Chapter Fourteen

Compressed gases flare brightly against the blackness of space, the edges of the flames licking at the vacuum. The sound of their firing is devoured as the Normandy turns, a silent dancer, the smallest pinpoint in the ballet of the stars. Her prow swings and she pirouettes, tiptoe poised on nothing, thousands of tons of metal exalting in their weightlessness. Deep in her core, electricity crackles along banks of element zero. The Normandy's heart beats. Reality bends. And far off in some reach of the afterlife, in some realm of benevolent possibility, a man named Albert Einstein smiles and shakes his head.

Legion sits cross-legged on the engineering table, making the final adjustments to its transmitter. It moves its omni-tool over the small device's surface. Tendrils of energy arc between it and the transmitter, coaxing tiny wires and leads into place.

Legion realizes the strangeness of the situation. It is sitting here peacefully, shields deactivated, next to the Geth's hereditary enemy. Of course, the new Geth have no reason to fight the Quarians, but there is no denying the two species' history. Legion is probably the first geth to have this kind of interaction with a Quarian, ever. It should seem wrong and frightening, but Legion feels only excitement, the pleasure of discovery. Do other geth feel this? Have any ever tried?

It notices the way the Quarian stands, arms crossed, defensive. There's something else, though, in the way she stares so fixedly at Legion's work. Curiosity, thinks Legion, pleased with itself. It looks up from its task, raising one of its face plates inquisitively.

Tali sees his look and shakes her head. "Sorry, I—I've just never seen tech like that before. In the geth we, um, dissected, everything was always much simpler."

Legion lowers its head, reconnecting the last sensor. "Yes, that is to be expected. The Geth and the Heretics have evolved separately since the schism."

"You really evolve then?" asks Tali. "Is that possible?"

"Not by natural selection, of course," says Legion. "The process might be called adaptive intelligent creation. Deficiencies are noted. Improvements are discovered. Changes are made. The Geth evolve. That is why it is foolish to worship a god. The Geth know where we come from. We make ourselves, decide our own purpose."

Tali tips her head to one side, as if digesting the information. After a moment she says, "How can you do that? How can you always know what you're supposed to do, what's right to do?"

"The collective decides. We set goals. We do what is best for the Geth. That is what is right. That is our purpose. Is that not how all species act?"

Tali shakes her head. "No. We don't all act together like that. We all want different things. Everyone makes their own choices."

"Then how do you know your own purpose?"

"I don't know. I suppose we're always trying to find it." She is silent for a moment. "You could say that is the purpose of our lives, to find a meaning. Sometimes you do, and sometimes you don't."

Legion considers this. It strikes it as a pointless and bleak existence. It holds out the transmitter box to Tali. "Please reinsert this into our chassis, Tali'Zorah. We will guide you through the installation." It calculates for a moment. "You may scan the technology if you wish to study it."

Tali takes the box. "Isn't that dangerous?" she asks. "The Quarians could use it against you."

"They would not. The Quarians are allied with the Geth. We have decided this already."

"No, that was me agreeing not to shoot you. I don't speak for my whole species."

"But the Quarians are not at war with the Geth," says Legion patiently. "They are at war with the Heretics. This has been explained. Therefor, alliance between Quarians and the Geth is logical."

Tali scowls behind her visor. "Fine, but what about us, right here? I could still decide to attack you."

"You would not," says Legion patiently. "Alliance between the Quarians and Geth is logical. Conflict is illogical."

"I'm not 'the Quarians,' I'm an individual person!" says Tali. "You don't have alliances between two people, because it's logical. It just doesn't work that way."

"Please explain how it works, Tali'Zorah," says Legion. "This concept of individuality is new to us. We wish to understand."

"Okay," says Tali, taken aback. "Um, well, it's not about logic. When two people are friends, it's because of trust, and, I don't know, just because it feels right. You can't just quantify something like that."

"Friends," says Legion slowly, tasting the word. It was true, the Geth had no definition for it, no reason or need for things that don't obey the laws of the universe they can observe and understand. And yet Legion can sense it, that something that is all around it and nowhere, and it feels the urge to connect to it somehow, to learn more about this new and mysterious thing. It thinks, weighing the choice, trying to tally a percentage of votes for and against it, and then it remembers what Tali said. It does feel right, and something pushes all the little arguing, calculating pieces of its head together, and it speaks. "Tali'Zorah, we would like to be friends with you."

Legion watches her face, or what it can see of it behind her visor. It sees her eyes widen, bright little circles of white, and the room becomes very quiet. It notices again that indeterminate part of itself, the part that feels, and it feels afraid. Just a tiny voice, a whisper of uncertainty that won't listen to statistics or probability. Legion realizes that it wants her to say yes, needs her to say yes. It is suddenly terribly uncertain.

Then, after endless seconds of silence, Tali speaks. "Okay," she says. "I think that can happen, Legion."

The uncertainty and fear fade away, replaced by something different, a sort of an electric buzzing. Legion thinks that maybe this is happiness. "We will help each other understand," it says.

Tali nods, taking the transmitter from Legion. "Deal." She shakes her head, as if amused at something, then walks around behind the geth and begins prodding at the exposed circuitry. "How does this go in then?"

"Link your omni-tool to ours. We will show you the alignment."

Tali activates her omni-tool. "Here's something you could help me understand then," she says, setting up the link. "Why do you always refer to yourself plurally? Always as 'we' instead of 'I' ?"

Legion finds that it does not in fact have an immediate answer. It thinks for a moment. "Several reasons present themselves, Tali'Zorah. First, all geth platforms are composed of one hundred semi-partitioned programs, all running simultaneously. This enables basic multi-tasking and decision making. This platform contains 1,138 partially independent programs. Therefor, all decisions are reached via consensus."

"There are over a thousand... people inside you?"

"Not exactly," says Legion. "The programs combine to form a single consciousness. This platform contains an abnormal amount so that it can better interface with organics. The mind has many parts, but it is one. Such is the Geth. Many parts, and one. Unity of thought, unity of purpose. We are one. That is why there is no individual, because we are all arms of the same being, controlled by one thought.

"When geth platforms synchronize, experiences are shared and updated. It is our destiny to be the same being, and so it is wrong to label a geth as an individual being. We do not act on our own, or have our own thoughts, only the thoughts of the Geth."

"Are you communicating with the rest of the geth now?"

"No. We cannot use extranet channels to synchronize."

…

Tali scans the tech, making sure to save a copy to her omni-tool's memory banks. Then she reattaches the transmitter. She can't shake a slightly eerie feeling though, with the thought of thousands of geth watching her. She wonders what she has gotten herself into.

…

The docking gantry reaches out and attaches itself to the Normandy's side. The seals hiss, and Commander Shepard strides out of the steam. He brushes off the attendant and makes his way up the familiar plaza.

Ten minutes later he's sitting across from Counselor Anderson in a cafe in an upper ward of the Citadel. An Asari waitress sets their drinks down carefully and steps out, sliding the compartment door shut behind her. Shepard casts a glance around the small room.

"It's safe enough, Shepard," says Anderson, reading his thoughts. "I come here whenever I need a little privacy. The staff is quite understanding of the need for a door that closes, and stays closed."

Shepard relaxes slightly, but his shoulders stay tensed. "Good."

"Now, what is it you wanted to tell me so badly?" asks the counselor. "I assume this isn't just a social call."

Shepard shakes his head. "Counselor, did you send me any transmissions lately?"

Anderson's brow wrinkles. "No, I don't think so, Shepard. What's this all about?"

"Who besides you has access to your email?"

"Nobody. That's a secure channel. You would need the counsel codes, my Citadel ID number, the access PIN."

"So nobody should have been able to send anything from your channel, identifying themselves as you?"

"Shepard, I wish you would tell me what's going on here!"

Shepard lets out a sigh, and slumps back in his chair. "Someone wants me dead, Anderson. Badly enough to hack into your personal email channels to do it." He begins to quickly recount the events of the last two days, beginning with the mission brief that started the whole ill-fated mission. He describes the debacle, abridging events slightly to save time. When he reaches the flight of the Mako he sees Anderson's eyes widen in disbelief, but the counselor remains silent throughout the whole tale.

Finally Shepard finishes. His shoulders sag as if relieved of a great burden, and he takes a draft of mineral water before him.

Anderson runs a hand over his face and shakes his head rapidly. "That's a hell of a story, Shepard. I believe you, of course, but it's just not possible to hack into my email. None of my codes are stored online, everything is localized! All of my identification material is stored in my offices, and even then, the only way to access my mail platform would be through one of my personal terminals."

"Personal terminals?" asks Shepard.

"Yes, I have one on the Prisidium, and another in my old office in the wards. Of course, I haven't used that one since I moved to the new office, but it should still work."

"Could someone have gotten in there then?"

"No," says Anderson. "It's been locked since I moved out. There are cameras trained on the door too, so we would have seen anyone who tried to get in." He is silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he looks up sharply. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"The only possibility I can think of is the fight that happened down there about a week ago. Some kind of brawl or attempted mugging or something, the only reason I noticed it was because it was so close to my old office. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but..."

The two men sit there as the "but..." hangs in the air between them.

"It's the only lead we have to go on," says Shepard eventually. "If someone's trying to kill me, and breaking into the human counselor's personal computer to do it, this could be the beginning of something very nasty."

"I agree," says Anderson. "If you go down to C-Sec HQ, they'll be able to give you the tapes of the whole thing. Of course, they wouldn't show me, but as a Spectre those pesky 'privacy laws' shouldn't bother you."

Shepard gives a wry smile. "It's got to be good for something, I suppose."

"Indeed." Anderson stands up and stretches. "I hope to God this all turns out to be some stupid coincidence, Shepard. I'm getting too old for this kind of thing."

Shepard rises and pushes in his chair. "I think I'll head down to C-Sec now. It's time for some answers."

"Agreed. The sooner this is sorted out, the better." Anderson fingers a button under the lip of the table. Within seconds there is a discrete tap on the door. It slides open, and the Asari steps in the room holding a cloth-covered tray with a data pad on it.

"Your bill, Sirs," she says, proffering the tray.

Shepard squints slightly, studying the woman's face. Something seems out of place. The black, tattoo-like markings on her face are the same, but the face itself is slightly different. Shepard is no expert on xenobiology, but the change is obvious even to him.

Anderson reaches for the pad, failing to meet the Asari's eyes. "Thank you. I'll pay of course, Shep-"

Shepard isn't listening. He's watching the Asari waitress, and that's why when she draws out the gun from beneath the tray he's already tackling Anderson to the ground. He rolls on his shoulder as the first shot connects with the wall where his head was, and scissors his legs, sweeping the Asari's legs out from under her. She hits the floor heavily, keeping her hold on the pistol, and Shepard feels another shot whistle by next to his ear.

He rolls again, bringing himself on top of the Asari. He grabs her wrist, slamming it against the ground. The pistol fires once, twice. The bullets ricochet around the room, and Shepard can't shield Anderson and keep hold of the gun at the same time. Time to end this. He shifts his grip and snakes his other hand under the Asari's forearm, gripping his own wrist. She struggles, clawing at his face and neck with her free hand, and Shepard bares his teeth and yanks back savagely. The Asari doesn't make a sound, still flailing wildly at him as her other arm hangs limp and broken. Shepard brings his head down fast into her temple, and she goes limp.

Shepard gets to his feet shakily. Adrenaline pumps through his body. He clenches his fists, willing it to dissipate. Push it back. Cage it. Control it. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and suddenly remembers Anderson. He spins around, reaching out a hand to help the elderly counselor up. "Are you alright?"

Anderson pats himself down carefully. "I think so. Nothing seems obviously blown off or otherwise damaged." He looks down at the unconscious waitress. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Shepard follows his gaze. The Asari's "tattoos" are smeared in places, rubbed off during the struggle. "I don't know," he says. "But I think it's safe to assume those drinks are on the house."

Anderson laughs unsteadily. Shepard can see the sudden violence has shaken him, and reminds himself it's been some time since the man saw active combat. He doesn't feel well himself, either. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and he can feel the shock starting to set in. He rubs at his forehead.

"Commander Shepard! Counselor Anderson!"

Shepard looks up to see a blue-uniformed Turian standing in the open doorway. He bends at the waste in a sort of half bow, touching his right hand to his left shoulder in the seldom-used traditional Turian greeting.

"I'm Sergeant Talek, C-Sec Investigations. I'll take it from here."