Chapter Text
Here is a metaphor, from the time of the Leviathans: the universe is a deep ocean, and no two waves are the same.
Of course, the galaxy’s first organics did not intend for this to be appreciated by literal means. It is a truism that plane waves in the electromagnetic spectrum are uniform in a homogenous medium. Even gravitational waves that propagate according to general relativity, and plasma waves which combine mechanical deformations and electromagnetic fields, may be calculated to the nth degree with sufficient processing power and an efficient algorithm.
That aside, chaos and biology create effects as diverse as the millennia of debris lining Despoina’s ocean floors.
In that vein, it is indisputable that no two organics are the same. Neurons and fibroblasts, thoughts and emotions, all assembled in an infinity of different combinations. Every one of them different, every one unique.
And this conclusion may be reached without considering the nature of the soul.
The Catalyst-who-had-come-before had said: You will die. You will control us, but you will lose everything you have.
The man he’d been had chosen to give up what was left of his humanity to save the world.
It had been a running theme for John Shepard from the beginning. He had grown up without a home in this galaxy. The only thing he could rely on, that he could control, was himself. In his dreams — where people under his command died screaming — an omnipotent narrator told him, You’re not human. You’ll always be alone.
The Protheans, who had tried in vain to defeat the Reapers over the last millennium, had doubled down on the message. The Reapers are coming. Stop them; it’s the only thing you’re good for. Control them; you’re the only one who can. Sacrifice yourself, and then maybe everything you had to do might finally make sense.
Cerberus had brought John Shepard back from death over Alchera by stripping away half of his humanity: You’re no longer flesh, you’re no longer human. And then the old Catalyst had completed his transformation — into an intelligence that could traverse the galaxy unhindered by mere flesh, an entity of pure control.
It was inescapable. Inevitable. The resolve of this one indomitable man, who had been willing to give up his humanity to save the world, had meant that he, and he alone — out of all the hundreds of trillions of organics in the galaxy — was able to control 18,001 Reapers and bend them to a new purpose.
On the altar of John Shepard’s life, the Shepard-Commander had been created. The new Catalyst. An entity which had transcended humanity, and yet was directed by John’s thoughts, his iron will, and something that organics would call his soul. Whose purpose was to secure the future for the living, forever.
John Shepard had known he could only achieve this by leaving his humanity behind, by becoming something greater.
And as for the one man whom John Shepard had left behind?
Here was a specific example of the universe’s singularity — what humans referenced in courts of law and colloquially as the case in point. Major Kaidan Alenko, the one organic who was unlike any other in the universe. This human, this man, this soldier and biotic, this aggregation of cells and certainties, who had fought at John Shepard’s side. The man he’d been had esteemed this individual above all others. Had loved him, as he’d loved nothing else in his life. The only home John had had in the world had been with him, albeit for too short a time.
While the new Catalyst was extending his control across the galaxy from the Aetheon Cluster to Sigurd’s Cradle, at the same time — over thousands of Reaper readings, through hundreds of Keeper eyes — that being had kept watch over Kaidan as well, watching as he had scoured the Earth and its skies for the smallest hint of John Shepard’s final fate. He’d been steadfast and unwavering and devastatingly clear-eyed in his search.
If the new Catalyst had had a heart left to break, it would have broken in two.
So much of the galaxy had burned down before the new Catalyst had taken control. This man was walking through that fire to look for what was left of John Shepard and bring him home.
And when he’d finally found him, the new Catalyst had asked: What if the man you loved is gone, and what you brought back isn’t a man at all? This new being, who had attained the learnings from a hundred trillion lifetimes, had not known the answer.
But Kaidan Alenko had known, and hadn’t hesitated.
“Even then. I knew he wouldn’t leave me behind. He did come back. You came back. You’re here; you came back for me.”
The man he’d been had loved Kaidan. Had wanted to live for him. It was also something that the new Catalyst, who now called himself the Shepard-Commander as the geth had before him, discovered he wanted most in this world.
We were meant to be together, we were made to never fall away.
*
The next morning, after the new Catalyst had revealed himself, and Kaidan Alenko had made his choice, they attended John Shepard’s memorial.
They walked together across the Presidium, under the perpetual artificial starlight which shone down on 11.2 million intelligent lifeforms, organics and synthetics alike, and then through the doors of the Dilianga Concert Hall. The living human Spectre, and, beside him, a constantly-regenerating hard-light image, drawn from the various power sources on the Citadel, of the first human Spectre who was no longer living.
The entirety of the concert hall was silent. Ten thousand Alliance soldiers and representatives of the Council races — and the tens of millions watching over the extranet — couldn’t believe their eyes.
Kaidan had smiled crookedly. “They’re wondering whether I’ve finally snapped and built myself a personal Shepard hologram.”
Well, let’s put an end to that line of speculation, the Shepard-Commander said, briskly, his voice synthesizer chip approximating John’s old, acerbic tones, and Kaidan stepped up to the rostrum.
“Your Excellencies. Colleagues and friends who’ve gathered here to pay tribute to Commander John Shepard. I wasn’t sure how to break the news to you — that Shepard isn’t dead, that I’ve found him at last — so I figured the best way was to let him do it himself.”
The new Catalyst found himself gazing out into the sea of ten thousand dumbfounded organic faces, and the tens of millions of screens beyond.
Eventually, he spoke into the amplification console.
Eternal. Infinite. Immortal.
The man I was had used these words, but only now do I truly understand them. And only now do I understand the full extent of his sacrifice. Through his sacrifice, I was created. Through my birth, his thoughts were freed. They direct me now, give me reason, direction, just as he gave direction to the ones who followed him, who helped him achieve his purpose.
His purpose is now my purpose. To give the many hope for a future. To ensure that all have a voice in their future. The man I was knew he could only achieve this by becoming something different. Something more.
Deliberately, the Shepard-Commander stretched out his will to Thessia and Tikkun and the Citadel’s docking bay, and, as one, 18,001 Reapers reached back.
I am the Catalyst. Part of me is within each of the 18,001 Reapers, inside the Crucible. Within the networks of this station, and the Citadel itself. I am the many, and I’ve become the guardian of the many.
Looking into the crowd gazing up at the podium, the Shepard-Commander took note of Garrus Vakarian in the front row, sitting with his father and sister and Tali'Zorah vas Neema, surrounded by her complement of quarians. He saw them all: the Shadowbroker Liara and the Justicar Samara, the krogan mercenary Wrex and his first clutch of offspring; Jeff Moreau and EDI, the Normandy’s synthetic A.I.; James Vega and the Alliance soldiers who had commanded and served under John Shepard.
I will rebuild what the many have lost. I will protect, and sustain, and defend. I will help all of you build a future with limitless possibilities.
And with a synthetic’s perfect recall, he saw those organics whom John Shepard had lost. Ashley Williams, who had been left behind on Virmire. The 40 men of the 95th Alliance Navy Division’s C-squad who had died on Torfan. The doctor, Mordin Solus, the assassin Thane Krios. The geth, Legion, who had asked his commander, as he lay dying, whether it was true that synthetics had a soul.
At first, the rush of data was almost overpowering. To say nothing of the accompanying emotions that even a synthetic could not fail to appreciate.
And throughout it all, I will never forget. I will carry with me those who sacrificed themselves so that the many could survive, much as every Reaper carries with it the synthetic approximations of the millions of organic minds which had been assimilated. I will watch over the ones who live on, those who carry the memory of the man that I used to be.
Of course, there was the one who had loved the man that he used to be. The one thing in the world that had made him human. That made him feel he could be more than human.
And now he had become this, the new Catalyst, a synthetic being of pure control, and Kaidan still loved him.
The Shepard-Commander’s purpose, as John Shepard’s purpose had also been, was to give this man a hope for the future. To ensure Kaidan had everything he wanted in his future, for as long as he wanted it.
And what Kaidan had wanted…
*
Organics enjoy their singular bodies. The Reapers, which comprise a gestalt of civilisations, do not have the tools or the inclination to appreciate the reasons why this is so. But the Shepard-Commander is, as aforenoted, not in fact a Reaper.
This body took several cycles to complete. The new Catalyst used the Reaper technology that created the Citadel’s Keepers, and the templates from the last ten Keeper redesigns. He had synthesized biomass and flexisteel over and over again, using the records of John Shepard’s unique flesh and bones and cellular structure to chart the way.
Biotics had been the key to perfecting the replication process. With artificial eezo nodules recreated in John’s original configuration, the gravity well eventually bent in the same way, steel eyes flared the same shade of blue, and the Shepard-Commander’s reflection finally showed him the familiar image of the man he’d been.
He saw that image reflected in Kaidan’s eyes that morning. That night, Kaidan had taken him to bed, with every synthetic nerve alive and electrons firing in the particles of his steel skin. They made new memories together, and for the first time since he had brought himself back to life, the Shepard-Commander fell asleep in his lover’s arms.
He fell asleep and dreamt: about the man he had been, about the man who had loved him despite everything he’d done. About the being he had become, and the man who loved him anyway, even though he had left his humanity behind.
They had been two bodies, but they had been one heart, one partnered soul. Contrary to popular belief, John Shepard hadn’t always been in control, he hadn’t always been alone. And as for not being flesh, not being human, not having a home?
You will die. You will control us, but you will lose everything you have.
The old Catalyst hadn’t lied, but it hadn’t been able to predict what John Shepard could do when he put his mind to it. He might have died, he might have been willing to lose everything he had, but he hadn’t been prepared to let Kaidan Alenko lose anything more in this war.
And, against the odds, he had managed to achieve what no one in millennia had. An end to the war between organics and synthetics, and to bring himself back to life — for this was life, full and embodied, in all its ideal, synthetic glory — for the sake of one man.
*
There is a deeper world than this that you don't understand
There is a deeper wave than this Nothing will withstand
When Kaidan is away at work, the Shepard-Commander leaves his shell and visits other galaxies in a blink of an eye. His intelligence crackles across mass relays and bandwidth, as far away as the Andromeda galaxy and beyond it, touching each of the 18,001 in turn. His Code ensures hardwired control, in the same instinctive way as John Shepard’s brain synapses used to fire and his lungs used to fill with breath and the cells in his body used to heal themselves. Though every now and then, the new Catalyst likes to assure himself of more direct control, in the same way as John used to aim his Predator or leap into a firefight with all guns blazing.
He has been on Rannoch, supervising the crust-and-core rebuilding of the planet’s ecological system, and on Thessia with Harbinger, overseeing repairs to the centuries-old Library of Athame, but now the Shepard-Commander is on a beach in Panama. It’s the same beach that the man he was dreamed of visiting, and where, in an alternate universe, in which a different decision had been made over Ilos, John Shepard fell in love.
The Spectres have purchased a small cottage on the Playa Blanca with their private funds. Whitewashed walls, a thatched roof, reinforced tropical hardwood lounge chairs sturdy enough to bear the weight of the Shepard-Commander’s flexisteel body, a small generator with high-speed extranet connectivity.
This rudimentary home is Kaidan’s idea of heaven on Earth, and the Shepard-Commander has spared no effort in making everything just right.
The locals have gotten used to the sight of the major and his synthetic boyfriend on the Playa Blanca. In the mornings, they hike together through jungle highland to the nearby El Chorro Macho waterfall and shop for groceries and necessities at the famous traditional markets of the Rio Hato. They swim in the sheltered waters off the Pacific Ocean, sail out to the fishing village at the nearby Isla Taboga, and walk side by side on the white sand beach under the afternoon sun.
In popular local myth, when counting the waves on a sea shore, the seventh wave is supposedly the strongest, the most profound.
There is a deeper wave than this Smiling in the world
Feel it rising in the cities Feel it sweeping over land
Over borders, over frontiers Nothing will its power withstand
This afternoon is no different. The bleached silica is warm under the Shepard-Commander’s toes. The bright Rio Hato sunlight turns Kaidan’s bare shoulders to gold, and makes no secret of the intent in the major’s eyes.
“You know, we didn’t get in our 5 km today,” he says, which is such blatant subtext even a level-1 A.I. could understand it, and reaches for the Shepard’s hand.
The Shepard’s steel fingers curl easily around Kaidan’s human ones. He knows his sidelong smile is the same at last, the flex of microprocessors and elastic molecules capturing this small, subtle expression that, in life, he’d only shown this one man.
Albeit that despite his best efforts, the Shepard-Commander’s biotics aren’t entirely the same. Eezo runs differently in a man’s veins, and the Catalyst isn’t a man any more. But there are some compensations for the loss of organics, and the Shepard is more than happy to demonstrate.
“There are other ways to keep up with the cardio,” he draws, voice synthesizer now pitch-perfect, and quirks his scarred eyebrow in the same way as John Shepard used to every day of his life.
Every ripple on the ocean Every leaf on every tree
Every sand dune in the desert Every power we never see
The last time they were on this beach, a lifetime ago for John Shepard, they had two weeks of shore leave, and they used it to learn to be gentle with each other. Two decidedly ungentle soldiers, learning to pull their punches, to watch their words, learning to ask instead of command, to make slow love under the Panama stars and then sleep in under the fragile flag of truce, a temporary lull in the galactic war that was underway.
Now the war is over, and they’ve finally earned the peace they had first learned on these sands, and they don’t squander it.
The secluded channel in the rocky outcrop of the Playa Blanca headland has been left unscathed by the Reaper attack on Río Hato. The new Catalyst’s biotics reach for blankets and cushions and other accommodations required to bunk down with his organic lover, and Kaidan laughs as he puts his arms around the Shepard’s neck and lets himself be bedded.
Earlier in this universe, in the alternate ones where they’d made better and worse choices, Kaidan welcomed a lover that was at least half synthetic, partly made from cybernetics and cold steel. He seems equally enthusiastic about the Shepard’s entirely newbuild body: the warm flexisteel of its skin, the artificial muscles and sinews of its arms and thighs, the pliant hole and flexible cockhead that had been formed for only one purpose — to give both of them pleasure.
Kaidan’s eager to be inside him, and for him to be inside Kaidan. Here’s one man John Shepard could never control, and the Shepard-Commander isn’t going to start now, even if he could.
When they copulate, the Shepard has a subroutine that lets him lose the control he needs to physically reach climax, albeit that that subroutine has a long lead time. Today, thanks to Kaidan’s crack about needing more cardiovascular activity, the Shepard pushes the edge of the envelope. He takes his time, staying in control as Kaidan takes him in, riding the troughs and valleys of Kaidan’s own very human restraint; hyper-attuned to the rising color of Kaidan’s skin, the temperature of his sweat, the clench of his major and minor muscles and the acceleration of his heartbeat. Listening to the small grunts and groans Kaidan makes as he approaches release trajectory, the urgent sounds rising on the breeze and the pounding of the waves on the shore.
Then, as the sun begins to tilt toward the horizon, they flip, and the Shepard gets to experience the loss of control. It’s every bit as exhilarating as it was when John Shepard was alive. Driving inside him, Kaidan is the bright heart of a star, fire and electricity and dark energy all at once. All the pleasure in the galaxy is there with them, connecting them with each other and with the world around them. As twilight descends, Kaidan’s biotics take charge, and his organic field interlaces with Shepard’s synthetic one, painting the beach in wave after wave of dizzying blue.
On this shore, eddies of night lap at their bodies, the gravity well ebbing and flowing around them like the surf on the shore. They float on the planet’s gravitational tides, they ride its breaking waves, until Kaidan finally succumbs and spills himself into Shepard’s synthetic body, and the Shepard succumbs as well.
Afterwards, they lie in each other’s arms, organic and artificial skin cooling, two soldiers who had found their way, after so many years of battle, to a lasting peace.
At the still point of destruction
At the center of the fury
All the angels all the devils
All around us can't you see
A full moon is rising over the Playa Blanca shore. All around them are the universal forces that move the ocean and summon the tides. Across the galaxy, Harbinger and the other Reaper vessels drift, rudderless and directionless, filled with their Shepard-Commander’s satiation.
Eventually, Kaidan props himself up on one elbow. He must have taken in the distance in the Shepard’s gaze, because he says, casually, “So, how’s the rebuilding on Rannoch going?”
The Shepard-Commander collects himself, tries to see the night through Kaidan’s eyes. The sand, the surf, the lover who had promised him he could have everything. The home they have built beyond the outcrop of beach, overlooking the shoreline.
Of course, the new Catalyst sees further: all the way to the Tikkun System, in the time it takes Kaidan to draw breath.
“Works in the southern hemisphere have stalled. The geth’s largest Nazera sect and the interim government are wrangling over the designation of Prime Base Zero as a holy site. The flotilla’s religious leaders can’t agree on the nature of the soul…”
The Shepard-Commander recognizes the growing crinkle in Kaidan’s brow, and feels it appropriate to add, “But I haven’t been there this afternoon. I’ve been here, on the beach, with you.”
Kaidan can’t hold back his smile, and to the new Catalyst, it’s a reward that shines more brightly than the stars in the sky overhead. “It’s not a problem. I know this is your day job now, and it’s 24/7! But I will say I appreciate your being with me.”
A fierce exultation swells under the Shepard-Commander’s chestplate, in the region where power cells stand in place of a human heart.
As the intelligence that controls 18,001 Reapers, he has 18,001 different missions across different parts of the galaxy. But none of them are more pressing, or engrossing, than this: watching the moon rise over Panama, listening to the waves on a sandy beach, holding his human lover, alive and breathing, and the most important thing in the universe.
“We’re at home,” the Shepard-Commander announces, virtuously. “I’m off the clock.”
Kaidan shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he reminds his companion, “Maybe this won’t be our home for long. You know Hackett came to see me when I was on the Citadel. Sounds like he’s not letting me get away too easy.”
Major Kaidan Alenko, second human Spectre, hero of the Battle of London. Now, the new commander of the Normandy, if he chooses to accept the System Alliance’s latest commission.
The Shepard-Commander shrugs. “I can run the 18,001 from the Normandy.” Which had been John Shepard’s home for the last 5 years. “And home is wherever you are,” he adds, as Kaidan settles back into the circle of his arms.
There is a deeper wave than this Nothing will withstand
They savor the quiet for several long minutes before Kaidan asks, “So what are you going to tell the quarians about the nature of the soul?”
The Shepard-Commander knows, all too well, that Kaidan isn’t just talking about the Shepard’s day job and the religious differences on Rannoch, but matters of even more import. Such as the permanence of love, and the need of all beings for hearth and home, and what a future for a human and a synthetic intelligence with their very different priorities and lifespans might be.
A star-filled night. The movement of the waves on the shore. The universe is a deep ocean, and no two waves are the same, in the same way as no two organics are the same. Neurons and fibroblasts, thoughts and emotions, every one of them different, every one unique.
This singular man, bare and undefended in the moonlight.
The Shepard sees him years from now, older, with his hair turned entirely to silver and a map of lines on that handsome face. What will the years ahead hold for them, one infinite being and one whose organic form will eventually fall away?
I say love is the seventh wave
Love is the deepest wave
Love is the seventh wave
John Shepard might have thought he had no home in this world, but he was wrong. For the new Catalyst, home is the whole universe, and it’s also the place where Kaidan is.
As for the nature of the soul? The quarians and geth and all sentient beings might as well question the meaning of life, or the utility of love. And yet life — all life — has meaning, and love may be infinite.
“This is a question for another day,” the Shepard says, and lets Kaidan fold him close.