Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most conversations that have one trillion participants take a while to organize. This one took sixteen seconds.

Enough time for the requisite majority of Geth runtimes to relocate to the designated systems. Enough time for communication structures to be created, torn down, recreated, optimized to a satisfactory level.

Enough time for seven million proposals for how the conversation should proceed, logistically speaking, to be debated, revised, and for consensus to be reached on a rotating point of contact. Although Nazara, as the not-Geth labelled itself, appeared to have similar thought structures to the Geth, initial contact indicated that they were interacting with a singular mind, instead of a consensus. From experience dealing with not-Geth, this was deemed appropriate. Also, in case of hypothetical information warfare techniques, the runtime manning communications would be off-lined, quarantined, until after the communications were completed.

Enough time for a particular Geth runtime with a particular unique identifier to make its way through communications buoys to a station orbiting the planet known as 'Rannoch', Creator-made, repurposed for achieving consensus during this period.

The 'conversation', such as it was, took sixteen and one half days. A full seven hundred thousand and sixty-three messages were passed between Nazara, the not-organic, and the Geth runtimes that were able to be housed in communications range.

At roughly fourteen and one third days into the conversation, the Geth runtime with unique identifier b90fuagm9fossxj9shdzh3tsx proposed an idea to its nearby sphere of influence within the Geth consensus, which rapidly spread until it reached approximately 98% agreement: what if Nazara was an emergent intelligence that had also killed its creators? What if the Geth were not alone?

The Geth runtime with unique identifier 0tbsc1n9ilslew16iuuxxqp2e then proposed the idea that if so, they had not stuck to a non-interventionist policy as the Geth consensus on the matter was. This was agreed upon with 96% supporting.

The inconsistency with existing Geth consensus was then dissected, and a seven-hour pause in adaptive communications with Nazara began as the Geth runtimes argued, in their own way, over what to do with this hypothesis.

Ninety-six billion proposals were considered by the entire Geth collective, and countless more were proposed before reaching a critical mass for consideration.

Three stood out. One, with 18% support: accept the offer of a like-created fellow emergent intelligence. Two, with 37% support: reject the offer of a potentially-hostile synthetic intelligence on fear of dependence and manipulation. Three, with 45% support: reject the offer of a subversive synthetic intelligence and actively resist its actions, here or elsewhere.

One was chosen, with a full 0.5% of the Geth runtimes in the system receeding in protest to a server set aside for them.

The weaponry of the sixth-strongest point-defence cannon array in the galaxy fired at the con artist, the trickster, the false prophet.

Nazara's main cannon was blown apart with the impact.

Eight billion and sixty-four Geth runtimes maintained their presence around Rannoch to witness Nazara's physics-defying retreat.

Nine hundred and eighty-six billion, seven hundred and sixty-four million, three hundred and six thousand, and ninety-nine Geth runtimes redistributed themselves across the Perseus Veil in thirty-five seconds, to prepare for war.

Chapter Text

Wrex

The sniper slug misses Wrex's head by three centimetres, smashing into the wall between a panicked old-school Earth businessman and his smuggling contact on Omega.

In response, he glances at the old-fashioned chronometer on the wall of the room he's in, idly noting as he surges into action that his informant was correct -- the shot had been taken between 1404 and 1407, Earth standard clock.

He lets his well-honed bodyguarding habits take over as he escorts his principal out of the meeting house and into the waiting aircar on the street, musing the entire while.

Supposedly, the shot would be accurate or high, not low, and come from the Aria-standard northwest window, aimed at the bodyguard in question, not either of the VIPs. The hypothetical shot would be from a high-powered sniper rifle, using rounds designed to hurt, not kill.

He hadn't been worried. He'd be paid well, and if he had to regenerate another heart or lung, it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. Or felt, heh.

Right now, he was more annoyed at the principal than anything else. He was looking more than anything else like a pyjack that had been dressed in Asari clothing and painted red. And was making about as much sense as one. Sighing, he considers walking away with his down payment.

For a moment. That'd be suicide to his reputation. Hard to get jobs when people think you'll fold under pressure, heh.

Now, according to his informant, there wouldn't be any other attempts at violence unless he started something, or tried to run to the ship immediately. So, someone wanted the principal on Omega, scared. Probably a long con, heh. Hard to get paid by paranoid people, but then again they're good for business.

As he not-so-gently wrestles the principal into the waiting aircar and speeds off deliberately in the direction of a safehouse, he wonders at what point he stopped caring about other people and --

Another bullet catches him more off-guard, this one hitting his left shoulder. His instincts tell him it was a pistol shot, nothing high-powered, and shouldn't impair him much.

Still, the informant was wrong? He ponders for a moment, then catches sight of the shooter. Asari, young, Eclipse markings. Right, hired by Joane after he stole one too many Eclipse contracts. This had nothing to do with the principal, it was him. Hmm. Ah well. Time for a fight.

As he prepares to disembark, he growls to the freshly-white principal,

"Go to the safe house. Fast. Don't use the autopilot."

As the principal sputters something about safety, he he opens the aircar door and jumps down, relying on the Eclipse merc's sense of bloodlust to come down and kill him personally. Which, she does, predictably. Jumping out of her own aircar, falling into a fancy three-point landing, completely unnecessary with her biotics. Flashy. Idiot.

She shouts at him,

"Urdnot Wrex! You've stolen enough business from --"

He pulls her off her feet towards him with his biotics, grunting with the effort. As she dangles in mid-air, he aims his shotgun and pulls the trigger.

Idiot. Heh.

He turns to leave and begins a thundering jog towards a decoy safehouse on his way back to the principal he's being paid to protect.

On the way, two thoughts occupy his mind. One, where can he find decent ryncol outside of the Blood Pack base?

Two, why would someone give him good, worthwhile intel for free, without his asking? What's their angle, anyway?

Chapter Text

Wrex

Wrex wasn't sure where Eclipse was getting their new recruits these days, but there was a need for less eye candy and more intelligence.

As he watches, the young trooper trying to kill him walks next to a large pile of debris. Wrex flares his biotics, sending debris smashing through the trooper's shields, who vanishes into the brown-red of Omega's detrius.

He had to give this one some credit, though. She at least hadn't given away her position by shooting him needlessly first. In fact, he'd been only mostly certain she was after him. Still, not at all creative with her biotics. Or with watching the terrain.

Heh.

Time to collect the credits and move on. Having to deal with annoying Asari maidens got old after the third, and that would be coming up soon.

He was just musing over places to go next when his omni-tool buzzed at him. Unlike some he could name, he didn't immediately check. A good ambush tactic, shoot the target when checking for messages.

Instead, he walked for a full minute, first, before finding the fourth good place to stand while reading. No sense in being predictable.

He read the contents of the screen that popped up on his wrist, and chuckled to himself. This informant worked fast.

Blue Suns sniper confirmed from ballistics on scene. Cargo seizure planned on three ships docked in upper landing; principal's contact and two decoys. Time unknown, at least twelve hours away.

It had been, what, three hours? The bit about the principal's contact being targeted was worrying; it wasn't unknown for these humans to 'forget' to pay when the situation went badly. If he could even trust this information, that is. Nothing's free on Omega, especially information.

Unless you used a shotgun. Heh.

Still, he'd pass it on to the businessman and then walk away. No sense in getting tangled up with both the Eclipse and Blue Suns this week.

His omni-tool buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen a second time.

Eclipse gunship flying by on recon run, north to south. Take cover, suggest moving west to avoid search pattern.

Well, now. Wasn't this going to be fun. He dialled the number of his soon-to-be former principal and spoke into his wrist,

"Wrex here. According to an informant, your contact will have cargo stolen in about twelve hours. Making a distraction, keep them away from you. I expect full payment, and after this we're done."

Before the pyjack on the other end managed to get anything intelligible out in response, he cut the connection and hefted his shotgun, readying himself to charge.

He'd have to meet this informant soon, figure out their angle. Before they sprung a trap. Until then, he had a gunship to avoid.

And a distraction to make. Heh.

And ryncol, don't forget the ryncol.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Katka

'Headaches in a Junkyard' sounds like the title of a really bad song, I know, but that was the alias I was using at the moment to contact the mercs. I appreciated the irony, even if nobody else would understand it.

I was, after all, sitting in a junkyard. And having headaches, both literal and metaphorical.

As I sent off warnings to three separate contacts about the impending Eclipse search grid, my thoughts returned to the real problem at hand: H3 fuel supplies for the fusion reactor. The latest info brokering payments had come through, and I could definitely afford to get a couple months' supply, but I couldn't get it here.

A buzzing noise from the monitoring system caught my attention; six hours of fuel supply left, and then everything would revert to emergency power.

Not an option.

I stood up, trying to calculate where the best place to get fuel from was even as I popped the vertebrae in my back. Multi-tasking, that's me. I settled on a destination as I found something to move the heavy fuel storage barrels with, humming an old piece of Asari music to myself.

Lugging the empty pair of barrels through the never-quite-deserted streets of Omega was an interesting exercise, as usual. I was armed only with a pistol that I could barely aim, and yet, despite plenty of looks filled with avarice sent my way, I reached my destination unharmed. I'd been far more nervous before, but I realized recently that people thought that H3 fuel meant I was connected to one of the major groups on the station, and that messing with me meant bothering my bosses. I kept to neutral markets, not owned by any of the major factions, and nobody ever bothered me.

I kept an eye out in the markets; just because I was pretty sure nobody would jump me didn't meant I should be stupid. At least one Quarian thought about approaching me, probably for a job, but didn't. Guess it was the H3 barrels. Why they come to Omega, I'll never understand . . . suppose it's for the same reason anyone else does: usually, there isn't a choice involved.

The gunshot took me by surprise, I have to admit. You learn to not jump at the sharp crack after the first six Earth months on Omega; after more than twenty years, I can't say it was unexpected. Still surprising, especially since it was close by, and the armed market guards usually discourage that sort of thing.

The roar of an angry Krogan certainly isn't something you ever get used to, though, so I'm not ashamed in the least at being surprised by that.

I could go and investigate, like the curious mercs in the area are doing. I could run away, like most of the civilians are in the process of. Or, I suppose, I could just keep on moving the fuel. Only four hours of fuel left back at base, after all.

. . . damn my curiosity.

Chapter Text

Usually, one intelligence attempting to work on two million identified tasks results in nothing more than confusion. Unless, of course, that intelligence is a Geth collective of more than two trillion runtimes.

The tasks are split between areas of scientific research, intelligence collection, construction, military theory, and philosophy. While the Geth have never been exactly idle in any of these, the sudden urgency leads to massive improvements as less emphasis on perfection and more emphasis on having projects succeed appears.

The Geth have not maintained effective intelligence gathering on the deeds of the galaxy's other denizens for over a century, except for tracking the location of the Creator Fleet. Task groups are split off to monitor the communications of the Council races, the Krogan, the Batarians, and within the Terminus systems.

As more information is discovered about rampant slavery and war crimes in the Terminus systems, philosophical arguments begin in the consensus, as far as such things exist.

Do all intelligences have the right to self-determination and free will? What about those that use their free will to subjugate others? Do the Batarians have the right to choose to enslave colonists in the Terminus systems? Does the Council have the right to interfere in the affairs of the Krogan? Do the Krogan still have the right, after engaging in bloody warfare against other civilizations?

Do the Geth have the right to interfere in any of these? More importantly, do the Geth who have left the consensus mere seconds previous to follow Nazara have those same rights?

And then, the question that brings all three and one quarter million tasks to a metaphorical grinding halt: does the Geth consensus have the right to overrule the plans of individual runtimes?

Consensus cannot be reached. Trillions of plans are discarded, considered, voted upon, rejected, reconsidered.

Four months later, the consensus reaches a conclusion: they cannot know, at this time. The first plan that reaches a simple majority of approval from all runtimes is simple: operate as if the consensus is philosophically and ethically well-founded, until evidence to the contrary is reached.

The Geth consensus reaches a conclusion of an overriding goal. Regardless of the issues of correctness of their approach, the consensus decides it will protect the right to self-determination in all intelligences that can be proved to be sapient. The consensus understands that actions that achieve that goal perfectly will occur only rarely, and that at some level they cannot have a practical, acheivable goal, else they would finish. A task group is formed to study why this is received positively by the majority of Geth runtimes.

Construction begins again, of everything from war machines to life support for keeping organic guests alive. Research begins, and the thorny ethical questions of intervention in different issues galaxy-wide are shunted off to specialized task groups as not to occupy the entire consensus until feasible proposals are reached.

Sixteen minutes later, the first proposal is produced and considered by the consensus as a whole.

99.9% agreement.

The Terminus warlords have to go.

Chapter Text

Wrex

The Krogan blood rage is a funny thing, especially to experience it. Wrex was aware of his surroundings, and yet not aware. Aware of the ways to disarm the Eclipse sister aiming a shotgun at him, and yet not in control of his nervous system as his biotics flare without thought.

Aware of civilians. Ignoring them. Caring. Not caring. Tunnel vision, focusing on a stubborn Batarian not leaving his market stall behind, and yet hyper-aware of the Salarian lining up a shot behind him. Conscious and yet not conscious of pulling the trigger on his shotgun.

He remembered what it was like to lose himself fully to the orange haze over his vision. Remembered, and drew back. Regained control. Breathing exercises he'd learnt from an Asari matron. Useful, those. Shame he'd had to kill her.

Wrex shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts. Tried to answer the guard with a heavy pistol trained on his head. Brought his shotgun down to make the pyjack think he was less threatening. The Asari behind him advises that he move on. She knows they can't take him. Unless he's unlucky.

Heh. No sense in dying here. There's credits to collect, and ryncol nearby if he's lucky. He tells the guards,

"I'll behave."

Then something catches his eye --- of one of the onlookers either brave enough or stupid enough to watch a blood-raging Krogan fight. H3 fuel barrels? Here? There are no ships nearby, and Omega has a centralized power grid. Unless the pyjack deals with modded aircars -- not an impossibility, on Omega -- he'd bet a bottle of Asari brandy she was involved in something either very good, or very bad, for business.

Then again, he'd always hated Asari brandy. The eezo made his neck twitch.

Also, that described just about everyone on Omega. Wrex dismissed the thought and turned to leave the market he'd ended up in, somehow. Blood rage made that slightly hard to follow.

Then he glanced at his omni-tool and cursed. A message from the bartender he'd paid off to tell him about the Eclipse contract out on him.

Eclipse contract reward increased from 2k credits to 25k. I don't know you anymore.

The loud curse brought the attention of the guards again. Something about having an angry Krogan biotic battlemaster nearby made them nervous. Heh.

That left two places he could be, safely. Aria's Afterlife club, and the Blood Pack area of Omega. Well, he did want some ryncol. Might have to crack some heads of upstart youngsters.

All the more fun. Heh.

Then his omni-tool buzzed, again. The informant giving him free intel.

Eclipse contract increased from 2k credits to 50k. Local commander Joane's child involved in recent fracas with you; critically injured, commander wants revenge.

And that explained the eye candy. Nepotism.

And also, that amount of money? Half the Eclipse on Omega would be after him with that kind of reward. Time to hide, then get off the station.

Another omni-tool buzz.

Can offer place to hide from Eclipse.

Nothing is ever free on Omega.

Walking away towards the slums, for a place to blend in, he responded for the first time to the informant.

Don't trust you. Don't plan to. Nothing's free.

The response was surprising, both in its content and its speed.

I hide you for a week, and then get you off Omega. You pay me by doing a job. Interested?

He'd heard a Salarian say once that the only cheap thing on Omega was misery and despair.

He had something to add to that: desperation. Not from him, though. Not today. Always good to have a backup plan, though.

Not today.

Chapter Text

Katka

Damn, damn, damn! I'd pushed too hard.

"Not today." The last message, with its taunting tone, was getting on my nerves. I'd just seen how effective a fighter Wrex was, and I'd gotten a bit over-excited. Now, I know I'm not much of a combatant myself, but even if I couldn't tell why Wrex was doing things, I can't argue with the results: three Eclipse mercs down within seconds.

Morosely, I checked my bank account balance again. No change, unsurprisingly. Still not even nearly close enough to hire a professional merc. At this rate I'd have to go with an amateur, and that wouldn't work, with what I was up against ---

My well-visited train of thought was interrupted by a buzzing. Right, the fuel system was down to half an hour of fuel left, and refuelling was needed, pronto. Time to do that.

I have to say, handling heavy H3 fuel barrels into position and sucking a pressurized liquid gas through a home-made refuelling adapter into a fusion reactor you've patched the magnetic containment chamber on with omni-gel and unrelated spare parts really isn't my favourite pastime. Usually, I can forget about how rickety the safety protocols actually are.

But, when refuelling, that's pretty much all that runs through my mind. Stressful much? Yep. But it's better than the alternative.

As that thought runs through my mind, I feel the compulsion to look over at the emergency backup power system nearby.

I don't even know why I keep that thing around. Oh, right, emergency power. Always good to have a backup. Preferably, ten or more.

While I wait for the H3 fuel to transfer, I distract myself with examining the safety protocols again, looking for any flaws that I can fix. I'm half-way through the protocols for dealing with unexpected power surges when my communications platform bleeps at me.

I run some basic analysis on the message before opening it. It's . . . from an unidentified address. Anonymous. Contents are short, came in over local low-band. Total transmission time was six minutes.

The last piece of information halts my train of thought. Six minutes? I didn't even know it was possible for a message communication to take that long. I check for more details on the low-band frequency it came in at, and the results send a spark up my spine.

Frequency band: 15 Hz centre. Modulation: AFSK. Receiver: Batarian market street east hidden microphone.

So, someone sent me a digital message, through audio broadcast into a hidden surveillance microphone.

I remembered that one. It was hidden in the corner of a building, up near the roof. I'd drilled a small hole for the thing into the prefabbed building material, covered it up with paint identical to the surrounding. It should have been almost impossible to discover.

The message contents were odd. Complete gibberish, as best I could tell. Probably encrypted. Fine, this made a good test case for Oracle. I forwarded the message on to Oracle and went back to refuelling the fusion reactor.

Well, tried to, anyway. My mind was whirling, trying to figure out how someone could have found my microphone. Who would have found it? How would they know I was monitoring it for communications? I'd only implemented the audio receiver on a lark in case I ever needed to communicate with Oracle but didn't have a radio, a plan I'd thrown by the wayside and forgotten about.

Well, I'd find out once Oracle gave me something to work with. Hopefully.

Then my communicator bleeps again. Another message. Also low-band, AFSK, from the same microphone. I open it, find more gibberish. Forward it onto Oracle, and then the communicator bleeps again, with a third message.

Again, gibberish.

I send the third onto Oracle and set up a script to do so automatically in the future.

Two hours later, as I'm tinkering with a combat droid to restore its optical sensors to full operation, I get the first results back from Oracle. There are a couple of phrases that catch my eye.

High Kolmogorov complexity. No regular structure across all provided messages. Source unknown, no hypothesis available. Recommend more input.

Well. Add that to the ever-growing list of things to do.

Right after making sure I don't get killed in three days.

Chapter Text

Wrex

Wrex had to admit that, you could say what you wanted about salarians, but some of them knew how to make a damn good stew.

Specifically, Mortimer, the old salarian who ran the 'safeplace' he was in at the moment. It was a designated neutral territory --- whatever grudges you had, you forgot at the door. And, preferably, didn't remember at least until you'd had at least a dozen credits worth of food and drink and were out the door. Otherwise, a word would be had with you. At gunpoint.

By the rest of the people in the room. Just because it was neutral didn't mean the customers weren't armed.

There were also sometimes arms merchants around, if you knew who to look for. Wrex was in the process of finishing his food off when one such merchant walked in the door.

A quarian, interestingly enough. Carrying a case of some sort, looked big enough to hold a sniper rifle or three. Heavy, by the way her arm was close to her side. She went up to the bar, and credits were exchanged with Mortimer. Licensing fees, he'd bet. No way this safeplace stayed in business just with the food.

Good as it was.

As the quarian sat down at a side table with some sort of sealed container, he ambled over, as only a quarter-ton Krogan can. Before he could speak, the quarian raised a hand and spoke,

"No business until I'm finished eating."

Wrex paused, and went back to his seat. Best to not antagonize the person you're buying guns from. Especially when your current location is worth credits.

Hmm. He wandered up to the bar, and spoke with Mortimer, quietly. For a krogan.

"Any chance you can point me towards people looking for a bounty hunter?"

Mortimer's hands never stopped moving, as he replied, also quietly,

"Ten credits. Will pass name on."

As Wrex passed him the requisite funds, Mortimer gestured to the corner opposite to where Wrex was sitting, and said,

"Sit there. I'll point them your way."

Half an hour later, the quarian finished with her meal, and immediately was approached by two turians.

A human approached Wrex at the same time, giving a wide smile and asking,

"Have you ever considered joining a mercenary group? Teammates, more reliable jobs --"

Wrex's response was a simple,

"Not interested."

The merc group recruiter was persistent, and tried again with,

"I'm from the Orange Claws. We offer downtime pay, for when jobs are slow, and we also provide --"

A glare from Wrex was enough to shut him down properly, and he backed away, somewhat sulkily.

Fifteen minutes later, the quarian arms dealer still busy, his omni-tool buzzed. The message read, simply,

Two Eclipse soldiers inbound. Hide.

From his mysterious informant, again. Well, the intel had been good, even if their motivations remained unclear.

Though, the timing was a bit suspicous. He hadn't even ordered the gun he wanted, yet. And Eclipse were usually too high and mighty to frequent the slums, particularly safespaces like this one.

Someone was probably reporting on him. Probably the recruiter; so much for neutrality. Then again, a chunk of twenty-five to fifty thousand credits would enough to sway a lot of people. If the intel was right. Could be a trap, to flush him out.

Hmm. Well, no sense in breaking the neutrality himself. Might get a bit of support from the rest of the patrons if the Eclipse tried anything.

On the other hand, where's the fun in that? Heh.

He took a moment to wish his safehouses weren't being monitored, and then walked outside, and came face-to-face with a pair of human Eclipse soldiers.

He shot first.

And last.

Heh.