Chapter 11

…Are Over

"Well, Tevos, I think I can safely say that I have never seen you so angry," said Torbel as the Asari came out of her office, looking both physically and mentally drained. When Alayah had returned from her trip, the Council had awaited the news that war had been averted and that they had a new associate race to add to their number. What they got was almost entirely the opposite: in a shamefaced manner, Alayah revealed that her mission had been a near-total failure, that thanks to her attempting to meld with one of the now-named humans' delegates, they had taken her effort to establish better relations as an act of sabotage and subsequently refused to discuss any terms with the Asari, or any other race, save for the Turians. Tevos had been livid and promptly ordered the Matriarch into her office, where she remained for almost half an hour. Even through the heavy doors, Torbel could make out Tevos howling her displeasure.

The Asari Councilor sighed and rubbed her temple absently. "I can't even remember when I was that furious. I just can't believe it; what in the name of Athame was Alayah thinking? What possessed her to perform a melding during a First Contact scenario?"

Torbel gave a small shrug. "You tell me. You were the one chewing her out."

"She said that she wanted to start the negotiations off by showing them that her intentions were benign and that melding would convey it to them far better than if she had just used words." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Does protocol mean nothing anymore? First the Turians ignore it to punish a new race supposedly activating a relay and then Alayah disregards it in an attempt to assuage the humans."

"If I remember correctly, melding was used more than a few times in your history as a diplomatic tool. In fact, you used it when my people first met yours and we didn't have any issues. I doubt Alayah was expecting such a…violent reaction."

"That is irrelevant!" snapped Tevos. "In those instances, we weren't in a volatile situation where one misstep could lead to all-out war! Alayah should never have tried something so foolish! She is a Matriarch, not some hot-blooded maiden trying to have a one-night stand! She'll be lucky if I don't have her working as a tour guide on Illium for that stunt! The humans didn't choose to end talks, thank the Goddess, but now it's up to the Turians to end this debacle!"

"And their version of diplomacy can basically be summed up as, 'here are the terms and if you don't accept, we'll bomb you back to the Stone Age,'" Torbel finished grimly.

"Exactly," Tevos agreed. "And Sparatus is most certainly going to push for a treaty that is very much in favor of the Turians."

The Turian Councilor had been the only one of the three who had not expressed dismay at the turn of events. If anything, he had seemed almost happy about it; before he left for Palaven, he had declared with vindictive triumph that he had known this would happen and that the humans were a violent and dangerous race that needed to be brought to heel before they could do any more damage. Torbel knew what it was really about: Sparatus regarded himself as the face of the Turian Hierarchy to the galactic community and as far as he was concerned, the humans had slapped that face; now he had the chance to settle things on his own terms.

"So, to recap," said Torbel, "the Turian patrol thought the humans were trying to activate a relay and initiate First Contact by shooting them, leading to the humans retaliating and defeating them. Then our envoy botches up the peace talks before they even begin. And finally, the Turians are going to have to settle this debacle themselves, without any outside help." He crossed his arms and stared off into the distance. "Sparatus will push for a humiliating treaty to get back at the humans, which should it get approved, they will immediately reject and war will soon break out."

"An astute summary," Tevos said in a tired voice.

"So what is our course of action?" asked Torbel. "I don't know about you, but if this all leads to war—and that's starting to become more likely every day—I'm not about to send my people to die for the sake of Sparatus's wounded pride, especially after reading those codexes Alayah brought back."

The codexes the humans had sent were nothing short of insane, with each entry more unbelievable than the last. If Torbel hadn't known better, he would have thought he was reading someone's idea for a Sci-Fi roleplaying game. Not only was magic apparently a normal part of their society, but they also had technology that could drive them insane, bred bioengineered creatures that they used as war machines and it just got crazier from there.

The crown jewel of the madness, however, was an event the humans had named the "Aeon War." If the codexes were to be believed, it was a war that lasted for decades and involved them fighting against a hostile and highly advanced alien race called the Migou and godlike beings labeled "Great Old Ones" and their servants, eventually achieving victory. The Migou were plausible, but the Old Ones sounded like something out of a horror story. Nevertheless, the humans conveyed a very clear message: they were hardened by war, would be utterly defiant and would use every weapon they had at their disposal to win.

"Neither am I," Tevos affirmed. "If his Primarchs are as eager for war as he is, then they can have it, but they'll have to wage it on their own."

#

"My Primarch, we're entering Palaven's outer orbit."

Primarch Quentius nodded absently to his pilot as he gazed out through his private shuttle's viewport. At first glance, Palaven, homeworld of the Turians, would appear to be a tranquil and inviting planet of silver. If you actually set foot on its surface, you would see that it was nothing of the sort. Wherever you might go, traces of the Turians' martial culture were visible, even in their art. Each city was a fortress; AA and artillery guns poked out from parapets, reinforced pillboxes were built into key points and were linked to underground bunkers, and emergency supplies were stockpiled, from ammunition to medical, ready to be used in the event of a siege. Some of them even had massive kinetic barriers to shield against bombardments, or colossal surface-to-orbit guns to take out enemy ships. However, the greatest defenses of the cities were the Turians themselves, who would defend them with a ferocity that was unmatched, presenting a daunting prospect to would-be invaders. Even the Krogan, with their near-endless numbers, had been reluctant to invade.

The vessel, after a moment of turbulence as it began its descent, landed at the spaceport in Cipritine, capital city of Palaven and a bastion that put all others to shame; no expense was spared in the fortification of the capital, for this was the center of the Turian Hierarchy, its brain and beating heart. To settle for anything less would be well-nigh sacrilege.

In spite of being in the monument to Turian might, Quentius was not looking forward to this trip. He was not here to vacation; Sergius Draxon, Primarch of Palaven, had called a summit with the other Primarchs to address a recent development in foreign affairs, specifically that one of their patrols had violated the sovereignty of a new alien race—with mass accelerator rounds. Even now, the thought filled him with frustration; when were his people going to realize that not everything can be solved by shooting it? That was a point he had tried time and again to impress upon his fellow Primarchs, but each time, he was met with derision and all his efforts had earned him were disparaging epithets such as Quentius the Pacifist, Quentius the Capitulator and the ever ingenious Quentius the Whiner. No doubt he would be hearing those names bandied about this time as well.

The shuttle's ramp opened up, revealing two lines of Turian Guardian Services personnel standing at attention with a precision that would bring tears of joy to any drill sergeant. In the middle, there stood an officer who saluted Quentius as he disembarked.

"Primarch Quentius, welcome to Cipritine," he said. "I am Prefect Gracchus, here to serve as your security detail. If you'll come with me sir, I'll take you to your accommodations."

Quentius nodded at the officer. "Very well. Lead on, Prefect."

Without further ado, the captain barked out some orders and the two rows of soldiers moved to form a barrier around Quentius. He was then brought to an aircar that was clearly designed with the protection of its passengers in mind, boasting thick armor and even its own kinetic barrier. One of the soldiers opened the door for him and Quentius stepped inside, followed by Gracchus and two others. As soon as the door closed, the driver started up the vehicle and took to the air with professional ease. Through the tinted window, Quentius saw the rest of the security detail climb into their own vehicles, though in addition to defensive measures, theirs bristled with high-powered mass accelerator guns, their presence a challenge to anyone who thought they could harm their charge.

Of course, the trip passed uneventfully, and in the span of barely more than an hour, Quentius found himself at the Castrum, a massive building that served as the official residence of the Primarch of Palaven and where all the other Primarchs gathered to vote on matters of national importance. As such, it was the most heavily guarded place, not only in the city, but on all of Palaven and even the Hierarchy.

In short order, Quentius was brought to one of the lodgings within the Castrum that were set aside for visiting Primarchs. Inside, there was a bathroom with all required amenities, a double bed and some miscellaneous furniture. There was even a wet bar stocked with bottles of dextro-amino liquors. All in all, it was quite a dignified room. Since it would be some time before the other Primarchs arrived, Quentius decided to relax. He was about to fix himself a drink, when his omni-tool suddenly chimed. Flicking it on, Quentius was faced with Gracchus's visage.

"Your pardon, sir, but there's someone here asking to see you."

"Who?" asked Quentius. He certainly wasn't expecting any visitors.

"A Navy Captain, name of Jorus Irion. Do you know him?"

Quentius nodded. "Yes, he's an old friend. Let him in."

"As you wish, sir," Gracchus replied before terminating the connection. Within moments, Jorus walked into the room, a look of immense anxiousness suffusing his features.

"Jorus," Quentius said by way of greeting, "it's certainly a surprise to see you, though a welcome one."

"It's good to see you too, my Primarch," Jorus returned. "I'm sorry to call upon you so suddenly. How long until the meeting begins?"

"Not until next week. Why the urgency?"

Jorus fixed Quentius with a firm stare. "You know why Primarch Draxon is calling a summit, right?"

Quentius waved a hand absently as he turned back to the wet bar. "Yes, yes, one of our patrol fleets went and bombed some new race for activating a dormant relay in keeping with our time-honored tradition of shooting first and asking questions later," he said bitterly. After a short browse, he selected a bottle of pale blue liqueur and poured himself a healthy glassful. Quentius held up the bottle in offering. "Care for some? Moonberry liquor costs a fortune to import from Palaven."

"No thank you, sir," said Jorus politely.

Quentius shrugged and set the bottle back in its spot. He then picked up his glass and took a swig, letting the drink's sweet taste flow across his tongue. He swallowed and focused his attention on the Captain. "So what does our military's bungle mean for you to come to me personally?"

Jorus swallowed nervously and looked around the room, as though expecting to find someone spying on them. Then he said, "Quentius, as one friend to another, I'm telling you, we cannot go to war, not with these people."

Quentius paused in mid-sip and then slowly lowered his glass. "You know, if I was one of the other Primarchs, I'd probably start frothing at the mandibles and throw out words like 'cowardice' and 'incompetence,' but I know you better than that." He sat down on one of the chairs and invited Jorus to do the same. "So tell me, why is war to be avoided?"

Jorus took the seat opposite of Quentius and clasped his hands together. He stared down at the floor, as though seeking strength from it. Finally, he looked up at Quentius.

"My Primarch, I don't know how much you are aware of regarding these aliens, but I can tell you that if it comes to war, we will not be fighting against primitives who have just started venturing beyond their world. We will be fighting a race with advanced technology and who possesses the brutal pragmatism to use it effectively."

"And how do you know this?" asked Quentius, taking another sip of liquor. Jorus let out a deep sigh.

"Because I was there."

Quentius nearly spat out his drink at Jorus's words. After a brief coughing fit, he sputtered out, "You were there?! Spirits above, Jorus, please tell me it wasn't you who ordered the Patrol Fleet to attack!"

"Of course I didn't," said Jorus, sounding offended at the accusation. "You can thank Admiral Gallus Othon for that, though he's no longer with us; he took his own life out of shame."

Quentius let out a low growl, clenching his talons. "Damn overzealous fool." He let out a sigh of his own. "Oh well, what's done is done." Quentius leaned closer to Jorus. "Tell me everything."

Jorus proceeded to do just that. He told him that this new race was called the humans and that their entire technological basis was apparently based on something completely different from the mass effect principles the rest of the galaxy used, and that it gave to them a multitude of scientific marvels that would leave a Salarian dumbstruck. The foremost of this was that their ships did not appear use the relays, instead utilizing some other form of FTL. The ships also made extensive use of direct energy weapons and Jorus made a point to emphasize that the damage done to the Patrol Fleet had been inflicted by a single dreadnought-sized ship. Those feats alone would have been cause for concern, but it didn't stop there. From reports given to him by the Turian ground forces, Jorus informed Quentius that the aliens had gigantic mecha as a main staple of their armies; these too made use of energy weapons and were magnitudes more advanced than the kind the Hierarchy fielded. They even had massive cybernetic creatures, each one capable of reaping a bloody toll on anything that had the misfortune to be in its way.

"And that's just what we've seen so far," Jorus said after finishing his tale. "They could very well have other things stashed away, and I highly doubt they're going to be open about them if they do."

Quentius decided that he was a bit too sober to continue, so he went and refilled his glass, this time almost to the brim, and took a generous gulp.

"Spirits, next you'll be telling me that they've got demons they can set on us." He had meant it as a joke, but then he noticed that Jorus was staring at him with utmost seriousness and his hands started to tremble.

"Jorus, you can't honestly mean to say…" Quentius trailed off as Jorus gave the barest of nods, coupled with a haunted look of one who had seen far too much of something terrible.

"But…that's absurd!" he protested. "Demons belong in tales from days gone by, not in the modern age!"

Jorus took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "My Primarch, I was held captive by them for weeks and in that time, I saw things I wish to all the Spirits I didn't, and if there is any mercy in the galaxy, I'll never have to again."

"Do you have any proof?" Quentius asked pointedly. "I mean, you do realize how ridiculous this sounds, right? If I try to tell them that these humans have demons in their service without something solid, I'll be laughed out of the hall."

In answer, Jorus brought up his omni-tool and tapped a few holographic keys. Moments later, a video display appeared. "What I'm about to show you came from the security footage we smuggled off from my ship's cameras. Brace yourself; it will be disturbing."

And disturbing it was. On the screen, Quentius watched as a gaggle of creatures prowled the corridors of the ship Jorus had served on. They were all hideous, sporting many anatomical impossibilities, but it was their effectiveness in combat that made him sick to his stomach. As he watched, he saw many Turian crewmen suffer grisly deaths. There was no sound, but that hardly made seeing his fellow Turians get ripped to pieces like so much tissue paper any better.

"What the hell are those things?" Quentius wondered aloud in grim fascination.

"I have no idea, sir," Jorus said. "But some humans seem to be able to transform into those…things."

"Wait a minute, back up," Quentius said, holding up a hand. "Did I hear you say that these aliens can turn into those creatures? As in actual shape-shifting?"

"Yes, my Primarch. One changed right in front of me; I couldn't sleep for three days after that." Jorus tapped a few more keys and a new video feed sprung up. "This one was taken from one of the soldiers' helmet cams."

This video showed a much larger creature than those on the ship. The video's quality was hazy, but it still managed to capture the creature's appearance; so horrific was its visage that Quentius instinctively recoiled from the screen as though he feared it might reach through and grab him. It was a vile thing, a great blubbery mass of flabby, putrid green flesh perched on two trunk-like legs that seemed to be far too short to walk with. A pair of grotesquely swollen arms protruded on either side, each tipped with a three fingered hand as large as an aircar. Its head possessed a wide mouth filled with rounded teeth and which seemed to be fixed in a permanent smile; in place of eyes, it had only a pair of dark sunken pits. To make it worse, this video had sound, and Quentius received the full benefit of the thing's rampage. He could hear screams of sheer terror and the thing's disgusting chortling sounds as it waddled about, snatching up Turians and shoveling them into its maw with the gluttonous zeal of a Krogan at an all-you-can-eat buffet, ignoring the hail of bullets being shot at it. Finally, it caught the solider that was the source of the video and the last sight Quentius saw was the great slavering jaws snapping shut, reducing the video feed to a haze of static.

"There were others, each one no less terrible than what you just saw," said Jorus as he closed the screen.

The Primarch suddenly felt nauseous and staggered over to the wet bar's sink, dumping out the remaining liquor and filling the glass with water. He glugged thirstily, and the nausea passed.

"Spirits above and below," he gasped shakily. "This…this is insane. Shape-shifters, demons…what the hell have we stumbled on?"

Jorus nodded in agreement. "Now you see why we cannot go to war with these aliens. They will not hold back if it comes to that; should we go to war, we'll be facing more of those things, and Spirits know what else." He stood up and walked over to Jorus. "Quentius, we must pursue peace with them. If need be, I'll testify before the Primarchs myself."

Quentius let out a mirthless laugh. "Easier said than done. Even with those videos and your testimony, the Primarchs may still decide that more forceful action is needed. More than a few won't like the idea of some upstart race throwing its collective weight around."

"You don't have to convince them, you just have to convince Primarch Draxon," Jorus pointed out. "The final say in something like this rests with him."

"True," Quentius conceded, "but it'll most likely be my voice against everyone else's, and make no mistake, that will affect his decision; hell, those videos of yours might actually make them feel that we should go to war immediately and make the humans get rid of those things!"

Jorus placed a firm hand on Quentius's soldiers and looked him dead in the eye. "My Primarch, please listen to me," he said. "I know that the Hierarchy's collective pride has been wounded and I also know that there are many amongst the Primarchs who will take it personally. But we must not, under any circumstances, try to exact reprisals on these aliens. If we attempt to force a demeaning pact on them, then I guarantee we will enter a war that will be as bloody, if not bloodier, than the Rebellions. I can't even begin to imagine how many lives it would claim, and I don't even know if we would win." His grip on Quentius's shoulder tightened. "Quentius, in the name of all that is good and pure, you must make Primarch Draxon see that we cannot afford spurn these aliens."

"Jorus, my friend," Quentius said wearily, "I promise you I will do my utmost to steer Primarch Draxon toward agreeing to a peaceful settlement, but that is all I can do."

#

The summit came all too quickly for Quentius. A week later, at precisely nine in the morning, galactic standard time, he found himself in the Castrum's Hall of Sovereignty. The other Primarchs were there as well, sitting patiently in their seats and talking to each other in murmuring tones. Quentius quietly took his assigned seat representing the Tridend Colony and took stock of his fellow Primarchs, seeking out those who might be an ally in the coming discussion.

Hericus Amado, Primarch of the Chatti Outpost, was the first one he looked at, his black colony tattoo covering the entire left side of his face making him one of the more conspicuous politicians present. Hericus noticed Quentius looking at him and let out a derisive snort before turning his gaze away. Quentius wasn't surprised; Hericus was one of the most militant-minded Turians he knew and believed that solving a problem was simply a matter of shooting enough holes in it. There was as much a chance of convincing Hericus to support him as there was of finding a Krogan who didn't like fighting.

Primarchs Carpus, Tryphon and Gavius, of the Gothis, Thracia, and Epyrus colonies would not be much more help. They weren't anywhere near as uncompromising as Hericus, but they had the utmost confidence in the Hierarchy's military might and if they were convinced that they could win a war if it came to that, then they'd be all for strong-arming the humans into a treaty that favored the Turians.

His best bets on convincing Primarch Draxon to settle on an amicable concordat would be with Primarchs Cora Nicon of the Baetika Colony and Palaemon Vesper of the Edessan Colony. Much like himself, Cora preferred to keep a cool head on her shoulders and would only advocate force if there was only no other way. Palaemon made his decisions based on logic and could be counted on to keep his personal feelings in check. As for the rest of the Primarchs, they could go either way. All he could do was hope that his arguments would sway them to his side.

The Hall's door suddenly opened up and a Guardian Serviceman stepped through. In a deep, resonating voice, he called out, "All rise for His Eminence Sergius Draxon, Primarch of Palaven, and His Honor Councilor Sparatus."

Moments later, Draxon came into the room, flanked by several other Servicemen and looking every bit the ruler of the Hierarchy that he was. He was very tall, standing at least a head above all present and solidly built. An aura of absolute authority followed him, as was to be expected; no Turian managed to reach the lofty heights of Primarch of Palaven unless they were the absolute, without question, best of the best.

Behind him came Sparatus, as puffed-up as Quentius remembered. Unlike Draxon, Sparatus radiated self-importance, as though everyone should feel privileged to be in his presence. The haughtiness was not exactly unfounded; as much as Quentius was loathed to admit it, Sparatus was the quintessential face of the Turian race to the rest of the galaxy and like all other positions of authority, he would not have gotten it if he was deemed incapable of handling the responsibility. The problem was he wholly embraced his role and as such took slights against the Hierarchy more personally than any other Turian. If he had his way, Sparatus would have already declared war on the humans. Fortunately, he did not have that authority, but there was no doubt in Quentius's mind that in lieu of war, he was going to do his utmost to see that their agreement with the humans would be as favoring of the Hierarchy as possible.

Straightaway, Draxon took his place on the Imperial Throne, a relic from when the Turian emperors of old still vied for ultimate power over Palaven; it was much larger than the other Primarchs' seats, a stark reminder that he was the final authority on all matters. Once he was seated, everyone else sat as well. He glanced around at the other Primarchs, nodded once and spoke in a deep, sonorous voice.

"Primarchs of the Hierarchy, I have called you all here to address an urgent matter in our foreign affairs." He turned to look at Sparatus, who had remained standing. "Councilor Sparatus, you have the floor." Sparatus bowed in a suitably respectful way and briskly strode into the center of Hall.

"Estimable Primarchs," he began, "as of over a standard month ago, the 57th Patrol Fleet encountered a new alien race, called 'humans,' who were attempting to activate a dormant relay. Upon seeing this, the members of the fleet did their duty as enforcers of Council law and put an end to their ignorant meddling. However, these humans—" he all but spat the word—"refused to see the error of their actions and retaliated, slaughtering many good Turians and capturing the rest. Now, they want to engage in talks in the hopes of coming to a settlement on this matter."

Clever of you, Councilor, thought Quentius. He could see what Sparatus was doing, and that was painting the picture that the Turians were blameless and that the fault rested entirely with the humans. He wouldn't lie about what happened; no self-respecting Turian would even think about committing that most egregious of sins, and for all his pride, Sparatus was a true Turian. However, if there was one thing Quentius knew, it was that the truth often had many ways to be interpreted, and Sparatus was very good at making it so the truth coincided with his views. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hericus visibly fume at the idea that some upstart race would have the nerve to defy the Hierarchy. It was safe to say that whatever Sparatus was going to propose, he was going to give it his full support.

"Venerable Primarchs," Sparatus continued, "if a settlement is to be made, we must consider our responsibilities to the Citadel species. These humans are dangerous, my Primarchs, and represent a grave threat to galactic peace, which our people have been entrusted to uphold. I personally feel that we should crush them now and render them impotent, as we would do for all our enemies."

"That is for me to decide, Councilor. Not you," Draxon reminded Sparatus curtly.

"Of course, Your Eminence," Sparatus said smoothly. "Forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds." He then cleared his throat and resumed his speech. "As I was saying, in addition to securing peace, we must also ensure that these newcomers are rendered incapable of ever becoming a menace to our way of life, for how can we call ourselves the protectors of the galaxy if we do not deal with a potential menace? How we do this is, of course, entirely up to you and I have utmost faith that, in your wisdom, you will reach a just decision." With that, he gave another respectful bow and retreated to his own seat next to Draxon.

Now that was a shrewd move, Quentius acknowledged; playing to the Primarchs' sense of duty was a very good political tactic. While defending the Council's dominion was a responsibility the Turians shared with other races, they definitely contributed the most and after hearing Jorus's testimony, he was forced to agree that the humans could pose a real threat if they wanted to. However, given that they had opted to pursue negotiations, Quentius was willing to give them the benefit of doubt. Unfortunately, his optimistic mindset was not widely shared amongst the other Primarchs. Already, he could see looks of concern clouding their faces, even from Cora and Palaemon.

"A question, Councilor," said Primarch Gavius, "why are the Asari not involved here? Diplomacy is more their forte than ours."

"They already tried to engage in talks, but the humans refused their overtures," Sparatus answered simply, as if there was nothing more to it than that. Quentius disagreed.

"Why did they refuse to talk with them?" he asked. "They must have had a reason."

Though it was subtle, Quentius did not miss the Councilor bristle with annoyance at his pointed question. Clearly, he had been hoping that no one would ask why the Asari had been turned away.

"The Asari envoy the Council sent attempted to meld with one of the humans," Sparatus replied in a reluctant tone. "They took offence and promptly sent them back."

"And that brings me to a point that I want all of you to take into account before we start deliberating on what to do with these aliens," rumbled Draxon. Immediately, everyone's attention was focused solely on him. "Last night, I received a transmission from Councilors Tevos and Torbel. They said, in no uncertain terms, that if we go to war, then we will be on our own. We will receive no help from any of them."

The Primarchs exchanged murmurs with each other at that news. As for himself, Quentius felt a mixture of hope and anxiety churn in his gut. The fact that the Council would distance itself from any conflict the Turians might enter if the negotiations soured would dampen the eagerness of some Primarchs to seek a humiliating treaty, but if there was a good chance they could win without outside help, then the rest would definitely push for it.

"So, now that we've gotten that bit out of the way, let's get down to business," Draxon declared, stifling the murmurs. "We must now decide on what terms we shall present to the humans. There's a lot to go through and I want this over with as soon as possible. That being said, what is the proposal for the first item?" Quentius seized his chance; best to start things off in the right direction.

"Reparations for the humans," he called out, eliciting sounds of incredulity from several Primarchs. Hericus quickly voiced his disapproval with Quentius's proposal.

"Reparations?!" he echoed contemptuously. "These insolent upstarts slaughtered our people for fulfilling their obligations to Council law and you want to reimburse them? They should be grateful we're even considering not destroying them! I always knew you were a meek little pacifist Quentius, but—"

"ENOUGH!"

Draxon's bellow rang throughout the Hall, silencing Hericus's diatribe. He skewered the bellicose Primarch with a withering glare and pointed a talon at him.

"We are here to determine what terms we are going to bring to the humans, not berate each other over personal notions. You will maintain a civil conduct throughout the proceedings, or I will eject you from them. Am I understood?"

Hericus bowed his head in a chastised manner. "Yes, Your Eminence." He settled back down in his seat, a sullen scowl upon his features, and Quentius allowed himself a tiny sense of smugness well up in him.

"That goes for the rest of you as well," Draxon informed the other Primarchs, his steely gaze sweeping over them. "This situation is too important for us to bicker with one another. Civility will be maintained, or you will be thrown out. No exceptions. Is that clear?" Sounds of assentation came from the Primarchs. Satisfied, Draxon switched his attention to Quentius.

"Now, why do you suggest we compensate these aliens?" he asked. Quentius gave a small cough and began his explanation.

"Regardless of whether or not the Patrol Fleet was acting in accordance with Council law, the humans could not have known that their actions were illegal. In light of that, the fleet's response amounted to nothing short of an unprovoked attack. Though Councilor Sparatus might say otherwise, we are at fault, not the humans."

Quentius did not miss the glower Sparatus sent him; if it were any more intense, the Councilor would have immolated him where he sat. Standing up, he walked over to Quentius's seat and fixed him with a cold stare.

"That 'law' you so casually toss aside was enacted as a safeguard against another Rachni War," Sparatus stated. "I trust you are familiar with that point in history?"

"Of course," Quentius responded coolly, matching the Councilor's gaze. "History was one of my best subjects when I was a youngling."

"Then you are aware of how terrible that time was. Nearly three hundred years of bloody warfare, which the Council nearly lost. The Salarians were forced to uplift the Krogan in order to defeat the Rachni, and we all know how that turned out." Sparatus paused for a moment as the Primarchs began to mutter in agreement before resuming his narration.

"The humans could very well have been seconds away from opening up a door to something as bad as, or even worse than those oversized insects." He locked eyes with Quentius. "What would you have had the fleet do? Sit off to the side and just watch?"

"No," Quentius retorted. "I actually have this novel idea that perhaps trying to talk to them might have worked far better than shooting at them and attempting to occupy their world. Correct me if I'm wrong, Councilor, but isn't it standard protocol to try and establish contact with new races before commencing hostilities?"

"Only when the situation allows it," Sparatus declared haughtily. "When the safety of the galaxy is put in jeopardy due to some new species poking around at something they have no comprehension of, swift and often severe measures have to be taken to prevent a potential catastrophe."

"Like we're trying to do now?" Quentius asked almost innocently.

Sparatus was about to launch into a verbal tirade when Draxon's voice interrupted. "That's enough, you two. Sparatus, kindly return to your seat." Though it was phrased as a request, everyone present could hear the command lying just underneath. With a short bow, Sparatus did as he was bid.

"Now, you've all heard Quentius's proposal for reparations," Draxon said. "What say you?"

Hericus was the first to voice his opinion. "I say no to Quentius's suggestion. As Councilor Sparatus just said, the humans could have plunged the galaxy into another Rachni War with their ignorant actions. Why should we pay restitutions for preventing that?"

"I concur with Hericus," Primarch Carpus stated. "Paying the humans reparations will also make us appear weak to the whole galaxy. And if we start to appear weak, then who can say where it will lead? The Terminus Systems might decide that they can start activating relays themselves, or perhaps the Batarians' 'piratical members' will become emboldened and start raiding our territories more frequently."

"I must agree with Quentius on this matter," interjected Palaemon. "Though our fleet may have been acting with the galaxy's best interests in mind, they nevertheless committed an undeserved act of aggression on the humans. Compensations should be made."

"I second that," Cora said. "If we don't offer some form of recompense, not only do we risk angering the humans, it could send the message that we hold ourselves to be beyond reproach for our actions. We are not above the law, and if we break it, we should accept responsibility."

The other Primarchs proceeded to voice their own views, some siding with Quentius, some with Hericus. Once they had all been heard, Draxon said his piece.

"Both Quentius and Sparatus make legitimate points. While I believe that the Patrol Fleet was acting with the best of intentions, I must side with Quentius on this matter. Good intentions or no, we fired the first shot; no two ways about that. Reparations shall be made. That being said, how much should we offer?" His question was directed at Quentius.

"I propose that, considering the relatively small scale of the conflict, we pay the Federation the sum of ten billion credits in recompense, or resources equal to the amount," he recommended.

"Are there any objections to Quentius's suggestion?" Draxon inquired of the Primarchs. Surprisingly, none protested his recommendation, not even Hericus. He guessed that the amount was low enough that everyone was satisfied the Hierarchy wasn't going to shell out to the Federation.

So far, so good, he thought. Maybe a peaceful resolution would actually be possible.

"Very well, the motion is passed," Draxon declared. "Next item: the humans' technology." He activated his omni-tool and said, "Send him in."

An instant later, the Hall's doors opened and a new Turian stepped in, followed by what Quentius recognized to be an info drone. He was dressed in formal attire and held himself in a humbled manner, as though being in the presence of all the Primarchs was physically overwhelming. He faced Draxon and bowed low, who acknowledged the gesture with short nod.

"State your name," Draxon commanded.

The Turian turned towards the other Primarchs, bowed again, and said, "My Primarchs, I am Vasius Platon, Analyst of the Research and Development Department. My colleagues and I have been going over the codexes the humans sent back pertaining to their technology. It is my honor to present what we have so far gleaned." He looked over at the drone. "Gen-42, initiate the presentation file."

"Yes, Analyst," the spherical drone replied. A beam of light shot out from the "eye" in its center and an image flickered into existence. It was a picture of several spaceships, each one clearly a military-grade vessel.

"I'll be starting with their ships," Vasius informed the Primarchs. "Now, what we've learned so far is only what would be publicly available, so we won't be privy to any military secrets. Nevertheless, what we have found is quite impressive. From what we can tell, none of their ships have shields, but to compensate, all of them, save their frigates, are heavily armored; in the case of the dreadnoughts, the plating can be upwards of five meters thick, meaning that anything short of a main gun will just glance off.

"What makes them truly dangerous, though, is their use of direct energy weapons, which includes lasers, plasma and what we believe to be charged particles. Thanks to those systems, our kinetic barriers are rendered virtually useless, meaning that all that stands between the crew and a fiery death is their ship's own armor. The alloys we use for plating are some of the strongest amongst the Citadel races, but they won't hold up for long against such weapons."

"A moment, Analyst," interposed Primarch Cora. "What kind of ship is that?" She indicated a cruiser-sized ship that seemed to be little more than a massive tube attached to an engine.

"That vessel is classified as a 'destroyer,'" Vasius explained. "Other than its label, the information pertaining to it was, to put it simply, lacking. We have, however, theorized that it is designed to be a ship-killer, or an orbital assault craft. The entire ship appears to be a gigantic mobile gun, most likely a direct energy version. Our best estimates of its yield fall between the high kiloton to low megaton range."

"Spirits have mercy," breathed Tryphon, and Quentius shared his sentiment. Even being forewarned about the humans' ships, he still found himself in awe at the sheer scale of their potential destructive power. With one blast, that ship could destroy a dreadnought or wipe a city off the face of a planet. Even the stoic Draxon looked to be a bit put off by it.

"Does it have any weaknesses?" he inquired.

"Certainly, Your Eminence," answered the Analyst. "It's obviously not built for close combat and its engines are a flagrant weak point. A couple of frigates could easily outmaneuver the craft and hit it from behind. And I highly doubt that it will be able to shoot at a quick rate; whatever ammunition it may fire, it will still have to recharge and cool down which, given its size, will not be a speedy procedure. Of course, it would be foolish to think that the humans don't know of those vulnerabilities. It's a guarantee that they'll have countermeasures in place to offset them." Vasius turned to his drone. "Bring up the next images."

At his command, a new picture was displayed on the hologram. This one showed numerous bipedal walker vehicles. Some were bulky and geometric, some streamline and sleek, but all of them looked deadly.

"Now I shall talk about their mecha. The concept of these vehicles is nothing new to us, but the versions that the humans have at their disposal are in an entirely different league. According to the codex pertaining to these crafts, they are highly mobile and capable of great degrees of manual dexterity, the sleek ones especially. They don't appear to possess shields like our vehicles do, but like the ships, they seem to compensate by either being well armored or agile enough to not get hit. Also like their ships, the humans arm the mecha with direct energy weapons." Another command and a new set of images appeared.

"Here we have what the humans have termed Engels. At first glance, they may appear to be more mecha, albeit very weirdly proportioned, but in truth, they are not machines at all. They are actually massive genetically engineered creatures implanted with cybernetics and sealed in the suits you see before you with a space where a human pilot can enter and control the creature. Their creation is regarded as one of the humans' greatest accomplishments; it's my guess that these things are held as something of a cultural icon for the humans. The exact details about them are sparse, but they are described as being far superior to the normal mecha."

"Father of Titans," swore Primarch Carpus. "How the hell do they make these things?"

"Well, that's actually a very good question," said Vasius. "It's glaringly obvious that they don't use mass effect principles in any way, shape or form. Instead, they utilize something called 'arcanotechnology.'"

"And what is that?" asked Carpus. The Analyst shifted uncomfortably.

"According to the codex, arcanotechnology is, and I quote, 'a fusion of science and magic.'"

For what felt like an age, there was only dead silence as the Primarchs stared at Vasius with undisguised disbelief. Even Quentius was struck dumb by that statement. Finally, Hericus spoke and summed up what everyone else was thinking.

"Magic," he repeated in a tone that could not have made his skepticism any clearer. "The secret to all this is…magic. Analyst, that is without a doubt the biggest pile of varren shit I have ever heard. Magic does not exist; it's something that primitive cultures use to explain things they don't understand."

"My apologies, Primarch Amado," Vasius said with a touch of irritation. "I am only reciting what was given to us. Believe me, I'm as skeptical as the next Turian, but the humans regard magic as very real. In fact, they go so far as to teach it as an actual discipline. They even hold that things like gods and other beings exist as well." Quentius's mind suddenly flashed back to the videos that Jorus had showed him of those horrible creatures. If he hadn't seen them, he would have been just as dismissive as the rest, but now, he no longer had the luxury of ignorance.

"Then they're crazy," declared Hericus in a matter-of-fact tone, jerking Quentius out of his flashback.

"In any event, it's irrelevant," Draxon put in. "All that matters is that their technology is based on something entirely different from everyone else's. What is to be done about it?"

"If I may interpose for a moment," Vasius interrupted before the Primarchs could begin spouting off their opinions, "there is one other thing about this 'arcanotechnology' that I should mention: according to the codexes, the technology slowly drives its users insane."

Once more, silence descended upon the Hall and looks of bewilderment returned to the Primarchs' faces. The idea that a race was willing to use something that would drive them insane in order to give themselves greater power simply did not register. Hericus's statement of the humans being crazy suddenly rang very true. Finally, Draxon broke the silence.

"Thank you for your presentation, Analyst. Is there anything else you wish to add?"

"No, Your Eminence."

"Very well. You may leave." The Analyst bowed and left in an economical speed, his drone floating behind him. Once he was gone, Draxon addressed the Primarchs.

"Alright, now since we've heard all that, the issue still stands: what is to be done with this technology?"

"It must be banned," Hericus proclaimed, to Quentius's utter lack of surprise. "Those Engels alone are violations of Council law, but having technology that destroys your mind is completely unacceptable." He looked around at his fellow Primarchs. "I don't know about the rest of you, but sure as hell don't want our people or any other race exposed to that stuff."

"You can't honestly expect them to dismantle their entire infrastructure!" Quentius exclaimed. "We are trying to put an end to hostilities; making demands like that will do nothing of the sort, especially if you try to force them to demolish the foundation of their society!"

"Why would they want to keep it?" inquired Gavius. "From what we've all heard, mass effect tech is far safer than what they're using. They probably had to develop it because they had no other choice, but what race in their right mind would want to keep technology that drives them mad when there's a much more practical field available?"

"My point still stands," declared Quentius. "You are asking the humans to completely disassemble their way of life and start over from scratch. They will not accept that condition; they'll see it as an attempt to weaken them and our negotiations will end right there."

"Quentius," said Sparatus in the oily voice he used when he was attempting to bring someone around to his point of view, "you're making it sound like we'll be forcing them to repurpose their society on their own. That won't be the case; the humans will have us and the entirety of the Council helping them readjust. We'll soon drum out those barbaric notions of 'magic' and 'gods' from their heads and bring them around to a more civilized mindset."

"I hardly think the humans will be of the same view," Quentius remarked scathingly. "And in case you've forgotten, the Council won't be supporting us if it comes to war."

"No, they won't," Sparatus conceded, "but neither will we be alone. The Volus will support our endeavor as per their status as a client race, and we can always acquire aid from the associate races."

"The Volus are hardly a game-changer, and I very much doubt that the other races will be tripping over their feet to help us, assuming the Council even gives them the option."

Quentius looked to the other Primarchs for support, but it quickly became clear that they agreed with Hericus more than him. One by one, they elected to ban the humans' arcanotech and help supplant it with mass effect replacements, by force if necessary. Even Cora and Palaemon voted in favor of the motion. Out of the corner of his eye, Quentius noted Sparatus looking quite pleased with the Primarchs' decision.

Once the Primarchs had voted, Draxon laced his hands together and bowed his head, a sign of being deep in thought. He remained in the position for a long time. Finally, he raised his head and said, "This is too big a decision to make right now. I have to think more on it. We will adjourn until tomorrow."

#

As Quentius made his way back to his lodgings, his omni-tool chimed and a message displayed itself.

My Primarch, I heard that the summit had been called off for the day. How are things looking?

—Jorus

Quentius let out a weary sigh as he typed his reply. Not so good, I'm afraid. I managed to get them to agree to pay reparations to the humans, but when we got to their technology, everyone but me decided it was too dangerous and voted to ban their tech and have them adopt mass effect variants, forcibly if need be. Primarch Draxon claimed he needed more time to think on it. We'll know his answer tomorrow.

—Quentius

Hardly a minute had passed before his omni-tool chimed again, revealing another message from Jorus. Even though it was text, he could feel the desperation it carried. He didn't even bother to add his name to it.

Quentius, if he goes along with that recommendation, then war is guaranteed! What are we going to do?

That was a question Quentius was asking himself as well. What could they do? Draxon's decision would decide on whether or not war broke out, and if the other Primarchs thought otherwise, then they were gravely mistaken. Then again, perhaps they just had confidence in the resolve of the Turian race. Even when faced with the weapons that had been presented to them, they still probably felt that the Hierarchy would win in the end. However, it would be years, if not decades before the end came and regardless of whoever emerged the victor, there would be mountains of corpses left behind. Suddenly, an idea came to him and he quickly messaged Jorus back. It was a longshot, but he had to try.

I have a plan. I'll see if I can set up a meeting between you and Draxon. With luck, you'll be able to sway his decision.

#

In all honesty, Quentius had thought that his plan was doomed from the start. The idea that the Primarch of Palaven would bother to hear the testimony of a mere Navy captain was almost unthinkable. And yet, not long after Quentius had sent his request, Draxon had responded that he would listen to what Jorus had to say and for them to come at midnight. Now the two Turians were on their way towards his private quarters, with Jorus working himself into a fine lather.

"I can't believe I'm actually going to be in the presence of the Primarch of Palaven!" he gibbered. "Even an admiral would be lucky to get an audience!"

"Take it easy," Quentius soothed. "Just do what you would do when meeting a superior officer. Don't be too heavy on the praise though, that'll annoy him."

"Right," Jorus said with a gulp.

Soon enough, they reach Draxon's residence. The door was guarded by no less than a dozen Servicemen, and there no doubt more inside. As the two came closer, one of the Servicemen moved to intercept them.

"Primarch Quentius," he said in an emotionless tone, "His Eminence is expecting you." He looked over at Jorus. "Is this the captain?"

"He is."

"Alright." He jerked looked over at one of the other Servicemen and jerked his head. "Scan 'em." The Serviceman nodded, brought out a scanning device and proceeded to wave it up and down across Jorus and Quentius's persons.

"Is this really necessary?" Quentius asked impatiently.

"Just following standard procedure, sir."

Fortunately, the scanning didn't take long, and within moments they were both cleared and allowed to enter Draxon's room. It was considerably more expansive than Quentius's accommodations, but otherwise it was still very utilitarian. Primarch Draxon was seated in the middle of the room, surrounded by other Turians, all of whom bore military insignias denoting some of the highest ranking officers in the Hierarchy's military. Master Admirals Ovidius Creon, commander of the assault fleets and Alcaeus Phylum, commander of the defense fleets, were present, along with several High Generals. It seemed as though Draxon was taking other opinions into consideration as well.

"Quentius," Draxon said by way of greeting. "Glad to see you've arrived so quickly." Polite greetings of "my Primarch" and such variations came from the gathered military officials. Wasting no time, Quentius began introductions.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I present to you Captain Jorus Irion. He was the second most senior officer stationed with the 57th Patrol Fleet and was the one who convinced the humans to pursue talks for peace."

"So he was the one who surrendered to them," Ovidius remarked, shooting a poisonous glower at Jorus.

"None of that, Master Admiral," Draxon growled. "The good captain was forced to take command after Admiral Gallus Othon committed suicide. His decision to surrender saved many Turian lives."

Chastised, Ovidius fell silent. Draxon then stared directly at Jorus. "Now, Captain, I've been pouring over the humans' codexes along with everyone you see before you, trying to determine how a war with them might progress if it comes to that. So far, I've been assured that, while it will definitely be long and costly, we will win in the end. On that note, Quentius tells me you have firsthand knowledge of them and their capabilities. What do you have to say?"

Jorus faltered for a moment, and then drew himself up and said, "Your Eminence, while I do not mean to disparage the wisdom of our military leaders, I'm afraid that they are wrong; there is no guarantee we will win against the humans."

Almost instantly, cries of outrage erupted from the military leaders. Things like "defeatism," "cowardice," and "disgrace to the Turian species" were bandied about until Draxon put an end to the tirade.

"SILENCE!" he thundered. And silence there was; no one even dared to mutter.

"Now that you've all got that out of your system, I believe the Captain was about to tell his reasoning." He focused back on Jorus. "Please enlighten me as to why victory over the humans is not assured."

Emboldened by Draxon's support, Jorus resumed his speech. "Your Eminence, the humans are unlike anything we've seen before. They are a veritable anomaly, one that uses technology that is utterly unknown and which gives to them tremendous power."

"We've taken that into account, Captain," said one greatly daring High General. "There is no denying that they wield immensely destructive weapons and their method of traveling through space will be a bit problematic, but it is hardly the first time we've faced a violent and wantonly destructive race.

"And before you say that we have no idea how vast their dominion is, let me tell you that we do, and it's hardly worth mentioning. Palaven alone supports a larger population than the humans' possess in their entirety, and they've been spacefaring for less than a century; it's not conceivable that they would be able to establish a domain of any great size. Powerful weapons are all well and good, but if we hit them with overwhelming force, they won't be able to strike back."

"I never doubted that you had taken their technology into account, General," Jorus responded, "but that's not all they have at their disposal." With that, he activated his omni-tool and brought up the videos that he had first shown Quentius. In all his life, he had never seen demeanors change so fast; one minute the military leaders were all confidence and the next they were pictures of shock and revulsion. Even Draxon's normally stoic features were replaced with a disturbed look.

"Captain," he said in a hushed tone, "what in the name of the Spirits were those things?"

"The humans' ace in the hole," Jorus answered, shutting off the videos. "What they are, I have no idea, nor do I wish to know, but make no mistake, the humans will use them if we go to war, and however horrible you might think they are from those videos, facing them in person is far worse. You've seen how effective they are; can you imagine what an entire army might do?"

By the look of them, the military leaders were trying very hard not to imagine. They exchanged worried looks and conversed in whispers with each other.

"Thank you for your testimony, Captain," said Draxon. "Now, if you'll both excuse us, we have to reflect on what has just been shown. You've given us quite a bit to deliberate."

#

The next day found Quentius back in the Hall of Sovereignty, feeling more anxious than ever before. Today, Draxon would give his answer on what to do about the humans' technology. Though he wanted to be optimistic, he could not help but feel apprehensive. Jorus's presentation might very well have scared Draxon into taking drastic actions, but there was no point in wondering about the what-ifs; all he could do was wait and see what the verdict would be.

Minutes later, the Primarch of Palaven entered the Hall in a fatigued slump, a sure sign that he had spent the whole night trying to reach a decision. Taking his place on the Imperial Throne, Draxon called for order and the other Primarchs settled down. Once everyone was listening, Draxon delivered his ruling.

"I have reached a decision regarding the humans' technology. It was not one made lightly." He paused as though collecting himself, and then continued.

"As a result of advice from High Command and my own personal feelings, I have thus reached the conclusion that what they have is too dangerous to be allowed into galactic society. I am therefore approving the term that the humans must replace their current technology with mass effect variants. Furthermore, I am adding in the condition that joining the Citadel Council as an associate race is mandatory, where they will adhere to the laws and regulations thereof."

Quentius felt as though his heart had just sunk to his feet. All around him, his fellow Primarch had varying reactions. Some expressed concern, others—one of them unmistakably Hericus—expressed satisfaction. In a moment of awful clarity, he realized that he had failed; Draxon might as well have gone and drafted up a declaration of war. There was no way the humans would accept that ultimatum. Now all that the Hierarchy could look forward to was years of bloody conflict.

With a defeated moan, Quentius let his head fall despondently into his hands.

#

On board the carrier Socrates, President Gideon sat at the conference table that had been set up, drumming his fingers on the metal slab. The Turian delegate was supposed to arrive soon, bearing with him his peoples' terms. This would be the deciding point on whether or not the Federation continued its years of peace, or ended them abruptly. On Gideon's right, Varma sat stock-still and utterly expressionless. The Nazzadi might as well have been a statue. To his left, Secretary Vilsack rubbed his temple.

"Are you feeling alright?" asked Gideon.

"Been better, sir," he admitted in a somewhat weary voice. Vilsack had undergone an intense screening session by some of the best para-psychics in the government's employ in order to see if the Asari had done anything more than link minds with him. Even when done carefully, the process was not a pleasant experience. Fortunately, the para-psychics all declared that the Secretary of State remained uncompromised, so that was a comfort. The same had been done on the Asari, and to her credit she underwent the process willingly, undoubtedly trying to make up for her previous action. Not that she would have had a choice in the matter.

"I still think we should have gone for intimidation," the Secretary said. "If we had sent back information showing the other things we have at our disposal, they'd think twice before throwing their weight around at us."

"You remember what the Supreme Commander said," replied Varma. "It's best that we have some surprises tucked away in case war become unavoidable, and I wholeheartedly agree. Besides, the unknown is far more terrifying than what you can put a face to. Let the birds keep themselves up at night worrying about what horrors we might unleash on them." There were arctic winters warmer than his voice.

The moment Varma finished talking, one of the security personnel put a hand to his ear, made some affirmations and looked over at the President. "The Turian delegate is here, sir."

Gideon immediately assumed the guise of the calm and calculating leader of the Federation, even while his heart treacherously quickened its pace. Minutes later, the Turian representative walked into the room, flanked by his own entourage of security personnel. Gideon took an instant dislike to him; though he was no expert on alien body language, there was no mistaking the look the Turian gave him and his two cabinet members. It was a cool and disdainful look which said he held himself as being their superior and that the humans should count themselves lucky he was gracing them with his presence. The President felt a surge of resentment bubble up in the pit of his stomach at the alien's arrogance. Nevertheless, he tempered the feeling and began the formalities.

"Welcome aboard the NSV Socrates, Delegate," he said with as much feigned courtesy as he could stand to muster. "I am President Tobias Gideon, leader of the New Earth Federation. With me are Secretary of State Sean Vilsack and Nazzadi Delegate Varma."

"I am Councilor Sparatus, human," the Turian responded, taking the seat opposite of them. Gideon was an astute enough politician to realize that he had deliberately refused to use any titles or names when addressing him, conveying that he held himself to be in the superior position. This alien was doing a good job of rankling him and, if the looks of offence were anything to judge, his cabinet members as well.

"I have come with the terms my government has agreed to present," he went on. He pulled out a datapad and proceeded to read from it.

"First Item: the Turian Hierarchy will pay the sum of ten billion credits to the Federation as reparations. If credits are not applicable, then resources equaling the amount will be given."

That was a good start, Gideon acknowledged. For a moment, he dared to allow himself the hope that this could all end peacefully. That lasted until the Turian moved onto the next term.

"Second Item: the Federation will dismantle all elements of 'arcanotechnology' and replace it with the mass effect basis as is the standard of the galaxy. The Hierarchy and the Citadel Council will oversee the process.

"Lastly, Third Item: The Federation must become an associate race of the Citadel Council. In accordance, the Federation will sign the Treaty of Farixen, promising to abide by the standards set down for the production of dreadnoughts and bring itself into compliance with Citadel law." He set down the datapad and stared pompously at the three humans. "These terms are all non-negotiable; you will either accept them or there will be no accord."

As he finished the three government officials exhibited a variety of reactions. Vilsack had a stunned expression on his face, as though he had been hit with something very heavy. Varma looked like he wanted nothing more than to leap across the table and strangle the Turian where he sat. Gideon himself dithered about whether he should feel dumbstruck or outraged. After a moment's consideration, he decided on the latter.

"How dare you," he snarled through gritted teeth. "We pursued talks in the hopes that we could come to an agreeable settlement. Instead, you present us with the arrogant demands of a conqueror."

"The Turian Hierarchy is the strong right arm of the Citadel," Sparatus proclaimed. "It is our solemn duty to see that all potential threats are eradicated. The technology you possess is very much a danger; by your own admission in the codexes, it drives you mad with prolonged use. We would be remiss in our obligations to allow such a travesty to pollute the galactic community. Moreover, you are still under the belief that magic actually exists—a ridiculous notion if there ever was one—as well as creatures from alternate dimensions. Your kind is as much a danger as your technology."

"So you don't believe that such things exist," remarked Gideon harshly. "Sometimes I wish that were true, but we lost our shield of ignorance long ago. It's hard to deny something when it's staring right at you."

"I assume you're referring to your so-called 'Aeon War,'" Sparatus said, punctuating his words with finger-quotes. "The point in your history where you fought against an alien race called the Migou and the godlike Old Ones. I could believe the former, but I fear my suspension of disbelief only goes so far. To be honest, it seems as though you concocted these Old Ones in a childish attempt to intimidate us."

It took every iota of self-control for Gideon to not order the haughty Turian and his entourage spaced. The Aeon War had been humanity's darkest hour, which saw more than five billion dead and had been won by the barest of margins. To listen to this alien so casually disparage all they had sacrificed was nothing short of unbearable.

In a glacially cold fury, Gideon stood up. "Since you have been so straightforward with us, I'll extend the same courtesy. Your terms are unacceptable; we will not destroy everything we've built, nor will we submit to your Council. Now, unless you wish to actually negotiate, then we are just wasting time. Goodbye, Councilor." He made to leave when Sparatus's voice called after him.

"Human, know this: if you walk away and we have to subdue you ourselves, you won't become an associate race of the Council. You'll become a client race of the Turian Hierarchy, with all that implies."

Gideon cast Sparatus a withering glare over his shoulder. "And now you threaten us with enslavement if we don't do your bidding. If this is how your Council conducts its affairs, then refusing to join was indeed the right choice. I've read up on your people, Turian. It's said that your discipline and resolve is second to none, but I can assure you, you've never fought anything like us. We'll soon see how strong that resolve truly is."