From orbit, Palaven was a yellow-green world toothed with tawny mountains and swirled with oceanic blue. It looked tranquil from far away, as most planets did, but anyone with keen eyes and a working knowledge of turian culture could identify the ridged grey walls of old fortresses and the big black barrels of the relatively modern defense turrets.

Joker grimaced, gnawing his lower lip. "Um, Commander? I hope you realize they're pointing those things straight at us."

"That would be a bad sign," Miranda said.

The former Cerberus operative hadn't wanted to come to the planet in the first place and so she'd been reverting to her old 'teacher's pet' persona, basking in a know-it-all smugness and poking as many holes in Shepard's plan as she could. Shepard suspected that much of this behaviour had come from Miranda's sense that she'd lost status within the mission. Between Shepard's choice of Garrus to lead the fireteams at the Collectors' base and the sudden re-appearance of Staff-Commander Alenko, Operative Lawson was finally starting to realize that she wasn't XO and that she hadn't been from the onset, no matter what the Illusive Man had promised her. For a woman as driven and ambitious as Miranda, the knowledge must have stung.

Shepard gazed out the window towards the hazy black shapes of the turrets. They were definitely aligning the Normandy in their sights. "EDI, give me a status report."

EDI materialized on the console beside Joker's elbow. "I can assure you that our defence systems are online, Shepard. Should they choose to fire on us -"

"Don't worry about it," Garrus interrupted. "They do this to all foreign ships. It's their way of waving hello."

At last, Joker received clearance to land from air traffic control and he prepared the ship for descent. "Yeah, real friendly, these turians. I'm surprised they don't attract more tourists."

Garrus shrugged. "Actually, for tourism, we do okay. Lots of Krogan Rebellions re-enactors, military buffs. And the beaches are nice, if you don't mind the radiation. A perfect holiday."

"Krogan Rebellions re-enactors? Remind me not to let Grunt off the ship," Shepard said.

The Normandy swooped down over the Quorum district of the Palaven Hills, passing rows of austere grey towers ringed with violet light. Each tower was connected to its neighbour by a glass-encased suspension bridge, creating a series of graceful white arches that undulated across the skyline.

Joker manoeuvred the ship into the docking bay, complaining to EDI about other pilots' parking through the whole procedure. When he was done, he re-adjusted his ball cap in a self-congratulatory manner, lounged back in his leather chair and folded his hands behind his head.

"Admirable work, Jeff," EDI said.

"I know, I know," he said, the traces of a smile appearing beneath his beard. "Best pilot in the galaxy. Unsung hero. I got it. Of course, none of this magic would happen without the Normandy."

If EDI possessed hands, Shepard was certain they would've given each other a high-five. Back in the old days, their constant squabbling had frayed on her nerves, but this newfound camaraderie had the potential to be a bit...creepy.

Shepard had planned to walk over to the Nexus Tower, the meeting place of the Primarchs, on her own. Instead, she ended up with a full escort, since Tali wanted to go investigate ship modifications in the market, Garrus wanted to visit his father and Kasumi...well, Shepard was pretty sure that Kasumi was going out to steal things. She'd already given her the requisite speech about respecting other people's property, particularly on foreign worlds renowned for the ruthless efficiency of their penitentiary systems. Kasumi had nodded and said that she understood, but Shepard knew that added risk only increased the thrill for her. She just hoped that her friend didn't caught, as she imagined turian laws were severe and the crew of the Normandy weren't going to be mounting another prison break any time soon.

Two humans, a quarian and a turian walk into a docking bay...it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. The customs officers and security people at the entrance to the Quorum district certainly thought so, casting dubious glances at each other as they conducted pupil scans or in Tali's case, checked her omni-tool for passport information, ship registration data and last port of call. The docking fee wasn't quite as exorbitant as Shepard had thought it'd be and nowhere near as pricey as it would've been on Ilium if Liara hadn't ponied up some creds in advance.

A member of the security detail, a grizzled old veteran who'd been giving Shepard the patented turian death-stare for nearly half an hour, examined Garrus' passport on his omni-tool. Shepard anticipated he was going to give them some trouble.

"Vakarian?" he said. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"It's not a very common name," Garrus admitted.

Actually, Shepard had been acquainted with an Armenian doctor with the same last name back at Arcturus Station, but she wasn't even going to try and bring that one up.

The guard rotated the passport image on his omni-tool. His deep voice rose a few octaves with incredulity. "Wait, you're not related to...?"

"I'm his son."

"Damn. You're Cereus Vakarian's kid," the guard said. "I – I don't suppose you could, uh, get his autograph for me?"

Garrus' voice betrayed a hint of amusement. "Yeah, I think I could manage that."

If anyone recognized Shepard, they didn't let on. She realized it was massively hypocritical, since she'd spent the last few days deploring the price of fame, bemoaning the loss of her privacy and growling at the rabid packs of reporters who pursued her, but she kind of wished somebody would give her a little adulation. You know, just a couple of breathless fans gushing about her heroic exploits on the Citadel or informing her with absolute solemnity that seeing her face on a box of Wheaties had changed their lives.

When they were safely past customs, it was almost inevitable that Tali would start to rag on Garrus.

"So, Garrus, I didn't know your father was a celebrity."

"He's not a celebrity. He's just well-respected."

"Well-respected by his fans," Tali said. "That's a celebrity. Are there action figures?"

"No! Turians don't get up to that kind of thing. We don't believe in a cult of personality. It's... undignified."

"I'm going to the markets, Vakarian," Tali warned. "And if I see an action figure, I'm buying it."

"We could put it on the dashboard of the Normandy," Shepard said. "Joker's always complaining about the lack of decoration."

Garrus sighed. "Grrrreat. Thanks, guys."

Tali waved a goodbye as she and Kasumi followed an electric sign pointing out a local tech boutique. Before they disappeared from sight, Kasumi threw them a backwards glance, smiling impishly, and switched on her tactical cloak. Shepard suspected that quite a bit of cargo would mysteriously "disappear" from the markets today. It just had better not reappear on the Normandy. She didn't want a bunch of overzealous turian officials rummaging through her ship in search of stolen goods and discovering EDI's presence in the process.

"You think Tali will give it a break or am I going to be hearing about this the entire time we're on Palaven?" Garrus asked.

"You know, as I recall, you spend a lot of time making fun of the Flotilla. Not to mention poor Tali's exo-suit."

"Oh, that's different."

"And how exactly is it different?"

"Quarian immune systems are funny."

Shepard grinned. "Seriously, all you turians are racist."

"Not true. If we discriminated against exosuit-wearing employees, we wouldn't keep the volus around."

Quorum District had indoor temperature-controls so the heat wasn't too stifling, just a low simmer that Shepard would have compared to strolling around in a mild sauna. Peering out the windows, however, she caught the merciless glare of a desert sun, scorching white sand and spiky green plants that looked like the bastard offspring of a cactus' illicit love affair with a palm tree. From what she could tell, Palaven was definitely a tropical climate – not so hot that it would burn off the soles of your feet like the surface of Therum - but definitely toasty enough to rival Africa or South America back on Earth, post-global warming. Garrus had mentioned once that it reminded him of Virmire, which wasn't entirely inaccurate in terms of climate, although Virmire had been much more picturesque.

As they walked towards the white spire of the Nexus Tower, a patrol of young turian soldiers filed past, maintaining perfect ranks. Shepard scanned the group for that most elusive of creatures, the female turian. She was dying to see what they looked like, partially out of curiosity and partially because, well, she wanted to scope out the competition. She was disappointed to note that all the turians looked virtually indistinguishable from each other.

"Garrus, this is probably going to sound like a very stupid question..."

"What is it?"

"I've been wondering: where are all the female turians? Do you guys hide them away somewhere, like the krogan? I've been halfway around the galaxy and I don't think I've ever actually seen one."

Garrus coughed. "Um, yes, you have, Shepard. More than once."

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. "Oh. Uh, sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me. But you might want to say sorry to the unit of female recruits that just marched past you."

"Damn. I hope they didn't hear me."

"Don't worry about it. I doubt they heard anything. Just try not to say anything like that in front of the Primarchs, okay? That would not be good diplomacy."

Shepard nodded. "Noted."

She glanced back at the patrol, trying to discern some key physical markers. They did seem a trifle shorter than male turians, their hips were slightly curvier and their eyes were generally a bit larger, darker and more widely-set. Hopefully, they didn't speak with the same reverberant, baritone voices that distinguished the males of their species, because Shepard would have a hell of a time getting used to that. In any case, she'd have to talk to Mordin about the biological differences later. He'd be happy to give her all the lurid details – probably much more information than she ever wanted to know.

They approached the glass doors of the Nexus Tower, the most formidable building in the district. The structure was wide at the bottom, curving up into a pure white obelisk tipped in gleaming gold. According to Garrus, the place had twenty-seven floors to represent the twenty-seven tiers of turian citizenship.

In the building's lobby, there was a massive pyre lit with a roiling blue flame. There were a few turians crouched on mats, offering prayers in front of it.

"What's that all about?" Shepard whispered.

"That's the Millennial Flame. It's a monument to the Spirit of Civic Virtue," Garrus said. Lowering his voice, he added, "Some people call it the Spirit of Lost Causes. Mostly client races who get their citizenship denied."

"You know, the closer I get to the Primarchs, the more I realize how far I'm swimming out of my depth," Shepard said. "I guess I should have done more research."

"Research can definitely be useful, but there's nothing like plunging right in, getting some hands-on experience."

She couldn't stop herself from cracking up at that one. "Plunging right in, huh? Getting hands-on experience? Now I know why a certain someone didn't watch the instructional vids..."

It took Garrus a moment to catch up. "Oh, uh...damn it, Shepard! I didn't mean it like that." He shook his head, giving a benighted sigh. "I never realized you were so dirty-minded."

"Don't blame me, Vakarian. You walked into that one all on your own."

"Hey, look, I don't know how long your meeting is going to go, but I was wondering if you might be interested in stopping by my father's place later. For dinner," he said. "I mean, you couldn't actually eat the food - that would be dangerous - but we could all sit at the same table and..."

"Is your dad going to be okay with that?"

"He said he wanted to know what's going with my life. Besides, I could, um, use some moral support."

She smiled. "That bad, huh?"

"He's just..." He paused, searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase. "...Very invested in my future."

"Garrus, if you want me there, I'm there."

"Great. I'll send the directions to your omni-tool."

"So, any advice before I face the firing squad?"

"Just relax, Shepard. You're human, but you're military through and through. They'll respect that. The rest is just a matter of luck and avoiding the snack table."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Good luck up there."

As Garrus walked away, Shepard had a feeling she might be wise to kneel down on a prayer rug and start petitioning the Spirit of Lost Causes.


In her time as a Spectre, Shepard had experience many uncomfortable elevator rides. After all, putting a krogan and turian together in an enclosed space with piped-in music wasn't exactly a recipe for friendly conversation. Yet, she'd never truly understood the meaning of awkward elevator time until she squeezed into a Nexus Tower lift with a crowd of cagey turian bureaucrats - and one wheezing volus, who bumbled around, bumping into everyone's legs as he struggled to carry a stack of financial reports. Luckily, by the time she reached the 27th floor, the elevator had cleared out and she could suck in a few deep breaths before it was time to meet the Primarchs.

Two guards and some sort of civic official greeted her at the elevator and checked her credentials.

"Commander Jillian Shepard. Presentation on 'The Reaper Threat to Galactic Security'," the official said, barely bothering to look up from his clipboard. "I should inform you that we've had to revise the schedule. Your presentation time has been reduced to fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes? I was told I'd have thirty."

"Yes, well, priorities change. Some of the Primarchs will be leaving early today."

"Leaving early? May I inquire what they're doing?"

"Attending a luncheon."

"A luncheon? Has it occurred to the honourable Primarchs that stopping the Reapers before they take over the galaxy might just be a little more important than eating miniature sandwiches?"

"I'm not sure precisely what these 'Reapers' are, but fifteen minutes should be a sufficient amount of time to explain their significance. Or lack thereof," he replied. "Are you planning on presenting an omni-tool slideshow?"

"No. Look, I don't suppose there's anything I could say to convince you to revise the schedule?" she asked.

The turian frowned. "I hope you aren't suggesting a bribe, Commander."

"Of course not. What I was suggesting is that you might give an extra ten minutes to the soldier who stopped Saren and saved the Council. As a favour. One that I might have the opportunity to repay one of these days."

The official pondered this, narrowing his yellow-green eyes. "You're the Spectre? I thought that name sounded familiar. But I thought you were dead."

"The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated."

"Alright, in that case...I think a slight time extension might be possible. I'll squeeze out the presentation from the Volus Anti-Defamation Society. That should give you an extra fifteen minutes to make your case."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Shepard strolled past him and through the double doors that led into the Primacy Chamber. There was one word that immediately sprang to mind upon entering the conference room...

"Impressive," she murmured.

The twelve Primarchs and their guest of honour, Councillor Velarn, sat in a semi-circle around a pristine marble table, their military posture rendered even more imposing by massive mahogany chairs. Seating herself on one of the marble benches provided for petitioners, Shepard gazed up at a high-vaulted ceiling featuring a galactic map, with each of the recognized turian colonies adorned in gold-leaf and the planets of client races marked in silver.

A few more attendees filed in, all of them turians and none of them particularly friendly-looking. She'd been hoping for a few volus, perhaps even the odd asari or salarian. Sitting alone on her bench, Shepard was starting to feel a bit outnumbered.

As the meeting began, it became obvious that the Primarch of Invictus was the most influential member of the Primacy Council and the one she would need to convince. She – and from the moment she spoke, Shepard was entirely persuaded that she was a "she" – asked most of the questions and even challenged Councillor Velarn on a few points without finding herself on the receiving end of his usual sarcastic bluster. By contrast, the elderly Primarch of Palaven, who the Alliance intel had posited to be a major political player, seemed tired and weak, relegating himself to the role of peacekeeper between other, more impassioned council members. An hour into the proceedings, he invited Shepard to present her case for mobilization against the Reaper threat.

Shepard rose to her feet. "I am honoured that the Primacy Council has allowed me to speak at this meeting. The Reapers are the most pressing danger that exists in this galaxy and they don't discriminate on the basis of species, creed or culture. They plan to destroy all of us. If we're going to stop them from annihilating every sentient being in existence, we must stand together. It's in this spirit of unity that I come to you today, asking for the assistance of the Turian Hierarchy."

She paused, assessing the faces of the Primarchs. One quick glance at Councillor Velarn was enough to tell her everything she needed to know about his attitude. He was fuming at her impertinence. After all, her crazy ranting about the so-called "Reapers" was going to delay his luncheon.

"Commander Shepard, how pleasant to see you," Velarn said, in a voice that implied that he'd rather see the Rachni Queen and an army of angry krogan. "I didn't realize that you'd have occasion to visit Palaven. In fact, I was under the impression that you'd be fully occupied on the Citadel, trying to mitigate the consequences of your latest scandal."

"I'm a Spectre, Councillor. If I wasn't making waves, I wouldn't be doing my job."

"I don't think it's a Spectre's job to be a beacon for bad publicity."

"Yes, but a good Spectre doesn't let political games stand in the way of ensuring galactic security," she replied. "As you'll recall, I didn't exactly have the establishment on my side when I flew to Ilos to save the Citadel. That was one victory against the Reapers. I'm here today, because I believe that, with your support, we can eliminate the Reaper threat and stop the cycle of destruction that led to the extinction of the Protheans and countless species before them."

"I do recall your renegade mission to Ilos, Commander. We are grateful that you were able to stop Saren's invasion of the Citadel," Velarn said. "Yet I also recall you presenting this particular issue to the Council several months ago. And as I remember it, we ruled that there was insufficient evidence to support your crackpot theories about the race of malevolent sentient ships you call 'Reapers'. Surely the Primacy has enough business to deal with without having to vote on matters that have already been dealt with by the Council?"

The Primarch of Invictus cast a sideways glance at her superior, her silver-streaked face inscrutable. "I appreciate your concern for the Primacy's time, Councillor. However, considering Commander Shepard's service record, I believe we would be remiss not to grant her a fair hearing."

"Her behaviour is certainly unorthodox," the Primarch of Palaven said. "Perhaps, Velarn, we can give the Commander an opportunity to explain herself?"

"Oh, what does it matter?" Velarn muttered. "Go ahead and listen to her delusions if you want. Just don't forget that the Council rules."

And so Shepard told them the story of the Protheans, a narrative cut short by the invasion of the Reapers. She explained the nature of Sovereign, his power and his pride, and even the more terrifying forces at Harbinger's command. Making use of her omni-tool, she produced all the evidence, all the ammunition she could muster to further her cause: the matching DNA strands that confirmed the Collectors had been Protheans, the sample analysis Mordin had conducted on all relevant biological materials, the data Tali and Legion had collected from synthetic sources.

She noted that while the geth were inventive and adaptive users of tech, they couldn't possibly have had the resources to build a ship like Sovereign or to control a species of mindless drones like the Collectors. There had to be a puppet-master pulling the strings, a power behind the mass relays, the FTL drives and the wonder of the Citadel. Whereas they once had assumed that this force was benign, the magnanimous gifts of a lost civilization, it was time to come to consider the possibility that this technology was not a glorious inheritance, but a trap devised to capture and kill unknowing prey.

"Will we resign ourselves to being the Reapers' victims? Will we let the cycle continue?" Shepard said. "I, for one, will not sit cowering in the Citadel while the Reapers destroy everyone and everything in this galaxy. I will fight until they take the last breath from my body. And if all the legends I've heard about unbreakable turian honour are true, then the Hierarchy will stand up and fight with me. If we stand together, we can achieve what no other civilization, not even the Protheans, has done before. We can defeat the Reapers."

Throughout most of her speech, her voice was loud and impassioned, even, at moments, a bit strident, as she sought to press her case. Yet, near the end, her tone became softer and her voice faltered, not from lack of confidence, but from an excess of strain and emotion. She had poured everything out and it took effort to reach the end.

The Primacy Chamber held a resonant silence, one that drummed against her ears. She looked around the room, hoping to find supporters, but no one would meet her eyes, not until after the Primarchs gave their ruling. Shepard awaited an answer.