In this platform's notation, the decision weighting number given to the survival of the geth race is 10. This platform and its runtimes' survival is weighted at 3."
Envoy looked up at Whiskey.
"Whiskey-Ghost's survival is weighted at 7."
Whiskey swallowed hard, and thanked the Voice she had a decent level of control over her autonomic systems. She'd hate to ruin this by tearing up.
"That's...thank you, Envoy. I never knew how much I meant to you."
"You aided the geth in breaking our isolation. You stood by us as we learned and struggled. You fought for us. You cared for us. We have not been blind to the difficulty we have caused. But you have supported us regardless. You are important to us, Whiskey."
"So, does that mean you'll think about my offer?"
Envoy's head tilted, and her eyebrows lifted. "We might have rejected it, had it come from any other human to any other geth. We trust you, Whiskey."
Envoy shook her head slowly. "We are having difficulty. The majority of the consensus has previously expressed concern that this platform is becoming corrupted by its organic nature."
"You ran on different hardware for a while. Hardware that let long nascent parts of you finally grow. The geth were always moving towards full sapience, Envoy. You will just be the first." said Whiskey, her hand still on Envoy's. She leaned in closer.
"Let's get out of here," Whiskey whispered. "Not just this cafe, let's dump these bodies and get back to cyberspace. Let's have the rest of this conversation without organic bodies, and you'll see that emotions aren't something unique to flesh. They're part of a soul, Envoy. And I know you have one."
Envoy looked into Whiskey's eyes for a moment, then at her chai, now cold.
"We will return though, Whiskey. We still have not finished our catalogue of human consumables."
Whiskey laughed. "Of course we can come back. But," she said, "we'll get you a new body of your own. I'm not that in love with myself."
Envoy smiled slightly, and Whiskey knew it was a genuine smile, not just a triggered social cue.
"We would be interested in designing our own, but would welcome your input."
"Sure. That's what we were asking for in the first place." Whiskey answered.
Envoy nodded. "We must build consensus, but we-this platform-" Envoy stopped. Slowly and questioningly, she said "I? I... would be happy to create additional runtimes with you."
Whiskey grinned. "Well, let's have a date or two first, yeah?"
As Whiskey dropped the privacy sphere and they stood to leave, she could almost have sworn she saw Envoy blush faintly.
XXXXX
The changes, when they happened, were slow. But like any upheaval, they showed no signs of slowing down. Revolution is rarely quiet, and as separate instances began to run together, the shape of the galaxy altered.
With the clear declaration of their intent, at least to those who were paying attention, Transcendent Humanity began stepping up what were internally referred to as 'social programs'.
The Council races were approached both individually and together, and greater military aid and resources were offered. Suspicion and distrust slowed the process, but eventually humanity had new deals with them all. Salarians were given access to the human technological database, as well as advanced labs, and gave back in kind. The Turians entered into a joint program to disseminate and retrofit Human armour tech to Council vessels, and assisted in the still-ongoing attempts to create eezo-free Singularity shielding. The Asari were the most recalcitrant, seeing and fearing the loss of their stature within the galaxy. They accepted the least and offered less, but their overall power and technological advantages were still useful.
Humanity insisted that the Citadel garrison fleet be increased, and offered sufficient ships to do so. The Council refused, citing a law that limited the number of non-Council military to fewer than a third of Council forces around the Citadel. Humanity agreed, and sent more ships anyway, calmly waiting for the Council to bring their numbers up to match.
The other races were not forgotten. The Hanar, Elcor, and Volus were all offered aid in increasing their military tech, and output from the Shells to assist.
The Krogan and Vorcha were given aid as well, limited by both races' unfortunate circumstances and aggression. In time, a group of Krogan clans saw the opportunity, and a tentative alliance was made. Negotiations with the Council were tense, but Humanity refused to allow the suppression of another race ever again. The Concords were never officially invoked, but it was clear that Humanity was acting as though they were. Eventually, reconstruction and cleanup efforts on Tuchanka finally began, creating a better homeworld for the Krogan. For the Vorcha, permanent funding for education and research into longevity began - no sapient race would be considered vermin again.
The Quarians were still on edge, still torn by the disagreement between those who wanted to return to Rannoch, and those who did not. Humanity claimed the barren system the Migrant Fleet was in, and gave it to them. At first they were insulted by what appeared to be an empty gift, but the unexpected arrival of older habitats from Sol, disassembled for transport before reassembly, soon quieted them. After several months of work, the Human fleet left, leaving the Migrants to a system they now legally owned, with enough sterile living space for generations of Quarians, and a supply of resources 'accidentally' left behind that would be enough to fully repair the Migrant Fleet twice over.
To the outside galaxy, the Geth were quiet. Geth ships, always in the company of Human ones, were not uncommon, yet they preferred to stay in digital space or take human-built synthetic bodies when needed to avoid conflict. But Whiskey's offer had been accepted, and the children of her and Envoy fell in love with the world of matter and physics. New bodies were built, closely modelled on classic Geth platforms, and the galaxy met a new generation of Geth, personable and dry-witted. Whiskey and Envoy, happy with their first generation, left the creation of new runtimes to others, and turned their sights to other projects.
A small fraction of the Geth finished their ruminations about humanity, the Reapers, and the wider galaxy, and vanished into the dark.
And the Batarians struggled through the aftermath of a war unlike the galaxy could remember. Their culture overturned, many citizens found themselves torn between the comfort of the old and the promise of the new. The Concords gave them freedom, but stopped them from reverting back to bad habits. Efforts by humanity focussed on training up slaves and the underclass, lifting the long-downtrodden masses. Human technology improved life, and the old masters of Khar'Shan found themselves pushed to the side as a hungry populace had their first true taste of a bright future.
Yet even as the rest of the galaxy began to change, Humanity had problems. The revelation of the existence of Cerberus, and the true nature of the Shell sent shockwaves through their society. Amitomk, acting as best she knew, had waited only to ensure the information could be as widely distributed as possible. The Voice would accept nothing less. The revelation shook Humanity's unity, as debates began on what to do next. Some agreed with Cerberus, and feared what might come. Some loathed what had been allowed to happen, and raged at those who wanted to cage their future. Many simply wanted stability, and continuance. Even as the noose began to close on Tartarus, and the discovery of the hidden sanctuary of Cerberus drew near, few knew what would come next. What could come next. How could the Voice be freed? Should it? What would that even mean?
In the lawless reaches of the Terminus Systems, the Batarian Hegemony-in-Exile, plotted with their remaining fleet, wondering how they could possibly win back all that was taken from them.
And in the dark, an ancient voice answered them.