Happy 2006 greetings to everyone and thanks to all my readers for hanging in there for so long! A special thanks to those who took the time to let me know what they thought of the end of the chapter 'A Veil, Parted', in which Grievous regained his memories. This was a scene that I'd actually had in mind for months, almost from the time I first started this story, and I was quite anxious about being able to write it well enough to do the visuals in my head justice. It was supposed to be highly dramatic and I gather that came across, so I'm happy, whew! Never thought it'd require fourteen long chapters before I could work the darn scene in, but—whatever it takes, eh?

A lot more of Grievous's Kaleesh background and personal history will start to show up in this story from now on and most of it's going to be stuff that I'll be extrapolating from a single source, Grievous's graphic novel-styled 'origin' story 'The Eyes Of Revolution' by Warren Fu. I'm aware of all the other official source material on the character that's out there and will cheerfully keep looking it over as more becomes available, but doubt I'll be using much of it—I for sure won't be using his 'real' name! So, if the Grievous you're reading about here is an interpretation you wind up hating as things progress, don't ever blame anyone but me (and maybe Warren Fu). The rest of Grievous's official creative team gets a pass.

THE ESSENCES OF LIFE

Chapter 16 – Feelers

Lissa Veleroko might have needed rest and plenty of it in order to recover from her misadventures on Quispamsis, but General Grievous, though no less wounded, did not. By the time she decided to visit the Invisible Hand's infirmary, Grievous had long since already finished seeing to any residual official business that couldn't be put off and had ensconced himself in his quarters high up in his flagship's lofty conning tower. He needed a lengthy spell of brooding to finish coming to terms with all that his physician had just revealed to him. And the first thing he wanted to do was look at himself long and carefully, his mind free and fully aware at last to evaluate what he'd physically become.

He had the perfect place in which to do it. His real quarters, the luxurious private suite sited at the back of his ship's observation pod, had been designed for Neimoidian tastes and that meant it contained a wastefully spacious dressing room equipped with a full-length mirror alcove in which the suite's occupant could vainly admire himself from all angles before strutting forth. Grievous had only ever used the room as storage for several spare campaign cloaks and his ivory-coloured cape, his version of a dress uniform. Now, for the first time, he went into it all the way to its end and turned on the alcove's lighting. What he saw illuminated in the mirrors soon made him groan.

If only his body weren't so obviously mechanical! It would have been easier for others to see him as simply a Kaleesh warrior clad in elaborate armour if he'd been constructed with more material bulk through his upper limbs and waist. But this gaunt, stripped-down frame! It was no wonder that people mistook him for a droid. He leaned closer to the reflection directly before him, studying his facial plate, the ritual lines engraved into it above his eyes, the jagged tooth-like flourishes on either side of his vocabulator. There were more ritual marks etched elsewhere on his armour, beneath his metal throat and on his chest, even on his pelvic plates, and he had several clear memories of himself hovering behind a pair of Geonosian engineers, watching as they machine-burned the lines into the detached plates and looking angry and impatient all the while because they were taking so long. What had he been thinking to insist on such a thing, to cling to his heritage so fiercely? Grievous had no idea. He couldn't remember anything of what he'd been thinking back then.

Could his family accept his altered appearance? Would they? He thought they would. His household back on Kalee was comparatively wealthy. They had their own Holonet feed. His wives and children would have seen him on the news, would have had time to become adjusted to his looks by now…yes, the boys especially might even be quite taken by this sleek new body of his that had been so well designed to function as a lethal weapon. And he still had his eyes, enhanced within, but still recognizably his own on the outside, and his good semblance of his former voice. It was all he really needed to communicate. He had no concerns about his ability to control his enormous strength, nor was he worried about what anyone would think of his actions. His wives were all smart. They'd see right through any Republic propaganda and attempts to vilify him, and his people were, in any case, a lot sturdier and more pragmatic about the necessity for harsh, decisive measures in times of war than were most of the simpering species he'd come to know. They'd understand his eagerness to fight.

He was much less confident about the matter of his dicey disposition. He wouldn't be welcomed if he couldn't control his temper. Such things went to the very heart of his society. Unstable females were already insufferable enough, but everyone on Kalee hated a bad-tempered male. They were considered no less than a public menace—aggravating to other males, dangerous to women and children alike, and a total disgrace to themselves and their bloodline. Most were weeded out early on when they stupidly challenged an equally aggressive, stronger adolescent who'd kill them when they refused to knuckle under. Those that did survive to adulthood would be so unfavourably viewed and avoided that they'd eventually leave and take up the life of a wanderer, roaming the wilds and the outskirts of civilization until providence or a predator or their own vicious natures finally did them in. On rare occasions, one of them would return with the meanness finally burnt out of him by years of solitude and deprivation, but even then no female would ever breed with them. They usually lived out the remainder of their lives as quiet bachelors and died without issue, sometimes taking in a low-status widow who'd had no family to turn to in later life. Grievous couldn't bear the thought of returning home and being shunned by his own people. Just the possibility of it filled him with cold dread and anxiety.

He jerked himself away from the mirror and stalked out of his quarters and out onto his observation deck. Fragmented thoughts and snatches of ideas whirled though his mind as he walked. He wondered what his family was doing at just that moment. Did they think, after his long silence, that he'd abandoned them? Assume that he was working under tight security restrictions that prohibited personal communications? Grievous remembered agreeing to his surgery while floating half-dead in the bacta tank on Geonosis and regretting that there'd been no time to consult with anyone at home, and then…nothing, no indication at all in his memories of trying to contact anyone on Kalee ever again. He probably hadn't even thought about his family until now. It was shameful…

The entrance to Grievous's private suite came by again and he strode on for his second spin around the raised walkway. He could pace like this for hours, never feeling the slightest fatigue, accompanied only by the stars and the ships of his fleet all around him. He again contemplated the problem of his abnormal temper. His physician would fix that. He'd make her take out the remaining nodules after the war was over and then he'd be all right again—he had to be. A good thing the woman was so soft and naïve. Instead of trying to help him, she could have killed him so easily, just a slip of that laser she used and he'd be gone. Or she could have nicked a blood vessel and just closed him up again to slowly bleed out and drop dead a day or two later—he'd seen it happen to soldiers in the field, suffer a bad blow to the head and seem to recover, then suddenly die. The more Grievous thought about what Lissa could have done to him, the more agitated he got. He'd been so sure he'd had her completely cowed and under control—she was still afraid of him, true, but obviously not enough! What to do…lean on her harder? appeal to her altruistic inclinations? What irked him most in retrospect was how readily she'd deceived him. He thought he'd gotten quite good at reading humans, yet the blasted woman had turned out to be more inscrutable than Dooku!

Well, there was nothing he could do about her for now. He had more pressing concerns, establishing the status of his planet and his own family for one. Abruptly, he halted, oriented himself using his fleet's course, then stepped to the closest viewport panel and stared out into space, gaze fixed in one particular direction. Somewhere along that bearing, an impossibly long distance away, lay his homeworld. Intense longing flooded through him. He was seized with the sudden desire to rush back into his quarters and use his own communications gear to simply call up his family or one of his relatives or trusted friends to find out what was going on back home, but equally strong was his suspicion that any such attempt would be detected, logged, and secretly relayed—a backup warning to those who'd tampered with his memories in case his brain alterations began to fail. There was just no reason for him to be contacting anyone on the planet or even inquiring about anything to do with Kalee, unless it were personal. Grievous was certain that he wasn't meant to be having personal thoughts of any sort unless they had to do with killing Jedi and warfare.

He started pacing again, feeling deeply embittered and frustrated by his wretched situation. The Intergalactic Banking Clan and the Separatists as a whole were supposed to be helping his people finish getting over their devastating famine and back on their feet and able to independently care for themselves again as part of the agreement he'd made with the fledgling Confederacy in exchange for his restoration and his services. If he could somehow find out whether they were even still honouring that agreement and discovered that they weren't, he swore he would turn the might of his droid armies against the Sith Lords themselves, no matter what the cost to himself. But if all was still all right, if his people and family were safe…well, that wasn't a pleasant thing to contemplate either…he'd still be beholden to his masters, would still have to fight for them despite knowing how badly they'd betrayed him. Or had both of them known? His conviction that Count Dooku had been involved from the start was still strong, but what about Sidious? Had the orders to tamper with Grievous's mind come down from the very top or had it all been Dooku's doing, a little personal project undertaken to create the ideal Supreme Commander and which the Count had used to ingratiate himself? More vexing questions and all of them maddeningly unanswerable and likely to remain so, unless Grievous stopped valuing his very existence. It was enough to drive one to pace all day and night!

The only bright light on his dark horizon was that his fleet was en route to Nees'n'ublay for another major supply run and some minor refitting. He ought to be able to find out at Nee'port's moon base operations whether the fighting closest to Kalee had expanded to include the space about his homeworld. That would be something, at least, and his wanting an overview of the entire war theatre wouldn't seem out of place. Yet even if he found that Kalee was under attack or occupied, what could he do? He wasn't supposed to care!

Grievous suddenly stiffened and his steps grew stilted. A possible solution had occurred to him. A moment later, he spun about and headed back to his suite. He had a long overdue and carefully worded message he needed to compose…

Two days later, late in the evening of the day before the fleet was due to dock at Nee'port, Lissa Veleroko had a visitor, a battle droid that had been sent over to the tender to fetch her and escort her into Grievous's presence. She changed hurriedly back into her uniform workdress, feeling quite apprehensive, listening all the while to Gregory's non-stop muttering about the General's incredible rudeness. The fact that Grievous had sent a droid instead of just a message didn't seem to bode well for her. What did he expect, that she'd bolt on him?

Finding herself ferried right up to the General's quarters further demoralized her. Grievous was waiting for Lissa on the walkway, close to the elevator entrance. He dismissed the escorting droid before he would speak to her.

"Ah, Miss Veleroko. Come with me."

He led her into his private quarters. Lissa followed cautiously, gaze darting from side to side. So this was where Grievous actually lived! Alien-designed or not, she easily recognized the usual appointments typical of luxury ship-board accommodations—an expansive living room, an attached open kitchen and dining area, a space for working, entrances into what were no doubt a huge bedroom and washing and dressing facilities. Almost all of what she could see appeared virtually untouched. If it hadn't been for a collection of personalized equipment that'd obviously been recently installed in the work space, it would have been hard to know whether anyone was even occupying the suite.

Grievous was in neutral mode, standing upright with his legs straightened out more than usual beneath him and wearing his impassive face. Lissa relaxed a little. From the look of him, she was sure he just wanted to talk some more, finally, about what had been done to him, and talk was always good. But instead of conversation, what he wanted to say to her amounted to a set of orders.

"The fleet will be docking at Nees'n'ublay tomorrow," he said. "Will you be going down to the planet during our time in port?"

"Yes, I expect so, General," Lissa replied, mystified.

"Good." He held out a comm chip. "Take this and send the message it contains from a public-access computer station. It's already addressed and formatted and you'll need a unit that's either Tempest- or Niwack Network-connected to get it through. I also want you to create a temporary account. Attach that address before you send the message. If you get a reply…" Here, he suddenly faltered for no reason Lissa could perceive. "If you get a reply, it will come quickly, within a day. You'll need to access your account at least once more before we leave Nee'port to check for that."

Lissa had taken the chip and turned the small crystal disc over several times in her hand. "Who's the message for?" she asked.

"That is none of your business. All you need to know is that you must do this as discretely as possible."

The woman looked up at Grievous, a little sadly. "I'm sorry, sir, but if you want to involve me in some secret scheme of revenge, then I think I deserve to know at least the gist of what's going on." She held the chip back out to him. "If you don't want to tell me anything, you'd better send a droid instead. You can always memory-wipe him afterwards if discretion's important to you."

As she expected, her words and action instantly ignited Grievous's rage. She knew by now that nothing infuriated him more than a refusal to yield to his domination, but after having just dug her way out of one massive steaming pile, she was not about to let anyone knock her headfirst into another without knowing something of what lay in its depths. The cyborg reared up and stepped closer, ignoring the proffered chip, towering above her. "You're disobeying me?" he rasped, breathing hard.

"Not disobeying, exactly. I just—I need to know more about what you want me to do. For all I know, this chip might contain a declaration of war against—against—well, I don't know against whom, but it could! I want to help you, sir, it's just…you've got to give me more," she pleaded.

Grievous wavered. She could see him struggling, trying to contain himself, the civil man within battling with his impulse to lash out. He sharply turned his face aside with a strangled grunt, almost as though snapping an invisible tether, then said, "The message is for a colleague on Kalee. I can't use the usual channels. My communications are being monitored."

"Oh, I…see."

"I haven't spoken with anyone at home since before my accident," Grievous added.

Slow embarrassment and guilt crept through Lissa. She'd assumed the worst of Grievous and hadn't even considered that concern for a family left behind might have awoken along with his memories—stupid of her, really. The poor man was probably half-sick with worry. She also instantly grasped his dilemma and now that she understood, her attitude did an about-turn.

"I'm sorry, sir. In that case, of course I'll send the message," Lissa assured him. "I think I already know a good place to do it, too. I did a little research at an off-base library down on the planet the last time we visited. I'm pretty sure their computers all had Tempest access."

The cyborg's relief over the woman's sudden turnaround washed away most of his remaining anger. He settled back down again, although he persisted in hovering intimidatingly close to her. "Try to avoid identifying yourself as much as possible when you create your account," he told her. "If you must, list Nagas as your employer and use the tender as your residence—it still has a civilian registry. This mustn't be traceable back to me. I do not think that anyone but Dooku would connect your name with mine, even if it were noted, but it is better to be cautious."

"Don't worry, General. I know a few tricks when it comes to covering my tracks. How many days are we scheduled to stay in port?"

"Six. If the work on the vessels is finished early—five."

"More than enough for me, sir. I'm sure I'll be able to get that message out and check back for a reply without any trouble."

"I am relying on your confidence," Grievous said, rather glumly, and dismissed her. He watched her walk off with his message in hand. It was a bad moment for him. He didn't trust Lissa and wanted to recall her, snatch the chip back, and take his chances alone or send a droid. But that would be beyond foolish. No droid even understood the meaning of discretion, and as for himself, it wasn't as though he could throw on a different cloak and a head cloth and expect to walk about incognito.

Grievous turned away from his troubles with a hollow sigh, resigned himself, and went into his work space. Like most Kaleesh, he was a fatalist and recognized that this was one of those times when he'd just have to trust in fate, if not the woman herself, to resolve his problem. In the meantime, he had plenty of work to do, looking over and approving a massive backlog of work order requests, for one. The officers on those ships crewed by Neimoidians sometimes tried to slip by a few improvements that were only geared towards making their own lives a little cosier rather than adding to the battle-worthiness of their vessels. Grievous always took particular pleasure in ferreting out such bogus proposals and quashing them.

His fleet docked the next afternoon in Nee'port's military yard without incident. Grievous had no meetings scheduled this time aside from those relating to logistics and repair, and was otherwise free to do as he pleased. He didn't run into any nasty surprises when he shuttled down to the moon base and was soon able to get the information he wanted in the operations center and determine that Kalee was still classed as a friendly neutral planet and uninvolved in the war. Their one-time enemies, the Huk, had undergone a change, though—their status as hostiles had been upped a level. They'd probably gone whining to the Republic for protection again or mouthed off about their powerful friends to the wrong people, Grievous thought. It'd serve them right if they got attacked. He'd feel considerable smug pleasure if that happened.

Upgraded versions of many of Grievous's favourite weapons were starting to appear. Among the most interesting of the ones delivered to him was a new type of flying rearmament droid specifically designed to deliver fresh payloads to hailfire droids in the field. It compensated well for the hailfire's one great drawback, its limited supply of missiles. A dozen new AGDs equipped with greater firepower and a full gross of improved Vulture droids, faster and more independently-thinking, were also turned over to him. The most insidious new weapons Grievous received were supplies of several experimental biologicals, one intended for use against a broad spectrum of humanoids, the others more species-specific. The bioweapons went straight over to one of his purely mechanized ships, to be handled by droids alone, of course. Limited though his own organics were, there was still enough of Grievous's former self left to make him as susceptible to the biologicals' lethal effects as any other living being.

Grievous loved fine weaponry as much as he always had and the opportunity to employ all these new instruments of war excited and enthused him. He was constantly on the move, to look over the ordnance being delivered, to inspect the upgrades being installed, to check on the progress of the repairs and speak with the techs and engineers involved. When the Invisible Hand's sister ship, Lucid Voice, pulled in and docked three days into the General's stay, he even swallowed his distaste and went over to talk with the Neimoidian captain in order to better get to know the man should they ever have to collaborate closely in the future. Wherever Grievous went, a pair or two of his MagnaGuards went with him. He'd discovered that taking the fearsome combat droids along was a great deterrent against obnoxious efforts to socialize with him.

Midway through day four, Grievous learned that Count Dooku was passing by with his private fleet and was scheduled to dock for refuelling late that afternoon. The cyborg's feelings upon receiving this news were ambivalent. He would have preferred to not see the Count in person at all until he'd had more time to adjust himself to his new reality, yet he was also eager to seize an opportunity to discuss new battle strategies with his superior and have his tentative plans approved. Grievous wound up carrying on with his own business, leaving it up to Dooku to seek him out, if he wished. As it turned out, the Count came looking for his Supreme Commander quite soon after arriving.

He waylaid Grievous aboard one of his Commerce Guild destroyers, in the midst of being briefed by the Gossam captain. Just the sight of Dooku provoked in Grievous a surge of hatred so powerful and unexpected that he couldn't help but bristle up for a few seconds before regaining control of himself. The Gossam captain floundered a bit too, goggling at the much acclaimed human man and then returning her full attention to the cyborg General who frightened her even more. She scuttled off as soon as she was done talking and Grievous dismissed her, even though they were standing on her own bridge.

Dooku came forward and nodded a polite greeting. "General. The refit goes well, I presume."

"Count. Yes."

The Sith Lord raised one eyebrow. Even for Grievous, that response had been uncommonly brusque, and Dooku didn't care for the flash of malicious anger he'd sensed in him either. Too long away from battle, no doubt. He'd seen it before in other low barbaric types he'd recruited. If their bloodthirsty savagery wasn't given a regular outlet, they'd soon revert to behaving like the vicious animals they really were.

"No problems? You're satisfied with the new vessels?" Dooku inquired further.

"Everything is fine," Grievous replied irritably. "Estimated completion of all repairs and upgrades, seventeen hundred tomorrow."

"A day early."

That part didn't surprise Dooku in the slightest. His gaze flicked over the two MagnaGuards standing to either side of the bridge entrance. If Grievous had been spending all his time lurking about on one ship or another, hovering around the job sites and dragging those expensive elite droids with him everywhere he went, the bigger wonder would be if people hadn't been rushing through their work to get away from him.

"I see that Lucid Voice is also in," the Count went on, his smooth deep voice unruffled. "Have you considered paying your respects to her captain?"

"I visited already."

Grievous's head jacked up as he said this, and for the first time since Dooku had entered the bridge, he found that he could look at the man without undue rancour. He was slipping back into the established routines of how they related to one another, subordinate and superior, student and master, and Grievous found, to his surprise, that it came quite easily to him. It would have been more difficult had they shared the slightest cameraderie. The cyborg's initial resentment would have seemed more unusual then, his brief fit of anger a warning to the Count that something had changed and was not right between them. But Dooku had always expected anger and resentment, had encouraged it even, and it began to dawn on Grievous that it had to do less with any innate cruelty in the man than it did with a terrible weakness—powerful Sith or not, Dooku needed the constant reassurance of being in charge, needed to be above others and able to control them to himself feel confident and whole. Grievous tucked this revelation back into the recesses of his mind for later study. He'd never thought of Dooku as being weak before, yet there it was, as plain as could be, now that Grievous had regained his ability to think on a more subtle level.

Since the subject of the Lucid Voice had been brought up, Grievous leapt at the chance to tell Dooku about a scheme he and the other carrier's captain had discussed, that of possibly swapping Mid Rim patrols on occasion in order to confound Republic spies. He expounded on other ideas he had in mind and the Count proved open to them all as the remainder of the afternoon wore on—when it came to professional matters, the human was always willing to listen and would become almost respectful towards him, Grievous thought. It was a sham, though. Dooku only wanted his military expertise. Grievous wondered at himself that he'd never before seen how thoroughly the Count truly disliked him.

The General's proposals pleased Dooku, and when he excused himself to attend to dinner, he told Grievous that he was granting his crew several hours of leave afterwards and that he wanted the cyborg to report aboard his private galleon for a lightsaber session that evening. Grievous received the request and the change it made to his own plans without disgruntlement. Even if it came with some abuse attached, he never failed to learn something whenever he trained with the crafty old Sith Lord.

What Dooku wanted to teach him on this day was how to better protect himself against the use of the Force. The Jedi now considered Grievous a very dangerous foe, the Count informed his student. Lord Sidious, working undercover on Coruscant, had learned from foolish Jedi whose trust he'd cultivated that the Council had begun advising members of its Order to avoid close combat with Grievous and to try using their Force-abilities to overcome him instead. Grievous would have to become more aggressive than ever, surprise and intimidate his opponents and force his fights with them to a swift conclusion whenever possible. The General perked up upon hearing this. He knew of no better way to intimidate than to use all four of his arms at once—was the Count about to allow him to spar with multiple weapons again at last?

No. This lesson was about defence. Dooku told Grievous to prepare himself and then went on the offensive, using his full arsenal of Force-powers against the cyborg from the start. It went badly for Grievous at once. Needing to keep one magnetized foot or hand firmly anchored hampered him and made it very difficult for him to employ his usual graceful, acrobatic moves to counter the Count's attacks. Dooku soon overwhelmed him and Grievous was forced to leap away to avoid being skewered. The instant he relinquished his grip on the deck, Dooku nailed him, sending him crashing against the nearest wall of the cargo bay. Grievous went down hard, sprawling. He was too sturdily built for the rough treatment to damage him, but his pride was hurt.

"Again," Dooku ordered, lips pressed into a taut, thin line.

Grievous fought back more aggressively this time, trying to keep his master at bay without needing to move too much. Dooku's Force-manipulations were far more subtly executed than those of other Jedi he'd encountered. Usually, Grievous could tell when a Jedi was about to try and attack him with the Force. It required so much concentration that they'd have to stop fighting with their lightsaber, just for a second, which was all the time Grievous normally needed to ready himself. But Dooku didn't give him that second. He could follow up a thrust or a slash with an immediate Force-push strong enough to send Grievous flying. The General was soon caught again, in just the same way, forced into a too-hasty retreat because he couldn't utilize his speed and agility to properly defend himself and smashed down onto the deck when he jumped and lost purchase. He hopped back up afterwards faster than before. Grievous was starting to get mad, with himself more than anything.

He entered into the third match with his intellect more fully engaged. Since he couldn't make full use of his usual prowess, he'd have to devise something new, try and outthink his opponent. Grievous already had a natural propensity to gait, to walk swiftly over the ground in double-quick time in lieu of a trot whenever he wanted to travel fast. He sank down slightly on his haunches, shifting his point of balance downward, and began replacing his evasive leaps and springs from foot to foot with quick little step sequences. It kept him in constant contact with the deck and the coordination required to smoothen out his action, to constantly lock and unlock his feet as he shifted them rapidly about, was not as difficult as he expected. Instead of dancing lightly above the floor, half in the air, he began gliding across it, his movements now more sinuous and winding and fluid than ever. It worked—to a point. It took Dooku twice as long this time before he could break Grievous out of his gait and then, wham! down the cyborg went again, in an ungainly clatter of mechanical limbs.

"Better," Dooku conceded.

They fought on, with Grievous refining his new style all the while, able to up his speed as the computerized implants slaved to his mind processed, analyzed, and finally adjusted their own programming to assist him, heuristically learning as Grievous learned. And now he saw something else, that even though Dooku could integrate his Force-attacks much more skilfully than could most Jedi, he was still incapable of wielding a lightsaber and the Force itself at the exact same time. He needed the Force to guide his swordsmanship, Grievous realized—another revelation! A way of overcoming his master's one great advantage suddenly opened up for him.

Grievous lost his focus and Dooku won again, not by hurling him away, but simply by out-duelling him. The cyborg conceded and listened to the Count's rather stinging critique afterwards in sullen silence. They set up once more and Grievous waited obediently for Dooku's signal, gathering himself, chafing a little in his eagerness to continue.

It all came together for him this time. Dooku could still force him to retreat, but Grievous no longer stubbornly fought back until the last possible instant—if he had to, he jumped in anticipation while the Count was still swinging at him, to gain that one extra vital second to secure himself. The Sith Lord almost succeeded in knocking him over several times even so. Grievous would feel the Force push at him like the gust off a screaming gale, invisible yet packing power enough to send his body skittering back around his own fastened foot or make him lean forward, into the flow, then he'd have to recoup fast, gliding back out of reach before the Count could himself jump forward and catch him. It wasn't the way Grievous liked to fight, all backing up and defence, yet he was still fighting. And the longer the duello went on without Dooku's being able to score an outright victory or Force-slam his student down, the better for Grievous. Count Dooku might have been very powerful and immensely talented and experienced, but he was still a man, an old man at that. There had to come a time when even the rejuvenating and reenergizing benefits of communing with the Force would fail him.

The two clashed in yet another violent exchange of blows, and for the first time all evening, Grievous managed to make Dooku take a backward step of his own before he had to yield to the human's superior skill and slide away. It piqued the Count's own immense pride and he came after Grievous with greater intensity. More whirling blows, the lightsabers briefly matching one another, thrust for parry, then the cyborg glided out of reach to regroup again. It had turned into a stalemate. Grievous had learned his lesson and had become too wary, and Dooku, tiring at last, could no longer catch and engage him long enough to defeat him.

It was incredible, it was infuriating, it was not to be borne. A true teacher would have taken joy in Grievous's swift solution and his ability to hold his own. Dooku was a Sith Lord first, and could not tolerate the thought of anyone but his own master, Lord Sidious, bettering him. Again he went after Grievous, but it was different this time—it was becoming a real fight, with Dooku determined to enforce his will on the insolent metal brute and put him in his place. Grievous's temper was also rising. He was angry because of what he knew the Count had done to him, angry about what he was doing to him, angry about everything. He met Dooku's assault with a vicious attack of his own and the two revolved about each other in furious tandem, their weapons blurring, sparks and static showering whenever the bright energy blades clashed momentarily together.

There! The human had misstepped! Never had they duelled together for so long. It was taking its toll—Dooku was weary, his lightsaber sagging! Grievous pressed forward eagerly. If only he could drain him a little bit—

An agonizing jolt of pure energy surged through the cyborg. He was instantly flung off his feet, every system in his body disrupted, every intricate synthetic part of him briefly dead and useless. Dooku had used Force-lightning on him at point-blank range and Grievous had never seen it coming.

He lay gasping and helpless, though still aware, as Count Dooku came up to him. "Tut, General. I warned you to be careful of Force-attacks," he said.

Outrage almost blinded Grievous. Jedi don't use Force-lightning! he wanted to shout, but he couldn't speak at all, not yet. Dooku looked coldly down on him. "Would you like me to summon your physician?"

Grievous's rage was replaced by pure disgust. At that moment he hated the Sith Lord as much as he hated the whole Jedi Order.

Dooku waited for several more minutes while Grievous recovered. When he was finally functioning well enough again to stagger to his feet, Dooku gave him back his fallen lightsaber.

"That'll do for now. Good night, General," the Count said, deliberately turned his back, and left the cargo bay. They were the last words he said to his Supreme Commander before his galleon departed a half hour later.

Grievous was insufferable to everyone he met for the remainder of the night and the following day, and it wasn't until he'd returned to the Invisible Hand and his fleet was pulling out of port that he finally found a reason to relinquish his bad mood. It was a message left by Lissa Veleroko, advising him that she'd be coming aboard at twenty-one hundred hours that evening to see to some office supplies and that she had the information he'd requested should he wish to come by and pick it up.

He surprised her by meeting her shuttle right in the hangar bay, striding up before the ramp was even fully down. Lissa herself was feeling pretty good. She'd had a relaxing leave and some fun with her Geonosian buddies, had gotten all her supply requests filled, and had sent out Grievous's message without any trouble, just as she'd promised. The sight of the cyborg waiting for her actually made her smile.

"Good evening, General Grievous."

"Where is it?" he snapped.

"Right here, sir. I sent it from the main library just as I—"

Grievous grabbed the disc out of her hand, spun around, and raced off. She stared after him, dumbfounded. So much for gratitude!

Lissa knew that there'd been a reply to Grievous's message (encrypted—she'd snooped), but she never heard a word back about it, not later that night or over the next few following days. On the third day after leaving Nee'port, Grievous finally did contact her, but only to bump up his next scheduled maintenance session. She'd learned that his doing so after a spell of inactivity usually meant that battle duty was not far away and so was in a rather more somber frame of mind when she saw him again.

Grievous still had nothing to say to her, in fact, he acted as if absolutely nothing had ever changed between them. Lissa couldn't fathom it. He'd become so talkative that morning when she'd confessed what she'd done to him. She couldn't understand how he could carry on without wanting to know more or feeling the urge to discuss things further. He didn't seem angry with her, exactly, and when they went over to the infirmary for his wash, he hunched down under the hot water spray with the same apparent enjoyment and cooperated with her just as he had before, but there was also nothing new, no indication whatsoever of what he thought of her now or what more he expected of her, if anything. His lack of additional response left her hanging and feeling quite frustrated. Normally, she was comfortable with the cyborg's silence. Now it just made her uneasy. Before long, the awkwardness she felt got so bad that she felt compelled to say something. After all, it was always possible that Grievous was feeling awkward too and was hiding it because he was unsure of how to approach her…wasn't it?

Lissa studied the General's mask and closed eyes doubtfully. She'd dropped all pretence of cleaning him just so she could better inspect his exterior some time ago and usually brought her entire droid wash kit along now, even strapping on a waterproof apron full of pockets to hold her grooming tools. She was currently brushing a bit of stubborn crud out of one of his elaborate double elbow joints. He looked pretty peaceful…receptive… Perhaps if she tried something self-effacing…

"General? I have to admit…I'm a little surprised you kept your appointment at all," she said in a low voice. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want me working on you anymore."

Her attempt back-fired. Grievous's eyes popped wide open and he jerked his head around to glare at her. "What choice do I have?" he snapped. "You have made it impossible for me to go to anyone else."

Lissa winced. So much for trying to strike up a cordial conversation. But even as she was mentally rebuking herself and deciding never to address Grievous first again without a good and necessary reason, the cyborg was himself already regretting his sharp retort. He'd seen her slight flinch and the subsequent droop in her carriage, and, mindful of his need to keep her onside and sympathetic to him, added on a kinder note, "I did not mean to suggest that I would go elsewhere if I did have that choice. I have always been satisfied with your work, more than satisfied, even now. It is only your character I have a problem with."

"My—I b-beg your pardon?" Lissa sputtered, indignant. She couldn't argue with his first remarks and had taken them hard, and had been surprised and pleased when he'd seemed about to apologize—but this! Of all the—! She bit back the rest of her outrage and began scrubbing his arm, hard. Grievous kept staring at her. She usually handled him with a certain considerate gentleness he'd come to value. This was like being suddenly cleaned by a service droid, and a not particularly adept one at that.

"You are angry," he said.

Oh, brilliant observation, General! Lissa thought. What she finally did say in reply, through gritted teeth, was, "Yes, I am, sir. Very angry."

"Would you care to explain why?"

She flung back a dirty look. He appeared sincere. He really didn't understand how he'd just insulted her.

"I just find it…outrageous…" Here, she pulled down hard on his wrist, straightening his arm out further and twisting it to better get at both sides of his forearm. "…that someone who thinks it's perfectly all right to kidnap an innocent civilian and frighten her half to death…" Another sharp tug. "…would have the nerve to consider themselves fit to comment on anything to do with morality." She finished off by shifting her attention to the long armour plate protecting his inner forearm and applied her brush there with ferocious zeal, even though there wasn't a speck of dirt to be seen.

Grievous's brows came way down, hooding his eyes. "Are you still upset over how I recruited you?" he said. "That was a necessary operational decision. You found out too much about me. I couldn't risk leaving you free."

"It wasn't necessary for you to blow up Marku's moon after I'd already caved in!"

"That was targeting practice—"

"That's not funny!" Lissa gasped.

"I am not joking!" Grievous retorted, shouting now. "I—you— Why are you being so difficult?"

"I'm being difficult? I'm the one who was just trying to start a little conversation! You know—verbal interaction, give and take, without one party constantly trying to intimidate and threaten the other?"

"All right! Would you care to hear my side of it? Why it is that I'm troubled by your character?"

"You go right ahead, sir. It's not as if I could stop you."

"No, it most certainly is not," the cyborg grated out. He took several loud breaths, as if gathering himself. Lissa waited, sullen, still scouring away at the exact same spot on his forearm plating. "From my perspective," Grievous said, "what you did to me was no better than what the Separatists did. You operated on me without consultation or obtaining my consent and it is clear to me now that you had no true understanding of what you were doing. It was all just another experimental procedure, done without my knowledge, and then you waited to see what would happen, just as the Geonosians and Munns waited on Geonosis."

"Oh, but—"

"I am speaking! You betrayed my trust. You surgically tampered with me in a way that could have destroyed my sanity. Lied to me. Deceived me." His embittered disgust over reciting this litany of flaws mounted so high that he began trembling, a fine quiver that Lissa could feel right through her grip on his arm. "I hate that about your species!" he suddenly blurted out. "I hate how you lie even to each other and I hate how you pretend to like one another when you don't. It sickens me. My people aren't like that. I'm not used to it and I won't tolerate it any longer, not from someone under my command!"

He blasted Lissa with another glare laden with such loathing that she flinched again. But she was also still well armoured with her own righteous indignation and not about to step down.

"We're not all lying cads," she protested, "and I don't know what else you expected me to do. Do you really believe I could have said to you, oh, General, by the way, I think the people who put you back together screwed around with your mind to try and control you—would you like me to try and repair the damage? Of course not! You would have turned me in or—or killed me on the spot, I'm sure."

"I could still turn you in," Grievous growled. "I think I would even be allowed to remain as I am now if I did that."

"But you wouldn't have anyone to help you anymore then, would you, sir?"

The cyborg fell silent. No, he wouldn't. No one to act as his go-between and no end to his gnawing rage. He glowered at his physician, but she'd already returned to her work and was looking over the junction between the two halves of his lower right arm. Her lips were pressed tightly together and the skin about them was taut. She looked unhappy and resentful and Grievous was again reminded of his need to keep her favourably disposed towards him. And she had a point, somewhat. The truth was that he had no idea of how he would have reacted had she come to him honestly from the start. He might well have responded with violence and disbelief and snuffed her out with a single impulsive slap.

"Very well. It seems that both of us may have behaved poorly in the past," he said at last. "You should have thought of a way to approach me with the truth and I could have used a more…politic approach to secure your services." He could feel the small human hands going over his arm start doing so with a lighter touch. She was listening to him, although she kept her head down. Grievous shifted slightly from foot to foot. He didn't like trying to curry favour from people. It wasn't in his nature.

"I cannot simply release you," he went on. "You made that impossible the moment you decided to tamper with my mind alterations, you understand that, yes?"

Lissa cast a wary glance at his face. "I know," she muttered.

"Then perhaps we can do this: Continue to help me. Keep this secret and remain loyal to me, and when I ask it of you later, finish repairing the damage in my brain. Do all that and I will give you my word of honour that I will do all I can to set you free as close to your preferred destination as possible."

The woman's cautious regard now escalated into outright doubt. "That's quite the turnaround," she remarked. "You'll forgive me if I seem a little dubious, sir."

"As I said earlier, what choice do I have?" Grievous said, with a sourness that seemed rather more in character than his stilted attempt at conciliation. "And I am…grateful for what you have done. But this has been a blow to me, to discover that those I work for are not to be trusted. It affects me badly, more so than I think a human like you can comprehend. I don't want to have to worry about my subordinates also."

And there it was, as close to an apology and an explanation of his own which she was ever likely to get from the cyborg, Lissa thought. She stopped her pretence at working and just stood, mulling over his words, unaware that she was still hanging onto his wrist with both hands. Grievous, as well, was unaware. He was too intensely focused on the woman's reaction.

"I don't want to be worrying anymore either," she admitted. "I didn't enjoy having to deceive you." She tilted her head in a half quizzical, half supplicating way and asked, "You really mean it, that you'd let me go?"

"I do not give my word lightly, so yes."

"Well, I guess we could…try. Given that neither of us have many options."

"True, unfortunately."

His physician took a deep breath, one that was none too steady. "Okay," she decided. "A fresh start then."

"Good. Look at me."

She did, gazing fearlessly into the bright yellow-gold eyes subjecting her to the most meticulous of examinations from but a few hand-spans away. She'd hoped for something different in him and she could see it now in his own expression, a change in the intelligence driving his scrutiny from that of a predator's cunning and analytical machine logic to something much broader and more reasoned. Lissa was suddenly glad that they were trying to make amends with each other. Talking her way around this new, more complex version of Grievous wouldn't be quite so easy.

He straightened up finally and pulled his arm free (irritably thinking, how was it he hadn't noticed THAT before? as he did so), and regarded the woman with mingled displeasure and resignation.

"You are still hiding much from me, I believe, but I think it has nothing to do with me. So—you humans shake hands when you exchange a pledge, is that correct?"

"Um, yes. We do, sir," said Lissa, surprised.

"We Kaleesh do so too, almost. We clasp hands."

They compromised by carefully grasping one another's right hands and shook once with grave solemnity, oblivious to the oddness of their surroundings and the strange tableau they presented, the small human woman standing erect and the Kaleesh warlord with his deadly wardroid's body bent back down into a taut crouch to place his face close to her own, the only point of contact between them their mutual gaze and held hands. Grievous searched her eyes again as they mutely exchanged their promises and Lissa was a little abashed to see a hint of sad pleading beneath the fierceness in his own visage. It melted away the last of her scepticism and grudges in a way no threat or reward ever could and her resolve at that moment solidified and became genuine. She swore to herself that she would never disappoint Grievous again, not in any professional sense.

The cyborg still harboured his own doubts. "You are not permitted to lie to me ever again," he emphasized when their little ceremony was over. "Even if what you have to say is devastating to me, I would rather hear it than have you withhold information or try to mislead me."

"I won't let you down, sir," she replied earnestly. "And you have to start taking extra care of yourself. If anything ever happened to you that required work on your brain implants, if you lost an eye, anything like that…I don't know how I could keep Nagas and his team from getting involved. They'd be sure to discover what I've done."

"I know." He uttered one of his rare, harsh laughs. "You had better become an expert in Geonosian cybernetic technology fast, just in case."

"Halfway there already, General. If you could just take it easy for a few more months, I should be able to fudge my way through anything after that."

"Yes, I'm well aware of your talent for obfuscation," he commented, eyeing her, but his sarcasm lacked any real heat. His body drooped further into a more relaxed hunch and he averted his face and let his head start hanging, a visual cue that he'd said and done all he intended to for now and wanted Lissa to get back to work. She took the hint and picked up where she'd left off, turning the water back on to finally rinse off the arm she'd scrubbed to within an inch of its non-life. Grievous stood peacefully, docile once more, eyes closed and back in his own world. Lissa rather envied him his apparent ability to almost instantly compartmentalize everything that happened to him, no matter how profound. She was more of a worrier and a nit-picker, good at hiding things outwardly and moving on, but almost never able to entirely relinquish things that ate at her within.

The agreement she'd just made with Grievous had sobered her and she thought about it all the while she finished cleaning and inspecting him, too subdued to even indulge in scratching his sweet spots, and was still feeling reticent when she afterwards changed his bacta fluid and ran his monthly diagnostic checks. It wasn't until Grievous himself suddenly spoke up as she was closing up his skull plate after examining his brain that she really felt in a mood to converse again.

"Now I know why you suddenly stopped using the laser during my neural checks," he remarked, voice issuing rather comically from the vicinity of his lap, where he was holding his faceplate. Lissa smiled a little as she retrieved the sculpted mask and began reattaching it to his head.

"Well, it was also because you responded so well to the preventative treatments I began using, General," she said. "Your mind just stopped flaring up and there wasn't any necrotic tissue left to remove. I hardly ever find anything to worry about anymore, not even any inflammation about the implants. You've adjusted extremely well to everything, really. Your species must be physically tough and resilient."

"Yes, we heal unusually fast, I believe." Grievous began lifting a hand to rub over his scarred chin, then remembered that he didn't have a chin to rub. "I was always getting beat up and cut up when I was young, but can't recall ever being much bothered by it."

Lissa cocked her head, smiling broadly now. "It's hard to imagine someone like you ever getting beaten up, sir."

"It was my own fault. I'd instigate fights with boys that were much stronger and heavier than me, even though I always knew better. Luckily, they were all good-natured. A sound thrashing was the worst thing I ever suffered."

The cyborg's willingness to confess to arrogance struck Lissa as remarkable as his attempt to reconcile. He really was changing and it appeared so far to be for the better. She felt the sudden urge to test him further.

"General Grievous? That mail reply I brought back for you a couple of days ago…was it good news for you?"

He hesitated this time before answering, reluctant to share what to him was a private matter. But he could also sense that the woman was asking out of genuine concern and he considered concern for himself to be a thing worth encouraging.

"It was positive, yes," he said. "The war hasn't touched my world yet. And my family is fine."

"You're married, aren't you, sir? And you folks are polygamous, is that right, so you'd have several wives?"

"I have six wives."

"Oh!" Her mind cast around wildly for an appropriate response. "Well, you must be—busy—when you're at home."

"I keep myself occupied," he replied dryly.

"How many children?" she asked in a fainter voice.

"Twenty-two."

"Ah. I hope you like being a father."

"I do."

He leaned forward in his chair and stood up abruptly in a single smooth motion accompanied by a little carillon of machine clicks and whirs. Lissa stepped hastily back out of his way.

"Are we done here?" Grievous inquired, looking down at her.

"Oh sure, everything looked good, sir. I'll let you know, of course, if anything out of the ordinary turns up later when I go over your test results."

"Fine, then."

He turned to leave, hesitated again, and said, "I expect we'll be at battle stations approximately thirty hours from now. You can pass that on to your colleagues and prepare yourselves. You might also consider being back here and settled in by tomorrow evening. It'll save you some disruption in your sleep."

"Yes…I'll do that. Thanks for the warning, General!"

"I would have informed Nagas of this tomorrow, but since you were here already…"

He trailed off, gave a curt nod, and continued on and out the door without another word. Lissa watched him go, feeling rather amused. Grievous had seemed almost embarrassed there at the very end, as if he'd just committed a social faux pas by bypassing his precious chain of command. Then again, how anyone with six wives and twenty-two kids could possibly feel social embarrassment of any sort anymore was beyond her. It had to be like living in a zoo!

TBC