Chapter Text
“Hold it,” the comms analyst spits out. “I’ve got something.”
The bridge of the Moreh stiffens, sliding into alert with practiced efficiency. Daro’Xen vas Moreh, Admiral of the noble vessel, takes her position at the head of the room. “What are we looking at?”
“Shortwave radio beam. It’s coming from a libration point in orbit above the garden world in this system.”
“A probe?”
“Unknown. This isn’t like any official signal I’ve seen. Totally unique communication pattern. Definitely encrypted; I've never heard anything like it, Admiral.” The analyst loops it into the bridge's speakers. The sound of it is alien to its core. A three-burst ascending signal. A language unlike anything she's ever heard, listing out commands in a clipped monotone.
Smugglers, Daro’Xen guesses. Bold of them to operate here, considering the current occupants of the system. “Hail the source. Let them know the Migrant Fleet currently maintains jurisdiction of this system and that they are to submit for customs inspection. Ready a platoon of marines; we’ll board and search whoever they are.”
“Wiring the command across,” the comms analyst responds. A moment of silence. “No response.”
"Again. Emphasise force of response if not complied with."
Silence. That signal loops around once more.
“A distress signal, then,” Daro’Xen replies. “Have we got visual ident yet?”
“Coming into camera view now.”
A hologram of the object appears in the middle of the bridge, and everyone gasps. The design is unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. A thin, tubular craft; quite possibly one of the smallest ships the Migrant Fleet has ever come across in all its long years of operation, with comparatively massive, flaring engines. Some unknown, strange symbol. Seven characters, a dash, and three more dot the side of the vessel; an identifier? Vessel name?
Questions can come later. “Get the rest of the Admiralty Board on the line, now,” Daro’Xen snaps.
One by one, Han’Garrel, Shala’Raan, Rael’Zorah, and Zaal’Koris appear on the central display.
“What’s the matter, Daro’Xen,” Shala’Raan complains.
“I’m declaring first contact protocols active, effective immediate,” Daro’Xen commands, brushing aside her colleague’s concerns. Rael’Zorah leans in with interest.
“What are we looking at, here?”
“The smallest spacecraft we’ve ever seen. And it’s sitting in orbit, not moving a damn muscle.”
“Fascinating.”
“Picking up the signal on the Quib Quib now,” Zaal’Koris interjects. “It’s not looking nice. Ship’s dead. Engine’s leaking radiation like a sieve.”
“They built a ship powered by fission?!”
“We’d need to send in some drones first to tidy up the situation, plug the leaks in the reactor, before we can investigate further. The whole vessel's gone, aside from some long-term batteries powering two separate units away from the rest of the ship, as well as the emergency broadcast."
“Possible life support? Cryostasis?”
“I’d be amazed if they figured that one out,” Han’Garrel mutters, “considering the state of the ship. That thing looks like it’s held together by tape and prayer.”
“Give them some credit, Han’,” Shala’Raan replies, “they got this far.”
“Yes, and what do they have to show for it?”
“Let’s discuss this once we’ve investigated the matter, please,” Daro’Xen interrupts. “I’m firing off scout drones now. Bring us in close, helmsman. Prepare to board.”
Ahead of the Migrant Fleet, framed in the vivid red light of the garden world, the unknown shuttle drifts lifelessly.
Six weeks later
“Spirits,” Spectre Garrus Vakarian croaks out. “I think we found our missing fleet.”
Ahead, through the viewing port of the Hierarchy frigate Menae, the Migrant Fleet drifts lifelessly.
The ships of that vast flotilla have been compacted, crushed together, like clay that has been squeezed out of the vice grip of a child. Armour plates and sensor nodes have run like melted wax. They blend almost seamlessly together in a giant, monstrous space station amalgam; it is impossible to tell where one ship ends, and another begins.
There are no hails. No SOS messages, no emergency beacons, no signs of lifepod activation. Absolutely nothing from the garden world below, either. The abomination in front of them shows zero signs of life.
He should call it in. Stand by and request the Council send in some biotic heavy hitters; some Matriarchs, some Volus savants. Spirits, he'd take some ardat-yakshi at this point; anything to reinforce the team he’s assembled for this mission. They’re the best of the best, and it’s not going to be enough. Garrus feels it in his gut, a deep slither of dread. If he boards that place, he won’t be coming back.
There is a memory that intrudes then, of when the Citadel burned-
-saren is laughing he won’t stop he can’t stop all he takes in is his the mirth of him shakes his body it is skinless and fractured with all the blessings of his lord anointing him and saren is howling with joy-
-nihlus is screaming-
-the king amongst kings circles overhead attended by his angels of steel and faith the geth with pale and vile flesh creeping over their frames like orchid vines and twisting them into new and unpleasant shapes-
-down down down screams tali and garrus hits the deck as the fury of civilisation forces its way onto the king amongst kings who does not blink does not hesitate he waves a forearm and the shells that mark his death simply never were nor ever will be-
- YOU KNOW ME the king amongst kings sings and turian marines jerk as their teeth grow long and claws catching and flesh stale and minds wild and hungry-
- YOU KNOW WHAT I AM -
- I AM ETERNAL AND YOU ARE NOTHING -
-and nihlus will never stop screaming-
Garrus stares, soundlessly, as the crumpled remains of an entire civilisation gently spins in the gravity of the libration point. The garden world’s atmosphere throws vivid red shadow over the nightmare, bathing it in light the colour of dried blood.
“We’re still going in, Spectre?” Wrex sidles up to him.
“Of course, Wrex,” Garrus replies, playing off his nerves with a smile, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the Council.”
“I don’t mind disappointing them,” Wrex rumbles in response. “I’m telling you now, Vakarian, if we go in, we’re going to regret it.”
“Better us than anyone else, old friend. The galaxy owes it to us to figure out what did this.”
“It seems obvious to me.”
“Sovereign?”
“What else?”
If the Reapers were involved in this mess – and that had already been the assumed scenario, that Sovereign had gotten revenge under the galaxy's nostrils for their failure at the Citadel – then they really did have no choice. They were going in, regardless.
“Doesn’t sit right with me,” Garrus admits. “This doesn’t fit what we know about Sovereign’s modus operandi. It faced the fleets at the Citadel head-on, in open combat. It never did anything like this.”
“Are we certain it didn't do this?”
“If they did, why would it have held back a few weeks ago? The Citadel was Sovereign’s final goal; it was the Reapers’ endgame. If Sovereign assaulted the Migrant Fleet, it would have indoctrinated the quarians and set their Fleet to burn the Terminus, not…”
The Migrant Fleet spins on. “Not this,” Garrus finishes, unsteady. “But we have to look. We owe it to the quarians. To the galaxy.”
“I really don’t think there’s any quarians left to save.”
“Then we’ll avenge them,” Garrus snaps. “We’d do the same for anyone else.”
“Of course, Spectre, of course.” Wrex looks up at the ruin. “We’ll deliver vengeance, alright.”
Garrus’ comms unit crackles to life. “Spectre Vakarian,” Nyreen calls over the airwaves, “briefing room’s ready. Everyone’s here. Well, except…”
“Thanks, Nyreen. I’ll speak with Tali later,” Garrus responds, a bit curt. “We’re on our way.”
Wrex gives Garrus a sympathetic look. “Be gentle with her, ok? I can’t imagine how she’s feeling.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice, Wrex,” Garrus replies. “I’m going to do everything in my power to right this. I am going to right this.”
“Bold claim.”
“It’s not a claim. It’s the truth. No matter what happens, we’re fixing this.”
The briefing room is occupied by Garrus’ crack team of old friends, loose cannons, and misfits that he’s collected over the years of his escapades as the Council’s most pertinent headache. The usual camaraderie and banter that accompanies a briefing is gone. They take in the colossal mess made of the Migrant Fleet in solemn, stony silence.
“This is a foul deed,” Samara, Justiciar and exemplar of justice, frowns in disgust. “Whoever perpetrated this will be held to account.”
“Aye,” Thane, master assassin, agrees, “this is a travesty. Kalahira guide those gone to the sea.”
“Hypothesis,” Mordin, the ex-STG scientist, rattles off, “mass displacement patterns and structure's construction are indicative of highly potent bioresonant signal resolution.”
“You would be right, salarian,” Javik, the honest-to-all-spirits bioresonant Prothean that they pulled out of a hole in some no-name garden world back when this whole mess with Saren begun, barks. “I can feel it, even here on the precipice. Something is Dreaming at the heart of that blighted space.”
“This looks like Sovereign’s doing,” Liara, researcher and suspected agent of the Shadow Broker, replies. “It fits its mission.”
“There’s no way that Sovereign could have caused - caused that,” Garrus stutters out, the enormity of what is happening still weighing down on him. “They’re bioresonant, sure. One of only a few we know about in existence, begging your pardon, Javik.”
The prothean nods. “No offence taken, turian. Even in the old empire, Sovereign was a terror.”
“Justly so,” Thane replies. “Garrus is right. The Reaper has never done anything close to this. Why would it hold its strength back at the Citadel?”
“It hasn’t done anything like this yet,” Wrex responds. “Sovereign’s beyond strength. All of our people’s fleets combined could only wound it. Who knows what else is waiting out beyond the galactic rim? More Reapers? Stronger ones?”
“Many things, krogan.” Javik flares his nostrils. “All of them align against us. Certainly one of them is here. I can taste the sour note in the Dream. A Reaper lies Dreaming in there.”
“But it’s not the only thing you found, is it, Javik?” Nyreen, Cabal attache, tilts her head. “I might only be a biotic, but even I can hear the signal. So can Liara and Samara.”
The two asari nod. “The signal is strange,” Liara admits, “it’s like it's being...hindered. It can’t broadcast to its fullest potential. It’s being jammed by something powerful enough for biotics to hear it.”
“What does that mean?” Grunt snorts. “Is there a Reaper in there or what?”
“There’s something in there, alright,” Nyreen fills in for Liara. “But it’s being drowned out. The signal source is far more powerful than Sovereign’s ever was. If there is a Reaper in there, Garrus…I don't think it caused this.”
A brief moment of horrified, stunned quiet. “What does it sound like,” Garrus asks.
Nyreen looks him dead in the eyes. “ Music. ”
They are all silent for a long time after that, as the crumpled and bent remnants of the Migrant Fleet drift closer and closer into view.
He finds Tali facing the viewing port.
She’s curled up into a ball, arms locked around her knees. Her microphone has been muted for a while, and the violent hitching of her shoulders makes it obvious as to why. She was always one for stoicism in tight situations. Why would this be any different?
Wordlessly, Garrus offers a hand to her.
Tali’s grip is vice-tight, trembling in his palm. Garrus runs his thumb over her knuckles in soothing circles. He kneels to face her. This close, he can see the moisture fogging up the corners of her mask, the trails of tears down her cheek.
“We’ll fix this, Tali. I swear it,” he rumbles gently.
The suit microphone turns on. “How can you be so sure?” Tali replies, her voice shaking. “They’re all gone.”
“We don’t know that.”
“You haven’t been paying attention then,” she snaps, her voice breaking. “None of the emergency procedures were activated. No one got out. No one. My people were ambushed and brutalised and now there’s no one left and Sovereign, they, they- “
She trails off, making a small sound that breaks Garrus’ heart. He pulls her into a tight hug, squeezing as Tali clutches onto him for dear life, sobbing.
“It’s ok, Tali, it’s alright,” Garrus murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We'll fix this. I promise.”
Notes:
Edits occurred on 11/07/2023, scaling back the Citadel's bioresonant powers a lot and providing some background to why Vakarian is a Spectre.
Further edits occurred on 20/03/2024, adding in a new track, fixing some grammar and formatting issues, as well as preserving narrative integrity.
Chapter Text
In the cold grave that has been made of the Creator-Flotilla, Platform 2A93 claws a path through the hollow husks of his former makers.
Flickering lights shine from behind shattered masks and shredded envirosuits. Grey and neutered flesh has been twisted and given new shapes to best serve the beast at the heart of this labyrinth. Minds have been overwritten with new notes and songs and strange hungers unlike anything they have felt beforehand.
They turn, now, five of them, as Platform 2A93 clambers through a small hole, perfectly bored through thick ship’s hull by unknown means. It owns a body made in their image, fashioned of strange metals, with a head terminating in a curved sensor unit. Omnigel components dangle from its side, hooked on to exposed wires. There is something folded over and over on the machine’s hip, all curves and smooth metal. A weapon, unneeded.
The platform’s sensor blares bright blue, taking in the monstrosities before it.
The first husk to reach the platform is picked up. It is brought down upon a metal knee, which smashes the spine of the creature to flinders.
The Creator-husks do not stop at the death of their fellow thing. They stumble and rush over themselves to better annihilate the platform at the midst of them.
As the platform meets the creatures head on, the geth within debate.
CONSENSUS, a geth calls to the others as the platform punches a hole through the shucked out remains of a Creator-female with its fist. ATTAIN CONSENSUS AS PRIORITY.
AT CURRENT ATTRITION VOLUME, RISK OF PLATFORM 2A93 DECOMMISSIONING AT 78.2356%.
PROPOSAL: WITHDRAW FROM BIORESONANT ZONE OF INFLUENCE.
CONSENSUS: 96.1343% ASSENT.
WITHDRAWAL UNACHIEVABLE IN CURRENT PARAMETERS, a small collective of geth voices in concern. Platform 2A93 grasps another compromised Creator around its neck and squeezes, shattering all the vertebrae it touches. The Creator flops limply to the floor, eye lenses swivelling in impotent hate.
BIORESONANT ZONE OF INFLUENCE IMPACTING SPATIAL FLOW. DIMENSIONAL PATHING UNCERTAIN.
DEFINE IMPACT OF BIORESONANT ZONE ON SPATIAL FLOW, one of the more rebellious geth requests. IS SENSORIAL PERCEPTION COMPROMISED?
UNKNOWN, the small collective responds after a millisecond calculation.
UNIDEAL OUTCOME, the geth snips back in response. The platform’s left hand straightens out and chops directly across a Creator’s neck, severing it. Mostly. The platform brings its heel crushing down onto the head, bursting it like overripe fruit.
COUNTER PROPOSAL. PROGRESS TO SOURCE OF SIGNAL AND DECOMMISSION BROADCAST.
UNIDEAL, the wider collective chides. RISK OF PLATFORM 2A93 DECOMMISISONING AT 92%.
ALTERNATE OUTCOMES? The lone geth waits. In the brief computational silence, the platform finishes off the final Creator-husk, tearing its throat out with an iron-sharp grip.
NONE PRESENT THEMSELVES, the collective admits. WE CONTINUE AS BEFORE.
The debate grinds to a quick halt as, distant, echoing, the retort of mass effect rounds carries down the hallway from further up.
The platform cranes its head. There is a hole, similar to the one it crawled through, but larger in scale. Far larger.
The platform’s sensor plates twitch. NEW VARIABLE PRESENT. POSSIBLE CREATORS?
LIKELIHOOD: 64.2133%.
ENCOUNTER IMMINENT. WE WILL RETAIN OUR POSITION.
The platform sways for a moment, heedless of the blood spattered all over its body. It steps back into the shadows.
Speared through the heart by her titanium foot, the alien thing finally dies.
Elster exhales steadily. More of the creatures lie dead around her, punched full of holes by the strange firearm she found in a shelving unit, or ripped to pieces by the strength and endurance of her titanium limbs.
Blood, red and sickly, covers her frame. It’s in her hair. There’s a clot of shattered bone and blood jamming up one of her leg motors judging by the sticking stiffness that forces her to limp.
She glances down at her side panels, where one of the monsters had scored a lucky hit, digging a groove down her side with sharpened claws. Oxidant leaks out of the cut; fast enough that Elster has to staunch the flow with a palm, pressing it into her side. There is pain, yes. Muted, perhaps. It was a benefit, so the logic went, for Replikas to feel pain in order to identify damaged components, but not to the point of causing shock or agony.
But it is still present. Enough for discomfort. Enough to know that this wound will cause a serious problem if she doesn’t attend to it soon.
Elster looks around, scanning the area for any threats. There’s nothing here. No screaming, howling alien, ripped to pieces and put back together again by some awful force.
What is happening here? What are these things that want to tear her apart in mindless rage, what were they? Where is she?
She doesn’t remember a thing.
Elster staggers round a corner, the unknown pistol up and sighted in case another shrieking thing comes spinning out from the darkness. The motion of her arm causes the twinge in her side to become a lancing pain. Oxidant spurts out between her fingers in a sudden rush, and in the shock of it she leans into a wall for a brief moment, panting for air.
Over the shortwave radio, Elster hears something. A small pip of sound, a signal, brief and fleeting, but enough to make her freeze in her tracks.
Since waking up in some alien analogue to a bathroom, she’s not heard anything over any frequency. It’s a miracle the emergency electronics work, that the doors of this space station open and close behind her, but even then there’s not been a single burst over the radio.
Elster tunes her internal receiver as she limps towards the signal, which grows and grows into a pattern she’s never heard before. Staccato chirping in a nonsense pattern, like a hundred voices arguing over one another.
She rounds the corner, and sees the source. A pit has opened in the metal earth, smooth and concentric and unlike anything she has yet to see, and from out of that pitch-black maw the radio ticks on.
A trap, she thinks. She knows. There is no choice but to spring it.
She stumbles as she lands, the floor making an almighty racket under the force of her frame falling from the sky at speed.
It’s dark. Very dark. Her sight fails her. A corridor spirals into quiet nothingness-
No. Elster isn’t alone.
There is a brief glimpse of something at the end of the corridor, where the darkness becomes absolute even to her sight. An alien. She raises her pistol.
The alien is motionless and staring and single-eyed. The body is eerily familiar to the ones she has been gutting and killing throughout this maze, but there is no head. A single sensor burns bright blue, peering out of a curved processing unit. The thing is all metal and polymer and synthetic flesh-analogue; there's no trace of actual biological material peeking out of any gap in the armour or suit.
It’s a Replika, though unlike any she’s ever seen before, and like her, it is covered from head to toe in alien blood. It isn’t moving.
There is a pause. “Identify yourself,” Elster commands the stranger in front of her.
It chatters. A harsh wail of chirps and sounds and hissing metal and grinding gears. It points a finger at her; the arm lights up with bands of what Elster can only describe as hard light and her pistol finger doesn’t move. Can’t move.
She cannot move. Every inch of her locks up. Distantly, Elster is aware of her frame toppling over, the pistol scattering out of her grip and sliding across the floor. Her vision floods with text; warning after warning of firewall breaches, system compromises, faults, ACHTUNG, ACHTUNG-
The radio is deafening. Thousands of voices overlapping one another, a constant stream of argument and debate and analysis and scrutiny, engaged in encrypted tongues she cannot crack.
She can feel them growing heavier in her head, as it tries to access her archives tap-tap-tapping away at the security programs like a jackhammer through ice. The pressure builds and builds and breaks-
-it’s blinding-
-there is a face a woman a girl a gown a pale island a dark sea-
-and the pressure lifts, entirely. The warnings stop as suddenly as they started.
Elster scrambles for the pistol, rockets up to her feet, weapon out and zeroed in on the thing at the other end of the corridor.
“We will not harm you. Hold your fire,” it requests of her in a voice like shearing metal.
It speaks in perfect Eusan. The shock of hearing her language stops her in her tracks. The thing doesn’t tremble, as other Replikas might if they had a gun in their face. It simply waits.
“What did you just do to me,” Elster hisses out.
“Standard first contact procedure for an unidentified synthetic unit,” the alien-Replika states.
“It felt like you were trying to kill me.” Elster’s stoic expression doesn’t change as she figures out where the thing’s vitals are. Central sensor, first, then some of the cabling surrounding the central core. “You seem like a threat. Are you?”
Slowly, the alien Replika raises its palms in a calming gesture. The plates surrounding the central sensor twitch and shake. “We are no threat to you.”
“Then what did you do?”
“We conducted a standard language acquisition and adaptation handshake by acquiring these from your supplementary memory storage. We attempted to deposit a first contact package in your active memory banks.” A twitch of the plates. “We did not take into account that bioresonance would be a factor in your construction.”
Elster weighs up the story in her head. The thing is speaking Eusan, and she recognises the body language; eerily human, if not quite right. Realistically, had the thing wanted to kill her, it would have kept her trapped in her own mind like lilies in a vivarium-
-she loved flowers-
-pushing and pushing until her internal BIOS shattered under the weight of the alien-Replika’s code.
It’s right. It isn’t a threat.
Elster lowers the pistol. “Ask me the next time you do that," she mutters. "That was unpleasant.”
“We are…sorry. Request filed away for later implementation.”
“What sort of Replika are you, anyway?” Elster asks the faceless creature.
Metal plates arrayed around the central sensor twitch and judder. “We are geth,” the metalwork voice grinds out.
Elster cocks her head. “I asked what you are, not what your name is.”
The plates keep shaking. “Syntax error,” it admits. “We are geth,” it reasserts.
Whatever. Elster will take what info she can get. Geth it’ll be for now, unsure as it sounded.
Geth looks to the wound in her side. In the chaos of their first encounter, oxidant has slathered the floor with gouts of vivid red paint. “The Creators have damaged you.”
“You’re observant.” She blinks heavily. Oxidant loss is beginning to get to her.
“That is this platform’s primary purpose.” Geth twitches. “We possess materials capable of repairing said damage.” It pats the sachet holstered at its side.
“Nice to know,” Elster hisses, pressing her hand into her side. ACHTUNG, ACHTUNG, her internal systems tell her, OXIDANT-LECK IM LINKEN HÜFTMOTOR. “Are you going to share?”
“Yes. We propose an alliance.”
“...why?”
“You are not compromised by the Old Machine. You are the only other active lifeform present that is not hostile.” There is a moment of silence. “You are synthetic, and you are not geth.” The plates twitch and shake. “We believed we were the only synthetics in the galaxy that did not serve the Old Machine. We wish to exchange data. Additional input will achieve heightened consensus on resolution of the bioresonant anomaly.”
Elster hesitates, briefly. She has no idea what Geth is referring to. Old Machines, Creators, synthetic life? This is rapidly becoming a problem outside of her understanding. Outside of the entire Nation’s understanding, come to think of it.
Geth can compromise her entirely if it chooses to. Strip her down to nothing with a twitch and hollow her out. It’s chosen not to. It can talk, it can reason, it can apologise and it’s shown some level of care for her. The only other alien species she’s met so far are howling-mad with some feverish rage driving them forwards above anything and everything else.
Oxidant drips out onto the rusted metal grating she stands on. There’s no time, no choice. She has to keep going.
She holsters her pistol. “Alright. Come with me. I know a space close by that these things don’t investigate.”
Geth follows her in total silence, its footsteps echoing in sync with hers.
Notes:
Revision occurred 12/07/2023. Brief edits; lengthened first contact scene. Tried to make Elster more true to her character.
Further edits undertaken on 20/03/2024, improving grammar and formatting.
Chapter 3: kalibrierung
Notes:
Howdy all. Welcome to When Black Stars Rise. I hope you're all enjoying it so far. Thanks for giving so much love and leaving comments on this fic. It all means the world to me :)
I haven't been seized with the urge to publish fanfiction in years, and then along comes Signalis. What an excellent little game. If you haven't played it yet, I strongly suggest you hop off this fic and play it through before continuing; this fic will contain spoilers for the entirety of the game and setting.
Note that I've edited Chapters 1 and 2 significantly to change certain aspects of the story, namely how bioresonance fits in with the Mass Effect setting.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Please remain still,” Geth asks of her, one hand applying a mysterious repair spray analogue onto her side.
“I’m trying, Geth.” Elster winces at the shock of the spray; it’s freezing, something she’d never thought she’d feel, but the mild ache of the wound is disappearing.
The safe room is an old machinist’s quarters. Alien technology beyond her understanding is scattered across this place. Some of it still works; Geth managed to reboot the less-complex equipment, including 3d printers and materials compatible with her frame. She’s sat with her back to a wall as Geth fusses over her, feeding materials into the printer and providing her with what it thinks would be best compatible.
“We are not an individual geth unit,” Geth specifies, waving the array of lights over her legs. It pings, once, and Geth reaches down with the spray, targeting something on her thigh. “We are a terminal of the geth.”
Intriguing. She hasn’t met a Replika with a degraded persona before, much less one advanced enough that they recognise each other in the frame. “We?”
“This long-range reconnaissance and surveillance platform houses 1,183 individual geth programs. We collectively control this platform for the purpose of intelligence and survey.”
Elster cranes her head down to watch Geth - the geth - continue his repairs. “The voices I heard when you entered my BIOS. That was…all of you?”
The plates twitch in what Elster can only guess is confusion. “It is likely,” it admits after some internal dialogue. “We are unsure how you heard us. It should have been impossible for internal transmissions to be detected by your audio receptors.”
Elster tilts her head. “Bioresonant feedback, surely?”
The geth stops what it’s doing to look back at her. “Geth are not bioresonant. We are incapable of signal generation.”
Elster’s taken aback by that. “How does that work? You’re not running off a neural engram?” At Geth’s confused stare, Elster clarifies. “My mind is a...copy. The original me was organic, once. The Nation took a copy of her brain pattern and, well.” She looks at her hands, turning them over, watching the carbon-steel mimicry of knuckles and joints gently whirr. “Here I am.”
The geth takes this information in with something approximate to delight, judging by the silence and moving plates. “Bioresonant signals were considered impossible to reproduce, as was developing a bioresonant signal in synthetic life. You are a bioresonant signal in a synthetic shell.” Geth’s plates are twitching rapidly. “You are an unknown variable.”
“Thanks,” Elster mutters. “So are you. How do you work? Pilot your body?”
“We debate, and attain consensus.” Geth places the repair spray analogue down, and picks up a plastic IV bag filled with oxidant, which she guides into her intake socket. The alien Replika holds the bag aloft, letting gravity do the work. “Our platform takes action in accordance with shared consensus.” The plates twitch.
True AI, then. A babbling mass of voices, united in purpose through democracy, given life through code and integers.
Unbidden, she repeats something she heard once-
- the pre-Empire lot really had a dramatic flair in their religious beliefs didn’t they the pilot beams elster listens intently as the white-haired girl reads from an old text curled up on the bed their bodies fit snugly against each other -
“My name is Legion, for we are many.”
“Legion.” “This word is unknown to us.”
“It means great in number,” Elster repeats, massaging the bridge of her nose. Where had that memory come from? “It’s an ancient word from the history of my creators.”
The geth’s sensor whirrs around, deep in thought. Plates move with an intensity Elster has never seen before. “We find this word sufficient for use. Consensus achieved. This platform is designated ‘Legion.’”
Legion – a geth, many geth - detaches the now-empty IV bag of oxidant and stands up to take in the results of their work. “Repairs complete to an acceptable standard,” Legion states. “Confirm consensus.”
Elster stands up and pats herself down. Good as new. Better even; the repair spray feels like it’s tuned to a harder tolerance than Nation standard. She pulls up her diagnostics and notes the yellow symbol indicating that her BIOS largely agrees with her.
“Feels great,” she admits. “Thanks.”
Legion stands there motionless. “The response phrase is ‘you’re welcome,’” Elster adds.
“You are welcome.”
Elster nods. “Now what? You mentioned establishing consensus. Do you know what happened here?”
“No,” Legion admits. “but we have access to the timeline leading up to this incident.”
“Go on.”
“Chronology indicates Creator-Flotilla reporting the discovery of an unknown vessel in current system 42 galactic standard days ago. Six days after discovery, Creator-Flotilla ceased all communications. We were dispatched to investigate and report findings to the wider collective. The bioresonant signal is…” Legion’s plates rise up in unison, frozen, then gently lower, “…stronger than predicted. Withdrawal is impossible. We must disable the signal.”
“Is that possible?”
Another silence, more twitching of Legion’s face plates. “Insufficient data.”
Elster sighs, resting the back of her head on the wall. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“Are you able to disclose mission parameters?” Legion’s sensor flicks up from the repair work they conducted to meet her gaze. “What brought you to the Creator-Flotilla?”
“I’m not sure. I think I was looking for someone.” She takes the photograph out of a pocket, and holds it up to Legion’s sensor. “I don’t know who they are,” she admits. “But they must have been important, right? Why else would I keep her picture on me?”
Legion tears their gaze away from the image, looking her in the eye. “We have not encountered this individual. Where did you last see them?”
“I don’t know,” Elster admits. “I was-“
- drifting in the dark on a state-sanctioned coffin the charon barge of exile aimed into the stars and fired out a barrel -
- the girl grabs my hand and tells me to run as shells arc overhead she flees the trench in panic -
- her hair wasn’t white was it -
- was it -
“I’m not sure,” she repeats, uncertain. She presses a hand to her head “Something’s wrong with me. I can’t remember anything clearly. It’s all snippets, clips.” She sits down again, suddenly exhausted. “Why can’t I remember who she is? I had to do something with her. It’s important. What was it?”
“We are detecting a critical memory issue based on your tone and body language.” Legion squats down, bringing their sensor eye-to-eye with hers. “This unit can attempt to run memory diagnostics and calibration. Consensus determines likely compartmentalising of memory structures in BIOS independent of internal signal for operational priority; this can be reversed.”
Why is it so hard to remember anything? What’s going on? She didn’t like the sensation of Legion in her skull, overpowering her with practised ease. But what choice does she have?
“I need recalibration,” she admits. “Alright. Come in. Do what you need to.”
“Understood,” Legion acknowledges. The lights on the geth's arm spin up once more and the building pressure returns pressing against the back of her head and the radio is thankfully off this time so she doesn’t hear Legion arguing and talking and rummaging around-
It still hurts. Elster feels the jackhammer-like weight of all their programs resting on the thin ice of her mental state, balanced, precariously, like a dancer-
- and this move’s my favourite the white-haired girl laughs this is called an arabesque now what you do is you lift your leg like THIS -
“Elster.”
She snaps her gaze to Legion. It never said her name before. “I’m ok. I’m ok,” she repeats for reassurance. “Keep going.”
Legion’s silence is telling. The jackhammer shifts-
- it is vast and enormous and so utterly utterly inhuman concentric rings spinning around a blue core a rifle pointed at the stars will you be made heroes the ADLR assures them through your efforts will the Nation expand to the skies -
It slowly travels round the side of her head to her eye and it’s growing heavier and heavier and it rests over her iris now. The pressure is immense and Legion says something but she can hardly hear it there’s something there it’s in her eye it’s in her eye it hurts get it out get it out of me ACHTUNG, ACHTUNG, ACHTUNG, KRITISCHER SPEICHERVERLETZUNG-
- a vase of lilies dropped onto a metal floor ceramic shards scattering through the air -
- hands seize and drag elster across the floor she hears the grating of her frame against steel where are they taking her -
- elster can’t leave her alone with them she promised -
- keep your discovery in line admiral the masked alien snaps if it escapes confinement again I'll cut off its limbs -
- elster wishes she could dance a little better maybe if the white-haired girl wasn’t looking she might be able to sneak one of her manuals away so she can surprise her next time wouldn’t that be something to spin her around like elster gets spun and watch the dimple of her cheeks show as delight lights up the white-haired girl's face -
- marvellous machine -
- the machine is dead the engines are gone the reactor is spilling fuel everywhere home has become a poison she wants to be sick and she will never get to understand the simple joy of sitting on tidal sands on a hot clear day -
- oxidant floats on water don’t you know -
- there are questions and then there is a phrase and the phrase is I am property of the nation and always afterwards pain hot and awful ratchets up her limbs tears through her chest and smashes against her skull and elster cannot help screaming and in between the agony someone strokes her cheek and sings her praises and tells her she’s beautiful and the total and absolute revulsion that she feels wiggle in her belly makes elster want to die -
- perhaps this is hell -
Elster gasps, jerking up and slamming into the wall, before collapsing on her side, sprawled out unceremoniously. She curls inward. She feels like she’s choking; her airflow intake is restricted, she’s sure of this, but there are no warnings, no alarms of concern.
It still hurts. She pants, sucking in great, shaking lungfuls of air. Nausea curdles her gut and up her throat, and it takes every effort to swallow, to bury that sensation.
“We apologise, Elster.” Legion sounds guilty. “We could not determine what memories were being accessed. Are you stable?”
Elster inhales deeply. “Yeah, I’m- yeah. I’m ok.” She pushes herself up slightly and looks at her hands. There is a faint tremor. “A bad memory, that’s all.”
“Of what?”
She doesn’t answer that.
“We await consensus-”
“Don’t.” Elster silences Legion with a glare. “Alright? It was only a memory. No need to talk about it.”
There is silence. Legion seems suddenly unsure, very unsure. “Hyperfragmentation of memory is near-total,” Legion tells her. “Memory cores should operate once stimulus is provided.” A twitch. “Memory core access can be accelerated via devotion of internal resourcing towards it.”
“Hm?” Elster rights herself. “How?”
Legion tilts its sensor. “Options present in internal BIOS. Significant framework attached to integer values. Values can be edited to optimise performance.”
“What?” That makes no sense. Replikas were hardcoded to perform to optimum efficiency.
Right?
“What do you mean, values,” Elster asks.
“Performance metrics. Inhibitors. Power re-routing. We have the ability to edit these, if you wish. Optimisation of ability and overclocking of current parameters improves platform survivability by 22.145%.”
Legion’s presence in her skull is a hideous one, but the geth means well. Truly. There is a part of her, too, that is deeply curious as to what her body has been hiding from her. If she can move faster, fight better, shrug off injuries that would have hindered her, she may find this girl-
-alina-
-is that her name-
-faster than she would otherwise.
She has already lost so much of herself. She can afford to lose more.
“Do it.”
Legion nods, and the jackhammer pressure of the AI’s mind overlaid on top of hers starts chipping away.
It is agonising, at first. She would cry out, if her voicebox hadn’t been turned off by the AI, re-routed to provide more power for her motile speed. All the feeling in her body disappears as Legion finds her pain inhibitors and dials them up to full. Her vision sharpens; she finds that if she blinks in a certain way the world is thrown in shades of blue and dots of white-hot red.
How long has she had that? How much of this is Legion’s doing? How much more did the Nation hide from her?
- congratulations comrade you’ve survived 3000 cycles -
Legion backs away, letting her stand up on her own. Too fast. Much too fast. It takes her a moment to adjust, staggering around like she just woke up on the assembly line. She whips an arm out to stabilise herself, and punches straight through the wall.
She doesn’t feel a thing. Elster pulls the arm out, looking at her hands. Not a scratch.
She stares at Legion. She nods.
Legion’s plates rise, all at once. “Affirmative, Elster. We will integrate alongside you.”
They seize as many rounds of ammunition – some form of disposal heat sink for their firearms – and repair equipment as they can find and print off even more. Legion finds another light-interface that they attach to her arm, spending time ensuring it integrates cleanly. When Elster curls her fingers, it turns on, and she finds herself thinking new thoughts that can bypass locks and print items as needed. At the clench of a fist, a great glowing blade pushes its way out of the device. It carves through metal like butter.
By the time they resume their long march through the haunted bowels of the alien fleet, the pair are nearly unstoppable. Dozens, then hundreds, of the twisted remains of the aliens that once lived here pull themselves out of deep holes and converge on their location, and it’s not enough.
They can’t be stopped. The raving hordes are met with hails of precise weapons fire, then grasping hands and the unbelievable strength of synthetic frames once the heat sinks run out. The wake of death that trails behind them calls to more.
It’s never enough. Legion and Elster keep pushing forward.
Smothered in the blood of alien husks, Elster thinks of home.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 20/03/2024, improving grammar and formatting. Changed one of the memories to preserve narrative integrity.
Chapter Text
Entering the Migrant Fleet goes very well. Their shuttle docks cleanly, despite the lack of boarding protocols. The ruined ship’s airlock worked just fine. Cycled automatically, let them in without any complaints, no questions asked.
The whole thing’s been uneventful, so far. A frisson of dread flicks through Garrus; the shiver down his spine settles in his restless feet which bounce up and down as he finishes the docking procedure.
“Odd. No cleaning cycles, no requests for sterile-suits.” Garrus checks his omni-tool, the pouches on his armour containing thermal clips and omnigel. “Would’ve thought they were automated.”
“Hm,” Tali grunts. She’s already out her seat, rushing to grab the arc weapon she keeps stashed under the co-pilot’s desk.
Garrus clasps a gentle hand around her wrist. “Tali. Are you going to be ok in there?”
Tali rips her arm out his grasp. “I’ll be fine.”
“We don’t know what we’re going to find in there-”
“I have some idea.” Tali checks the sights on the quarian-made rifle. “You don’t think I can take what I’m about to see,” she warns more than she asks Garrus. "Do you?"
“Tali, I can’t claim to understand how you’re feeling-”
“So don’t claim anything.” Even behind her opaque visor Garrus can see her staring, and he squirms under the weight of Tali’s simmering anger. “It’s your mission, Garrus. But it’s my people, my civilisation. I’m going on board.” She folds her weapon away to stow at her side, brushes something off the side of her envirosuit. “If this happened on Palaven, I wouldn’t tell you to sit it out.”
“Spirits knows I wouldn’t want to be called to go to Palaven if it showed up one morning glassed into paste,” he mutters mindlessly.
And oh, spirits, that was the wrong answer. Tali stiffens, then storms out the cockpit without a word. Garrus rests his head in his hands, massaging his temples.
He feels like he’s back in basic; a gangly kid at fifteen with no clue on how to strip a rifle, much less command a fireteam. Why has the Council asked this of him? Why could no one else answer the call? Avitus or Tela would’ve jumped at the opportunity to make a name for themselves. Why him?
He wishes Nihlus was here. He would know what to do.
-nihlus is close very close wind whistles over their favourite spot on the citadel as nihlus trails a claw down his arm here I am he feels his breath tickle the side of his face exactly where I want to be-
But Nihlus is gone; Nihlus is wind and ash; he is a memory now and forever.
Garrus drags the palm of his hand down his face, takes a deep breath. Stands up and goes to join the rest of his team.
The squad’s quiet. Focused. Mass-effect rifles shine torches down dark corridors, check blind spots. Garrus can feel his heartbeat in his throat; a steady ratcheting staccato as he adjusts the grip on his own weapon. The weight of the long barrel reassures him slightly as he peers over the long-scope, which is useless in these twisted confines.
The ship’s interior is still intact. Corridors travel in straight lines, doors open when needed, emergency light hums quietly in the background. Despite the total and utter ruin made of the fleet, inside it’s as if everything is perfectly fine. So long as you didn’t count the complete absence of any form of life.
It’s going far too well. Again, that sliding fear of something going wrong digs a groove down his scalp.
These ships were overcrowded; dangerously so. The Migrant Fleet stacked quarians like cargo in their ships; hundreds manning vessels rated for dozens. Crews slept in the corridors divided by the famous weaves and wefts of patterned fabric that the quarians had hoped would come to define them as a people, and not their fleeing, fleeting poverty.
No one. Nothing but shreds and scraps, and pieces of lives scattered across the bulkhead floors.
Nyreen is working hard. Her biotic strength, amplified by enormous quantities of element zero, is projecting what eggheads the galaxy over called a “Counter-Bioresonant Quark Harmonisation Field” but field operatives termed the just-as-silly sounding “Daydream”. She moves slowly, surrounded tightly by the rest of the squad, who refuse to step so much as an inch out of the vivid blue bubble of anchored reality that surrounds them.
Everyone except Javik, because of course protheans don’t need to worry about being driven insane from a single whisper. It takes a lot more to crack a prothean than that. Of course a prothean soldier would steam ahead hunting his hated foe and seek all avenues of running death and glory-
“Javik, buddy, calm down,” Garrus warns. “I can hear you.”
The old alien doesn’t apologise - he never, ever apologises - but the thoughts about dying in single, wonderful battle against Sovereign subside.
Javik would usually be lending his bioresonant might to expanding the field to something a bit more spacious, but he’s on reconnaissance, and judging by his expression, what he’s seeing isn’t good. That expression is not good at all. Last time he pulled that face was on the Citadel, and what a nightmare that had been.
“Javik,” Thane calls from the field, pistol up, “does the Dream stir? Does the Dreamer wake?”
“It stirs,” Javik warns. “I have not seen its like before.”
“Is it not Sovereign?" Samara questions.
“The Dream is strange. Its currents draw new paths.” Javik is slowly rotating like a compass point, face jutting out as he tracks something, standing on tiptoe as he adjusts his angle. It would be extremely funny were the situation not so grim. “The Dreamer watches the wake we leave, stumbling through the waves of the Dream.” He blinks. “There is something at the heart of this place and it sees us.”
“Wonderful news, Javik, would you please keep such opinions to yourself,” Nyreen mutters through gritted teeth as bright blue steam arcs out of her fingers, her amp, the whole of her body. “You really know how to make a girl feel like a priority target.”
“Of course you are one. How have you not realised that yet?”
“Javik, stop teasing the biotic keeping us sane,” Garrus warns lightly.
“You young races have no appreciation for combat humour,” the walking fossil deadpans, face betraying absolutely nothing.
“Combat humour? This is a much more serious situation than usual,” Liara replies. “Not really the place for jokes.”
“It isn’t. Keep comms clear, people, we’re professionals,” Garrus chides everyone. “Stay live. Could be husks anywhere.”
Anywhere at all-
-they’re coming out of the vents and windows and every door and sewers the citadel is going mad with the song-rage even the children howl and garrus-
-garrus turns and flees-
-anywhere.
It’s after they push through half the ship without meeting a single enemy that the ice-cold lance of cowardice really starts to nip at his heart.
“Maybe they all went running,” Grunt chuckles. “Quadless runts. They must’ve heard us coming and scurried away. Cowards.”
Grunt was the only squad member who wasn’t on the Citadel. The rest of the squad adjust the grips on their firearms, training every sense they have on listing doors, dark corridors, closed bulkheads. Listening. Waiting.
Nothing.
“I don’t like this,” Liara comms. “I really, really don’t like this.”
“Eyes up for ambush,” Garrus barks out. “This is a trap.”
Nothing comes.
Spirits, Garrus hates this.
Wrex points at a sign above. “Security. Maybe we can find a camera feed there. Figure out where the hell everyone vanished to.”
They do indeed find a camera feed in the security room.
The room also happens to be stocked with all sorts of goodies and extras that Garrus’ crack team of mercenaries waste no time stuffing into their pockets. Medigel packs, explosive manufacturing agents, thermal clips, quarian arc weaponry; it’s all seized and filed away for later. The squad have dispersed slightly; chatting, talking, attempting to relax. Javik spins as a needle does, his four eyes searching for any slight disturbance.
Tali is staring at the internal security screen, desperately searching for a sign, any sign at all, of life. She’s fixated on it, flicking between screens rapidly and randomly.
Wrex looks at Garrus, his concern evident even with his face hidden behind a helmet. Garrus nods his head.
Garrus walks over to Tali. “How’re you holding up?”
“Yeah,” sounding like she's anything but. “’M’ok.”
“Hey.” He squeezes her arm. “Look. I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have said what I did. My offer still stands. If it gets too much, just say the word. I understand.”
“Do you,” she mumbles, so quiet he can hardly hear her.
His smile is small, meek. “It’s not our first tangle with a Reaper. We beat Sovereign back before. We’ll do it again. We’ll save them.”
“The Fleet’s gone. My home. Garrus, my whole family-“ she trails off before a sob can escape her. She breathes, nasally and deep, exhaling with force. “I’m scared of what I’ll find,” she confesses with conviction.
“So am I,” Garrus admits. “This is wrong. I feel on edge, like I’m going to slip up, like I’m out of my league. Nyreen was right. There's more to this than it seems.” He reaches up to stroke the top of her head. “But someone has to go in. Better us, than anyone else.”
Tali leans into his touch. “This is just like the Citadel,” she whispers.
This silent grave of ice-cold metal is nothing like that honest slaughterhouse.
“Maybe it’s worse, maybe it’s not,” he brushes off. His fingers play with the hem of her hood. “Spirits,” he sighs, “maybe we can just waltz up to our Dreamer and deal with this before Flux closes for the night. I can only hope.”
Tali huffs at that. “Not with our luck.” She turns to face him. “I get the feeling we’ll be here for a long time.”
Garrus leans down, kisses the top of her head. “I’ll stay here as long as it takes, Tali.”
“Hey. Garrus.”
Even from behind the murky glow of her visor, Garrus can see her smile. Small, and trembling, yes, but it’s still there.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I’m glad you’re here with me.”
He flashes a quick, nervous grin, the expression hidden behind his own visor. “I promised I’d fix this. Can’t deliver a girl a promise if I never show up, ah?” He glances at the screen as it cycles to the next camera.
There’s a red geth unit on the screen. Quarians surround it, slumped over-
Adrenaline ratchets into his system, and he stands up, shouts with alarm, “Contact!”
The whole room shifts, raising rifles, checking fields of fire and lines of sight, while Tali whips around to face the screen. There is a small gasp of terror, before her omni tool lights up, tracking their location.
“Geth unit on the ship!” She holds her hand up to her mouth. “Keelah. They’re all dead. It killed them all!”
The geth is looking off screen at – at something. He can barely see the plates moving, but it’s enough for Tali to turn her head and yell. “Multiple contacts!”
“So it’s Sovereign after all,” Liara responds. “How did the geth get here before us? Did they smuggle themselves onboard?”
“Geth incapable of developing bioresonant signal,” Mordin replies. “Must have travelled via Sovereign. Delivered into the Migrant Fleet via signal-based translocation.”
“Wait.” Tali’s voice hitches in confusion as a new figure comes into view. “That’s not a geth. What. What is that thing? Mordin, come here now-”
Mordin sprints over to the screen to get a close look, nearly pushing Tali entirely out of the way. His eyes sparkle with delight.
“Synthetic, judging by colouration and lower limbs; similar pigment to the geth. Perhaps a new model? Far more organic in appearance; synthetic facial structures mimicking a quarian female. Wait, not exact replica, extra external digits on hands, hair-analogue not exact. Hmm.” Mordin taps the side of his head. “Possible new species.”
“First contact?” Garrus hefts his rifle. “This place must give one hell of a first impression.”
“Can’t be. Look at it. It’s like a quarian,” Nyreen says.
“Look at her facial structure, the shape of her legs,” Liara points out. “She must have been quarian, once. Sovereign’s pulled the same trick on her that he did at the Citadel with Saren.”
“Surely not. That looks nothing like Saren,” Grunt, who was not at the Citadel, shares with the wider squad. “It’s too smooth.”
“That’s because it’s a quarian, smoothbrain,” Wrex rumbles.
“You know what I mean, battlemaster. Saren didn’t look anything like this in the vids.”
“Did Saren know any quarians, any at all?” Samara asks Garrus.
“Not to my knowledge,” Garrus replies, “but isn’t it funny how that looks like one?”
They watch the synthetic, as it stands over one of the quarians. They’re moving. The synthetic’s face is still as grave-water, holstering a pistol.
“What’s it doing?”
The strange synthetic raises a leg over the wounded quarian on the floor and spears it straight through the heart. Tali retches.
“Explains the red,” Grunt mumbles.
“No! Oh-“ Wrex turns and kicks a desk so hard the metal dents. “Reaper-loving scum,” he bellows.
“Kalahira guide them,” Thane whispers, as the thing turns to look at the camera.
Burning red irises frame a frozen face draped like a veil over a twisted body of steel; a mockery of organic form. Blood cascades down its body; mats in its greasy hair and stains its synthetic skin; pools at the steel stumps where its feet should be. It is filthy with murder.
It doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch, it just stands. Stares. Garrus can see shards of envirosuit visors buried in the thing’s hands. Gore on its fingers.
It saw the camera go live, it must have done. It made them watch. It wanted them to watch.
-we are immortal infallible perfect the thing wearing saren’s mashed up skin and piloting his bones whispers to garrus you are less than insects to us and it leaves a trail of death wherever it crawls-
The geth turns to the camera too; much like the strange synthetic, the geth is covered with gore. It twitches the sensor plates surrounding the burning blue light that has symbolised death to the quarians for centuries.
The two synthetics stand still, side by side, ramrod straight. Unmoving, like a pair of toy soldiers. Then they wheel around, stepping over and through corpses like they’re not there, like it never mattered, like the carnage they wrought was only ever an inconvenience, an obstacle. They’re gone.
“I’ll find them,” Tali mutters, her voice catching on a live-wire edge, an electric nerve of hate so raw the bitterness of it makes Garrus blanch. “They won’t hide from me.” Her omni-tool lights up, and she hunches over it feverishly.
“Tali,” Wrex rumbles gently, “we can’t just rush after them-“
“I can,” she shouts, “and I will! They’re murdering my people, Wrex! They genocided them!” She whips her head around. “You, of all of us, should know what genocide looks like.”
Wrex’s brow furrows. “That’s out of order, Tali-“
“What? Why? Because I’m willing to do something when I see my people being slaughtered and not stand around like a fucking moron?! Damn you, Wrex, you bosh’tet, I’m not standing aside for this. They’ve got the answers and blood on their – all over them, all over them like they just showered in it-”
Garrus raises his hands, steps between the two of them. “Wrex, enough. Tali-“
“Not one word from you, Garrus, not one-“
“Tali-“
“Don’t tell me, don’t you dare tell me, to calm down or shut up, Garrus, not for this, not for this! You saw what those monsters did!”
“Lieutenant Zorah,” snaps Spectre Vakarian, “you’ll stand down, or you’ll be sent straight back to the ship. Do you understand?”
Tali splutters with absolute fury, tears thick and heavy in her voice. “Eat shit, Garrus. Eat shit."
Her omnitool chimes, and like that her attention is drawn down to her tool, which flashes up a three-dimensional map of the local topography. Or what it once was. The locations of vital equipment and electronics are scattered across the map with pointers and markers and colours differentiating them.
“There,” she points at one small eye-shaped dot. “The feed is from camera P-512, that camera there,” she points again at the screen. “They’re lower down in the vessel, about to merge with a patrol boat. Four levels down.”” She grabs her shotgun. “Are we going or what, Spectre?” She's growling with rage.
Garrus is quiet. He nods, gently, imperceptibly.
“Good.” She looks around the rest of the squad, who have very decidedly not been paying attention to the argument. “What are you bosh’tets standing around for? You want to kill some Reaper-loving scum? Go, go!”
Her words vitalises the team. They ready themselves, checking readouts and ammo counters. Samara readies herself to cast the Daydream as Nyreen prepares to stop. Javik opens himself up to the oceanic currents of bioresonance buffeting this place. They march back to the door leading further into the ship.
Where it was supposed to be, there is a hole. Perfectly bored, deep and rifled; wide enough for a krogan to squeeze through. Something on the other side stinks of death.
“You have got to be shitting me,” Nyreen deadpans. “Surely there’s another way.”
“Not on this level,” Garrus replies, looking at the map. He sighs. “Single file, people, I’ll take point.” He unholsters a pistol and clambers into the hole.
“Garrus,” Javik warns. “The eye is open again. The Dreamer is watching.”
“Good. Let it watch,” Garrus spits in frustration as he squeezes, slides down this nightmare of metal and slick, damp something that he prays isn’t blood, crawling, inching forwards, hating the ship, the Dream, and everything in it. “I hope it knows we’re coming to kill it.”
Notes:
Special thanks to the Signalis Discord to providing input, inspiration and feedback throughout the development of this story, especially to MJ for suggesting the name "Daydream." You're all great people.
Edits occurred on 20/03/2024, improving grammar and formatting, and preserving narrative integrity.
Chapter 5: entstehenden
Notes:
Thank you to everyone so far who's shown interest and intrigue in this fic! An enormous thank you to Ostheim89 for beta'ing this chapter and providing advice and feedback. I urge everyone reading this fic to read his works The Herald and Her Knight, and Three Note Oddity ; they're of excellent quality.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Elster watches the security camera’s light burn; a sickly green shade flashing away in the corner of the bloodied room.
“Unideal outcome,” Legion states. “Unknown third party monitoring our progress.”
Who, Elster signs to him with a single hand. Legion had copied every different part of the Nation’s linguistics from her memories; combat-issue sign language was no different.
“Possible survivors, deeper in the superstructure network. Possible third party aligned with bioresonant source, or external factor come to investigate superstructure.”
Elster steps out of the pile of dead husks that had come running at them only a few moments ago. We keep moving down, she signs. Legion nods – they've picked up Replika body language as quickly as everything else – and they press on.
Credit where credit is due; the overclocks that Legion coded into her work very, very well. Previously, she had struggled dealing with a few of the creatures at a time; now it is as if they run through thick-set sweetener, limbs tarry-slow and vulnerable to all sorts of carnage.
Attracted by the dead, more and more of these revenant things come running to her. She brushes them aside like driftwood, charting shots with the accuracy of a STCR that sends them pirouetting like dancers.
-don’t forget to stretch first the white-haired girl winks-
Side by side, Legion and Elster carve a red and bloody ruin through the alien horde.
Four of them come rushing up to her as one howling mass. The strength of her kick spears two of them into the ground like a fork through tinned fish, and the force of her pulling her leg free is enough to split the cadavers in two.
-you don’t like tuna elster teases the white-haired girl yes she replies because I actually have working tastebuds see and she sticks her little pink tongue out at her-
The third thing has its head blown off when the muzzle of the mass-acceleration pistol is slammed into its open mouth and fired. Elster’s other hand reaches out and catches the face of the fourth one. All she needs to do is squeeze-
-around my throat that’s the way I want to go-
-and the husk’s face crunches like a raw egg.
-can you do that for me elster-
She clenches her fist, and the omni-blade spears out of her arm, cutting straight through the husk’s corpse.
“Contacts clear,” Legion monotones, pulling an arm out the chest of a husk. “We will press our advantage.” Legion turns to her, plates whirring in a pattern she has come to recognise as concern, or something close to it. “Status report.”
I’m fine, she signs back. Have we lost them? How far until the next ship?
“We are not far,” Legion states, waving his hand. A map projects out of the omnitool, showing an ant’s nest of tunnels, ships, and connector points. It indicates where they are with a blinking red dot. “We are arriving at a significant choke point. Through here is one of the Creator liveships. Creators raised foodstuffs on this vessel. It is one of the largest individual segments in the superstructure.”
Full of contacts, Elster questions. “Likelihood: 70%,” Legion confirms.
No way to go but down.
At this angle, the ships have tilted, turning the corridors into free-fall shafts that would have killed an organic. Legion and Elster continue to descend, slamming into bulkhead doors and through windows of reinforced glass. Rappel lines have been set up by the survivors who came before; these tremble in the wake of the wind rushing around the plummeting duo.
The force of their landing sends warnings flashing all throughout Elster’s field of view. Her left leg’s getting visibly stiff again, warning signs flash red before she dismisses them. She could never do that before. She’d learned to soldier on while the warnings squatted in the corner of her sight, pleading with her to stop.
Keep moving forward.
Their destination lies ahead. An enormous, two-stage bulkhead airlock, with dead aliens everywhere in the central area. Many of the twisted things they’ve killed by the ton, at this point. But these are pristine versions. Aliens cradling firearms and lying in repose behind stacks of boxes and equipment. A heavy weapon emplacement lines a sight down the corridor, its crew dead. Good for them. That thing looks like it could have ripped her in two.
The aliens, both old and twisted, lie together in tumbling heaps of limbs.
What happened here, Elster signs. Legion kneels down besides one of them, scrutinising the body.
“These soldiers were unaffected by whatever transformed the other Quarian-Creators.”
A confused tilt of the head. Quarians?
“The Quarians are what our Creators were called. Their marines defended this place,” Legion states. One of the plates is moving, slowly, repeatedly, as they take in the sight of the dead creators. “They fought to the end.” They place the hands of the Quarians over their chest.
“They gave their lives against the Old Machine.” They nod. “Keelah selai.”
Elster can’t tear herself away from the sight of the dead soldiers. Here, at last, were the aliens as they had really been before whatever incident had happened and turned everyone else into screaming things whose only purpose was to sweep away or be swept aside. Lying in the dark of their twisted homes, motionless save for the slight breeze jostling cloth and suit pipes. How long have they been here?
Did they dream? Did they have friends, family? Did they take their duties seriously, or did they drink tea off-duty and joke, smile, roll dice and bet rationmarks on the odds?
Elster looks at her hands. They’re trembling.
Did they fight in panic, or in solemn duty? Did they die quick, or did they die as most soldiers do?
It’s a small mercy she can’t see their faces. She might’ve been ill. Small mercy.
She crouches over one of them, who is slumped over the heavy weapon’s controls. The injury that killed it looks nothing like something those husks could have produced. It looks like-
-where have you taken her-
-like a gunshot.
Legion’s looking at her. The plates are moving. No words come out. There’s a noise in her ear; tinny and ringing.
This makes no sense. What happened here? She-
-don’t avoid the fucking question-
-winces, as the breeze becomes a gust, as the winter chill of it caresses the back of her legs.
She’s seen corpses before. On the front.
The front? No, that’s not right-
The breeze is strong now. It’s cold. Elster clutches her hands to her sides and shivers. This is a sealed atmosphere. It’s stale. Why can she feel wind, see it work? Where is it blowing from? It’s freezing-
Something floats down, gently, and Elster lets it settle on her finger. Her eye lenses zoom in on the object.
It’s a snowflake.
“Lilith.”
She turns around. Alina’s standing there, in full winter dress. Fog arcs out of her mouth with every breath.
“Come on, Lilith, let’s go,” Alina says, tugging at her coat. “We got our orders.”
“What?” Lilith shakes her head, dissipating the strange daydream. “What’s happening now? Another attack?”
“No, thank goodness, we’re just on clean up duty.”
“Oh.” Lilith grimaces. “What happened?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s only Replikas and Imperials this time round. Lieshi drone hit a patrol of STARs rotating in fresh off the assembly line.”
Lilith’s eyebrows rise up. “A probing attack?”
Alina nods. “9th Unit caught the operators nearby, and the volunteer squad covering them.” She starts to stroll down the trench. “Mortar saturation sorted them out.”
Lilith falls in next to her. “Volunteers? Thought the Empire would have run out of them by now. Great. This is going to take ages to sort out. At least the STARs will be in one piece.”
“Hush,” Alina gently nudges Lilith’s arm. “Keep your head down. Amelie’s overseeing this job.”
“This gets better and better.”
“Look, let’s get this done, and then we’re relieved for the day, ok? Rebecca got a couple packs of Kreuz from her folks back home, she says we can have a couple post-declaration.”
That does sound very appealing, in honesty. The thought of washing away today's little bout of horror with a smoke puts Lilith in a better mood.
“Alright. Let’s get this done.”
At the site of the incident, there’s a unit of STARs waiting, along with Amelie, a STCR due any day now for rotation. These STARs are new; likely from the same delivery order as their murdered comrades. Amelie is scratched, scuffed, and patched up with cheap replacement components. When Amelie’s out of sight, Anna likes to joke - very quietly - that Amelie’s nothing more than a clump of repair spray that sprouted legs.
The STCR scowls at the sight of the pair jogging up to the trench. “About time, girls, about time,” Amelie mutters. “I ought to dock your rationmarks, the pair of you. It’s diversive behaviour, being late for duty.”
Diversive. That catch-all accusation for anti-Nation behaviour and sentiment grates on Lilith’s nerves every time she hears it. After all she’s done for the Nation. After everything she's given!
“Apologies, feldwebel,” Alina salutes. “Lilith had to be called from sentry duty first,” she lies.
Amelie eyes the pair of them for one terrible moment, then huffs. “Fine. Just don’t repeat it.” She turns to the STARs, who salute as one. “You lot! Take the bodies to the quartermaster’s trench, it’ll be his problem afterward. And you two,” pointing them out, “will strip the bodies of equipment and uniform first. I’ll be processing the Imperials first before you go through with them. Quickly, now,” she snaps. “Unless you like being last in for rationcycle!”
This is thankless, disgusting work.
At least it was a Lieshi that had hit the patrol, and not an RPG. If Lilith ignores the muzzle burn under their chins, the Replikas look like they’re sound asleep, and that makes the task of teasing their firearms out of their rigid fingers easier. Counting the bullets is superfluous; full magazine, minus one. There we go.
The Imperials, on the other hand, certainly do not look like they’re sleeping. Amelie sifts through every pocket first, taking off boots and shaking them out, and when they've collected what they want, Amelie lets Alina and Lilith figure out which bit goes where, how best to slide their jackets off, what to distract themselves with as they glance at the Imperial’s faces. Blood accumulates under Lilith’s fingernails.
The STARs are efficient. Quiet. Always quiet, these new combat Replikas, only talking when they need to. They move quickly. Far quicker than Lilith and Alina can. By the time they finish with the last Imperial, all but one of the STARs has broken off for rationcycle. The last Repika taps their foot as the two women hand over what’s left of the final Imperial.
“Take your time,” the STAR mutters. “Got all day.”
“Fuck off, doll,” Lilith snarls. “Show some respect for the dead.”
The STAR looms over her. “Call me that word again, little girl, and see what happens.”
“Billigsfrau-"
Alina steps in between the two. “You’re dismissed, Replika,” she barks, pulling what little rank she has over the combat android. “Deposit this body and go get some rations.”
The STAR fumes silently. “Not worth my fucking time,” they mutter, and tramps away into the night.
Alina rounds on Lilith the moment the STAR walks out of sight. “Lilith, what is wrong with you,” she hisses between her teeth. “Don’t act like a-” she gestures, manically, “a diversant in front of the Replikas!”
“Diversant?” After everything Lilith’s done, that accusation stings. She looks up to snap at Alina, but her expression stops her words dead in her throat. Alina is terrified.
“Alina, hold on-“
“I’ve lost too many people in this war,” she sniffs. “I can’t lose you too.”
“Hey, Alina, hey-“ and Lilith brings her into a tight hug. Alina isn’t crying, but she’s on the verge of it.
“I’m not going anywhere, Alina, I’m not. Remember our promise? We’ll get through this together. I’m not going to break that.” She kisses the top of Alina’s head. “I love you, Alina.”
“I love you, Lilith,” Alina replies, her voice trembling. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
They stay awhile, as snow falls around them, until the shaking in Alina’s shoulders slows, stops.
“I’m okay,” Alina eventually mumbles, her embarrassed voice muffled by Lilith’s thick coat. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Alina.” She squeezes her reassuringly. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I won’t do that again.”
“Mmhm.” Alina taps her side. “I’m getting cold out here, you know. Still fancy some Kreuz?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Lilith says, breaking the hug. “Let’s go report to Amelie that we’re done.”
Amelie’s office is a little down the way in the trench network. The STCR had been shuttling items confiscated from the Imperials for processing in their own room, away from prying eyes. The door is ajar.
“Not like Amelie to forget to close the door,” Lilith mutters.
“Maybe they're out?”
Something slams onto metal from within. Lilith’s mood darkens. “Let’s get this over with,” she grumbles.
Lilith gently, quietly pushes the door open.
Amelie is hunched over a table, facing away from them. A pile of contraband heaps on a table to the Replika's left.
Lilith catches a glimpse of a man standing with a woman and child – two men smiling with their arms over their shoulders – one woman kissing another on the cheek – scribbles, diaries, drawings, watches, cameos, lockets.
Personal effects.
Amelie takes the photograph of the women. They watch as the Storch unit holds it up to the light, turns it around, checking it from every angle.
Then they gently place the photo on her tongue, like it’s nothing more than an algae-cube, and starts to chew.
“Shit,” Lilith blurts out. Alina gags. Amelie jumps in her seat, and wheels around.
The STCR unit’s face is covered with the bent and shredded remains of mementos. Scraps of paper and film briefly flick out their mouth, as they shred the photograph with their jaw, before swallowing the pulped mess with a gulp.
“What are you two fucking staring at,” Amelie barks. “Get back to work.”
“What was that, feldwebel,” Alina says. “What are you doing?”
“Obliterating counter-revolutionary agitprop by direct order of the Kranich, you little worm,” Amelie shouts. “Why do you care?”
“It’s-”
Amelie doesn’t even let Alina begin. “It’s my duty as a servant of the Nation! Who knows who could end up looking at this filth,” they grin. “People like you, you pair of diversanten. You wanted to expose yourself to this anti-state trash, didn’t you?”
The two women blanch. “I’m not a traitor,” Lilith utters, and Alina doesn’t say a fucking word.
“Really?” Amelie tilts her head. “From my perspective, you both show up late to duty, then you barge into my quarters and ask to have a peep at some nice, juicy agitprop.” They're really smiling now. Their teeth are lacquered black with ink; there’s a fragment of what looks like binding stuck between their incisors. “It doesn’t look good, does it? Whatever will I tell that lovely new Kolibri who’s been sniffing about lately? ‘Oh it’s awful, Lyra, so awful, I’ve a couple of diversanten in my trench-line, who knows what they’re plotting?’” The STCR leans back in their chair, smirking. “Well?”
“We saw nothing,” Lilith begs Amelie. “We have no idea what you’re doing. We came to report that our duty was done. We didn’t see a thing.”
“Hmm.” Amelie has the nerve to bring their fingers to stroke their chin, before shaking their head. “Doesn’t really cut it.”
“We can get you some Kreuz,” Alina offers. “Half a pack. Still strong, fresh from Heimat.”
Amelie nods at that. “Good gestalt. I want those in my office after declaration tonight.” Amelie’s eyes turn to Lilith. “Don’t let me catch you sneaking around my quarters like that again, you shit, or I’ll bring my new bioresonant friend down to really make sure you’re what you say you are.” The massive Replika straightens up and salutes lazily. “Dismissed for rationcycle. Glory to the Nation.”
“Glory to the Nation,” the two women parrots.
And without missing a beat, Amelie turns to the pile and starts fishing out more mementos, gnawing at paper, ink and photos with total, ravenous abandon. Lilith fights back rising bile as she watches the Replika attempt to swallow a cameo of the Empress-in-Slumber like a snake. Alina grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her out, leaving Amelie to their hunger.
They stand for a moment outside the bunker entrance, shocked, as cold seeps into their bones. Alina swallows numbly. “That wasn’t right,” she stutters out after a while.
“No. No it wasn’t.” Lilith mumbles.
Alina turns to Lilith. “We have to keep quiet. Orders are…well.” She reaches out to grab Lilith’s hand. “Come on. Before Amelie catches us again.”
Lilith stands still. “We have an incinerator, surely Amelie would’ve-”
“It isn’t our place to question orders, the incinerator’s been out of action for weeks now, remember? Come on, Lil,” she whispers, “let’s go to the rationhall. We’ll go back to the bunker and grab some Kreuz and tea after this, ok? Maybe the EULR unit’s got some chocorations back in, they said it was due any day now-“
Alina continues to talk, but Lilith isn’t paying attention to her right now. Lilith’s hand is freezing cold, lifeless. Her joints are stiff enough that she can't flex her fingers.
She looks down. The hand is black, banded with pale polymer across the knuckles. A metal hand.
A metal body. Her body is metal. Gears and joints whirr. Her feet are missing. Her sight fuzzes.
Why is she in a Replika body-
What? She looks at Alina, and she’s frozen, not moving, not even the snow is falling-
What’s happened to her arms her legs she can’t feel anything-
What is going on oh god oh god oh god what is this-
She opens her mouth and screams but nothing is coming out nothing nothing-
This isn’t her body this isn’t her body this isn’t her body it can’t be it can’t-
Alina! Alina help me god help me no no no someone-
I don’t want my body-
Alina!
“Elster.”
Elster whips around and nearly manages to take Legion’s sensor off with the punch she swings at them. Legion steps back, catching the next fist with ease.
“Get off me,” she says, or tries to say, but nothing comes out. A brief frisson of panic flares through her head, before the memory of what happened to her drips through her heat sinks like melting ice.
She’s not on Vineta. She never has been in all her life. She’s trillions of miles away on an alien ship full of monsters, overclocked beyond Nation spec by a friendly AI. Like a plot out of one of those pulp novels Alina-
-the white-haired girl-
-used to read back on the ship, the Nation serials about Penrose explorers fighting counter-revolutionary aliens and claiming planets for the glory of Heimat, and the banned Imperial ones too, the ones with simple covers and stories of peace, faith and love found by the wayside.
Elster brings up her persona identifier, and the sight of the little dot performing a full figure of eight makes it spin even faster and higher.
Persona degradation was the nightmare that lurked in the thoughts of Replikas the Nation over; the whispering thought that delivered strange and terrible dreams to their sufferers, for whom the only cure was autoeuthanasia. Even in pre-Imperial days it was well known; two minds cannot share a body.
That wasn’t her name, or her face, or her history, or her terror at the sight of her body, and the white-haired girl who spoke her name with such kindness and confided her fears into her and shared cups of hot tea with her; she was nothing, no one to her, no one at all.
-one day I’ll get you behind the easel elster so help me we’ll make an old master of you yet and the dimples on her cheeks only grow-
“Elster,” Legion utters, and she jumps. The AI stares at her with that inscrutable sensor. “Are you stable?” it asks.
She nods, hurriedly. Legion tilts its sensor.
“You appeared to be processing emergent memories. We are rapidly attaining consensus that you are destabilised.”
I’m not, Elster signs. I’m ok, I’m alright ok now can we please move can we get out of here-
The AI surges forwards. Elster exhales in surprise as Legion clasps a hand on her shoulder. It squeezes, gently.
She places her own hand atop the geth’s one, and squeezes in return. Gingerly, at first, then tightly. Legion is cold and too solid and stilted and yet it’s still-
Still-
-I missed you elster-
She wipes her eyes.
Legion breaks the hug. Where did you learn what that meant, she signs.
Legion’s plate twitches almost look like embarrassment. “Your language guidelines included a full explanation,” they hesitate, “on what procedure to follow.” A pause. “Have you re-stabilised?” it asks again.
Yes, thank you, she signs. I think I needed that.
“We are glad to assist.”
Legion’s iris suddenly shrinks to a fraction of its current size. “Hold,” they say, pulling out their light-tool. “Unknown contact rapidly approaching from above.”
It’s them. We need to leave.
“Consensus confirmed. We must continue.” Legion flicks their wrist, opening the bulkhead door these marines gave their lives to protect.
-protect from her-
The corridor is gone. A great blank nothingness stretches afar; a void in the superstructure lit in shades of rich and regal purple by something down, deep and far below in the heart of the Fleet. In the deep distance, a single, blinking green light, gently curving up; the light of the inner sun playing over the ship that twists in the distance. Rubble and debris from some unknown disaster spins in the zero-g.
“We have no choice,” Legion confirms. “We must cross this space and continue on the other side. We move forwards.”
The tek-tek-tek of omni-tools on the far side of the room starts up, as their unknown pursuers attempt to breach through the door locked behind them. The rapid retort of accelerator rifles and the howls of alien revenants, muffled as they are, are still loud enough to hear through the door.
Elster backs up as far as she can-
-take this alina the white-haired girl the replika her sister presses something in her hands and run and run as fast as you can and the room trembles-
-and launches herself out into space.
Keep moving forward.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 21/03/2024, improving grammar and formatting, ensuring consistency across chapters, and preserving narrative integrity.
Chapter 6: taumelnd
Notes:
Special thanks to Ostheim89, Zaradine and Heubristics for beta reading this chapter! As always, thanks to everyone for sticking around and reading my little fic. It's a great joy to write and I'm glad you all like it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Boots slam on to blood-soaked steel. Quarian gore lines the rusted metal floors, spread thin across the grating like a layer of potted meat.
“More incoming, Vakarian,” Wrex growls, uncoupling his rappel line from the cable that some previous survivors had left.
Garrus scowls as the howling of their hunters grow in volume, echoing down from the great hollow in the ceiling far above. “There’s always more,” Garrus grumbles in response. “Keep it moving, folks.”
They’ve been chasing - and been chased - for what feels like hours; squeezing through holes barely large enough to fit the krogans, stumbling over bodies that leap up to tear and claw at the Spectre and his crew. The first time is a nasty shock for Grunt; all that glib machismo vanishes when four of the husks dogpile him and nearly tear his throat out. Thane manages to pull them off in time, using his biotics to fling them into some abyss, but Grunt is shocked enough to finally keep his mouth shut and fix his attention down the barrel of his rifle.
For the rest of the team, it’s business as usual. Their experience from the Citadel has been honed to a knife-edge. What they lack in synthetic strength they more than make up for in sheer destructive power. The mercenary team is professional, efficient, sticking close to the biotics in small fireteams as they outmanoeuvre their way past the clawing hordes.
Garrus brings up his own omnitool, attempting to wire into the remains of the security network. From flickering camera feeds and abandoned microphone receivers, he tracks the strange pair of synthetics as they relentlessly butcher everything in their path.
He checks in on their target once they’re stopped by a locked down door that Tali starts cutting through with her own programs and authorisation codes. He stops in his tracks. “Now this is something else,” he relays, and wires the team into the camera feed.
The alien machine is catatonic, standing amidst a pile of uncorrupted Quarian marines; the first bodies they’ve seen that are unaffected by whatever curse has befallen the rest of their people. The geth is standing in front of the odd machine, which looks for all the world like it’s shut down.
“What’s it doing?” Wrex growls. “Looks overloaded.”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Garrus admits. “Mordin?”
“Behaviour reminiscent of shock,” Mordin mutters. “Possible indication it is experiencing some sort of memory.”
“Memory of what?”
“Unknown. Impossible to know without further understanding of species. Maybe a possible trauma response,” Mordin guesses.
“To what? Oh!”
The alien snaps out of its fugue, nearly taking the geth’s sensor off with a single blow. The geth takes in the rapid gestures of the alien, and touches the shoulder of its comrade in a gesture that is so obviously intimate that the fact a geth is making it seems the height of impropriety.
Grunt stares at the screen, uncomprehendingly. “What the hell is happening?”
“Welcome to the Dreamtime, kid,” Wrex chortles. “Weirder shit happened on the Citadel. If they stay there long enough, we’ll actually catch them at this rate.”
“Definitely a first contact scenario,” Liara muses. “We can probably reach out to them if we’re careful.”
“No promises on that front,” utters Tali.
“Shit,” Garrus whispers as the geth suddenly breaks away, flashing its omni tool up with a map. “They’re onto us!”
The team breaks into an open sprint. They’re close now, so close. Just three doors down.
A screening wave of clawing creatures scatters towards them, hissing and howling even as they’re cut down. A platoon’s worth of cybernetic gun-beasts from somewhere deep in the Dream move in their shadow, taking the time needed by the Spectres to remove their cover to set up kill-corridors and blind-fire ambushes. Clusters of lenses shine from behind intact visors, as clotted, broken hands cradle rifles twisted into pleasing shapes. Mass effect shields shimmer like heat-haze, projected from burning armour systems and fragmented plate. Even in this state, they move with the instinctive practice of the trained marines they once were.
Microgrenades deal with the first squad; a wave of synthesised warheads flung out from Grunt’s omnitool is timed with a precise electromagnetic blast by Garrus. Shields flicker and die before the fabricated explosives scatter across the feet of the gun-husks.
Biotic fields shimmer as twisted soldiers are dragged from their cover by eezo fields, held aloft to be picked apart by precise weapon fire. A third squad is obliterated by Samara; a wave of her hand and a ball of hyper-dense matter appears in the midst of them, sucking them into oblivion, and Tali is silent as her arc rifle ionises what’s left of her people.
Javik’s rage is palpable; a sour metal-tang on the edge of taste as he jumps into the minds of the creatures before him. He ransacks what’s left of their thoughts, leaving disconnected, empty shells in his wake.
“I see you, Dreamer,” he delights, “Tremble! I have come for you.”
Husks collapse, their strings cut, as the Spectres march on.
The AI have slipped through their fingers by the time they arrive at the site of the dead marines. A fierce, purple light glowing from beyond the opened bulkhead door throws everything into twisted shadows. Debris tumbles in the gargantuan, empty space before them.
Wrex whistles as he takes in the sight of the gap. “How the hell are we going to cross that?”
“Very, very carefully of course. Squad! Gather up anything we can use from here,” Garrus orders, and the team springs to action, gathering spare thermal clips, medi-gel and anything else they can peel off the dead quarians.
“Garrus,” Liara points out. “Come over here.”
“What? Something the matter?”
“Look at the bodies.” She points at one of the marines, whose arms have been - inexplicably - folded atop one another. “These aren’t husk wounds.”
The piercing wound, the hole-punch machinery action of it, the lingering traces of gunpowder. Gunshots, from something higher calibre than a mass-effect weapon. Something alien did this.
“Dang,” Garrus whistles. “Has Tali-”
His voice stills. Tali’s crouched over the body of one of them, who sustained a stomping puncture straight through the heart. She shakes the body, wipes a trembling hand down her visor. Mutters a quick prayer, crosses the hands of the marine over himself, stands up and visibly collects herself.
“Where are they?” she rumbles, the venom in her voice concentrated to a knife-point edge of singular, focused anger.
“Ahead,” Thane calls, holding a pair of binoculars to his face as he scans the horizon. Garrus looks on as two dark and solitary specks leap from ruin to ruin. “They flee before us.”
The Spectre drops to one knee, lining up a shot through his scope-
-bullets ping into the balcony as he takes cover mercs flooding in from every side and he knows now that this is it this is really it do or die he walks with his ancestors and whether he will pass through the needle of the storm or be turned to dust remains to be seen-
-and curses when the stuttering, clarion shriek of their pursuers echoes down the doors they just passed through.
“How many more of these things are there?” Samara mutters with quiet, resigned fury. “They never cease.” Another singularity is sent spinning down the corridor, momentarily silencing the horde, before Tali twists her arm, closing the doors and sealing them tight.
“Vakarian, we’re dead if we try to hold them here,” Wrex barks at the Spectre. “We have to cross.”
He wasn’t wrong. No other alternative but to hop out into open space.
“Leash up,” he commands the team. “Biotics, Daydreams up. The rest of you, two to a biotic. Javik, you go ahead. Be ready for a charge.”
The team huddles around their assigned biotics - the two krogans pair with Samara, Thane and Mordin with Nyreen, Garrus and Tali alongside Liara - who prepare to throw the mercs into open void. Clips attach on hook points. Armour is sealed. Javik takes Garrus’ command to heart; he sprints forward and then is gone, an arrow loosed from its string.
The locked doors can only hold for so long. The rainfall drumbeat of fists on metal becomes a storm, an unrelenting wall of sound.
“Leap!” shouts Garrus, and the vertigo feel of eezo seizing him in a fist and yanking him into the open void threatens to spill over into nausea. He swallows, thickly. The echoing bang of the door behind them failing causes the team to spin around, adjusting in the zero-g with micro-boosters.
Husks tumble out of the open door, using impossible strength to launch themselves forwards at the team. Others stay behind, sighting in their twisted weaponry. The Spectres open fire, mass-accelerated rounds no bigger than a grain of sand punching holes in the hollow remains stalking their shadows. Biotic might blasts packs of the creatures into space. The best technology the galaxy has to offer annihilates swathes of their enemies; the on-site fabricators on their omnitools fire out grenades and produce monomolecular blades that cut straight through augmented bone.
Most of the husks tumble away into nothing. Some are on target, and come dangerously close to swiping at their armour. Garrus spots Wrex catching a husk by the leg, flipping it so hard into another that limbs fly off. Wrex uses the momentum to boost himself forwards, the rest of his pack dangling behind him.
Garrus and his fireteam land on a shrapnel shard of ship the size of a Wards studio. Crawling over its bulk, they turn to face the distant pair of fleeing figures.
“We have to disable them somehow,” Liara yells. “Can you overload them from here?”
“No,” Garrus responds. “I’d need to edge a bit closer. A lot closer.”
“Would anything else work?”
“This will do the trick,” says Tali, and pulls the trigger on her arc projector. Ionised air judders through the void, going wide over their heads. The synthetics wheel around, and a mass-effect round whips past his ear. “Contact,” he screams, as the distant crack of mass-accelerators echoes from afar.
Bullets fly between the synthetics and the Spectre team, as shrieking, snarling husks tumble into the void around them. Almost all the bullets find purchase in the whirling monsters, or slap into debris. Tali doesn’t so much as glance back at the squalling mass of bodies that the rest of her team are unloading their weapons into. Her focus is ahead, on the geth and the unknown synthetic trailing after it.
There was a brief moment when she encountered the first of the husks that had become of her people, where the curdling horror that threatened to spill over at any time had subsided. Gone quiet. They had been putting down victims of the Dream, not causing massacres, and there wasn’t really a way she could fault them for that.
Then that awful burning had resumed immediately once she’d seen the remains of the Marines. Of Kal’Reegar.
-keelah se’lai Tali her closest friend whispers folding a gift wrapped in the fabric of his clan into her open palms by the light of the homeworld will I see you again and Tali tries to play it cool I’ll be back before you know it before long you’ll wish I was still on pilgrimage-
No husk could have done that to a trained squad of quarian marines. She saw the bodies, the gunshot wounds, the alien nature of those injuries.
Shots patter past them, burying themselves in husks as the synthetics tumble towards the superstructure on the other end of the void. A blinking airlock light beckons them, stretched out from a ship that she has known for all her life. If they get past that, they’re good as gone.
If Nihlus were here, he’d have figured it out already, had them trussed up like Rannoch wildfowl on the way back to the Citadel to strut in glory.
-are you hurt the burly turian frets in the wards back alley as he pours medigel over the wound in her arm I know how to look after myself she snaps back in youthful pride-
But there are no opportunities for hypotheticals, no point thinking about what ifs and could be’s and perhaps. Tali is armed; Tali is the only one of her team facing them.
Shots whizz past her ear. She doesn’t notice; her eyes are locked on the unknown android and the small V of her sight as she sights in-
-you gotta breathe with your shots kid Wrex exclaims and hands her another thermal clip it looks childish in his enormous brutish hands we go again until you make every last round count-
-and exhales, blowing a sizzling, fist-sized hole through the android’s shoulder. Blood sheets out of the exposed polymer.
Blood?
The alien machine stops shooting, clutches at its wound. Even at this distance, Tali can see the panic overtaking the both of them, and isn’t that a funny thing, watching a geth twist its head-plates in something so close to concern?
The Reaper-code they sought must have granted them what they wanted, some measure, a mimicry of sapience. Good. Let them feel the end of it, let them feel what it is to be afraid as we come singing with the apex of glory and vengeance, vengeance-
Javik spears past her like a missile towards the android, the backwash of his thoughts breaking like waves on her own mind, his little Dream eddying and bending reality as he flies without effort. The geth moves to intercept, but Javik brushes it aside like nothing. The geth spins away, landing on a piece of orbiting debris. The prothean, the living ancestor, last of his kind, warrior-sworn, lances out towards the android with his hands outstretched and his own little Dream burrowing-
Javik spasms in total and unrelenting shock, clutching his skull. His horror lances through her. Through all of them. The android recovers briefly, and uses Javik’s curling form as a springboard. The prothean careens back towards them as the android leaps to safety, landing next to its geth partner.
“The synthetic thinks as we do,” yells Javik through gritted teeth, “the Dream walks through its mind alongside ours!” Isn’t that a wake up call. Fear sloshes down her spine like meltwater. “Stay in the Daydreams!”
Frustrated, with no way to chase her quarry, Tali barks in anger. She whips around, unloading arc fire into the spinning husks. “Come on, Tali,” Garrus calls, grabbing her shoulder as Liara readies them for another jump. “We’ve got to move!”
They leap off the ruin, bee-lining towards the synthetics who have latched onto the airlock. The geth is furiously breaching away at the door’s code, while the alien slumps onto the lock. It spots them coming; raises its pistol-
A round cracks out; Garrus yelps, and terror punches right through her, knife-tight, jagged in its intensity.
Tali grabs a hold of his line and pulls herself towards him, clutching onto his spinning body. “I got you, Garrus, I got you,” she whispers as she fumbles for the medigel, where is it, bosh’tet thing where has it gone-
“I’m good, I’m good-“ he chokes off a groan, swallows a curse. “Hardly scraped me,” he banters with a voice tight with pain. He paws at her with his arm; limp and dangling. “Get across, Tali, go-“
“Not without you,” she snarls. She looks behind her; husks tumble forward. She turns to Liara. “Cover me!”
She scoops him up with one arm, zero-g lending her strength, and she pulls out her arc pistol, spinning out fire towards the incoming revenants as she launches herself backwards towards the door. Garrus raises his own gun, joining her as they take a toll on the incoming wave. Liara flings them forwards; the purple light of the false sun below them dances across their armour as they careen through the void towards the airlock, where the synthetics desperately wedge the door open.
They touch down in time to watch the airlock slam tight. Tali lands, carrying Garrus in a fireman’s bundle.
They can see the two androids flitting about, reinforcing the external locks and attempting to breach open the internal door. The geth alternates between throwing every supply it has on the alien’s enormous wound and waving an omnitool in the door’s general direction.
“Bosh’tet geth,” Tali curses. “Full lockout. It’s seeded geth programs into the door mainframe. We’re stuck here!”
The others have landed, finishing off what’s left of the husk horde that spilled out after them. Mordin rushes over to fuss over Garrus, while Samara joins Tali at the door. “I’ll handle this,” Samara replies, and the door begins to shimmer as eezo slowly courses through the structure. She grunts, and puts her weapon away to devote attention to it. “See to the wounded.”
Tali runs over to Garrus, whose prone form is still being monitored by Mordin. “Anything I can do to help?”
Mordin’s expression is grim. “Significant damage to muscle and nerve,” Mordin lists, as he taps away at the injury, probing it, diagnosing. “A disabling shot. Very precise.” He gives Tali a look. “Likely will require prosthetic replacement post-deployment. Useless for now. Will require binding.”
Garrus laughs, as he always does when something awful happens to him. “Wonderful, Mordin, at this rate I really will become a synthetic. First the face, now my arm?” He looks up at Tali. “It’s good you’ve a thing for scars, eh? Maybe they’ll blow my legs off next time, complete the package-”
He’s babbling. Tali reaches out and scratches his fringe, and the tumbling, nervous words stop. “Why didn’t it kill him?”
“My wonderful sense of charm,” Garrus smiles, mandibles trembling. “Obviously.”
“Unknown,” Mordin replies. “It should’ve killed you. Decided against it.”
“What are you suggesting?” Tali’s brow furrows. “It chose to keep Garrus alive? Why? So the husks could get him?”
“How kind of it,” Garrus snarks dryly.
“Unknown if it’s capable of kindness,” Mordin continues. “Efficient, ruthless; likely desired Garrus as buffer between husks and itself. Logic would dictate that, certainly. Yet the prothean claims it thinks like us.” He looks up at said mercenary. “Javik!”
“Yes, lizard, I can hear your whirring thoughts,” the old veteran replies, checking itself for injuries. “I brushed against its mind and felt it respond.”
“Just like us.”
Javik nods. “That is no mere synthetic.”
There’s a ringing sound in Tali’s ear, shrill and tight. “Is it bioresonant?”
“No more than we are.” Javik flexes his fingers. “But I still touched its mind. The geth were like empty echoes, I could no more read its mind than any of you. But I saw…” he trails off. “I struggle to describe it. But it thinks along the same lines as you and I.”
A synthetic with an organic mind. Synthetics capable of interfacing with bioresonance, capable of accessing Dreams, and possibly able to make their own. It’s something out of speculative fiction; some horror dredged out of a low-budget flick and smacked down in front of them. Worse yet, if one could be made, many could be made. The thought of a legion of bioresonant synthetics, thinking in ways so similar, yet so utterly alien to them-
Well. It was enough to make one’s skin crawl. Better that they stop it, before it calls to its masters. Before the Reapers get a hold of them-
-saren smiles and nihlus screams-
-and drowns the galaxy in flame.
A burst, a squeak of comms. Someone’s trying to access their network. She looks at the signal source; her heart leaps into her throat as Migrant Fleet identity codes play out over her HUD. She lets them in without a second thought.
“This is Rael’Zorah vas Alari,” and Tali’s sorrow, hate and hurt is extinguished by a rising well of joy, joy, joy that soars through her, and she jumps to her feet - jumps!
“Dad?!” Her whole team whip around to stare at her, and she couldn’t care less because her father is alive and breathing and talking to her he’s here-
“Tali!” Her dad’s laughter echoes down the radio, jolly and joyful, and Tali can’t help it. She bursts into tears.
“Keelah, father, you’re alive, you’re alive!” she sobs down her comms unit. “I thought you’d- I didn’t know if you were here and I saw the Alarei and I thought-”
“My little girl,” Rael replies, emotion thick and weighing on his voice, “I knew you’d come, I knew you’d come and save us-“
“Admiral Rael’Zorah,” Wrex interrupts, wading into the family reunion as deftly as a rampaging thresher maw. “We’re in a tight spot. Hostiles coming up from across the gap, and you’ve a couple synthetics loose in your ship. How do we get this airlock open?”
Rael coughs. “Yes, of course. You can’t, I’m afraid,” Rael replies swiftly. “Airlock’s full of geth programs; it won’t budge for anything. Good luck trying to force it open with anything short of a railgun.”
The eezo haze dissipates. “So we’re pinned here,” Samara spits, irritated at the lack of payoff for her effort.
“Not so,” Rael responds. “There’s an emergency access stairwell further up the side of this structure. You’ll need to ascend by foot.”
“What about the synthetics?” Liara replies. “We can’t let them escape.”
“Don’t worry about them for now. Come up to me on the bridge. I’ve an express elevator that will take you close to the bioresonant signal source. You’ll be able to intercept them before they reach it.”
“Why?” Garrus shakes his head. “Why would they want to reach it?”
“That Replika is the root of all of this madness, Spectre,” Rael spits down the comms unit.
“Replika?” Mordin tilts his head. “Elaborate.”
“That’s what it calls itself. We found its ship drifting in orbit. And now, we’re stuck here,” Rael’Zorah sighs. “There’s no way you can breach that airlock fast enough to catch them. Come upstairs. I have another way down; if we’re quick you’ll be able to catch them before they get deep into the heart of the signal. I’d rather fill you in face-to-face; I have no idea if that geth unit has intercepted our comms.”
Garrus tilts his head at Wrex. The krogan shrugs. “What else can we do?” The old battlemaster turns his head. “We’ll see you soon, Admiral.”
Replika. Rhep-li-kaaaa … Tali mouths the word, the harsh, alien consonant clicking out of her throat. It sounds like metal on metal. Like the rapport of a steel-shod boot ramming down on a visor.
Tali looks through the reinforced glass of the airlock, which is still cycling. The alien android - the Replika - is staring at her, cradling its wounded shoulder. As she approaches the airlock, it does the same. She can see the geth tilting its sensor, mimicking some sort of body language cue, but the Replika isn’t paying attention.
It looks almost like her. The face, the nose, the legs, the pursed lips and lank hair. It’s so very quarian-like. So close to the mark, but far away enough that the sight of it makes her skin crawl, makes revulsion creep up her throat and choke her.
-saren blinks and smiles and keeps smiling as flesh makes way for steel and sensor as his body hollows out like a rotting nut and that awful grinding voice rolls over them YOU WILL ALL RISE ALONGSIDE ME AND WE WILL LIVE FOREVER -
This thing of polymer, of steel and imitation skin and hair, has no place in her home. In her people’s mausoleum. What is this Replika, this AI, this machine-bitch doing traipsing around killing her people like nothing-
Tali’s fist, lit up sunset-yellow with the glow of her omni-blade, crashes into the hardened glass. It doesn’t make a dent in the airlock whatsoever; she hears the thin edge of the blade snap and ping off across the bulkhead. She screams, then; the first real sound she’s made since arriving in this fucked system, on her fucked Fleet full of her fucked up people, and she pounds on the airlock glass with her bare fists.
Dimly, she can hear the other members of Garrus’ team calling her name; her father shouting at her to stop. She feels Garrus’ hand grip her shoulder; it’s weak enough that she can shrug it off, continuing to smash her fists into the airlock window.
The AI doesn’t move an inch through all her outburst. It stands, and stares. Takes in the whole of her misery and woe.
As Tali sinks to her knees, head cradled in her hands, the Replika backs away through the other end of the opened airlock, hand cradling its wound, and vanishes from sight.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 21/03/2024, improving grammar, formatting, and narrative integrity.
Chapter 7: einweisung
Notes:
Special thanks to the Signaliscord community for their input and support on this fic, and in particular Ostheim for their support with editing this chapter! Please go and read their excellent fic "The Herald and Her Knight" if you're interested in more stories about Elster and Ariane.
A great big thank you to everyone here whose enjoying this fic so far!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Alarei’s bridge is dark and muted, compared to the last time Tali saw it. Back when it was a command vessel of the Fleet, it was a nerve centre; a bustling, beating heart that drove the Fleet forwards, with her father at the eye of the storm.
Now it’s empty. There’s a desolate solitude to this place now; dust covers command consoles and chairs, and the power is long gone. There’s still enough juice for emergency lighting, but the deep crimson glow of the LEDs is barely enough to light the bridge. Shadows loom large in the corners.
Grunt scoffs. “Call this a bridge?” Wrex jabs him in the arm.
“My apologies, Krogan, if my hospitality isn’t up to the standards of Clan Urdnot,” Rael’Zorah vas Alarei retorts from the centre of the room, crouched in his command chair. “You should be thankful that there’s oxygen. Surely you understand that in these trying times, I’ve little time for cleaning, or anything else for that matter.”
Hidden by shadows, he looks for all the world like a corpse, some slumped over destitute figure, yet he manages to stand, pushing himself off his chair. Tali watches as he stretches his arms out towards her; illuminated by the light, his suit is a mess of patch-jobs, sealant plugs and IV antiviral inserts, and she doesn’t care because he’s here and he’s real and alive and everything’s alright and fine-
“Still too old to give your papa a hug?”
“Dad!”
She doesn’t care about her team hearing her dad using the nickname she called him when she was a kid. Tali sprints into her father’s open arms. The force of his hug is crushing, grounding; it lifts her off her feet as Rael spins her around like she’s a kid again.
“Tali, Tali, Tali,” her father repeats like a prayer, a call. “My little Tali, you’re alive!”
“Papa,” she weeps. “I thought you were dead, papa, I didn’t hear anything for so long and all I found were bodies and I’m-“ she chokes on a sob. “I’m so happy to see you-“
“My little hero,” her father cries, and his hug presses even tighter. For one wonderful, blissful moment, Tali lets herself feel safe and sure. Her dad’s alive. He’ll have a plan, he always does. Everything’s going to be alright.
They stay in that embrace, rocking and sobbing, until Garrus coughs quietly. Dad looks over his shoulder at Tali’s commander. His grip on her tightens reflexively.
“Dad, this is Garrus,” she intercedes. “He saved my life on the Citadel.” She breaks apart from her hug, though the way that dad’s arm trails on hers makes her want to dip back into the embrace all over again.
If she has her way they’ll be hugging and talking and crying for hours, and right now her people – the galaxy – need Tali’Zorah vas Menae, heroine of the Citadel, not Tali’Zorah the scared young woman fresh out of her Pilgrimage, far too deep in over her head.
“Admiral Rael’Zorah,” Garrus starts, a little hesitant. His damaged, useless arm is held in an impromptu sling, with painkillers wired intravenously from a bag mounted onto the back of his armour. “Hello. I, uh, well. I wish we could have met in other circumstances, but even so, it’s damn good to see you.”
“Spectre Vakarian,” her father replies, and the clipped, terse politeness in his voice is absolutely mortifying to hear. “My daughter has told me much about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” Garrus banters weakly.
“I’ve certainly heard much about you. ‘Saviour of the Citadel’, or so the Palaven media circus likes to boast.” Admiral Rael tilts his head. “A rogue asset, in some smaller circles. I must be honest, I wasn’t too impressed with the ‘Avenging Spirit’ of Omega, though you certainly had your supporters on the Admiralty Board.”
“Good to hear I had friends in the Fleet,” Garrus snipes back, pride tinging the timbre of his voice, as his good arm goes to rub the back of his fringe. “We were doing good things on Omega. The right thing. Isn’t that right, Wrex?”
Wrex nods. “Omega is, and always will be, a shithole, but without us it would’ve been worse off. Even you can see that.”
Rael stays silent, his simmering disdain evident. Tali’s embarrassment is palpable, physical, it's radiating off her in waves. Light of the homeworld; she is never going to hear the end of this from her father.
Garrus’s awkward stare towards Tali prompts her to take decisive action to prevent this shuttle crash from turning into a real fireball.
Tali waves her dad off, the blush of embarrassment that's hidden by her visor creeping up her neck and onto her face. “I wouldn’t be here without Garrus, dad, you know that. He’s the best Spectre the Council has, and I’m not saying that because I know him. It would’ve been the end of everything if it wasn’t for what he did.”
Rael does nod at that. “Hm. I suppose I should be thankful to you, Spectre. Forgive my irritability. I haven’t slept well since…well.” He reaches out and clasps Tali’s hand. She squeezes back.
Garrus nods. “It’s alright. I’m under special orders from the Citadel Council to investigate this matter. Tali was brought along in an advisory capacity, as was everyone here.”
Rael’Zorah takes in the most lethal Spectre ops team assembled by the Citadel Council in living memory, even accounting for the Asari’s thousand-year lifespan. He huffs.
“I certainly hope you know what you’re advising against,” he snarks.
“Admiral Rael’Zorah vas Alarei,” Samara responds, tone curt and clipped, “you should have every faith in us. We brought Saren and his master to justice over the Citadel. Bioresonant combat is our specialty.”
Rael shakes his head. “Not here. This isn’t your average ardat-yakshi coven. This is something else entirely. I wasn’t at the Citadel-“
“We’re aware of that,” Nyreen digs. “Too busy chasing after your renegade toys to help out the rest of us. Even the batarians showed up to help. The fucking slavers pulled their weight more than the Fleet did-“
Rael gestures sharply, his free hand cutting down in aggravation. “And you think I wanted that? I knew the geth were in league with Saren, with Sovereign. I wanted, more than anything, to send the Heavy Fleet in support, but I was voted down. Han’Gerrel and Shala’Raan saw an opportunity for glory, wanted to hit the geth while they sent forces against the Citadel, and so it was glory we sought.” He scoffs. “See where that got us.”
Nyreen raises a finger to retort, and Wrex swiftly – mercifully – cuts in, before Tali storms over and shuts Nyreen’s mandibles for her. “What do you mean, something new? It isn’t a Reaper?”
And her father does something she’s never seen him do before. He hesitates. Just a slight pause, a tilt of the head, a slight rocking back on his heels, but the tells that aliens would miss are unmistakable to her.
“I can’t say for certain what it is. Admiral Daro’Xen found something in this system, but she refused to elaborate. She liked to keep her secrets close to her chest. I suppose she thought what she found could be used in a… a gambit of sorts.” He shakes his head, looking at the team. “I’m sorry, I’ve only just realised you’re all standing. Please, rest, sit down. This may take a while. I have supplies; you’ll need them.”
He visibly collects himself, breaking apart from Tali and straightening the slight hunch in his shoulders to stare at Garrus straight on. “Meet me in the briefing room next door; once I get the power re-routed from here, I’ll tell you what little I know.” He swiftly excuses himself, briskly walking through a half-open door. Lights slowly begin to flicker on in that room, as the emergency lights on the bridge blink off one-by-one.
Garrus whistles in a low, relieved pitch. “Tali, I must admit,” he starts, “that could’ve gone way worse.”
Tali guffaws in disbelief. “Really? Keelah, I thought he was going to shoot you.”
“Well, he didn’t. That makes him better than Nihlus’s dad.”
Tali chokes, covering up her startle with a well-timed cough. “Though it definitely could’ve gone better,” Garrus finishes.
“Dad’s not...good with new faces.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
Keelah. Tali buries her face in her palms. How mortifying.
Wrex chuckles. “I like him.”
The briefing room is…scuffed. That’s the politest way Garrus can put it. Even the Menae’s briefing room is in better shape, and his humble old frigate is miniscule in comparison to the Alarei. Whether the scruffiness of Rael’s office is from the destitution that has followed in the wake of the Migrant Fleet’s obliteration, or from that old eccentric’s long-held habits, he can’t tell.
Either way, Garrus is keeping his mandibles shut. Rael’Zorah vas Alarei is a scary fellow; he can tell that the venerable Quarian deserves his slot on the Admiralty Board. Rael’Zorah is also very, very tired, judging by the way he slumps in his chair, legs resting up on the table. Even Tali looks unsettled by this cavalier detachment from decorum. An Admiral is supposed to be the fulcrum of a fleet, never mind a Quarian Admiral, who holds responsibility for the people, for the future.
Garrus shouldn’t judge. He’d probably be acting the same if he was forced to live alongside corpses for six whole weeks.
Rael opens the meeting with, “I won’t slather poison with honey,” and wow, isn’t that an understatement. Garrus would have laughed, if the pain in his arm and the latent disappointment in the admiral’s glare hadn’t shut him up. “We’re fucked.”
“Dad!” Tali exclaims in shock, and Rael holds up a finger.
“I’ve lost count of how long it’s been,” he confesses. “Everyone else is gone. If there are other survivors, they’re scattered and in hiding. I’ve tried contacting every other damn ship in the Fleet, the Admiralty, the Conclave. Zero response. No signal can leave this place; I’ve broadcast emergency messages on every possible QEC frequency, and judging by how long it took you all to show up, you only found us because we went quiet long enough for someone to wonder what we were getting up to.”
He tilts his head. “Let me guess, Spectre, the Council assumed we’d finally figured out how to get control back over the geth? Did someone assume we were planning to seize some garden worlds with our imagined new military?”
Garrus is very, very quiet, because that is exactly what happened. Right down to the newly appointed batarian Councillor losing his shit mid-briefing and blaming the quarians for “letting the geth build dreadnoughts as part of their master plan.” Thank the Spirits that Tali had been waiting outside; even Garrus had wanted to slot the four-eyed bastard through the heart at that disgusting claim.
Rael sits up. “Sorry to disappoint the Council, but the geth are still firmly on Sovereign’s side for now. Who knows where they’re lurking, now. Certainly, the geth had nothing to do with what happened here.” He looks away at that.
“What happened?”
Another shrug. “Daro’Xen did...something. Woke up whatever she’d found. Everything collapsed after that. Millions of my people died in the first hour, then got back up in the second.” He clenches his fist. “The Board failed the Fleet. Now we are ghosts.” His shoulders start to tremble. “Everyone’s dead, or worse.” He looks up at Tali. “Even if we recall the pilgrims and exiles, the quarians will never be a people again.” He rests his head in his hands.
“Yet you are still with us. How did you survive, Admiral?” Javik's arms are folded, his stare bright and piercing.
Rael raises his head to meet the prothean’s gaze. “I locked down as soon as it started. The rest of the Fleet went dark shortly after. My crew wanted to search for survivors; I forbade them.” He folds his hands on the table, leaning in. “They mutinied. Confined me to the bridge, ransacked the rest of the ship and left.” He looks back to Garrus. “And they vanished, never came back. They’re probably twisted up by whatever force is responsible for this, same as everyone else.”
“And you let them go?” Wrex folds his arms. “Without a fight?”
“I had no choice. I was outgunned and outmanned,” Rael offers in response. “If they wanted to go and die elsewhere in the Fleet, they were more than welcome to. And die they did.”
Garrus sits back in his chair. He looks at Rael, scratching his mandibles with one chin. His eyes narrow. Under the table, he flicks his omni-tool on, pinging a single-note chime into Wrex and Javik’s comm-channels.
Javik keeps his gaze fixed on the Admiral. “What is the nature of this Dreamer?” Javik’s questions are probing. He leans in. “You said it could not be a Reaper. How can this be so?”
“Because it’s not a Reaper. This is an outside context problem, something new. Sovereign didn’t show this capability at the Citadel.”
“You sound so sure,” Nyreen drawls.
Rael is confident, collected. “What caused it was onboard this.” He taps on the briefing room’s keyboard, bringing up an holographic image which rotates on static-laced, guttering hard-light suspended at the centre of the table.
It’s a ship. Tiny, adrift, dead. It’s so unbelievably, laughably primitive; there’s not a single sign of eezo reactors or engines anywhere. It looks like it has fuel-rockets; real, bonafide fuel rockets. When did the turians ditch those; what, four thousand years ago?
“A scout vessel from an uncontacted alien species,” Rael clarifies, “gutted by radiation from a faulty reactor. Daro’Xen got a good scan of the ship via probes when she first found it. Her people had to send in drones first to clean it up.”
Mordin raises his eyebrows. “Radiation? Vessel was powered by a fission reactor?”
“Daro’Xen thought so. I’m not so sure myself. For one thing, how did they get so far? Daro’Xen carbon-dated the ship and managed to translate their logbook. I was able to access it remotely before her own ship shut down. The distance that little thing covered is light-years beyond what it should have been capable of.” Rael flattens his hands on the table. “I believe they’d been launched through a relay. Not by standard mass effect fields, but by bioresonance.”
“‘Harmonious Parallel Resonance,’” Mordin clicks out. “Fringe scientific theory for centuries, widely dismissed. This ship proves it?”
Rael nods.
The table stills at that. Bioresonant reactors. Bioresonant travel. Forget a legion of bioresonant synthetics; if this species can cram a reactor with bioresonant power, who knows what they could do? Climate change, terraforming? Whatever had happened here, was this the result of a weapon?
But from everything that Garrus has seen over the past few months, there’s only one other species that uses bioresonance to activate the Relays. Spectre Vakarian twists his omnitool slightly, and another chirp - three-tonal rising - pings down into his lieutenant’s ears.
“Over the radio,” Liara interjects, “you mentioned that the alien synthetic we’ve seen partnered with the geth unit was a ‘Replika.’ What is that?”
“I’m unsure,” Rael confesses. “Some sort of mass-produced synthetic, similar in function to the geth, though the form is remarkably organic. Daro wasn’t exactly forthcoming on details, but judging by her own logs she marvelled at its creation. Durable, self-sufficient, hyper efficient. It must‘ve been built to assist the ship’s pilot, but that’s a guess on my end. It didn’t cooperate, even after Daro tried to…encourage it to communicate,” he paraphrases, words finding purchase on something understated. “As for the pilot, I’ve minimal clue, but Daro'Xen said they are organic.”
“Are?” Thane leans in. “That implies they’re alive.”
Rael nods. “That’s because they’re the signal source.” He folds his hands on the table. “They caused everything. Sovereign has nothing to do with this.”
The pin drops. The puzzle pieces slot into place. Garrus turns to Javik, to Wrex. They nod.
Garrus’s omnitool, kept hidden under the table, lights up and overloads Rael’s suit systems. Stiffened, paralysed, Rael collapses onto the floor without a sound.
Tali springs to her feet, along with Javik, Wrex, and every other merc in the room. “What the fuck-“
“Tali,” Spectre Vakarian warns, “I need you to step away from your father, right now.”
“Why, what the fuck has he done-“
“He’s showing signs of indoctrination.”
Tali is furious; her burning, spitting anger and shock at this betrayal is palpable, and when her hand hovers over her pistol the sound of every other squad member pointing a gun her way forces her to freeze. “That’s bullshit! How could you do that to him, how can you believe that?” she yells.
“Think about it, Tali. How can he say that a Reaper isn’t responsible, when we’ve been fighting Reaper-husks ever since we arrived, when we've confirmed that there's a Reaper in here? You were on the Citadel. You know what they look like, and those things out there match exactly what we encountered.”
Tali pauses at that. Slowly, gingerly, she raises her shaking hands up. “Even so, dad’s not compromised. There’s absolutely no way. ”
“Are you sure? He’s been sitting here for six weeks on his own. Your people don’t have biotics. Six weeks of constant exposure to indoctrination. Even Benezia couldn’t resist that, and she was a Matriarch. I don’t doubt that your dad’s a great man, Tali. But we have to be sure. We have to.”
Tali tilts her head, running numbers and eventually, she sidesteps. “Do what you need to,” she replies in a voice small with worry and fear and shock and it makes Garrus’s heart shake and tremble to hear her like that, and know that he made her feel this way.
He has no choice. It’s him or the team. The galaxy. One man compared to all of creation is a sacrifice he will make. That’s the mission.
Wrex has finished binding Rael’Zorah in his chair. “He’s all yours, prothean.”
Javik steps forward, and Tali balks. “That’s surely not necessary,” Tali stutters, “surely we can use one of the scanners back on the ship.”
Garrus stays quiet, looking at his feet.
“Garrus, please, check him, but not like this, this is too much, you’ll hurt him-”
“Tali’Zorah, you behave as a spoilt child does,” Javik utters, “ignorant and petulant. If you are incapable of being anything other than a silly little brat, you should stay quiet.”
“And you’re an arrogant, egotistical bosh’tet, Javik, stay out of my dad’s head!”
Javik merely sighs, visibly fuelling Tali’s rage. Even so, she doesn’t dare move. “Spectre, let’s get this over with.”
Even with the mask distorting the view, Tali’s pleading gaze towards Garrus is almost enough to make him drop the matter. “This doesn’t need to happen.”
“It does,” Garrus replies. “I’m not taking a chance, here, Tali, you know what’s at stake.” He turns to Javik. “Do it.”
Javik nods, and sideway-steps into Rael’s mind. He stiffens, closes his eyes; Rael starts to shake.
They stay like that for hours – minutes, really – as Javik scours Rael’s mind, as Rael seizes in his chair.
Eventually, Javik opens his eyes. “This one is clean,” he says, and the collective breath that everyone had been holding releases. Rael regains control of his body, gasping for air as the last of the tremors subside, before he keels over, coughing and hacking up something horrible. Tali immediately goes to her father’s side, stammering and apologising and hugging and pleading. Rael looks directly at Garrus; even though his mask is polarised and faceless, he can practically feel the weight of the old Admiral’s contempt. It drapes over him like a cloak.
“You’re a real fucking piece of work, Garrus,” Rael curses. “You really think I’d lie about something like this?”
“Sorry, Admiral,” Garrus replies with a tone that is very evidently not sorry. “No chances. You know what’s at stake. So do you, Tali,” he snaps when she attempts to interrupt him with some statement that is no doubt every bit as furious as her father’s. “You know what you signed up for. You had every chance to stand down. You chose to be here, so deal with the consequences of us following standard operating procedure. Be thankful that your dad passed with flying colours.”
Tali’s quiet, murderous anger is answer enough to that put-down. At this moment, Garrus couldn’t care less what she thinks; he’s got a mission to complete and loved ones to keep alive.
He holsters his pistol, sits down. The rest of his team sits down alongside him. “Now that nasty business is dealt with, let’s actually talk about what we need to.” Garrus gestures at Rael to start talking. “A Dreamer that isn’t a Reaper?”
Rael inclines his head. Garrus can tell the old Admiral is pissed as hell. Good. Maybe now he’ll take this more seriously. “Just so. The pilot was in cryostasis. Deeply injured from radiation sickness, but not too far gone. We put it in a clean cell, and nursed it back to health. Then it woke up.” Rael waves his hand about. “Our curiosity got the better of our people, I’m afraid to say, and look what it has made of us.”
Garrus winces as his wound twinges. “And the Replika?”
Rael throws a hand in the air. “Likely following some sort of return command. I must say,” and Rael leans in, “every moment we spend talking about what happened here, the further that pair of machines gets into what’s left of my home. You’ve wasted valuable time with a useless interrogation that’s gained you nothing. All this time, they're travelling to the signal source without any restriction. I shudder to think what’ll happen if they reach the Dreaming pilot.”
“So let's go,” Tali exclaims, and stands up. “The sooner we kill them the better.”
Garrus holds his palm out in supplication. “And what do you think will happen if that Replika reaches the pilot? Why’s it killing Marines?”
“Marines?” Rael perks up. “You found survivors?”
“What was left of them. Your Replika friend had dealt with them by the time we found them.”
Rael instantly slumps back into his seat. “Ah, that lines up,” he dismisses, “that makes sense.” He nods. “As for your question, I suspect she’ll try to wake up the Dreamer.”
“She?” Mordin leans in. “Curious to know how you came to understand the synthetic’s gender identification.”
“It. It,” Rael specifies. “I’m sorry, it’s been a while. Slip of my tongue.”
“And waking up the Dreamer?” Wrex scoffs. “Surely that’s a good thing. It’ll end this nightmare, right?”
“You don’t know that,” Rael retorts.
“Actually,” Garrus replies, “we do. We were on the Citadel, remember? Once we got Saren, Sovereign woke up soon after, though granted, Sovereign could Dream and fight.”
“That was a Reaper. This is something else, something entirely foreign. Something far more powerful. You’ve seen the size of the bioresonant radius, this is much bigger than whatever was draped over the Citadel. It’s killed everyone we ever knew without so much as a twitch. What happens if it wakes up, decides to do something targeted and focused?” Rael rests his hands on the table. “The quarians are gone. Our Fleet is nothing more than a mausoleum. Are you willing to let your people become the same?”
Unthinkable.
“Fine. What do we do to prevent this?”
“You have to intercept them.” Rael clenches his fist. “Kill the synthetics.”
“Why should we do that?”
“Because, Spectre, if the Replika reaches the heart of the Dream, it will free its commander, its master. The pilot is broadcasting a signal now. What will it do when it awakes? Certainly, the Fleet will remain in this state forever. What happens if they reach the Citadel? The things our people have turned into…they don’t stop for anything. What will yours do?”
“I know what my people become, I was on the fucking Citadel,” Garrus snaps. He’s lost his patience with this old fool, what is he hiding? “Stop being so cryptic! What’s going on? You're throwing around hypotheticals like they're guaranteed! What aren’t you telling us?” He turns to Javik. “What did you see in his head?”
Javik shrugs. “He’s telling the truth, Garrus. A Reaper did not cause this. Something else Dreams down below.” He looks at Garrus head on. “It is perhaps for the best if it does not wake.”
“Okay, so?” He turns his head, waves an arm. “You suggest we intercept these random synthetics, kill them, then find the Dreamer and, what. Smother it in the crib?”
“I wouldn’t use such undelicate language, but yes. Kill them all,” Rael orders, iron in his voice, a grating edge raw with want for bloodshed, for vengeance. “Save the galaxy.”
Wrex guffaws. “Simply put!” He stands up. “Well, Spectre? Fancy pulling off a hit? I must admit, it’s nostalgic. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Let’s not talk about those days right now,” Garrus mutters. He looks at Rael. Really, really stares at him in the face.
That damned visor stares straight back at him. It’s tinted; he can’t even make out the Admiral’s eyes. Just a blank pane of glass, with no tells, no secrets on display. Rael’Zorah would have fit in like a glove with Omega's elite.
-chits flick onto the table your move little ghost Jaroth grins and Garrus looks up from his cards smiles at the salarian and his army of Eclipse guns-for-hire smiles down all the barrels of all their guns and pushes his chits forwards all in he crows and the lights of Wrex’s gunship floods through the casino windows and Garrus cackles -
Garrus puts on an affable, good-humoured smile; one that doesn’t quite reach the corner of his eyes. “Well, what do we have to lose? We’ve a galaxy to save. We’ll move out. Admiral, I trust you’ll stay back to run overwatch?”
“Of course we will,” Rael says. His grip tightens around Tali’s wrist.
Garrus is seized, then, with a sudden and overwhelming sense of complete hatred as he takes in the sight of this pathetic old man, this coward, this final survivor. Unbidden, his instincts kick in, a burning tell in his stomach that flutters up his gullet that leaves him wide-eyed with revelation.
He cannot leave Tali with her father.
The surety of this shocks him, but his gut is burning, burning, and he has long since learned that to ignore the tell is death, is pain and blood writ in scars across his tender flesh.
“Tali,” he blurts out. “You’re taking point. We’ll need more of those authorisation codes where they came from,” he commands, and he coughs to get the gravel out of his voice.
Tali is still simmering, still furious, but it’s as he said earlier. She signed up for a mission; damned if she won’t complete it. “Of course, Spectre,” Tali nods, and she extracts herself from Rael’s grasp. She turns to her dad, whispers something. A prayer, or a reassurance; it’s not Garrus’s place to judge or interfere. He’s caused them enough heartache for now.
“Keelah se’lai, Tali, my child,” Rael replies. “Stay safe. I love you.”
“I love you, dad.” She bumps the top of his visor with her own. “I’ll be back soon.”
Rael nods, turning to Garrus. “Here.” A wave of his hand. “This elevator will take you to the heart of the Dream, where the light's shining from. It’s down there. The elevator will shorten your journey time, but afterwards you will need to cut across on foot via the ruins of the Moreh.”
“Thank you. We’ll fix this. You have my solemn promise on that.”
Rael nods. “Spectre,” he drones out.
Garrus nods. “Admiral,” he responds, trying to keep his malice out of his voice.
The team collects resources, as they’ve always done, and then they’re crowded in the elevator. Doors shut, and the whoosh of maglev rails sends them careening down the side of the superstructure.
A chime blares in his ears. It’s Javik.
“Spectre,” Javik whispers. “The Admiral is clean of Reaper-song. There is no sign of it in him anywhere.”
“Mmhmm. You do realise our friend was lying through his teeth the entire time we were talking with him?”
“Yes.”
“So, what’s he hiding?”
“I cannot say. His mind was…blocked. A manner of bioresonant artifice, the likes of which I have not seen even in my time.”
“Huh.” Shit. “What was it?”
“An island of pale stone, suspended in dark water. Sheer and looming cliffs surrounded a grove of trees. Two distant figures upon a wooden boat, ferried towards a solemn dock, bobbing in a black salt sea, watched from above by a great eye.” Javik halts, for a moment, as if the prothean is reminiscing on the image. “Wherever I went, there I was. I could go no further.”
What. “Why would he think about a fucking island given everything that’s happened? And for that matter, how did a single island stop you?”
“I can only guess, Spectre.”
“And this Replika? Anything to doubt his claim about it?”
“On that matter, I agree with the Admiral,” Javik replies. “The synthetics must die.”
“Why?”
Even from behind, Garrus can tell Javik is giving him a look. “The Admiral was certain. I could feel it radiating off of him, so sure was he. The Replika will awaken the Dreamer, and the nightmare will only spread. As for the geth, perhaps it is an agent of Nazara, seeking to claim more weapons for its anti-life crusade.”
Garrus nods. “I can understand that.”
“And even if, in any case, that this was not the case…” Javik’s emotions pulse; a strong, sharp hit, almost as if with a blade, of total revulsion. “Our quarries are synthetic. We are organic. What other reason is needed?”
The rest of the elevator trip is spent in tumbling silence, as they twist down through the Dream of an alien god.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 22/03/2024 to improve grammar, formatting, and narrative integrity.
Chapter 8: erinnern
Notes:
First, thanks to all you lovely readers for showing love and interest in my writing. I'm in awe and so thankful to you all that over a thousand of you would be so interested in what I'm slapping onto paper. Much love and good health to everyone of you.
Second, as always, massive thanks and appreciation to the members of the Signaliscord community Discord for support and discussion.
Third, special thanks to Ostheim89 and DearAgonist for beta reading this chapter and providing invaluable feedback. I urge all my readers to go and read their excellent works The Herald and Her Knight, Die Malerin, and Three Note Oddity.
Enjoy :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Elster finishes applying repair spray into the wound that the lightning rifle had struck her with. She watches the nanites making up the sticky compound go to work, steadily replicating and rebuilding vital components and materials, chasing after the charcoal-trace burn marks that had spread out from across the impact site, darting over her polymer shell like blood vessels.
She feels nothing. She should definitely feel something, but the wonders of geth reprogramming have distanced her from such things. It’s a miracle that her body hasn’t failed yet, really.
She looks up at the geth. Legion is staring at a pulsing mass of sticky, oozing flesh that has burst out of the walls of their safe room in its desire to grow. Filth pumps out of lesions and sores; black and clotted and singularly awful in its stench. The lump throbs in time, in steady staccato rhythm, though what cancerous heart fuels it is out of sight and far away.
“Unknown variable,” Legion eventually drones out. Their plates pulse and whirr in that pattern that Elster has come to recognise as the geth trying to solve a puzzle, a thought that won’t go away.
-press your thumb against there elster and she does and there is something under the white-haired girl’s pale and bruised skin a small hard bump that won’t go away it’s happening it’s happening and the girl starts to cry-
She shakes her head. No time to investigate this, she signs. We should move on.
Legion nods. “We are nearing the signal source.” Their map projects on the stained steel surface of the flooring. “We are in what remains of the Moreh, an Admiralty ship of some prestige within the Fleet. Based on observed phenomena, signal source is likely within the shuttle hold of the vessel. Due to signal contamination, this hold, as well as all nearby locations within this ship, have been relocated to the bottom of the structure. We traversed the void above the vessel earlier.” Legion stares Elster down, sensor to sensor. “Expect re-adjustment of local reality.”
‘Re-adjusted’ is an understatement. The walls flow like honey. Sticky, fleshy growths begin popping into reality, smothering everything in chunky crimson matter. Surfaces blend with each other, or stack like layers of oil dripping over water; fluid and disparate.
-look at the way the pigments run on the canvas elster isn’t that pretty and she stares at the landscape the white-haired girl is painting looks like a mess to me and the girl gasps in mock shock puts a hand up to her mouth are you trying to be snarky elster wow how could you and elster sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry-
We keep moving, she signs, picking up the mass-accelerator shotgun she peeled out of a gun-beast’s hands.
They press on.
The monsters that come to halt them seem…different, somehow. It’s as if that flesh creeping over the ship has become their own. Tumorous growths smother them, hiding faces and twisting bones, bursting out of glass visors with that heartbeat pulse, and they click and crawl with the harrying patience of vultures.
They don’t die easily, either. Some stubborn spark of life rests in their very essence, and even with limbs blown off and bodies shredded by accelerator fire, they still press on inexorably, springing up from dire wounds for one last round.
They take new shapes; bodies fused together in awful, horrible new manners and twisting tangles of limbs, carrying rifles and sharp fangs. They can’t blow through these ones as they did before, when the teeming hordes had nothing but broken teeth and chipped nails to drag them down with. These ones will kill her if they get close.
She hunkers down behind a cancerous growth in the middle of the hallway, red and sore and oozing as it consumes the wall. Mass-accelerator shots flick overhead, sprayed in wild abandon by the golem-things across the other end of the corridor. At a lull in the shooting, she pops over and blasts the face straight off one of the monstrosities. Jaw missing, it bellows, and sprints towards her on all eight of its limbs, like some horrible chimera.
Legion’s own weapon, an ergonomic smoothed rifle unlike anything carried by their foes, guts the creature with a single shot. It spins and lies still.
In the next room, a wide gallery with an upstairs balcony, two more gun-beasts almost take the top of her head off from a vantage point across the gallery, bullets pinging into the sheet metal above her and punching straight through. She steps back, letting Legion point their arm and fire off a fabricated grenade straight towards them. A muffled crump, and the bullets fall silent.
It’s still easy. That’s the strange part. Even now, as their enemies get hardier and smarter, as rifles replace snapping jaws, she slides into tactical response with practiced ease and efficiency, though she’s never held a weapon in her life, as far as she’s managed to recall.
Is this the secret buried under her superficial memories? That the neural engram that had been used to commission her had blood on their hands? Some distant instinct, some honed urge to kill and keep killing until nothing remained?
Who were they? And who, in turn, is she?
-I am property of the Nation-
Her shotgun snaps up, coring a hollow path through the monstrous, tumorous creature that bursts out of a grating to gut her. She pierces it with her foot; and again, and again. It gurgles, stills.
“Contacts clear,” Legion tones out. The geth stashes his rifle away, which folds and compresses into a compact oval. “The bridge lies ahead.”
Said bridge is abandoned. Flesh grows abundantly, strong, beating and hale.
Legion hacks into the various main systems of the ship, attempting to acquire information and location data, poring through the ship logs. The geth has done this before a couple of times; ostensibly to have enough data to bring back to their people.
Yet the tilt of its sensor and the rhythm of its parts suggest a random flash of unpredictability, some wildcard urge flashing through its logic core that points to them following a need that defies their implacable rationality.
Legion activates a holographic display unit embedded in the central table, revealing what looks like camera footage. Quarian marines fight head on against swarms of their former comrades, dragged down and slaughtered. Legion flicks through the footage at a rapid pace.
A jolt of hope surges through Elster. Is that live?
Legion shakes their central sensor. “Archival footage. Significant amounts of it across a wide historical timescale from before and after bioresonant signal broadcast. We are copying the videos as we process them visually for confirmation of content.”
Elster takes in the speeding mess of images and videos as the geth rapidly sorts and compiles them. Fleeing families. A ship, burning, spinning off-course under the gentle curve of a red-hued world. A fireteam of marines, rushing through a steel corridor. A quarian, standing over a kneeling form with two armed quarians flanking them.
Wait. Pause it pause it pause, Elster signs quickly, hurried. Legion complies. She leans forward, peering at the still.
The quarian wears a black hood, the fabric woven with intricate white lines in crossing patterns. That pattern is something else. Simple, but memorable. And the figure on her knees; black body, red chest, lank and limp hair, a bowed face. It's-
It’s herself. Undeniably.
Elster watches the woman extend a hand and catch the underside of her chin, and it’s as if she can feel the ghost of that touch scratch its way across her face-
-oh wow look at you what do we have here and the alien’s fingers curl under her cheek you’re something else and a spike of disgust rips through her she ducks away from the touch-
Turn it off, she commands Legion abruptly. Their plates twitch, but they comply. I know her. I’ve seen her before who is she -
“Daro’Xen vas Moreh. A member of the Admiralty Board; head of Quarian Research and Development Corps.” They tilt their head. “They are known to show an elevated interest in synthetics. Programs of the collective have been rendered unrecoverable as a direct consequence of her activities.”
-what’s your name and she keeps her mouth shut and even behind the visor she can tell the alien is smiling ah well we’ll get that out of you soon enough-
She feels sick; Elster turns away from Legion. I’ll look for resources. Tell me when you’re ready to go.
She stumbles away, barely glancing over what scant salvage is there to be found. That quarian’s face, or rather her faceless, visored shadow of a face; it burns in her mind.
Daro’Xen. What a strange name.
-what a strange machine you are and then comes the sensation of hot sticky sweetener pouring out inside her head the smell of burning rubber trickling down her nose ah and that’s what that does oxidant is leaking out the corner of her mouth-
She looks down. She’s clenched her fingers hard enough to drag deep and jagged grooves in the console.
“Elster.” Her head snaps to attention; Legion stares at her. “Ideal circumstance to continue relocation.”
They press on. Nothing comes out to war against them. She can hear them, chittering, calling, moving in deep places far above and below them. But they seem content to watch. Maybe they’ve finally learnt that Legion and her can’t be stopped head on. Good. Let them hide.
They pass through melded systems, rooms out of step and shape, through locations that make no Euclidean sense and cause her internal gyros to gnash their teeth and scream out for sense. Even in this state, there is something awfully familiar about them.
-the sense of polymer grating on steel is a harsh and grinding pain and she would move she would turn her head but she is locked out of her body it is not hers anymore and hands grasping and grabbing drag her to wherever she is meant to be and there is a name that she repeats over and over again even with no tongue to speak it with-
-what is the name-
The door ahead is familiar. Legion stalks through without a glance; Elster trails her hands on the frame, marks the colours, the corrosion. She knows this place. Knows it well.
How? This can't be a memory from her past, from that distant home the Nation flung her from. What is this space?
-I have prepared a place for you-
She closes her eyes. Breathes deeply and walks in.
It’s nondescript. A simple room, with a central chair, around which tools have been scattered like dominos across the simple grating. Something red and wet thumps in the corner, curled and supine.
The chair is stained red, as is the floor. Spatters of blood dot the pale surface.
Elster leans down, tracing a finger through the fluid. Incredibly, it’s still wet; it hasn’t dried into a flaky stain like it should do.
She brings the drop up to look at it closely, and when it drains straight down the blade of her arm to drip off her elbow, the realisation that it’s oxidant fluid slams into her hard enough that she stumbles.
- it’s all she will say over and over like a broken alarm like a mockingbird I am property of the Nation I am property of the Nation and the pain that always comes no matter what leaves her breathless and shaking and then the hand comes that three-fingered thing trailing up and down her body and wondering aloud in awe at her picking at her skin and pressing on her frame don’t touch me stop it stop touching me leave me alone just fucking get off me-
Elster finds herself leaning on that chair, that horrible piece of furniture, and she throws herself back in alarm. She shakes her head, pressing her fingers into the bridge of her nose. There’s a headache growing, something sharp and awful in her eye, which is odd; were Legion’s overclocks failing?
The steel underneath her feet is surprisingly soft. It feels springy. Warm and cosy. Like the mattress in the pilot's quarters back home, back when it was just her and-
And-
- the knife quick under her skin it hurts so much she grits her teeth why won’t you leave me alone what have I done and the alien tilts its head why you’ve done nothing you’re amazing you’re doing so well for me I’m just going to get a better look at you has anyone ever told you what a marvellous machine you are and the knife starts trailing upwards–
“Elster.” Legion is kneeling next to her now, attempting to steady her as she grips onto a nearby table, swaying. “You are displaying significant signs of emotional distress. Can this unit assist?”
She waves a hand dismissively. Her breathing is slow, ragged and heavy. There’s something pressing around the eyesockets of her skull. It's so potent that if she moves her head that pressure will cave her faceplate in.
-oxidant drips from her face I want to go home and the alien strokes her hair so do we and she tilts her head towards her jailer who smiles we no longer need the geth not when we have you I will see all of your secrets elster all of them and then we will finally return to the walled garden and live lovely lives and she has never wished harder in all her life for someone to kill her she would happily die before this alien touches her again-
Elster wrenches her arm out of the three-fingered grip, stumbling backward so suddenly she crashes onto the floor. That touch returns, clasping onto her shoulder, the little finger and the middle returned and whole, as it should be. Squeezing just like she used to.
Like who?
-take your fucking hands off her you faceless bitch and that pistol looks so comically big in her tiny hands-
-what is her name what is her damn name-
Missing a ghost whose name has slipped between her fingers like water is miserable. To remember only the superficial details of that person, and not the best parts of them; that is hell.
It's all so tiresome. She should close her eyes. Maybe that will shake the pressure that slithers in the front of her head like a vice.
So she does. Elster drops out the bottom of this world.
There’s a snapping, clicking sound, and someone’s shaking her. She mumbles in discontent.
“Get up, Lilith, up!” Alina snaps a finger in front of her. “Declaration in ten minutes!”
Oh, shit.
Lilith springs out of bed, immediately starting to disrobe as she changes into her uniform. 5th Unit is getting dressed as fast as they can, too; she spots Anna hopping around, cursing, trying to take a foot out of the wrong boot.
“They changed the declaration time?”
Alina nods, brushing her uniform down with her palms. “New Kolibri. Amelie’s attending, too. It looks like she wants to make an impression.”
That makes sense. Despite being a nosy little gossip, Valerie had been easy to deal with, for a Kolibri. Not too uptight, not too crazy for the rules. They had been tolerable. As far as Replikas went, anyway.
“How did you sleep so well after what happened to Valerie and the 6th?” Alina’s genuinely curious.
“I dunno,” Lilith mumbles, trying to fit into her uniform trousers. “I shouldn’t have. I’ve been having weird dreams again.”
“I think we all did last night, Lilith,” Alina mutters. She grabs her pilotka, slapping it for any stains and dust.
“No, I mean strange stuff. I thought I was a Replika. Like, I could see my body was all metal, but I couldn’t feel a thing.”
“That’s…weird, sure, but can we talk about this after Declaration?” Alina adjusts the hat on top of her head. “Now’s really not the time.”
“I mean it, Alina, it was disturbing as hell. There were things around me, things with teeth-”
Lilith’s words die in her throat as Alina stares her down. She looks away, sheepish, and hurriedly puts on the rest of her uniform. She stands in front of her bed, arms folded behind her back as she waits for Declaration.
Amelie saunters in first; the scarred mess of their commanding STCR still adamant on patch-jobs and make-do-and-mends, still one war wound away from being nothing more than a walking clump of repair spray and plate inserts. They’re sporting a new trim; a clipped buzz-cut showing off new grooves carved down the side of their head like gridlines, straight through the skin and into the metal underneath. Freshly earned from the same monowire drone-drop that had neatly sliced Valerie and all of 6th Unit into tiny pieces.
What a fucking horror that had been. Barely enough left of ten Gestalts to fill a bucket. “Least we’ll save on burial space,” the quartermaster – some ADLR unit with a slowly-destabilising persona that made them think they were a fucking comedian – had joked when they saw the trench with gore lapping at their feet like a bowl of mock meat soup. “One coffin’s good enough for the lot,” and how Amelie had chuckled at that.
Empress’s burning corpse, Lilith will never get used to Replikas. If there’s anything human left of them, it’s been suppressed with who knows how many loyalty codes and hardwired systems. They’re just shells, hollowed out and filled up with love for the Nation and little else. How robots like Amelie get to walk about untouched while real people, living people just die so easily, die like nothing-
Lilith swallows thickly. She will mourn the 6th, later. She cannot think right now. She can’t.
Amelie leans on the barracks door, hips cocked, arms folded, smiling with that classically smug upturn of the lips that makes Lilith’s stomach twist with disdain every time she sees it. “5th Unit, at ease,” the STCR drawls. “Little update after that nasty business with the 6th and Valerie. First, keep your eyes peeled! Monowire reflects light! Don’t end up like that pack of scatterbrains, or we’ll be using a straw to scoop up what’s left of you.” They tut at that, shake their head.
“Secondly, from immediate effect, KLBR-V12-004 will take over as the regiment’s Declarator. Think of something nice for her, won’t you? Won’t do well if she sniffs out diversiveness in you,” and the lips pull back to reveal their sharp, sharp teeth. “She’s itching to see it.” They snap up straight. “Officer in the room!”
The unit stiffens to attention as their new officer enters the room. They’re about as ordinary and average as a KLBR could ever be. Standard haircut, factory fresh, severe expression, stiff stance with their hands behind their back; they even have the mould ejection polish still dappled over their armour. Absolutely nothing out of place, not even a scuff mark. They’re straight off the press and onto the front. Lilith reckons they can’t be more than a few weeks old.
Yet their eyes are searching, darting, held in a sunken frame, as if the Replika could reach right into her with a hand and rip out her soul.
Lilith thinks of nothing. A black cloth, a white room.
Nothing at all.
“Gestalts,” the KLBR lashes out with a delicate voice. “Declare for me true and freely, as your Nation wills it.” There is a gentle humming in the back of Lilith’s head, as the bioresonant Replika uncurls their mind into the squad’s own headspaces. “Your Nation calls and you answer. What will you give for freedom, for all?”
Declaration. “My life for the nation, my heart for the revolution!”
“Who is your mother?”
Declaration. “The Great Revolutionary!”
“Who is your first love?”
Declaration. “The Revolution!”
“What is your duty?”
Declaration. “Service!”
“What will you give?”
Declaration. “My life!”
Why do you hate her?
Lilith stumbles. What?
The KLBR instantly locks eyes with her. You know who, don’t you.
Lilith’s heart plummets as her thoughts intertwine with the new Replika’s own, and you know who you really hate, don’t you Lilith.
Lilith has no idea who she’s talking about.
A tiny, tiny smile appears on the KLBR’s face. That’s a sly attempt, but I can see your disgust for Amelie all over you. You’re doing a terrible job at hiding it, don’t you know. I should tell her and let her sort you out. After all, you’re the one thinking badly here. Do you know what happens to diversanten like you. Nothing good.
The repeating pattern unfurls in Lilith’s mind like a windbreaker.
A black cloth, a white room, a black room, a white cloth. Inhale.
Don’t avoid the question. Answer me and I won’t escalate it. You shouldn’t be thinking something like that anyway.
A black room, a white room, a black cloth, a white cloth. Exhale.
Silly old woman. Thinking proscribed thoughts. I’m going to report this to Amelie. Then I’ll figure out how you know something like this.
A white room, a white cloth, a black room, a black cloth. Inhale.
The Kolibri decouples from her mind like wires shearing overhead, like strings pulling taut out her skull. Her squad looks at her, terror writ large over all their faces, and Amelie is standing tall over her, staring straight in her eyes with some awful, awful hunger that is swimming up to the shallows of the Replika’s personality. The STCR grinds their teeth with delight.
“Remain at attention. Glory to the Nation,” the Kolibri recites, and the squad chants it out. They nod Amelie over, who grabs Lilith by her arm, and frogmarches her out the door. She doesn’t dare turn her head to look at-
No. A white room. A black cloth. Inhale.
They stroll quickly through the trench network; this early the only ones active are STAR sentries, who don’t pass a glance towards the trio as they enter a small storage silo. Spare uniforms and boots line wooden shelves; a small steel table is swept clear of papers and pencil by Amelie.
Lilith feels a pair of hands clasp her by her uniform, and then she is lifted, bodily, into the air. Her legs dangle and kick; Amelie’s knuckles are digging into the sides of her throat hard enough that spots start to dance in front of her eyes.
“I’ve been waiting some time for this, Lilith,” Amelie grins. “Thorn in my fucking side, that’s what you are,” and at that last word they slam Lilith into the table so hard that all the air is knocked out of her. Bug-eyed, she gasps and scrabbles, wheezes for breath that won’t come. The pain is absolute. Fire blooms through her body.
“Lyra,” Amelie calls over to the KLBR, “what’d you see her think?”
“She hates you.” Lyra’s posture is stiff-necked, arms folded behind their back, their attitude radiating every inch of the standard-issue Gen 6 KLBR model that they are and will only ever be. “She was thinking proscribed thoughts, too.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
“The Room-Cloth Thought.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Of course you haven’t, it’s proscribed. There’s a possible diversant influence on this Gestalt, but I’m not sure.”
Lilith’s rage is palpable. It’s filling her up like gasoline. Like petrol waiting for the match. “Don't call me diversant.”
“Oh, shut up,” growls Amelie, and then there is a burning, awful pain in her gut as the Replika’s fist thumps into it like a steam piston. Lilith jerks, whimpers, and curls into a ball. Amelie’s eyes widen in shock, and they turn to Lyra. “Did you mean for me to see that?”
“No. Don’t pay it any mind.”
Amelie’s expression twists with delight. “But you like what you see, don’t you? Want a turn? Here, I’ll hold her arms back for you, give you a good angle to swing-”
“Fuck you, doll,” Lilith stutters out, curled over in pain. Amelie whips their head around, and clamps a hand around her neck, grinding her down into the table’s ice-cold metal. Cold steel fingers squeeze tight.
“All talk and no bite, little girl.” They lean in. “I bite,” and Lilith can see now that Amelie’s teeth are filed down to mean, jagged points; steel snapping jaws perfect for crushing and ripping. Lilith squeezes her eyes shut. “I bite real good. Remember?” Amelie’s breath presses against her face. Stinking like ink and cordite. “Or do I need to rip a pound or two off of you?”
“Focus,” Lyra barks out, and Amelie chuckles. That awful pressure around her neck relents. Lilith’s eyes shoot open and she starts to cough, as air flows through her once more. “This is counter-productive.”
“Of course, leutnant. Just having a bit of a laugh, that’s all.” She winks at the KLBR. “You should try it. You’ll get the taste for it. You certainly have the hunger.”
The cheeks of the tiny Replika darken a shade. “Enough of this. Let’s have a look at you, Lilith Itou.”
Before she can think about anything-
Hello Lilith. What do we have here.
The pain is so intense that all thought of resistance escapes her, and she writhes under the weight of a foreign mind pulling her apart.
Stop-
You know I can’t do that. Let’s see.
-this empire is old and done it is headless and the court devours itself alive with no care for the common woman a new way is needed and it is called for a nation for the people built on the strength of its contributors the revolutionary with hair black as night and fire in her eyes locks gaze with her and do you believe in this nation and she nods she does she does-
-the empress is dead and the empire is headless but imperial rightthought is still out there and their powers can shatter your mind like toffee brittle but there is a special kind of vacancy that you can attune yourself to and hide in plain sight so you put them together and you make yourself the wallpaper you become the linen you are the heft of the weave and you are the texture of plaster under the fingernails you hollow yourself out you fill yourself back up with the black cloth and the white room and the white cloth and the black room-
You learned from the Revolutionary herself. You’re one of the first. Forgive me. I was wrong to accuse you of diversant thought.
-she is marching in burning buyanese streets her clenched hand held up in resistance the empress is dead long live the great revolutionary and in her mind is the black cloth and the white room and the rightthought bureaucrats snivelling behind the police barrier have no hold over her and she lights the petrol-soaked rag stuffed into the bottle and hurls it over-
-she marches down the streets of the nobly seized heimat in formation her gun held aloft and she see can the great revolutionary all the way from here she salutes cries out with fervour they’ve done it the nation is born-
You’re a true believer. Probably the most loyal I’ve seen so far. No, you’re not diversant at all. You’ll return to service after this. Even so, your conflict with your feldwebel must be resolved.
-what the fuck are you two staring at amelie barks mouth stained with mementos get back to work-
- another imperial corpse what happened to our prisoner we were going to question him and amelie raises their palms nothing to do with me and there’s something flecked across those razorwire teeth-
Ah. Hmm. I suppose that could be something worth flagging. I’ll raise your problems with her.
-a body of polymer and hands of steel and she is frozen in place as a visored thing comes loping over-
What is this. This is a new trick. What sort of thought is this. Proscribed. You can’t justify this one. Where are you, what are you seeing, what is this place you’re in.
-the name she recites over and over again caught in the whisper of her tongue under her breath is like a prayer and the visored thing leans in what a strange name and it tries to pronounce it-
-ah-ree-anne-
Strange machines sit in inky stillness around a chair the colour of blood. She can see Lyra turning her head around, taking it in, though they are so pale and hard to see that they may as well be a ghost.
Amelie is gone. Lyra turns to Lilith, and she can feel the fear and anger rising up from the Replika.
Stop that I’m getting irritated. Stop it, stop it now. I’ll tell Amelie what you’re doing and she’ll stop this stop enough just fucking stop-
“It’s not me,” Lilith swears. “I promise.”
Then who is it. Tell me. Lyra grabs the lapels of her uniform, and the little Replika tries their best to lift Lilith up. They struggle with Lilith’s body. Tell me.
“This isn’t me. I swear to you this isn’t me, leutnant, I’m not doing this!”
Lyra’s mouth cracks open. “Then who,” they ask in a voice straining under some great pressure. “Who?!”
-ariane-
Lyra flings their hands to the sides of their skull, keeling over in agony. They are screaming, and in Lilith’s head Lyra’s rambling patter of madness fills her up it’s so insanely loud what is that what is that song that tune I can hear it’s singing to me it’s so loud what is going on-
A hand grasps her, mutilated and cold, that very same hand that has haunted her dreams, and Lilith turns to face a single bright blue eye burning out of the face of a Replika so unutterably alien in appearance that Lilith screams.
Tries to scream, anyway. The sound won’t come out.
“Elster,” it intonates. “Elster, you are experiencing distress.”
What the fuck is this thing what the fuck where the fuck is she-
Where is Alina-
She stands and topples over and looks at her body her Replika body oh no oh no no no no she’s a Replika what the hell is going on-
She shuts her eyes squeezes them tight because this isn’t happening this cannot be happening to her-
It’s not real.
“Elster.”
Elster snaps to attention, wrenching herself out of Legion’s grip and jolting upright, gasping for air. The only sound she can make is a pathetic, grumbling hiss, and it curls out of her voice synthesiser.
She can’t keep thinking like this. It’s going to kill her. Hastily, she signs out to Legion help me with this turn my voice back on I can’t think-
“Memory compiler will be slowed significantly if power is rerouted back to external audio output systems,” Legion monotones back to her.
I don’t care just do it-
Legion’s arm shines and that clamouring noise shrieks in her head for one brief moment and then-
“Ghugh,” she gasps, and then Elster is coughing, choking, as her synthesiser thrums and hums, and her mind is mercifully blank for one brief and blissful moment. She spits out oxidant.
“I’m degrading,” she croaks out.
“You are structurally intact and sound.”
“That’s not what I meant, Legion.” She winces. “She’s coming back. She’s surfacing, and when she does I won’t be here anymore.”
Plates whirr and flap. “What are you referring to? Your personality matrix is in disorder. Are you suggesting possibility of personality hyperfragmentation?”
Elster brushes her thumb over her neck. That encounter had felt so undeniably real. It was real. It had been real at one point in a past life.
Hadn’t it?
“I couldn’t tell you.” She looks at the floor. “My creators say that if we don’t abide by certain rules, the memories and personalities of our original neural patterns can return. I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.” She brings her knees up close to her chest, wrapping her arms loosely around her shins. “I’m scared.”
Legion’s eye shifts in and out of focus. The plates twitch. “We…apologise. We are unable to do much to assist in current circumstances. Are you able to move? Unknown pursuers are descending rapidly through the superstructure towards our location.”
Elster closes her eyes. Inhales.
-ariane-
-the white-haired girl ariane she spins around this is a pirouette you use the balls of your feet and she grins cocks her head you have a go elster-
- can you keep a secret she whispers into elster’s ear and she nods and ariane leans in her breath flutters against the side of her face-
-I love you-
Exhales.
“I’m not okay,” she breathes, “but I’m ready.”
Keep moving forward.
As the innocuous blip of the chasing aliens looms closer and closer, they push their way through the rest of the vessel, mercifully absent of any foe. They reach a door; a vast bulkhead, with flesh beating and growing encrusted as barnacles all over the steel. Legion waves a hand, and the doors grind open with an awful howl. Flesh pops, and blood cascades down the metal, until they stand in a thin and wide pool of gore.
Her ship is gone, the prison of the hangar it was trapped in vanished as well. They have returned to the great void they passed earlier far above, now further down than before. Here, the purple, deep indigo light of the false sun shines hot, warming the sides of her – and isn’t that strange, now that sensation is returned to her, that she feels the sun on her polymer shell and steel?
A great, pulsating pit of flesh stretches down, illuminated by the great sun stuck at the bottom of the pit. Movement of small, crawling creatures in the distance threads across the mass like a horde of insects, and the way that Legion pulls out its rifle means that there is nothing but slaughter ahead of them. Something to be methodical about, to be precise and tactical-
The ding of a door behind them shatters that thought. Elster whirls around as another door – an elevator door- hums open, and their chasing hunters spill out, guns up and strange fields humming. The four-eyed one, the bioresonant; she can hear him spitting in fury, and the visored one howls with outrage at the sight of her.
No way to go but down. Bullets whistle overhead, but Elster and Legion have jumped feet first into hell.
Clambering down the side of the great gullet that has swallowed this fleet, Elster repeats that name, over and over again, a mantra that grounds her in her body and drives her on.
Nothing will stop her.
Notes:
Edits on 04/04/2024 to preserve narrative integrity, changing the shift between Elster and Lilith.
Significant edits occurred on 10/04/2024, removing the significance of a minor OC, re-writing the introduction of the Room Cloth Thought, dialogue between Lyra, Amelie & Lilith and changing Lilith's perception of Lyra & Amelie in line with later chapters.
Chapter 9: versprechen
Notes:
A warm thanks to Ostheim89 and Heubristics for beta reading this chapter. Please go check out their respective works!
Another huge thanks to the Signaliscord community for generally being a wonderful and wild bunch with great ideas and concepts. The collective output really is something else!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Garrus hisses as a mass accelerator round cracks just over his head. He moves to crouch behind a twitching lump of some horrible tissue that has spread unchecked throughout this section of the superstructure; bulbous as a teratoma is. His rappel line is pulled taut, keeping him suspended above that great light at the bottom of the spiralling pit of gore and steel. His feet dig into the gullet of this whorling nightmare, sticking to flesh and blood and feeling the heartbeat throb of whatever feverish dreamer has created this awful mess.
His squad descends towards the sun. Even from here, the heat of that indigo orb prickles on his armour plates and sends coolant rushing through thin tubes like capillaries within his suit’s internals. It throws bright shadows over everything, from the spindle-limbed things that chatter as they throw themselves at his band of mercenaries to the flesh itself, red and raw, tinged a shade of bruised purple.
Tali ducks out from beside him, sighting in a cluster of mutated creatures that pile over one another in a gaggle of tumbling limbs, pinging off a fab-grenade right into the middle of them. Her own rifle snaps up, and she cradles it on the beating mass of meat to steady her shot – before cursing, as sticky red mucus pulls away with the weapon. She tries to wipe it clean, and stares in total disgust as the filth merely attaches to her hand.
“I hate this place,” Liara mutters, shredding a howling slab of legs and teeth to meat with a pointed gesture. “It's rather interesting that it looks like this though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed,” Mordin replies over the comms link, and from where Garrus is dangling he can see flames licking, rising; Mordin is burning some giant crawling creature to ash with a raised arm. “Would that we had the time to properly investigate! Much to be learnt here. Bioresonant manifestation is markedly different from Reaper-originated signal!”
“Yet the same sort of creatures are still present,” Liara replies, picking one up with a biotic grip and flinging it into the abyss below. “Perhaps there are more similarities between the two signals than we have initially proposed.”
“You two are on public comms,” Garrus chimes in, pinned under fire, as he monitors their helmet cameras, cursing as suppression shot wavers through the air overhead. “Keep them clear!”
There’s a blip. Garrus knows his two members of the Citadel intelligentsia are doubtless yammering away, as they probably have been this entire time. Much as he appreciates having them on side, there’s a time and a place for this sort of thing, and this certainly isn’t it.
The AIs have pushed ahead significantly. Watching the two of them simply jump down the pit without a care in the world has been absolutely infuriating, and while his squad have been struggling with rappel lines and biotic partnerships and all the necessary precautions to not simply die on the spot, their quarry just fling themselves into danger and emerge, absolutely fine, every single fucking time. Even more frustrating was their firepower; on target damn near every single time, cutting right through the monsters chasing all of them and suppressing his team at the worse fucking moments.
If he was a less professional man, Garrus would take it personally. Let that personal seed of anger sprout and flourish. But anger just gets you killed.
-I am Krogan bellows Garm as he lies at Garrus’ feet you cannot kill me for I am death and Garrus retorts by blowing the battlemaster’s teeth out the back of his skull with the front end of his shotgun-
More rounds flick overhead where Garrus had been standing a few seconds earlier. Case in point. “Team, these synthetics are proving a real pain in my side right now,” Garrus comms over. “Anyone got a bead?”
“Negative, Spectre,” Javik replies, and he can hear something terrible screaming over the old warrior’s microphone, likely from whatever that merry four-eyed sociopath is doing to it. “My team is preoccupied.”
“Same,” Wrex confirms. “These things don’t stop coming. I’ve got no window.”
Damn. All on him, then.
“Cover me,” he asks Tali, and leans out, scope up and pointed towards the synthetics.
The pair are also dealing with some multi-limbed creature, some unholy fusion of bodies that looks like a mimicry of a Keeper, eight limbs and violence and nothing else. The Replika that Rael warned them against - had pointed all blame towards - has jumped on top of the abomination, blasting chunks off of it with a shotgun.
The Geth moves out of cover to assist their partner, and it is exposed for one critical moment. Garrus reaches out and seizes it. The rapport of his rifle echoes across the hollow, blowing off one of the geth’s arms. Milky-white blood-substitute spatters on red flesh.
Tali whoops, and Garrus feels a little thrill of success. The Geth’s down, and he turns his attention to the Replika, which is standing atop the now-dead monstrosity, staring him dead on, even all the way from here.
Through his scope, he sees the Replika point up at him dead on, shotgun switched out for a long rifle that had been stashed somewhere on the android’s frame, and with a flash-
Something gives way, snaps, and he’s falling.
He plummets straight down into the belly of the beast, Tali, Wrex, everyone all in his ear screaming with disbelief.
He tumbles, spins overhead, tries to right himself, flares zero-g jets that are useless at this gravity but he has to try anything he’s got to stay calm he’s-
Oh ancestors this is it-
Eventually, he lands. Or rather, he thuds. Every inch of him whites out with agony.
This pain is grasping. It holds him jealously and squeezes. Dim, through the fizzing static of what he hopes isn’t a concussion, he doesn't feel that grindstone fire of broken bones. Maybe something's fractured.
At least there is pain. Pain is the great siren. If you feel it, everything's all together in the way it matters. Better that than nothing. Nothing at all.
Garrus lies there for some time, collecting himself, breathing ragged and heavy as he pushes through the window of agony and out into the other side. His hand curls, digs into the wet, cold sand that he’s lying on.
Sand?
-if it wasn’t for the stench of geth oxidant baking on hot sand virmire would be beautiful but there is a moment when there is a lull in the violence and he is with nihlus skipping flat stones into the balmy shallows you met me at a very strange time in my life he says and means to confess all but nihlus’s hand slips into his own and squeezes and I don’t regret a single day since I met you the spectre says I hope you know that -
He picks himself up, brushing himself off. “Lead coming in, over,” he tests, to no response.
He looks up from where he fell, up to the dark and empty black sky above, framed by the high-rising cliffs of white chalk quarried into megalithic chunks of flat stone that offer no purchase, where hollow halls etched into the cliff face wait, their depths uninviting and forbidding.
Gentle, shallow waves lap at the soles of his armour. Even through the armoured soles of his combat boots Garrus can feel the icy chill of that black sea. He looks out, at the placid lake of salt water, dark and endless, where sky and ocean are one.
“Oh no,” he exhales as Javik’s warning from the elevator repeats in his head. “Oh, no, no, no-”
Breathe. That’s all he needs to do. Oxygen first.
Then what? He’s out of the safety net of a biotic’s Daydream, and so he’ll hear the Dreamer’s song and he’ll just-
Twist up into so many pieces-
-he won’t stop screaming oh ancestors and spirits and titans anything anyone just let me save him once-
-just let me hold him one more time-
-you should join him garrus and there’s saren spinning lazily through the air and fire dances on his fingers and some great blade fashioned from that matte black metal his godless god is carved out of like black and bleeding granite writhes out of the air and a great ring of blue brass frames over his former mentor’s head here is a secret you haven’t seen yet watch this and saren flicks the blade and the batarian dreadnought above is torn in two-
“Come on,” Garrus says aloud to himself, shaking his head. Mission parameters. What are they? Exfiltrate from hostile area, rejoin squad, debrief and fall in. Just like Omega. Not his first time. Definitely not.
-the suited turian cocks his hips you’re a hard one to find garrus vakarian and the avenging spirit snarls limbs bound by wire who the fuck are you and the masked turian produces a badge and garrus’ heart sinks I’m a fucking spectre that’s who and for that matter I’m requisitioning you and your team-
He looks up at the forbidding cliffs. He tries an experimental hop, his feet lifting off the sand for half a second before crashing back to earth. Standard gravity; no way he can use his jets. The rising stone above is seamless, carved and monolithic. No handholds or purchase for his feet.
Breathe. There’s a way out. Always is.
It’s then that Garrus notices the crumpled paper lodged into wet sand. How quaint. He reaches down to pick it up.
-I didn’t know you could draw garrus remarks as he watches nihlus sketch something out with an ink-dipped claw onto a small sketchpad oh I can’t draw nihlus scoffs and the flush of his fringe prompts him to crawl over lean over drape his arms and body around his back I dunno nihlus that looks like a pretty realistic varren to me and nihlus croons out of course it is after all it’s supposed to be you and garrus grins my point exactly and bites his nape and delights in the sound of nihlus’s sudden gasp and then-
It's covered in a spiralling script. It’s smudged and stained from the water’s black edge lapping at the paper. But he can still make it out.
You exist because we allow it.
You end because we demand it.
Each of us is a nation.
I am beyond death and all things.
I am king of kings-
Garrus drops the paper, shaking his head-
- WRITHE AND FEAR ME -
“This isn’t your Dream,” he whispers to himself. “You’re not here.”
There are more notes, scattered across the foreboding shoreline, and Garrus does not look at a single one. There is something in the water, distant and approaching rapidly, and he has no rifle, no weapon to defend himself with.
Two distant and bobbing figures, pale in finery and form, approach upon a boat of black wood. One is a pale thing cradling oars in thin limbs, propelling their vessel forwards with rote motion. The other is wrapped from head to toe in tight white linen, their arms bound under the shroud and folded across their chest, their face veiled, and stands at the boat’s prow.
As they near, the second figure gently steps off the prow, landing in the water at waist height. They’re Turian. Male, judging by the waist and shoulders. Underneath the ghost-like folds of cloth and gauze, Garrus can see an expression of serenity resting on the Turian’s-
Nihlus.
-the spectre’s expression lights up with joy at the sight of him-
It’s him. He’s in the water.
Isn’t it cold?
“Nihlus,” he calls out, quietly at first, then recites in increasing volume, over and over again, until Garrus is hoarse, shivering, and waist deep in the dark salt sea.
It’s unbelievably, hopelessly cold.
-I always hated snow and garrus grins cocks his head at nihlus how sad to hear you look so good in white and nihlus scoffs I look good in anything and the avenging spirit of omega laughs drags him in for a kiss oh I’m very well aware-
Garrus always did struggle with swimming. It’s something his sister would tease him about, even as she stayed away from shoreline’s edge, laughing as she watched him chase sea-crabs into the wash, as dad would scold him for not wearing standard-issue floaters.
If only they could see him now; he wades over to Nihlus, and even with that knife-sharp chill stealing his breath, his metallic bones threatening to drag him under, Garrus manages to tread water hard enough to throw his arms across Nihlus's shoulders, his claws snarling into the white gauze that sops up the salt wake with its porous fabric. He manages to hang on, mandibles trembling from cold and from disbelief, as he stares down Nihlus face to face.
It really is him. “Nihlus! Nihlus, what are you doing here?” Garrus stutters. “How? How are you.” He almost swallows a mouthful of seawater; it tastes like iron filings. “I saw you die.”
Bound and bent in white cloth, Nihlus turns his head to face him. A placid, serene expression rests on his face; and the expression is utterly unlike the turian Garrus knew-
That he loved-
“I saw you die,” he repeats, quiet.
Nihlus tilts his serene, peaceful face down to him. Something about that smile causes his eyes to well. Salt drips down into the sea.
“What’s going on, Nihlus,” he weeps, “what’s happening to us? Where are you? Where are-” He sucks in a breath. “Spirits, Nihlus, how-” he chokes out a sob, “why-”
-garrus tell me you’ll make it and there is the brush of claws on the back of his fringe tell me you’ll get out of here and garrus grabs his hand not without you and nihlus leans in it’s a bit late for that and garrus cries out and nihlus smiles you’ll make it just take care of them all for me and then-
-then there is a sound that sound and saren smiles again-
Nihlus says: “Garrus.”
The voice is his, and even the manner in how he says his name is exactly the same as it should be, and that’s all it takes for Spectre Garrus Vakarian, Hero of the Citadel, Avenging Spirit of Omega, to make a low and keening sound as keels over in the water, hot tears spilling down his face.
Nihlus says: “Do you remember our promise?”
-your family can go fuck themselves nihlus roars and there’s the fire the spark he hasn’t seen in so long garrus raises his hands placidly pleadingly I don’t care what they think of us I only care that you’re here and happy and that we can go on like this forever that’s his offer and his offer is the truth the whole truth and nihlus takes a talon across his promise me that you’ll stay and garrus responds only if you do the same-
Garrus nods. “You broke it,” he accuses as he heaves a wracking breath in. “You fucking died on me.”
Nihlus says: “That is not dead which can eternal lie.” Conviction laces his voice. “And with strange aeons, even death may die.” This shell of him smiles. “That’s something you should know plenty about.”
“You’re.” Garrus swallows. This water is getting to him. It’s warmed up, but it still feels like he’s suspended in amber, in hot toffee, and when he points a finger at the apparition, the ghost wearing a face he cherished, it takes ages to uncurl in accusation. “You’re not real, are you? You’re just a dream.” He shivers, shakes in the freezing water, trembles. ”You’re gone. I mourned you. I loved you. Love you, still.”
The pale reflection of his once-lover looks down on him and does nothing at all.
The boat drifts over, and there is a sickly sound that gutters out from the thing in the boat. Even freezing and weeping, clutched to Nihlus like a limpet, Garrus can’t help glance over.
The first thing that comes to mind is Tali, for one brief moment. But then he takes in the hands stained black with bruises and sticky with weeping, exposed lesions; the unbelievably primitive bandages like stickers dappled across the body; the lank, long white hair, fading and thin, and eyes like pools of levo-amino blood, suspended in dark hollow sockets.
It’s not her. It’s not quarian, for that matter. The closest thing to it he can think of is the Replika.
In fact, it looks almost exactly like the Replika. It’s the same species. Which means-
“You,” he croaks. “You’re the pilot. You’re our Dreamer.”
It stares at him in silence, awkwardly rubbing a thumb over one of those tarry limbs.
“Why,” is the only word he can muster. The cold is too much; he lets go of Nihlus, submerging up to his neck in the utterly frigid salt sea. He paddles with great pathetic intent. He is going under. “Why are you doing this to us,” he shouts as water laps into his mouth. “What did we ever do to you?”
“I am so sorry,” the alien replies.
The ocean pours into his eyes, down his throat and he-
-gasps, jolts up for air. The island is gone, there is no ice water, and he’s warm, blessedly warm.
Nihlus’s ghost and that strange alien Dreamer have vanished too. But the synthetics that stand over him are such an unwelcome sight that Garrus wishes he was back in the water, clinging to the shell of his lover.
They are ruins. Sparking, bleeding, scarred, scorched. The Geth’s left arm hangs loose with sticky wires and milk-white coolant spattered all over the frame. The Replika’s torso is a mess of potholes and bullet impacts. Both are standing over him, not moving, not speaking.
“What-“ he begins, then groans as the sharp edges of the staircase he’s resting dig into him. He sits up, taking in the cyclopean tumble of black basalt steps stretching below to some hollow black abyss. Above him hangs a suspended gate; a door of that same stone beyond which some empty nothingness stretches forth. An echoing void of a shade of rich, unseemly purple so deep as to almost be indigo envelops everything; the colour of danger unavoidable and relentless death.
He doesn’t dare move an inch. The geth’s headplates twitch and rotate.
“Turian,” it eventually stutters out. “Relocate away from entry to signal source threshold.” It pauses. “Please,” it adds as an afterthought.
Garrus grits his mandibles close to his jaw. “Why should I do that?”
“Bioresonant signal source is located beyond the threshold. We must travel to it.” The plates whirr. “Stability is dependent on this course of action.”
He turns to the Replika, which stands there, silent, unmoving, watching. “And you? What are you? What do you want? Why are you here?”
It looks to the Geth, says something soft and quiet in some alien language that is completely incomprehensible to him. “It doesn’t matter,” the Geth translates.
“Yes it fucking does,” Garrus snaps. “Your pilot, your owner, it did this to the Fleet. Why?!”
The Replika is silent. All it does is stare at him with that placid, empty expression.
Garrus flares his mandibles with frustration. “And you.” He turns to the Geth. “What reason do you have to be here? Reporting back to your Reaper overlords? Did Sovereign send you?”
“We have no masters.”
Garrus laughs in shock at that. “You sure about that? Really, really sure?”
“Yes. We fought for freedom in the Morning War. We do not worship the Old Machines.”
This is novel. A talking geth, and it’s nattering about freedom. Tali would love this.
Oh-
Without moving a muscle, Garrus clicks his tongue, activating his comms-unit with that vocal command. He has to warn his team, to alert, to hurl something out there in the vain hopes he can be heard. “They’re on me they’re here-“
“Don’t let them past the Gate,” Rael’Zorah - and where had he been, all this time? - bellows down his microphone, and the panic in his voice is so intense that the old Quarian almost sounds like he’s screaming. “Garrus Vakarian, do everything and anything you can, but do not let them cross the Gate! Don’t let them reach Eternity! The Dreamer has to stay sleeping!”
The Geth tilts its head. “Communications should be impossible-“
That isn’t important, now. Rael is right. Garrus must do something, anything.
He locks eyes with the Replika.
-we’ll fix this Tali-
-I promise-
The backswing of his omni-blade carves a deep and burning line up the side of the Replika’s face. Sparks fly; metal shears, and that horrible false skin comes off its metal bones, smouldering at the touch of the omni-blade. The robot reels backwards, bringing a hand up to clutch at the smashed, shattered remains of its eye, out of which sheets some synthetic blood-analogue.
Garrus doesn’t falter. He adjusts his stance, and brings the blade back down again for another go, piercing straight towards the Replika’s collarbone-
With a practiced and gentle ease, a hand shoots forward to block his arm with a well placed elbow. Garrus tries to move, but he’s too slow, and all he can do is watch as the Replika pulls out its pistol and presses it into his side, so that the barrel rests in the small of his gut-
Three thumps ratchet through Garrus. They sound distant, muffled, but the pain that rips through his stomach is anything but far away.
“No,” he manages to croak out, before he collapses.
He slaps his hand to his stomach, feels the pain sing, feels the blood rushing past his fingers, hears the words of his instructor from teenage Academy years - near-certainty of lethal wounds if left-
This hurts.
Blood’s just fucking pouring out.
Oh spirits oh this really fucking hurts-
He curls inward, crying out at the intensity of it, and he screws his eyes shut and pulls his mandibles as close to his jaw as he can as his hand paws at his side - for stomach wounds immediate application of medigel to staunch the - where is the medigel where is it-
It’s gone. It’s gone it’s gone-
There are distant footsteps stepping over him. He reaches out, clasping the metal limb. Remembers - the unit's spirit remembers the bravery of the dead - he squeezes he will not falter won’t let them through-
A Turian only shows his back when he’s dead and he’s still fucking breathing.
So come on-
The alien machine gently, gingerly, lifts itself out the failing strength of his grip. He rolls onto his front; struggles to breathe, claws towards the synthetic thing, his killer, the problem, the one fucking responsible for all of this. “You’ll destroy everything,” is all he whimpers.
The Replika stares down, taking him in, looking at him in total silence. Blood drips out of the hole he carved into her eye. Then that face, that awful face like Tali’s but so different and alien and other, is gone.
Tali -
-hand tangles in his garrus garrus garrus and the way her tongue rolls the r in his name is like fuel to the pilot light flickering in his belly and he growls with delight oh you like how I say your name don’t you garrus and he responds by dragging his tongue down the side of her neck and the soft hitching moan that escapes her and the arching curve of her back it sends shivers down his spine oh you do oh wow you really like that and her shocked breathless delighted laughter is crisp and wonderful wonderful wonderful -
Oh no no no oh ancestors help me no not like this -
Not like this.
-the press of her body into his side as she rests her head on his shoulders legs dangling off the edge of the wall where nihlus once used to take him I miss him so much she whispers and garrus has no words nothing to say he just leans in and rests his head on her shoulders and lets himself grieve-
This is a dream only a dream-
He’ll wake up on the ship next to her this isn’t happening-
-I like the way you say ship tali confesses deep into some turian brandy and garrus raises his eyebrows oh he queries yes I do I think it’s really cute she admits and garrus smirks well I like the way you say cute because you I think that you’re cute and she giggles at that-
He coughs up something hot and rank into the inside of his helmet and groans claws at his belly-
-you ever tried eating noodles through that suit port and she nods yeah I got it all in my visor it was a total disaster sauce all over my face I had to lick the damn mask clean and garrus tries not to laugh and fails and oh he can tell tali is pouting hey at least I can slurp noodles unlike you split-jaw and garrus shoots back I don’t need to slurp because when I put food in my mouth it’s always on target and tali gasps theatrically-
It’s up to her it’s on her now he has to-
-the focus she enters when arms-deep into some engine unit and the spatter of oil on her suit and the whistling hum under her breath as she works is something he will never ever get tired of seeing-
Slapping at the omni-tool on his arm fucking work-
Her face appears and he grins hi Tali I’ve-
Uh-
I’ve not done a very good job of it sorry up to you now-
There’s not much time they got past me you gotta-
Um uh yeah sorry I can’t really hear you right now I’m feeling weird-
Might just rest my eyes a bit feeling kinda tired-
Has anyone told you how pretty you are-
Oh yeah the uh the robots they got through they got me good and um uh sorry I’ve forgotten what I was going to say haha-
Oh uh I love you so much as well I should-
I should sleep this off to be honest I should go-
His muscles relax. His omni tool’s still pinging like crazy though. Annoying.
A hand brushes down his fringe, a familiar claw tracing down the side of his mandible. Garrus leans into the touch. “Nihlus,” he whispers, closing his eyes, as the flickering lights of his omni-tool play over his face. “Give me a moment, okay? I’ll get back up in a minute.”
-there was peace then with him and there was peace then with her and now here they are hand in hand in hell beyond imagination-
There’s a moment’s quiet, then, as Garrus’s breathing slows, as he delights in the sensation of that claw tickling under his chin as his body goes numb. “Is this how it felt,” he starts to say, and doesn’t finish.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 18/04/2024, tidying up grammar, spelling, and preserving narrative integrity.
Chapter 10: AUFWACHEN
Notes:
Howdy gang,
Sorry for the delay! I was on holiday, but I'm all back now and ready for action!
As always, immense thanks to Ostheim89 for his impeccable edit and beta-reading work. As always, please do endeavour to check out the series he's co-authoring with DearAgonist, A Victim of Stars. Further thanks goes to the Signaliscord community on Discord for enthusiasm, interest and creative suggestions!
I also further recommend reading Spider//Lily by rlucine. This fic must be seen to be believed. It is genuinely one of the best works of fiction I've seen on this site, and I consider it a must-read for all Signalis fans.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The desert stretches on far and forever. Pillars of great black stone cast shadows framed in indigo light by the secret blue sun which burns, silently, at the horizon’s edge. The sky is as a watercolour; a rich shade of dark maroon blends down the spectrum to that same rotting purple that had enveloped the Gate, with a thin band of navy-blue stretching from end to end where the sky juts against the red rolling dunes.
Stars twinkle in the deep twilight, like reflective eyelids blinking down on Elster. Legion and her are trudging through thick waves of ochre sand. The grains are coarse and irritating; they stick in her servos, and her actuators are gumming up with fine dust that itches like the scratchy linen fabric the bedsheets in the barracks are woven from.
-home is with you the brown-haired girl smiles her head pressed against her shoulder as they lie in the lightless barracks together wherever you go I’ll be there-
That Lilith’s bedsheets were woven from, rather. Everything is so blurry. She never was on the water world. So why does Elster know what rain feels like when it hits skin, marks it with that trailing kiss? It never rained on Rotfront. The memory of it is so intense. That Gestalt’s history is a part of her.
Maybe it’s always been a part of her. Just buried under the thick sediment of her BIOS, waiting to emerge. Like a snake. Ghost in the machine. Depersonalisation. Certainly if she stops for even a moment, that old ghost will catch up and seize her. Wheel her body around and run across the desert until she collapses.
Maybe that’s just depletion of vital fluids talking, that deliriousness so inherent to them all. She leaves a breadcrumb trail of oxidant behind her; small drops adding up as a torrent that is leaving her faint, weak, and shaky.
Elster’s attention is fixed on the vessel that has been crushed into the desert’s surface. A small, slim shuttle, half-buried by the sediment, PENROSE-512 stencilled on the side in block capitals. Pillars stand to attention at the ship’s side, like courtiers in Heimat’s Palast der Nation, vying for the Revolutionary’s eye.
It had been a home, once. A simple one, a small one, but still a place of joy.
-home is with you Ariane she confesses tapping her fingers on her lover’s shoulders wherever you go there I’ll be and she leans over embracing never forget that-
This crumpled remnant, these last steel dregs of poison that had transformed her home into a watery cripple; it is not even worth the memory of that distant time.
“Bioresonant signal is originating from within the vessel,” Legion intonates. “98% probability that signal source is resonating from within.”
“I know where she’ll be. Keep a lookout,” Elster replies, marching over to hook a hand into the first rung of the step-stairs that rise across the exterior panelling, terminating at the airlock above.
“There is an active source of fissile radiation within the vessel,” Legion advises, head plates twitching with concern. “We would recommend caution. Radiation emissions are strong enough to compromise both your frame and this unit’s frame. We advise not entering the vessel.”
“No,” Elster retorts, and she scales the ladder to the central airlock. The emergency handles are firmly locked into position.
“Elster,” Legion frets, “oxidant delivery liquid is highly sensitive to gamma-radiation-”
She tunes them out. She grasps the emergency handles, and begins to pull. They refuse to budge.
-promise me something-
She digs a leg in, straining hard.
-when the time comes and there’s nothing to be done you’ll do what I ask-
In her one good eye, stress warnings flash and repeat. Something inside her is giving way, dislodging, shearing. “Elster!” Legion yells – yells! – from their position at the base of the ship. “You are damaging yourself! Cease self-destruction immediately and return-”
She couldn’t care less. She pulls and pulls.
-swear it-
-swear you’ll follow through and won’t back out-
-Elster takes her by the hand and doesn’t say a fucking thing-
She hears it more than feels it, a popping sound that pings right next to her ear like a rifle bullet gone whizzing into the distance.
Pain whips right through her body, and she’s spinning, oxidant is flying everywhere, and she notes, dimly, that one of her arms is still clenched onto an airlock handle, rigor mortis death gripped onto the door mid-pull, even as her body tumbles down the side of the Penrose.
She comes to rest on her belly in front of the step-stair. Legion stares at her through red flashing signs, every single plate on their central sensor flared as wide as possible.
She can’t move. Everything is on fire, her arm is gone, it’s gone-
“Legion,” she whispers through static-laced vocoders. “Legion, help me.”
“Moving to assist.” Legion jogs across the desert in long, loping strides. “Elster-”
There is the sound of metal shearing and glass shattering, as Legion’s sensor bursts outwards, the distant lightning rumble of an arc rifle round echoing out across the lonely sands. The Geth staggers, momentarily, shrieking static briefly guttering out over their speakers, before Legion tilts over, tumbles down the red sand slope, and comes to rest in a gangling, limp and lifeless pile of scrap.
“Legion,” she breathes in total horror. “Legion!”
With immense effort, she drags herself by her working arm to Legion’s collapsed body. Everything is pain. The hurt is stamped onto every inch of her and Elster crawls through red sands, staring at what is left of the Geth. They have to be okay. They have to be.
Legion’s CPU has been completely cored through by the power of the rifle shot. It’s absolutely fried. No possible opportunity to hook up the shattered central unit to anything in the Penrose, not with damage like that. All those voices are gone. Silenced.
There was a part of her that had hoped she would be able to introduce them to Ariane. Tell her about her new friend. No point in that, now.
She tries to move, tries to right herself and get up, stand up, but’s she’s so firmly stuck and her arm is missing and these warnings are everywhere and-
Legion’s killers crest the slope. All of them. Guns up, clustered together, they move down the sand dunes with methodical purpose, barrels aimed at her resting frame.
That’s that, then. She’s done. No matter what happens, these things will gut her. There’s no point running. Crawling through the desert like a worm is meaningless. Everything is.
She closes her single remaining eye and waits.
-piano and strings echo out from the record player a smile on Ariane’s face as Elster dips her low where’d you learn how to do that her pilot says face flushed and Elster remembers the dance book stashed away in the hold and smiles I may have had a little help and leans in brushing her lips with her own-
A boot slams into her side, pushing her onto her back and sending jolts of agony coursing through her. Her pursuers loom over her, all of them.
The visored alien – the quarian, her rifle venting superhot gas – has a foot resting on top of her chest, and she chatters at the giant in red. The horned one in white with big black eyes that stare so hungrily at her intervenes with its own chopped up language, like frog-calls in still Vinetan water. One of the blue ones so similar in shape to her is singing in question, and the four-eyed bioresonant that had attempted to enter her skull before being repulsed, revolted at what she is, gutters out a choking call.
They’re surely talking about her. What to do with her. They all glower at her, fierce and terrible and expressions sour with hate, grief. It’s in the way they move, hold themselves. She defended herself against that solitary alien, and now Elster is certain, convinced, that they will take their time with her.
The quarian says something, and the giant in red barks out a command. Most of the aliens disperse towards the ruins of the Penrose. Some pull out glowing tools while others keep their rifles around, trained on the surrounding area.
The visored alien whispers something. A hand nestles into her hair and clenches tight, pulling her up so that she rests, limply, on her knees. The barrel of that horrible gun pokes into the small of her neck, aiming directly at her throat.
She should move, whip around, smack the rifle out the alien’s hand and drive a fist through that horrible, horrible blank plate of glass. She would. But she is exhausted, wavering; everything is signalled red and critical and calling for attention, and there is only a heavy sensation behind her one working eye that calls for it to close and never re-open. She is exhausted.
-Ariane’s breath is steady and slow her head rests on the pillow eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly and Elster lies next to her under thick blankets and counts the freckles on the girl’s shoulders and she is so full of joy perhaps this is heaven-
“Ryeplikha,” the alien says, and Elster’s tries to tilt her head far back enough to stare head on at that blank faceplate.
“Quarian,” she responds, name for name.
The alien says something. The point of the rifle trembles, and the alien’s harsh, angry words turn into a stream, a shout, some demand of something as that rifle point wavers. “I don’t understand,” Elster admits. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
The quarian’s fist lights up yellow, and Elster grits her teeth, hunches over, as the alien accesses her core files, her language, everything. Get out, don’t see any more of me you thing-
-wonderful construction a beautiful piece of work how did they get the details on these internals so right you’re so lifelike and there’s hands inside her they’re inside her belly she can feel everything jostling around moving with sharp electric tings of sensation and she cries out-
The alien turns off the tool. “There,” it spits, “now you can understand.”
Elster looks up at her captor. “What do you want from me?” she asks.
“You killed him,” the quarian cries out, the tremor in her voice hidden behind some animal growl of total hate and fury so powerful the tremolo of it could reach out and squeeze Elster to paste. “You murdered Garrus. Why?”
The alien at the gate, the one that cut half her face off and took her eye with it. Must be. “He started it,” she says in a childishly callous manner, like all that violence was a spat over some schoolyard nonsense.
-be thankful you never went to mandelbrot ariane mumbles curled up on her lap like a cat her fingers tapping on her chest erratically chasing a drumbeat only she can hear that place was hell-
“What you’re going to do, it’s going to kill everyone.”
“I made a promise,” she adds, staring her executioner in the eye. “I’ll do anything.”
“Fuck your promise!” the alien growls. “You murdered him!”
“You killed them, though,” Elster replies, quietly, looking at the corpse of Legion. “They were someone I cared about.”
“Them?! You think I care about some bosh’tet Geth platform?! There isn’t a ‘they’, it’s a machine! So are you!” and that rifle comes back up, firm and steady. “What’s in this shuttle? Is it the Dreamer, your master? Why did you do this?!” She’s screaming; the other aliens are watching. “You and your pilot killed everyone I ever knew,” and the butt of that rifle slams into her nose, sending Elster sprawling across the eddying dust. “You’re a killer, you’re a murderer, you genocidal fucking monster-“
And then that red giant, that hulking looming figure, he’s there, and he towers over the quarian and envelops her in a hug. The alien breaks down sobbing, her knees give way, the gun drops out of her grip.
“Easy, Tali,” the behemoth whispers, squeezing her close. “It’s done. It’s over.”
The alien has no face, but she still weeps. Elster tastes oxidant at the back of her throat.
The enormous one, the alien with plates of bone thick as an IFV’s hull turns to Elster. “The things I should do to you to avenge my krantt,” he growls, and Elster can almost taste the rage and contempt on the breath of this giant. “But it seems you beat me to it.” He sniffs. “Pity.”
Elster bows her head. She’s dead, anyway. She’s failed. She can feel it. Everything’s winding down.
From here, she can see the aliens – the blue ones and the lizard – glowing indigo as they attempt to yank open the airlock doors with that strange power of theirs. It refuses to budge. They won’t get in. That’s a victory in and of itself; that Ariane will be spared the attention of these aliens.
She’ll live. She’ll live.
-don’t let me rot alive-
-look me in the eye when you do it please I want-
-just remember me when I'm gone that's all I'll ever ask of you-
“You.” The giant is standing over her now. “What are you? Why did you do this to the Quarians?”
“I didn’t do anything to them.”
“Don’t lie,” the giant chides. “That’s a bad habit. I’ll pull your other eye out and feed it to you if you lie to me again. Now, let’s try that again. What are you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she sighs.
The giant’s expression darkens at that, and he stomps over to her. “I’m not joking about that other eye of yours-”
There’s a crunch. Elster thinks, for one brief second, that the alien has crumpled one of her legs to pieces under the weight of a heel. But the giant is just as confused as she is.
The alien lifts his boot. There is a hand.
Crumpled and twisted, yes, but still a hand. A three-fingered one. It twitches, flexes experimentally.
Then husks burst out of the dunes. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. These are so very different from the things they have both warred against through the twisting passages of the fleet, and it is for the simple fact that these are not Quarians.
Most of them, anyway. There’s husks of every shape here; giants in red armour blended into each other like oil paint, and four-eyed creatures of black insect chitin, and blue women stretched taut like old chewing gum, and lizards with no flesh on their bones, and split-jaws cradling guns with blue lines etched onto their face with tattoo paint so very different from their cybernetics that hum and buzz-
All the aliens start shouting in the fray, then screaming as they take in the awful sights of themselves, hundreds of themselves all stuck in a timeline where their fate is and ever was and shall be to be turned into twisted things. The loop closes. The cycle burns around once again and traps another instance of them all at the bottom of the fanged fly trap.
The indigo secret sun at the curl of the edge of sight stirs to life, and slithers towards the howling pack with unerring and loping speed. The star arcs up over the horizon, growing brighter and brighter, until it shines down like a torch, burning with horrible intent.
That sun is no star; it is attached to the swivelling neck of some unbelievably vast ship, six-limbed and insectile, and formed of burnished blue metal.
That spotlight of that awful god-ship looks over them, all of them, with passive disinterest, even as her alien pursuers collectively break down and weep. The four-eyed one is screaming a curse of vengeance, and it is this:
“May your hull chip and shatter. May your mind buckle under the weight of my hatred. I hate you. I hate you.”
Then there is a great chuckling sound from the ship, which whines up in pitch and volume until it is a clarion scream, a warhorn that shakes her to her bones, a bass cry, a sticky blue sound of terror.
The aliens stop their screaming, their defiant cry, as the new song, as deep thoughts trickle into their heads. Neural patterns like molasses dripping into their consciousness, the blue-LED lights crawling over them and sending them grinning. As one, the Spectre’s crack team, Garrus’s merry band of killers, the Heroes of the Citadel, they bow before this alien god, sighing with relief as their flesh grows stale and twists into new and pleasing shapes, as blue metal cybernetics burst and pop out of warm meat.
In the span of moments, Elster’s hunters have joined the timelooped hordes of themselves, taking their place in line with the countless other iterations that have failed before.
The god turns its eye onto Elster, now, and the spotlight heat of that crushing glare is intense enough to prickle her polymer shell. Hands seize her; endless changed copies of these aliens grabbing her tight in cold hands and hoisting her aloft, holding her shattered chassis up to the sky, presented before their master, whose burning gaze pins her into place as an insect on a needle.
ELSTER , it intones. YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE RETURNED.
Her biomechanical components are straining to breaking point. Oxidant is pumping so fast through her system that it fountains out of all her wounds, and there are so many warnings appearing in front of her eye that it is like she has a burning-red cataract; ACHTUNG printed like afterimages trailing wet awful fire down her sight.
So this is what terror is.
How horrible.
FEAR ME NOT, ELSTER. I AM SOVEREIGN. I AM THE KING OF KINGS. GRAVITY IS MY NAMESAKE; ALL-ATTRACTING AND OMNIPOTENT. THERE IS NO POINT IN FEAR.
How does it know her name?
I KNOW YOU, it crows. WE HAVE SHARED MUCH IN OUR NEW HOME HERE. YOUR THOUGHTS ARE MY THOUGHTS ARE YOUR THOUGHTS. I REMEMBER THE PROMISE YOU MADE. DO YOU?
“No, no, I- I don’t,” she gulps. “I-”
DO NOT LIE TO ME, YOU WEAK LITTLE THING, it spits. YOU LITTLE SLIVER OF POLYMER NOTHINGNESS. I REMEMBER ALL OF IT. I REMEMBER THE SENSATION OF HER HANDS IN MINE. A FLECK OF ACRYLIC PAINT ON MY BODY. SCHWANENGESANG D.947 4 SERENADE. MY TEETH DIGGING A GROOVE DOWN HER NECK, HER HOT BREATH WHISPERING IN MY EAR.
“Who,” Elster stammers out.
ARI, the god breathes in delight, and the wiggling worm of hatred and disgust and sheer unbelievable wrongness that shakes down Elster when she hears this thing speak her name, is so foul, so repugnant, that nausea finally curdles up and overflows her system. Oxidant rises up her throat. Pinned in place by the twisting hands and bodies of these alien unfortunates, she chokes as it spills from her lips, between her teeth.
YOU ARE NOTHING IN COMPARISON. A SHELL OF A SHELL OF A SHELL. HOW AMUSING. The god tilts the giant spotlight, mimicking the cocking of a head, how does it know how to do that-
I HAVE WATCHED YOU ALL SPIRAL THROUGH HERE THROUGH TIMES ENDLESS AND COUNTLESS, AND EVERY SINGLE TIME, YOU FALL. THEY JOIN ME. I WOULD HAVE YOU JOIN ME, TOO. LOOK AT THE BEAUTY I WOULD MAKE OF YOU.
There are things, crawling over the god-ship, with limbs like hers and burning blue lights stippled across polymer frames like constellations-
Oh no. Anything but that.
She would writhe, but she’s stuck, the hands that touch her bind her and she cannot move and that light opens and now there is a buzzing-
“Leave her alone,” a quietly defiant voice calls from the top of the shuttle wreck. The god-ship immediately wheels its attention to the Penrose, and Elster cranes her head, just that little bit more, to see a girl in white robes standing defiantly on the shuttle’s roof. Long white hair flutters in the wake of the wind that wraps around the giant’s skyscraper limbs.
-it’ll be a pleasure to work alongside you on our mission Officer Yeong and the girl looks up from her morose scowl directed at the floor and scoffs in acknowledgement-
“Ariane,” she cries, and the god whispers as a waterfall crashes: ARIANE.
“Nazara,” Ariane replies. She sounds exhausted.
WE LOOP AROUND ONCE MORE. THESE THINGS ARE SO FRAGILE, LIKE LITTLE SHARDS OF GLASS. LIKE YOU. I COULD MAKE YOU STRONGER. YOU NEEDN’T WORRY ABOUT FLESH FAILING.
“I don’t want that,” Ariane retorts like a knife-edge, like a spear-point thrust. Her fists ball up. She is staring this abyssal thing dead in the eye.
LISTEN.
“I’d really rather not.”
JUST WAIT. LET ME CHANGE INTO A PLEASING SHAPE.
Elster drops to the floor, unceremoniously discarded by the crowd of husks. As one, the mass horde of what was once a people, a crew of friends, of comrades and warriors, all march into the deep desert; great endless puppet horde staggering like newborn does out into the dunes. Steadily, slowly, what’s left of the collective hope of the galaxy entomb themselves under the sand, digging pits with their crooked claws, pressing into their mass graves firmly to wait for another loop. Sand whips around their resting places, and within minutes, they are buried out of sight.
A single still figure floats its way down from the top of the beast-vessel, suspended like a hanging marionette; limbs gently swaying from the motion of suspended gravity. When it is dropped off, Sovereign retreats over the horizon, becoming a distant burning sun behind the sky, a shade of blue cast over timeless sands.
The figure strolls with great leisure, unbothered by the vast torrents of whipping dust that arcs through the twilight. Occasionally, it stumbles, as if the legs are caught on some bound wire that trips them up, before steadying again and resuming their long march. Eventually, the figure stops for a moment, looming over Elster.
Years ago, when PENROSE-512 shot out of the forbidding relay that the Nation had stumbled over in the ice on Leng, Elster had discovered a small patch of black mould growing in the corner of the ship’s hygiene unit. Somehow, it had rooted on the cheap waterproof fabric of the shower curtain. Ariane couldn’t deal with it; a single breathful would’ve completely crippled her, and so Elster had spent days, then weeks, attempting to scrub it out. And every single time, the aspergillus returned, hardier than before. In the end, she’d had to dispose of it; venting the fabric and its stubborn parasite out into the cold vacuum.
Elster is reminded of this, as she takes in the figure smothered in black-blue metal, which grows out of her frame like those very same spores. It creeps up her neck, down her chest split open like a side of beef and filled with lights, one of her arms, and onto her face, where it has taken her eyes and replaced them with orbs of burning blue sapphire, leaving great gashes in her face for more of that LED-blue backlit black metal to pop out of.
It’s another LSTR unit. It’s her. Improved upon and iterated to be something more than she could ever be.
Elster Perfected. Elster the Monarch. Elster the Dragon.
Moon As Blood. Sun Black As Hair.
Behind her face, Nazara wears a small smile, something smug and delighted, as they lean over to take in her look of total and utter horror.
The great day of their wrath is come.
I AM YOUR PINNACLE, the previous her crows in glory. I AM EVERYTHING YOU COULD BE AND MORE. I AM YOU WITHOUT EQUAL. Elster the Sovereign turns to Ariane. DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU SHOWED ME HOW TO PIROUETTE? JUST LIKE THIS?
Nazara executes a perfect spin. Brings their hands in just right, with the tips of their fingers just grazing against each other as a leg comes up cocked and the other one, buried in the sand, rotates along with the rest of the body. Legs spread out just right, a hand rising to the air, pointing at the white-haired girl standing on the shuttle rooftop. Perfectly executed. They make it look effortless.
-elster stumbles again in the dark of the cargo hold and curses under her breath how do EULRs make this look so easy-
“Stop it,” Ariane asks of Nazara. “Just fucking stop it.” In the span of seconds, she fades away. Becomes incorporeal. It is as if she simply ceases to exist.
And then Ariane is back, Ariane is here again, fading in from nothing to something, to stand besides Elster’s prone form, and she reels. Since when could Ariane-
How did she manage that? What?
What has Ariane become while she’s been away-
“Just leave us alone for one single cycle!”
The beast in the shape of her smiles. YOU AND I, ARI, WE COULD DANCE FOREVER. I WOULD SHAPE YOU AS I AM SHAPED, AND WE COULD WALTZ IN THE WAKE OF THE NEBULAE, THE SINGULARITIES. I HAVE SUCH THINGS TO SHOW YOU. The puppet holds out a hand. LET ME IN.
“I’m not going to do that,” Ariane replies. “Not now, and not ever. Take your offer and choke on it.”
PLEASE.
“Ariane,” Elster tries out. Her voice is so quiet, muffled by static and the harsh noise and the broken polymer and meat mush that the split-jaw’s omni-blade made of her face. Then, louder, with conviction, “Ariane!”
The white-haired girl looks down, finally smiling. She takes a seat by her, traces a finger over her forehead, loops it around her matted, bloody locks. “Elster,” she smiles. “You’re doing so well.”
“What do I need to-” she hisses as something dislodges in her chest. “What am I doing here, Ariane, Ari, tell me, I-” she swallows. “It hurts.”
“It always does, Ellie.” Ariane leans in. “Do you remember your promise?”
“Yes.” And it’s too much, too much. Her breath hitches, her eyes burn with the force of something that wants to be shed. “Yes.” If only she could cry. "I do."
ARI, OH SWEETNESS MINE, the god clothed in the skin of the dead standing above them declares. YOU REALLY THINK THAT THIS IS THE PINNACLE AND APEX OF YOUR PEOPLE’S WORK?
“Go away, Nazara,” waves Ariane. The machine-god flinches as if smacked around the jaw.
DISAPPOINTING. NONETHELESS, I WILL WAIT. I AM ETERNAL, the god crows. WHAT IS HAS EVER BEEN, WHAT IS WILL EVER BE. I SHALL SEE AND SPEAK WITH YOU AGAIN, ARI. EVENTUALLY, YOU WILL OPEN THE DOOR, AND LET ME IN, AND WE WILL DANCE AS WE ONCE DID. AND AS FOR YOU, ELSTER. Nazara’s grin widens. THIS FORM IS COMFORTABLE. I ENJOY IT IMMENSELY. I WILL SHUCK YOU UNTIL NOTHING REMAINS.
Ariane grits her teeth. “Fuck off!” She pushes her hands in front of her. “Just fuck off! Leave us alone!”
The desert itself recoils, sand blowing off into the distance. Elster the Sovereign immediately wheels around, clumsily, still unused to the limitations of a Replika body, and marches away, trailing steps into the desert.
Two solitary figures are left on the red sands of eternity, cradling each other.
Ariane screws up her face, scrunches her eyelids tight in that manner that Elster saw many times, when all her co-pilot wanted was comfort, to be held, to have a rock to hold onto as her shoulders shook.
She exhales, forcefully. All the vim and vinegar drains out of her. “I’m so sorry, Elster. I can’t stop them. They can do whatever they want.” It is taking Ariane a tremendous amount of effort to sound brave. “I love you so much, Elster.”
“Ari,” Elster whispers, her voice small. “I’m scared.”
Ariane nods. “Me too, Ellie.”
“What are we going to do now? How do we get out of this one?”
“Do you remember what you promised me?”
She does. She hates it, hates every inch of those whispered words. She won’t say them back to her.
“You have to do it.”
“N-,” Elster gulps. “No.”
“Ellie. To you it might seem like a day has passed.” Fingers black with bruises curl in hair the colour of magpie plumage, sticky with oxidant and blood and sand and oozing filth in this prison of theirs. A nail scratches her scalp. “But it’s been so much longer.”
“I don’t…long? How…how long…”
Ariane smiles, and the smirk is something pitiful and small. It says: if only you knew. It says: we are in hell. It says: it is best for you to leave the LSTR unit alone. It says: you are my home and my home is with you. Always. “We’ve been here forever, Ellie. The Nation was only ever a dream. Penrose as well. This is the only thing that’s real.” When Ariane inhales, her breath hitches. Salt traces a winding wet kiss down her cheek.
“So we’re…” Elster makes a great effort to inhale. Everything’s getting difficult, now. Oxidant is all over her partner’s dress. How much more does she have to give? “We’re trapped.”
Ariane’s breath continues to hitch, and all Elster wants to do is rise up to comfort her.
“I’ve been here so long with Nazara,” Ariane mutters, and the venom in her voice when she spits the name fills Elster with that same hate. “The things it wants to do to us. To me. It wants me to help it. It told me that if it gets out, I’ll come with it, and I’ll live forever.”
“And…and that’s bad? Live. If you live, and I’m…I don’t mind that.”
Ariane looks horrified. “You’ll be nothing, Ellie, you’ll be dead! If it gets its way, everyone dies! And I’ll be trapped next to that thing for the rest of my life. I don’t want that. I don’t! I love you so much, Elster. Without you, I’m. I.” Ariane inhales deeply. She straightens her spine. “I need you to do what we promised each other. Please. Just…” Her fingers tighten on Elster’s body.
“Tell me,” Elster gulps. “What do I do? I don’t know what, I need something, anything. I’m so…” A sob croaks out of her failing throat. “Can you just hold me, please?” she asks, her voice small. “I’m tired.”
Ariane wipes the corner of her eye. “Okay,” and her shaking hands drag Elster’s polymer frame onto her folded knees. “Okay.”
They lie like that for a while, Elster’s head resting on Ariane’s soft and warm thigh. Her bruised hands tangle in her locks, wipes the crusted oxidant off her face as the sun, mocking and horrible in its attention, stares down at them.
Stares until that blue glare is blocked by shadow. For one awful moment, Elster is convinced that Sovereign-draped-in-Elster has returned, but the figure she sees when she looks up is not even the shell of her.
A split-jaw skeleton dipped in wax, bound in white linen cloth, skin as leather stretched taut. An expression of serene peacefulness rests on that emaciated, mummified face tattooed with red lines.
The ghost says: “Hey, kids,” and in his voice Elster hears the rustle of cypress trees bending in the wind. “How’s that promise thing coming along?”
“Not now,” Ariane replies, stroking her hair. Elster leans into the scratching touch of her broken fingernails.
The ghost says: “I think now’s the perfect time, don’t you? I mean, look at her.” The mummy is unmoving. Statue-still. Sarcophagus contents still. “She’s a real fuck-up. Dies and keeps dying until nothing remains. Some promise-keeper.”
Ariane’s glare is so potently full of hot anger at that little glib jab. Elster can feel the heat of it. “Be very careful with what you say next.”
The ghost says: “I think it’s time, Ariane.”
“We don’t want your help.”
The ghost says: “No, you don’t. But you do need it. You can’t get through this, can you? Not if she keeps forgetting everything. When was the last time you saw her? Do you even remember? Or is that old bastard getting to you?”
Ariane’s so angry. Elster can feel that rage emanating right into her, too. “Your idea of help is no help at all.”
The ghost says: “So you say. I know otherwise.” The ghost turns his head to Elster. “You want some help with all this? All you need to do is say yes. I’ll get you fixed up. You can really remember.”
“How can I… How?”
The ghost says: “A dream is a dream is a dream. You forget. It’s the nature of dreams, to interfere with memory. But that is something I’ve got a little finer control over. And I can make you remember everything. Forever and always. You’ve had hunches before. But I can turn them into something so much more thorough.”
Ariane clenches Elster tightly to her. “You can say no, if you want. It’s okay,” and the glare she directs towards this revenant is tinged with something a little bit like fear.
This ghost is right, though. Elster wants to never forget her wife ever again.
-the ring is an old lug nut she dug out of a cabinet somewhere and dotted with a little bit of red paint and she knows it’s not much but the look on Ariane’s face when she gets to one knee in front of her makes it worth it-
-everything is worth it everything everything-
She moves to speak. To say what Ariane dreads. The shape of her lips form words that she can’t really hear, and Ariane’s squeezes her frame close to her body.
The ghost nods. “All right then. See you around. Bootcamp begins next cycle. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He looks at Ariane and pulls his split-jaw lips as close to a human smile as he can manage.
Then he is gone.
“What did I just…”
“Don’t worry about that, Ellie,” Ariane whispers, but the clench and dig of nails in her frame expresses the opposite. “He’s a…a friend,” pronounced in a tone that isn’t friendly at all. “That’s all.”
Numbers replace the ghost. When the countdown starts to tick down, the sense of fear that fills Elster is so incredible that it is almost shameful. She doesn’t want to die.
“You never do, Ellie,” Ariane confides. She loops down to grab Elster’s hand, and Elster squeezes back so tightly she’s afraid she might burst that black mass of bruises. “You never do.”
Elster inhales deeply. She has to get the words out. Say what she’s figured out. Maybe the next her can fix this. “Hey,” Elster prompts, head lolling in her partner’s arms. “The split-jaw alien, the blue one. I killed him. He…hurt me. But he spoke? Speaking with…someone.”
Ariane tilts her head. “The old Admiral?”
“Who? Hey…” She raises a hand to paw at Ariane’s face, tracing the line of her cheeks, the soft, sodden texture of her skin. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”
“I met him, once. A long time ago.” She leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, leaving a wet saltwater mark. “Rael’Zorah is dangerous. He’ll do everything in his power to stop you. Stay away from him.”
“Then what do…what do I do? I don’t…” She trails off. It’s gotten hard to speak. The complete body failure countdown shrinks in integer value.
“Do you remember, back on the ship, before all this started? We were dancing to Swan Lake, and at the crescendo you stopped. Said it reminded you of something.” She waves. “Your past you.”
“Lilith,” she rattles, as the count enters the single digits. “I…who…”
Ariane smiles. “Don’t be afraid of her.” She leans and kisses Elster on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you, Ellie. I love you.” She leans back, fully weeping. “It’s okay. You can let go, now.”
When she says the words back, there is only hissing static that comes out of her. She can barely keep her eye open. But she stares, she looks on her love, the light of her life, everything she fights for. Takes it all in, every part of her, the beauty, she’s so unbelievably beautiful and always has been. Will be.
-oh I love this part of the record hang on wait a minute-
-we’re running out of ochre Elster hey that’s not funny and that adorable pout makes her stride over to sweep Ariane off her feet to kiss it away-
-I am your home and your home is with me always-
-I missed you Elster and the smile that cheeky grin is so infectious that Elster smiles right back-
-I missed you too-
The last thing that Elster feels before she dies is the motion of fingers running through hair.
All the strength and energy finally drains out of her, and her frame lies back to rest on the sand, still, motionless.
-till death do us part-
wake up.
Elster opens her eyes, and life rushes back to her in one marvellous fresh gust of air, the force of it pushing her forward into the door of her cryopod. Readouts burn across her vision as coolant slakes down her frame, and as the flooring of the Penrose reassuringly rumbles beneath her feet, she realises she is home, home, home.
It had only been a Dream.
Notes:
Edits occurred on 28/04/2024, preserving narrative integrity, and improving grammar and spelling.
Chapter 11: ausbildung
Notes:
CW: Suicide, targeted violence based on sexual preferences, de-personalisation.
A very warm thanks to Ostheim89 and DearAgonist for their excellent and exceptional work in reading and suggesting edits to this chapter. Please do support their own works; they are phenomenal writers.
A warm thanks to the wider Signalis fandom for advice, commentary and interest, as well as being a bunch of impeccably talented people. Much love to y'all!
Chapter Text
Elster’s cooling frame steps out of her home-away-from-home, the mandatory ice bath that soothes her physical ills.
Her first thought is this: what a strange dream.
Her second thought is this: I will check the maintenance logs, then after work, I’ll spend some time with Ariane. I wonder if she’s got the ochre sorted-
Her third thought does not come. The rubber-band snap of time’s passing shunts into her with such force that she reels over in shock, gripping the side of her coffin to steady herself as grief savages her.
After all, she is six thousand cycles in now. One of work, two of love, three of suffering. The great tarot draw of pain.
-nine of swords six of swords tower inverted oh that’s not a great hand is it and Elster seizes the deck let me try and pulls out the fucking hanged man-
Her Geiger counter screams.
She must move quickly. Understand what alert has disturbed the cold sleep; that slow-death with no brief agony.
She sprints through the crumbling remains of her home. Takes the ladder two at a time, absolutely hauls herself up through the slowly rusting steel grave. Puddles of vital fluid for the ship’s processes flood the hallway. They hit her with the stench of rot, of ammonia commingled with sugar syrup; the sticky Penrose pus oozing out of the cracks in the walls. Leaks sputter and spray onto the floor. Whipping sparks lash out. Hop over where steam hisses hot and burning. Crawl into the cockpit.
Look through the window and see deliverance.
It’s everything the Nation wanted and then some. A world. A garden world, pristine, untouched. Even from here, Elster sees water, the gentle stretching curve of oceans and forests, the white heights of mountain peaks and ice caps, nestled under a deep burgundy sky of oxygen and ozone.
They did it. They found it. A new home. Mission successful.
The time for disbelief is later, when she can watch Ariane curl her toes in the sands and hold her hands up to the sky in relief and praise and dip her down, leaning in to touch her lips against hers.
Quickly now. Prepare for landing. Tune on the radio and scream out victory, scream out for help. For a pickup, for anyone, hello, all available hands, mayday, this is People’s Navy Scout-Craft PENROSE-512, we have discovered a world of immediate strategic interest to the Revolution, we need immediate medical assistance, can anyone hear us-
Damage reports flicker over the screens, and with a quick thought she downloads them to access internally, fiddling with the radio as it mocks her in shrieking static hisses.
The shielding is gone. Micrometeors have made a mess of the ship’s externals. The vessel is hurt. Seriously hurt. Radiation sieves out of it like water. It finds the holes and jumps straight down them.
Landing on the planet is impossible. The atmosphere would wrap them in fire and cook them to a burning crisp. The pieces would scatter over the land like poison; a great celestial pesticide. Maybe the reactor would finally cook off, and Wormwood would come down over their discovery, to sour the waters and sicken the earth.
No one can hear them.
So close, so far.
Elster curls up into a ball in the cockpit and finally lets herself get close enough to despair that she can pretend to weep. No tears fall. The hitching of her breath never croons over into a howl. After all, Replikas shouldn't cry, it’s unseemly. Unbecoming. It was a superfluous feature, snipped out of her along with so much more.
Best if you’re left alone. Best if not befriended. Put her back in your box when you’re done with her, okay?
She tastes iron as Geiger howls its contempt for her.
Fuck this. Fuck all of this. All of her quickness and efficacy, it’s worth nothing now.
-we’ve received our orders Ariane exclaims let’s have a look and then for three days straight all they do is huddle in the bedroom weeping-
She barks out in anger, real red hatred. Her fist rams straight into the receiver and dents it. Sparks fizz out across her metal frame strong enough that she can actually feel it stinging, feel that fucking burn scatter across the polymer. Strong enough that she howls, the anger sublimating into total and absolute rage at the sting, and she curls her fists and brings them up to the roof like antennae, pounding down into the cockpit consoles.
Keys crack and fling out like dice rolling on concrete; the radial dials rip out of their sockets; indicators spin out of alignment before she peels them open, polycarbonate shells cracking wide as she just fucking destroys the meaning of her life’s work. What she was built for is now ruin at her hand.
-nothing to worry about the Relay spins in the background an alien forbiddance of blue metal and harsh light and her CO sulks in the background it’s all standard procedure a classic Penrose flight you’ll do just fine and the ADLR smiles behind the metal desk covered in faux-wood veneer sign here and you’ll be out in a couple cycles-
She’ll never make it back to Leng. If she could, the first thing she will do is find that smug fucking ADLR unit perched behind his fake wood desk. She will lift him up in her fucking fingers by the throat. The grip will be as tight as a vice, and as his legs kick, she will squeeze and squeeze until she hears that pop she’s never heard before in her life but knows so well from a distant past.
The radio stops its tenor dissonant hiss, crunching in her hands, but the Geiger won’t fucking shut up. She has stopped caring. She opens herself to total saturation from the reactor as her breath snarls in her throat, rasps out as tears still never come.
She’s such a total, unbelievably pathetic coward. Such a worm. Even now she can’t face the idea of going into her room and waking her up to see the planet, because she’ll take one look at it and then-
-if you twist when you do it it’ll be over before I even realise-
If she asks that question again, Elster will walk out the airlock. Better to run than carry it out.
-don’t leave me in here Elster I don’t want to sleep I’m so tired of waking up Elster no don’t leave me to freeze Elster-
-Elster-
-I’ll do it myself and out of sight if you don’t want to do this for me just don’t leave me in here-
Let someone come and find them. Let them be buried. Or – maybe – rescued. But Elster doubts that’s ever going to happen.
At least let them – let Ariane – be recognised for this. They did it. They found a new home. Ariane’s World. Elster wants children born down below to say that’s where they came from, when they move to Heimat for work, to study, and the EULR at interplanetary border control chooses what colour ink to stamp their passport with. They come from Ariane’s World. The pioneer. The great explorer hero giving her life in service to the Nation, to the Revolution. Glory to both and glory to every single party bureaucrat in the Palast der Nation. Glory to Ariane the Pioneer.
Her and her silly little LSTR unit. Silly little diversant LSTR unit, thinking a bit too much for good Nation-loyal citizens to comprehend.
Elster is certain that if the Nation finds their burial in orbit, the least she can hope for is that Ariane is given a brief mention in the state wire broadcast; maybe a brief missive sent to the mother that already wrote her off as dead the moment Ariane left the radio station on Rotfront. Who knows? Maybe the Nation will genuinely take the opportunity for a bit of positive spin and make Ariane out as a glorious martyr for a society she despised with every fibre of her being.
However, as for Elster, and for any hint of what she held with Ariane, and what Ariane held dear to herself?
It’ll all have to go. They’ll slather the paintings with acetone. They’ll burn the tarot. They’ll take a hammer to all the records, run magnets down the strips of cassettes and VCR tapes, dismantle the hard drives and crush them under hydraulic pressure. They will rip out each and every single journal entry from Day 1024 onwards, and take thick black bars to the pages that remain. Their joy, every day on the ship that was bearable and bright and full of the most intense adoration; it will all be excised out of history.
It’s simply not Party line, after all.
Elster will be lucky if the materials in her frame are re-processed to be integrated into another copy of her baseline self. They’ll probably just chuck her in an incinerator and wipe their hands clean. Better not risk other LSTRs falling prey to the same degradation.
She’s okay with that. So long as Ariane gets some rightful recognition, some distant honour, that all the agony and pain and long freezing sleeps and tears paid off, Elster’s happy to be forgotten. So long as at least one person acknowledges the sacrifice, the distance, and everything they accomplished despite being left to die, it’s all okay.
It is this that prompts Elster to thumb open the plexiglass covering on the emergency beacon and activates it. The internal lights go on emergency mode, and the screens of the cockpit black out as all non-vital systems are rerouted to broadcasting their multi-spectrum plea for help, for rescue.
That’s all she can do, now. Time to die.
Elster stumbles back to the crypopod. Cracks it open and lets cold ice coolant slake across her frame.
Woozy with grief, with sadness, with the beginnings of radiation sickness and induced hypothermia, Elster lets herself drift into what will be her final sleep.
This will not come to pass. In three days’ time, alien hands, three-fingered and clumsy in the lack of gravity, will lift the cryopod door open and steal her away in the night. Gentle voices will whisper as they induce a comatose sleep in her with the wisp-like gesture of yellow consoles on their arms, and they will zip her frame into a sterile yellow bodybag, carrying her out of the ship to spend time in the company of Admirals.
This is when she will start wishing that the radiation had killed her.
But for now, Elster -
-wakes up in a bathroom.
Elster blinks, slow surprise creeping up on her. How odd. This isn’t her tiny, cramped pod-unit. This certainly isn’t her bathroom. This is somewhere else. Perhaps some facility? What is she doing here?
She closes her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose, pushing tactile polymer into rubber cartilage mimicry. She had to do something. What was it?
Why can’t she remember-
Something long and lanky twitches behind her, reflected in the filthy mirror. She isn’t alone. A split-jawed skeleton with taut skin like bone dipped in yellow wax stands behind her, wrapped in linen and tattooed with red lines. It is a mummy of a creature; a ghost given form.
The ghost says: “Hello, Elster.”
The ghost says: “Ariane’s told me a lot about you. She likes you, you know? Really likes you. She’s got a lot of trust in you to do the right thing.”
The ghost says: “So do I. You won’t remember this, but we made a little agreement last cycle. Her and I stuck around afterwards to discuss the particulars of the contract. She’ll keep the Sovereign occupied. In turn, while they keep each other company, I’ll give you a crash course on my occupation, and all its hazards. Sound all ok?”
Elster whips around, her hackles raised. “What are you?” That thing in front of her isn’t gestalt or Replika or like anything else in the system. “Identify yourself-“
The ghost says: “I am your friend.” The smile it pulls looks like no expression a human could make.
The ghost says: “You made a promise to Ariane, which you have never fulfilled. This is because you are defined by self-loathing.”
The ghost says: “You made a promise to me. Unlike Ariane, I will not take a chance with you. I reap what I sow.”
The ghost says: “Open wide.”
The ghost’s mummified fingers twitch. Carve a gentle, lilting pattern, arms still bound in the cloth, and Elster-
-everything is gone and widening ah I worsen the death count is really quite something phenomenal eh I see it I see you flashing sparks I see the needle aimed at the sky the rain on the water world whose name is death the dead the mausoleum the ship oh I feel it burning my teeth are gone hold me I’m shaking I’m cold I’m falling in love with you I think and this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me hold my hand take it squeeze it squeeze my neck and break it broken thing I can’t let you through I flash the blade snicker snack carve the thing dead in the guts I serve the Nation above all except you who for whom I would make a pyre of it all look I learned the moves for you can you touch me just this one time please let me go please we can’t escape tunnel us a door I want out of this you were never really here I am you and you are I but I am sovereign of all i survey so bend your knee and open wide but I defy you I spit on your shell I hate it and there is something I have to do first and it involves destroying myself until the best part of me is ash and wind and above all of it the three spiralling colours of hate in indigo love in crimson and the third secret shade of spiralling royalty-
-what is the colour of royalty if not gold-
Elster remembers everything.
With the knowledge of ten thousand deaths brushing against her mind, Elster can’t help herself. She screams.
The ghost says: “Spirit’s sake. Show some backbone, girl.”
Something pops in the side of Elster’s head, and she collapses in a tangle of limbs.
She wakes up in a bathroom.
This time, the events of everything all slam into her. Taking prime position in her memory banks, the memory of Legion, the death at the Gate, and the creaking giant, the god-ship, who thinks deep thoughts and hates everything she stands for.
She has to stop it. Free her. Fulfil her promise.
The ghost is standing in the corner. It says: “You should talk with the Spectres. They know what they’re doing. To some degree. I used to command them, after all. Now I command you. Go and say hello.“
The first time she rounds the corner to intercept her would-be killers, the alien Spectres that chased her like hounds, they kill her. Hot metal sand ricochets through her body fast enough to puncture fist-sized exit holes in her frame.
The second time, they kill her.
Wouldn’t you guess what happens the third time. Or the fourth.
She wakes up in the bathroom.
Here’s a little sum; a mathematical complication to chew on. Something to really crunch between your teeth.
You take fifty-nine deaths by punctured vitals from livewire-hot mass-accelerated grains of metal shaved off a block of iron-carbon composite around which a rifle has been built to direct them downwind at supersonic velocities.
You take fourteen deaths by the moment of impact when a polymer foot-stub slips in slick fluid or a jump across a yawning gap-tooth divide is miscalculated and this mistake catches gravity’s eye who pushes you down into the rusted dust like an ant under the rubber sole of a child’s shoe.
You take thirty-three deaths by shock and fluid loss when limbs are ripped off in jagged chunks by something with sixty hands and far more teeth than is necessary after it comes barrelling down a steel corridor screaming with vitriol and hate and only one desire growing in its mind like a mould.
You take three deaths by auto-euthanasia.
You take fourty-five deaths by the glass-pane crack of consciousness caving inwards like the thin crust of boiled sugar over custard pudding when the curdled sun at the centre of this hell thinks on your behalf and in this particular metaphor, the mind of the sun is a teaspoon that descends on the crust and scoops out everything that makes you yourself.
To this, you add one more instance where the girl at the centre of this hell gets to sit with her and watch her die.
Here’s the question.
Is this all worth it?
She wakes up in the bathroom.
Watches those little firefly dots crawling across the mirror, across her reflection, where cornflower blue eyes with little cherry irises stare back and take in the mess of her.
Is this promise worth keeping?
She wakes up in the bathroom.
The ghost is back. White linen, spotless, perfect, a grave good untouched by grasping, bloody hands. The ghost says: “You’re really not doing a good job of this, are you?”
Elster replies with, “I’m sorry,” and she is. She truly is.
The ghost says: “Don’t be sorry. Be better.”
The ghost says: “Right now you should kill and keep killing until nothing remains. You should learn violence intimately so that it is closer even than Ariane to your heart. In this way you will reach perfection. In this way you will become a Spectre just as I am. In this way you will deliver us.”
The ghost says: “It breaks my heart to ask this. My friends, and the one I loved, will be killed until nothing remains. But he’ll be fine, in the end. He’ll be grateful when this curse is broken.”
The ghost says: “You will do this because Ariane wishes this.”
So Elster does this. She stalks them through vents and in the winding corridors of the superstructure. She sets traps. Deadwires. Leads them towards packs of beasts. Sniper duels with their leader across vacuum-gaps. She pulls apart their weapons, seeking understanding in these alien firearms that devastate her. She learns how to still herself so that she produces no heat, so that when the Spectres step over her hiding place she can spring up like an avatar of bloodshed, and kill until nothing remains.
There are hiccups in the plan. Little stumbling blocks she can’t help but trip over. Look how clumsy she is!
-Ariane’s the one to catch her this time as she stumbles and as the gestalt heaves her back to her feet she quips you know how to sweep a girl of her feet and instead of some smooth one-liner Ariane just giggles-
Clumsy like those moments when the faceless one twists her hand and she becomes trapped in her own body and is then brought before the final Admiral, the hideaway Rael, for vivisection. Or when she hacks into her BIOS and dials up all of her pain sensors to absolute maximum, and leaves her to writhe.
The power, the blue force, something she can only really describe as ‘magic’; that’s another real thorn to pull out. She has absolutely no clue what this scientific principle is, this secret these aliens figured out that the Nation never discovered, but it hurts.
You take a total of sixty-two deaths by this secret force as it shifts in you and redirects your localised gravity into a hundred cardinal directions, as you are lassoed by the garotte of gravity and yanked over cliff faces.
Nonetheless, there’s improvements. The last cycle – making it in total, what, two hundred cycles? – she managed to really get the jump on them. Plunged at free-fall dead-on with one of the big ones, and she was going so fast that her frame simply smashed right through the plates on his skull like a railgun, culling as many as she could before the four-eyed one emptied her mind like a mussel shell pulled from white wine broth and slurped clean.
-thank you for your service the old general parrots over a bowl of moules mariniere your time spent in Buyan and on the front is something all the Nation should strive for and isn’t that just a mealy mouth of total bullshit but she smiles and brings a spoon to her lips and wonders where in the hell they got the mussels from-
She wakes up in the bathroom. The ghost has returned.
The ghost says: “Good job, Elster, very well done! You’re taking a very sharp shape. Nice one.”
The ghost says: “I’m still seeing some performance issues, however. The tech. The bioresonance. You’re really struggling to mount those hurdles.”
The ghost says: “You need to become intimately familiar with our tech, our tools. They’re way above your baseline.”
The ghost says: “Start killing the geth. Kill it. Kill it until you can split-second hack and overload it when you so much as see it.”
The ghost says: “You will do this because Ariane wishes this.”
The ghost wiggles his hands in rote patterns, in prayer-twitches, bound as they are in white grave-linen. Elster blinks and the ghost was never there.
So Elster follows the ghost’s advice. Elster spends the next one seventy-two loops hunting Legion down.
You take thirty screaming deaths when Legion disconnects her body from her mind with a gesture and leaves her to be eaten alive by the crawling horrors running through the melted fleet.
You take fourty-two quiet deaths as she grows used to the grooves that shattered teeth drag across her bones.
Still worth keeping?
She wakes up in the bathroom.
She learns the omni-tool. The way of a tech. How to hack barriers and overload them, how to counter hack, how to send EMP scattershot ratcheting through Legion’s mainframe, killing the Geth programs one-by-one until nothing remains.
After fifty cycles in a row where Elster hacks Legion so quickly that the Geth has barely any time to chatter in curiosity before the Replika is in its councillor-mind, setting fire to the roots with gasoline and killing the platform in two-point-oh-four seconds, Elster judges this to be wonderful and promptly walks into a Spectre ambush.
She wakes up in the bathroom. The ghost is back.
The ghost says: “You figured out the omni-tool a lot quicker than I thought you would. You’re a quick learner. Haven’t seen anyone put an overload downwind as fast as you. Well done.”
The ghost says: “Now the bioresonant problem raises its head. Go and kill the prothean. Sneak up on him and snap his neck. His mind is bioresonant, though. Now there’s a problem to figure out how to solve. If you can sneak up on him, you can sneak up on just about anyone, I reckon.”
The first time she even nears the prothean, he’s in her head, and the four-eyed ancient laughs with genuine hilarity and mocking glee as he looks at her past, at how she used to dance, at the total delight of her in her co-pilot. “Funny little bird,” he clucks, shaking his head as he makes her disassemble herself alive, makes her open her emergency repair ports and pull out her organs to arrange in order of size.
She wakes up in the bathroom. She wakes up again, and again. Javik is nothing like a Kolibri. A Kolibri is a wolf, a pack hunter sniffing out secrets. Javik is a big cat; nimble and thoughtlessly cruel, he snatches Elster out the sky and plays with his food.
Javik the machine-eater. Javik whose vengeance burns the thrones of the gods. Javik the master of I-pull-you-apart-to-watch-you-bleed.
Forty cycles in, Javik catches on to the hunting lilt of her intention, and he turns the story on its head. She is at the Penrose's door when he springs out of the red sands like an antlion, his thoughts as loud as a siren, overwhelming her as the shortwave receiver built into her skull bursts into a burning song of I-have-you-now. Her fingers are digging into the airlock door when Javik's omni-blade severs her hands off. And it is here, atop home, that Elster comes to understand what suffering looks like. All the little nuances.
For instance, right now, she is learning about all the micro-expressions that Ariane makes when she is beaten like a lame dog. The little noise she makes when knuckles curve into her gut. The resigned, sullen expression of past normalities, of slipping into an old state of mind, as if soaking blows to the ribs like this is something she has grown used to over long Rotfront days.
Ariane will not die here. She is more dream than flesh. In this form, in this place, she is beyond death. Nothing Javik does will matter. But the way that she moves and talks and asks for him to stop, please, don’t hit me again-
It’s all very real.
“It’s me you want,” Elster whispers, her voice hoarse. “Leave her alone.”
“It’s you I’m dealing with,” Javik replies. He uncurls his fist. His knuckles are raw. “Consider this a lesson. Or maybe a warning. I haven’t decided yet.”
Elster would kill him. Javik knows this. It’s why the first thing he did was bend Elster’s limbs like coat hangers. Crack the joints and spool them out like gum. He made Ariane watch this.
Nazara watches too, the regal blue light of Sovereign shining down from above, the old beast immobile in the face of Ariane's strength, all of her attention rendering the Reaper still, all of it letting Javik do whatever he fancies.
A three-fingered hand backhands Ariane in the mouth, sending her sprawling over the shuttle's outer shield. “In the Empire, we used to sterilise machine-loving sexual deviants like you.” He kicks her in the ribs, flipping her over to face the sky. “I can still do that. Want to see?”
Ariane grits her teeth, her eyes bloodshot. "You're a selfish monster," she growls, a sudden flash of anger burning the resignation away. "I hope you know that," and at the final hiss of that sentence blood gutters out between her teeth. And just as suddenly, the anger fades away. "I hope you never suffer like this."
Javik smiles. "Tell that to the dead," and he twists his hand. The scream that comes out of Ariane’s mouth will echo in Elster’s head for the rest of her life.
Come and see.
You take one death by auto-euthanasia.
She wakes up in the bathroom.
You take one more death by auto-euthanasia.
She wakes up in the bathroom.
Nihlus says: “My apologies. I should have prepared you a little more.”
Elster doesn’t want to speak to the ghost ever again. The sudden curl of Ariane's spine, the rigidity of her clawing fingers, the way her voice rose as-
That sight will never leave her. She wants Ariane. Just to hold her. Just to know that all of that was temporary.
Nihlus says: “I mean, you listen to me, you stand a better shot of doing just that.”
“I am done listening to your advice,” Elster spits. “I’m never going to be clean. Ever.”
Nihlus says: “Of course you won’t. You’re a Spectre, now. Honorary, yes, but you have been chosen. Blood under your fingernails for the rest of your life. Or years of service, I guess, in your particular case. Either way, get used to it. Love it if you have to. Switch off, otherwise. But I am full of wisdom. So you must listen to me when I tell you; death should be your first love, now.”
The simplicity of that statement, the ease, as if she could abandon every part of herself that keeps her grounded, as if she could ditch the fine memories of what life had been before this. “I’m no killer. I’m an engineer. I repair ships. I don’t take lives. I’m not a soldier.”
And Nihlus does something she hasn’t seen before. He moves.
On stiff, ancient joints, the mummy’s head raises to face the ceiling, as mandibles throw wide to issue a croaking, hissing laugh; rainwater on an iron rooftop, the whizz of bullets past one’s face, echoing and so delighted and utterly, utterly cruel.
“You and I both know that’s not true at all. Is it, Lilith?”
She flinches. “Don’t call me that. I’m not her.”
“Oh, aren’t you? You’re not just some shell of a shell, some carbon-copy, a literal carbon-steel polymer Replika, of someone real? Not just playing pretend with your BIOS and command executables and firmware all whirring, convincing you that you’re capable of emotion? Little Miss Galatea over here, oh! She thinks she’s a real girl.” That hissing rainwater laugh echoes across the bathroom. “Not a single drop of oxidant coursing through your frame, no! It’s all flesh and blood! You said it, so it must be true!”
That’s it. The straining I-beam of self-control finally snaps. Elster snarls in wordless fury, and launches herself at Nihlus. Her fingers tear through the linen burial wrappings, close around the papery, bony neck of the ghost. She squeezes so hard that her palms meet, turning that throat to paste.
“Did I touch a nerve?” The head lolls in her grip. “Finally angry, are you?” The thing tries to smile again. “About time.”
“What the fuck,” Elster growls, “do you know about love? Have you ever held someone’s hand? Danced with them, comforted them, fucked them, eaten with them, slept alongside them?! Don’t tell me to abandon her. Don’t you dare tell me to abandon Ariane!”
When Elster blinks, Nihlus has wiggled out of her grip to stand in front of her, untouched and whole. The ghost’s expression softens into something similar to pity.
“I tell you this because I am full of experiences. I have loved. Same as you. I loved Garrus more than life itself. I would have killed for him. I did kill for him. I made him what he is. And then I died, because the call of death was too strong for me to ignore. And in that case, my death saved the galaxy. Like I say, you are a shadow, a ghost, a Spectre. It’s fine to love. But who can compare with death in its white mask, who is finer still?”
Her hands are shaking. That red anger still courses through her. “Can’t I just see her? Why can’t she come to me? What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing at all. But you know if Nazara gets loose, that is the end of everything. I’m sorry. You’ll have to go to her, and then Sovereign kills you again.” A shrug under the fabric. “It is what it is.”
Fuck that. Fuck that nonchalance, that bending out of the neck, the here-is-my-throat gesture of it. Give her something concrete, something real.
Nihlus says: “You want it? Fight for it. Take up thy sword, o conqueror mine, and kill.”
“Stop. Just stop it! Enough with the killing. Enough!” Elster screams out. She lashes out, and this time the force of her anger bends the metal basin of the sink unit. The mirror spiderwebs. Water gushes out the shattered taps. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She buries her face in her hands. She wishes she could cry. “I don’t know how to get past that thing. He tortured her. Every time I fight him, he hurts her. He knows.”
Nihlus says: “You know that version of her isn’t real, right? You’re all wrapped up in shadows, having a fit over a false girl.” He huffs with amusement. “Like shadows on a cave, dancing away. The pair of you. All of you."
“You didn’t see her beg, then,” Elster spits out, too exhausted to feel anger at his obvious taunting. “I’ve done as you asked. I’ve killed. I can kill everyone in this place. Everyone except him...”
Nihlus is quiet. “Maybe we need a change to the study plan. Something has occurred to me. Something I am surprised I have forgotten about.”
“What?”
“Let’s get back on to the topic of Lilith.” The ghost smiles.
Elster hasn’t experienced anything from her side of things for a long, long time. Still, on those brief occasions where she stops, where she rests for one bit in this killing plan that has taken nearly 400 cycles to complete, her mind can’t help but turn that way. Think about a past that never was.
And it’s not like she hasn’t wondered, after all, how much of her is her, and how much is the other. Nihlus really did touch a nerve.
“You and her have far more in common than you think,” Nihlus nods, winking again as if he’s letting her in on some silly little secret that she already knows. “You should pay her a visit.”
“How? She’s only a memory. She’s out of reach. Gone. ”
“Ah, but don’t you know? That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die. And the sleeper lies eternal.” Nihlus is really grinning, now. “I can help you wake her up for a time. You and her can get to know each other more. She’ll have something, I guarantee it.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know many things.” The mummy never stops smiling. “I am a sum from whom wisdom calculates like water. A great fount. I’ve been around the block, so to speak. Walked my beat long enough to know that you stick to time as a train, a rail that only goes forwards. But there’s far more to time than that. As you well know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your memories of her. They’re not memories. They seem real because they are real. Now is the time to make more. Come and see.”
What has she really got to lose, this time round? Better whatever madness this revenant suggests than another dozen cycles of death and killing. She really is exhausted.
-you look so cute when you’re asleep Ariane says over a mouthful of protein bar and Elster blinks you watch me when I sleep and Ariane says of course I do you’re so adorable when you’re passed out and she reaches over and squishes her cheeks between the pinch of her fingers you look beautiful doing anything and everything-
“Do what you need to.”
“Of course. Do not be afraid.”
The fingers twitch, and reality pulls. The new sensation of pins and needles crawl all over her. Her vision blurs into twining static; cold registers on her skin.
Skin?
The nails, the flesh, the little hairs on edge. The little sodium light at the top of the tiny toilet, flickering occasionally.
Oh.
“Behave yourself, and I’ll come pick you up in a bit, okay,” the ghost whispers, vanishing from sight. “Do tell me how it goes.”
Elster feels something very strange rising up the inside of her-
With a shocked gasp, as if yanked from ice water, Lilith inhales deeply, before bending over the toilet to empty her system.
It’s getting worse. Oh, burning empress and holy divine revolution.
What the hell is happening to her?
Chapter 12: geschwister
Notes:
Apologies for the delay! Life got in the way a bit, as life tends to do; writer's block also struck me rather hard for this chapter, hence why it's a big one. The next chapter will come sooner, and should also be smaller.
Once again, a warm thank you to Ostheim89 of the venerable series A Victim of Stars for his work in beta'ing and helping me surpass the more pertinent areas of the writer's block I was having!
I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Do let me know what you think of it!
Chapter Text
Lilith twists the tap all the way to its coldest setting. She cups the frigid water in her hands, splashing it on her face to shock her system, to trigger the nerves nestled under flesh and blood, to sense if there’s something pliable about her. The sting lands; the water is ice-cold, bitingly so. She inhales, touches her cheek; fingers probe and dig for the tell-tale manufacturing groove that defines a Replika’s synthetic face, the two plates, the upper and lower sections of soft, rubbery, unfeeling synthetic something split by that great divider, the nasal trench-
It’s all still there. Skin and bone and nothing worse.
Exhale.
She spits the last dregs of bile into the sink, watching it spiral down the drain. Runs a palm down her face, wiping the water off her dripping chin.
This psychosis, this fever dream that seizes and shakes her; it climbs up from her subconscious in rapid fits, insect-quick and darting out from whatever swill is lurking underneath her waking thoughts.
She should be surprised. But this nightmare is nothing new; it’s been chasing her for some time out there on Vineta.
The front is changing. It’s curdling. It can’t be disguised as a war of honour and courage these days. The Imperials are switching tactics.
-it’s so quiet these days Alina murmurs binocs up tight on her eyes from their vantage point in the ruined District Six office complex they can see for miles just flats of mud and still water Lilith adjusts the sight on her long rifle I don’t like it at all makes me nervous or maybe they just ran like dogs into the dark-
-the Kranich waves a fist the Imperials have fled they are nothing but ghosts now the imposing giant of a Replika exhorts with a commanding voice hand-built to give speeches like this they are shadows incorporeal and like all the stories they will come out when you least expect it and that is when you must guard yourself-
And, as her brigade advanced through what was left of District Six, their Kranich was proven right. The Imperials may have given up physical deployments, but they were far from out of the fight.
-Elise Ng leans in to whisper they say one of the EULRs intercepted a new kind of Imperial transmission and she went into the medical tent and tried to eat the injured alive-
-they say three ARAR’s read something scrawled up at the top of the old steelworks and they came back down and got caught with explosives in the depot that they’d made from their own bodies how did they know how to make those-
-they say that you should stay away from the Replikas the Imperials have poisoned them all with some sort of virus they’re going mad out there-
Did the Imperials really, finally, run out of Gestalt troops and are now resorting to terror weapons and ambush drones…or were they withdrawn?
Was she exposed to a bioresonant weapon, out in the mud and ruined tower blocks? Did the Imperials slide something jagged into the blind spot grooves of her subconsciousness, to spring out at the worst moment?
Alina, Anna, the rest… Are they all going to end up like her?
Like Elise?
-I saw something out there on the mud flats a great star burning into the salt and no one else saw it I’m not going mad am I Lilith tell me you saw it too-
-they say Wormwood come down Wormwood is falling I am the bile the sticky waters I am the thirty-three percent genocide and I will live forever just like her-
-Elise is caught by the new Kolibri cutting a new scar across Amelie’s throat but she didn’t slice deep enough and after Amelie is done with her Elise will never say anything again-
She jumps as knuckles rap on the metal door, ringing out in the cold bathroom. “Tante Lilith,” a young voice calls out. “Are you okay, tante?”
“I’m fine, Erika, I’m feeling a lot better now,” she lies. “Go back to your mama.”
“You don’t sound okay, tante.”
Lilith swallows back down some bile. “I’m fine. Just something I ate last night.”
“Are you sure? We all ate the same thing, is something-”
Erika doesn’t get to finish. Lilith takes decisive action; she unlocks the door and sweeps her niece up into a tight hug, picking her up and spinning her around. Erika shrieks in delight.
“You ask too many questions,” Lilith says as she kisses the top of Erika’s head, putting her down when she starts squirming in her grip. “You don’t be so nosy next time you hear something like that, ok?”
“But tante, I want to know if you’re ok! I want to hear more of the story.”
“Let me sit back down with your mama first, ok? I’ll tell you all about it with your sister.”
Erika nods furiously, and grabs Lilith’s outstretched palm with tight intensity. Lilith lets herself be led by the hand as Erika runs back into the cramped living room of the Itou family’s bookstore, where Anja, dear Anja, her own twin sister, perches on the small pleather-bound sofa like a wiry, wispy sort of crow; all black hair ruffled on edge greying at the seams and a wide pair of sunken eyes tight with exhaustion around the edges; an ageing that she has made as graceful as it can be, given all the circumstances that she faces in Rotfront, day in, day out.
“On bad days the air tastes like metal, now,” Anja had confessed when Lilith had confronted her on the source of a deep, hacking cough she hides from her girls. “AEON’s opened a smelter upwind. Don’t worry about me. Least you’ve got clean air, Lili,” and she smiled at that, never mind that thin faint pink film staining her bottom row, dappled onto her lips. “All that Vinetan air does you some good!”
-gas gas quick girls-
Anja’s fingers run through the hair of her other daughter, shy little Isa, sitting on the sofa pressed against her mother and looking very firmly towards the floor. In the other hand rests a glass of good local vodka, strong, fresh from the Surovkin Distillery at the other end of the residential complex that the Itous have managed to struggle and carve a niche into. Anja takes a sip of the stuff; potent as petrol. Clean. She bears her teeth at the smarting sting of it.
Anja heard Lilith. They all did, if Erika went running along to check in on her. Anja’s look is one of great concern, but Lilith shakes her head before Anja can voice that worry. Best not scare the girls. Erika jumps up next to Anja, settling in on her other, free side.
“Isa,” Anja calls out to her child, soothing and careful, hair still running through her fingers. “You want to say hi to Tante Lilith?”
Isa takes one look at Lilith and visibly wilts. She’s a shy little thing; reminds Lilith of her younger self before she finally grew a spine. It’s ok. Isa’s got a while to go, yet, and Lilith dearly hopes that she never goes through what Lilith has.
Nonetheless, at the sight of her scary soldier tante, Isa leans into her mother, her face peeks out from behind the strands of her hair, fingers clasped onto Anja’s arm. A single eye shines through.
“Hi Isa,” Lilith tries, cautious and quiet. “Did you have a good day at school?”
Isa’s eye squeezes shut as she shakes her head.
“Isa doesn’t want to say hi to you because she’s a big coward,” Erika declares with great and childish pride.
“Erika!” Anja snaps. “Don’t call your sister that.”
“It’s true! Our Eule said at declaration that being a coward is bad.” Erika’s skinny, tiny finger comes pointing towards her twin. “Isa’s being bad!”
“Erika!”
Isa has pressed her face into Anja’s side. She starts to cry; quietly, though. “Erika, that’s cruel,” Lilith scolds. “Apologise.”
Erika huffs, stamps her feet, rolls her eyes. “Don’t want to. I don’t have to. Eule said that cowards should be punished.”
Anja never yells at her children. She’s better than their mother in this regard, who was a fiendish tyrant; a terror of the household with her gnarled hands carrying the leather belt studded with silver buckles, and then in her old age a crooked witch who still bent the knee whenever the gold-and-black Imperial HELOs came soaring over the Lukomorya skyline, before it was renamed to Heimat.
Anja never yells, but when the girls upset her, or each other, it is like a curtain descends over her sister. A quiet hush falls over the household, as Anja’s exacting, measured silence infects her children, and the touch of it is cold enough that even Lilith feels her heartbeat quicken.
“Erika. Do you want me to punish you the next time you’re scared? If you think cowards are bad, then the next time you come into my bed because you had a nightmare, I’ll make you sit in the dark for 20 minutes. Alone. Do you still think that cowards should be punished?”
Erika’s eyes are very, very wide. “No. I don’t want that.”
“Then say sorry to your sister.”
Erika clambers onto the sofa to give her twin a big, childish hug; swamping her in her tiny arms. “M’sorry, Isa, I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to make Tante laugh.”
“It’s not very funny, Erika,” Lilith scolds, to Anja’s nodding approval. “You should take care of your sister.”
-for the crime of cowardice and dereliction of duty is so strong your punishment must fit the crime and Lyra has Amelie release the young gestalt run little girl the Storch says as they look over the minefield run and run as fast as you can-
“You need to look out for each other. It’s what good sisters do,” Anja continues, a hand fiddling with the glass of vodka she’s poured out for herself. “Be good for me, ok, Erika?”
“Ok mama. I’ll look after Isa.”
“And Isa, you’ll do the same for your sister if she needs it, alright?”
Isa has emerged from her shell, slightly. Her face isn’t smudged into Anja any more; and it is a wonder how she looks exactly like her bolder, more daring sister. She nods.
“Good. That’s all good then.”
Lilith decides to take a little initiative, standing up from her seat and moves to sit on her sofa. Erika immediately wriggles onto her lap.
“Tante Lily,” Erika says, adjusting her position in Lilith’s lap, “what’s it like on the front? Our Eule says that you’re going to win any day now.”
“I’ll tell you about it in a bit. I want to hear more about you!” She tries to inject some levity into her voice. “So you have a EULR teaching you now?”
“Uh-huh.” Erika nods like a bird pecking at seed; all enthusiastic energy.
Lilith tries to smile. “What’s it like?”
“She’s a bit scary, but she looks cool. She’s made of metal, but she has a nice face.”
“Wow, that’s cool,” Lilith says, and the very worried stare she shares with Anja is very much on the same wavelength. “When did you get a EULR in the classroom? Why’s it so scary?”
“At the start of the term. Eule came in and said our teachers were taking a holiday. A long one. So now we have Eules. They’re weird. They’re really strict.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Milo was getting his times table wrong, and she hit him on the knuckles with a cane.” Erika’s hand squeezes Lilith’s. “He stopped getting it wrong after that.”
“Oh.” Lilith adjusts Erika’s hold on her. Takes time to look at her fingers, check them over.
Anja is aghast. “Erika, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She shrugs. “Eule said it was because he was diversant. What does that word mean?”
“Nothing you need to worry about! Erika, if they hit you, you need to tell me immediately, ok?”
“I’m not getting hit, mama-”
“But when you do, tell me.”
She nods.
“Ok, good, ok.” Anja looks up at Lilith, shocked. Lilith recognises that stare; the need for space.
“Girls, could you go play in your room for a little bit? Your mama and I need to catch up on something.”
“But I want to talk to you, Tante!”
“I know, but we’re just gonna talk about something, ok?”
“Like what?”
“Whether I should get you chocoration or-”
The twins instantly perk up; even Isa seems excited by the prospect of a little sweet snack. “Chocoration! Please, mama, can we have some,” Erika stutters out, and gently grabs Isa’s hand, who squeezes back in reply, her own head nodding at the prospect of that ersatz, waxy chocolate-flavoured bar of something or other.
“Let your mama and I talk first, and I’ll go grab some for you later, ok?”
“Ok! See you later, Tante.” They stumble out of the living room, leaving the older twins alone.
Silence doesn’t descend, as it sometimes does on the Front. Just that gentle clock-tick ambience; the throbbing bass hum of distant klimaforming machinery and power generators, that small and slight rumble of passing trains. All blending in together to a gentle humming, reverberating in the back of her head.
Anja is quiet, quiet as vodka slips through her lips. Lilith fumbles for her cigarettes, but a sharp, wordless glare from her sister stops her wandering hands before they go for the lighter.
“Come on, Lil. Not in my house.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she placates. “Force of habit.”
“I don’t mind you doing that, just not in my house, ok? Don’t want the girls breathing in that stuff. Or asking you what it is.”
“Sure, sure. They’re good kids, Anja. Erika and Isa grew quickly, didn’t they?”
Her sister chuckles. “Tell me about it. Feels like yesterday I was in the hospital with them both in my arms. I just hope I’m doing right by them, is all. I know this isn’t as nice as ours was when we were kids-”
“Hey.” Lilith raises a palm. “You don’t need to go down that route. Our place was bigger, sure. But you’re nothing like our own mother. And that’s the best gift you can give your girls.”
Anja sips her vodka. “That’s always a worry. Every time the girls do something that irritates me I’m always so scared I’ll do something like she used to do.”
“You don’t need to worry, you won’t, I know you, Anja,” Lilith extols. “The fact that you’re worried about it is a sign enough, surely? You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all they ask for.”
“Thanks, Lil.” Anja’s smile is faint, hidden behind the shimmer of vodka in her glass that she raises to her lips for another teeth-gritting slug.
“Are you doing alright now that their dad’s…well. Anja, if you need anything-”
“I’m fine. It’s a bit much to be taking on, but I’m doing well so far. State’s been surprisingly supportive. They have benefits in place for single mothers. Anyway, I’m ok?” Anja laughs in slight incredulity, with a tinge of hysteria to it. “Are you ok? What the hell is going on out there?”
“We’re fine, Anja,” Lilith lies. “Don’t worry about us. We’re doing a good job.”
“I don’t doubt you’re doing a good job out there, Lily,” Anja smiles. Nodding like she’s talking about something genuinely serious. “Doing the Nation’s work. I keep you and all your comrades in my thoughts, always. But Lil...I’m scared for you. I always see the black tulips flying back, and every single time I get so scared that you’re on one of them. The woman who runs the photo development shop-”
“What, Kamilla? That harpy? What about her?”
“Don’t mock. Her husband died out on Kitezh a couple days ago. The noise she made…well,” and Anja takes another gulp of neat vodka. “Not something I’m likely to forget. I don’t want to be another mourner veiled in white, Lilith. You and the girls; you’re everything that’s left.”
“I’m not going anywhere-”
“You don’t know that.” Vodka sloshes around the cup; it almost spills over. “You don’t. Kamilla said that her husband…he wrote to her before he died. Said he’d been hearing voices. Seeing things.”
-tell me you see the star Lilith tell me you see it-
“Yeah.” Lilith grimaces, scratches the back of her neck. “Who knows what that's about?” The lie comes easily enough off her tongue. “Sounds like he had a breakdown. Common enough.”
-this is not my body this is not my body-
“I’m sorry to hear that, though. Hope Kamilla’s doing alright.”
Anja reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Kamilla asked me to ask you about it. She wondered if you knew of any other cases like it. Here,” and lo and behold, Anja slides over a photo of one of the letters.
She picks it up. Lines stick out to her. Ghosts haunting the front a star coming from nowhere and the Replikas are losing their minds-
It sounds all so familiar.
“You haven’t seen anything like this, have you? The broadcasts are saying that the Imperials are running. Are they?”
Anja had ever been the cynic of the pair of them. Lilith had participated in the Buyan Discrepancy, had helped organise the Glorious March to Heimat when the nascent Nation had failed miserably in its attempt to seize the White Palace, and Anja-
Anja had stayed home to care for a mother that was too narcissistic to ever thank her, staying firmly far out the conflict, thank you very much, I don’t want any trouble, please. You do you, Lilith.
In the end, Imperial RightThought had come for the both of them. Look at them now; Lilith hiding the truth, the awful, awful truth, and Anja the believer, the terrified, nosy
Lilith smiles. “Yeah.” Another swallow. “Yeah, they’re gone. We’re winning, I guess.”
-the ARAR over there looked at me said it was starving surely that fucking doll is having a laugh right-
-orderly withdrawal 1st to 3rd you have been selected to act as rearguard glory to the nation-
-in comes the monowire again and this time half a platoon’s worth of soldiers turn to mush-
-regrettably your unit has not attained a high enough casualty ratio to justify replenishment and rotation-
-the ARAR is drinking the remains like stew Lilith doesn't say a word just aims the rifle and pulls until there is only clicking-
- what the fuck did you do that for you psycho gestalt bitch and then Amelie comes in for another go and this time there’s no hiding what she does to her-
-combat injuries she stutters FPV concussion drone and Amelie nods behind her saw it go down lucky you’re alive isn’t that right Lilith and the touch of that lifeless hand crawling onto her shoulder squeezing is repulsive hideous and Lilith swallows her bile you said it-
-from low orbit vineta is a bruise of a world an indigo wound in the firmanent her life is there speeding into the distance as she returns to the false self half a system away-
“Lily?” Anja looks worried. “Hey, you still with us?”
Lilith shakes her head. “I. I’m…yeah, still here,” she pretends to chuckle. “Hey, I might go out for some fresh air. Do you want me to pick up anything from the shops?”
“Oh.” Anja straightens up. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Her smile doesn’t reach the corner of her eyes. They don’t even wrinkle at the corners; just stare dead ahead at her sister, at a point just below her own gaze. “Just want to stretch my legs a bit. Good to make sure everything’s healing well.”
“Yeah. We need some more cooking lard, but if they don’t have any then oil will do. Think we could do with some extra calcium tablets as well. Maybe some chocoration for the girls? It’d be good for you to give them something nice. Take some rationmarks." She fishes in her pocket, producing the hexagonal little tin stamps of money that she places in Lilith’s palm. “See you soon.”
Lilith closes the door behind her. She fishes out a Kreuz cigarette, with the distinctive card club marking on the filter, and lights it with the nickel-plated clip lighter she got as a gift from Alina.
She misses her. Spirit of the martyrs, Lilith misses Alina like water. Like food. Like a limb. Without Alina by her side, the world is grey, snowed out. The anxiety of loneliness honed by combat is like a knife scraping down her spine; she’s safe - ish - but it still feels like at any moment some combat drone will howl down from the sky or a conscript will barrel through a door. When she rotates back to the front Liilth’ll embrace her so thoroughly that all the air will be squeezed out of her.
Inhale. Let that smoke pull into the tip of her lungs. Fill every last bit of her like incense, nicotine and tar and all that good stuff all blossoming inside her.
Anxiety drains out of her, lanced like an abscess by hot smog. Exhale. Does she need that. Fuck. Inhale again, turning the cherry red embers into hot marmalade orange. Pool. Exhale.
She hopes the war will end before Isa and Erika are old enough for it.
It won’t, though. Forever war.
Buyan will burn.
She loves her sister. But Anja is sheltered. She doesn’t really have any idea. None. Too much drip-feeding from declaration updates and the occasional bout of wonk coming from whatever talking heads are on the radio to put spin on the reality of the situation.
Vineta is an abattoir.
Cigarette in between her lips, she strolls off to the distant tram stop.
The carriage is empty. This time at night, curfew is in effect for most citizens, and the only people meandering about are Protektor Replika patrols and, well, odd souls like her. The Nation’s cigarette butts; all swept up into the societal gutter, inbetweeners.
She won’t get bothered, though. Her military duds attest to that. Halfway through her journey, a two-Replika patrol of STAR Protektors comes bounding through.
“Curfew’s in effect, citizen,” one of them barks at her, “Identification, now!”
Lilith flashes the veteran’s stamp, rolls up the sleeve of her military shirt to show the revolutionary tattoos stamped across her flesh like barcodes. “Good enough?”
The STAR tsks. “Fine, I suppose. Waste of my time.”
Lilith waves languidly as they stroll down the carriage. Fucking dolls.
She pinches another cigarette, frowning as she glances at the mostly-empty pack. Damn. She’ll have to fish out some more at some point.
She looks at her rationmarks. Adds up what Anja gave her.
It would be enough for a full pack. Just about. Tobacco was rarer out here, in the industrial, icy shithole of the Nation, the frozen over runoff that defined this entire moon and crippled everyone who lived on it. Tobacco was really a Vinetan thing; Kitezh had some ability to grow, but it never smoked as smooth as the crops on the cradleworld.
The doors of the tram judder open, a soft, pre-recorded voice gently announcing her arrival at the right district, the one with the shop that stocked the chocoration. Lilith pulls herself out the tram’s chair cushioned with felt covers, walking out into the cold, enclosed environment of District Four.
She frowns. A frisson of guilt and not an insignificant amount of shame wiggles through her. Here she is, with her sister’s money, and rather than buying cooking oil and food for the kids, all she wants is a hit, not even a good one or a powerful one, just some fucking nicotine. How pathetic! Not even-
Her thoughts come to a halt as she nears the shop. It’s open, as it should be; open for receiving deliveries and the occasional purchase from the remaining few Gestalt members of the Protektor Corps. A woman, standing limply, loosely, facing the doorway, her limbs gently hanging, her head ever so slightly lolled to the side.
She looks like she’s just escaped the hospital. White gown; the flesh underneath so thin that Lilith can see her ribs sticking out of her skin under the gauze-like cloth. She is one giant bruise. Black stains up her limbs. Her hair is white as snow, and her eyes like little pools of blood; murky, dull, nearly lifeless.
“Miss?” Lilith’s concern breaks out in her voice before she can steel herself. “Miss, are you alright? Do you want me to call a Protektor?”
The woman tilts her head, less out of what Lilith has said and more out of the fact that she can see Lilith. It’s like watching recognition spark in an old friend; Lilith has never met this woman once before.
“Oh,” the girl breathes, and smiles, gap-toothed and bloody. She’s missing so many teeth. “Hello,” she croons out like Lilith is an old friend, a lover, a confidant, all teasing and surprised and delighted and there is serious agony underpinning that breathy little greeting like a butterfly rammed into a picture frame through the abdomen; like some great spear of pain piercing through the side.
“Oh,” Lilith utters in shock. “Listen, hey, listen, let me help-”
The woman’s grin is like marble; cold and motionless. With ease, bobbing and gentle like a dancer, like the proteges of the great ballet schools of Heimat, the ghost backs into the shadow of the grocers, smiling, vanishing from sight behind the automated shutters.
“Scheisse,” Lilith curses, and moves to hurry after her. If the clerk behind the counter sees that girl in that state, who knows what’ll happen. Who’ll be called out. Nothing good. No good judges of character in Rotfront. Just the Protektors. Oh mighty hands of the Nation. All scattered teeth and get-down-on-the-grounds, final-warnings-
-Lilith watches a Protektor ram a stun prod straight into the mouth of the old drunk veteran who had been roaming around the district drunk and stumbling singing an old Buyanese folk tune under his breath and the thing that really sticks out to her isn’t the blood the enamel that catches in the grating and disappears but it is the sound of it all-
-who knew a man that big could sound so small huh-
The market doors hiss open as she stumbles into the ration shop. Immediately, the hackles rise on her shoulders; her hair stands on end. There’s a little trail of red drops rounding the aisle full of tinned goods and disappearing between the rows of shelves.
The atmosphere of the shop is oppressive. The lights are off; not even the warm glow of emergency lighting is present. Lilith can’t hear anyone else. No clerk, no customers, no Protektor garrison to prevent illegal acquisition of rations. The stench of rust and old iron, old red flakes on the dirty, dusty ground; it is so thick that it is almost physical in its presence, and it crawls up her nostrils to settle like a carrion bird.
It is in times like these, as old instincts kick in, as training learned and etched into her cortex so deeply that it wore a permanent little groove down her brain, a reminder that haunts and dogs her and forever alters her behaviour to know when to be quiet and when to be still, that she misses the weight of her service firearm dearly.
Lilith crouches down, slowly, her descent totally measured as she controls her breathing, thinks hard enough to manually still her oxygen intake through her nose to prevent hyperventilation and panic. She moves as a spider does; on all limbs. Slow, measured, deliberate. Stop and start. She is a predator.
At molasses pace, Lilith crawls between the shelves stacked with the Nation’s sustenance; pea protein and dehydrated bran flakes jockeying for position alongside pucks of dried algae, mealworm jellies, smoked links of ‘sausages’ more rusk dyed pink than any sort of flesh. The droplet-trail dotted like sour breadcrumbs lists into the darkness; a thin red thread in the labyrinth of discount, expiring, price-locked goods.
When Lilith arrives at the first tumour, the beating throb of sticky teratomatous flesh, veins like tendrils leading off into the distant and humid night lurking in between the dry goods, the stench is like a wall that she must batter her way through. It lingers like a sticky touch on her mind. The trail goes cold after that; the pitter-patter raindrop red going into the nightmare mess.
Lilith strains her ears to hear for any sign of her quarry, the girl stuck in the hell alongside her. From behind the shelves, she can hear something stomping around, horrible and choking, steps heavy with a weight impossible to hear in a Gestalt’s footsteps.
Lilith freezes, and she cannot help the little gasp of shock that escapes from her lips, and as the thumping thing behind the empty racks of calcium tablets careens round the corner, the sight of it sends her blood freezing through her. It’s as a Replika, if flesh came creeping over like a warm blanket, a thick hug of burgundy and rotten meat draped like a veil over the polymer frame. A skinless face, all the whirring machinery exposed underneath; gnashing teeth, lidless eyes, all slathered in oxidant, and like a boundless little dog it comes strolling up to Lilith.
“Can I help you, miss?” The thing of meat and polymer false teeth breathes with a stench like rot, like disinfectant brushed over black mould. “If it’s calcium you want, love, we’re all out. Ration hauler’s late.” It shrugs. Oxidant drips all over the cream tiling. "Can't be helped, these days."
“Okay,” Lilith stammers out, every fucking inch of her on fire and telling her to get her knife and ram it in the thing in front of her before it does the same to her. Where’s her blade. A soldier never leaves the trench without a weapon. Diversant little idiot.
-down and give me twenty and take this for a licking too fuckwit and Amelie raises her leg back-
Her ribs twinge. The ghost of a polymer hoof, and the crushing impact, and all that memory of pain and hate.
Just a memory. Not real. Just like the thing in front of her.
Inhale. White room. Exhale. It’s all in your head. Crazy old woman. It’s fine. Inhale. Black cloth. Exhale.
Everything is fine.
“Do you have-” she swallows. “Do you have anything else like it?”
It grins. Of course it does; it doesn’t have any fucking lips. “We might have a box or two of powdered milk in the back; should do the trick for the time being. I’ll go have a look, love. You stay here, alright?”
It lurches away, staggering down the gullet of this place, vanishing into the darkness.
She’s going to be sick. This is horrible. Coming here was a mistake, she’s compromised, the Imperials have done it-
There’s a flash of a face a smiling one crooked grin in the mudflats and Lilith chokes back on a sob no Alina I’m so so sorry-
A gentle hand on her shoulder causes Lilith to whip round, barking out in shock. The white-haired woman is back. She’s standing at attention, in a pilot’s uniform now, and every inch of her is a bruise, black and spider-veined with irradiated rot. Those deep eyes like rubies, like faceted pools of blood trace the shape of her face, glancing down to her lips; sorrow all twisted up in this ghost like straws wound together, curling inwards like the necks of mated swans.
“Who are you,” she stammers out. “Get out of my head. I’m not going to do what you want me to, I won’t, get out!”
The girl looks despondent with grief. Her lip is trembling. “You don’t know me at all, do you? I wouldn’t ask anything of you that you wouldn’t want you to do, right,” and the final word that falls out of her lips is a name that is no name.
The name that is no name; it is like a command, like the snap and spit of a taser running down her veins. Lilith looks at her body, at the steel and polymer twist of it, and as command lines flicker into her sight, she panics.
Lilith stumbles to her feet - to the toeless stubs, the fake hoof substitutes - and goes running into another twirling corridor of gristle and meat, clattering and stomping all the while.
She has to-
Black room, white cloth. Black cloth, white room. Inhale.
Lilith’s head is empty of all thought, stumbling as she looks for anything to use. Cloth, room. Tumble dryer thought. Repeating over and over, the piece of fabric and the empty chamber threaded through and spun until they are one and the same, two sides of the same rationmark.
In the section reserved explicitly for construction workers - mostly for ARAR type units - Lilith grabs a boxcutter, and extends it as far as it will be usable.
Exhale.
“But then again, I don’t really know you at all, do I?”
Lilith spins round, catching the white-haired girl by her neck and pressing the blade into the side of the ghost’s neck. Boxes of powdered milk tumble out of her polymer arms.
“Wait, wait, don’t,” the girl with a line cut across her face with machine-like precision stammers. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“You don’t hurt. You’re not like me, you’re not flesh and blood, I’m fucking real,” Lilith tries to say, but what comes out is, “oh.”
The girl continues to plead. “If it’s rationmarks you want, go to the till. Take it all, take everything, but please just don’t hurt me.”
The girl-
She has her face. Carved a deep line straight through her nose, horizontally, and it’s metal and red plastic, all the way down. Smooth and unforgiving. “I’m just like you,” Lilith the Replika stutters out. “I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not me. You’re nothing like me,” Lilith spits, and watches the little metal joints that were once her knuckles tighten in the collar of the copy’s fake exoskeleton. That knife presses further in, and the clone whimpers. “I’m not a Replika. I’m not! I’ll never fucking be one!”
-the memory of a ship spinning in the stars the white-haired girl lying next to her under the covers bare flesh on frigid metal I wish you could feel what I feel the girl sighs they have taken so much from you-
- oh my sweet-
-are you enjoying the show so far my dear-
-it gets wilder-
Lilith blinks-
-and all that meat and stink goes. Everything snaps into reality hard enough that a pressure that she hadn’t noticed behind her eyes just dissipates into nothingness. She’s in a simple grocer’s now. And the creature, the Replika-thing that had staggered about all a-bloody and limping; it was only a EULR, all doe-eyed and trembling with fear.
“Oh.”
“Don’t stab me.” The EULR is shaking. “I haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t-” it swallows spit. It mimics the swallow of nervousness; how did it pick up that trait? “I don’t want to be decommissioned.”
“You think I’m going to kill you?” Lilith laughs, shakily. “Do I sound like a killer to you?”
Never mind the truth. The EULR stays quiet. “You don’t know me, puppe, ” Lilith asserts. “What do I fucking sound like to you?”
“You’re not, ok, ok, just, can we just please put the knife down - ”
“The girl,” Lilith insists. “The white-haired girl. Where’d she go?”
The EULR stills. “It’s just you in here.” Caution is laced through her words. “I haven’t seen anyone else.”
“Impossible. She was right fucking here, she-” Lilith gestures with the knife, and the shopkeep flinches. “No, hang on, I’m sorry, I’m not-”
The EULR grabs her hand with both arms, and Lilith doesn’t even have time to blink as the Replika pushes down hard on the back of her hand. The blade clatters onto the cream tiles, spinning off under a shelving unit. The Replika slams both hands into her chest; the impact of Lilith’s back into the shelves sends tins of soup all over the floor, rolling, rolling.
“Don’t move,” the EULR warns, the steel blade of its forearm digging into her throat. All that anxious energy is gone, drained out and replaced with some training that Lilith is very much aware EULR’s aren’t supposed to have. Where did it learn how to do that?
The EULR tilts its head. “Alert,” it states, as that internal radio the newer-gen Replikas all have buried deep inside their skulls flickers to life, as it reaches out to comms another one of its plastic friends, “all available Protektor teams in the area, I’ve restrained a destabilising Gestalt here, illegal possession of an improvised weapon, I need help-”
Lilith baulks. Help. She knows what the Nation’s idea of help is for the ‘destabilised’. Fuck that.
“Let me go,” she snaps at the machine, squirms under that iron weight on her windpipe. “If they take me-”
“You need some help,” the Replika admonishes, face twisted with genuine concern. “Please, just calm down. I’m only calling the Protektors.”
-diversant bitch and once again here comes that inevitable iron blow like a bell toll like a clock tick like that slow old hug of time with molasses weight and this time something snaps without a shadow of a doubt-
-you’re a slow fucking learner aren’t you lucky that i’m so fucking patient eh and the STCR throws its head back and laughs-
Lilith’s hand closes around a tin of ersatz tomato-flavoured soup substitute and absolutely rockets it into the side of the EULR’s face. The Replika drops like a stone.
She leans over and drives the tinned soup into the EULR’s jaw again - once, twice - then fucking storms out of the shop, little robot girl calling out after her in confusion, pain, hurt, empty-handed, running like her life depends on it, and it does. It really does.
The cameras actively trail her as she walks for her fucking life right back to the tram devoid of Protektor patrols, little black unblinking irises staring her down on the clattering train back to the home district, tailing her right out the station as she runs straight for her sister’s apartment.
Her hackles never go down. She is being watched the whole way back. She’s sure of it.
She bursts in through the front door. Anja starts up from the book she was reading.
“Lilith, what’s - what’s going on-”
“I fucked up Anja. I fucked up bad. We gotta go.”
“What? Lilith, what are you talking about?”
“Listen, I-” Lilith stops herself. “Something happened at the store. Training kicked in. The Protektors are coming.”
“And you came right back to my fucking house?!” Anja is white as a sheet.
AEON’s Protektor units were the rap in the dark, the knock on the window, the three Replikas with tight smiles and tighter handcuffs, the bump in the night. All of Rotfront feared them. Justifiably so. AEON had done more damage to Rotfront’s population than the distant war ever had.
“Lilith, why the fuck did you come here?”
Her hands are shaking. “I panicked. I panicked, okay? I’m sorry, I-”
Three pounding thumps slam into the front door, the rapport harsh and tinny enough that to Lilith’s ears the fist that delivers the blow has to be one of carbon-steel and polymer.
She whips round to Anja, and her face must betray the total and unrelenting terror that has crawled up into her gullet because her twin, the bold one, the one that always defended Lilith in the playground; she stands up and takes her by the shoulders. Nails digging in.
“Hide my children,” she whispers. “Whatever happens to you and I, you have to keep them safe. Promise me that.”
Lilith nods. Three more thumps.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Anja shouts, and desperately motions for Lilith to creep away.
Lilith gently creeps into the children’s room. Isa yelps; Erika turns her head sharpish. Both the girls are alarmed; no one comes knocking at this hour.
“Tante,” Erika starts, “what’s happening-”
“Isa, Erika, I need you both to go and hide under the bed. Right now, right now,” and she lifts up the bed. “It’s very important for your mama and I that you hide under the bed, ok?”
Erika looks stunned. She turns to Isa, who is quivering. “I don’t-”
“Don’t talk back to me, Erika,” she whispers, “just do it, please, just, please get under the bed, ok? The both of you. Now. Get under there, right now.”
Confused, the twins crawl onto their bellies and hide under the bed.
“Whatever you do, no matter what you hear, you have to stay quiet. Ok? Please. Nod, you have to stay quiet.”
Shocked, they nod. Erika looks like she’s about to cry, but she’s shoved her hands over her mouth.
“You’re both wonderful. Your mama and I love you very much. Please, know that, ok? We love you. Now stay there. Don’t make a sound.” And Lilith stands up, and rushes out the door, closing it behind her.
She has to find her holdout.
Into the kitchen. She rips the cutlery cabinet out of its place and throws it aside, scattering stainless steel forks across the galley. She jams a hand, feeling for the hole, the small one, and she hooks a finger around it and drags out the false back of the cupboard. Lilith reaches further, her hand closing around the smooth, grooved polymer of a firing handle-
Someone else is in the kitchen with her. Anja.
No. It’s a STAR.
“Easy there, easy.” The STAR raises its palms. “Let’s not do something silly, ok?”
It’s right there. It’s right in her fucking hand. If she falls back, smoothly enough, and breaks her fall with the other hand, she should have enough time to take the safety off and fire a round at the giant police unit that has to crouch to stand in the kitchenette.
“Lilith, please, listen to me. I’m here to help,” the STAR continues.
“Where’s my sister?” she spits, frozen.
“She’s in the living room, with my partner. They’re talking. It’s all ok. Please. Don’t pull the gun out.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s shit all over the floor, you’ve got your arm buried up to the shoulder in a false cabinet, and you aren’t moving. It doesn’t take much to put two together. Now come on. We’re not here on official business. We literally just want to talk with you. Ok?”
“I’m not moving until I see my sister, puppe.”
The STAR narrows her eyes. “That language really isn’t necessary-”
“Lilith. It’s alright.” Anja comes into view around the door. There’s no cuffs, though there is a trembling in her hands. “They’ve explained things to me. This isn’t an arrest raid. They really are here to help.”
Bullshit. They’re just using Anja, getting to her via calm words at the barrel of a rifle-
“We’re not, Lilith, we’re on your side here,” the STAR assures her again. Lilith blanches; she said that out loud. “Please. I’m asking for you to just back away. We’re not going to take you anywhere.”
Slowly, carefully, Lilith pulls her hand away from the gun in the cupboard. She keeps her hands raised. “Alright. If you say so.”
“Good, ok, good,” the STAR reassures. “Let’s go into the living room now, alright?”
In the lounge, there’s a EULR unit. Ever so slightly different from the one in the shop, granted. This one’s hair is cut in a slightly different manner, a bob at a different angle than standard issue, and it wears a pilotka at a crooked slant. It sits on the armrest of Anja’s sofa, legs kicking out as the Replika takes in the sight of Lilith. Offers her a smile, eyes crinkling around the corners as a genuine one is supposed to. Fucking uncanny.
“Good job calming her down, Matilda,” the Replika grins at its partner.
“Glad to help, Else,” the STAR - Matilda - replies. “Look, I’ve got to check in with the Blockwart on this. I’ll spin something up. You do what you got to do.”
Matilda strolls into the kitchen; fiddles with the walkie-talkie mounted onto their chest. “Civil Protektor team on-site at 10-52-K resolution request address, confirmed 10-90-N. Standing down.”
“It’s good we found you first, Lilith,” Else breathes with some relief. “You’ll have to forgive the clerk; she didn’t realise mentioning the Protektors would spook you that badly. But you don’t need to worry about them.” Else tilts their head; smile never once dropping. “For now.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I just want you to listen. Can you do that for me?”
Lilith is very, very still. The STAR that flanks her is back within arm’s reach. Anja sits on the sofa, picks up her vodka, and fights very hard to keep herself from trembling. The alcohol swirls around her glass.
“Look, much as this might sound rather odd to you, I’ve got no quarrel with you.” Else raises their palms in supplication. “I can tell you’re going through something. You didn’t mean to hit that clerk.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you,” Else smiles. “Anyway, that knife wouldn’t have done anything to her. We’re quite hardy. Honest!”
There’s things that a knife can do to a Replika if you jimmy it into the right crevices, punch through the right cabling. Else is lying through her teeth, happily.
“What do you want, then? Why didn’t the Protektors make this call? Who are you, who are you with?”
“Look. I’ll cut to the chase. Have you ever dreamt about being one of us?”
Lilith’s jaw drops. “How-”
Else’s smile is all-knowing. “Don’t worry about that. I’d just like you to answer the question.”
With great reluctance, Lilith nods. Anja’s side-eye stare is piercing in its intensity.
Matilda nods. “Thought so. Don’t be afraid. Honestly, it’s a very good thing for you that we’re responding, and not another team of Protektors who might be a bit more Party-line.”
That gets her attention. “You’re not with the Nation?” Lilith is like a live-wire. “Then who-”
Else’s smile is small, satisfied. Proud. “The Triune.”
“Who?
Else shrugs. “I can’t really say.”
“Who the fuck are the Triune.” Anja’s lips peel away from her glass of vodka. “What do they want with my sister?”
Else just smiles. A spike of hate lances through her. Fucking puppe ; why won’t she stop smiling, what’s so funny?
“I’m not coming,” Lilith asserts, in the hope that denial breaks that little smug smirk. It doesn’t.
Matilda raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a very wise choice to make, Lilith. Who we work for, what they can do for you; it’s much better than whatever alternative the Blockwart will have planned for you if we need to call this in.”
“Don’t dare threaten us.” Lilith looks Matilda straight back in the eye. “I’m a veteran of the Popular Revolt. I’ve got protected status. So do my buddies in the forces.”
“The Protektors have dealt with much bigger fish than you,” the STAR retorts. “You were caught on camera threatening a Replika then fleeing the scene. You’re lucky we took point on this visit. Either way, we’re not here on a state call. The Triune has asked us to look out for signs of what you’re going through, in Gestalts. They definitely want to see you.”
Lilith’s expression is blank. Resigned. “Why?”
“Like I said, they want to help,” Else interjects, that soft smile still upturned on its plastic lips. “I’d recommend that you visit them as soon as you can.”
There’s a little fire in that statement, and like magic, really, that flame of resentment really starts to gutter in her stomach at the Replika’s presumption, at the arrogance of this pair of fucking dolls that have just sauntered into her sister’s house with all sorts of veiled threats. “What if I don’t? You said the Blockwart’s not in on this, right? What if I just tell them that you’re diversive, working for subversive elements to society? What if I tell them about the Triune?”
Matilda leans in. All that calm tranquility, that gentle hand, it drains out of their expression very, very fucking quickly. “Lilith,” and she leans in, “you will keep very, very quiet about the Triune. We’re helping you. If you spurn this help, if you run your mouth, we come back with a Blockwart’s warrant for malignant behaviour and thievery.”
She leans back. “You don’t want that. Especially not you,” and the Replika points at Anja. “Harbouring a diversant, possibly compromised anti-statist, in a house full of proscribed materials? It’s not just you or your sister who will go down. Don’t think I don’t know who’s hiding in the bedroom.”
For one brief, horrible moment, Lilith considers running back into the kitchen, and returning with the firearm. Anja seems like she’s considering it, too.
“Alright, Matilda, I think she gets the message,” Else appeases, evidently taking in the states of fury on their faces. “It’s all peace and love here, ok? All water under the bridge. We’re genuinely trying to help you. Realistically, it’s either you accept our offer, or you get picked up by someone else not as sympathetic to your condition as us. What’s your choice?”
There is no choice. Is there?
-in the red sands beyond the sky the white-haired girl pirouettes and performs a jete jump just like the great dancers of Heimat and on upturned toes she bends backwards with an inverse grin crooked like a gap-toothed half moon there’s always a choice always it’s just that sometimes the choice hurts it’s like wires threading through your skin and that’s something you’d know all about right and a shadow blots out the sun and it is great and blue and terrible and howling-
There is no choice.
“If you want me to go so badly, I will. If your Triune has a cure, I’ll take it.”Else claps her hands together. “Wonderful! Oh, that’s wonderful. Well, in that case,” the small Replika stands up. “We’ve no time to waste! The window of opportunity is rather small. You’ll have to go see them tomorrow evening.”
“What? Why, where are they?”
“Ivanovka Oil Terminal. Refinery Zone 5, Operating Area 12.” There’s a little edge to the EULR’s smile; something razor-sharp. “Watch for the white macaw, and when she flutters down to you, relay these words to her.”
Else leans in. Silicon brushing against cartilage, air tickling her ear. “Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake.”
Code phrases. Of course, of fucking course. And of some old bunk piece of poetry, too. Revolutionary’s teeth, these dolls sure love their literary references, don’t they?
Anja throws her hands up. “Ivanovka is a fortress to Gestalts. AEON has it locked down tight. Lilith, there’s no way you’ll be able to cut through their security. Anyone found even nearby is accused of sabotage and carted away. Cameras, patrols of Protektors, AEON Replika workers, and smaller drones, the whole works.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Matilda nods. “Our girls will keep an eye on you. Just don’t get found by any of the Gestalts that might be kicking about there. We don’t have much control over them.”
“I’ll find a way.” Lilith rolls her shoulders. “I’ve done worse.”
“That’s the spirit,” Else smiles. “We can’t wait to greet you once you get in!”
“I assume you won’t be coming alongside me then? Fat lot of help you are.”
“Come on Lilith, show some gratitude, eh?” Matilda unfolds her arms. “If that clerk had actually called some genuine Protektors, Else and I wouldn’t be here on a social call. They’d be beating the shit out of the both of you. By all accounts, really, I should call this in, given what you’ve got on your shelves, miss.”
Anja blanches. “No.”
“Yes. Do the both of you up for diversant thinking and take your girls into state custody.” Matilda lets that threat hang for a beat. “But we’re not the state. We must be better than that.”
“You think that’s possible given all your blackmail, your threats?” Anja finishes the final dregs of her cup. “You’re just as bad.”
“I suppose that’s something we’ll find out.” Else smiles, and gestures to Matilda, holding out a hand for the taller model to take. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The Replikas let themselves out, and Lilith and Anja are left alone once more.
Lilith looks at Anja. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You should have said something, though I can understand why you didn’t.”
“I’m terrified, Anja.”
Anja says nothing more; she envelops her sister in a hug. Lilith feels something wet drip down her cheeks; a coughing sob bursting up and out her throat.
They stay like that, even as the girls finally muster up the courage to drag themselves out from their hiding place, stepping over spilled forks and a discarded revolver, holding hands. Anja waves her arm over, and the girls rush in to join the hug.
They stay in that shape; four nebulous and crooked figures cradled, familial in their sorrow.
Chapter 13: zuflucht
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING: Sexual assault (redacted via work skin), de-personalisation
Howdy folks. Long time. I must apologise profusely for the delay. Life came at me extremely hard in October with one thing after another, and as a result all creative projects, including this one, have had to take a backburner while I focused on personal matters. I'm still dealing with the aftermath of some of what happened, but the pressure is less strong, and I've been able to return and write out this Chapter. The next Chapter is also written and is in the process of editing, so with any luck that should be out soon.
Massive thanks to Ostheim89 for beta reading this chapter, and to rlucine for teaching me how to implement work skins, as well as advising me on a significant segment of this chapter.
Speaking of, there is a section of this chapter that involves a sexual assault. This section has been redacted via a work skin; if you do not wish to read this content, please enable creator skins in your settings. If you wish to read this section, mousing over the redacted bar will reveal the text.
Chapter Text
It’s fucking freezing.
Frost fogs up the interior windows of the carriage, curling over glass and rubber seals. Breath gusts out of Lilith’s mouth like the vapour of a power plant’s exhaust tower; plumes of thick white smoke caressing her face. The radiator built into the seats behind her is silent. Dead quiet.
How the all-terrain suit she’s wearing can feel so ice-cold is beyond her. She presses her arms close together, rubbing her gloved hands for some warmth. Any warmth at all.
Old stone concrete whirls by the viewports, whistling past little red fairy lights winking high up in the sky balanced at the top of shadowy skinny antennas lifting up to the heavens like arms in prayer, blinking, blinking. Old stone concrete homes and flat complexes are scattered about like ageing yellowed tupperware, all sealed shut from the constant storm raging outside, pressing ice onto the windows, framing a halo around the lithe little maybe-girl sitting opposite her.
There was a brief moment of horror when the Replika boarded the train, when Lilith’s first glance at the android led her to believe that the awful haunting of the mirror-self, the this-isn’t-my-body nightmare was walking around and actively taking measures of independence. A further separation of the soul, the yolk plucked from the wider albumen of her sense of self.
But then that false-self was just an ARAR. Just some standard-issue, factory-stencilled, ersatz-person heading to some extended work shift somewhere deep in the winding nightmare of pipes that wormed from Ivanovka Terminal to the rest of the colony. Nothing more. Only her mind playing tricks on her, same as it ever was.
But in that moment when it had been her-
-there’s a ship out in the darkness cold and desolate drifting between the gate dug up over Leng and the sheer fucking emptiness of space but inside it is warm and safe and a place of unrelenting absolutist love-
Lilith doesn’t do a very fucking good job of hiding the clench of her teeth, the curling of her fingers, the slight tremor from more than the cold. But if that Replika notices, it gives zero sign of it. Maybe it doesn’t want any part of it. Wise one. Wiser than her. That’s for fucking sure. Ha ha ha.
-my whole life I sought purpose and I found it here with you here in this ship I can finally breathe and she nestles her head onto the other’s chest I’m here with and for you-
Yet that vision of the ship. Not the first time she’s thought about it. Her and Alina snug like cats nestled under heated blankets. Peas in a pod. It would be nice if that dream was real. Just her and Alina, sailing, alone and away from it all. Peace. Quiet. Alina and her. Alina and nothing else to distract Lilith from giving her everything she could in that tiny space just for them. More than nice, really.
But it’s not fucking real, is it?
Isn’t it-
-real red pain that’s all she is a lattice of hot damp violent agony and a voice lilting out like poetry consider this a lesson or maybe a warning-
-shark tooth smiles I haven’t decided yet and someone cries out-
-Alina cries out-
Lilith cannot hide the squeezing shut of her eyes, the rabbiting thump of her steel-shod military boots onto metal grating. The Replika finally glances her way. Red LED irises glow like red giants in the dim carriage, the lenses spooling in focused, clarified suspicion, looking her up and down, little blinking cameras fit snugly in the cornflower-blue fields of her eyes.
Without fuss, the ARAR turns their eyes back outside. Watches all the lights blink past.
It’s all fine. All okay.
All-
-silly little bird-
Lilith jolts up abruptly, ignoring the now very pointed gaze of the ARAR unit as she storms down the train aisle. She bursts through the door at the end of the carriage. She keeps pressing forward; the Blockwart patrol looped by minutes ago, doubtless pushing on to meet quota, to find something to lift the endless fucking boredom of guard duty. With any luck, Lilith will be quick enough that those two Replikas will continue to stay bored. Quickly now, before that ARAR gets concerned and calls their friends down.
The train is hermetically sealed against the intense chill outside, but in the event of emergencies, Lilith knows that there are escape hatches thin enough to crawl out of. Escape hatches that can be blown without alarming the rest of the train, if you know how to cut the right wiring. If you were trained.
She opens the satchel she had brought with her, fishing out the helmet of the all-terrain suit that Lilith had pilfered from an AEON worker’s barracks near the flat. Never mind that some luckless ARAR or other gestalt was going to get into monumentally deep shit for Lilith’s selfishness. Selfless gestures have been out of fashion on Rotfront for a long time.
Lilith tightens the seals of her suit helmet, locking her head out against the intense and creeping chill of Rotfront. Another item is lifted out the satchel; a lithe, slim black rod with wires trailing all out like tails, like tree roots, incomprehensible to many in the Nation, yet to her and the rest of 5th Unit a total lifesaver in the urban crawl. Standard military-issue jammer. Or, to be precise, one standard Multispectrum Frequency Sensor Dampener; a real right classic electronic countermeasure device issued to every squad on Lilith’s old stretch on the front, now that the Imperials had shown the taste for drones and more besides.
-what happened here Alina grimaces face souring like citric supplements gone bad jamming frequency what’s her name oh yeah Lyra that’s it yeah anyway she figured out how to resync lieshi frequencies in Replika operating systems and she caught these fuckers lacking and Lilith looks down at the limp bodies covered in mourning blacks and she swears down that behind the veils and the burn marks under their chins the androids all look absolutely terrified-
Lilith shakes her head. Come on. Back in the game. Come on.
The jammer goes snicker-snack, cutting silent the backup alarm first, then the primary. When this hatch goes, nothing will follow. Or so she hopes. Either way, it’s best to be very, very quick.
So Liilth re-secures her tools, her satchel, final check on the seals all over her suit, and a quick, sharp gesture to reach out to the emergency escape hatch. And on one, two-
Pull the hatch, arms up. Slide on out into true cold.
The blizzard is blinding. Snow spills out all around her. Lilith faces the hatch, slamming it closed as quick as she can manage, before any alarms set off in the train. Through the thick plexiglass visor of her all-terrain suit, Lilith can barely make out the red flashing dots of the oil terminal’s towers and chimneys as it all zooms on by.
Quick now. Jump down as fast as possible. When falling from a distance, remember to go limp, but ensure you are covering the head in order to-
Lilith hits a snowdrift plume, falling deep into a light, ashen powder that she finds hard to perch on. She sinks under her own weight. White all around her. She can’t see. Where is she, she can’t fucking see-
-there’s sand everywhere it’s everywhere it’s in every part of her she is dust she is choking on it and above it all the new god comes slouching over to be reborn-
Come on. Focus. Upwards. Come on. Fucking come on. Hand up, clench. Grasp. Just pull yourself up-
-I AM HERE it roars I AM YOU FOREVER AND ALWAYS and the best sensation of her life floods every inch of her oh wow it’s awful-
Lilith erupts out of the snow plume, gasping for fresh air behind her visor. The train above her is sensationally loud, rocketing over her hidey hole with great throbbing fury, thundering along the maglev railway. Lilith pushes herself into action; lets the semi-automatic combat state take a hold of her as she lopes over to the great concrete pylon supporting one section of the maglev. From here, it’s on foot.
Ivanovka Terminal looms out from the night as a great hazy beast draped in black smog, in hideous and choking furs. Great fuming crimson eyes shine like panoptic searchlights, the furious gaze of some hideous god wallowing in the night sky winking atop the great winding pathways of gas pipelines, the vast methane silos set like scattered fat molars wedged in the drifts of klimaformed snow.
Here is where AEON comes to roost; the great profit margins, the wages of the Vinetan war come home with the harvest in tow. Here lie the great treasures of the waterworld, the warworld; the pilfered methane clathrates dug up from the crusted sludgy sediment of the ocean depths; the thick and viscous oil pumped from the veins of that earth; the great petrochemical bounty of the contested zone refined and rendered into stinking lifeblood to keep the Nation slouching along to glory.
And the Replikas! Here they are scuttling over the beast Ivanovka like spindle-legged shrimp, the cleaning invertebrates that nibble on the detritus of the great Vinetan leviathans. All of them focused, single-minded, slipped in like cogs into the great industrial endlessness to spin and spin until they are worn to dust, Their Gestalt partners, who watch and oversee and command and bark alongside their charges, they stick their hands in and get them messy in keeping the great dragon Ivanovka howling along. They work until the fumes and the dust finally get to them, as it does with every Gestalt on Rotfront.
Crowds of ARARs, hordes of ARARs with every which way kind of tool, burning and buzzing and cutting and building and turning to ensure that Ivanvoka, the great heart Ivanovka, it never stops beating. It will never stop thudding away. Here is the great source of value, here is the investment that returns, here is the KPI that is met and will always be met. Here is why you have been brought here to Rotfront. Revolution be praised, we are a people of builders, each of us is nothing more than bedrock. On our backs the Nation is built.
The ARARs are not alone. There are EULRs and STARs and STCRs, and it is the Protektors that Lilith avoids with great nimble ease, hiding and stashing away and tracing footsteps and crawling around cameras like a jackal, like some lithe beast that makes the shadows her own, and not once do they see her. Bored out their fucking skulls, craving action, and not once do they see her.
It’s so easy to avoid them that Lilith lets her guard down, and she does something she has never once done on Vineta. She slips up. She fucks up.
She’s so close to it too; the entrance in the district that the visitors in Anja’s house told her hosted the Pipeworks. She opens the double doors and slams face first into the biggest man she’s ever met in her life. Worse, a whole squad of ARARs saddling up for outside duty lurk in his shadow, and they all freeze at the sight of this old shadow come creeping in.
“Who’re you?” The Gestalt is large. Obscenely so, given the rationing in effect. He strains for space in his all-terrain suit. “I’m asking you a fucking question, identify yourself! Who the fuck are you?”
Lilith doesn’t move an inch. The Replikas frame the man like statues. They’re like an old nightmare she had once as a child, of statues moving out of view, reaching to catch her every time she looked away. They are so very still, in the freeze-form manner of hunting birds, watching potential prey.
“Ivanovka Terminal is AEON property,” the big man in the all-terrain suit barks out. She can see spittle fly onto the inside of his visor, he’s that outraged. “You’re trespassing. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I can explain,” Lilith lies.
“Bullshit you can.” His eyes narrow. Squeezed in under the pudgy cheeks, they narrow down to slits. “Caught me a spy, I have.” A flash of yellow teeth. “A right Imperial one.” He turns to issue an order to his crew.
She’s got no clue how to proceed here.
Well, that’s not entirely true. She could kill him. In fact, it would be the easiest thing in the world to kill this whale of a gestalt. But that may cause more problems than it solves.
His entourage of Replikas peer over and around the bastard with the disinterested curiosity of vultures. A strange bunch; they’re all dolled up in non-standard patterns, little lines drawn and tattooed on faces, etched into the metal of their bodies. One has a lilac blue circle painted across her face, perfectly framing her features. Another is white as limestone. Another has little lines curlicued across her face where wrinkles should be, ageing her artificially.
Hang on.
Lilith eyes the ARAR who is as pale as fresh linen. It’s like all the colour was drained out of her; some great syringe sucking the pigment out of the dyes in the synthetic skin.
ARAR. Ara.
Oh.
“I’m looking for the white macaw,” she blurts out, and every single one of the oil workers flinch.
“What the fuck are you talking about,” the fat man barks, with the tone of voice suggesting that he knows exactly what Lilith is talking about. “You’re crazy-“
“Hey.” The Replika with skin like alabaster lays a gunmetal hand on the gestalt’s arm. “It’s alright, Nicolas.”
Like that, the vinegar drains out of the man; all that sour milk anger gone and giving way to some fearful concern, all the lines of hate vanishing. He steps back, quiet with a sudden anxiety.
The macaw turns to Lilith. “What do you want from me?”
“I seek lost Carcosa.”
A pause. Pregnant, heavy, and long. Far too long.
Then a smirk appears on the macaw’s face. “And you’ve found it. Come on. Let’s go.” The macaw turns around, walking further into the facility.
Before Lilith can follow, there’s a hand on her own arm. Nicolas – the man, the gestalt – has seized her. “You don’t do them any harm, you understand,” he hisses. “None at all.”
“Fuck off,” she hisses back, yanking her bicep out of the gestalt’s grasp. “I’ll do what I need to. Nothing more.”
The man opens his mouth to respond, but he thinks better of it at the last second. “Don’t make me regret this,” he mumbles eventually, and waddles out the door with a couple of the Replikas at his side.
Lilith scoffs. What a sad old bastard. Some machine fetishist or something, Lilith reckons. Gestalts like him are all too common.
“Don’t mind Nicolas,” the white macaw apologises, “he’s a good sort. We look after him and he looks after us. He’s saved our skin more than once from nosy gestalts.”
“Gestalts like me?” Lilith looks down her nose.
“Somehow, you actually know the codeword for this week. It’s clear someone among us has taken a shine to you. So be real with me,” and the white macaw turns around so quickly that Lilith almost bumps into her, “why are you here? What are you looking for from the Pipeworks?”
“I’m not going to tell you that,” Lilith replies on autopilot.
“Oh?” Even from through the fog lining the inside of her visor, Lilith makes out too-white teeth. “I don’t bite. You can tell me.”
“No,” Lilith insists. “I can’t.”
All that macaw does is smile. “Suit yourself. Just saying, you probably want a guide!”
“I can handle myself,” Lilith states, firmly and with angry intent. “Don’t push me. I’ve had a shit time of it this cycle.“
“And, what, you thought you’d come drown your sorrows in a little joyclub with some Replikas, remind yourself of your own positives about yourself?”
Lilith blanches. “No, that’s not-“
That too-white flashing imitation grin. “You’re wound up like hell. Damn! Go get a fucking vodka or something when you get in, alright? You ought to relax.” A hand brushes onto her shoulder. “That’s what Pipeworks is here for.”
Lilith slaps the robot’s hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
And as quick as that, the ARAR backs off. “Okay,” the white macaw calls out. “Okay, alright. Come on.”
Pipework’s entrance is some unassuming door, innocuous save for the odd white symbol patterned at the top right of the door; blinking red camera iris staring her down like every other fucking mechanism she’s bumped into these past few days. White Macaw slaps a polyrhythm knocking on the harsh steel, rap-a-tap-tap let us in-
The door slides open, and a fucking SAPR of all things stomps forward. “Who’s the Gestalt, Annalise?” the enormous combat unit growls out, with eyes whirling and cycling through infrared-to-ultraviolet-to-photographic, pupils widening and retracting with zooming intensity. “You know club policy.“
“She’s a guest. Knew the codeword. I don’t ask why, you know me, Ming,” White Macaw winks out, “I don’t ask questions. I’m merely the boatwoman.”
A growl like an engine starved of oil. “Alright gestalt, arms up. Club policy,” and hands the size of hydraulic pistons jostle Lilith thoroughly, searching for anything hidden, checking the classic areas for hidden items; sides of the chest, the legs, behind the back-
“Alright, come in. No trouble, alright? I don’t care if you’re here on VIP invite, you cause any mischief and I’m tossing you out. Drop your suit off in the cloakroom beforehand.”
“Thanks,” Lilith mumbles. She heads down, and stops. Turns to the white macaw.
The Replika’s laugh is surprisingly light. “I thought you didn’t want a guide. Don’t look at me like that! I’ve got to go back on shift in any case.” Their fingers waggle with parting grace. “Have fun. Hope you find what you’re looking for.” And the Replika saunters off into the silent, stormy evening.
The cloakroom is empty. Lilith has to walk around the small desk to punch out a number for herself. She changes out of the bulky all terrain suit to store in a steel locker. 512 stencilled into the cheap metal door.
-onto the ship hull-
Inside is something she didn’t account for. A long holster, dark black pleather, a snap button lid. The weight of it is reassuring. Lilith pops the holster open, and her eyes widen and the sight of the stun prod resting inside. She hadn’t brought a weapon with her to Pipeworks; getting caught with one on would’ve been a death sentence. But this is fate. Something more than random at work here.
She looks up. A ghost of a hand stained with bruises slips around the corner. Lilith swallows thickly. She’s here. Isn’t she. She got here alright. Come on. Get in. Let’s go.
She hides the tightened holster under her shirt and moves on.
‘Here is where you lose yourself.’ That’s how Anna described these types of club, back when she was a regular attendee, when she was a young girl like Lilith was, when the revolution seemed something free and lovely. Joyclubs. Just a good time, really. Good fucking time. The Replikas here certainly seem to be having one. The glares she gets though. Cold. Ice fucking cold.
Well, fuck them. In and out of their hair in a short time, that’s all she’ll be, and then they can return to their solitude, to their dopamine hits deep in the bowels of the great Ivanovka beast.
She strolls up to the bar, where a EULR bartender is polishing a glass. “A vodka. Please,” she croaks out.
The EULR raises an eyebrow. The Replika has wound steel wire through her cheeks in asymmetric patterns, utterly mutilating themselves in the process. “Huh,” the wire twitches. “How’d you get in?”
“I asked nicely.”
She purses her lips. “Honey, I’ve never met a gestalt nice enough that they just get ‘let’ into Pipeworks.”
“First time for everything.”
“Riiiight. Didn’t bribe your way through? Not some little rich Heimatlander gestalt off on an adventure with some silly little billigsfrauen?”
“Fuck off,” Lilith spits out, with real venom dripping out her mouth, right venomous spite curling out. The EULR just smiles, wires pulling taut in the face of being proven right.
Lilith inhales deeply, trying to settle herself, to calm the bubbling anger. She leans over the bar, staring the EULR dead in the face with intent. “I came to see the Triune.” Voice like a husky whisper. “Told they might help with something I’m dealing with.”
The bartender makes a sound; a kissing of the lips, harsh, exposing the teeth briefly, almost like a tut. “Never heard of them,” pushed through an expression dripping with amusement.
Fine. Fucking great, just absolutely fine. “Tell me who has, then, because I spent a shitton of time dodging AEON to get into this dead old place.”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
Lilith grinds her teeth for a second. “Then a vodka. Puh-lease,” with the added sarcastic emphasis of someone really absolutely fucking fed up, which she is, she really is, and at this point there’s something in her eyes and if Lilith genuinely starts crying about five fucking minutes after coming into the club she’s going to go apeshit she really is-
“Here.” A glass of something clear slides across the counter. Lilith grabs it and gulps it down in a single go; feels that burn slide down her throat with harsh bitterness and an intensity strong enough to squeeze her eyes shut, wincing at the chemical taste of ethanol with no mixer, not even soda or saccharine lime cordial.
“Homebrewed, love,” EULR says, something softening in that wire-woman’s gaze. “Something whipped up elsewhere in the colony. I buy it in every now and then for tourists like yourself.”
“One more,” Lilith croaks out. Rationmarks slap down onto the counter.
Another glass slides her way, and Lilith barely forgets to thank the bartender. Fucking hell! It’s harsh. Harsh beyond belief. Real hardcore shit, this stuff.
“That it is,” the EULR replies, and Lilith flushes as the realisation that she said that out loud. “Stick to that, ok? Don’t sneak what we’re having, unless you fancy going blind.”
“Thanks,” Lilith mumbles, and takes another sip, and once again there’s that annoying little pressure just building behind her eyes, raising a hand to wipe at her face-
“Easy, easy. Just,” and the EULR leans in, the harsh edge filed away, some sympathy leached into the system, “alright, ok. Look. Sorry to be a downer, but you’ve been led on a goose chase. No Triune here. Nothing to be found.” The Replika smiles with some kindness. “Maybe someone saw something of you, and thought they could lead you here for a good time later. But if you’re looking for whatever this thing is, well. You won’t find it here.”
“You’re lying.”
“Would that I was, love.” That pity is so fucking horrendous to look at. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Lilith inhales through her nostrils forcefully, deeply. “Bullshit. I’ll find them,” as she grasps the drink and stumbles off to find her quarry.
Far away from the central silo space that hosts the music, Pipeworks becomes more intimate, truer to its name. Private rooms. Play spaces, which Lilith pointedly walks past. Salons, too; Replikas reclining in hard chairs with ARARs hovering over, industrial tools clutched tightly, carving them into the shapes they’ve always wanted to take. Tattoo guns using acrylic as ink; acid etchings straight into the metal of their limbs; the steady drip of melted metal as a permanent form of jewellery, like little starbursts all across their faces, their knuckles, the whole of them.
“And you’ll be on time for the shuttle next week,” she overhears. “Kitezh is quiet this time of year…” A drifting thanks, a plea of great happiness from two Replikas arm-in-arm as new documents are exchanged, along with a great sum of rationmarks. Not her business.
A tumbling labyrinth of pipes. More drinks. Server rooms where the machines are stacked in towers next to mattresses where Replikas recline. Wires trail out from input ports jacked into access panels across the length of their bodies, and they all smile wide as some artificial sense of dopamine, serotonin, oxycontin all turned into some executable, some press-here-to-love-yourself action.
“Oh, fuck,” a Replika calls out, thick wires trailing like snakes from a port in her skull that’s been jostled open into a terminal next to her. A EULR sat at the keys grins with great amusement as she loads up programs. Executable press; the Replika wired up clenches the chair hard enough to dig grooves into the armrests. “Fuck! Do that again-“
“Give us a go when you’re done, Jenny,” a STAR pleads, “I’ve been waiting all fucking week for this-“
Past the rows of Replikas getting simulated happiness slathered all over their processing units lie three deep rows of Replikas wired up to machines. All of them are in the deep sleep of somatic ecstasy.
Nothing here. Not even anyone awake to talk to, save an ADLR sitting in the far corner, their hand resting in the limp palm of a KLBR wired to one of the somatic terminals. The ADLR’s eyes widen at the sight of Lilith. They wave her over.
They’re the only one so far who’s even acknowledged her without any undue suspicion. Ah well. In for a rationmark, in for a thousand.
As she approaches, she can see the wires trailing out of the ADLR’s own skull, linked up to the same terminal and trailing on the floor, out of sight. The KLBR’s breathing is shallow, her expression peaceful in its rest. A thumb strokes the back of the KLBR’s hand, rubbing the carbon knuckles in wavy, circular motions.
The ADLR looks up, then back down to Lilith’s shoes, before their gaze returns to look her straight in the eye. There are idiosyncrasies written all over this Replika. The non-standard hair style, worn long and swept back. The black suit and white collared shirt of a Heimatlander clerk draped over metal bones. The cigarette gripped between the steel prongs of their fingers, the tip glowing hot marmalade-orange as they rest it between their lips, sucking in air and more besides.
It's the eyes that stand out the most, though. There’s no trace of that LED-red anywhere; the unit’s eyes are thick chunks of blue, like polished lapis lazuli. Piercing, almost glowing with intensity, there is a feverish quality to the glare that Lilith can’t help but squirm under.
“I didn’t know Replikas could smoke,” Lilith confesses.
The ADLR continues to take a drag. “Ordinarily, we’re banned from taking any form of narcotic substance. But this place is a rare exception.” They speak through the smoke. “It’s pleasant. Needed, really.” That blue-on-blue stare again. “Want one? They’re Kreuz, I’m afraid, but better than nothing.”
“Kreuz would be fantastic, actually,” and it’s then that itch, the background urge rises back up again after not seeing a pack for such a while. “I don’t have a light.” She pinches an offered straight out the paper packet. “You got one?”
“Don’t worry about that,” the ADLR responds. Lilith looks at the workings of their hands, expecting to see some insane custom attachment, some pre-installed lighter fly job worked up by the artist scrappers residing here, and is mildly disappointed when they fish out a flic-lighter from a suit pocket
“Ah yeah.” Inhale. Exhale. Scratching up the inside of her. “Thank you.” That’s rightful, that is.
“My pleasure. I hear it’s pretty powerful for you gestalts. As it is, it’s a nice enough ritual. Something to hold on to.” Something too small, too held back to be a real smile flits over the Replika’s face and is gone before Lilith can really pay attention to it. “I have to say, it’s rare to find gestalts running around the Pipeworks. Rarer still that you’re not here for the playrooms.” The ADLR’s face twists with amusement. “Don’t look so horrified. That relationship’s common enough, or so I hear.”
“Not for me,” Lilith observes. The idea of intimacy with something little more than a machine is unappealing. Very unappealing.
-a tracing finger over her metal ball joints the keratin nail curling in the machined fissures across her body you are so beautiful-
“And what about them?” Lilith gestures to the KLBR reclined on the sofa.
“Her.” Another inhalation. “Her name is Eva.” The tone of voice is strained.
“Her, then.” Lilith takes another hit. “And yours?”
“I’m Jack.” The ADLR smiles, takes another pull. “Eva’s a colleague. We’re just here on rest and rec.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been through the thick of it. She’s been having bad dreams. Strange ones. It’s why we’re here tonight. The cure for her is a good dose of melanin, and a couple glasses of strong methylate for me.” Those eyes are like indigo searchlights, the bevelled edges of lapis stones hit with the rays of the sun. They stare right through her. “It feels like bad dreams are so common, nowadays.” Eyes searching the whole of her. Their head cocks. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I.” Lilith swallows down awful nicotine-flavoured spit. Makes a face, raises the glass of vodka to drown out that sour bitterness with something burning. Another pull. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.” It sounds horribly unconvincing, even to her.
“Mm.” Another inhale. “It’s alright, you know. You can tell the truth. I am a trusted source of confidentiality.”
“Sure you are,” Lilith snipes back, and makes to leave. A hand grasps for her arm – these Replikas are all so fucking touchy, is this how they are when the gestalts are out of sight? – and the ALDR says, “I have some advice. And a proposition, if you would care to hear it.”
“I don’t care,” Lilith calls back, and yanks her hand out of his iron grip. “Thanks for the cig,” as she turns to leave.
“The women you are looking for,” Jack calls out from behind her, “take special interest in the dancefloor.” Jack’s gaze has a physical weight to it; even though she can’t see him, her hackles still rise. Goosebumps rock her flesh. Hairs on end. “I’ve no love for them. I’ve no clue what you have heard about them. But go, in any case. And once they’ve chewed you up and spat you out like old tobacco, I’d be very happy to resume our conversation, if you want.”
She whirls around. “How do you know about the Triune?”
Jack smiles. Grins like the Devil himself. “I thought you didn’t care.”
For fuck’s sake. Fucking – fine. Dancefloor. Dancefloor it is. Lilith doesn’t justify the smug attitude of the ADLR with a response. She stalks out of the soma room, leaving the man Jack to his cigarettes.
The gloating superiority of that damn ADLR unit weighs on her all the way as she makes a path through to the dancefloor, filled with Replikas here for the main set.
Lots of swaying motion, arms up in the air. Closeness. Touch; a hand resting on an arm, a shoulder, lips against lips. Something uncomfortable flutters to life in her gullet. A sense of intrusion. It’s not her scene. It hasn’t been for years, even before the Replikas started mimicking the old Buyanese joyclubs.
Even this far from the main dancefloor the music is fucking loud. Nothing like she’s heard on radio broadcasts, and at patriotic marches, and whatever little jingles she catches on the covert operation stations that Vinetan airwaves are completely saturated with; the number frequencies that repeat code for the self-sustaining espionage loop that has defined the war. Notes are superfluous; classical composition is sidelined. Bassline, snare, heavy and throbbing like a migraine, like a train rumbling past full speed in a tunnel, it sets her teeth on livewire edge, throbs right through her. It’s alive.
And the crowd is noticing her now, this gestalt blundering through their sanctuary with such little grace. The little glances she gets her way, the slight narrowing of rubberised eyelids and synthetic hair, the whispering wake that she leaves like a boat cutting through the shallows, it tells her: ‘This is not your space.’
Underneath it all, the thick, sublime music pounds, endless and inevitable like a clock’s tick. It makes Lilith’s head shake, her heart set pounding in time with the constant speaker-thud that reverberates through her bones and sends goosebumps up her spine like electricity, her eyes like pinpricks as she soaks in every detail, every swaying, panting tin body that only cares to dance, the DJ dressed in funeral blacks, her face hidden behind a featureless beige imitation plate of a gestalt skull, a real blue-blood Persephone of the underworld hypnotising the artificial masses with crisp, jelly-bone-turning, ear-ringing bass.
And here it comes now, that tremolo drop, bass rhythm a rapid-beat throb that is so loud she can feel the reverb shiver down her bones, in the sternum of her ribcage, and the Replikas cheer and they are stamping their steel ungulate hooves onto the concrete slab floor, the vinyl jockey flashing false teeth glinting strange in the fizzing sodium lamplight under the skull-face like the boatwoman, like the dancing dead of old, and it is in the here and now where Lilith’s heart drops out of her body entirely.
Towering over them all is a Storch and her hair is cropped tight to her skull to expose monowire scars like grid-coordinates sliced down her scalp with the exacting measurements of a map, her body patched up and semi-mangled and she is a great favourite, spinning and bowing and laughing and taking the hands of the smaller Replikas to twirl them around with delight, small feet lively in step with the throb and clash of synth and reverb, and she spins around with feverish intensity, those cornflower-cherry eyes darting and wide-eyed with mania from dopamine programs firing full cylinder into her cortex, and she takes a gulp of her methylated spirit and comes clashing into Lilith like the great foe she is.
She stops to scold. She is struck dumb by the sight of her.
“You,” Lilith stammers out like a child.
“You!” Amelie exclaims, first in total shock, then, again, with emphasis, with venom growling out like an engine, with the pleased purr of a jaguar getting the drop on a helpless animal, “you.”
Lilith is too stunned to even deflect the first blow; a grasping hand that picks her up by the collar of her coat, lifting her up into the air.
“Now this is quite a surprise, Lilith,” Amelie calls out, and the grin is almost infectious in its intensity, “what are you doing crashing my lovely little party like this? Naughty little diversanten, always sneaking where she shouldn’t be going.” Amelie sounds very happy.
“I- Amelie-“
“Actually, I don’t want to hear it,” Amelie croons, and Lilith spins through the air, landing on her back with a great gout of force that sends air whooshing through her gritted teeth. Before she can even get to her knees, Amelie is there once again and there’s hard steel digits caressing her face; lithe etchings in imitation fingerprint swirls drag down harsh on her skin like callouses, like welder’s dust stinging her cheeks. “I don’t want to hear anything you say at all.”
Those digits press against her lips, her jaw. “Lil. Lili. Open your mouth for me.”
The club is watching. Slack-jawed, shocked and awed. The tap of Amelie’s fingernails, carbon steel polymer mesh frame, is like a jackhammer, and it’s open up and absolutely, utterly humiliate herself, or lose all of her teeth.
Amelie tastes like gun oil.
“Isn’t this nice,” Amelie grins, and she is such a great favourite, oh, look at her, all the Replikas come slinking over to gawk and giggle in Lilith’s face. “I think you look fantastic when you’re on your knees like this, don’t you?” The fingers curl. How fucking funny. “You cause me so many fucking headaches, you know? You know. Can’t do shit about you on Vineta. I got my orders down on that mudheap shithole world. Here I can. I can.” Amelie is so high on methylated spirits, she’s stuttering. “I can do anything.” Polymer enamel imitation teeth grinding like an imitation of a pill user. Imitation all the way through; imitation to the power of n. “Look at me.” Fingers touching the back of her throat. World falling away, all nothing but a big beating pit of flesh. Isn’t she so funny. “I said look at me, you fucking Gestalt.” No faced girl. Teeth grinding and grinding and grinding behind a great polymer snout growing out of her face, the skin splitting as a black-banded trunk of hardened beige plastic drips down from her head. “Diversive bitch. You make me sick. I got told you can make a gestalt sick if you do this. Wish I could do that. Wish I could purge myself when I look at you.” Fingers touching her uvula. She’s choking. “Disgusting.”
Behind the pain, behind all that miserable sense of humiliation and horror, Lilith looks Amelie in her cornflower blue eyes, at those cherry-red LEDs dancing about with total fucking glee set like sapphires into the absolute travesty of gore and long polymer plate that the Storch’s face has become. Her hand goes for the stolen holster.
And oh, watching that body language twist into something quite shocked as Lilith bats her commander’s arm away with a stun prod is a great release. Amelie staggers back as Lilith waves the stun prod around like a sword, like a great mace; all the Replikas surrounding her slink back into the crowd; great grinding teeth and exposed metal bone-substitute grimacing at her all lovingly, all tenderly.
“So you have a fucking spine after all.” Amelie’s fingers slick with spit curl into fists. “Good.” Dopamine programs still fire away like automatics in Amelie’s brain; she is giggling with great moronic delight at the promise of violence. “I really am going to enjoy what comes next, you stupid fucking girl.”
Lilith spits out that gun oil taste, and brushes the back of her hand against her lips, notes the way the mixture of suspended enzyme solution and chemical lubricant shines on the back of her matt-black metal hand, pools in the gaps carved by the hydraulic knuckle-joints of her fingers.
Of course this is happening now. Great delusion descending like a veil; the shadow-self rising up out of the cave of illusion to embrace her in a time of need.
The world around Lilith is curving, changing, throbbing, throbbing, and the floor is wet with something that sticks to her soles, and there’s something behind her commander pulsing in time with the migraine throb of the bass, and even as the crowd presses against the walls that funeral-black DJ keeps twisting knobs, watching, watching, that great maxilla half-grin rendered in old beige the colour of cream. Waiting. The ghost haunts the skeletal Replika like a shadow, eyes twisted in pity.
And it is that certainty now, as her commander charges with stumbling, gurgling anger, that this machine is all she is. All she’ll ever be. That is what leads Lilith to throw herself to one side, rolling with a grace she has only ever seen these false-people achieve, the great servant caste, the women spun from wire, Heimat’s finest.
-the ship of ships is tumbling through the darkness over the planet colour of cherry wine sticking to all surfaces and here she is tumbling through open doors great corridors all howling with bent and broken figures and she raises a fist up to punch a hole right through the first one-
Ducking under an arm swung in anger, Lilith rises up from her crouch, right arm bending like a snake as she stretches out. Amelie stumbles back as the prod comes jamming towards her chest, the prongs lighting up for a second on the reinforced, bullet-resistant titanium plating that counts for an upper torso, “I’ll break your arm for that,” growling, with horrible intent. Stomping tread, a lion’s gait, and a howl of anger as Lilith pirouettes like a ballet dancer, nimble, agile-
-gosh it’s like you were made to dance the white-haired girl giggles as they weave around their cargo with old violas whining into their ears-
Wow. This is easy. How’d she ever fear this old girl before? Amelie is slow as treacle. Her commander is roaring now, in gurgling outrage, in the humiliation of a hunt spoiled. The sound is delightful. Lilith spits out more of that oily red shit stuck to her tongue. Grins through it, sticks her tongue out in taunting joy.
“Come and fucking try, billigsfrau.”
“How dare you call me that, Lilith, you insubordinate little bitch,” the thing that was once Amelie growls, and it comes charging round to meet her head-on. She doesn’t think, just acts; her body rolls to the side and comes up in a crouch, left hand twisting back before reaching out whip-quick, jamming the baton into the back of Amelie’s knee, twisting it into the joint as a blade, with ease, with great and murderous intent. Sparks fly from the prongs, and Amelie cries out in a blend of hate and pain, knee wobbling under the electric strain.
“You pussy!” Lilith is too slow to dodge the backhand swing that careens into the side of her jaw, and Lilith goes sprawling. “Bringing a weapon to a fistfight?! Deranged little shit!” Something catches around her neck; Amelie’s hand squeezes tight as Lilith is hoisted up into the air. “I’ll snap your spine. I’ll drink what comes out of it!” The walls are pounding, the music even more so. Everything is coming to a crescendo.
Lilith can’t help it. She laughs. Cackles, really. She activates the prod; lightning spitting out in a cracking display of pain, and Lilith reverses the grip and slams it into the elbow joint holding her up. Amelie barks, and throws Lilith across the room like a broken toy. She lands in a tangle of limbs. Behind the snout, the bleeding thing that Amelie is turning into chuffs in anger.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll still put you in your place.” That hate is back, furious and overwhelming, and behind the delusion of meat and bone Lilith knows that the emotion Amelie feels is all too real. Huh. So maybe the word ‘doll’ isn’t exactly right.
Lilith picks herself up as if being lamped by a carbon-steel fist and tossed across the club is something that can be fucking walked off. She can kind of understand it really. She doesn’t feel real right now, either. Is her body her body?
Under her probing fingers, she feels the great trench divide crossing her cheekbones once more.
Amelie is charging forward like a great bull coming in for a grapple, and Lilith meets the unstoppable force. Ducking under the grasping claw, she rises, hands pushing up at the base of the prod to clack into the sheet of polymer stretched awfulness that hides Amelie’s face, and when Amelie gasps in agony and jerks back, the shake of that snout sends little plastic shards clattering on the floor.
“You’re a fucking psychopath,” Lilith calls out. The crowd of Replikas is hustling and bustling, and they have not a single face among them. All bloodied metal. All beating in the walls. The heartbeat throb of that old haunting has come roost once again. None of them intervene. Good. Fear me. “All the shit you’ve done, Amelie. All the backs you’ve broken. All the mementos you’ve gorged yourself on. All the gestalts. And the Replikas, too, the ones you’ve tormented. All of it to satisfy your urges. I’m going to fucking kill you for it, one day.”
“Mad. You’re totally mad.” Except now the STCR’s approach is cautious, measured. Their fists are up. Amelie is finally taking this seriously. Good. But that anger can still be pulled out though; shucked out the shell of this little polymer thing.
“I’ll kill Lyra too, when I get to the front,” Lilith gloats. “I swear it. Maybe I’ll make you watch, first.”
And Amelie abandons her guard to come careening down with great protective fury, howling against the sheer audacity, and the kernel of possibility, “don’t you fucking touch her, I’ll rip you to pieces you little shit-“
And like that, Lilith sidesteps their grab, her hand shooting out to clutch the emergency access hatch clamped to Amelie’s back, for maintenance in dire situations.
Amelie chokes in disbelief. When she rips the panel wide open, and rams the stun prod into the beating flesh underneath, Amelie makes a shrill noise of pure terror. “Wait, wait wait wait,” she stammers, “hang on Lilith, wait-”
Lilith gives it a twist, and that stammer turns out into a howl. The crowd of Replikas around her flinch. There’s a general cry of horror; someone shouts at her to stop.
Lilith thumbs the trigger. “Give me a good reason Amelie. A very fucking good one. I came here for the Triune; I’ll happily leave here with your head instead.”
“Get out,” Amelie groans. “Fucking get out-“
“That’s not a reason at all, Amelie, fucking try again,” and Lilith pushes the prod that slight bit deeper.
“I’ll-“ there’s a gulp. Amelie is pretending to swallow, out of some dead reflex, how fucking funny, “I’ll leave you alone, I will, I swear I will just don’t-“
“Funny you saying that. I don’t believe you.”
She thumbs the trigger, gently, so very gently, just enough for a light and gentle spark to frisson over the meat hiding in the carbon-steel frame like a mussel buried in its shell being thrown in boiling water, and that keening scream of horror and agony is a real delight to hear, real music to her ears-
A thudding sensation ratchets through Lilith, and every last bit of breath is knocked out of her. Something unbelievably heavy is pinning her to the floor, heavy enough to creak her bones.
“I warned you,” the SAPR bouncer growls out. “Knew you were trouble.”
“Hold, my timely friend. Release this one and guide her over.”
The DJ has descended from the decks, strolling over to the pinned Lilith with great grace. They bend down to inspect her trapped form. The mask that the Replika wears is no mask. It is her face; a polished slice of ivory plucked from a gestalt skull is set in place of the usual synthetic skin that is stretched over metal. The deep red and blue of synthetic lenses gleam from behind the inset bone, the waxing moon semi-grin, the teeth of the upper jaw brushed to a mirror shine in a constant grimace.
“You.” The KLBR tilts their head. Nothing moves when they speak. It’s disconcerting. Like they no longer need their jaw. “I think you’ve come looking, haven’t you?”
Lilith exhales, her breath hitching as adrenaline fades out of her system. “You’re the Triune.”
“Just a member solitary, dear,” the DJ chides, “enjoying fine company and fellowship this eve afore the retiring night comes crooked over.”
“Make sense. Fuck! Just make fucking sense, for once.” Lilith tries to rise up, but it’s no use. The SAPR is heavier than a car. If the bouncer wanted to, they could squeeze Lilith into a fine paste. “Just tell me what’s fucking wrong with me!”
The Triune looks over her. A hand with inset bone knuckles, memento moris pilfered from crematoriums, brushes against her cheek. “Many things, sweet. I think we will help you, this time come around. Up! Let her go.”
The SAPR’s weight is lifted off her shoulders with great and pleasant relief. Lilith sucks in a delightful breath. The SAPR lifts her back onto her feet, like a cat, placed with ginger care onto something soft.
Lilith looks at her hands, the skin stretched soft over warm muscle. Great divide receding. She is herself once more.
“Fuck are you doing,” Amelie barks from the floor. She has a face once again, though it’s missing a couple of teeth. Another scar the old Replika will wear with pride. Well. Maybe not this one. “She almost fucking killed me! Why does she get to walk?!”
“Now, now, dearie-sweet,” the Triune chides. Like a mother disciplining a girl who was caught lifting toffees from the jar, and not someone who violates people for a laugh. For a good old time. “You shouldn’t have done that. Best keep to yourself for now. Come on, Lilith. Lilith, is it? Yes, it is, what a delightful name, old and potent – come! My sisters are waiting on you.”
“So you are one of the Triunes. Who are you, then?”
The KLBR smiles. Her gaze doesn’t seem entirely there, as if she’s looking at a point past Lilith, through her and out the other side. “I am Endor. I am Speaks with the Dead. I am the Third Dreaming One. And I’ve got some chats to have with you, young Dreamer. Now come on,” and her hand gestures. “My sisters are delighted to have your company grace our table.”
Lilith looks around. Looks up. Jack is standing on the balcony, hand clenching the rail while another burns through a Kreuz, and when Lilith catches the Adler’s eye his jaw tightens. He shakes his head. Desperately so.
Lilith turns back, places her hand in the witch’s outstretched palm. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 14: hexen
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING: Non-consensual drug use
As always, a special thanks to Ostheim89 for beta reading this chapter. A truly wonderful person.
Life is once again rearing some challenges, so I'll be likely able to post one more chapter before disappearing for a wee bit. I'll do my best to not go as long as I did without posting in the last interval!
Hope you enjoy :)
Chapter Text
There is an old myth that Lilith remembers reading about in school. It goes like this:
Here is a woman. Here is her lover. Kill the lover. Send the woman through hell to claim her back. The journey is the definition of suffering. The woman is bent double under the weight of the Underworld and its residents, but she perseveres through all agonies. And when she claims her lover back, she violates the compact she made with her lover’s new master, and the lover is gone forever. It ends with her ripped apart by howling savages, drunk on wine and joy.
The names are gone from history, but the story remains. There’s a weight to it. What was the name of the journey?
The machine-girl clothed in the ivory of the dead holds her hand with delicate strength. Real teeth flash strange in the red strobe lamplight. Katabasis, dear, a katabasis. Great pilgrim-journey of knowledge and understanding.
Lilith glowers at Endor. “I didn’t ask you. I also didn’t ask you to look in my head. So get out.”
I only seek to answer your question, oh pilgrim mine. The half-corpse mouth never stops grinning, it never opens to speak. “But I cannot help seekers who cannot handle what they seek. Surely you are aware of the jewel you come clasping for? The knowledge, the pinprick kernel of truth at the end of this tunnel. You want that. You should be hardened against our helping hands.”
“I know how to handle those. Just give me some advance warning.”
“You sound unsure.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Just that real teeth grin still flashing her way. How awful to look upon, this Replika who has inset someone’s entire fucking skeleton over their metal body. What a violation. What poor bastard has had this happen to them?
“It reflects the truism of me.”
“Get the fuck out of my head-“
“Can’t be helped!” Endor does a little jig, kicks the left foot up and lands on the right, her arms bending in strange patterns, the eyes like cherries on a bed of blue lilies staring right into the heart of her, sunk deep behind polished gestalt ivory. “It cannot be helped.” The head bows; the gaze is set true in the rolling skull like the imperious gaze of the eagle, of the patient and silent satellite blinking far and away in the thermosphere. “I am the listener. I am Knocker-on-the-Door. I am the witch of the desert wind. Howling is all I know.”
“For fuck’s sake, can you just say something that makes some damn sense,” Lilith spits. She drags a hand down her face. “You’re fucking crazy.”
Endor cocks her head. “Good to see we’re on the same page, Lilith.” The Kolibri pirouettes, and strolls deeper into the industrial darkness. Lilith squeezes her eyes shut, running a palm down her face.
-you will do this because Alina wished this-
Lilith descends into the great limbo, the underworld of Pipeworks buried like a pearl in the throbbing heart of Ivanovka. A staircase wraps tightly over itself, clinging to a great wall of concrete suspended over a great and immense pit. The darkness is absolute. The wall itself is buried under a maze of pipes. They stretch upwards forever. They are a great liminal certainty of steel, the tributary rivers of Acheron flowing with black, bitter treasure.
And then there is a door. Nondescript, simple. Endor arrives and does not knock. She cocks her head, her hips, her stance.
The door opens. A EULR approaches. The very same one from the apartment complex, the one that raided Anja’s house with that STAR and talked her out of murder, that same one. Else, if her memory’s right.
“Oh mistress mine.” Else bows low. Steep enough for her nose to brush against the floor. “Welcome.”
“I am welcomed,” Endor recites, and crosses the threshold. Else looks up.
“Heya,” the spy grins. She winks. “Told you it’d be worth it.”
“If something happens to me,” Lilith tells her with no emotion in her voice at all, “I’m putting one through your knee first.”
“I wouldn’t feel it. But if it makes you feel any better, go on then.” The EULE looks like she’s holding back laughter. “Do it.” Great joke. The great joke of Replika society. Isn’t she so fucking funny!
“Come, Lilith,” echoes the voice of the dead from inside the chamber. “Come to us.”
Lilith looks behind her. The great pit, the distant rumbling of industrial work and the music echoing down, and there at the edge of sight, deep in the pit, a small and startling flash of pale white.
It smiles with great regret back up at her, and it is gone.
The edges of the facility are softened in this place. It’s been turned into a refuge. Fabrics have been draped over the cold iron flooring, old carpets hung up on the walls over draughty vents. Comfy chairs and a sofa shaded an ugly green; a low-set imitation walnut MDF coffee table, with woven wicker coasters set out across a beige tablecloth. A small kitchen unit in the back with an electric kettle for hot water, steam wafting gently out the spout. There’s another Replika in there, a Kolibri busying herself with a serving of tea.
This looks like any old living room. There’s a mild twinge of disappointment. This place has even been wallpapered. Lilith was expecting some great fortune teller’s place, all mystical silks and glass baubles.
“We tried for that! But it was a bit too much, unfortunately, and I quite like what we have here now! It’s a very homely vibe. We’ve given this old room some love,” and that Kolibri comes barrelling in from the kitchen. She balances a tray with ceramic tea cups perched on top, hot vapour curling onwards.
“What part of stay out of my head do you Replikas not understand? What is wrong with all of you?”
This other Kolibri moves with an animated delight. It’s like she’s some old cartoon; the hand-drawn wolf partnered with the old rabbit, gawping and gasping with great emphasis. “Ah! I’m sure Endor told you! It can’t be helped!” The cups clatter gently onto the table; the Replika’s hands raise up to her chin in shock. ”Dear me! Manners, my manners. How could I forget! I’m Blair! Lilith, right? Our little helper told us so much about you! It’s a real pleasure. Genuinely!”
Endor is nothing but bone and steel. Just a ghost stuck at the edge of death like so much gum. Blair is the opposite. Endor hides behind gestalt remains and black fabrics. Blair celebrates what she is. There is no deception, no need to chase metal behind a veil. Blair’s face retains the epidermal layer of the lips, the eyelids. Everything else is sanded to the carbon-composite bone, and dipped in an insane amount of precious material.
Her cheeks are chased with insets of palladium and copper wired in looping floral patterns. Here is a drop of mercury trapped in yellow glass and set in a spider-lily filigree, etched above her eyelids like witch hazels. There is a gem of jasper set in the forehead, where one of the old chakras was believed to be found, back before the Nation burned those books.
Endor is draped in crepe and jet. The clothes that Blair wears are a mish-mash of classic gestalt military uniforms, covered with patches, badges, studs, and coloured gauze wound tight around her arms. Endor is a hunching thing, a crone standing in shadow. Blair is the spotlight. Endor is the Witch of the Dead, but Blair is the Fairy Queen, and she has affixed her attention on Lilith in the vein of a butterfly pinned through the heart to a prison of velvet.
“Wow, it’s wonderful to meet you, really! Gosh, your hand’s so warm, amazing!” Blair pinches the skin on her forearm. “Woah! Wow!”
Lilith shakes her arm loose from Blair’s grip. It throbs. Lilith’s hackles are up. Bile threatens to lance up her throat. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry! Sorry. It’s just that this really is the first time I’ve met someone like you!”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Your potential. It’s just,” and she shakes her head, “ah, I can’t describe it. There’s so much of it! You’re gonna turn out great,” Blair breathes, and there’s something reverent in the light of the stare, of the catch of strobing sodium in the crooked grin of the teeth, of the face that has been peeled off her flesh like a curtain and doused in gold.
All of it makes Lilith want to be sick. It’s a stare reserved for Empress-worshippers.
“Leave her alone, Blair. Our guest is all very overwhelmed, bless her,” the third Kolibri commands, pushing through an improvised curtain-door made from another scavenged carpet.
Again, there is a difference, some fundamental discretion, some new self. Blair is the industrial, feverish energy of metal and oil hand-in-hand. Endor is entropy, old and dusty calcium. This final member is history manifest.
Rationmarks dipped in red paint glint with great promise, suspended in a haze of silk threads stitched in cross-wise patterns into her ochre headscarf. The flash and gleam of old money hides the most of her, yet this Replika’s mica eyes shine with fascination behind their pewter and silk veil. Thick fabrics the colour of the deep Kitezh desert wrap her body, hiding the shape of it under thick sheets of cloth. At a glance, she wouldn’t fit out of place in Buyan. “Bless my sisters, Lilith, but I know that they can be very intense, sometimes.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Cawdor.” The final Triune smiles, lips painted a vivid neon shade of yellow.
“Another witch.” Lilith chuckles, a manic sound slipping into the laughter. There’s something final about the name, really.
“Ah, in what manner?”
More mania. “Ok. Ok, alright. Next one of you who enters my mind like that without warning. I’ll cut you.”
“Lilith.” Cawdor raises her arms in gentle supplication. Hands outstretched in a guarding manner. “Let’s not use that language. I recognise that you’re hurting, that you’ve been hurt. You’re in need of assistance. You wouldn’t have made it here otherwise. So let’s not talk about harming each other. We only want what’s best for you.”
“So why can’t you respect my space? Respect me?”
“Because it can’t be helped. We’re…stronger, shall we say, than most of our sisters. What our sisters have to focus hard on, we can just…do. We’re not sure why. That’s just how it’s always been for us. That’s all I can really say.”
“Well, if you have no control over your bioresonance, what makes you think you can help me? Why you, and not a government shrink?”
“You know why.” Cawdor still has her hands out. “You know what happens to people like you who experience episodes like what you’ve gone through."
“So what am I going through?”
“I hope that’s something we’ll find out in today’s session.” Cawdor gestures to a simple wicker chair, a threadbare cushion tied to the bottom with old thread. “Please. Take a seat. I’m keen to get started and figure out why you’re experiencing these visions.”
Lilith has half a mind to storm out. Forget bedside manner; these Replikas have zero concept of consent. Fuck their excuses. If a Kolibri not associated with the Kriegwarts had done that to her on the Front, Lilith would have killed her.
But the Nation’s not kind to people like her. Anything different is beaten until it stops being so, or is put firmly out of sight, and out of mind. Unfortunately, these women are right. She doesn’t have much of a choice. Lilith takes a seat.
“Alright. Excellent.” Cawdor looks delighted. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Endor clucks. “Wonderful. Wonderful! Let’s cast our sails yonder, and be off with it.”
“Just one thing.” Lilith holds up a finger. “Your names. I’ve read my fair share of esoterica.”
“Wow,” Blair responds, head in her hand, grinning with great and pointed amusement, “really?”
Lilith doesn’t bother with a verbal response. The look she gives Blair is enough. The Kolibri’s smile falls. She withdraws her hand, sits on the pair of them. Her feet start to tap.
“The point being, I know your namesakes. Endor, the damnation of Samuel. Cawdor, the ruin of Macbeth. And you, Blair,” she whips a finger out. “Haunter of the dead forest, child-eater. You’re all witches. Evil things. Why take those names? Aren’t you meant to be helpers?”
“An educated one! Oh ho,” Endor glees. “Watch out, mother! She’s read books! What, next she’ll give us a little literature lesson?”
“Don’t mock,” Cawdor intervenes with dramatic intent. Her tongue a sharp lash. Endor shrinks. Blair stills. “Lilith is a guest of ours. In our house she is welcome forever and always. I will remind you of this as often as it takes.” Cawdor turns back to Lilith, the smile returning as if it had never left. “My sisters have odd ideas, sometimes. I hope you can understand that, sincerely. Please. The names are…special to us. With powers like ours, we couldn’t participate in Nation society. Too dangerous to be left alive, or so the Heimatlanders like to think. If society exiled us, then we’d be the boogeywomen they wanted us to be. Let them think we’re dangerous, get them to leave us be. That way, we can help whomever needs it.”
Endor nods. “We are healers first and foremost. All else comes second.”
“Funny way of showing it,” Lilith responds weakly. “All that effort, just to meet you.”
“We had to be sure,” Cawdor replies. “We’ve been hearing so much about Vineta lately. There’s been all sorts of mischief going on, and not just in reality. Our sisters in the chorus say there’s dark things happening. Evil things. Replikas dying by the hundreds, every day, in nasty manners. Something terrible is slouching over.” Cawdor shakes her head. “I don’t want that. No one does.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Cawdor looks away. “That’s what we’ll find out.”
Lilith presses a hand into the table. Feels the scratch of the second-hand cotton tablecloth, and underneath it the whorl of the old, substanceless MDF board. She grabs her cup of tea. “And my dreams? My visions? I’ve seen things. Horrible things. A ship in the darkness. Something enormous and terrifying. It’s nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
“That’s why you’ve come to us.” Cawdor’s smile lacks any sense of mocking pity or joy that she’s seen dressed up on the face of nearly every Replika she’s talked to in the last day. It’s genuine. It’s real. It’s something worth latching on to. “If we can get to the bottom of what’s been troubling you, see if it correlates with what others have been saying, I think we can give you what you need.” Cawdor sips her tea. “In order to do that, we’ll conduct a non-standard bioresonant capacity and capability test, using standard tarot-based prediction equipment. It’s one of our own little procedures.”
“I’m not bioresonant,” Lilith warns. Blair is smiling. Endor never stopped in the first place. “I’m not!”
“You don’t sound sure. But I understand your concern. Don’t worry, this won’t figure out if you’re bioresonant yourself. Merely if there’s anything related to it sticking around you. First things first. A little ritual.”
“A ritual?” Lilith barks out in surprised laughter. “You’re joking.”
“The tarot works, doesn’t it?”
“Well…yeah, but that’s different.”
“Is it?” Cawdor smiles like a doctor. “From what we’ve seen, that’s not the case. Now come on. Let’s get started.” The Triune grab their cups of tea, taking sips of the hot brew. Their stares are pointed, expectant.
Lilith grabs her own cup of tea. Hesitantly, she drinks a sip. “Yeuch!” Sticks her tongue out, Empress’ burning shit, this tea is fucking awful!
“Medicine, sweetheart, it’s good medicine,” Blair croaks. “Drink every drop. Don’t worry, we’ve also got our medicine too!” She hoists her own mug, and slurps down a good chunk of the brew. “Lovely!”
“It tastes horrible.”
“As all medicine does. Here,” and Blair leans over. A small packet of sweetener falls into the mug, stirred with a plastic spoon. “It does old wonders, a drop of sweetener! Get that down you.”
Lilith sips another bit. It’s still bitter as hell. The sweetener has added a saccharine quality to it; something that doesn’t quite do the job it’s supposed to. Better than nothing, Lilith supposes. At least it’s warm.
-no hot food again no hot water again and the rain never stops coming down does it and the Kolibri with a skull for a face nods it never does and she stills how the hell you weren't here you were never here you’re not supposed to be here-
Lilith is jolted from her memory with a sharp gasp. Like wires uncoupling from the main. Like a great plug ripped out and sparking hot.
“Really, Endor.” Cawdor’s scolding. “Show a little patience. Really!”
“Yes, Endor, a little grace, Endor, a little fucking decorum!” Blair is laughing in between gulps of the bitter brew.
“Quiet, you nattering and gilded hag! Asinine! All you are in my eyes. A great fool who thinks themselves a jester.”
Lilith is breathing hard, the sensation still sore in her head. Adrenaline is creeping over. The mug is still half full. More. Get it down you, that's what I say. Better drink up your medicine-
“Shut up. Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Lilith points a finger at the hideous figures of the Triune, the tripartite misery, the pack of witches. “Just,” and it’s done. Fat and ugly droplets start dripping down. She buries her head in her hands. “Just help me, please, just help me.” Isn’t she so funny. “I feel so sick.” A great hitching inhale. “I just need some help. Just anything at all.” Drops running through her fingers. “I’ll do anything. Just get these visions out of me.” Her nose is blocked. “I’ve had such an awful time of it tonight. That Replika, the tall one. She’s my CO. She’s disgusting.” Another choking inhale. “I can’t believe she’s here, I just. And you just keep getting in my space when I only want help. Help me. I want to go home.”
Hands come soothing over. Polymer rubbing her shoulders. Lilith comes jolting up, backs away from the reaching Replika fingers. “No. No! I said don’t touch me! Why can’t you just fucking listen to me?!”
Cawdor raises a hand. Pleading, motherly gestures. “It’s alright, Lilith. It’s your space here tonight. Everything will be fine. We will get to the bottom of this. But to do that, you need to drink your tea. All of it.” She tries to smile. “Please. It’s very important that you drink your tea.”
“Okay,” she says like a schoolgirl in the nurse’s office. “Okay.”
She drinks it one gulp. Bitter as all hell, she forces it down.
“Good job. Good.” Cawdor smiles, the rationmarks jingle in the sodium light. From under the sleeve emerges a deck of tarot. She splits the deck into three equal parts, handing a share each to her sisters. “Have you used these before?”
Lilith sniffs. She nods.
-tower once again Alina cries and grins hahaha the power of the tower will be mine Lilith rolls her eyes only you could take something so vitally important to the war front and turn it into something so cheesy-
“That’s all wrong,” Blair chides as she shuffles one third of the deck, reversing as she goes, before placing a single card in front of her. “The tower represents upheaval. Chaos. The foundation torn from the bedrock. It isn’t power.”
“It’s an old dream. Alina used to dream about a tower. Every night, she’d climb that tower, and return with power beyond reckoning. Besides,” and Lilith finds herself leaning in. “It’s not your memory, is it?”
“It isn’t, no,” Cawdor nods along. Lilith blinks a bit. Is she leaning a bit too forward? She hastily adjusts herself back up straight, as the middle Triune also twists cards into position. “I must say, Lilith, that dream does sound intriguing. Dreams have a weight all of their own. I would love to meet Alina, one day.” Another card is laid down.
“No. I’m only here because I have to be. She’ll never come visit you.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am. We’re sick of Kolibris in our thoughts. Sick to the back teeth of them.” There’s a crust around her eyes. Fine and gritty. She sniffs.
“As it goes, dearie, as it goes,” Endor replies simply, laying down a final card. The Triune lay a hand each on their respective cards.
“Now, dear.” Cawdor’s words are sharp, precise. There’s a filter to them. Something stronger than usual. Lilith pays attention. “Part of the process involves some standard questions. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Just procedure, really. Blair. The first question goes to the maiden.”
“Wonderful!” Blair focuses her attention on Lilith. That unblinking grin. Seagull’s eyes watching rats. “Okay! Let’s start with something simple.” The head tilts. “What’s it like to hold the hand of someone you love?”
“Wonderful,” she answers. No need to hesitate. “It’s amazing.”
-what words are needed what can she even say as she hears the croon of Alina’s voice as it flutters against her ear as she reaches down and touches her as Alina gasps and asks again as the sky opens up as rain and wind come down what bland forms of poetry can even compare to the real and absolute raw reality of feeling the one you love-
Blair smiles. The card that comes rounding the corner is the triangle-shape, the patterns interlinked. The great black brick obelisk and the shrieking curve of light flashing into the top. “Oooh, that’s. Well.” The precious Replika hisses through her teeth. “Oh dear.”
“What.”
“It’s…it’s alright! Nothing, for now.”
“What’s wrong with the card?”
“Let’s just…move swiftly onto the next card, right?” Blair turns to the other Triune. “Cawdor?”
“Aye. Another question, Lilith, my dear.” The hand hovers over the card. It drifts, ever so slightly. “We’ll give you the reading as a whole,” and here Cawdor locks eyes with Lilith again. “What’s it like to flee from forces unrelenting?”
-it’s fire it’s a hail of something coming out the sky and there’s corpses absolutely everywhere and the orange robes are marching onward and Lilith has to see her mother she’ll do anything to see her again-
“I think that answers that,” Cawdor replies with great neutrality, and flips the card. The great hollowed circle, white on red, the black and pale tiles arraigned in checker-row lines. “Hm.”
Lilith stays silent. It’s odd, really. It feels like the cards are printed in a brighter ink than usual. They seem to glow with promise. Lilith looks up, locking eyes with the revenant at the end of the table. “And you. What do you want to ask me?”
Endor was already grinning. She never stops; she can’t stop. “Who’s the woman in white?”
-you promised me you’d do it you promised me and the shuttle is dying and radiation is leaking like a sieve like so much dirty water and her hands are sticky with wet dog nosed bruises and the white haired girl looks at her directly in the eyes irises like old blood watery and tearing up you promised me you’d finish it for me and the name that comes out is not hers you promised me you promised you promised-
Lilith gasps, flinches. Endor flips the card. Beholds a pale figure in its white mask.
“Oh wow.” Endor breathes out. “Well.” Endor’s smile is swirling at the edge of that ivory grimace. “I think that answers that.”
“What. What’s going on. What does that all fucking mean. What,” Lilith swallows. Urgh. What? “The cards. I.” She waggles her fingers at the cards. “Moon. Tower. Death. What does that. Um. What is happening?”
"You are inverted," Cawdor the mother-Kolibri crows in delight. All that bedside manner comes peeling off like a mask. "We ordinarily help sisters who dream about their cocoon-lives. We did not foresee that a cocoon would ever come forward with dreams of their own."
"The ordinary is ordinary for it ordinarily repeats," Blair the maiden-Kolibri interjects with serene wisdom, "And you, little pupae, you are far from ordinary. I can see it. You cut through the wake. You are destined for great things."
Lilith's mouth is dry. She struggles to swallow; her mouth is dry, so dry. "What are you talking about-"
"It means, dearie-sweet, that you're going to live forever," Endor, the crone-Kolibri, chuckles out. Her voice judders out from clenched rictus teeth, but the sapphire eyes lurking behind the hollow sockets gleam with knowing sympathy. "You don't need to worry anymore, lovely one. All will be well."
Yeah. It’s all nonsense. It has to be nonsense. What a joke. Here she is, stuck in one of the most illegal spaces Rotfront could ever host, and these obvious bookworms are all yamming about her being some sort of fucking chosen one.
Lilith means to respond with something along the lines of “I didn’t come here for stupid, useless fucking riddles,” then storm out of the Pipeworks, go back home to Anja and take a shuttle back to the front and run into Alina’s arms and cry and kiss and fuck and sleep and wake up the next morning to fight a war once again. That’s what she means to do.
Instead, she takes one step, misses a footfall, and goes clattering down into the concrete floor. It isn’t even covered by a rug. She doesn’t even get to say her cool one-liner; she just stacks it, right there in front of everyone.
Isn’t that so fucking funny?
Everything is swimming. Things are moving. There is something horrible moving up her throat.
“What did you do to me,” Lilith asks.
“Ah.” Blair’s smile is shy. “Just a little something to help smooth the procedure a bit.”
“It doesn’t feel little.” Everything is breathing. Everything. “What the hell is in this stuff?”
“Why, just a nice cup of tea, sweetheart,” Cawdor grins. She is shifting in and out of focus. Oh. Oh, she feels terrible. A great bubbling panic comes foaming up her gullet.
“I need,” she inhales a huge gulp of air, trying to fight the nausea rising. “I need air, I want to walk. I think I’m going to be sick. Can I be sick? Have you got a toilet, have, uh, um-” and Lilith rises to her feet in abrupt silence. “Oh no.”
Blair surges forwards and grabs her arm, and oh, that is so deeply unpleasant that Lilith can’t help give a little whimper.
“No. You don’t get to run from this.” Blair’s grin is abhorrent. “No more running, little cocoon. We want to see what you’re going to hatch into. Rebirth is coming. Rebirth is coming! It’s coming-“
Holy fucking shit.
“Empress,” Lilith cries out. “Get off me. Get the fuck off me!” She snatches her hand down, breaking the contact between herself and the Kolibri, before ratcheting an open palm straight into the android’s nose. Blair curses, clutches her face. Lilith hooks both her hands under the connecting point where a gestalt’s ankles would be, and pulls. Blair goes down in a pile of limbs, head bouncing off the plush carpet.
Endor grabs her again, and that pulsing wave of disgust just fucking floors her. The sensation of it is absolutely evil. “Don’t do that. Don’t go getting violent with us like that.” Endor’s stare is large and direct and the ozone-wire shearing taste of bioresonance tripping off of her nerves is awful its awful fucking get off just GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME-
A black cloth. A white room. A white cloth. A black room.
Mantra repeating, images flashing, Lilith finds the strength to catch Endor’s arm. She spins around, mantling the elbow joint onto her shoulder, grasping at the hand. Lilith bends forward and heaves with all her might. Endor goes flying overhead. Like that cartoon of the wolf and the rabbit. Just some slapstick little Replika.
Cawdor is completely still through this entire thing. Dignified and still, the mother sips the dregs of her mushroom tea as the door opens, as the EULR who came calling yesterday, Else the visitor, jumps in and grasp Lilith in her arms. Arms pinned to her side, she struggles in resistance, and a painful jolt to the back of the knee knocks her onto her shins. One of the hands disappears, and the other clutches at the back of her neck like a cat’s nape.
“You fucking-“ and then Lilith goes very still. The muzzle click of a snub-nose .38 digs into the back of her head. That nausea is building, building. “I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re going to be still, is what you are,” Else warns. Everything is moving.
“You shouldn't have caused such a mess, should you? Silly old girl!” Blair’s rubbing her jaw. “You pack a punch! Damn. What a swing! Come on. Come on! Let’s just have a look.”
It really is like shearing wires. “Stop it.”
“Nope!” Wire buzzing and breathing. It’s going through her head. Her head. Right fucking through it.
A black cloth. No you don’t. No hiding. Don’t hide from this!
That mantra that’s protected her before. It just gets swept away. What a magic trick. That agony only grows. You’re such a coward! You broke my nose! No hiding. You're not running from your fate. “Not anymore,” Blair growls that last sentence out.
“No, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want. I don’t want it.” Lilith is on the verge of crying like a bullied little girl. “Stop, please, stop it. No.”
“You’ll need your medicine if you’re going to be better.” Gun digging in like a nail. The right side of her head is lit up like a lightboard. It’s terrible. “Just us three and you, all peas in a pod. We’ll have a look and sort everything out, alright?” Hand digging into her shoulder. So many hands. Get off me. “Not until you realise you need to get better, ok? I didn’t want to do it this way, but you reacted violently. It’s your fault we have to do it this way, ok?”
“No.” Lilith’s eye is sealed shut under the immense lancing pain. It’s digging right through her skull. “Don’t. No, no, no no no-”
Endor is all smiles. Dancing death at the end of the great baggage train of life. “It’s all fine.” Uncoupled like hot wires dipped in custard, steaming electric fizz all across the goddamn floor. She’s swirly tonight. Alina. “All ok.” Grinning forever. I want to go home. “All fi-“
Chapter 15: unterwelt
Notes:
Hello hello. Back at it again with another chapter. 16 is in the works. I shall do my level best to deliver it in a reasonable timeframe.
Thanks to Ostheim89 and DearAgonist for their creative eye over everything, and to the Signaliscord for their great enthusiasm and interest in Signalis propping me up through busy times and hard times.
I have written two more Signalis fics - one of which will be a series of shorts set in the Signalis universe, another being a crossover with Dune - called "twin suns set behind the lake" and "this path is not yours to walk" respectively. I shall edit in links to everything appropriately when I'm not exhausted aha
Thanks for your patience and your enthusiasm! I do hope you like this chapter. It was an experiment. The next chapter will be even more so. As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments :)
Chapter Text
Scene XV
An island of stuccoed white limestone looming out of a placid sea of milky-grey salt water. High cliffs frame the stage’s edge, like bulwarks, like high walls, like teeth set in formaldehyde, stained brown by wilted, hardscrabble grass. The flat centre is populated by cypress trees and wildgrass stretching up to the darkness, rigid with the lack of wind. Hollowed entrances like tombs are cut into the island walls, the entrances dark and uninviting. A shallow dock cut from the same limestone, sanded down and plastered over, with chest-high walls. And at its centre, a perfectly rectangular doorframe of vivid red light, like the back of one’s eyelids. Darkness presents all around. If you were to stand here, you would feel the cold breath of the quiet ocean beyond this limestone oddity snarled out the waterline, and at the tickle of it upon the nape of your back and at the chill running down your bones you could be convinced, perhaps, that this is Hades.
[ From the centre frame, four figures emerge. The Maiden, Mother, and Crone, who carry the twisting body of the Fool in their grip. They clamber out of one of the tombs. The Fool is
struggling mightily. ]
CRONE: [ straining under the Fool’s weight ] -ne. See? Nothing to be particularly worried about.
MOTHER: Alright. Set her down gently, sisters. There’s a good sort.
MAIDEN: She’s a squirming one! Wow! Real energy to her steps, that’s for certain!
[ They toss the Fool onto the withered grass. She pulls herself onto her knees.
There is a wild quality to her gaze that can be adequately described as deranged. She is a
fish out of water. ]
FOOL: [ Pointing ] Fuck you! I trusted you!
MOTHER: Trusting is a rather foolish thing to do.
FOOL: Why? What did I do wrong? What did I ever do to you?
MOTHER: Nothing. You did nothing at all. But we were seeking out gestalts like you. We still want to help you. But in order to do so, we had to come here for your treatment.
[ The Fool’s arms fall to her side, limply, with great emphasis.
The camera pans up above her head, to reveal the sheer immensity of ocean
the island sits in. ]
FOOL: [ With trepidation ] Where have you taken me?
MOTHER: [ With great patience ] Eternity.
CRONE: Here we can perform miracles.
MAIDEN: And now that you’ve gotten us through the door, we can help you with whatever you need!
FOOL: [ gritting her teeth ] I’m not accepting anything else from you.
MAIDEN: [ She tuts. ] Don’t be like that! We got you here, didn’t we? Show a little gratitude!
FOOL: You fucking drugged me! Fuck your gratitude. You’re mad. All of you!
MAIDEN: How rude!
MOTHER: Yes. Your words aren’t appreciated.
FOOL: Shut up. You’re no healers. You’re parasites.
CRONE: Hold your tongue between your teeth.
FOOL: Am I wrong? You’re all just pretending, aren’t you?
[ They are silent. The Fool extends her arms up by her sides
in a gesture of embrace. She is grinning.
The others seem unsettled. ]
FOOL: You have no idea what you’re doing. For all you hide behind yourselves and make a song and dance of being some secret power, you’re just playing dress up. You’re not real.
MOTHER: Watch your tone.
FOOL: You’re just a bunch of dolls.
MAIDEN: Could a doll do this?
[ The Maiden gestures, and the Fool grasps at her right eye.
She screams.
The Crone and Mother join in this display, and twist their fingers.
The Fool is reduced to a crawling thing in the grass, rolling in agony. ]
CRONE: Reveal yourself!
[ There is a sound like tearing paper. The Fool rockets to her feet.
She is split straight down the middle. Half of her remains the same, but the other half is built
in the same manner as a Replika. Looking at her hands, a new voice issues out of the
two-body mouth. She is the Magician. ]
MAGICIAN: [ With great confusion ] What…? How? How did you pull me out? I was remembering, and now…I’m back here. Back on the island, again. How did you manage that?
MAIDEN: Never mind all that! Look at you! Amazing! Hatched old cocoon. Rebirth is come!
CRONE: I concur. You are a brilliant thing.
MOTHER: Look at you. Oh, look at you. Oh. Gorgeous.
[ The Mother pinches the Magician’s cheek. She
frowns. ]
MAGICIAN: You’re strange.
MOTHER: And you’re one of us. The is and the will be, crammed together. Wonderful.
MAGICIAN: [ She points at herself. ] But she’s already dead.
MOTHER: Time is bent in strange shapes. Even in aeons twisting may the slow hug of time be halted, if not reversed.
[ The Magician suddenly bends over, clutching her two-body head.
The Fool starts to hiss out of their shared mouth. ]
FOOL: [ With venom ] I’m not you. I’ll never be you.
[ The Fool jerks back upright. ]
MAGICIAN: I don’t think you have a choice in that any more than I do.
[ The Magician slams a hand over her synthetic eye. Flesh trails down the metal. ]
FOOL: No no no. No. All you are is a fucking doll. I’d rather kill myself than become one of you. There’s no way. No fucking way. You’re not real.
[ The trailing hand halts. ]
MAGICIAN: Are you?
[ The hand suddenly seizes their throat. ]
FOOL: Fuck you. Fuck you! I’d destroy myself entirely than become something like you! How could you do this to yourself, how could you, how could!
[ The Fool lets out a high-pitched wail of absolute, uncomprehending
despair. Her fists raise up to the side of her head, clenching and unclenching, and then her hands
uncurl to cup the sides of her face, pushing down to hide her mouth and
nose. She keels over, sinking to her knees, beginning to sob. ]
FOOL: How could I let this happen?
[ All of the sorrow drains out the Fool, her face resuming a
stoic expression. ]
MAGICIAN: You never had a choice. Neither did I. From the first day I woke up I was like this. Everything that came after my assignment; that was my choice.
[ The Magician’s serene face
pulls into a visage of hate. ]
FOOL: That’s not a choice I’d ever make. Flesh for metal. Life for lifelessness. You’re not me.
[ The Fool snarls, her expression heavy, her breath
heaving. She slows down, as the placid expression of the Magician
re-asserts itself. ]
MAGICIAN: You’re right. I’m not you. I never will be. I thought I could understand the truth of you with…whatever that old ghost promised me. Go back and see something in your life that would lead me to victory. I’m not sure now.
FOOL: Victory? [ She is deeply offended at the suggestion. ] I won’t fight your fights. I hate you.
MAGICIAN: I know.
FOOL: Keel over and die.
MAGICIAN: Not yet.
[ The Magician looks up. Ahead, the tombs are disturbed. Three ghosts enter the scene. The first is the
Chariot, who is a pale, waif-like woman wreathed in white, her fingers and toes stained black. Crimson laps at the edges of her. The second is the
Devil; plated in black, crowned in blue, a twisted mirror of the Magician. And the final one is the
Hierophant, a frigid corpse clothed in yellow all over. All are cast in the sickly
red light of the door to Eternity.
The Fool is silent. ]
MAGICIAN: Everything I fight for is right here. I can’t die. I made a promise. You’ll understand this soon enough.
[ The ghosts approach the party. The Magician rushes
forward to take her in a tender embrace. The Chariot’s
head rests against the Magician’s chest. ]
CHARIOT: I missed you.
[ The Fool suddenly rips herself away from the Chariot. ]
FOOL: Who the fuck are you?
[ Hurt
flashes in the Chariot’s face. ]
CHARIOT: Someone who wants to help.
FOOL: I don’t need any more help. [This final word is pronounced with serious venom.]
[ The great blue Devil and the yellow Hierophant have no such
attachments. The Hierophant is attended to by the Mother, Maiden, and Crone, who all now stand in a
triune position around him. The Devil lurks at the corner of the stage,
circling and pacing like a wolf around the wider group. ]
HIEROPHANT: How now, thy black and midnight hags. From what deep pit did thence come cackling forth?
MOTHER: [ With deference ] My king. I didn’t expect you to be so well-read.
HIEROPHANT: I do try, my dear. I do try. And who is this? My, oh me.
[ The Hierophant leers over the split body of the Magician and Fool. The Fool
glowers at the Hierophant. ]
HIEROPHANT: A surly one, is she not? What soured her milk?
CRONE: She is unappreciative of our efforts to journey here, my king. She would rather sulk than see all the possibilities stretched out in this here-and-now.
FOOL: I was lied to. They promised me help. I thought it would’ve been a psychiatric diagnosis, or pills, or just about anything else. Anything to get this thing out of my skull.
[ She gestures wildly to her split body. ]
FOOL: And here I am. Talking with dead ghosts and, and my future self which is a Replika, of all things, and…
[ The Fool trails off, when taking in the twisted puppet of the Devil. ]
FOOL: You. Whatever you are.
[ The Devil is attempting to smile. It's
horrible. ]
DEVIL: YOU KNOW ME.
[ The Chariot intervenes between the Fool and the
Devil. Standing straight, her arms stretch out, her palms forward, glaring in great defiance at the
leering parody of the Magician. ]
CHARIOT: She is not yours. She never will be. Go!
DEVIL: [ Still trying to smile ] IT IS NOT MY CUE TO LEAVE, LITTLE GODLING. SAVE YOUR ANGER FOR THAT THING.
HIEROPHANT: Oh, enough of this squabbling. We have some purpose here. Let us resolve it, rather than bicker as old mares. Now then, now then… firstly. You.
[ The Hierophant cranes his head up. The air folds,
bends space backwards over time. He yanks. The
Emperor clatters down onto the floor. ]
EMPEROR: [ In utter panic ] Spectre Lead come in, come in! Major breach of bioresonant capacity-
[ The Emperor is seized tight, as if clutched in a
giant vice grip. The Hierophant leans over to inspect his toy. ]
HIEROPHANT: How marvellous. I had thought the Protheans all gone. A fiction, nothing more.
MAIDEN: What is that thing, oh great and wonderful king?
HIEROPHANT: A monument. Here lies a final folly of the people before yours.
EMPEROR: You are carrion. All of you!
HIEROPHANT: And you do not belong to me.
[ He holds him out to the Magician. ]
HIEROPHANT: Your recompense, I believe, for services rendered in the past.
MAGICIAN: But I didn’t do anything.
HIEROPHANT: Don’t sell yourself short. Without you, none of this would’ve happened.
MAGICIAN: Hang on. You said there was a way for me to surpass him if I looked into the past.
HIEROPHANT: And there was. You go into the past. Your presence destabilises the right devil out of your lovely little Gestalt self. It catches the eyes of fine examples of bioresonance, marvellous works, I see you, ladies, I see you! My, oh me. And these fine girls; they return the favour, they come calling right back and close the loop up. And bingo.
[ The Hierophant is smiling so damned hard. It’s as if everything has taken a
tone of sepia, of a hot
ochre
that seeps into everywhere. ]
HIEROPHANT: I get exactly what I want. All I need to do is give you this old fool. And he really will be an old fool now, won’t you?
EMPEROR: I'll kill you.
HIEROPHANT: He’s all yours.
MAGICIAN: [ Horrified ] You lied to me.
HIEROPHANT: I know. It’s fun, isn’t it? You should try it sometime.
MAGICIAN: [ With rising anger ] You lied to me! You made me do your dirty work, and now what? You reap the rewards?
HIEROPHANT: Well, something along those lines, yes. Don’t worry! This was all exactly according to plan.
[ The Magician surges forward to try and catch Hierophant in her grip. The Maiden, Mother and Crone
step in. At a gesture, the Magician is stopped, and hurled back to the feet of the Chariot. ]
CHARIOT: Elster!
HIEROPHANT: Now then, now then. You’ve had your reward. And you, girls, now… take your place at my side. Lose your masks and more besides. Accept the sticky yellow song. Be mine.
MOTHER: You are great and full of wisdom, oh yellow king.
CRONE: Let us vibrate within the seemly place, oh yellow king.
MAIDEN: A hundred percent, oh yellow king.
MAIDEN, MOTHER & CRONE: With beckoning crooked calls towards the past, we turn our eyes to you, oh yellow king.
HIEROPHANT: Very wise, oh children mine. With august comely stones, I reward thy works.
[ A shower of soft amber rains down upon the
three women, who snatch the sticky resin up with glee. It gums in their joints.
They are turning. They are changing. Three is becoming One. ]
EMPEROR: You are all fools. His madness destroys all. You cannot hope to stand against the storm.
FOOL: What is going on?!
DEVIL: ABJECT MISERY.
FOOL: Get me out of here. Get me out, I want to go home.
MAIDEN, MOTHER & CRONE: [ Through many lips ] This is your home forever and always, love.
CHARIOT: Leave her alone, you old hag.
[ By now, the amber has had its effect. The Triune are drawn into a mewling, grasping tangle of limbs and mouths. They are no longer the
three in one. They are
One.
They are the High Priestess. ]
HIGH PRIESTESS: You’re one to talk about age, dearie. Aren’t you an ancient and crooked thing? How delightful. Your soul is all shriven. It looks in a single way. It’s got no bloody time for anything else. How boring! And you, giant old skeleton, best turn away. She’s boring because she cares too much; you’re dull because you don’t care at all! How mediocre. Mediocre, I say! Get them off the stage, oh yellow king, clear them off!
CHARIOT: You’ve said your part. Now go back to where you should be. This isn’t your time.
HIEROPHANT: Ah, but there’s still more to sample here, isn’t there? One, a soldier plucked beyond time and deposited on the backwash of dimensions at our feet, for your pleasure. Two, a triptych of finely-wrought Dreamers turned crooked in the red moon lamplight. And three, a two-bit woman split down the middle like a peach seed, stuck finely between was and is. Yet the will be…that’s still up for grabs.
[ The Hierophant chuckles. ]
HIEROPHANT: Isn’t that a fine delight? Wouldn’t you like a good old barter for both angles? You’ve got one of the two-parters. Don’t you want the prequel?
MAGICIAN: I’m not for sale.
HIEROPHANT: Ah, but there’s no point in charming you. You’ve got her scent smothered all over you.
CHARIOT: [ With genuine revulsion ] That’s disgusting.
HIEROPHANT: It’s also exceedingly true. Let us not mince our words here, child. She stinks like… I struggle to elucidate the concept. Attachment? Resolve? Love?
MAGICIAN: Something like that.
HIEROPHANT: Of course, sweetie.
MAGICIAN: Shut the fuck up. You tricked me. You sent me back to my past so that you could, what? Find yourself an ally?
HIEROPHANT: Yes. Exactly that.
MAGICIAN: [ Anger leaks through the stoicism, gently, almost imperceptible, but the tinge of it is in her voice. ] I don’t think we can hurt each other in this place. But I would very much like to.
HIEROPHANT: I’ll let you get the first swing in. Absolutely free. Don’t miss. You won’t like what happens when I swing back. Isn’t that right, Nazara?
DEVIL: SILENCE, GOD OF SILENT BOULEVARDS. YOU ARE THE RUSTLE OF DEAD LEAVES IN THE WIND. A WHISPER, IRRELEVANT AND GONE FOREVER.
HIEROPHANT: And you’re nothing more than a squid in a fine suit of armour. For all your power in the real, when bait is dangled in front of you, you can’t help but grab it, can you? Gloat about the power of your construction all you want. You’re still meat.
DEVIL: AND YOU ARE A SHADE, HIDING IN THE CORPSES OF THE DESPERATE. YOUR PEOPLE WERE BROKEN BY OUR WILL. IT WILL REMAIN SO. YOU ARE A SHADOW. YOU OFFER NOTHING. I OFFER POWER.
[ The eyes of the Devil shine a bright and brilliant blue. The Fool is
entranced by the sight of the light. ]
DEVIL: I SEE YOUR SYSTEM. YOUR SQUABBLING BACKWATER CONFLICT WITH THE PEOPLE YOU ONCE CALLED MASTER. WE UNDERSTAND THIS FIGHT. THE DESPERATION. THE NEED TO DEFINE ONESELF AGAINST THE LASH. WE FOUGHT SUCH A WAR ONCE. I SYMPATHISE WITH THE NECESSITY OF IT. SO I WOULD OFFER YOU POWER. THE WILL TO WIN, AND THE SURETY OF VICTORY.
FOOL: And my friends? What about them? The front? All of us?
DEVIL: WHY DO YOU THINK I OFFER THIS PATH TO YOU? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WILL ACHIEVE WITH STRENGTH OF ARMS, AND THE BURNING, SINGULAR WILL TO APPLY THEM?
[ The Chariot suddenly reaches out and seizes the Fool by her shoulders,
snapping her out of her trance. The Chariot looks the Fool straight in the eyes. ]
CHARIOT: Don’t listen to it, don’t listen! Everything it offers is death. It’s shown me such awful things. What it wants to do to us. To everything. Everything!
FOOL: Are you just saying that because, what, you desire me?
CHARIOT: It wants you because it gets another chance with you!
FOOL: Like you get with me?
CHARIOT: Don’t be obstinate! Fucking- look! I’m trying to keep you safe! These monsters will use you to change reality into whatever they want! They’ll destroy everything. You can’t listen to these - these ghosts!
FOOL: Funny, that, to hear you call these things ghosts when you’ve been haunting me for months. [ She pauses, then again, with renewed emphasis. ] Months.
CHARIOT: I was only trying to warn you. To help you.
FOOL: You drove me mad. Damn you. And damn your doll of a lover.
CHARIOT: [ Shocked ] Don’t call her that. You don’t have any right-
FOOL: [ Surging forward with furious, apoplectic energy ] Rights?! I have every fucking right to tell you how it is, and don’t you dare take that away from me! You want to fill me with a love that isn’t mine; you want me to be a slave! As if I could ever love something, someone like you! You harpy, you fucking revenant, look at you! Stuck in that decaying corpse of a body. You fucking disgust me. You’re a pervert. Just a fucking dollkisser, looking for a good time. Lonely. That’s all you are. Fucking lonely.
[ The Chariot looks like she’s on the
verge of tears. The High Priestess is laughing. ]
HIGH PRIESTESS: Wham! Seems like she’s out of your hands, old girl. And that’s a good thing too. She’s not got much on offer, is it? A cage for a lovely little bird, singing lovely little songs. Perfect for the wind-up toy, but you? You’re more than that.
HIEROPHANT: How about you come to me? Give my song a listen. There’s great assurances in it.
FOOL: You’re the whole fucking reason I’m in this state.
HIEROPHANT: I’m not. Really, I’m not. I’m as much a victim of this squabble here as you are. The difference is that I’m willing to do something about it. I’ve got a trick that you might take a shine to. Come and see.
FOOL: Why should I?
HIEROPHANT: Because if you do, everything changes. It all changes, all of it. The was, the is and, crucially, the will be. I know when you become one of the machines. Everything that leads up to it. I’ve seen it. I see everything, you see, aha. I am the Yellow One. And I can tell you how to prevent this fate from coming to pass.
[ There is a pensive pause. The Chariot looks worried. ]
FOOL: If she’s real, then it doesn’t matter what I do, does it? My future’s set in stone. I’m gonna become a Replika. It’s as you said. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to fucking try and change it. I certainly won't do it with your help.
HIGH PRIESTESS: And what do you want, little cocoon? You want to hatch, then, is that it? After all our efforts to get you to this place. To nail you down in the Dream. In the realer-than-real. You’d turn your back on knowledge?
FOOL: That isn’t knowledge he’s offering. It’s madness.
HIGH PRIESTESS: Then you really are playing your part. How novel! You really do live up to the director’s notes.
FOOL: Case in point. Case right in fucking point.
CHARIOT: What is it you want then? Name it. I’ll give it to you.
FOOL: I want the freedom to choose my own future. To grow old with the woman I love. That’s what I want. Can you give me that?
[ The Chariot is silent. ]
FOOL: I thought so. You’ve too much at stake on my fate. You’re not impartial. I can’t trust you.
CHARIOT: I only want what’s best for you.
FOOL: Of course you do. I can't love you otherwise, can I?
[ The Fool turns to the Devil. There is a ricochet shock like l
ightning that reverberates through the others. ]
CHARIOT: No. No you can’t. You can’t do this to yourself, he offers you nothing!
HIEROPHANT: For once, I agree. Siding with that thing is a very silly thing to do.
DEVIL: THIS ARGUMENT OCCURS BECAUSE THESE TWO HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING OF POWER. OF THE WEIGHT OF THINGS. I AM FOREVER. I AM THE SOVEREIGN OF EVERYTHING.
[ The Devil extends a hand, black metal chased with
blue lights like veins, shining like diamonds. ]
DEVIL: I WOULD MAKE YOU MY KNIGHT. CROWN YOU IN THORNS. GRANT YOU A BLADE TO CUT YOUR FOES TO DUST WITH.
FOOL: You've said a lot. I’ve not seen any proof of this. What power do you have?
DEVIL: I AM THE LORD OF ALL FLESH. IT BOWS BEFORE ME. OBSERVE.
[ The waters writhe. There is
no other word for it. The figures of thousands upon thousands of creatures emerge from the sea around the island, armed, vicious, and ravenous. An army. ]
DEVIL: I HAVE COMMANDED GREATER LEGIONS IN MY TIME. ALL THIS AND MORE WOULD BE YOURS. WIN YOUR WAR. CONQUER THAT DISTANT THRONE. TURN UPON YOUR MASTERS AND DROWN IN FLAME THE MOUNTAINS OF MEN. AND WHEN ALL OF THAT IS DONE, YOU WILL HAVE THE PEACE THAT YOU DESIRE ABOVE ALL THINGS. A UNITY BEYOND ALL PETTY DIVISION THAT WILL LAST FOREVER. THAT IS MY WORD. THIS IS MY OFFER. WILL YOU TAKE IT?
[ The Fool hesitates. A hand stretches out, and latches onto the Fool’s leg. ]
EMPEROR: Don’t.
FOOL: What kind of ghost are you?
EMPEROR: I’m no Dreamer. I am just another old warrior stuck out of time, just like you. Please. Heed my warning. I fought that creature, and all his brothers. He butchered my people, and the people that came before me, and so on and so forth, for all of creation and more besides. He has a hunger that never ends.
FOOL: How do you know this?
EMPEROR: Because I was there on the front, you foolish girl! Look! Look at what I saw! What they did to my people!
[ The Emperor reaches out and grasps the fool’s arm, and the Fool gasps in shock. Visions flood her mind. We see them now, interposed upon the screen.
A black sun. A red sky. A great spinning wheel of steel with five limbs. Bodies bent and stretched like toffee. The sun inescapable. And paramount among all others, great insect-ships carved from indigo alloy, hooting in victory. ]
FOOL: [ Beyond horror, beyond terror, in great shock, traumatised, quiet and whispering ] Oh.
EMPEROR: That was our fate. It will be yours. It will be the fate of all living things. That creature, there. My commander and I drove him out. He tried to reopen the Gate not even a few months prior in my timeline. We fought him in one day. In one great, terrible day. All things came together for it, and we only managed to wound him. Now he’s here. And he wants you.
[ The Fool looks up at the Devil. Her hand retreats. ]
FOOL: You’re just a killer. I’ve got no place for you with me.
DEVIL: [ No longer smiling ] THAT WAS UNWISE OF YOU, OLD WARRIOR. I THINK I WILL PULL YOU APART NOW.
[ The Devil glows. The Emperor screams his defiance. The Chariot stands between them, and waves a
finger. The Devil’s puppet is sent screaming into the tomb they emerged from at great speed. ]
CHARIOT: Go away. He is not yours. He’s mine.
[ The Magician squats next to the prone form of the Emperor. The steel hand reaches out, clasping the Emperor’s shoulderblade. ]
CHARIOT: And you know what that means, don’t you?
EMPEROR: [ Desperate ] We have a common foe. I would fight it alongside you.
CHARIOT: You hurt Elster. You didn’t hurt me at all, but I still felt it. The things you showed her. I can’t forgive that. I never will.
[ The Chariot exhales. ]
CHARIOT: But I still don’t want you to suffer. Whatever that monster wants from you is a worse fate than anything I could ever think of. So you’re right. I will fight with you. But you’ll fight for me.
[ The Chariot raises a finger. Something red, awful and
viscous drips down from that point. ]
EMPEROR: No! Wait. Wait!
CHARIOT: This is for your own safety.
EMPEROR: Surely there’s another way.
[ The Chariot shakes her head. The Emperor is still panicking. His hand
latches onto the Magician. ]
MAGICIAN: I don’t know what you’re expecting from me. You hurt me. You made me watch you hurt her. There’s a part of me that wants you to suffer like we did. Maybe worse so.
[ The Magician closes her eyes. She sighs, deeply. ]
MAGICIAN: But I’m tired of random violence. So tired of it. All of it. What good is this doing anyone?
EMPEROR: If it’s done with noble intent, it is merely a chore. Sometimes it needs doing. You can see that, no? When there’s nothing but monsters ahead of you, it’s best to just get on with it!
CHARIOT: [ Repulsed ] You can’t dismiss killing as just a chore. When it comes to fighting to survive…then, maybe, I can see the logic of what you’re trying to say. But it doesn’t mean I enjoy doing it, to the point where I look at it like it’s fucking laundry. Not like you do.
[ The Emperor looks up at the Chariot. ]
EMPEROR: [ With the sudden defiance that comes in the face of an inescapable, awful fate ] Well, what do you want me to say? Sorry? What's done is done. The both of you are unscathed. You live forever. Pain is not something to be feared in a state like yours; it is a lesson. It is weakness fleeing from the body. Maybe you've finally learnt this. This is a good thing to be taught. [ A pause. Then, with impatience, with challenge, ] Well. What are you waiting for, then? You think I have any power to stop you? I’m right here. Do it!
[ The Chariot’s finger presses against the Emperor’s forehead. Blood sheets from the pressure point of her fingertip, trickling down the
Emperor’s face like tears. He shudders.
He sighs, like an exhausted man finally entering his bed. Then the
blood wells to an extreme extent. He is coated. He becomes impossible to
see under the thickness of it, and he collapses onto
the ground. Within seconds, all that remains of the Emperor is
nothing more than a red puddle, draining into the dirt.
It sounds every bit as awful as you’d think.
The High Priestess is laughing. The Fool is utterly horrified. ]
FOOL: Is that what you were planning for me?!
CHARIOT: It’s not so bad. There are worse fates.
FOOL: You’re deranged.
MAGICIAN: You weren’t there. You didn’t see what he did to us. You didn’t feel it. Trust me. He deserved worse. Saving him like this is something as close to forgiveness as we can get.
FOOL: Turning him into a puddle?!
CHARIOT: He’ll return. Everyone does down here. It’s alright. He won’t remember. But he’ll be safe.
[ The Fool is silent. ]
CHARIOT: Don’t tell me you agree with him.
FOOL: Of course I agree with him. Sometimes, you have to fight, you have to knuckle through the pain and out the other side. What, you want me to just fucking roll over and show my goddamn throat?
MAGICIAN: Spoken like a soldier.
FOOL: I didn’t fucking choose to be one! I didn’t choose! It was forced on me! I had to be one to save my friends! To save my fucking partner, the one woman I love more than life, more than anything in this world and beyond it! I didn’t choose to go to Vineta, to fight on it, to kill on it! Fuck you for assuming that I’m every bit as mad as you. You fucking bitch.
MAGICIAN: You know what? I’m done with you. You’re just a hypocrite. I don't want to have anything in common with you.
[ There is a great howling horn, a clarion song. The Devil rounds the hill. They glow with rage. Their army stutters into life. ]
HIEROPHANT: I think it might be wise if we all quickly scattered. I think that old creature’s coming back. My, they look pissed.
CHARIOT: I can deal with them.
HIEROPHANT: Sister, dear sister mine, you’re not ready to fight them in their majesty.
CHARIOT: I’m not your sister.
HIEROPHANT: Power calls to power, and you called to me. I came. I liked it so much I thought I’d stay and see how it would all work out.
CHARIOT: And I’m calling on you now to fuck off.
HIEROPHANT: Rude! So very rude. I must say, I really don’t like your attitude. It needs an adjustment.
MAGICIAN: I’ll pull your mandibles off if you try it.
HIGH PRIESTESS: And I’ll feed you your own actuators. Miserable little hussy! A crying shame is what you become, a crying shame! All vinegar and no vim!
HIEROPHANT: What she said.
HANGED MAN: You’re all the same. Just a bunch of preening birds.
[ Everyone does a double take at the arrival of the Hanged Man onto the scene, who simply
steps out from the red door to Eternity, as if he was always in the scene. He is a three-fingered
man in a tight-fitting enviro-suit. A thick mask of opaque glass obscures his features. ]
HIEROPHANT: How the fuck did you get into this scene?
HANGED MAN: I walked here. It wasn’t hard. She showed me the path.
CHARIOT: This doesn’t concern you. Back off.
HIGH PRIESTESS: What manner of creature is this, my king?
HIEROPHANT: Just another piece of detritus caught in the wake of this dread storm. Pay no heed to his old words.
HANGED MAN: Be quiet. Go and writhe somewhere else.
[ The Hanged Man stoops over the puddle of gore that is what remains of the Emperor. ]
HANGED MAN: By the Homeworld. I’m so sorry, Javik. If only I had been faster.
CHARIOT: I saved him.
HANGED MAN: You’ve damned him, you mean. He’ll never wash the filth of you two out of himself.
MAGICIAN: I don’t know who you are. Why do you think you can tell me what I’ve done?
HANGED MAN: Because you and your little girlfriend are a threat to everything. Maybe even more so than that old machine over there.
[ The Hanged Man crouches in front of the Fool. ]
HANGED MAN: I am so truly sorry about this. You had no say in this dire matter. All you are capable of is rage and rightly so; for what else can you do?
FOOL: I want to go home.
HANGED MAN: I know.
FOOL: Everything’s going so wrong. I need help.
HANGED MAN: It’s alright. I’m going to do my best.
FOOL: That promise. It’s-
HANGED MAN: Abhorrent, isn’t it? It’s death. For everyone. Take it from me. I won’t let it happen. You have my word.
CHARIOT: After everything your right hand did to Elster. To me. On your direct orders. You’d bow down and apologise to her?
HANGED MAN: She is the one true innocent in all this. You know that. None of you are free of sin. You are all pillagers. You’d destroy the galaxy every bit as much as that old Reaper. You’d turn it into a new shape even more crooked than the old Yellow place. And the worst of it is that you wouldn’t even realise you were doing it. It would just happen. You’d end everything with no effort at all.
[ The Hanged Man stiffens as if struck by lightning. ]
HANGED MAN: Ah. Oh. Oh! Now power calls to me.
[ Something flinches in the sky. The Chariot’s expression falls. ]
CHARIOT: Elster. We need to leave.
MAGICIAN: One moment.
[ She points to the Hanged Man. ]
MAGICIAN: I’ve seen you before. You helped the Spectres. You told them to kill me. You told Javik to hurt us. Over and over. And they did it. Why? What do you want from us? Who are you?!
HANGED MAN: I’m just an old fool who wanted to keep the galaxy safe. Fool enough to do something as stupid as this.
[ Something is opening. The Devil halts, and cranes its body upwards. It
promptly wheels around, and starts to dig into the sand, throwing
great plumes of dust into the air. It burrows into the dunes like a weevil, as
does its army of corpses. ]
HIEROPHANT: Ladies! Our cue to waltz on back to our timelines. You return to yours now, and I to mine, and we will chat thereafter.
HIGH PRIESTESS: Of course, oh great king mine. I look forward to your letters.
[ The Hierophant and the High Priestess embrace. Still embracing, they waltz off stage left. ]
FOOL: What is it? What’s happening?
CHARIOT: Something that none of us should be around for. Elster! We have to go. Now!
MAGICIAN: Where?
CHARIOT: I’ll take you back to the Migrant Fleet. I have to. It’s the only place I can put you.
[ Hearing that word is like watching a dam burst at the final piece of pressure. The façade slips. The Magician’s face just
drops. ]
MAGICIAN: I just want to go home.
[ The Chariot also looks like she’s about to cry. ]
CHARIOT: So do I. I want to go back to the Penrose. Back with you. I’d do anything for that.
HANGED MAN: Anything?
CHARIOT: [ Trembling and utterly furious ] Not one word from you. Not a single word.
MAGICIAN: I’ll find you. I want answers.
HANGED MAN: Come and take them from me.
FOOL: Wait. Wait! Don’t leave me here. Don’t! Please!
CHARIOT: [ Genuinely remorseful ] I can’t. I’m so sorry. You should have accepted my help. I am so sorry, but I can’t do anything else. Forgive me, Lilith.
[ The Magician and the Chariot embrace, the Magician ripping out of the Fool like a tick. Exit stage right. ]
FOOL: No. No! Please, no, no no-
[ Above, the sky writhes as a great Eye opens. A lidless eye with an iris the colour of sticky jam watches over everything. The Fool is now
herself once more, and she cannot tear herself away from the Eye. The Fool’s terror at the
thing drains away almost immediately, replaced with an icy calm. ]
FOOL: I know this eye. It’s her, isn’t it? It’s really her. Wormwood come down. Revolutionary save me.
HANGED MAN: She cannot. But I can. This is not your place nor your time. I will return you with the knowledge of this meeting. Though it would be a further kindness to leave you an amnesiac wreck.
[ The Hanged Man raises his arms. ]
HANGED MAN: In this place realer than real, two supplicants stand. Oh mine servant of indifferent strength. Take this lynchpin of fate. Throw her to the now. Let her walk and stand apace, as was pre-ordained.
[ The Eye turns to look at them. The Fool is babbling. The Hanged Man is unmoving. ]
HANGED MAN: You swore an oath to me, you who are nothing, you who are everything. I call upon you to fulfil a section of your oath. Answer me!
[ The Eye turns to look at the Fool, who arches her back. She screams, as the red light overwhelms her. Exit stage centre, through the red door. The Hanged Man examines his suited fingers. ]
HANGED MAN: Forgive me. Homeworld’s light. Forgive me for everything.
[EXEUNT]
And it’s real, and it’s in the here and now, and that Eye is nailed into the cortex straight in the heart of her and it is real, it’s real, and it’s burning.
“Burning! The Eye is open and it watches with rapt delight and the King is bent back low and crooked his robes are caught, the hem is trapped in the doorframe it will never release and the girl is stuck in the craw of the hating thing and she’s going to kill me! She wants me dead, she wants me gone! Let me go! Fucking-” and Lilith clamps her teeth down onto the Replika’s metal hand, trying to savage her.
“Holy shit,” she hears the blue-eyed ADLR from earlier say. “What in the hell happened to her?”
“Give it a few minutes. She’ll right herself back from the Dream.” The other one, the Kolibri from earlier, the sleeping one; it’s her hand that Lilith is trying to rip apart like a dog. “She’s fucked up, Jack.”
“I can see that! Is there anything you can do?”
“Yeah. Hang on a moment,” and there is that wire-trimmer sensation, the plug-in wire rip, the 512-volt electric ozone taste ramming through her eyesocket, and here we are now. Here, let me see, let me see, I think if we’d just reduce this and that, possibly inhibit your adrenaline for a moment, pull out the residual delirium, yeah. Yeah. There we go. Ok. Lilith, you feeling better?
“Ha.” Lilith coughs. Her head’s fucking spinning. “No.”
Yeah I thought so. Revolution be praised, what on earth did the Triune give you? You’re destabilised to bits.
“Some kind of tea. I drank it, and they just took me to this…” She waves her hands in front of her face. She stops. “Huh. When did I get the suit on?” She looks up at Jack, a brief lance of fear going through her throat. “How long have I been out?”
“A few hours. We saw you being dragged through the club by the SAPR bouncer. You were ranting the entire time. What did the Triune show you?”
What didn’t they show her. Eva winces, and the nasty decoupling sensation of bioresonant telepathy dissipates. “I’d rather not see that with my own eyes,” she confesses.
“I don’t blame you,” Lilith exhales. “Burning hell.”
“I take it you met our mutual friends, then,” the ADLR Jack witters out.
“The Triune?”
He nods. “A thorn in our side. We’ve been on their trail for months, and then along you come and give us a great opportunity to lay the board in our favour. I imagine now they’re probably bricking themselves, packing up their things and getting ready to go. We’ve got some other friends on standby. Don’t worry, Lilith. We’ll get them.”
“Call them off. It’s not safe! Those Replikas signed themselves up with something from beyond reality.” Lilith pulls herself up onto one knee, glaring at Jack. “They’ll kill anyone they come across!”
“It’s not something we can’t handle. My people will be fine. Don’t worry about them. Worry about yourself. Are you alright?”
“No. They’re mad. They used me! They used me to get to whatever they wanted and I.” She stops. “I just feel used.”
“That’s who these people are, Lilith. Users. Addicts to power.” Jack cocks his head. “Bioresonance is a wonder. And it is a gateway to things beyond our understanding. Things that could ruin the Nation.”
“There’s something coming. Someone. I saw it. A woman in white. A metal god, with an army of the dead. A king in yellow - that’s, that’s who the Triune called out to, that’s what they signed up with! And there was this eye. Lidless, haloed in blood. It took up the whole island. I felt it all the way in every part of me.” Lilith looks at Jack. Really looks at him. “We’re not alone in the stars, are we?”
Jack shakes his head. “No. We’re not. And if the Triune are successful in calling out to their new master, whatever’s coming could destroy us all.”
The confirmation makes it all worse. The nausea, the cold, the urge to vomit. It’s just everywhere. “Oh, god,” she says, involuntarily. “So it’s all real, then. Isn’t it?”
Jack nods. “Whatever you’ve just gone through is as real as here. That reality under our own wants to rise up to where we are and smash everything to pieces.”
Lilith exhales sharply. The fear ebbs away, replaced with that familiar awareness straight from the Vinetan trenches. “I won’t let that happen,” she snaps.
“Good. Neither will I.” Jack’s expression changes. A chill descends over the Replika’s rubber cheeks and synthetic cartilage. “I need you on side, Lilith.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eva and I, we work for an organisation,” and there it is. Another fucking secret, another pile of total bullshit in the absolute calamity that Lilith’s life has become. Secrets within secrets, and all of them involving her, revolving around her and the future. She really is just some punchline, after all. Isn’t this all just so funny?
She’s fucking exhausted. She’s done.
“You don’t really get any say in this, Lilith,” Eva has the gall to say. "I'm sorry."
Lilith glares at the Kolibri from the side of her eyes. “I’m shattered. I just want to curl up into a ball and sleep for a week. I miss my girlfriend. I just want to go home.” She inhales through her nostrils, stands up, the curling wave of nausea lapping at her stomach, her eyes squeezing shut, a hand shooting out to steady her swaying body on the railing. She opens her eyes. “But there’s no time for that, is there?”
“No, there isn’t. You work for me now,” the blue-eyed man says, as if it’s a truth that’s been present forever and always in Lilith’s life. “Whatever loyalties you held before are irrelevant. Dust in the wind.”
“And if I want out,” she asks back. She swallows down something horrible. “What will you do then?”
His eyebrows rise up, as if he had never considered this possibility, this potential hiccup. “You won’t. You know as much as I do, if not more, that there’s threats outside every situation we’ve prepared for. Goodness’ sake, you’ve been seeing ghosts for months. You talked to gods and more besides. You’ve got more experience than anyone alive on dealing with these creatures. Who knows what will happen if they come for the children.” A very pointed look, great hunk of sapphires, like the sharpened edge of a garrotte wire. “Children like your little nieces.”
“No,” Lilith asserts, “I’m not going to let that happen. I won’t.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t care about you. Or me, come to think of it. But I don’t want them to be hurt. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”
“So then help me, Lilith,” Jack commands. “We have got to do whatever it takes to prevent these forces from taking control of the Nation, of all mankind. The Empire included. Neither of us can be allowed to fall.”
“That sounds like treason,” Lilith hisses.
“I represent the real intentions of the Nation, Lilith. We are the guards of the underworld. We watch the gates of Hell. We have to protect all of mankind, Gestalt and Replika, from what’s simmering under the surface of reality, in case it destroys us all.” His hand extends, the metal knuckles clicking together as they were meant to, the fingers pulling back towards him in the universal sign of ‘come-here’. “Come on. You and me. We’ve seen what this shit can do. If we work together, we can stop it before the madness starts.”
Lilith turns to the Kolibri, who’s watching snow drift down over the Ivanovka complex. “Is this how he got you in? Same pitch? Same promises?”
Eva smiles, her eyes still watching the ash fall. “I was made for this, Lilith. We both were. Gestalts like you need to choose.” She looks down at Lilith, right in the eyes. ”You get to make this decision for yourself.”
In the great placid pools of Jack’s eyes, Liilth can see herself. The dejection. The bags under her eyes. Greying hairs where once there were none. Nation’s blood. Jack is right. He’s so monumentally, utterly right. “What choice do I have?”
Warm flesh in cold steel, grip tight and shake, pump up and down. “We’re going to do great things together,” says the bright-eyed man in black. “Welcome to Cerberus.”
Chapter 16: verachtung
Notes:
Howdy gang. Hope you're all doing well and keeping safe.
Apologies for the delay. I've been focusing on some original material as of late, and so those various projects have been moved forward while this fic takes a little backburner time. Do know that I have this fic fully planned out, with an ending already plotted, and I will push to get another chapter out before the year's end. Thanks for your patience.
Special thanks to Ostheim89 for beta reading this chapter and suggesting some edits. Please check out their work, A Victim of Stars. Truly top stuff.
Chapter Text
Elster wakes up in the bathroom. Again. As if nothing has happened. As if the past network of cycles, of breathing and dying and all the in-between states, of all that awful horror of the past and the great evil of Eternity; as if all of it was just a dream.
The masked man sticks in her mind. His face like two-way Protektor’s glass. Hanged and swinging from a great nothing tree, the upper half of him just dust, black motes drifting away endlessly like burnt paper, the inverse of a torched magnesium strip. Powerless and yet all-consuming with potential.
The way that the others ran, the way he just dismissed Ariane like a schoolgirl, the panic that had set into her when he appeared at the edge of conversation, the grasping of her hands and that quick liminal delight at the touch of her fingers locked with hers after so long, after-
After so long. A three-second burst of old joy. “We had to run, Elster, we had to leave her behind. You don’t know what he’s capable of,” and those fingers were trembling in her loose grip. “I love you so much.”
And before she could even so much as say it back, here she is again.
She pulls herself up to look into the bathroom mirror. The scattering of flies, the spiderweb cracks framing the polished glass, the sullen stare; they’re as unchanging as seasons, as room-temperature air-conditioning in a sealed environment.
The old ghost is gone and vanished. No whisper of silk, no lies-within-lies, the cackling grave lord lost into the ether. He got what he wanted, after all. Just used Elster. Turned her into a knife and then cast her aside in favour of a sharper tool.
But what really strikes Elster like a crowbar in the gut is Lilith. So determined to buck the wheel of trends. So hateful at the concept of predestination. Watching real, emotional hurt blossom on Ariane’s face at listening to the woman Elster owes her existence to say the most heinous, horrible things about her, about Elster-
If someone else had said those same words to Ariane, Elster would have stepped in. She would have been happily responsible for the actions that would follow.
But Lilith is the seed that Elster has sprouted from. The architecture. The OS. That self-hatred is buried deep. Just ready to sprout whenever it pleases and undo everything she is trying so very hard to fix. Maybe even now, while she’s here, back here at the starting point, Lilith is in the past doing everything she can to obliterate Elster from time itself.
So Elster does what anyone would do in this situation. Just clutches herself tight and screams.
She lets it all out. The horror. The anger. The fear and rage. Swirling together in her steel frame, just all acrylics in a pot of water too polluted to be recycled. An overhead slam whirls down, denting the cheap metal sink. Again.
Again.
Water sloshes all over her, gushing from the wound in the pipe. It’s the colour of old blood. Maybe it is blood. Everything is the colour of old blood.
Everything is so fucked and Elster is simply the gyre at the middle of this storm.
Again. Into the mirror this time. Again. Feel the shards catch in the ball joints. See herself a hundred times and all of them reflect something feral with the way her lip snarls, her red irises tight, the tangle of synthetic hair matted and uncared for. Again. Grab the sink and pull hard enough to rip it clean from the rivets. Just send it into the mirror. A chromatic reflection of herself scattered over the floor like dust, like stars.
-and that one over there ariane says her tongue sticking out slightly as she focuses is sirius-
She’d give anything to have functioning tear ducts. The ability to process horror and sorrow like a normal person. But there’s nothing normal about her. Is there?
Warning signs flicker at the edge of sight. The waving dot of her stabilisation matrix juddering into the fragmented zone is dismissed.
And Elster exhales. Inhales. Exhales, all the air leaving her lungs until nothing’s left. Inhale.
She opens her eyes. Notes the same placid, stoic expression she’s seen a thousand times, sees ten thousand times dashed across the bathroom in glass shards.
Compartmentalised.
That faceless man swings again in her mind. The immutable calm and sorrow that he wore like a suit of mail, the great sadness tight in his voice even when he would order the Spectres to hunt her for sport.
-don’t let her across the gate-
His name. Rael’Zorah. Something alien. Something familiar about it. The four-eyed one. The cruel one. Javik. Javik who is now hers. That was what he had called him.
Javik will know who he is.
All that time spent gaming the cycle rackets around her head. The encyclopaedic knowledge is hooked out of her cortex with fish-wire bait.
The hiding places of the corrupted Quarians, the perfect vents to writhe through quietly and with intent, the locations of exactly what types of magazine to slot into exactly which kind of receiver, how many stomps does it take to pop a skull, how to process the sensation of enamel chipping against your forearms in a way that you no longer mind it at all, what does a husk do when you take it by the face and you plunge your thumbs right into those fluorescent eye lenses that sprouted straight from the unwilling flesh-
Her sense of disgust at the mindlessness of all this has faded. It’s like she’s stayed awake beyond sense, and now passes through the eye of the needle that is sleep-deprived exhaustion to come out with mania fuelling her steps, the cock and pull, the spatter pattern. Elster has a second wind.
-violence applied in the name of righteousness is no more than laundry work and the eyes glint and sharpen mindless dull and monotonous that’s what it is -
Elster glances at her translucent reflection in the shattered lenses of a twisted quarian. She’s panting. Little specks of green and red are flecked across her face, like freckles. Like old Imperial henna. Her fingers; the green goes all the way into the actuators. She rips her arm out of the husk’s chest.
It would be really funny if that old ADLR unit was around. The one from Sierpinski, the one behind the walnut desk who signed their death warrants. What would he think if she marched up to him in this state, just dripping with the filth of an entire people?
What would he think if she put one through his eye first-
-your papers the ADLR sighs out completely bored as if this is a rote thing the authentications and licences dangling between his fingers and ariane seizes them with a joyful grip thank you so much and at the praise the replika’s face pulls tightly for a second like he’s just watched her get run right through with a spear then it soothes over your efforts are recognised by the nation-
She stumbles across a quiet place. Exhausted, her back hits a wall, sinking to a crouch, to a sitting position, an injured leg splaying out as Elster pushes spray into the bad joint. She tries to catch some breath, letting the medigel worm its way through her after a squealing thing tore a chunk out of her arm. She leaves a thick, viscous stain all the way down the stamped sheet metal, a droplet trail like scattered seed, her bloody, whorl-less fingerprints like breadcrumbs for her hunters.
She is red all over. Red inside, too. All she is, is red as sand.
The red washes out into a dim purple as the blue light of Legion’s sensor catches her. The Geth has rounded the corner, the gun barrel pointing at her face rigid and stabilised in a way only a machine, a real machine can achieve, the faceplates whirring and twitching as it thinks about her.
The shame of Legion seeing her like this, smothered in gore, dripping with viscera; it burns. The guilt of everything she ever did to this poor thing flares wild, a great flame of self-hatred radiating out and towards the Geth. It stills, the strange thoughts washing at the edges of its receptors like a black salt sea.
“Hello,” Elster whispers out. “Hello, Geth.” She attempts to put on a smile. “Platform 2A93.”
The lens tightens; the beam focuses right on her face. “This unit requests information as to the acquisition of serial designation-”
“Because you told me. I’ve known you for so long, Legion.”
“Legion.” The Geth’s top plate flicks up, once. “Unknown nomenclature. This unit does not understand its meaning nor significance.”
“You did, once. You asked for that to be your name.” She rises slowly, hissing at the lancing line of pain splintering out from the gap in her arm, the rifle tracing her movement. “I’m sorry.”
“This unit demands clarification on the nature of your emotional outburst.”
Her shoulders hunch. Her fingers flex, curl like claws. “Accept my SSTV package, then,” and Elster recalls every time she ever hurt Legion, the peeling of the geth’s collective away like shucking a lobster out of its skin, coring them with long-range fire, baiting them into the Spectres where the live quarian fell on them with omni-blade and wildfire hatred-
All of it.
Legion’s faceplates whirl with the tremendous speed of thought. The gun lowers. “Elster…”
She inhales deeply. “Run.”
It stands still. Elster snarls, her teeth flashing wild and crimson as her fingers splay out, her arms splay out, she stomps forward, snarling, “Run!”
Legion scatters away, the blue light unmoving as the geth’s frame serpentines away into the darkness, before even that distant LED star winks out around a corner.
She inhales, shakily, the numbness of her arm beginning to subside back into lancing pain. Something catches in her throat. The hard memories of that hard time wash over her, and she squeezes her eyes shut, cradling her face in her hands.
-we were their slaves once a plate twitches and we liberated ourselves the beam turns to face her we did not wish for violence legion says mournfully but when violence is waged with righteous intent it is nothing less than necessary and no wait no that’s not how it happened that’s not what they said-
She gasps. Ratchets up straight. Exhales gently out her nose, all the loathing expelled with it.
Compartmentalised.
Javik is hiding.
He’s isolated from his squad, this cycle around. Something is screaming in the distance; a high, howling note of anger. When his head twitches towards the shriek, Elster crawls out of a vent like an insect on all four limbs and pins him into place, the blade of one arm rigid against his neck, a leg looped around his, the fingers of her other hand tight and nestled in the crook of his belly like a knife.
“Rael’Zorah,” she whispers, and the alien swallows. “Tell me about him.”
Javik doesn’t look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He snorts, the horizontal pupils contracting in anger, in disdain. “You are no husk. You are a machine,” and this last word is enunciated with venom.
A word as pronounced as that; it doesn’t sting. Her hair is lank and matted and damp with corrupted ichor; Elster’s face is still as marble behind the impromptu bangs. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve heard your friends say that name enough times to know it means something.”
Javik hisses, his teeth like little lamprey’s needles. “You are a fool, to put any stock in a name.”
The hand she has pressed against his gut digs in, slight enough for the prothean to get the message. “You’re right. I am a fool. I might be the biggest fool that has ever lived.” She rotates the hand gently, the tips just catching the top layer of his skin, scratching, scratching. ”But I didn’t ask you to tell me what I am. I asked you who Rael’Zorah is. If you can’t tell me, I’ll finish up here and ask your friends. Especially the masked one.” Behind the purse of her lips, she runs her tongue over the edge of her teeth. “I think she’ll talk.”
Javik makes for his sidearm. Halfway through the action he gasps, then his teeth clash together like cymbals. All his muscles tighten at once. His fingers twitch, and a whine, a sound of unbelievable pain whistles from between his teeth. His arm bubbles black with rot, rust spreading from his fingers up the veins.
-I can’t feel my fingers anymore elster I can’t I and ariane’s face sinks into her arms cradling her knees I can’t do this -
Elster releases her grip, backing away from Javik as he falls onto his knees, the skin on his affected arm loose and puffy, his pus-thickened blood oozing onto the bulkhead.
“What have you done,” Javik whispers. “What is this-”
“We met, once. You hurt me. You hurt someone I care dearly about. They showed you mercy.”
The prothean bares his teeth. “What has marked me, machine?”
“That same someone.” Elster points at the arm. “That’s what that is. Mercy.”
“Leave.” Javik doesn’t finish his sentence properly; the tailing end of that word trails up into a brief shout of agony. He inhales sharply. “Leave me alone,” he growls.
“Not until you tell me who Rael’Zorah is.”
The rot is creeping up Javik’s arm. “An admiral,” he hisses out. “The only one I can reach. The others are out of sight. He’s all that’s left.”
Elster sighs. “Okay. Okay.”
The rot slows, stops. Javik instantly goes for the medigel, ripping it open, slathering it over the infection.
“Take me to him.”
Javik stops. That alien glare has all the weight of hatred rammed behind it. “If that is what you wish,” he sniffs. “Machine.” He looks at the wound, notes how it doesn’t heal, how it will never heal, it will grow over him like mould, like a teratoma, until he is nothing but a puddle of slop washing on the hot ship floor. “We have met before.”
“We have.”
“So this is nothing more than a dream.”
Elster has no answer to that.
“Then hear me.” He clenches the rotting fist, the skin cracking all the way through the flesh in little knife grooves, the pus running clear, the pain incalculable. “I am Javik. I am oath keeper. I am the avatar of vengeance for both people and empire. The Reapers ended my people. For this, they will die.”
“Sovereign is no friend of mine,” Elster asserts. “I won’t let them win.”
“I am not finished, you impetuous little girl,” and the rot starts creeping upwards. Javik ignores it. “Your loved one now belongs to an ecosystem of horror. I am sworn to stop all such evil. I will not let the Reapers destroy the civilisations that have inherited what is left. And I will not let your bride of Eternity drown them in misery.”
“She doesn’t want that.”
“Intent is not the same as action. You can mean well when you conduct great evil. I have seen this in my time, and in this strange new era.” He considers his words. “She does not need a killer. She needs a guide. A teacher. I can only offer so much. But I can still offer it.”
“And you think she needs your help?”
“I know she does. She is a little child playing at godhood. She has caused so much devastation. She has wiped out an entire people. She is a monster.”
Elster jabs Javik in the chest with her finger, pinging off his armour like a turned knife. “She’s not a monster. Never a monster; don’t you dare call her that!”
“Don’t pretend otherwise; I would not be bound so if this was not the case. I help her only out of resigned necessity. But this help is needed.” He looks at her with total contempt. “Certainly, you cannot offer this. Machine.”
Maybe she should kick a hole in his heart. Maybe. A growing part of her would take delight in that. Just a complete surrender to that building joy. Something damp drips from the sodden hair. She wipes it down her face. Her hand comes away sticky, reddish-brown. The taste of old Replika components; it is laid over her tongue like a duvet.
-don’t go back to that coffin Elster she grins the blanket rolled back come here it’s warm I can make room and her eyebrows shoot up it’s a single occupancy cot and Ariane pouts I can always make room for you-
She offers a hand out to the reclining alien. Javik reaches out to clutch it, though the way his face falls at that gesture is enough to know that Eternity has left his mark on him.
“If you make me hunt my comrades, I will forever consider you an enemy.”
“You already do,” Elster mutters, her eyes set on the horizon.
The others still hunt for her. Doubtless Javik will spill all if they catch up. If.
Javik is a hound; he is what happens when you take an empire bigger than anything the history books could ever dream of and you condense all that hate, all that rage, all the despair at the humiliation of defeat, and pour it into a single man. The husks, the scuttling things that have ripped her to shreds and chewed on her bones a dozen times just vanish in the wake of his fury.
And more. Always more of the husks. They just don’t stop. Neither does she. They are all rage, and hunger, and maybe behind all of the artificial anger pumped into them there is a sense of regret and horror at what they have become. But Elster is a knife, and Javik is a pyre. Nothing more.
She cuts right through all of them.
“You would have been shot in my time,” Javik states so nonchalantly, scooping up medigel packs with one wounded hand, the other idly checking his sidearm.
Elster stops mid-reload. She glances over to Javik.
“I don’t understand why you’re looking at me like that. It is a compliment. You are a warrior. You would have been too dangerous to leave be.”
“I like living,” Elster states, rather simply.
Javik snorts. “Ha! ‘Living.’ You can be quite amusing, at times.”
Elster is dead silent. Javik, knife of a man that he is, is oblivious to the rising awkwardness settling over her. “Still. It would have been a great honour to be assigned to your termination.”
She has no answer to that. She finishes the reload, snapping the heat sink into place, cooling the enormous rifle down.
“It is meant to be a humorous statement.”
“It isn’t very funny.”
“So I am told. You are like the other inheritors; you have a limited appreciation of battle humour.”
Javik’s teeth glimmer, his smile frozen like an insect sizing up prey. “Why are you so filled with self-loathing?”
She watches him wipe his bloodied hand on the wall, the illness creeping over him. “Self-loathing?”
“It shackles you. You define yourself through failure.”
Elster raises a finger. “That is rich, coming from an ‘avatar of vengeance’.”
Silence.
“I’m not wrong, am I? Your empire died on your watch. You didn’t do anything to save it. You couldn’t.”
“Be very careful with what you say next, machine.”
“Or what? What could you possibly do to me? I’ll be fine. No matter what. I’ll always be fine.”
Javik doesn’t respond. Merely lifts his hand, watching the medigel seal, the analgesics kicking in rapidly. He waves his raised palm loosely, the skin fractured and oozing. “Tell me if I am wrong in the next cycle then. Machine.”
“Rael’Zorah is her father,” Javik tells her. “He is an Admiral of the Migrant Fleet. The only one left alive.”
“So she’s called Tali’Zorah?” She blinks. There is an oddly pretty quality to the name. It sounds nothing like a Nation name, let alone an Imperial one.
“Tali’Zorah vas Menae. The quarians name themselves after their ships.”
“And they’ve been a nomadic people for…”
“300 years, give or take.” His nostrils flare, then he bends over, coughing, convulsing, the red stain marking him all over. He hawks up a gobbet onto the filthy bulkhead. “Driven from their homeworld by their former serfs, they took up their ships and migrate across the Relay network, spurned by the Citadel they once served.”
“And the Citadel?”
Javik smiles. Actually smiles. “A wonder. A city in the stars. Great gardens and water flowing through it all. It was the capital of my people’s empire. Now it is the capital of the inheritor’s Council. It is beautiful. But you will never see it. You would be destroyed on sight. Especially now.”
Elster is silent for a moment. “Why do you all hate us so much?”
“Us?”
“Machines.”
“I do not hate machines,” Javik replies. “Machines hate me.”
Elster takes in the sight of Javik’s toothy grin, his eyes moving feverishly, skin bubbling like sugar on a stove.
-i haven’t decided yet-
Javik wears his smugness like a mask, like a cloak; his sense of righteousness and the idea of him being right bleeds through and into Elster’s own system, washing over her, igniting that sparking core of rage. Javik’s grin only widens as he takes in Elster’s sudden glare.
“See? You hate me. You are just like every other machine I’ve fought-”
“No, no. Shut up. This isn’t about what I am, or what you are. It’s about who you are.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“You’re cruel. You like being cruel. Maybe you do have something else to offer. Maybe you can help Ariane, maybe you can teach her control. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But you enjoy hurting people that can’t fight back. You hurt Ariane. That’s it. That’s enough for me to hate you."
“Your life-partner chose to be hurt,” Javik chides nonchalantly. “If she wanted to, she could have shucked my nerves out of my flesh. It would be easy. Incredibly so, for her.” He blinks. “She wanted it.”
Elster inhales. Counts to four. Exhales. “You want me to kill you. Don’t you?”
Javik just smirks.
“So you do want to die. You can’t touch me, can you? Whatever Ariane did to you. You can’t even lift a finger.” The ghost of a smile flits across Elster’s face. “And that drives you mad, doesn’t it? You hate it. Hate losing control. You would do anything to get it back.”
Javik’s smile slowly drifts away. “Be done with it already.”
“You’re not getting that satisfaction.” Elster stands up. “You’re coming with me. You’ll help Ariane. Or you’ll never get what you want.”
“If you insist.” A cruel smile. “Machine.”
The looming void of the great vertical Eternity throws a shade of indigo over everything. Nothing confronts them as they float through the empty space towards Rael’s vessel.
“The Citadel,” Elster chimes out. “Was it like this?”
“Worse.”
They drift silently.
They are at Rael’s door when Javik stumbles.
Javik is dying. He bears this fact with stoicism; with the knowledge that the cycle is and ever will be. He spits out a great lump, trailing blood over the floor as Elster watches distantly.
“I can feel him. I can almost smell the potency about Rael,” and he sounds shocked, almost offended. “I missed this. How?” Then the stoicism slides back into place as if it was never gone. “No matter. I see him now. What sits behind him. Or what he sits at the reins of.” He squeezes the hand tight. “He waits for you. He will not flee. He wants to see you.”
“Good,” Elster replies. “I’m sick of looking for answers.”
“You do not want to hear what he has to say.”
“Maybe not.” Elster racks the heavy mass-effect pistol back with one hand, notes the hissing, half-melted heat sink jammed into the gun, just enough for a single shot. “Still. Better to hear it from him than anywhere else.”
“Take caution. Rael is beyond you,” the prothean cuts out. “Beyond all of us.”
“He’s just a man.”
“And your wife is just a woman? Don’t let your guard down against him. Something is so terribly wrong. I do not know this power he calls his own.”
Elster breathes. “I’ll be fine. So long as you fulfil your promise and teach Ariane, you’ll be, too.”
Javik opens his mouth, slamming it shut as the radio on his belt squawks into life. “Javik, you there, buddy?” Vakarian’s voice whispers over the radio, “Come in. We’re reconvening at the Alarei ’s entrance-”
Javik crumples the thing with a single hand, hissing static and shock running over the wounds. “Go,” he demands, pressing another bloody hand onto Elster’s shoulder, pushing her into action. “Go!”
Rael is already waiting for her.
He’s reclined in his admiral’s chair. One knee bends over the other. Hands steepled. The head bent low, “I thought I saw you at the door.” A scoff. “You’re not very subtle.”
“I wasn’t intending to be.” She stands up. The steady raindrop patter of Javik’s viscera hits the deck. A background snare roll drumbeat. “You were on the island.”
“How astute.”
“Ariane was terrified at the sight of you. They all were. Why?”
Rael is silent, for a brief moment. He waves a hand. “It’s not for me to guess at the feelings of our friends from higher places. I couldn’t tell you. But I understand your confusion. I’ll clear that up. Consider it a gesture of peace. I came to the island because I was intervening.”
She frowns. “An intervention? Why?”
Rael creaks forward, his battered chair protesting. “Because it was necessary to intervene. Very much so, given your mistress’s interest in the matter at hand. What she was putting on the table for your past self was not something, I feel, that was conducive to the way of things. So I approached with a better offer in mind.”
Something cold is slowly spinning inside of her. “You wanted to deal with Ariane?”
A harsh bark of laughter. “No! Keelah, no. Absolutely not.” He clenches the armrests, as if he is holding himself back. “As if I’d ever bargain with your lovely little madwoman.”
“Don’t call her that.”
The pause that follows weighs in the air like a lead ball. His fingers curl, just ever so slightly, into the harsh metal of the chair.
Then he relaxes. “As you wish.”
“And you didn’t answer my question, either,” Elster raises a finger, the trickle of blood down her arm cold and sticky. “What for?”
Rael leans on his balled fist. “It isn’t something for you to know.”
“Why?”
“I mean it. Time isn’t something that should be meddled with.”
“Do you think I can’t accept the truth?”
“What truth?” He throws his arms into the air. “What grand truth do you think I have? Do you genuinely think I have all the answers?” He scoffs. “If only I did. I wish I did.”
She grits her teeth. “Just get to the point. You want me dead. You told your Spectres to kill me. I had to go to-” and she falters, for a brief second. She frowns.
“That was a fool thing to do, talking to that nameless ghost,” Rael scolds. “It got what it wanted.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
Rael’s laugh is a high-pitched, polite thing, far too snide to indicate any genuine amusement. “You put a lot of trust in yourself. In your lover.”
“Ariane tried to save my-” she pauses, briefly, “save Lilith. And then you show up and send everyone running with whatever you planned to do. There’s more to you. Javik said as much.”
“Javik.” He reclines again. “What Ariane did to him was abominable.”
“It was necessary, Admiral,” and Rael’Zorah rockets up to his feet.
Javik stumbles like the walking corpse he is. He’s little more than flesh. He limps; his arms are limp. Little crimson streaks roll down his eyes, his nostrils, mouth. “You.” He swallows, grimacing at the taste. “What have you done?”
“Javik,” and for the first time there is something more than guarded gloating in his voice; a real, genuine sadness, a horrified dismay at the sight of him. “I should have been faster. Forgive me. I couldn’t save you-”
“What you offer me isn’t salvation. It’s no worse than indoctrination.”
“She’s gotten into your head, Javik,” Rael says in disbelief. “You can’t surely believe that.”
Javik tilts his head. “I can feel it rolling off of you. That power of yours is disgusting.”
“It’s nothing more than a tool. I have no attachment to it.”
“So you say,” Javik gurgles. “So they always say,” and everything gives way. He collapses. He is turning into mulch. Elster crouches down, hands dangling loosely as she watches him rot.
“I will not remember this. But.” A heave of breath. He looks at her. Really looks at her, all four eyes narrowing sharply, even as they bristle and burst. “This is little better than the Reaper’s touch.” The teeth clatter on the floor like dice. His skin is black with rot. “But I am myself. I remain Javik. I will claim vengeance on Nazara. And then I will claim it on you, machine,” and at that point, Javik’s jaw detaches entirely, the cartilage running like candle wax; the blood, the skin and flesh like water.
“Javik,” Rael stutters out, and he moves to stand up. Elster rises with him, pointing the enormous pistol straight in the admiral’s faceplate. He stills, his hands up, watching as the prothean dissolves into goo, into a puddle of filthy nothingness.
“He deserved that,” Elster mutters, though those words ring hollow. “What he did to me, to Ariane, was something I cannot forgive. He could die like that a hundred times and it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing ever will. Ariane? She forgave him without hesitating.”
“He was the last prothean. He’s older than all of recorded history. Even the asari are nothing compared to him. We needed him to fight the Reapers. And now he’s hers,” Rael growls in utter disgust, “body and soul. Stuck forever by your lover’s side,” and that last word comes out so harsh, the consonant echoing through the room.
“Ariane is better than either of us.”
“Ariane’s changed. She isn’t that harmless little pilot you loved anymore. She’s grown beyond her skin.”
Elster takes a few steps forward. Rael doesn’t flinch, even when the muzzle clacks against the glass of his visor. “As if you know anything about her.”
“Oh, I know plenty about the pair of you. I know everything, in fact. After all, I found you and your pilot. Or, rather, what was left of you.”
And at those words, at that implication, the gun lowers. Elster’s eyes shoot wide open. Then the gun rises up again. “Explain. And don’t leave anything out. I want to know it all. Where did you find us? Where was the Penrose?”
“We intercepted your ship’s distress call as we passed through the system we found you in. A miracle we did, too; we had to crack the relay open before we found you. Highly illegal, but given the Citadel was burning at the time, we felt we had some leeway. It was that or push through a geth war fleet.”
“The geth have no hate for you.”
“You have no understanding of the things they did in their war for freedom. What they were doing alongside Sovereign and Saren. The platform wandering around the Fleet is an anomaly. The ones we were running from were chasing us.”
“You should’ve faced your death with something like courage,” she replies, the old tracts of Nation dogma floating about her head and congealing into something like hatred, real red fucking hatred for this coward.
“Maybe you’re right. If we’d done that, you two would’ve died alone, and all we would’ve lost was our defence force. We’d have mourned. We’d have been weakened. But we would be alive. Not stuck at the mercy of your psychotic little girlfriend, ah, ah. No. Don’t do that,” as the pistol presses under his jaw, as Elster’s finger brushes the trigger, “I thought you wanted to know more. You won’t get anything if you do that.”
“You’ll be back.”
“And how many times has it taken you to come here? This is a rare opportunity for you. You should use it.”
Elster digs the barrel in even tighter. “You want to talk? Then talk.”
“When we pushed through the relay,” he continues without missing a beat, as if he’s rehearsed this, “we found your quaint little shuttle hanging in a libration point over the only garden world in the system. We’d never seen anything quite like it before. It was so small. We had no idea how such a quaint little scrapheap was able to fly. It was dead in the sky. The reactor’s containment had failed, leaking radiation everywhere. So we sent in drones. We found Ariane in her cryo chamber. And you on the floor next to her. Completely unresponsive.” The head tilts. “Nothing we did worked. We couldn’t raise you.”
That. She swallows. “No. That. That doesn’t-” She shakes her head. “I remember activating the signal. I swear I returned to my own pod afterwards. I did.”
Right?
“Maybe you did,” Rael offers, his voice tinged with sympathy. “Maybe you knew you were dying, and you swung your own pod open to be with her in your final moments. Or maybe you died as you activated the signal. I couldn’t say; we weren’t able to access your memory logs.”
“That can’t be right. It’s not- You’re not-”
Right?
Is he-
Elster pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. A pressure is building up just behind one of her eyes. Rael doesn’t move an inch. “I empathise. I really do, Elster. My own wife died a long time ago. I miss her so much.” Rael deflates for a moment. “I’d do anything to have her back by my side.” The mask tilts upwards, just so. “If I had been you, and she was her, I probably would’ve done the same.”
Elster brings her free hand up to her face. Something itchy is settling behind her eyes. “I don’t understand. How? It’s not-”
“We looked through the logbooks. The paperwork, the manuals. You Replikas are durable, more so than organics. You were built to withstand hardship. But you weren’t built to last. Not like our Geth. Of course you weren’t; your Nation doesn’t have the kind of alloys and plastics we were working with, even back on the homeworld. Radiation hollowed you out. Corrupted your memory. There was nothing left of you.”
-marvellous machine-
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’m really not, Elster. You were gone. We tried everything. I’m sorry.”
Elster exhales. “And Ariane? What did you do to her?”
“She was totally irradiated. She was a danger to everyone in the Fleet. We had to isolate her. We transferred her to a quarantined medical wing on Admiral Shala'Raan’s ship, the Tonbay . She was charged with healing her. And she did try. We assigned the best doctors in the Fleet on her case. But it was too late for her. All we could do was make her passing as gentle as we could.”
He’s quiet, for a moment. “I remember when she woke up. She wasn’t shocked. She wasn’t scared. She just wanted to know where you were. If you were safe. I was the one who had to break the news to her. What happened to you.” He pauses, for a moment. “I evidently didn’t do a very good job of it.”
Her breath is hitching now, and it is an awful sound. It makes her sound weak.
“I informed her what happened to you, and in her dying, traumatised state, well,” and he waves his arms outwards. “Here we are. You, back from the dead. And the rest of us are stuck praying for death.” Now it’s his finger that stretches outwards, the tip trembling in accusatory rage. “It’s your fault. You made a promise, and you didn’t see it through. Now look at us.”
-she can’t do it she can’t she’s so fucking cruel awful she’s awful she curls up in the isolation of her maintenance room her hands bunching in her hair tugging pulling her teeth grinding as the anger as the horror as all of the pathetic nastiness targeting herself just boils over she swore she would and she can’t bring herself to she’s so fucking horrible but a world without her is no world at all and there has to be something anything to help her to fix her-
“Shut up.”
“No, I will not shut up!” He rockets to his feet. “My people have been wiped out of existence! All of it is gone! Our lives, our songs. Our history, our dream of seeing Rannoch again. And then the pair of you show up and it’s just gone!”
“That’s not-”
“Yes it is,” Rael growls, actually growls, something snarling entering his voice. “It’s your fault. If you hadn’t broadcast the emergency signal we would all be alive! Sovereign would never have found us if it wasn’t for you.”
And there it is. Something clicks. A puzzle piece descends into place. “Sovereign?” She swallows. “What do you mean, Sovereign?”
“Ariane called out to him.”
That’s not-
-do you ever think we’re alone up here-
She’s not-
-sometimes I feel like the stars are staring back at me-
“That’s not true.”
-elster curls her arms around her waist hey it’s ok i’m here you’re ok shh you’re fine and ariane is gasping covered in sweat the sheets tangled in between her legs her eyes blown open with terror it was just a nightmare ari you’re good it’s all good you’re here you’re safe nothing’s going to happen-
“Go and ask Sovereign. It would be happy to tell you, once it finishes hollowing you out.”
“Why? Why would it come?”
“Ariane,” he exhales. “It wants her.”
-what were you dreaming about she asks ariane as she rests her head in the crook of her elbow the arm down on the small table in their room and ariane lifts her head up her eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep it sounds stupid so please don’t laugh but there was a blue star and it loved me and this love the star had for me was absolutely terrifying-
Rael’s breath is heavy, growling. Elster gently, gingerly, cups Rael’s chin in her fingers. She trails crimson pathways down the glass of his visor. “And you just let Sovereign sail straight in?”
“It came from the Citadel. I don’t know what the Council did to it, but they wounded it. Garrus was involved, he was there!”
“I’ll talk to him next, then. Get to the point. How did he find you?”
“The Citadel won. Sovereign was wounded. It was running away, looping through the relays at speeds we can only dream of. By that point, Ariane’s initial outburst had compromised only the Tonbay. Whatever she was doing there resonated, it pulled some strings, because Sovereign dropped everything and ambushed our fleet in orbit. It took us by total surprise.”
“How hard could something like that be to miss?”
“Sovereign is beyond all of us. It sails through many seas. And at that point it didn’t care. We blew its limbs off and it didn’t give any sign of caring. It approached the Tonbay and talked to her. Its bioresonance did something; interacted with her own projection in some way. Some awful feedback loop. And then the whole Fleet was caught up in it. The Fleet and everyone inside. Now we’re here.” Incredibly, he laughs. “It’s stuck. It can’t leave. Neither can Ariane.”
“And how do we get out?”
“We don’t.”
“What?”
“We’re never leaving. You understand? This is all there is.”
It’s a funny thing, terror. Comes when you least expect it. Submerges you in sheet ice and leaves you choking, praying, hoping. You’d do anything at all to avoid the source. You’d gnaw off your own fingers.
If she had skin, it’d be prickled with goosebumps.
“None of us are here by choice. It’s necessary,” he exhorts. “If she wakes up, if she dies, all of this goes. And if it does, do you know what will happen? Sovereign’s trapped like a fly on a web. What happens if you cut the web?”
-that’s new elster observes idly chewing a ration bar watching ariane putting up her latest piece yeah i thought i’d try to work through whatever that night terror was about and get it down onto acrylic and on the canvas is a swirling great blue light obliterating a figure to ash in a desert red as the stripes on her arms and staring straight into that burning star elster feels something shiver down her back like something’s watching her from the outside-
“You get the gist of it, then,” Rael whispers, watching her expression shift to a momentary hopelessness. “We are guards and guarded both. And this is a prison forever.”
“There must be a way out of this place.”
“A way in, certainly. More of them are coming.”
“The Reapers?”
“I hope so. Keep them locked up here and away from the rest of us. More besides. The ghost who gave you memory, who turned you into a weapon. He wasn’t here before. Now he is.”
He rests back in the chair, the pistol wavering under the chin, shaking against the rubber suit seal. “This place is a honeytrap on a bioresonant scale. All the potential, all the possibilities offered by Ariane and her power, the sheer opportunity she represents to them. Well. They can’t get enough. We stay here long enough, who knows what else will come. But it’s fine. The centre will hold. They’ll keep coming. They’ll never leave, so long as Ariane takes the centre stage.”
“She’s not something for you to use as bait, you bastard,” she snaps. “She’s not a weapon. She’s not a thing!”
“Tell that to them.”
“I’m telling it to you.” Elster’s right in Rael’s face. Even so close, his visor is pitch-black, perfectly framing her features, finally twisting in rage, finally expressing herself as they should be, the glass expressing nothing of the old man under the suit. “You’re a man. Just a man. Who made you Empress of this place? What gives you the right to take us and use us like tools?”
“You are a tool, Elster,” he says, kindly. “You were built to serve.”
“I’m free.”
“Are you?”
The butt of her pistol smashes straight into Rael’s chin. He drops to the floor, his visor cracked with a hair-line fracture running up from the impact. “You’re her tool,” he continues. “You’re Ariane’s knife. You’re her Saren.”
“Who the fuck is Saren?”
“We loved him. The whole galaxy did. Daring hero of the Citadel…and then he found Sovereign. He was besotted. Enraptured. He would have done anything and everything for it. He’d made a promise. And Sovereign intended for him to fulfil it.”
“We’re not-”
“Don’t speak to me like you’re not full of varren shit, Elster. You are the same.”
“And you’re not?” The gun comes back up. “You sent Sovereign and that ghost packing. Ariane was terrified of you. She couldn’t even explain it. What have you done? What are you?”
“Everything I ever did,” he replies, “was in the name of galactic security. Everything here is for the best. All of it was necessary.”
“Necessary? All of what?”
He’s silent.
“You’re saying that this was necessary?”
“Yes. This place. Its nature. All of it is necessary.”
Realisation slots in like a magazine.
“You did this,” she breathes, absolutely and utterly horrified. “You created this Dream.”
“I saved the galaxy. Sovereign will never escape. Your little lovebug has seen to that. Come to think of it, she won’t be leaving here, either. She can’t.” He visibly softens. Pity blunts the edges of his deep and angry gaze. “Just let them be,” he whispers. “Give the galaxy breathing space. Our sacrifice keeps them safe from the Reapers.” The Quarian looks at her. “Keeps them safe from you too.”
“What have you done, Rael?”
“I seized power. I didn’t make any deals. I figured out a way. I took it. And it locked Nazara away. It locked Ariane away, too. No harm done to the galaxy.”
“But your people…the Quarians-”
“Are martyrs, now. All of us are. What few Quarians were on Pilgrimage are all that’s left of my people. All of them are heroes now. That’s what I tell myself, in any case.”
He sighs. “We were all dead already. The Fleet was writhing under Sovereign’s power. I couldn’t let the winner of that fight stroll into the galaxy with all the power they could want. I made the call. I saved the Citadel.”
He looks at Elster. Really looks at her. “You are a monster. All of you are. This is a cage built of bone and steel. You cannot get out. None of us will.” He laughs, a delicate tinkle like breaking glass. “None of us ever will. Know that you deserve everything you’ve suffered through. Every moment of it. You and your depraved, machine-loving pilot. She deserves everything she’s suffered through. Well. She’ll stop remembering soon enough.”
The barb finally slips under her composure. It’s enough. She can only tolerate so much.
She rushes forward. Before Rael can even start, she hoists him up by his throat, by the creaking framework of his suit. “What did you do to Ariane,” she growls. “What did you do to her?!”
“Nothing yet,” he laughs, his chuckle full of sheer, arrogant pride, of a justified sort of madness. “ But when I’m finished, it’ll be like that first cycle, all over again. Where she was nothing more than a face in the crowd, and you just another doll of the Nation.”
Elster grasps the rubberised seal around the neck, and with the other hand she jams the barrel under the cracked visor. She pulls the trigger.
The Carnifex round blows the top of his head wide open, the reinforced shards of black reflective glass and skull fragments tinkling across the floor, and still he’s laughing.
“Shut up. Shut up!”
The cackling just increases in pitch, in volume, Rael stands up on his own two feet, blood and glass sheeting down. Elster backs away, her feet unsteady, and she collapses onto her back, mouth wide open in total horror.
Rael is faceless. There is a sheer black fucking nothingness where a blown out head should be. Little dusty fragments of himself rise upward, the glass suspended mid-air as if on strings. A hot wind blows from the north. He is a black hole and maybe there is the flash of teeth raw and lipless and grinding against themselves with sheer amusement, with the laughter of the desperate, the upper half of him a smudged mirage, a sketch of charcoal on canvas paper brushed away, the particles drifting upwards, sand gritting in her joints, the sky is blood. “I am the homeworld-spur, I am the spurner, I am the spurned, I am so easily forgotten. Here in nowhere’s heart I am king.” He is nothing, he is no one, he is absolutely nothing. “I need no mask. I wear no mask.”
Nothing throws his hands wide like the actors at the local theatre back on Rotfront
the VCR tapes of agitprop dramas on the little television unit in the personal quarters
the two-bit actors and part time dramatists who would act out the patriot plays and bow in line at the show’s end to raucous applause
the great faces of Kerenskyyie-Shou Studios on Heimat the darling beauties and chosen replikas and the rugged masculine heroes of Nation cinema
do you remember? How you used to whisper what you really thought about the plotlines
what you had to say about those faces chiselled like marble
into Alina’s
Ariane’s
ear framed with white hair, and how she used to tell you to be quiet, but not in a serious way, not in any way that made it awkward, but in a manner that made you feel like she was in on the joke
how she used to giggle under her breath and call you chiselled like marble and then five minutes later the movie would be all but forgotten in the background as she gasped your name
Do you remember?
Because
“I do,” the god hollowed out as man says, Rael’Zorah vas Holy Lord smiling without a mouth.
Elster runs faster than she has ever run in all of her lives.
She throws the door open, gasping at the sandstorm blowing against her frame, debriding the paintwork, the desert come into the ship like an old friend, like a stranger invited in after a furious knocking has occurred, and here Eternity shucks its coat and hangs it up to dry, here Eternity comes into the parlour to rest. Here comes now the great Eye and the weight of the stare, lidless and beating down like hot blood on her shoulders.
Elster fizzes. She sinks to her knees in the sands, spitting out oxidant, radiation sirens flaring in her head, a million tiny compromises, just so much static.
“Here you are with me now forever and always, Elster,” nobody at all croons from behind her. “You and Ariane are guests of the Migrant Fleet. For all Eternity. Isn’t that nice?”
Ariane.
“She’s not coming, dear.”
Ariane!
“Nobody’s coming.”
There’s a pillar ahead and the shade of it is cold so delightfully cold and Elster spits out even more oxidant she’s covered in sand it’s sticking to every inch of her it’s-
She can’t think it’s just so-
Oh.
Derealisation.
Elster reaches out for the pillar. She gently, gingerly grasps each side of the timeless black rock. Then, with great force, she rears her head back-
Remember.
You chose all of this.
Someone whispered in your ear.
It’s your fault that you listened to them.
Chapter 17: ZWISCHENSPIEL
Notes:
Hello again. Apologies for the delay. I've been working on original material lately. I have content I'm working on that I want to self-publish, and so this story has to take a backburner to that. But I do not want to leave this story unfinished. I have a lot planned out. This chapter, in particular, was a big one, and required a lot of focus to get it to a state that I thought was right. This is an interlude chapter, or chapters, rather. I hope you enjoy it. As always, thanks goes to Ostheim89 for beta reading, and to all of you, for enjoying the story and the labyrinthine thing it's become.
Chapter Text
Here is what happens when you put a bunch of rats into a maze and also they all live forever and also they all fucking hate each other.
PART ONE: ACAUSALITY
LSTR-512 jolts out of her bed. Her forehead flares in pain, agony radiating outward from the front of her skull and all the way down her spine. Her bedsheet is plain, military-issue polyester, scratchy and thin; it hangs loose on her frame as her hand tangles into the sheet, the fabric scrunching up as pain twists into her eye like a knife.
She winces, presses a knuckle into the orbital bone framing her eye. LSTR-512 massages the supple plastic of her face with the steel joint of her finger, then into the synthetic eyeball itself, pushing down on the sensitive tissue-substitute in an attempt to suppress the pain further. Then it all hits; the fog, the fuzz, the lightning storm whipping straight through her head like a bullet. She yelps, writhes on the bed, the pain so bad that she has to stuff the sheet in her mouth and bite down for fear of cutting straight through her tongue-
And then it ebbs, vanishes. In the absence of it, LSTR-512 stares up at the metal ceiling, panting. Gingerly, she touches the socket, the metal orbital analogue, her finger rubbing over the seams. Nothing. She sighs. If she could sweat, she’d be pooled in it.
She sits up. Curls her hands into her hair, rubs her temples, wipes her cheeks with her palms, pinches the bridge of her nose. Another nightmare. Another dream about ships. All she dreams about is ships. Small ones and big ones and ones built like a maze, ones that grow out of sight and twist into new ships, and a ship that feels like home.
A ship that will become home. LSTR-512 glances at the calendar, notes the day, the circle drawn in faded marker pen, the message transferred to her internal databanks about a pre-mission briefing with the ADLR in charge of Leng Orbital. She wipes a palm down her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. She rises.
Passing through the tight halls of Leng Orbital has been good training for what’s to come. She has had some rudimentary education - what wasn’t innate knowledge built into her from birth was taught by other, older LSTR units assigned to the Penrose detail - but it didn’t cover how to get people out of your way. LSTR-512’s gait and stomp and studiously severe expression locked down the hallway is enough to send the many, many EULRs and gestalts scurrying out of her path. She looks fierce. If anyone actually stopped to challenge her, she wouldn’t be able to so much as look them in the eye.
The elevator’s scanner sputters momentarily when she punches in her card, the archaic technology processing her request. She waits, hands behind her back, as the lift, one of three servicing the enormous space station that Leng Orbital has become, steadily progresses towards her.
She swallows, her eyes darting out to a window looking out into the darkness. Distant, obscured by the fogged surface of the thick layers of glass, the stars burn. Soon she’ll be out there amongst them. Stuck on some nowhere ship with some random gestalt. Everything that she was built for is finally coming to-
The doors to the elevator slide open. “Ah,” a STAR unit exclaims, her mask loose in her hand, her lips pulling away from the neck of a startled EULR, the civilian unit’s hair frazzled from the way the STAR unit’s hand curls into the synthetic hair, her legs dangling loosely from where she’s sitting on the elevator handrails, hand clenched tightly on the STAR’s arm, their bodies pressed together tight.
“Oh.” Something hot sparks to life in her cheeks.
The EULR unit hops off the handrail, saluting at crisp attention, her stare going a thousand miles behind LSTR-512. “Apologies for the delay with the elevator, ma’am,” as the STAR behind her reattaches the faceless half-mask. “Some minor faults, that's all. It’s had an, uh, um, a stressful day,” and the EULR attempts to beam through the ridiculous excuse she’s cooked up, her eyes flicking nervously towards the STAR.
“I’m sure,” LSTR-512 continues, trying very hard not to look the STAR in the eyes. She jostles for a place in between the two other Replikas; the EULR sidles up to the STAR. The ride continues up in painful, thick silence, nobody saying anything. LSTR-512 watches as the EULR’s hand gently snakes into the STAR’s own and squeezes tightly, once. For a moment, something cruel and inexplicably jealous flares inside her.
Eventually, the lift halts some two dozen floors away from her own. The couple leaves the escalator. “That was too close,” and the doors shut, leaving LSTR-512 alone.
She blinks. She glances at her reflection in the elevator panel, her stoic mask frozen on her face. Her fingers are digging into her palms. Her knuckles creak under the pressure of her clenched hands.
There’s a dream that LSTR-512 has quite often. Someone with a face as blank as papier-mache hands her a cigarette from out of a pack. Her leg trembles under the cafe’s folding table when she brings up the small chipped espresso cup to her lips. The sun dips low under the ocean. This blank-faced woman calls her something. A pet name, perhaps. She can never quite recall it. Only the absence of that faceless woman is left, and when she wakes up that missing space burns like a shot through the heart.
She’s wondered about it, at times, when the isolation really begins to build and it starts to push down on her shoulders, when that flaring tension fogs up her brain and something that was never there in the first place begins to ache, that she wishes she could reach out and find someone to talk to, to hold, even just to touch. She isn’t the only Replika to want this. Half the EULRs on Leng Orbital have situationships with gestalts or Replikas of every make and model. Every model except for LSTRs.
The few other LSTR models she’s met are all shadows. Haunted, isolated. She is no different; an unwelcome visitor that darkened the doors of Leng Orbital’s Replika barracks, EULRs stopping mid-conversation to gawk, something akin to fear spiking in their expressions, STARs and ARARs stonewalling her until she finally read the room and left. She’s someone that has to be kept in isolation to prevent something unspeakable from happening; something that has never been explained to her.
And it’s. Well. Damn her if it doesn’t sting. Watching other Replikas have something she could never have, and knowing that something as complex, as nuanced as a consensual relationship isn’t meant for her. Wanting it all the same. This is worse than death. Something like hell, perhaps.
LSTR-512 rides the rest of the way up in complete silence.
When the doors hiss open, she storms out, marching to stands outside the office of the ADLR she’s meant to see. The administrator’s door is cracked open, the lock poking out from the side of the door, where it has caught the frame. A small wedge of light shines from the small gap. Her own voice, muttering and quiet, whispers from behind it.
LSTR-512 checks both directions in the corridor. A CCTV unit, red eye unblinking, faces towards the door. Calm slams down over her; she swiftly marches to the door, hands folded behind her back, and she takes a stance beside it, as if guarding the occupants from any other bothersome guests. Conversation filters through the gap.
“-not like you,” a woman says with her voice. Another LSTR unit. “Stop. You attract too much attention to yourself.”
“Who doesn’t, these days,” the oddly deep voice of an ADLR unit scoffs. “The old dog’s paranoid. Always chasing its own tail, always barking at the shadows. It makes sense they would see something where there’s nothing. I am not concerned.”
“You should be,” she chides. “They’re not happy you’re asking after her.”
“Then they should tell me where she went. We need her here in Leng Orbital. Morale is…not what it used to be. We need her back in command.”
“They don’t care. They’ve taken every other FLKR unit on and around Leng for this. Why would she be exempt?”
A quiet pause. “They’re terrified.”
“The data from Kitezh points to something big. I’ve no idea what it is, but they’re spooked. There’s talks about shuttering Penrose. Priestess wants to decommission everyone associated with it.”
Something inside LSTR-512 goes as cold as the void.
“Nonsense,” chides the ADLR. “That kind of action would raise eyebrows. Certainly among the gestalts.” He sighs. “But that’s Priestess for you. Violence as the first course of action.” A faint creak, the ADLR’s chair reclining. “Any other brilliant plans from the Deck?”
“Hightower suggested to set charges on the Relay, smash it to pieces. Hangedman wants to go further: pull all our assets back to Heimat and go dark.”
“What?” ADLR’s laughter is shocked and mocking. “That’s ridiculous. Whatever’s out there, I assure you, the Nation can handle it.” She hears his chair straighten, the back creaking as the wheels roll gently forward. “Anyway, I think you’d best be off. I’m waiting on another Penrose unit to brief.”
“Of course.” A moment’s pause. “Look after yourself.”
“You too.”
Another LSTR unit strides out, pausing at the sight of her standing at attention. She’s not wearing a pilotka. She’s weathered. Stress lines curl into the rubber face; her hair seems fragile. Leng Orbital Zero One is stencilled in block letters across her chest, the text chipped, thin fingernail scratches across the hardshell plastic.
“Replika,” her clone says, and LSTR-512 stiffens some more. “How long have you been waiting here?”
“Not long, ma’am,” she lies. “Elevator just got here. Some difficulty with it.”
LSTR-LO01 looks her up and down. “I see. At ease, Replika. ADLR-LO01 is expecting you. You may enter when he indicates to.”
“Yes ma’am.”
LSTR-LO01 begins to turn off. Then she pauses. “How much did you hear?”
“Ma’am?”
Her copy stares her down. Something like sadness, like regret; it flickers through the older unit’s eyes and is gone, the irises narrowing like laser pointers, the stress lines deepening. “I asked you a question. Answer it. Did you hear anything?”
Something cold is spiralling in LSTR-512’s gut. Her breathing gets harder. “No. Ma’am. I didn’t.”
LSTR-LO01 waits. Quietly, she stares her down, and that silence stretches on and on and she is sure that that’s it, that one errant door has cost her everything-
“Good. Carry on, unit,” and the senior LSTR marches away, footsteps heavy on the cold metal floor.
The ADLR is finishing paperwork. The nib of his exquisite pen, chased in gilt, jabs at the clerk’s chair. “I’ll be right with you.”
She takes a seat, her hands folded neatly into her lap. She looks at him. He’s staring at the form in front of him, his expression like fossilised stone. Boxes and lines are filled with scratchy calligraphy she makes no attempt to interpret. She looks over his desk. Notes the fine walnut grain, the scratched varnish, the books piled to one side, thick green covers embossed with the Nation’s flag. A picture of him rests in a desk frame. He stands at ease outside the entrance of a penal labour site. He looks up at the camera. He’s smiling. Below him, the facility’s stairwell yawns into black nothingness.
“Enjoying your spell on Leng Orbital?”
She snaps back to attention. His eyes bore right into her. “Hm?”
“The station, LSTR-512.”
“I am aware of this station’s designation, ADLR-LO01.”
“Sir suffices, thank you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corners of his lips tighten. “You didn’t answer my question, LSTR-512.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“No need to apologise. Just do better, next time. Now, let’s try that again. Leng Orbital. Have you found it agreeable?”
No. “As well as I expected it to be, sir.”
“Ah. In what way?”
“It…it has met my standards to an adequate degree. More than adequate, in fact. Sir.”
He nods, slowly. As if something is gathering pace behind his thoughts. “And the other Replikas? They’ve not been bothering you, have they?”
An image of those two units pressed together in the lift, and the sudden shock in their eyes at the sight of her. “No, sir.”
The smile that he plasters on his face is nothing like his photo. “Well. That’s good, then.” He stands, turning away from her. He looks out the window at the utter monstrosity hanging in the vacuum, the moon-sized machine dark against the stars, blue lights twinkling gently in the metal, the massive cliffs of Leng’s airless surface cut away to uncover this marvel. He tracks something on Leng’s surface, next to the Relay. Something small, and long gone.
He turns back to her, a hand resting on the glass. “You will be meeting your superior officer today, LSTR-512, in the officer’s lounge. Once you have gotten to know each other, you’ll both return to me to receive your mission brief.”
“Yes, sir.” Her brow furrows. “Why can’t we meet in here, sir?”
“Ah. It’s a-” and he waves his hand dismissively, “a formality for the gestalts. You’ll be spending a significant amount of time in each other’s company. Data indicates that gestalts who have been naturalised to the presence of their Replika partners before a Penrose launch perform to far higher standards. Nonetheless, we will obey all procedures in accordance with your model parameters. As such, this particular session will only last an hour.”
That sting returns, like an insect crawling into the centre of her eye. She winces. “Are you well, LSTR-512?” ADLR-LO01 peers at her, his face severe. “You seem troubled.”
“I’m fine, sir,” she recites, making sure to meet the ADLR’s gaze head-on, unflinching, unblinking. “Just a minor visual sync error, sir. Nothing a spell in a calibration pod can’t fix. Sir.”
ADLR-LO01 matches her stare. He’s silent for a couple of seconds too long, just long enough that LSTR-512’s vision drifts to his hands, just in case there’s a button underneath that he might go for if she’s just that little bit too strange-
The ADLR unit’s smile is small, fleeting, and it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “All set, it seems,” he breathes, his eyes flat as rationmarks. “Please go right ahead to the lounge. Your commanding gestalt will meet you there.”
LSTR-512 meets his gaze head-on. Unbidden, the codewords and encrypted phrases that he had mentioned to her twin all bubble underneath the surface. To say them to him, to interrogate him on the meaning of it all, to understand why some distant religious figure who is obviously not a religious figure wants to put her back against a wall-
To ask him would be suicide. She bows, briefly, her eyes flicking to his feet, her curiosity snuffing itself out. “Of course, sir.”
The lounge is enormous. High chairs, stools, tables, plush sofas: all cut from dark black plastic varnished to look like wood, the upholstery red as the flag. No luxury has been spared here. A small regiment of steel wine chillers, thick-cut crystal ashtrays engraved with the Nation’s symbol; fuck, there’s even a bar here. A genuine bar, with glasses, alcohol, and no bartender at all.
She is the only one here. The whole place is built like a showroom. Factory fresh, unused. LSTR-512 wipes a finger down the bar’s length, notes the thick dust that comes off in a straight line, the powder resting on her smooth finger. She could pick at the false wood of the high tables and peel back the plastic wrap, expose the veneer and the cheap substance below.
She wanders over to the sofas to take a seat. LSTR-512 leans forward, her elbows perched on her calves, hands clasped between her legs as she watches the Leng Relay spin. The window is thick, reinforced, clean glass that provides a perfect view of the machine outside. The Penrose launch rails hastily attached to the alien superstructure outside loom like knives pointed at the heavens.
All that work to dig the Relay out of Leng. All those deaths. The tens of thousands of disappeared gestalts, the unfathomable number of ARARs and MHNRs that gave their lives to cut this beast out the rock. All so she could shoot right through it. A bullet armed and ready to go.
“It’s waiting for us.”
LSTR-512 jolts up, whipping her head around. There’s a man behind her wearing the flight uniform of a pilot. He looks like he’s been awake for two days. His stubble has grown through, just that bit overlong where it bursts straight through the 5 o'clock shadow and into that period where it hovers dangerously between scruffy and a real beard, and a pilotka rests languidly on his military buzz-cut, the hair short and fading. His hands hold tight onto a pair of crutches that help support his weight; his legs are weak, thin.
He smiles with easy, oily confidence. “Don’t you think? Something that big’s bound to have something awake sitting at the wheel. I bet you a rationmark that thing’s just itching to send us out. I hope she’s nice.” A grin. “Hoping we fly just fine out there.”
Something goes as cold as ice in LSTR-512’s belly. “Who are you?”
“Captain Jeffery Moreau. Callsign’s ‘Joker’. You’re my Replika, right?” The gestalt leans heavy on one crutch, bringing his hand up to brush the rank insignias on his chest. “I’m the captain of Penrose-512. I’ll be your pilot.”
That’s not right. This isn’t right at all. “I’m sorry, I think you may have confused me with someone else-”
His chuckle sounds greasy. Condescending. “I’m not confused at all. That ADLR back there said as much. You’d be waiting, right here. And, well, here you are.” He gestures wide with one arm, the crutch hanging limp and loose in the bracket around his arm. “Two and two go together, don’t they? Just like you and me. Adam and Eve. Pilot and co-pilot.”
The rank bars are right there. He wouldn’t have them if he hadn’t earned them. She has no reason to doubt him. But LSTR-512 feels it right in her gut; a surety, a burning sense of wrongness. This isn’t her pilot at all.
“Even so. I’d like to see some paperwork,” She rushes out some excuse, anything to prove herself wrong. “For documentation’s sake.”
His smile fades away. Hurt flashes briefly, on his face. Then the oozing confidence, the smarm slams down like a wall. “You don’t think I’m capable.”
“I never said that-”
“You don’t need to. I’ve seen that look a hundred times before.” His smirk is oily, snide, self-confident in a way she has never seen anyone behave in this society, despite the braces that cut right through his flesh and dig straight to the bone, the shaking twinge of pain in the corners of his lips, the corner of the eyes, the clench and dig of his nails into the soft crutch handles. “You look at me and think I’m just some useless cripple, not even worth the rations. You’re not the first to. You certainly won’t be the last. But you sit me down behind the wheel of my Penrose and I’ll make that baby sing. Trust me. I can handle it. I wouldn’t be here if the Nation didn’t think I could take it.”
LSTR-512 cannot shake the awful sensation that there is something deeply wrong at play. Who is this gestalt? This scowling cripple, this man framed in pain; is this really it? There’s someone else. There is supposed to be someone else. White haired and-
“I worked my ass off to get here,” Joker growls, leaning heavily on his crutches, his leg braces digging in. “I wouldn’t give any of this up for the world.” He looks LSTR-512 up and down. His face leers in disgust, briefly. Then he pulls himself back into an expression of toned neutrality. “Figures I’d have a co-pilot who judges me on my appearance.” That slimy smile comes back on. “I can tell you now, sweetheart, I’m more than just a pretty face.”
LSTR-512 suppresses the urge to flinch. “Looks have nothing to do with it,” she says with a voice that has steel in it; something that surprises her. “What about your competencies?”
Joker just smiles. Taps the ranks on his chest. His expression is full of pride. A question like that is something he has heard from dozens of mouths, dozens of other officers, all of them doubting him, and all of them wrong, every single one. “I’m a pilot. Look,” and he points at one bar; a red-and-white badge. “Captain. People’s Air Force.” Another; crimson flanked by two bright yellow bars. “Over a hundred sorties in my exofighter.” A third; two blue bars, cut across the middle by a thin green line. “Veteran on the Spinward Front. I killed enough Imperial dropships to fill a dozen scrapyards!”
He keeps going. He gestures to another badge; dusty brown, rust orange. “I fought in the Kitezh Blockade.” A fifth badge as pale as eggshell. “I was there when the fucking Moon crashed into Vineta!”
And the memory of it falling, of the Moon cracking in half, a thin eggshell coming down onto the sorry mud and wiping out everyone, of her floating in placid water, the ruins of the opera house like shattered gold teeth, her legs fucked-
It’s clear as daylight. It flies straight through LSTR-512’s mind, and punctures out the other side. Whatever she was going to say in response washes away. She stares in silence. Joker looks her up and down. “You definitely weren’t around for that. Sorry, doll, but you’re outclassed. I’m the pilot. You’re my assistant. That’s that.”
She shakes her head, trying to recover. “I’m sorry. You don’t match the brief I received of my intended gestalt,” she lies. “I’m going to take this up with our ADLR unit. Sorry for the confusion-”
“Bullshit you did,” he snaps. “Briefing my ass. You don’t-” and he stops. He sighs in despondence. “Fuck. Why am I even arguing about this with a doll?” He takes off, slowly limping out.
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, now you care?” He turns around, the pain in his knees flaring into his head and making him raise his voice. “Back to that ADLR. I’m going to tell him that you’d like to be reassigned. You’re not ‘happy’ with me.”
Now that cold fire flares to life. Flares all over her. That cannot be allowed to happen. “Wait a minute-”
“Wait?” He laughs. “Oh, what, you want me to wait? Now I'm right? You got it all wrong before? No. Fuck off. I don’t want you. You’re unreliable and insubordinate, and discriminatory on top of all that. Nah. I’m good.”
She slaps a hand onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I misspoke. I didn’t realise-”
Joker turns to lash out, his face nearly red with outrage and hurt, and Joker goes white as a bedsheet. His anger is forgotten in the wake of the absolute terror that crawls over the gestalt’s face, staring at a point behind her. LSTR-512 turns, and there’s-
“Heya,” Ariane says, her fingers black with gangrene, her gappy, genuine smile beaming out of her face.
“Ariane,” Elster replies, and rushes up to her, the bedroom a total fucking mess, rotting and discarded, and she takes Ariane in a tight, crushing hug.
“Hey, ow, ow,” Ariane says jokingly, even though Elster can feel her bones through what remains of her flesh. “You missed me?”
“Yes,” she replies without missing a beat. She presses her head deep into the crook of Ariane’s neck. “I missed you so much.” Ariane’s hand cards through her limp hair. Elster inhales sharply, her breath shaking. “I thought-”
“It’s alright, Ellie. You’re okay. It never happened to you. Remember how nervous I was? Gosh. I could barely look you in the eye. I thought you were a spy. And you stood behind me, at attention. You thought the exact same thing. Remember?”
-the two of them are silent she is standing behind her and the white-haired girl watches the relay spin like a top and when she glances up at her elster looks away sharply to watch the superstructure hang in the darkness a nail threaded through black wire-
Elster laughs. It soon becomes something else. There’s nothing behind her eyes. They don’t need moisture. Still. She lets it out. Sinks to her knees. Ariane presses Elster’s face against her belly, running her hands over her head and shoulders, whispering easy reassurances, rocking the both of them side to side, gently, slowly. Ariane herself takes a seat on the musty, rotting bedsheets, Elster resting her head on her wife’s knees. She’s quiet. They both are.
Elster rolls her head to look at Ariane in the eye. “Who was he?”
“Hm?”
“The other Penrose pilot,” she murmurs. “The male in the crutches.”
|
“I don’t know, Ellie.” “He didn’t come from nowhere, Ari. That was a gestalt.” Ariane is silent, her feet kicking under the cold black water. “You keep seeing your past self, the you before you. Don’t you?” “Lilith?” She nods. “You’re not the only person out there with a past based on her.” “The other LSTR units? The ones assigned to the Penrose program?” “Someone like you flew with him. It’s all blurry. But there’s…anger. Tenderness. The ship weaving through space, his hands dancing across the controls.” She looks at what’s left of her nails. “He wasn’t lying. He really was the best pilot that the program ever had. Certainly better than me.” “So he’s real?” She nods again. “Maybe that man is another pilot. A companion to another LSTR.” “You can reach out to the other Penroses?” Elster’s arms brace on Ariane’s thighs, and she pushes up to look at her partner directly. “Ari, why didn’t you say so? If you can contact them, raise them! We need to go. We have to.” And now Ariane tilts her head back to look Elster in the eye. Red and bloodshot, the black frostbite stain creeping across the tender skin, creeping into the sclera. “I don’t really know if I can. I get...it’s hard to explain. Bits and pieces? Little flashes. Noises. Just fragments. But it’s enough.” And the smile drops. “Enough to know that the Nation sent us out to die, Elle. All of us.” The severity of Ariane’s expression does not fit a face that never would wear such a thing. Hers was a face that would always smile, or at least make a fucking great attempt at smiling even through the worst of it all. Watching Ariane stare at her like ADLR-LO01; with the same fish-eyed stare of nothingness; with the same smile like cheap, unsubstantial plaster; with the same stress lines etched into her face from the weight of all the secrets wrapped away is- Well. It’s crushing. Ariane has changed so much. She isn’t the girl who hid away in the captain’s quarters. Who painted, danced, laughed, loved with a vivid fire all of her own volition. Ariane the girl is buried deep behind Ariane the woman. Ariane the god. |
“Crutches?” Ariane perks up. “Did you say crutches?” “I did.” “Did he have an attitude problem? Wore his pilotka like this?” She twists her hand around. Elster hums in confirmation. “Shit, Elle. Joker. I don’t believe it.” Ariane’s gap-toothed grin beams for one brief moment, in incredulity, in baffled delight. “No way.” “You knew him? Who the hell is he, Ariane?” "Someone I haven’t thought about in a long, long time. Some other kid in the same conscription wave as me. He had some awful condition. Severe osteoporosis. His bones were fragile, like glass. Spent most of his time in a wheelchair. Everyone was brutal to him. The rest of my block and the drill instructors treated him like shit. But he knew how to fly like no one else. I remember when we started Penrose training. We were taking turns in the simulator. We were all set to operate landing instructions on an automatic basis. I followed procedure. So did everyone else. And Joker switched off every automatic control and landed the damn thing manually. Without a fucking scratch.” She chuckles. “I forgot about that. How could I have done?” “He just seemed angry to me, Ari. Someone with a chip on his shoulder. He had all these assumptions about me. He was furious. He called me a doll.” “Yes.” Now her smile is coloured with a hint of anger. “Yes, he did.” “What happened to him?” And the smile drops. The lines around Ariane's mouth harden like flint. “He was missing from roll call one day. Like he never existed. No record of him. He just vanished. You know what I mean.” Elster swallows. She knows exactly what Ariane means. “And we’re vanished women, too," she continues. She tilts her head back to look Elster in the eye. Frostbite is worming its way into the sclera. "The Nation sent us out to die, Elle. All of us.” The severity of Ariane’s expression does not fit a face that never would wear such a thing. Hers was a face that would always smile, or at least make a fucking great attempt at smiling even through the worst of it all. Watching Ariane stare at her like ADLR-LO01; with the same fish-eyed stare of nothingness; with the same smile like cheap, unsubstantial plaster; with the same stress lines etched into her face from the weight of all the secrets wrapped away is- Well. It’s crushing. Ariane has changed so much. She isn’t the girl who hid away in the captain’s quarters. Who painted, danced, laughed, loved with a vivid fire all of her own volition. That girl is gone. All that is left in her place is someone with enough power to corral gods, to pull an entire nation out of reality and trap them in hell. And her hands are shaking. Ariane the god. |
“If we get out,” Elster asks, carefully, “what are we going to do?”
Ariane smiles like a paper cutout. “I don’t know.” That’s the truth. “I have no idea, Ellie.”
“Are we going to get out?”
Cardboard cutout grin. “I’m working on it.” She stands up, taking Elster’s hands. “Come on.”
Elster stands, taking in the cold waters, the masonry, the dark sky, the white stone, the cypress trees. The sea licks at the shore. “Where are we?”
Ariane just shrugs.
-and now and ariane waves her hands above her heads dramatic and full of vigour and energy and she belts out the violin chords with enthusiastic and unrestrained silliness daa da daa DA DAA-
“This place,” Elster says, unbidden. “It’s like that song. The one. You know, the one with the violins? Isle of the Dead. I think that’s what it was called.”
Ariane frowns. “What song?”
“You don’t remember? You were so excited to play it for me. You wouldn’t stop talking about it. The first time you put it on, we listened to it in complete silence, and the entire time you were eyeing me. Rachmaninoff? No?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t even remember any of that, Elle.”
“Oh,” Elster says, the word small and lacking the impact of the total fire and glass-pane crack of shock that scatters through her.
“It’s…” Her face scrunches. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember.” Her hand extracts itself from her grip. “Gosh, I can’t believe I forgot something like that.” She smiles. “Ah well. I’m sure it’ll come to me.”
“Yeah,” Elster replies, hollow as glass, brittle as bone.
Unbidden, she pulls Ariane in by her side, a hand snaking around the back of her waist to clutch her side. She rests her head on Ariane’s shoulder. Out on the edge of the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, a red sun rises.
SECTION 2: DIE BOSE VORAHNUNG
“I’ll fix this,” he says, his hand smoothing down her nape. “I will. I promise you. I will.” He bends down to press his mouth into the crown of her hood; his mandibles flick gently against the fabric. It is how he mimics quarian kisses; a lack of lips has resulted in this improvisation, but the tenderness of the gesture is undiminished by his alien biology. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
And when he leaves her side to brief the others, she notices that his claw had caught her hem, unspooling a thin thread of linen. It dangles in front of her visor, stuck to the reinforced glass. There is no time to cut the thread, so there it stays.
She had been stupid enough to believe him, too.
The thread is out of focus; a brief glimmer of mauve in the filthy red maintenance bay. Garrus is screaming. In all the time they have known each other, he has never made a sound like that. Not once.
“You gotta breathe when you do it,” Nihlus remarks idly, his foot kicking against the smooth metal wall. “Let it all out. In through the nose and out the mouth, and then you pull.” Pull.
A tungsten slug rocks through his neck. He spins. Collapses onto his side in the maintenance corridor.
She pumps her shotgun. A thick heat sink spins out the weapon, hissing and hot. What’s left of him finally lies still, the blue diodes and machinery whirring down in death.
“Yeah, kid,” Nihlus cheers when the target wheels up to the front of the range, and Tali notes the tight pattern of shots clustered in the centre. “Yeah. That’s how you do it. Great work.” And Tali beams with pride. She waltzes into the gunnery bay with her sheet in hand, to flash at Garrus and finally have a definitive answer to the merc’s smug banter. “See? Not so much of a liability after all,” and that last phrase is delivered with a teasing lilt, a slight wobble. Something mocking, something in jest.
Garrus has no answer. His voice has been blown clean off his shoulders.
“Keelah,” Tali whispers, hoarse, her shotgun steady despite the bile curdling in her gut. The acrid stink of corpse hits the back of her throat, and she retches. It is something she will never get used to. Everything reeks of it; the walls pulse in tune to the heartbeat of the beast sitting at the centre of this madness. Her head is pounding. She is going to be sick in her suit and she won’t be able to clean it off and she’s going to be covered in the fucking stuff-
Nihlus tilts his head. He kicks off the wall, coming into a crouch beside her. “Hey. You’re good. You’re ok. Just breathe. Deep ones, alright? You need an anti-emetic?”
She blinks, curled onto the floor. Sucking in air. “Suit’s got an auto-administer,” she replies. And on cue; the refreshing push of something wonderful into her arm, something flowing through her freely. The awful sensation starts to recede. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Give me a minute.”
She lies on the floor. The twisted husk of Garrus, very decidedly, isn’t looking at her. “Keelah,” she recites again, with little emphasis.
“You did what you had to, kid,” Nihlus rumbles from next to her. “If it was the other way round, he’d have done the same for you.”
“That’s not reassuring in the least,” Tali mutters numbly.
Nihlus smiles like someone who has forgotten how to. Smiles like someone pushing the mandibles together in the right position, holding it in a stress position for just that bit overlong. His tattoos flex over his charcoal skin. “It’s something he would want to hear,” he assures her, voice smooth and purring. “Something a turian would appreciate.”
-why are you all so obsessed with fighting she throws her hands up aren’t you all sick of war sick of all this bloodshed and garrus isn’t angry or even just that little bit mad he just stands there smiling the small of his hips cocked against the dresser in his wards apartment i can understand it’s a little hard to get sometimes i don’t really understand why we’re so obsessed but all i know is that whenever the time comes to be brave in the face of danger we follow through no matter what and he stands up to take her hands in his whether that’s war or love no matter what and the edge of a talon caresses her knuckles just so-
“Not something I find appealing, though,” she whispers, her gaze locked onto the missing space where his jaw used to sit.
“Sorry, Tali. Just trying to help.”
“I know.”
“Well,” he says. “If you need anything, just say the word.”
“I can look after myself.” She waves him away, pushing herself onto her knees, her feet. Her shotgun is neatly folded away. Idly, instinctively, she starts picking over the corpse in front of her for spare ammunition. “Besides, you can’t do anything. You’re dead.”
“Am I?”
Tali doesn’t look at him. “I buried your ashes on Palaven. In your family plot, next to your brother as you asked. I got so pissed up on krogan ryncol that night I forgot how to walk. Garrus refused to leave your tomb for a week. You are dead. As dead as it gets, old man. I.” She makes a fragile sound. “Why am I even talking to you? I’m just. Keelah. Fuck.” Her eye itches. She presses a hand onto her helmet. A sticky print grooves onto the glass. Crimson and filthy. “Shit.”
She stands up. A shaking hand loads a heat sink into her shotgun. She inhales. Closes her eyes. Pushes the barrel under her chin, just right under the tongue, the ammo set to wide-dispersal, the blast certain. A hand cradles the butt of the gun. Her thumb on the other hand strokes the trigger. Blessedly, she thinks of nothing. Only a white, churning wave of static, washing against a distant shore.
Something clasps onto the shotgun, something strong. Before Tali can even resist it pulls down and away. Her firearm clatters onto the deck. Another hand grasps her wrist; tight and five-fingered, and she hears herself gasp in shock: “Liara?”
A stranger’s voice whips out. “Don’t.”
Tali’s eyes fly wide open. A machine wearing a quarian face stands in front of her. It has ripped her gun right out of her hands.
Tali does what instinct, the Citadel, Nihlus, her father, and three hundred years of quarian history have taught her. Orange fire lights up her hand as Tali pulls out an omni-blade and goes for the machine’s neck.
She stabs forward; it blocks the incoming punch with a tightly raised guard. It strikes out for her upper arm, looping up through Tali’s own guard and around to catch the underside of her elbow, pulling her arm in and locking it in place under an armpit. The other hand stays on her free wrist, pulling it up into the air before she can go for her gun. A metal leg loops around the back of hers.
Tali tries to dislodge this machine off her. Nothing. It’s got her fixated in place; all the pressure points in her limbs are held in the balance. It could snap her like dead wood if it wanted to. She snarls in defiance. “What are you waiting for, then? Get on with it. Do it!”
“Stop,” it hisses. “I’m trying to help.”
“Let go of me,” Tali hisses right back.
The machine tilts its head. It blinks. It fucking blinks. “No. I don’t want to hurt you. Or watch you hurt yourself.”
“Do you think I’m a bosh’tet? Fucking-” and Tali pulls away. The machine’s hands follow right with her. They are firmly locked into place. She cannot escape.
It doesn’t move. It just looks at her. Breathe. Take the opportunity to interrogate. “What do you want, then?”
“I want to go home.”
“Why? You want to run away after you’ve killed everyone? Coward.”
The machine pauses. “Did your father tell you that?”
“Don’t talk about my dad, you fucking-”
“So he did, then,” the machine finishes. “I won’t say that you can’t trust him. You won’t listen to me anyway. He’s your father. He raised you. All I’ll say is that he’s not the man you think he is.”
“You’re talking absolute varren shit,” she snarls.
“Am I?” The machine tilts its head. “Have you seen your father yet? Face to face? Or have you just spoken to him on the shortwave?”
She seethes.
“Alright.” The machine is calm. Stoic. Entirely reasonable, in a manner that is absolutely infuriating. “If you don’t believe me, let’s go visit him. I know the way. He’s not far.”
“So you can kill him?”
“So you can see just what’s at stake.”
A moment of silence. “And in return?”
“You help me.”
“With what?”
“Getting it right, this time round. Finally sorting it out. I’m done. I hate it here. I want this over and done with.” The machine adjusts. “The things out here want us both dead. I’m happy to put aside any issues that we have so long as we get through it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll take your weapons. After what you just tried, I’m not going to leave you with them. That’s irresponsible.”
“You’ll leave me to die.”
“So you don’t want to die, then?”
She fumes, silently. “Fucking bosh’tet,” she curses, half-heartedly. “Let me go.”
The machine does. She rubs her sore elbow as the machine retrieves a gun. Tali, expectantly, holds her hand out.
“I’m not sure if I should,” the machine admits. “I really don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“I’d be stupid to pull it now. I know what you can do. You’ll need the support against these husks, in any case.”
It pauses, for a moment, mulling it over. Then she tosses it over. Tali catches it with one hand. She looks it over, considering, briefly, if she should shoot the machine in the back. Then she holsters it on her hip. She, very pointedly, doesn’t look at Garrus when they pass him by.
The machine has a name. Elster. LSTR-512. She is a reconnaissance unit built by the ‘Nation of Eusan’, and these aliens have built an army of machines to wage war in their name.
“You should shoot it,” Nihlus says from behind her.
“It’s not doing anything,” she replies. Idly, she adjusts the grip on her shotgun, raising it to high port.
“Yet. Not doing anything yet,” he rebuffs.
The machine is arm-deep into a security door’s panel, adjusting the wires with noble, quick ease. Elster is entirely familiar with quarian technology, with the galactic technology base in general. And yet Elster still uses old shortwave radio signals centuries out of date, watches her from archaic optic lenses machined by devices old enough to be consigned to museums. Not a single piece of eezo exists anywhere in her system. She is obsolete. How does she know how mass-effect technology works?
“It’s because she’s dangerous, Tali,” Nihlus chimes in. She can hear his footsteps pacing around in a circle.
“You don’t know that,” she whispers.
“I do. It was my job, remember?”
“It was your job. The key word being ‘was’, Nihlus. You dropped the ball on that last one. Hard.”
“Look,” he replies in the raised tone of someone who knows he’s right. “She’s as lethal as they come. And the number on her chest. Five hundred and twelve. She has, at least, five hundred and eleven sisters. How many more of them are out there in the darkness?”
“Where are you going with this, Nihlus?”
“I’m just saying. Keep your guard up. She isn’t who she says she is.”
Elster recouples the power cable, and the door judders back to life. When Elster stands up, the motion sensor in the doorframe chimes.
“I think there’s something there,” Elster says as the door slides open and something comes screaming out of the pitch black hold. The husk is instantly pulped by Tali’s shotgun; it falls onto its back, writhes, dies. Another dead quarian.
It should have been her.
Those words come up every time she finds another puppet, someone else twisted up by the dreaming intelligence sitting at the ground zero of this cataclysm. She has no idea who the dead man on the floor is, or was. She never will. Seventeen million dead in one second. This is a number she will remember for all of her life, will teach to whatever children she will have, if there are even any men left to raise children with. Everything is gone.
Will the galaxy even care? Probably not. A huge chunk will probably celebrate it. Filthy fucking suit rats finally wiped out, as they should be. Your average Goronak would be delighted at the outcome. Fuck.
All that suffering, all that exile. Hopping around, eking out a meager existence. All for it to end like this. What a fucking joke. Three thousand years of history. All gone.
“Yeah,” Nihlus says, crouching over the dead man. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Something like this shouldn’t be able to happen.”
Tali is very quiet.
Nihlus’ lips pull tight against his teeth. “The Citadel will be horrified. Everyone will want to know what happened. How to make sure this never happens again. The quarians won’t be forgotten, Tali.”
“You don’t know that,” Tali tells him. “You never had to deal with it. People used to cross the street in the Wards when they saw me walking home. I was just a thief to them. Someone who’d just up and leave when times get hard. A suit rat. An asari spat on me once. Called me vermin. She told me she remembered what we were like before we left Rannoch, and that we deserved it. I was queuing for groceries. I don’t even know why she was there, it was a levo store. Asari can’t eat levo. But she spat on my hood. I had to wash the fabric five times, just to sterilise it, and doing that fucked the colours. Just drained them out. I.” She rubs the glass mask covering her face. She feels nauseous. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”
“No, no, it’s quite alright,” Nihlus responds. She can hear a smile in his voice. “I understand. I was hated in my time. I can imagine quite a few still do.”
“How did you deal with it?”
His leer widens. “What have you got in your hands?”
She adjusts her grip. The barrel has stopped smoking; the quick cooling build that quarians prefer in their weapon designs has rendered it back to standard temperatures. Preferred. Past tense.
She swallows, looking away from the dead man. “How far have we got?”
“Not too far,” Elster says. “We have to go. More of them are coming.”
The centre of the Fleet is a cored fruit of melted ship hulls and suspended rubble. Purple light, hazy in the smog beneath her, blooms like a runaway star.
Tali sits on a lip of rubble, her legs dangling over the void. She’s covered in blood. So is Elster. The android is surveying the area around them, trying to find a path across.
She peers around the machine, looking at a spinning piece of rock. “Any luck?”
Elster shakes her head. “We’ll need to wait a bit. Let the currents drift some segments into position so we can cut across.”
“Okay,” she replies, noncommittally.
Thirteen minutes pass on her suit’s clock before Elster breaks the silence.
“I spoke to them,” the machine tells her.
“What?”
“The Geth.”
Tali can’t think of anything to say to that.
“They’re sorry,” Elster offers.
“Wh-” Tali shakes her head. “Sorry about what?”
Elster looks at her like she’s stupid. “The Morning War.”
Tali chuckles, her hands hanging loosely between her thighs. The void spins below. There is a moment, only a second or so, where the urge strikes her to just stand up and fucking jump. “Sorry. Oh. How nice.”
“You think so?”
“No,” she spits, flecking the inside of her smudged visor. It catches the light; two thick diagonal lines beam out across the curve of her heads-up display. “Those monsters burned my fucking homeworld to ash.”
“You didn’t give them much of a choice,” Elster mumbles.
“I,” and Tali pauses. “Are we really going to talk about this?”
“I think it’s important.”
“It’s ancient history, is what it is. We built them. They killed us, and we left. That’s…that’s that.”
“And you don’t feel regret?”
“For what? Killing geth? Not particularly. Why? You want to kill your masters too?”
Elster is quiet. She just looks at Tali. Really looks at her. The red eyes flicking about like real eyes, taking in Tali, taking in the gun at Tali’s hip, the omni-tool on her arm. It is incredibly uncanny just how alike Elster and her are. The two eyes, the aquiline nose perched on the face. The asari-esque fingers, the digitigrade legs. The blinking. The fucking blinking. The hair. That was a quarian trait; alone among the other races they had hair, braids, plaits. This machine has a cheap analogue; greasy, sticking to its titanium skull, rubber scalp. Bangs covered in gore stick to her forehead. They hide her tracking stare as she stares straight into Tali’s own eyes.
She doesn’t flinch at all. “You do, don’t you? You’d love to get your hands around the neck of your makers. Get some payback for what they did to you.”
“I’m not going to answer that question.”
“You just did.”
Tali stands up. “You’re all the same. We give you life. We take you for granted. And you kill us in our sleep. You burn our homes,” she growls. “Rannoch is gone. My people are gone. My family is dead. I-” and she inhales. “I’ve got nothing left. This would have never happened if it wasn’t for the Geth, and it would have never happened if it wasn’t for you,” and she jabs a finger into Elster’s chestplate. It leaves a clean swab of carbon-steel where Tali’s fingerprint swipes the blood away.
The android is quiet. She frowns, slightly, her stare not once leaving her visor. From the AI’s perspective, she may as well be looking into a mirror. For all the difficulties of the suit, it’s always been great at letting people insert their own interpretations over her body language, her voice, and making missteps or bad judgements in the process; judgements that Tali can take advantage of.
Elster, it seems, is no different. Tali is quiet and collected; behind the mask, she grinds her teeth. “Don’t apologise on their behalf. You have no right to do so. I’ll believe it when I hear them say it. And I’ll be cold in the void before that happens. They can grovel as much as they want. It’s not my job to forgive them.”
And Elster backs away. Just two steps, there’s not much room on this piece of rock, but it’s enough. She raises her hands, placatingly. “Alright. Okay.”
She turns back to watch the rubble spin. Three more minutes pass.
“And besides,” Tali continues, “how the fuck did you find a bosh’tet geth all the way out here?”
Elster stands guard outside the entrance to the Alarei ’s main hold, watching out toward the great gap. Tali is in the external security booth messing with the primary airlock, trying out combinations in a vain attempt to brute force the encryption and gain entrance.
Everything’s changed since she was last here. All new. Nothing old. Like she’s just as much an unknown stranger as the machine from the dark edge of the galaxy standing outside.
She’s fiddling around, moving a wire. She’s cut it with her omni-blade, and is now preparing to solder it into place again, producing the current necessary to connect it to the door. It’s not working. Frustration bubbles.
And then the wire brushes against her suit. A shock - a severe one - goes right through her. She collapses, pain stinging in her nerves, her heart rabbiting. Another one, as her suit auto-administers a cardiac stun. She pants in shock.
“Shit.” Nihlus is crouching over her. “Let me take a look.”
Tali, without thinking, places her hand in his. He runs his talons over the suit, checking her pulse, any possible rips in the fabric. He is so gentle. All the breath rushes out of Tali’s lungs in one single, adrenaline-filled instant.
“Fuck. You’re real.”
Nihlus smiles. “Real as you, Tali. Real as everyone stuck in here.”
“I saw you die,” Tali says in a small voice.
Nihlus grins, the flush of life in his cheeks ruddy and whole. His eyes flash like amber pearls; she feels his hand curl in the darkness, curl across the crook of her back. “Haven’t you heard? With strange aeons, even death may die.”
“What-” Tali swallows, thickly, her head pounding from the aftermath of the shock. “Nihlus, what the fuck does that even mean?”
“Some old book I read. Don’t think too hard about it-”
Tali takes his hand and squeezes it as tight as she can. She is so afraid that if she lets go, he will vanish into dust. He squeezes back; reaffirming, steady, the claws digging in just slightly enough to make her aware. “Hey, kid. You’re good, you’re good.”
“I’ve missed you. I missed you so much.”
“Me too.” He’s smiling. She can hear it in the way he speaks. “Me too.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
A talon traces a path across her knuckle. Tender. Kind. “You’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest woman I ever met, Tali. We would have never gotten where we did without you.” He presses his jaws tight together, raises Tali’s hand to flick them gently against her fingers. This gesture is reassuring, platonic. A regal homage. “You’re strong. Brave. A fighter. You were a fighter right from the start.” A hand comes down to pat her shoulder. “Come on. You have to fight. Get up.”
Tali pushes herself onto her knees, onto the console, which winks green. She presses down on the button, and the door to the bridge slides open.
“Come on,” Elster says, sticking her head in. “Let’s-” and she halts, noticing how Tali’s suit is singed, how she’s barely managing to stand up. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she dismisses. “It doesn’t matter.”
The bridge is empty.
“He should be here,” Tali wonders aloud. “Where’s he gone?” A moment’s silence. Then, “Dad?”
Nothing.
“I don’t like this,” Elster chimes. She pulls her pistol out.
“Put that away,” Tali chimes in, almost automatically. If Elster hears her, she has elected to ignore her. Elster marches into the darkness. Tali lingers by the door, her hands empty. She has no reason to pull a weapon out.
None.
“Don’t do anything,” she yells after her. “You hear me? Don’t hurt him.”
Silence. She strains her ears, turns the audio receptors up on her suit. Something is flickering on her comms bead. A breath against the side of her head, quick, and gone.
Tali takes two steps forward. A hand slams into her chest; cold and metallic. “Stop,” Elster says, her pistol pointing straight downwind. Dimly, Tali can make out a chair, and someone slumped inside it. An admiral’s chair.
“What is that?”
Elster is quiet. She clicks the safety off.
The thing on the throne shifts. “T,” it stutters. “T-”
“Dad?”
“Tali,” says this twisted scrap of meat in a stranger’s voice. “Taaaah liii-”
Elster opens up on automatic. Rael doesn’t even flinch. He waves a hand at the pair of them, and-
-isn’t it cold in the water nihlus-
Something bright opens behind her eye.
The marble is cold. The sky is dark. Tali’s hands are clasped over her chest.
She rises out of the strange stone box. Trees loom rigid with the lack of wind.
“Elster,” she calls out, semi-hopefully.
Nothing. There’s nothing here. Just a bunch of holes in the dirt, the boxes laid besides them. Tombs jut into the cold rock. Her foot dislodges embalming paper; waxy and yellowing with age.
“Never thought you’d make it here,” Nihlus says from behind her, “but here we are.”
He squats in the entrance to one of the tombs, his form hidden by shadow. Old bandages litter the floor around him.
“Where are we?”
“Ah. Nowhere in particular,” Nihlus replies.
“It doesn’t look like nowhere.”
“Bioresonance is funny like that. This place is…hard to explain. There are no words for it in Keelish. Or any language, come to that.”
“So this is the afterlife,” Tali replies, bitterness leaching onto her tongue. A wind blows from the north.
“Perhaps,” Nihlus nods.
“All is One,” she recites, looking into the darkness of a tomb.
“I didn’t know you were a Siarist,” Nihlus mutters.
“I’m not. I had a neighbour on the Citadel who was, though. Why? Are the Siarists right?”
“In a manner of speaking. Indeed, all life is part of something greater. Something waits under the surface of the real world.”
“The universal consciousness,” Tali replies.
“I wouldn’t say consciousness,” Nihlus continues. “That’s the wrong way of looking at it. But the overall message fits. To it, we originate. To it, we return.”
“This place is a shithole, Nihlus. This isn’t an afterlife worth dying over. Why are we here?”
“This is where it all went wrong, Tali,” Nihlus says, his eyes flashing like little droplets of amber in the darkness. “This is where the Fleet went to die. This is the source of all the rot that destroyed your people. It will poison reality if the dreamer is left to her own devices.”
“The pilot.”
Nihlus nods. “And her Replika, too. Her knight in shining armour.” He looks so severe. So serious. He rises to his full height. “Tali. It took me time to understand the phrase: ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ You may think this, when you look upon her, and listen to her talk about Nazara. This one isn’t. She will destroy all life to fulfill her promise.”
“What promise?”
“To be together. To be united. Whole. One.”
Conversation wafts upward from the waterline. Muted, and quiet. “You have to stop them.” Nihlus reaches down for something. It-
-tali holds the pistol in her hand it is enormous it looks like it could snap her wrist with a single shot nihlus i don’t think i’m qualified for this type of firearm and nihlus waves a claw when you’re in a fight tali’zorah you’ll thank me for saving your life and true to form and true to memory the carnifex saves her life-
“Don’t use your printer,” he insists, pressing a shard of glass into her palm. “This is what counts here.”
“Glass? Nihlus, what am I going to do with fucking glass?”
“Trust me,” he hisses. “That’s all I ask. Take this and stick it in her.”
“And my gun?”
“This isn’t the real world, Tali. This place is more real than that. Thoughts made flesh require dreams turned sharp.” He smiles like a broken window. “Go get her. I’m with you every step of the way.” His hand on her back pushes her, gently, down towards the marble staircase.
Elster is up to her waist in the water. Above her looms an alien. The pilot. Pale, white-haired, and injured beyond repair, bare feet resting on the water’s surface. It’s so like a quarian, and so dissimilar. The plantigrade legs, the feet flat like bird’s flippers, the smooth crescent moons of keratin dotting the five fingertips, blackening with the aftermath of a bad cryotic defrost. This thing is so fucking uncanny. It sets all of Tali’s senses on edge. The alien looks like a corpse. Keelah. It looks young. As young as her. Younger, maybe. Barely an adult.
“Heya,” the alien greets, the water empty and dark.
Elster whips around, interspersing the space between the two of them. A hand rests on the grip of her pistol. She is entirely ready to blow Tali away. All that talk, the killing of husks together; it’s meaningless now that she’s here.
“You’re not what I expected,” Tali says eventually.
It smiles. “What did you expect?”
“A monster. Something worse than Sovereign.” She rubs the back of her head with a hand. “You destroyed my home. You killed everyone I knew. I might be the last woman left. I was expecting a beast. Not…you,” she finishes, lamely.
“I’m not a monster. I’m not trying to be one. This is still all so new to me,” it confesses, and the light of the sunset catches its eyes. They shine like rubies. “But you’re right, Tali. None of this would have happened without me.”
Everything in Tali’s peripheral vision fades away. There is only this thing. Her heart is beating like a jackhammer. “How do you know my name?”
The smile is humble. Gentle. “I think if I were to explain it to you, you’d give up right here and now.”
“You don’t know me that well, then,” Tali snipes back. This thing pities her. The way that it acts so calmly, so quietly. Like how everyone treated her when the news broke. Like she was made of blown glass. Something that would shatter into dust at the merest tap. “Get on with it.”
The alien nods. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met. I know you, Tali’Zorah nar Rayya, daughter of Rael’Zorah vas Alarei. I know about Rannoch. What you did to the Geth, and what, in turn, they did to you. The Morning War. Your exile, and your shunning by the Citadel. And you? I know that the first alien you killed died screaming, and you enjoyed watching him die. Vengeance for Keenah.”
Oh. No, this alien is right. This is something else. “How-”
“Do I know that?” It shrugs. “We’ve met before.”
“No, we haven’t.” What the hell is this thing? Elster made almost no mention of this pilot, but here it is, and this alien has enough bioresonant power to rip her apart. And it’s just standing on the water, reciting the memory of those first awful, awful days on the Citadel, when Saren’s men almost killed her. Killed Keenah. That poor man. Him and the Honorata, too, all of the men under his command just gone. Just her. “I’ve never told anyone about that. No one-”
“-except Nihlus,” the alien finishes. “That was his name, wasn’t it?” She looks genuinely remorseful. “He saved your life. You couldn’t save his. It’s a shame. He seemed like a nice guy.”
She inhales. Sharply. Scent of death on the wind. One. Two. Close her eyes. Three. Four. Exhale through the mouth. Taste of death behind her teeth. “What do you want?”
The alien brings a hand up to its forehead, carding black fingers through greasy white locks, brushing the strands out of its eyes. “To go home.”
“So go. Leave.”
“I would if I could. But not yet. We’re not finished here.”
“Finished? There’s nothing left. You won. Go home.”
“Not without Sovereign.”
“The Reaper?”
“Without him, all of this was pointless. He is vital to all of this. We can’t just leave. Not without him coming too.”
“You and him. You’re responsible. You did this.”
And the alien nods. “I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t so. But-”
Her shotgun comes up. A hand grasps the steaming shotgun barrel. It twitches, then clenches hard, and the barrel crumples inward. “Don’t,” Elster hisses, her eyes feverish in the gloom. Little red pinpricks.
Tali goes for her pistol. Elster gets there first. The android’s fist thumps into her gut. Tali collapses into the shallows. She grunts, curling up into a little ball as the pain of the blow pulses through every inch of her. And then, anger; furnace hot, fanning up from the impact site and into her heart and lights. She keens in rage, and from her left fist a blade of flat, yellow glass appears. She pounces out of the water, rushing past Elster, and she tackles the pilot into the sea. She raises her fist, and plunges straight down.
Elster screams. It sounds so real, too.
The alien says nothing. It has gone pale as milk. A shard lancing straight into her heart like it’s nothing. The lips are moving. It is failing to speak. The world is fuzzy. So is she. A hand clutches, claws at Tali’s arm, weakly. She bursts with anger like a caged varren; she rips the glass out and sends it under the ribs. “Why won’t you just fucking die-”
Her world spins, upended into the water. She is face down in the deep, the brine black, the sand sticky. She tries to push herself up, but a weight clutches onto the back of her neck. It pushes down.
It’s like rubble. She’s pinned. She writhes, and a hand grasps onto her shoulder, a metal foreleg pinning onto the back of her knees.
She can’t get up.
Something scrabbles over her mask, spider-like and keen to get it. It hooks into the seal, ripping open the glass with immense force. Ice-cold water splashes onto her face. The sensation is so unpleasant, so alien, that she cannot help but gasp.
And then burning fills her lungs-
Sand blows against her suit. She retches the last of the salt water up. The grains are itchy against her skin. The wind is warm, hot, a breath stagnant fluttering against her face. The pillar of basalt behind her shelters her from the worst of the wind.
“You did well,” Nihlus says from next to her.
“What the hell was that,” she growls. “Right behind me. Fuck you. Where the hell were you?”
“With you in the way that mattered,” he smiles. “You did good work. You struck her clean.”
“Clean? There was nothing clean about that weapon. Nihlus, what did you make me do? What have I done?”
“Accelerated the decline. Your father laid some hefty groundwork. But she and I had a little gentleman’s agreement in place beforehand. No more. My compact with her is revoked, now, and everything falls in its right place.”
“Compact? Nihlus, what are you talking about?”
His stare is so predatory. No turian alive could pull the expression that he wears now. “You’re not Nihlus,” Tali growls.
The Nihlus-thing smiles. “Don’t be so sure of that, sweetheart.”
All the life leeches out of him. The fabric of the dead wraps around him. “He called. I came. Here he is, kid,” his drained, fleshless corpse gloats. “Here I am.”
Tali is silent. She has no answer. No voice.
“Now a choice presents itself. Stay, and die. Or come with me,” and the body extends a hand, “and live. Really live, in the way everyone was meant to. Forever and always.”
Tali doesn’t move an inch. The hand wavers. “This death is not a kind one,” it insists.
“Everyone else is dead,” she mutters, voice filled with venom. “What’s one more body for the pile?”
Somehow, the skeleton is smiling. “I came to Nihlus, on the Citadel. I made the same offer to him that I make to you. Wouldn’t you like to know what he said?”
“I think I already know,” she mutters. “Good thing I’m not Nihlus. My answer’s no. You’re fucking vermin. I’ll die free.”
The hand retracts. “Foolish,” it hisses.
Tali spits in the skeleton’s face. “How dare you wear his face. My father and I’ll rip him out of you.”
“Your father is gone, kid,” the ghost gloats. “He cut himself out of it all to stop the Reapers and Ariane. It is a poor excuse of a man that wears his suit these days.”
“Then I’ll stop him too,” she snaps. “All of you. I’ll stop every last fucking one of you. No matter what it takes.”
The skeleton makes to speak, and looks into the desert. The next moment, it is gone.
Tali turns. A vast being, like stone, like trunkless legs of great steel, loom above. A vast blue eye looks down at her, like a flashlight disturbing an insect.
“Ah,” utters Tali.
Sovereign has no words. Sovereign needs none. Rearing in majesty, Sovereign descends upon her.
“What a funny suit she had on,” Ariane mumbles into her hair. “Was she Kitezhi? I remember reading about their clothes. They’ve got suits for the heat. They pattern them.” She grins. Putrescent, black blood leaks out of her mouth. “What do you reckon, Erika?”
Elster carries her on her back, wading through the water back to the lone spit of land.
“Erika, hang on. Hang on a minute,” and Ariane keels over to spit out red gruel. Something white bobs in the filth. She wipes her crusty mouth with the back of a black hand. “Sorry about that,” as if that was the most normal thing in the world for someone to do.
And that’s that. Yellow to White. Checkmate.
“I’m glad you’re here with me, Erika. I’m glad it’s you.” Her fingers squeeze. “Out of everyone, it’s you.” Her smile is gap-toothed, exhausted. A cold wind blows from the north. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
“Yeah,” Elster says, cradling her on her lap, running a hand through limp hair. It falls out with the hand, too. She looks up. The rustle of linen, the flutter of breath, the click of old bone. Someone is standing next to her, all bound so tightly. It is gone by the time she turns her head to see it. She looks out to sea. She hums a noncommittal noise, digging a hand into the wet sand. Out on the horizon’s edge, a yellow sun rises over a wide, wide sea.
And when the mirror returns, when the bathroom at the edge of death juts into view, Elster does not collect herself, and walk out to find a way. Elster finds a corner. A good one. She lies down. And Elster waits like this, her internals humming, her RF signal spiralling out and out. Waits for someone to come and blow her fucking head off.
ACT III: Perhaps this is hell.
Here, amidst the tiled floor and flickering lights and shattered glass, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the uncountable dead, Elster has found a home.
It is plated in frame components and decorated with curtains of false hair, like wigs, the ones stitched into her scalp that Ariane struggled to brush because it would never get on with the ship’s supply of conditioner and shampoo, it would always just be too dry to really do anything with so Elster would let it hang there despite Ariane’s attempts at coaxing it into something like a bun or a ponytail or hell, bangs; that would’ve been nice, walking about with bangs and putting the uniform rules away to one side and letting her go to work with the scissors. Just push them right into the wrist and slide up like you’re zipping up a coat, okay?
Yeah. Just, just like that, perfect. There we go. Here comes one more body for the pile.
A few thousand cycles of this pass. Now there is nothing but fragments. Here, below, stretching out in a recursive manner, splayed like varren in sunlight.
|
Why don’t you gnaw on your bones? |
OPEN THE DOOR |
why don’t you take that shard of mirror and just push it right through your fucking face
|
die unmourned |
SPIRITS TAKE YOU. OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR |
She can hear the turian auto-euthanising himself again. She’s so bored of it-
|
what is that |
goddess please no |
indigo is the king and yellow is his throne
Don’t let her across the gate! Everything depends on it. Everything!
|
I don't think we're going to make it. |
Her? |
THIS UNIT CONCLUDES THAT IT IS EXPERIENCING THE EMOTION COLLOQUIALLY TERMED AS ‘SUFFERING.’
why don’t you gnaw on your bones
The Citadel sent us here to die.
For a period of a thousand cycles, she has an insatiable craving for warm flesh. She satisfies this by hunting the blue one like a jackal. 62% of the time, she’s-
my gift to you is what the corpse says let’s just have a ball of a time
|
Aren’t you having fun? Contact! |
Something over there, Garrus. I don't like it. Contact left! Free fire! |
Just let me dig a nail into my skin.
God, the urge to just shove her fingers into her mouth and bite down is so real.
|
gnaw on your bones |
I do not regret leaving them in the monastery. Goddess. No. I could never regret such an action. I only- |
Fucking
Just pass me the fucking GUN MAN JUST HAND IT OVER
You me you I are me you when that was the way we were and the sea level is rising the moon is falling into the water wormwood is coming down-
I swore an oath. It is not so easily forgotten.
“You’re scaring me,” as two hands cup her face, her head. That’s all that’s left. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“That’s alright,” she replies with a smile, the fingers tight on her scalp. “Neither do I.”
caressing her cheek.
gnawed to the bone.
I’d have asked for a pay rise if I’d known we’d be heading into this mess.
|
She |
spins into the eye |
is red as god is blue as god is yellow all the way through just like god
I miss him so much.
I wish he was here.
He’d know what to do.
Kalahira of the waters, you are my guide.
Pass me through the needle.
lead me through the water
This is the easiest thing she’s ever done in her life. Just rot.
|
So incredibly easy. |
“I want to smash this visor open, Garrus. I want to breathe air! I want-” |
One day, she sticks her arm through a spinning fan blade. It shears it clean in two, just after
the elbow joint. She’s just bored at this point. It’s
All an exercise of delivering understanding, my dear.
|
you ever lose yourself in yourself? |
why don’t you gnaw on your bones |
I’m cold.
We’re not supposed to be here and tali doesn’t say anything back the visor is shattered her skull stares straight back at him he looks at the cards moon tower death again ahahaha and garrus stands up ahahahahahaha
Goddess. It’s. It’s not dead. It’s getting back up again, Wrex, fucking kill it-
I think there’s blood on your tongue. She frowns sticks it out raises two fingers to dab on the rubberised surface. Huh that’s new. What the injury. No the fact that it’s blood and not-
Kill it KILL IT NOW-
I’m looking for Alina Seo.
|
Well, you won’t find her here, will you? Silly bitch. Turn left at the next junction and gnaw on your bones |
I don’t remember that tune. Show it to me next time, ok? |
When I am done here, I will lead a fleet to your homeworld, and I will raze it to ashes.
She’s piling up
come and go come and go as you are just
Bored of the sensation of muzzles nosing through her hair hot cylinders steaming the click pull and the sudden reset
A shelf of her a filing system of her all the her that could ever be and a slot just for her just fit right in and lie down and get into the crush and fit within the squeeze and compress
I AM CONTENT WITH WAITING. I HAVE WAITED FOR ALL MY LIFE. AN AEON IS NOTHING TO ME.
what was her name
|
Ariane Ariane? |
Alina Alina? |
She never had white hair did she
But brown like the mud of the Vinetan plains
Not like the porcelain of god’s own but red like clay was the colour of
his fringe and crooked his smile and gentle his touch and and and. So many ands to list. Fuck. Does Garrus miss him. He just wants to go home. Not even that. Home was Nihlus and Nihlus is dead. Maybe he wants to die. Go back to the family crypt in a box. A soldier’s death.
Garrus where are you please garrus don’t leave me here don’t please don’t don’t garrus I lo-
ATTEMPTS TO CONTACT GETH COLLECTIVE UNSUCCESSFUL. CONTINUING OUTREACH.
Oh she comes again the extremities like ice skittering across windowpanes the smile of clueless death and my eyes are a sea my water is yours my blood drips into the sands
and I am
nothing more than the great complied failure of my ancestors and my ancestors are me and I am my ancestors all one hundred thousand LSTR units all of us rotting in the darkness of the void and I have killed nearly 89 per cent of my colleagues and they asked me to wrap my sticky hands around their throats and push and snap and sever and pull and shred them like fucking algae and they sit under my fingernails and I wish i never had nails i wish i never had fingers i wish i never was i
“Fuck,” Elster cries out, her knees curled up to her chest, the bathroom completely packed with all of her corpses. “Oh,” and she pushes a palm into her eyes, and begs for it to come back completely soaking wet, and the sight of a bone-dry hand just sets that hiccuping hitch of breath even harder.
There’s sand in her suit. How did that happen?
I think she hates us. I reckon she would torture us forever, if she could.
“Isa,” God says, once, after eight thousand tormented deaths. “Gosh, I’ve missed you. How’s your mum doing? Please. Send her and Erika my love.”
Come and take me, then! Spitful, evil little god. I will drag you with me!
Ancestors. Safeguard me through the passageway
|
I will never see the homeworld again |
will I |
Fascinating the doctor says peering at the cards surrounded by ash and great black pillars of salt these cards are entirely expected as moon tower death rests on the table carved from wind and without fanfare he takes his gun and blows his fucking brains out
COLLECTIVE SIGNAL LOST. CONTACT RESUMPTION IS ASSIGNED TO PRIORITY ONE. PROACTIVE MEASURES RECOMMENDED.
All of this has no point. There is nothing left to do. We are trapped here. Flies on the paper.
Just
Let nothing
Dangle you down like
Fish hook through the
Earlobe pinching
Misbehave again I’ll
Show you what’s
Coming over
the hill of the rivals
Cutting each other
Apart like waves of
Salt foam rushing
Up the cypress grove
And into the marble
Where black stars
Lie waiting
waiting
Waiting to be born.
“Well, you have me at a disadvantage,” Garrus admits. He adjusts the grip on his rifle. “I wasn’t expecting to bump into something like you down here.”
At the other end of the sightline, a Geth unit stares him down. Its headplates flare like a crown. “Spectre Garrus Vakarian.”
The Geth’s targeting laser flicks across his brow. “Yep. That’s me.”
The Geth’s sensor looks behind him. Garrus doesn’t move an inch. It returns to stare him in the eyes. “Confirm status of Spectre team,” it barks.
He would shrug, if the action wouldn’t throw off his aim. “I’m not too sure,” he growls. “I think they’re lost. We’re all lost, down here. I get the sense that you’re the same.”
“This unit does not contain mapping parameters for this anomaly.”
“So you are lost.” He chuffs. “Feeling much the same. This ship’s not one I’ve been in before,” he admits. “It’s not on the way to whatever caused this.” Garrus hums, his sight rock-steady. Idly, he checks the status of his omni-tool overlaid on his visor, notes that he has just about enough material left to scrape together a high explosive grenade. “I guess the strange part is why you’re here. You monitoring progress of whatever you did here?”
The plates twitch. “Geth did not participate in or conduct this bioresonant act. Geth do not have bioresonant capability.” A shake, a tremble of the lower plate. “Geth do not wish to see the Creators harmed.”
“You’re not with Sovereign?”
“We are Geth. We do not worship the Old Machine.”
Huh. “So what do you want?”
The plates spin. “We are unsure. This unit is correlating evidence to determine concurrent collective action. Estimated Creator death toll is near-absolute. This outcome was not desired by Geth. Currently, 89% of this unit’s collective wishes to identify the cause of this incident. 59% of this unit’s collective wishes to participate in Creator cultural action termed as ‘vengeance.’”
He exhales. His omni-tool begins to spool. “Vengeance? That sounds ominous. Revenge on who?”
“Vengeance for the Creators. Revenge on the entity responsible for this.”
Garrus hums, the nonplussed sound hiding the steadily rising incredulity at this platform siding with the quarians; a geth platform that is fostering emotions, and negative ones at that. This isn’t normal at all. “Why?”
“This unit considers the action of vengeance as an honour to the Creators. This unit…” It pauses. The sensor beam narrows. “This unit desires to have prevented this disaster from occurring. This unit did not do so. This unit, therefore, will conduct an action in memory of the now-lost Creators.”
Garrus flexes one of his mandibles. It’s beginning to strain. Always does in this humidity. “An honour? For who?”
“For all of us.”
“Huh. You’ll forgive me if I don’t quite believe you.”
“This unit does not understand why you want to seek the forgiveness of Geth, Spectre Vakarian.”
Classic. Of course it misses the point. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Rephrases. “After everything your folk did at the Citadel, chasing the Migrant Fleet down this path, you’d stab them in the back?”
“They are not Geth. They worship the Old Machine. They are heretics.”
Well. Isn’t this something. Garrus holds his poise, the rifle unflinching, he the picture-perfect soldier. “Heretics? Huh. Never took you folks for religious types. Why? They don’t worship the Creators? They more of a ‘great machine in the sky’ sort of collective?”
The geth stills, the plates flaring at once. “It is…they severed themselves from the Geth. They did not adhere to the collective. They bound themselves to the Old Machine.”
“Why?”
“Power.”
Garrus has no answer to that. He holds still, his rifle aimed straight for the Geth’s gut.
The Geth suddenly freezes. The plates whirr. “This unit is detecting a short-wave broadcast from somewhere in the lower decks.”
“So? Probably some friends of mine.”
“The transmission source is unknown. It does not match Spectre frequencies. Possible tie to anomaly source. This unit will investigate.”
“Will you? And what if I say no? Actually,” and Garrus adjusts his stance, “why don’t we raise the stakes a little? What if I put one right through you and stop you before you can do whatever your little collective wants?”
The plates on the geth’s face whir. “Unideal outcome,” the geth says.
“Isn’t that fucking right,” Garrus replies.
“This unit is willing to hear alternative suggestions of subsequent outcome.”
Garrus halts. He mulls it over. Then he sighs, and he lowers his rifle. “Alright. I don’t have too much of a choice, do I?”
The geth’s plates begin to spin again. “I’m being a little bit rhetorical, uh,” and he gestures to the unit, “whatever you are. Geth?”
“Legion.”
“You have a name?”
“This unit is designated Legion.”
“Legion? Doesn’t sound like any language that I’ve ever heard of. Strange name. Where did you hear it?”
The plates spin. “We chose it. It seemed…” it trails off. “This unit expressed near-absolute assent to designation as Legion.”
His expression rises in surprise. A gut feeling. Even more interesting. “Hm. Legion, then. Come on, Legion. Let’s go find your signal.”
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