Whew! To paraphrase the Ian Malcolm character in the Jurassic Park movie, now that is one big pile of verbal diarrhoea set down in print! A massive chapter coming up and I'm not sure how that happened. I wrote the intro and last scenes first and thought the middle part wouldn't need too much fleshing out at all, but it just kept growing and growing (or spewing, more like). Blame the two chief characters involved. They're just way too much fun to write together!

Note for techno-fiends: A specific ship will be referenced about midway through this chapter. It's one that's been added to Star Wars canon quite recently in order to preserve consistency, but as far as I know, there is no official description of what it actually looks like, just a good deal of assumption. My version of it's going to run counter to the usual assumption a bit for some pure personal preference's sake which has to do with appearance, so if its description here seems a little 'off', well, now you know why…

THE ESSENCES OF LIFE

Chapter 18 – Raiders Of The Opportune Moment

Grievous got to enjoy his peaceful interlude for only a few days more. Count Dooku summoned him on short notice to another conference and Grievous was forced to leave it up to his battle staff officers to finish overseeing his fleet's latest re-supply run. He was even more irked when he discovered that the meeting was being held at one of the Sith Lord's own family holdings, a lavish estate located on a private asteroid, and that much of the time scheduled involved social events rather than anything he personally deemed worthwhile or important. There was no getting out of the social functions, either. Dooku made it crystal clear upon the cyborg's arrival that he was expected to attend everything and make himself available to everyone in his role as the deputy leader of the Separatist Council.

As always, fulfilling his professional obligations and providing information about anything to do with the ongoing war and the droid armies he commanded was so easy for Grievous that he could have done it while half-asleep, but the requisite socializing this time came harder than ever. He'd become more sensitive to the subtleties of the personalities and the political picture swirling around him. All of the obnoxious dealing and the petty rivalries and the lies and the greed, it all irritated him beyond belief much worse than before. His feelings towards Dooku himself were also evolving—his occasional hatred for the man had now darkened and grown into an almost constant bitter animosity seasoned by spite and scorn. Grievous's self-control was most sorely tested the night Count Dooku hosted a soiree in the opulent palace he tried to pass off as just one of his 'rustic little vacation homes'. The General knew that his own Kaleesh people would have regarded this particular 'rustic' edifice as nothing short of a magnificent temple, a grand accomplishment worthy of reflecting the devotion of his entire world's population. Hearing his superior refer to his palace as being simple in any aspect was enough to alone infuriate, embarrass and depress Grievous in turn as the long evening went by.

More than just the Council members were attending on this occasion. This latest conference, Grievous learned, had been set up in part as a welcome and get-together for the more recent CIS signatories, and he had many new faces and names to memorize; he spent the first hour of the party simply standing by Dooku's side, being introduced over and over. None of the new representatives impressed him in the least. At most he would afford them a nod and a cold stare and that, coupled with his intimidating reared-up stance and his frightening and eerie machine body draped in its ivory and crimson shroud of a cape, was always enough to redirect any potential fawning Dooku's way. His reputation also helped to protect him. Everyone in the expansive rooms knew of his deeds and the sorts of atrocities he'd committed by now and that in itself rattled many of the people who looked up into his bone-white mask of a face. It was much easier to look at the human's face. The Count was always so courteous and soft-spoken, his eyes kind, his manner welcoming and patient—why, it seemed sometimes that it took but a single glance for him to know all about one's needs and problems, he was just so understanding. But that cruel, half-machine, glowering creature at his side—brrr! no thank you! One would sooner get more empathy from a stone than out of the likes of him! And so, one after the other, the people who met the Confederacy's Supreme Commander made polite noises, inwardly shuddered, and afterwards let him be, and Grievous was able to hang onto his temper despite the aggravation even those brief contacts dealt him.

Dooku, who was by contrast quite in his element and entirely at ease, eventually needed to pursue more intense and private conversations with some of the individuals hovering like satellites about him, and released Grievous with a nod of his own. The cyborg lowered his head and stalked off at once without acknowledgement. He took up his own station on the periphery of the milling throng of party-goers and then just stood and watched. The Geonosian delegates were also standing not far away along with several other aliens, and Grievous could tell just by the body language of their leader, Archduke Poggle the Lesser, that some sort of sales pitch was in progress, even though Poggle's back was turned. One of the aliens being addressed by the Archduke looked past him at Grievous and must've said something—everyone turned around then to look at the cyborg. Poggle thrust his chest out, stroked his luxurious long wattles and gestured towards Grievous while fondly regarding him and talking on. There was nothing at all friendly about his expression. He was just bragging up the points of some walking product. Disgusted, Grievous strode off and found a new spot where the Geos could no longer see him.

One of the military officers attending the function, a Koorivarian admiral, came up to him. The cyborg angrily swung about to confront him, but all the man wanted was to ask his advice about utilizing the new upgraded Trade Federation battle droids that were being issued. Grievous sleeked his raw upright nerves and answered his question, then a few more. He loathed the Koorivarians' Corporate Alliance and thought their Magistrate, Passel Argente, a particularly odious individual, but he did have some grudging respect for their own standing military—Koorivarians tended to be stolid, albeit unimaginative fighters who invariably did exactly as they were told, and obedience did make up for a lot of failings in the cyborg's book. When the Admiral was done, he thanked Grievous politely before leaving. Grievous watched him walk away, and for a few seconds the frustrated resentment ever evident in his eyes retreated and gave way to a peculiar yearning, which softened his expression remarkably. Back when he'd been a flesh and blood warlord, Grievous had been famous for his bold solitary raids during which he'd several times escaped death by a hair's breath, but for the most part he'd always been surrounded by a cadre of peers and his own special bodyguards, many of whom had been friends to him. He was beginning to miss that camaraderie and almost wished that the Admiral had stayed to talk with him just a little longer. Almost.

In looking after the Admiral, Grievous's gaze happened to fall upon Viceroy Nute Gunray, who was, as usual, whining about his problems to a small clique of fellow diplomats. Instantly, the cyborg's festering anger re-emerged and he fixed his bête noir with a hard stony glare. His sensor plates tilted rearward. If he'd had ears, he would have plastered them flat back against his skull.

Gunray actually had reason to be upset. One of the Trade Federation's most valuable new resource planets had been attacked and retaken by the Galactic Republicans only a week ago. The Viceroy had already taken his concerns to Dooku directly, but all the Count had offered in return were his condolences and his sad observation that sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the good of the whole. Gunray hadn't taken Dooku's reassurances well at all. In his opinion, his people had already sacrificed far more than their share and his natural greed was such that he resented the loss of every cubic meter of Trade Federation-held territory and the seizure of even the tiniest bauble or scrap. All he could do in lieu of Dooku's refusal to better help protect Neimoidian interests was to bitterly mourn and complain to anyone who would listen, just as he was doing now. Unfortunately, such tirades, though satisfying for Gunray, soon exhausted said listeners. It wasn't long before the Viceroy's latest audience had made their excuses and snuck off, leaving Gunray to wallow in his pity party all alone.

Well, not entirely alone. When he looked around for more potential wangst victims, Gunray saw the abomination standing quite close behind him, staring at him with those horrid yellow burning eyes.

"General Grievous," Gunray exclaimed, with the same emotion he might have shown upon finding an unpleasant stain on his sleeve.

"Viceroy," Grievous rumbled, his own tone no less unfriendly.

The Neimoidian leader was desperate enough to think that the abomination might feel a smidgeon of concern for his loss. He said, "Planet Verloren was taken from us, General. All that productivity…it was one of our best. A thousand gross tonnes of ore per hour gone, millions of workers, billions of—"

"Yes, I know all that. I made mention of Verloren during my briefing, as you would have noted had you been paying the slightest amount of attention."

The cyborg's rudeness and uncharitable sarcasm instantly roused Gunray's ready indignation. He'd been wary of antagonizing Grievous ever since their disastrous first meeting back on Geonosis, but this—this!—was too much. He drew himself up as tall as he could within his voluminous robes, rubbery lips quivering with that odd mingling of hurt, disdain, and passive-aggressiveness which only a Neimoidian could express to perfection.

"Those resources were being put to use to raise monies to fund this war," he shot back. "They funded your exploits, General, built ships and droids for you to waste, yes, waste, that is exactly what you have been doing, wasting them. My officers tell me that is what you do—you, who should appreciate more than anyone the technology my money buys!"

"Are you questioning my tactics, Viceroy?" Quite the opposite of Gunray, Grievous had begun sinking down into his predator's crouch, coiling up his power. He sidled a step closer, two steps closer to the irate alien diplomat. "I should very much like to know if that is what you are doing," he added in a much quieter, more dangerous voice.

Gunray was feeling too offended to heed the warning signs. "Why shouldn't I question them?" he pressed on recklessly. "It's only because of my people's generosity that you are alive at all! You take and take and take from us and when we ask one thing of you, one little favour, you refuse because you have 'other concerns'."

"It is Count Dooku who sets the overall strategy. In this matter, I agreed."

"Oh, so you hide behind your master's skirts now! You could have spoken up. Convinced him otherwise."

"Are you deaf? I just said that I concurred with his decision!"

"But you owe me," Gunray persisted. "I paid for that body you wear. And those MagnaGuards, I paid for those—"

"Stop talking to me about your expenses! I don't care about them or your money either. And if anyone is wasteful, it is you! Do you have any idea how far what you squander on a single meal could go back on—"

Grievous abruptly shut up, appalled by what he'd almost just disclosed—he'd been about to say "my homeworld Kalee". He glared at Gunray for a few seconds more, then, mindful of how other people close by were beginning to curiously look his way, whirled and slunk off without a single further word. The Viceroy, stupidly, followed him. Like all successful bullies, the Neimoidian was acutely attuned to detecting weaknesses in his victims and that was what he'd sensed in Grievous just then: a sudden, inexplicable cessation of hostility that hinted at an exploitable failing. He almost scampered after the cyborg in his haste to keep up and find out why he'd suddenly capitulated.

The General sought refuge on one of the small balconies overlooking the gardens outside, barging into the midst of and breaking up a flirtatious interlude betwixt a pair of besotted Munns. The lanky couple at once took their amour elsewhere with uncommon alacrity. Grievous attempted to calm himself. He hunched over further. His head hung low. He took in several long deep deliberate breaths, holding each for a measured count before expelling it. Then, just as he was about to heave a sigh of relief, in marched Gunray, invading his space and his momentary peace. Grievous thrust his head forward, snaking it out, and his yellow glare turned murderous.

"I was not finished talking to you," Gunray said, huffily.

"Yes. You were. I have nothing more to say to you."

"Listen, then. I am tired of your disrespect and your indifference. You have no right to treat me like this. You were created to serve us, and the Trade Federation won't—"

His sentence ended in an abrupt "awrk!" of surprise over suddenly finding one of the cyborg's fists snugged up beneath his fleshy throat, clutching at his multiple collars. At the same time, Gunray felt a hard rough press against the small of his back—he was being shoved backwards over the balcony railing. Grievous held him there, at arm's length, watching with keen pleasure as the shocked Neimoidian began scrabbling at his metal fingers.

"No-oo! Please! Let me go!" he begged.

The cyborg pushed a little further. Gunray assumed he was about to be pitched off the balcony—his scrabbling turned frantic, his pleas into a howl for help. Grievous, immensely cheered, at once pulled the panicky Neimoidian back and upright and let him go. Gunray stooped over and clawed at his own neck as though he'd just been throttled, heaving for air, even though Grievous had taken great care not to exert any undue pressure.

"How dare you!" Gunray cried, as soon as his fright subsided enough for him to catch his breath. "You attack-ed me! Count Dooku will hear of this!"

"Will he now," said Grievous. "Are you also going to tell him how you question his decisions? Encouraged me to act against him?"

"What are you talking about? You're insane, you—you—abomination, you!"

"And—my 'master's skirts'? Really? Is that how you see us, the leadership of the Confederacy, as a joke?"

Gunray frowned. His big eyes goggled out suspiciously. "What?"

"I can recall exactly what you said, you know." Grievous's voice, husky and gruff though it was, began taking on a positively jovial note. "I have that capacity. 'Oh, so you hide behind your master's skirts now!' That is what you said. Word for word. I wonder what Count Dooku will think when I repeat it to him, and all the rest of your conversation?"

The Viceroy's eyes were now literally popping. "Now now, General, let us not be hasty," he said. His own tone turned wheedling. The righteous anger that had hardened him and fostered his brief courage melted away. "I was upset, yes? About my lost planet? And you, you were a little upset also because…because…for your own good reasons," Gunray finished lamely. "There is no need to bother Count Dooku with our very minor and already forgotten disagreement, yes?"

Grievous said nothing, just stared for a moment, then nodded affirmation. Gunray wrung his hands happily, all fake smiles again—it was really rather sickening how he could switch from threats and insults to snivelling platitudes within the space of a few breaths, Grievous thought. He always seemed to think that a show of phoney appeasement was all it ever took to make one forget any indignity, too, and that was equally nauseating. Grievous himself never forgot an insult. He gathered up every slight and affront, all the snubs and unwarranted rebuffs and held them in reserve like a precious nest egg to be studied and mulled over and relived, again and again, whenever he felt the need to refresh his malice or stiffen his resolve against a particularly hated enemy. It was just the way he was and always had been; it was a Kaleesh trait. One rarely got a second chance at anything when dealing with the people of Kalee.

Being able to manhandle the obnoxious Viceroy at last and getting away with it, just a bit, that might deserve forgiving one insult, though…if it were one of the smaller, more piddling ones. Grievous didn't think he'd get the opportunity to express how he really felt towards Nute Gunray ever again…

The largely secret altercation he'd had with the Neimoidian actually wound up putting Grievous into a good mood. He returned to the party in a much better frame of mind than when he'd first bolted out to the balcony and even managed to interact in a halfway decent manner afterwards with several more of the high-ranking military officers present. Grievous found them a lot easier to talk to than the diplomats, given their common interests, and they weren't as inclined to waste his time with mundane prattle and gossip. He also liked the way they always respectfully addressed him out of acknowledgment of his rank and accomplishments, not just because they feared him. The civilians he was supposed to be leading might have been grateful for what he could do for them in the battlefield, yet they had no real appreciation for or understanding of his skills. But some of the officers he spoke to did—he could sense that they did—and that stoked his vanity and made his social obligations seem much more bearable as the evening wore on.

Grievous's almost civil behaviour towards the end of the party did not go unnoticed. The following day, while hitching a ride back to his fleet aboard Dooku's private shuttle, the Sith Lord suddenly remarked, "I saw you speaking with some of the military guests attending my soiree yesterday. Did they express any concern about the intensity of the fighting they've encountered this past month?"

"No," Grievous replied.

"Could you discern any doubt in their manner at all? Any reluctance or misgivings?"

"No," the cyborg repeated, by now somewhat mystified. He looked curiously at his superior, hoping for more, and after a long moment of silence, Dooku obliged him.

"That is good to hear. I anticipate that the Republic's resistance will soon stiffen. They've begun augmenting their armies with conscripts, to boost the number of available troops."

Grievous, surprised, said, "I have heard nothing of conscription occurring on any planet."

"This comes from Lord Sidious. It is being hidden from the public for now as much as possible. The Senate fears that news of this may harm morale. Foolish of them… People will learn of the new directives soon enough whether they're publicized or not." He paused and a thin smile quirked up the corner of the human's mouth which Grievous could see. "We're wearing them down, General, bit by bit. They can no longer grow clones fast enough to replace their losses. Conscripts ought to be all the easier for you to defeat."

"Yes. The native armies I've encountered have all been generally lacking already. Rushed training, inexperience at undertaking major campaigns…it always shows," Grievous expounded, but Dooku was no longer listening to him. He'd already reached forward for his communications headset and was putting it on, then reclined back in his seat and closed his eyes. Grievous lapsed back into sullen silence. It was just the way he most hated to be treated, tuned out and ignored the instant Dooku had no further interest in his input.

Making it all the more insulting this time was Grievous's growing suspicion that Dooku had ordered his mind alterations in part because he believed him incapable of such lofty concepts as honour and fidelity. The possibility rankled Grievous so badly that he'd begun to entertain notions of letting the Count know that he'd regained his memories and much of his old self in the hopes of garnering some sort of explanation for the human's actions. Why couldn't Dooku have just dealt with him directly, accepted his word instead of having had him butchered into an obedient near semblance of a biodroid? A feral glitter kindled in the cyborg's eyes as he sat there and continued to brood and obsess and fret over his master's treachery. He couldn't even look at the human anymore just then. The temptation to fly at him and force the truth out of him was just too great.

Dooku lifted a hand to his headset. After a moment he began to frown—evidently he was listening to some unwelcome news. Grievous noted his actions moodily. He was damned if he would express any interest or initiate any conversation with the man, not after the way he'd just been snubbed.

Dooku's frown grew more severe. "When do you estimate that will happen?" he said to someone at the other end of his communiqué, then, "No. Send me your ops, the entire overview." He leaned forward and studied something on the hooded screens on the console before him. "No. Stand by," he added.

Grievous continued to feign indifference. After a long pause, he heard Dooku speak again.

"Our old friend, Admiral Talzikan, appears to have run into some difficulty in the Morsicht sector," the Count said.

"Has he," Grievous remarked. He could feel himself under scrutiny, his master regarding him, but still he refused to turn and meet his gaze.

"The Republic has augmented the Calefarians' space fleet to a greater degree than he anticipated. Would you care to look over the situation, General?"

Grievous finally stirred out of his sour funk and leaned over to study the visuals on the console. Even though the simulations being displayed were only two-dimensional, it took him less than a minute to snort and proclaim, "Talzikan is a fool. He's left both flanks unprotected, top and bottom. And he hasn't dedicated enough firepower into taking the command ship."

"If he were to reposition his forces, would the battle be salvageable?" asked Dooku.

"No. He's already taken too many losses. The Republicans will overwhelm him in time. Nothing he does now will win this battle."

"I see… And if he received assistance, reinforcements…could he win then?"

"If enough reinforcements were properly deployed and utilized—perhaps."

Dooku went silent again. After a long moment, he asked, "Where is your fleet just now, General?"

"Departing Resstoph Base. About an hour out."

"Would it be possible to divert a portion of your forces elsewhere on fairly short notice? An hour perhaps?"

Grievous jerked his head up, instantly keen and alert. "A pre-selected number of my vessels are on constant standby for integration into a task group on ten minute's notice," he boasted. "I can have a second, larger force available a half hour after that."

"Of course," Dooku said, and looked at the cyborg with something very like genuine admiration for the first time in ages. He turned back to the console displays and began punching in a string of numbers and symbols. "I am giving you the coordinate codes for a new hyperspace lane, one your navigators won't have. Use it to get your task force en route to Morsicht—let them know we'll be at the battle site before them in time to pass on their exact destination." Dooku glanced again at his Supreme Commander, with more approval and considerable enthusiasm of his own. "A little diversion, General. One I expect you'll enjoy."

"Yes," Grievous agreed, and with that, all his remaining resentment towards the man withered and blew away, temporarily overridden by the delightful prospect of imminent, unexpected combat. In battle, Grievous would set his personal concerns aside, no matter how pressing. He always had, even before the mind alterations that for a time had forced him to do so.

Dooku advised his droid pilot of their own course changes and Grievous hunched back over the displays to monitor the constantly updating stream of incoming data. By the time they popped out of hyperspace on the outskirts of the fighting, Grievous already had a good idea of how to manage the situation and turn it around. Dooku contacted Talzikan directly. The harried Admiral initially hid his shock, but lost it when the Count ordered him to turn over command of all Separatist forces present to General Grievous.

"Grievous is coming here?" Talzikan sputtered over the comm link. "But Count Dooku, sir! The General won't—"

"I am already present," the general in question interjected sharply, "and also aware of your tactics' failure. I warned you against timidity before, Talzikan. It's costing you again."

"We're up against nine star destroyers, General Grievous! If intelligence had warned us—"

"Not a valid excuse! Stand by! Reinforcements are en route. I will provide you with an ETA and classifications momentarily. And order your frigates to retreat, now, all of them. Can't you see that the Calefarians are regrouping to attack them? They mean to splinter them off, Admiral."

"I—did see. Those Calefarian vessels are no match for the frigates. They haven't the firepower to destroy them."

"They don't have to destroy them. Isolate and maim, that's all it takes..."

The crisp exchanges—Grievous barking orders, Talzikan's weakening objections—went on. Dooku just sat back and enjoyed the show. He didn't often get the chance to partake in any frontline action…of any sort.

By the time the cyborg's first task group arrived, he'd taken full charge of the remnants of Talzikan's fleet and already begun repositioning many of the vessels. The new arrivals caught the Republicans by complete surprise—the Republic commanders were still trying to puzzle out their enemies' sudden manoeuvres. Grievous threw his own naval heavyweights, his Commerce Guild destroyers, against the star destroyers at once. Mayhem ensued as the narrow skeletal Commerce Guild ships swarmed in amongst the broader star destroyers, getting in far too close, risking collision, even winging one another as they recklessly fired. The big Republic vessels were only outnumbered two or three to one, a quite manageable margin for the more heavily armed and armoured star destroyers to normally contend with, but they needed space to pick off their opponents, not be embroiled in some wild demolition derby where every enemy taken out became a flaming projectile that needed dodging. The captains of the star destroyers began trying to vector away from one another, breaking up their own formation. While they were thus occupied, Grievous ordered in a fresh wave of attackers, the droid-manned AGDs that could, in a pinch, double as suicide missiles.

Living crews might have hesitated, mortal captains might have wanted a few extra seconds to contemplate their demise before plunging ahead. Droids suffered from no such weaknesses of emotion and the courses they steered were sure and swift. One by one, the mighty star destroyers were struck and most went careening away, their twin tower bridges destroyed, headless and out of control. Only three managed to deflect their attackers with evasive actions or firepower and one of those collided with one of the nearby Commerce Guild destroyers by sheer accident even as both spaceships sought to avoid each other. Then it was Talzikan's turn to redeem himself—he attacked the crippled Republicans once again with his own dwindled fleet, much bolstered by the knowledge that more reinforcements were due any minute and that the ferociously efficient Supreme Commander of the Droid Armies now had his back. As before, he targeted the command ship, the giant one, the only Imperator-class star destroyer in the field. They'd been one of the ships to successfully deflect the AGDs attacking them, but not without grave cost. The two droid vessels had still managed to slam into the base superstructure of the command towers, taking out more than half of the destroyer's port turbolaser turrets and coming perilously close to breaching the main reactor.

Many of the remaining Calefarian vessels were also adrift. The savage assault on the star destroyers had crippled the morale of the Calefarian crews too—they were not natural fighters and were mentally ill-equipped to deal with the harsh demands and stresses of warfare, even when aided by more militant friends. Grievous, devoid of pity or mercy in his altered state, sent all his still usable remaining ships in to destroy what they could before the Calefarians recovered enough to protect themselves.

General Grievous and Count Dooku continued to watch everything from the vantage point of the human's own luxury shuttle. It seemed the most unlikely of emergency command posts and was hardest on Grievous—he had no room to pace, could only stand and stare out the front viewports over the droid pilot's head if he wanted a live look at what was going on—yet still he managed with his rudimentary ops displays and communications; and when his second task group arrived on schedule, he deployed them with the same speed and confidence he would have exhibited had he been directing the battle from the bridge of the Invisible Hand. The second group's appearance may as well have been heralded with a death knell. Many of the Republican ships were now only partially functional and some were leaderless, and the Calefarians, left on their own, were folding fast. And Admiral Talzikan, as much angered and embarrassed by Grievous's rescue as he was grateful, was for once feeling vindictive enough to join the cyborg in making it a rout. Between the two of them, they began decimating the enemy vessels, coolly working their way through whatever still showed some fight.

The Imperator-class star destroyer was soon the only really dangerous opponent left. The enormous vessel, a more robust, stretched variant of the more usual Venators, was of a new, seldom encountered type whose practical combat capabilities were still somewhat of an unknown, and the Separatists circled in warily, taking distant potshots, avoiding her undamaged right side. Grievous was even more cautious. He'd taken the liberty of ordering the shuttle closer to the action once the skirmish had swung his way, but the reputed firepower the lmperator carried gave him pause and he took care to have the pilot keep them well astern of the destroyer.

Even Dooku got to his feet to better observe when several squadrons of expendable droid fighters began harassing the Imperator to test her defences and estimate how battle-worthy she still was. The answer came swiftly—bursts of well-coordinated cannon fire brought many of the droids down with ease, one after the other. But there were also long stretches of surface exterior which the fighters over flew with impunity, nor did any of the hangar bay doors open to disgorge any challenging Republic fighters. Grievous wondered aloud whether the destroyer's main flight deck was even still operational.

"I doubt they're carrying a full complement of support units," Dooku opined. "A new class, likely rushed through its trials… It would be reckless to send out a fully loaded unseasoned vessel."

"There was flight traffic out of her earlier on in the battle," said Grievous. "Talzikan claims the hangar bays were specifically targeted while they were still open. It's possible he succeeded at that task, caused internal damage that cost them their shielding or life support."

The two paused to watch the star destroyer pop off another salvo of shots from her still functioning heavy turrets. Several of them struck the single Banking Clan frigate present—careless of the Munns, to have strayed into the destroyer's prime firing zone—but the frigate's shielding appeared to handle the blows without apparent exterior damage. "Low intensity blast," Grievous mused. "They're diverting power or the reactor's failing."

"Or they're preparing to run and jump. I expect that they would rather abandon their unfortunate Calefarian colleagues and risk collision than see that ship fall into Separatist hands." He looked over at his Supreme Commander, at the way his stark head was thrust eagerly forward, his fierce ardent power tautly reined in. "She'd make a fine prize, General," Dooku added quietly.

The suggestion, once made, proved impossible for the cyborg to resist. He didn't even stop to consider whether the deed was doable, just shifted instantly into planning mode. The wild glitter of before reignited in his eyes, born this time of excitement and intense anticipation. Dooku watched him examine the latest composite sensor sweeps, the white fingers of one hand reaching forward to trace the outline of the giant star destroyer on the display with subconscious avarice.

"A boarding party, General?" the Sith Lord asked.

"Yes. I'll take droids only, here, through the ventral bay. If they can get the flight deck doors open… Talzikan will have to hold her in place. I'll tear out his heart if he doesn't!"

"Might I advise that we also try using the starboard loading dock bay?"

"We?" Grievous regarded his master with surprise. "You wish to take part?"

In answer, Dooku gazed out the shuttle viewports. "There are Jedi aboard that ship," he said, "one of whom I should very much like to have a few words with." His head tilted fractionally towards Grievous and he smiled. "No need to pout, General. You'll have plenty of opportunities to collect your trophies. They'll come to us the moment I set foot on that vessel."

"I'll order a second party," Grievous said and turned back to his readouts.

The Imperator began steering a determined course, slow and deliberate, away from planet Calefar and the heart of the littered battle zone. Grievous rushed through his preparations, issuing commands and redeploying his forces hastily. He sent the shuttle around in a long arcing loop to intercept Talzikan's command ship and the expression on the Admiral's face fell when he first realized that the two leaders meant to come aboard, then became incredulous when all they did was transfer to one of the gunboats he carried in his hold and speed away again. Chastised, he turned to his new orders with greater zeal.

The Separatists were soon pounding away again on the hapless star destroyer, their fire now more focused and intense. The first landing parties slipped through the great warship's defences while she fought back and began forcing their way in through the Imperator's vulnerable belly where some of the shielding had failed. Their attempt plus a fresh onslaught from the hounding ships then covered Grievous's own stealthier approach. Count Dooku's advice turned out to be excellent. No one had anticipated a direct attack on one of the sounder, more difficult entry points into the Republic ship, and it took the accompanying Vulture and tri-fighter droids but a moment's work to clear the way for Dooku to work his own particular brand of magic and get the loading dock door open.

A single squad of clone troopers was manning the vestibule battle station within. A pair of Vultures took them out with a couple of careful, well-aimed shots while the other members of the boarding party entered and landed. Dooku and Grievous disembarked their gunboat to no opposition whatsoever, although that, the Count cautioned, was about to change.

"We've been found out already, I fear," he said to his Supreme Commander as they strode across the empty floor, the two Vulture escorts, converted over into their stilted walking mode, clacking loudly along beside them. "I sense a good many men just beyond that door, and—ah yes!—several Jedi will shortly be joining them." The Count lifted his handsome head and near strutted with a sudden surfeit of energy and high spirits when he delivered this news. He seemed about to engage in a spot of pleasant recreation rather than about to risk his life in a lethal firefight against superior numbers. "Be proud, General. I believe your battle droid parties have already accessed the flight deck, yet we have been deemed the greater threat. You had best ready yourself. They mean to stop us at all costs."

"I'm always ready," Grievous growled, and straightened and shrugged his cape back off his shoulders before cracking his two arms apart into four with a resounding snap and a flourish.

Dooku again took the initiative and utilized the Force to override the main cargo doors' mag lock. An instant fusillade of blaster fire greeted them, much of it just as swiftly returned as ricochets off the scintillating blades of no less than five lightsabers, then came a break. The Republicans opposing them had been expecting a party of droids, not their terrifying General and most certainly not Count Dooku, the mastermind behind the very Confederacy itself! Many of them froze up as the reality of whom they were facing sank in, unable to believe their eyes.

Grievous and Dooku charged through the doorway and in amongst the soldiers before their shock and fright wore off. Most of the men—and several women—were just regular members of the ship's crew, and it was their great misfortune that day to have been called upon to utilize their basic security and arms training to try and repel the two most difficult intruders they could have possibly encountered. Whether expertly carved up by Dooku's deft single blade or more brutally slashed or simply kicked to death by the cyborg and his whirling quartet, they went down like swatted flies, some still registering almost comically exaggerated expressions of surprise. The only people who kept fighting and firing throughout were the few clone troopers present. Their long indoctrination and somewhat simpler minds kept them focused and functioning in pure combat mode despite the distractions of their enemies' identities…not that it really did any of them any good in the end.

A few more swipes and stabs and pistoning blows and the deed was done. The two Separatist warriors each killed their last opponent at precisely the same time and both came to a standstill just a few meters apart. They looked at each other and looked one another over. Between the two of them, they'd just killed over six dozen people without either incurring a scratch or a dent. Dooku, pleased, raised his lightsaber in salute and Grievous, equally well satisfied, inclined his head in deference. It was very gratifying to discover that they could fight so well together in the field.

They left the fighter droids behind with orders to keep the loading dock secured for additional boarding parties and moved on. Dooku, a tall man, walked rapidly enough that Grievous could stride out almost normally. They conferred briefly as they marched.

"We'll see better action in a moment," Dooku said. "Four Jedi ahead, about to come through that intersecting passage there."

"You can sense them that precisely?" asked Grievous.

"Oh yes. And they sense me, not with quite the same exactitude, but enough so to know I am here on this ship." He halted and bade Grievous to stand a little behind him. "We'll wait here for them. Take them out quickly, General."

Grievous did as told and stared hungrily over his master's shoulder while marking time. A stiff, fitful breeze pulled at their ends of their heavy armourweave capes and blew into the sockets of the cyborg's mask—the air pressure seeking to re-equalize itself after a breach somewhere nearby in the ship's containment field. He could hear distant klaxons and low thuds and felt the vibration of labouring engines and the more staccato brief tremours as the Imperator took hits, all the familiar signs of a warship under fire. Then the Jedi came around the corner of the intersection, just as Dooku had said they would.

There were four of them, all human, an older-looking, long-haired man walking in advance of the rest. They'd had enough warning of danger to already have their lightsabers at the ready, but the sight of Grievous was a shock to them. "What in—" the first Jedi began to say.

Dooku at once flipped himself forward through the air and came out of his aerial tuck and roll aiming a roundhouse slash at the astonished Jedi's chest even as he landed lightly on his feet before him. At the same time Grievous lunged forward and forced the other three to back-pedal, away from the Count, to save themselves. The first Jedi barely saved himself too—he recoiled just before Dooku's scarlet blade could cut his flesh. It aerated his tunic instead, parting the thick cloth from his shoulder to the opposite side. Angrily, the Jedi fell into his favourite stance and struck back. He had a rather inflated opinion of his own talents and was not afraid to take on a traitor like Dooku. Yet.

Grievous, meanwhile, drove the other men back into the narrower connecting corridor, where he could more easily hold and confront the trio. Dismay, fear, and grim determination, all flitted in turn across their youthful faces. After a brief exchange of glances, they attacked in unison and fought hard, showing undeniable, foolish courage, but their technique was straight off the training floor and easy to analyze. They hadn't had enough practical experience yet to develop much individual style and Grievous thought it likely that they'd been promoted to Knighthood faster than normal, too fast probably, to fill the Jedi Order's ever declining ranks. The realization both cheered and annoyed Grievous. He wasn't going to get much sport out of these three green youngsters.

The General quickly discerned how to anticipate their moves and used two of his weapons to target and dispatch a single fighter while using the other two to fend off the others. The last Jedi was so disheartened by watching his comrades fall that he virtually gave up. Grievous, disappointed, used a foot to grab and knock him down and killed him with the same grim efficiency he might have shown upon slaughtering a calf. He rushed back into the main corridor, but Dooku was already stepping over the corpse of his own opponent and not at all in need of any assistance.

"Useless," Grievous said, disgusted. "They fought like padawans."

"More of your rushed training perhaps."

"That is what I am thinking," the General said and fell back into place alongside Dooku as they resumed walking. "I hope that is not typical of the calibre of any other Jedi left onboard."

"No, not all of them," Dooku said cryptically, and led on.

The Count stopped once to use his Force powers to deactivate an automated intruder defence mechanism in the ceiling, otherwise the next few minutes passed uneventfully. Grievous, checked and chafing, all but pranced beside the human. He couldn't understand why they were advancing so slowly. The Republicans were surely becoming aware of their presence—they ought to be stepping up their pace and pressing their attack while they still could! But Dooku just kept walking, at a fast and lively clip for a human to be sure, but still just a walk. At the next intersection they came to, he halted again and turned to face the jittery cyborg.

"I'll leave you on your own now, General," he said. "Continue straight down this corridor until you reach the first major turnoff for the bow sectors. If you hurry you should be able to intercept another party that is being diverted our way. You'll find some sport there—at least two more Jedi and a number of troopers and crew soldiers. Kill all the Jedi you encounter or let any that flee lead you to the ship's bridge. I will meet you there in either case."

"You are going to the bridge alone?" Grievous asked, surprised.

"Not yet. I have a ship to stop first. Good hunting." And with a little hitch to elevate his chin and a spin on one heel, Count Dooku turned about and went off down the new corridor, towards the Imperator's stern. Grievous looked after him, feeling the unusual desire to accompany the man in order to protect him—the warrior's code was deeply ingrained in that small part of the cyborg which was still Kaleesh and it acknowledged that Dooku, for better or worse, was still the master, a teacher whose students were honour-bound to defer to him and offer their lives in his service if need be. But it was a miniscule acknowledgement at best, which had been whittled down over long months by the Count's cruelty and disdain. Grievous was not sure anymore whether Dooku even deserved to be his master.

As usual, the alien cyborg sought relief to his dilemma in action. Unleashed at last, he bolted off, stretching out in a bipedal run at first, then dropping down onto all fours to leap ahead even faster. His new gait gave him the option of beating any additional automated defence systems by bounding from side to side and racing along on the walls. There wasn't much a weapon programmed to detect and blast intruders moving down the center of a corridor could do to stop him as long as he avoided using the floor.

The turnoff came up and Grievous whipped around the corner, skidding out into an upright posture…and straight into an advancing squad of clone troopers! Several of the white armourplast-clad men went flying. The white-armoured cyborg did too—he tumbled over and over, kicked himself up into a tight somersault, and thudded down to a standstill amidst another mixed group of Republican soldiers. Which included more Jedi, a pair of festively coloured Twi'leks gawking back at him from within spitting distance. There came one of those pregnant pauses during which everyone present had no idea of what to do next. A wag from another universe could have scored big at that moment by simply uttering the phrase, "General Grievous, I presume."

The big cyborg drew himself up haughtily and glared about at his accidental audience. He could not have devised a more stunning and unexpected entrance if he'd tried. His movement galvanized the two Jedi. They went for their weapons and aggressively stepped towards him.

Grievous immediately withdrew his own lightsabers, sweeping his arms out to ignite them, almost frying a couple of onlookers inadvertently. He crouched and sprang and the air was suddenly filled with crackling streaks of light and showers of burning multicoloured sparks. Everyone came to life then, panicking and yelling and trying to scramble away from the erupting duello; even the clone troopers, half-blinded and unsure of what was expected of them, began to back up. Nobody could have found their targets anyway. Within the constricted space of the corridor, the fight was sheer bedlam, impossible to follow, nothing but fleeting impressions of two sleek humanoid figures bouncing about a whirling dervish of skeletal limbs and flashes of crimson and white, the whole of it enveloped in a blazing light-storm of plasma energy. The fight shifted and people started screaming as Grievous chopped through them indiscriminately and trampled the ones that had fallen in his wild efforts to get at the Jedi.

The mob of frightened soldiers hampered the Twi'leks. They pulled some of their attacks and aborted others that might have hurt their men. Grievous had no such compunctions. He didn't care who he went through. With his arms outstretched, reared up to full height, he almost filled the corridor and swept the Republicans before him or flattened them underfoot. And he'd gotten the Jedi's number—they were good, much better than the youngsters of earlier, but still not good enough. One of them suddenly stumbled in the very act of trying not to tread on someone and Grievous pounced on her before she could regain her form. He slapped a foot over her sword arm, slashed her torso wide open. Her lightsaber dropped and rolled away from her spasming fingers.

The remaining Twi'lek, a green male, cried out and hesitated and glanced stupidly behind himself. Grievous lunged and stabbed at him with both left hands. He leapt aside, exactly the wrong way, and the cyborg whirled and nailed him in midair, wounding him badly enough that his legs crumpled out from under him when he landed. Again, Grievous swooped in for the kill.

Watching the second of their premier warriors get cut to ribbons was more than the remaining Republicans could bear. It was all too shocking and immediate, the monstrous cyborg too horrifying and huge—terrorized, they cut and ran and the troopers ran with them. Fearless though the clones were, they did have one great failing, they needed good leadership or to be left strictly alone to be utilized at their best. Now, seeing their superiors retreat, they did so too, not out of cowardice but out of the worst possible imitation.

Grievous rose out of his stoop and watched the men scatter and suddenly laughed out loud. It was all too perfect. It was his Coruscant dream, in miniature, the Republicans fleeing before him like a broken covey of flightless meadow runners. He sheathed his weapons and bounded forward, driven by playful savagery, and killed the first laggard he caught with his bare metal hands. The man's flesh tore apart like so much pulp. His blood sprayed every which way, drenching the cyborg's forearms and face and the plates on his chest. Grievous flung the pieces away and charged on. He laughed again, delighting in his bloodlust and his own invincible prowess.

His feet abruptly slipped out from under him and he slammed down hard, face-first and sprawling. There was no possible way he could have tripped. His awkward pratfall had the familiar feel of having just been Force-manipulated. Seething and quite speechless with rage, he rolled over onto one angular haunch. Sure enough, a man clad in civilian garb was walking down the middle of the corridor towards him, a calm cipher in the midst of pandemonium.

"That's far enough," he said.

The imperious tone of his voice, his aged face, the silver hair—for one dreadful second Grievous thought it was Dooku come back to ruin his glory, then he saw that the man's beard was shot through with brown flecks and that his dark clothing was rough and homespun and untailored. Not the Sith Lord at all, but somebody from the same era, a one-time peer of Dooku's, a substitute. Hopeless hatred flooded the cyborg and with a guttural broken snarl he launched himself at his new opponent.

The old Jedi met the General's charge without flinching, his lightsaber weaving through an intricate, impossibly fast pattern to turn aside all four of the cyborg's first blows. Grievous at once recognized something of Dooku's skill in the Jedi's counter. The sulphurous fire in his eyes flared brighter, his passion to destroy fed by the sick joy of knowing that he'd met a real challenge whose killing would bring him especial pleasure. Grievous reined himself in, stepping back to regroup and better savour what was coming. He regarded his enemy with an unsettling mixture of scorn and greed.

"You won't stop me. None of you will," Grievous declared.

The Jedi was too canny to be drawn into a distracting and useless exchange of insults. He instead calmly examined the creature confronting him—yes, it was Grievous, the Knight Slayer himself, here on his ship! The old Master had sensed the presence of the Dark Side the instant it had invaded his vessel and had felt the pain of his comrades dying even as he'd hurried to try and aid them, but this demon offspring of the Separatists' twisted technology he hadn't anticipated at all—it was a shock just to have to behold him in person and feel the black malignancy he radiated, as if some pestiferous beacon of evil. But he meant what he'd said, the human, every word of it. No matter what, he was not going to allow this monster to continue his slaughter unopposed.

Grievous, impatient, broke the impasse with a sudden snort and by dropping into his offensive crouch. If the Jedi refused to speak to him, all right then, he'd make him beg for his life soon enough.

He flew at the man once more, remembering his lessons this time, keeping one foot glued to the deck while he determined the extent of the Jedi's abilities. The human was a Master for sure and very probably the commanding general of the Republic fleet Grievous had just helped decimate. The cyborg glided about him warily, probing with a lightning stab from one angle and then another, following it up with as powerful a blow as he could muster. All were intercepted easily and held without apparent effort. The Jedi obviously had decades of experience behind him and Grievous was not about to defeat him with a show of raw skill. He decided he'd have to tap into his engineered strengths just as the Jedi drew on the Force. Mechanical tit for metaphysical tat. Grievous set down to wear his opponent out with sheer persistence.

The Jedi found himself in trouble fast. He'd heard of the cyborg's unorthodox methods of lightsaber combat from lucky survivors and was not quite as intimidated as Grievous might have hoped when he began juggling his weapons, but having to concentrate so hard to constantly keep track of all four blades and guard against their multiple attacks was exhausting. He was soon breathing hard and regretting that he'd let the droid general engage him at all. He should have followed up on his Force attack and stuck to striking at him from afar, as the Council had advised. But foolishly, like many Jedi, he simply hadn't believed that a Force-insensitive construct could best a fully-trained, properly prepared Force wielder at lightsaber duelling. The very notion demeaned the centuries-old tradition. He'd been so sure that courage and sheer will and sincere belief would defend him against any possible artificial advantage, and to discover that he'd been dead wrong was a worse shock than the reality of the cyborg's presence. The Jedi retreated from Grievous's next flurry of blows, then retreated again. His concentration was fracturing, his morale shaken, and he needed to get away from his relentless pursuer, just for a moment, to rethink his strategy.

Grievous refused to give him that moment. He smelled blood and kept coming. For the first time since the fight had begun, the Jedi felt real fear.

They edged past a fire fighting alcove holding a quantity of supplies meant for manual use and the Jedi saw his chance. He pulled several of the extinguishers free of their restraints by will alone and sent them hurtling at his pursuer. The first tank bounced off one of the cyborg's forearms with a muffled clank, eliciting a grunt of surprise. The next couple he batted away with careless swipes of his lightsabers, seeming more irritated than inconvenienced, then, exactly what the man had hoped for, happened—one extinguisher ruptured into an instant cloud of propellant and dry suppressant.

The old Master ran rapidly backwards away from the explosion. He could hear Grievous cursing and coughing from within the dense plume of suspended particles—what a pity that the chemicals weren't harsh enough to just smother him! Lean metal arms and then the awful skull-like face emerged out of the cloud. The cyborg shook his head violently, advancing again yet still hacking and distracted. Well distanced now, the Jedi gathered himself, calling on the Force all around him, feeling it swell and surge within him, and then—

A curl of frigid blackness draped down, arresting him. The Jedi stood poised, trapped for a moment in excruciating indecision, focused both on the furious beast before him and the helm of his crippled starship. High above his head, something terrible was about to happen…

Grievous shook his head one final time and fixated again on his prey, his blazing glare an ugly reaffirmation of his boundless hatred. The Jedi stared back, dismayed. He no longer had time for this menace. He had to put the creature down fast, pull down the ceiling and bury him...yes, that would work. His hand shot forward in a short jab, hurling out a concentrated blast of energy strong enough to shift starfighters, and Grievous, recognizing the gesture, dropped down low to the floor and ducked his head.

The Force slammed into the cowering General and tore at him, almost succeeding in bending him over. But his feet kept their grip. The attack swept by. And when it was over and Grievous had risen out of his defensive crouch, the two of them paused and stared at each other again, the old Jedi now stunned, the cyborg gloating. Grievous lifted a hand and curled up all but one of its elegant digits. He wagged his finger in a familiar, almost universal gesture of disapproval, tilting his face and narrowing his eyes at the same time.

The Jedi, unappreciative of the cyborg's attempt at humour, suddenly appeared to remember pressing concerns elsewhere and turned and ran.

Grievous jumped forward with a skipping motion, surprised anew. He'd sensed a lot of determination and grit in the old man. Abandoning the fight was not something he'd expected of the Jedi, of any Jedi, really, and it was also very foolish of him to think that Grievous would just let him concede defeat and run off. The cyborg's hops smoothened out into a steady fast trot and much of his rage fell away, replaced by the thrill of the hunt. A good chase was always fine by him. It didn't matter that this one would lead him deep into a veritable mountain of enemy technology and potentially appalling danger, as long as he got his kill and his trophy at the end.

The Jedi maintained his speed and the General followed just fast enough to keep his prey within sight. Twice Grievous saw him glance back when he turned a new corner and so knew that the Jedi was well aware of his pursuit, but the man made no attempt to try any more sneaky tricks—he just ran. The route the Jedi chose seemed oddly deserted. The ship's crew was fighting the other boarding parties or trying to contain the breached sectors, or so Grievous imagined. On occasion, a single soldier or knot of men did appear, but they invariably flattened themselves against the walls as the pair passed and the cyborg ignored them. Any remaining automated intruder defences worked no better. They'd either gone offline or the old Jedi was turning them off as he ran. Grievous accessed what he'd memorized of the star destroyer's layout. It was as Dooku had suggested—the man was heading for the ship's helm high up in the starboard tower. The General decided that he wanted that, the excitement of overcoming the opposition he was sure to find on the bridge and slaughtering the Jedi in the vessel's own nerve center, and he slowed even more.

He lost contact with his foe only once, when the Jedi ducked suddenly down a juncture. Grievous didn't worry. He already knew what lay at the end of the intersecting corridor.

A large bank of elevator doors awaited him. Grievous didn't even bother with any controls, he just stabbed his fingers into the join between the two door halves of the lift in use and wrenched them apart. He tore one of the halves off completely, threw the crumpled panel aside, and pushed partway into the space revealed, a little cautious, minding his head. The spacious shaft was lit well enough for him to still see the elevator car the Jedi had taken rocketing up far above him. He jumped inside onto the far wall and began to climb. The shaft was full of projecting ledges, guiding runners for the cars, even a service ladder. Grievous had no trouble at all accelerating into what was not so much a rapid ascent as a vertical sprint.

The car stopped and the cyborg was there seconds later, scrambling up on top of it to yank off the emergency hatch plate and drop inside. He surged through the open elevator doors on all fours, through a pressure hatch, another, and there, hurrying down the broad corridor before him was the Jedi. Walking fast, not running. The man was clearly not expecting him to catch up so soon.

Grievous leapt up onto his feet, whipping out a quartet of lightsabers as he did so, and roared, "Jedi!"

This time the old warrior looked, if possible, even more surprised than when Grievous had withstood his Force-attack. He ignited his own weapon slowly, still staring; his face appeared almost to blanch a little. Grievous glided forward, sinking down into his fighting stance, arms going up. The Jedi adopted an offensive position of his own. Then, his gaze shifted and he thrust out one hand.

A panel in the ceiling shook, came loose and plummeted down. Grievous dodged aside with a snarl. Another fell, angling towards him, and this one he slashed into so much metal confetti with all four lightsabers. He sought his opponent, wanting to look him in the eyes again, but the Jedi had already taken to his heels. The cyborg took up the chase once more, the final chase, already revelling in the carnage he'd cause, the fighting, the terror—

The Jedi abruptly skidded to a halt, forcing Grievous to stop also lest he run him over. A tall dark figure, crowned with silver, wreathed in tendrils of thin reeking smoke, stood in the entranceway onto the bridge. "You are too late," the figure said.

"Dooku." The Jedi, breathing hard, drew himself up and regarded the man blocking his route with little real surprise. "I knew it was you," he added between pants, sounding disgusted.

Grievous, whose own immediate reaction upon catching sight of the Sith Lord had been a flash of rage at having his glorious pursuit interrupted, yielded to Dooku's higher authority and deactivated his lightsabers. He slid forward to better cut off any escape attempts and stood waiting for further orders with his now empty hands clenching and unclenching, all but champing in his impatient restraint. He watched as the Count began to smile, one corner of his mouth quirking upward, his expression smug, superior...familiar.

"No greeting for an old friend?" Dooku asked the other human lightly.

"You're no friend, not to anyone. Not since you turned," the Jedi replied.

"Turned, have I?" The Count smiled more broadly as if he were delighting in a particularly clever joke. "To what, pray tell? Order? Security? Free commerce? Are those the sins you think me guilty of?"

The other man's lips peeled back in a fierce bitter grin of his own. "Try murder, treachery, and seduction. Don't attempt to sway me with your delusions, 'old friend'. I know exactly what you've become. I know how you misuse your powers."

"Strange. The Republic started this war. How odd to hear the aggressor speak of misusing power. Still, I could begin to forgive that if you were to set an example and offer some restitution. You have knowledge that could end this war."

The Jedi laughed. "Yes, end it in your favour, no doubt!"

"Would it really matter? The killing would be over."

"No, just delayed. I won't condemn the Galaxy to enslavement."

Dooku sighed. "That is such a narrow view of what could be."

"It is an accurate view. One that you and your minions will never enjoy."

"You always were stubborn, Ethin. Stubborn and closed-minded. A shame." He looked past his former colleague at the frightful apparition guarding the corridor and said, "Take him, General. Alive, if you please."

The shock evident on the Jedi's face as he whirled around told the cyborg that even though the two humans seemed so familiar with one another, this new one no longer knew Dooku at all. Grievous leapt at the opportunity to renew his attack with savage glee, reigniting two lightsabers with his upper hands alone, leaving the lower two free to snatch and grab. He danced in close, pressing his opponent, forcing him to fight, showing off. The man shrank back, hampered by his incredulous disbelief over what was happening to him.

"You can't— Stop it! How can you allow this?" he cried to Dooku. He had to use both hands to hold off the next crushing blow and managed to wrench the lower part of his body aside just before one of the grasping metal hands could seize him. "Michel," he yelped, "for pity's sake, call him off!"

Dooku, watching, just smiled again. "Magnificent, isn't he? The perfect blend."

"Are you insane? He's a monster!"

"No, he is the future. My future. Ethin, this is your last chance. Capitulate now and I promise that my Supreme Commander will be merciful."

"Mercy from a metal puppet!" spat the Jedi. Grievous, furious, almost forgot himself and lopped off his opponent's head for that one. He snagged the man's robes instead, then abruptly released them, making the Jedi stagger, letting him know that he was in control and just toying with him now. His finely tuned body wove from side to side with exquisite, elusive grace. He danced again, probed with short swipes from both of his weapons at once, waiting for the perfect moment. The Jedi fended him off with mounting desperation. It was getting harder and harder for him to protect himself. Like Dooku, he was well past his actual physical prime, and the fruitless running battle through the length of his destroyer piled on top of long hours of earlier fighting had worn him out. Even more fatiguing was the knowledge that he'd failed, failed to lead his people to victory, failed to ward off the invaders that had stormed his command, even failed in personal combat against this grotesque amalgamation who was now seeking to disable him at the behest of a man he'd once considered a contemporary and a friend. The instant that the Jedi contemplated defeat, the Force within him guttered, fading as his own will and spirit faltered. Against an opponent like Grievous, that was all it took.

The cyborg slashed with both lightsabers at the same time once more. The Jedi held the blows, barely, leaning into his weapon for added strength, and with an inhuman twist of one wrist, a slight flip, a little swing, Grievous lifted one of his hilts and cut off the Jedi's left hand.

It was the man's free hand and he managed to keep his own lightsaber up with the other even though he gasped with shock and pain. But it cost him his speed. Grievous's lower hands shot out and latched onto his foe's sword arm before he could fully recover and with another two twists destroyed the limb's elbow and wrist joints, crushing the intricate junctions of bone and connective tissue into so much organic rubble.

This time the Jedi stifled a scream. His lightsaber fell from his useless remaining hand. He dropped to his knees, groaning loudly. Grievous straightened up and secured his weapons. He walked around behind the Jedi, sauntering almost, reintegrating his arms as he went. Dooku was smiling broadly again. "Well done, General," he exclaimed.

Grievous heard the sincerity in his tone and basked in it—he couldn't help himself. It was rare for his master to praise him so, rarer still for him to do it when others could hear. He looked down at the hunched body of the man he had maimed. The Jedi was shaking, almost cringing into his robes, still making a lot of noise. Grievous had to restrain himself from kicking him, to shut him up.

He placed a foot on one of the Jedi's calves instead and grabbed the scruff of his neck by his clothes and yanked his body upright. It was a practised gesture, one he'd learned and executed many times in the past when serving as San Hill's intimidation specialist, and it earned him another admiring glance now from his master as the elegant old Sith Lord strode closer.

"I am sorry, old friend," Dooku said, his voice now sad and sounding truly regretful. "I wish you had chosen to cooperate instead of… Well, let us proceed. The new clone shipments scheduled for integration into your Grand Army next week…I believe you know of their assigned postings, am I correct?"

The man he was addressing writhed slowly in his helpless suffering. He was unable to externally channel the Force anymore and free himself from the freakish, half-machine creature who'd seized him and was forcing him to kneel, yet he could still muster strength and righteous outrage enough to lift his chin and regard the fallen brother standing over him with utter contempt. "I won't tell you a thing," he croaked before spitting out a mouthful of bloody phlegm.

"Are you certain?"

"You've shamed yourself and the Order," the Jedi added, then moaned, gripped by another spasm of agony. Grievous jerked him to one side, administering a short, savage reprimand.

"Arrogant scum. Let me get it out of him," he growled.

"No, just hold him," said Count Dooku.

They fell silent, the three of them, the Jedi still clutched by the cyborg's merciless hand and the Sith Lord standing quietly, gazing down. For a long interval, nothing whatsoever happened. Grievous glanced irritably at his master. It was not like Dooku to be mired in indecisiveness.

The Jedi suddenly convulsed, his body contorting. "No!" he shrieked, arching back against Grievous's legs with spine-cracking force. He started flopping back and forth so hard that the cyborg had to use both hands to restrain him. "No!" he screamed again. "Never! Never! I—" And as abruptly as that, his fit was over and he slumped, limp. Grievous, still half-bent over, badly startled but concealing it, blinked rapidly, confused. Had the Jedi fainted?

Dooku sighed again, more sharply than before. "A shame," he said. "He might have been useful to us. Well, enough of that. The bridge is ours, General. I'll leave it to you to finish up."

He turned without another word and went back through the entranceway. Grievous slowly let the Jedi's slack body droop to the floor. His head lolled back, exposing his blank, lifeless face, but Grievous had to touch the wide-open, staring eyes for himself before he'd accept that the man was in fact quite dead.

The Imperator's helm turned out to be huge, larger even than the Invisible Hand's bridge, and Grievous walked about conducting a careful inspection even as he established communications with his droid units and updated himself via his built-in commlinks. Many of the crewmen manning the various positions had never even had time to quit their chairs. They sat slumped or sprawled over, their bodies scorched by a discrete tracery of burns. Others lying scattered about on the floor and the numerous clone troopers heaped just inside the heavy recessed doors of the entranceway were either partially dismembered or laced with the more typical cauterized wounds inflicted by lightsabers. The captain was still seated in his chair, reclining back, his arms dangling. His face bore the same blank, staring expression as the dead Jedi Master and his ears and nostrils were still oozing blood.

Grievous started trembling. The Sith Lord was capable of reaching into minds so deeply that he could fry nerve impulses and leave their owners brain-dead as easily as he manipulated the electrical currents of the hatch doors he opened. The Jedi had managed to protect his secrets at the cost of his life. This captain—? No, impossible to guess at what Dooku might have gotten out of him before blasting the man's mind into oblivion, not unless Grievous wanted to ask the Count directly. Maybe Dooku had just wanted to kill the captain without much exerting himself, neatly and cleanly, to maintain that serene, unruffled, misleading exterior he so loved to affect.

A terrible image abruptly came to Grievous, that of Dooku using his mind powers on Lissa. If the Count ever found out what the woman had done, he'd torture her and make Grievous watch, watch while she was slowly robbed of her intellect and facilities and reduced to idiocy. That would be Grievous's torture then, knowing that his one hope of being restored to some semblance of normalcy had been erased. He could never risk letting Dooku know that he'd regained his memories, never. Not until he was prepared to kill him afterwards.

Grievous swallowed his fears beneath fresh resolves and turned back to his work. When he went to the viewports at the front of the bridge, he saw that the Imperator's flight deck doors were open and that droid fighters were entering and departing unopposed. He also learned for the first time that his master had made good on his statement that he would stop the ship, for the Imperator was indeed floating dead in space, courtesy of an interrupted fuel feed. He and Dooku got the comm station fired up and began conferring with Admiral Talzikan, coordinating the last efforts needed to finish securing their prize. A party of battle droids soon arrived at the bridge, then some of the Admiral's people. And then it seemed an apropos time to finally just gloat, and if the expressions on the faces of Grievous and Dooku were briefly in sync as they stood there together at the viewports, gazing out with smug pride at their battle-worn vessels, then that would have been noteworthy for being the last such occurrence for Grievous would never again be able to view the Sith Lord with any feelings of kinship.

Later, both leaders went back to the same loading dock through which they'd first boarded the Imperator to make a few final arrangements regarding some of Grievous's ships which were too damaged to make the hyperspace jump back to his own fleet. Grievous, who took a far more circuitous route than did the Count, showed up with his usual lightsabers affixed in an impressive ring about his waist and the sleeve pockets of his cape crammed full of new trophies. The bright blue-bladed weapon of the old Jedi Master was among them. Dooku might have actually done the killing on this one occasion, but Grievous had adjudged that he'd beaten his opponent fair and square nonetheless and so felt entirely justified in claiming his reward.

Count Dooku glanced only once at his General's celebratory display when he first arrived, then gazed loftily away, refusing to acknowledge it any further. He thought Grievous's penchant for collecting lightsabers as tasteless and uncouth as a tribal warlord's habit of collecting heads or skins.

A shuttle from the Commerce Guild destroyer Grievous was going to hitch a ride on entered the loading dock bay and settled down well away from Dooku's own far more lavish personal ship. There seemed little left to say, and after a brusque farewell nod, Grievous started walking slowly towards his shuttle. When he was about halfway there, Dooku's voice rang suddenly out behind him, loud and commanding. "General Grievous! Hup!"

The cyborg spun about. The Sith Lord was standing at the foot of his shuttle's landing ramp, his lightsaber drawn and held before him. Even more remarkable was the gesture he made with his free hand, a clear invitation to close and attack. Grievous straightened up, breathing hard. Had he not done enough for the man today?

Dooku smiled and beckoned again. There was about him the same air of lively high spirits as when he'd first marched forth to engage the Republicans guarding the corridor beyond the loading dock doors, the cheerfulness of a dignified old wolf soliciting a pup. Grievous put his head down and stalked closer and started crabbing, gliding sideways with short, almost dainty little steps. But no restraints this time, otherwise he refused to play. His arms split and his four hands snatched up their weapons and flared outward in a full magnificent display.

The Count came forward to meet him. Not one word about Grievous's multiple blades—he was going to let him fight as he pleased! The cyborg's enthusiasm instantly soared. He wove, threw out a false feint, and engaged the man with a tremendous double-bladed frontal swing endowed with not the slightest shred of finesse or restraint, just all the raw, brutal power of which he was capable.

And Dooku felt it, of that he was certain! There was the slightest of yields instead of the more usual sense of chopping at a cliff face whenever the Count held his blows square on. Grievous stepped back and thrust from the left, then the right, then aimed another shattering double hit right at Dooku's face. The Count caught and held him again, the three blades arcing and spitting, Grievous staring into his master's eyes all the while. Again, he sensed the faintest of gives, a tiny tremor. Dooku pushed him off and backed away, his chest moving in and out much harder than it usually did so early in a match.

Grievous, wary of a Force-attack, came at him a third time like a great metal cat, low and slinking, affixing his feet, his eyes burning as brightly as his lightsabers.

"Stop," Dooku commanded.

Grievous could not believe what he'd heard. What kind of nonsense was this? Did the Count want to spar with him or didn't he? He glared at the man angrily while he wrestled with his obedience and hesitated, unsure and unwilling to drop his guard first, but then Dooku swung his blade up into a vertical position before his face, ending the fight ritualistically, and Grievous had little choice but to follow suit. He straightened and held all four of his own lightsabers before his own masked visage, making a brief bouquet of brilliant light out of the weapons. But it was a near thing, his capitulation. He'd come very close to lashing out at the Count's unprotected lower body when the man had first disarmed himself.

They deactivated their lightsabers together and exchanged nods again, and Count Dooku turned and walked off, up the ramp of his shuttle, dismissing Grievous as though he and the fight they'd just engaged in were nothing but a short-lived afterthought. The cyborg stomped furiously off to his own shuttle. It would be a long time before he'd relinquish his bitterness over this latest clash.

Grievous would have been even more enraged had he known that an odd, multi-legged machine shaped somewhat like an oversized stool had been waiting for Dooku at the top of the landing ramp just inside his shuttle and that the whole impromptu sparring match had taken place for no other reason than the pleasure of the ghostly figure floating above the machine's flat, instrumented top. "Lord Sidious," Dooku had murmured to the hologram as soon as he'd entered, bowing deeply in obeisance. "Did you see?"

"Yes," the image replied. "Impressive, most impressive. You've trained him well. I can sense his rage, his consummate hatred. Much of it focused on you, Lord Tyranus."

Dooku shrugged his master's comment aside. "He redirects it when given an opponent. I can control him. He obeys me implicitly."

"So it appears. It is time for our final act, my apprentice. Order your people to begin planning for the assault on Coruscant. Concentrate on the planets on the trade route. I will commit as many clones and Jedi as I can. Wipe them all out."

"It will be done, my Lord. Shall I have Grievous initiate his special projects as well?"

"Yes. I want to see the Loyalist worlds burn."

"As you command."

The holo-image flickered and vanished. Dooku regarded the mobile emitter for a long thoughtful moment, then flicked his cape back over one shoulder and went on into the interior of his shuttle. He had a great deal of work to do.

Grievous also had work to do, but for once sent messages ahead delegating it all to his subordinates. He was still feeling badly rattled by what he'd learned about Dooku's powers and the Sith Lord's puzzling and infuriating parting shot and needed time for his wayward emotions to sort themselves out. Focusing purely on his personal affairs helped him the most, and mulling over whether a message he'd left with his personal physician before departing for Count Dooku's conference had gotten through and engendered a new reply seemed a positively pleasant way to occupy his time compared to angsting any more over Dooku. Never had the Invisible Hand looked so welcoming as it did when he and the remnants of his task groups finally popped out of hyperspace that day to rejoin his fleet. He didn't even bother saying anything to the ship's captain who was hosting him, just ran below to board a shuttle and get over to his own flagship as fast as he could.

The first thing Grievous did upon setting foot on the Invisible Hand's deck was unhook and toss his filthy cloak and newly augmented collection of lightsabers to the battle droid officer who served as his executive assistant with orders to get everything cleaned up and delivered to his quarters. The second thing he did was hurry up to his personal physician's office. To his intense relief, the woman was still there, waiting. She even looked pleased to see him, even though he was long overdue, and hopped up at once and came forward with his comm chip in hand.

"There you are!" she exclaimed. "I sent your message and got a reply again without any trouble at all, sir. Here it is…" She held it out and Grievous took it, managing not to snatch at it this time. Lissa watched him fold his fingers over the little disc carefully, cradling it. "If you like, you can look at it here while I go have a cup of java or something," she added in a chipper tone. "Both of my computers are secure."

Grievous, taken aback, stared at her. "What?"

The woman gestured at his body. "Well, you've obviously been in a fight, sir. I'd like to have a quick look at you once you're finished with your message, if you don't mind, just to make sure everything's okay. It'd be a lot more convenient for you if you stayed."

The cyborg looked down at his gore-streaked chest and then back at his physician. "Is it not very late for you?" he asked, regarding her strangely.

"Yes, but that's okay." She offered him one of her best and blandest smiles. "No Neimoidians to chase away."

Her last remark decided him. "All right. Go," he said, and went for the station above the infirmary chair. Lissa did as ordered and made herself scarce before he finished sitting down.

She spent her break up on the bridge, chatting with the Neimoidian officer of the watch, and when she got back to her office, found Grievous standing by the big viewport, gazing out. His manner was subdued and his expression thoughtful, and she looked at him expectantly, hoping for some feedback on her efforts. But Grievous had nothing to say to her and Lissa couldn't ask. He'd taught her to keep her distance.

His silence lasted throughout his wash and he stood rooted in place while she worked, hunched over with his elbows drawn up and his hands dangling, docile and compliant. Occasionally, Lissa could hear him exhale a deep sighing breath and he kept his eyes open most of the time, seeming distant yet more aware than usual, enough so that she thought it wise to refrain from getting her customary jollies by rubbing over his sweet spots and stick strictly to business. It took her a long time to get him cleaned up and do a proper external inspection of his body. He'd gotten thoroughly bloodied (Lissa tried hard not to think about whose blood it might be) and she found many fresh scorch marks on his duranium plating and scrapes in his metal finish. But there was no real damage. Whatever he'd been up to, he'd gotten through it without any physical repercussions.

Grievous was relaxed enough by the time she finished drying him off that it took very little effort to convince him to have an extra bacta fluid change as well. "All the energy you expended probably depleted your nutrients quite a lot," she told him. "It'd be a good idea to freshen them up." Which was a crock, of course, but it did give him an excuse if he needed one. Grievous agreed to the extra procedure without argument. Although Lissa didn't know it, he'd been enjoying his session as an opportunity to unwind so much that he'd been contemplating ordering her to finish off with a bacta change anyway.

Lissa used the time they spent waiting for the bacta to heat up by giving the cyborg's feet a little added attention and lubricating the joints of each big grasping toe while he reclined in his chair, then hooked him up for his fluid change. Grievous's eyes narrowed with pleasure as the hot liquid began to overheat his innards. It was so soothing and so much better than the old way, and he felt a rush of fresh gratitude towards his physician, that she'd gone beyond the requirements of her duties to design this new routine for him. His feelings finally overcame all his reserve and his usual wariness when dealing with aliens, and when the new bacta enveloped his heart and briefly upped its pounding tempo, he all at once blurted, "I have a new grandchild."

Lissa regarded him with surprise and a dawning pleasure all her own. "Why, that's fine, sir," she said. "Boy or girl?"

"A boy. The first one. The other two were female."

"You don't seem old enough to have three grandchildren," Lissa added warmly, and Grievous responded to the old line as well as anyone she'd ever said it to; he drew his head back and tucked in the end of his mask, almost as if arching his neck, in a way that seemed positively smug.

"Several of my eldest children married quite young," he went on. "We lost many people during our war and afterwards. There is a drive to replace them, to repopulate. And I was young myself when I started my family—we all were, myself and Niella and Karli, my first two wives."

"Following your example, then." She paused to shut off the tank machinery—the exchange was finished—and leaned in to inject a measured amount of nutrient fluid into Grievous's chest cavity before removing the connections and securing his gutsack. Grievous watched her. He'd clearly decided he wanted to talk after all and seemed remarkably open, friendly almost. "So is this new kid anything like you?" Lissa asked, her own manner becoming more casual in response and a little teasing. "A little general in the making, maybe?"

Grievous perked up all the more. "Yes he is. He looks like me, a first."

"What do you mean, 'a first'? Don't your own kids look like you?"

"No. They all resemble their mothers."

"Oh." Lissa looked a bit askance at him. "I'm a little surprised to hear that, sir."

"Why?"

"Well, you seem quite…dominant. I would expect it would show in your children."

"Ah. No, that is not always so." Even though Lissa had just finished closing his chest and his session was now technically over, he made no move to leave, even settled back in his chair again. "Traits sometimes skip a generation," he explained. "None of my children look like me, and I don't resemble either of my parents." He rose to his subject, one of his favourites, as he spoke, his voice becoming ever more animated. Breeding was a serious and absorbing matter for a Kalee! "I have been told that I am most like my maternal grandsire. He was a soldier, an officer, and a very promising one, but he was unlucky in his fate. He lived only long enough to produce a single offspring, my mother."

"I see…" said Lissa. "So you're saying…you're not from a military family then? You don't have that tradition behind you?"

"Not at all." Grievous was now almost sprawling in his chair, lolling over onto one armrest and rubbing a hand absently over one thigh. Lissa got the impression that she was seeing him in a truly informal state for the first time. "My parents were farmers. We raised meat stock and grew fodder crops. I was the only boy who ever had any interest in soldiering."

"Oh. Well, that's…a tad unusual."

In truth, she thought it ironically bizarre. A feared and brilliant general like Grievous arising from the most pedestrian of backgrounds—it was hard for her to reconcile the two. She turned away from the cyborg for a moment to put away a few more items and when she turned back to him found him still posed comfortably in his chair, watching her through slitted eyes.

"But some of your own kids must have some interest, don't they? I thought your people had a warrior heritage," Lissa said, a little puzzled.

"We do. We have a militia—all the males train for it. The best warriors, the ones of suitable temperament, are then offered a place in our military if they wish to make a career of it. It is considered a profession of high esteem with us."

"Gotcha. So did any of your children join up then, or are they heading there, or…?"

But Grievous was already shaking his long narrow head in the negative. "No, none of them. One of my older boys is a professional hunter and another may take up the career also, but that is as close as their interests and abilities have taken them."

"Oh. Er, sorry."

Grievous tilted his face quizzically. "Why do you say that?" he asked. "Apologize like that?"

"Well, um, it's a little disappointing, isn't it? Just about all the parents I've known seem to like it when their children follow in their footsteps."

"Footsteps? They track them?"

"Follow their example, I mean. Chose the same profession. Parents like that…er, human parents do…mostly."

"Ah, I understand. No, there is no disappointment," said Grievous. "Our attitude towards our offspring is different than your own, I think. They are individuals from birth and expected to find their own paths. We do not consider them extensions of our adult selves or reflections."

"That's…quite a refreshing outlook, sir."

Refreshing? It was bloody amazing! Something important must have happened, Lissa thought. He'd come to some profound decision, perhaps at the meeting he'd just attended, or gotten some crucial news, or maybe it was just that another chunk of his ravaged mind had finally rewired and restored itself. She felt behind herself with one hand and stepped back to half-sit, half-prop herself on the edge of her own workstation table without ever once looking away from the alien cyborg. Whatever had triggered his sudden chattiness, it was something she very much wanted to encourage.

"General Grievous, would you be willing to help me understand something I learned about your people a while ago, something else related to your social attitudes?" she asked.

"Go on."

"It's about your social structure," she continued earnestly. "When I researched your species background, I kept coming across references that you males were the dominant sex. But I also found a note that you defer to females."

"Yes?"

"Well, which is it? I apologize if perhaps I'm treading on sensitive subject matter, I just couldn't find any more information about it, and it's…the discrepancy's always nagged me a little, sir, ever since I came across it."

"Oh," Grievous said, or at least he uttered a short mumbling grunt reminiscent of the word. He didn't seem to mind that she'd been snooping around about his people's habits. "There is no discrepancy. Males are dominant in matters of politics. Females see to our social lives. That is all."

"Social lives? You mean like—what? The way you interact with each other? They plan events and stuff?"

"No, no, it is much more important than that. Females…it is their duty to plan our breeding, to make good matches."

"Like arranged marriages, you mean?" Lissa said, still confused, and for some reason that amused Grievous; he actually laughed aloud, one of his harsh little coughing chuckles.

"That would be a fine thing, to tell a woman how to arrange anything," he said. "No, in this, I—all males—have very little power. We may have our preferred mates, potential mates, that we may court and befriend. We can put all the effort into impressing them that we like, but in the end it is they who chose us and allow us to live with them and father their children." He went silent a moment, turning pensive. Lissa saw the hard glint in his eyes feather out, softening, his focus shifting and growing more distant. "We have a saying on our world: Men are the custodians of the planet, women are the custodians of the people. It is very true… Females shape the genetics of future generations by their choices. Males only guard what is already there."

"You guard…" Lissa's quick mind hop-scotched about, tying together dangling threads, drawing conclusions. "So your regular military must be…male only? You don't let your women serve, do you?"

Grievous jerked his head up, his soppy interlude instantly over, looking startled. "Of course not!" he exclaimed.

His physician lifted a hand to her face and began rubbing over her lips and chin, pretending to scratch and ponder on while she hid a big grin. She'd guessed right. It was starting to fall into place for her, all the hints and certain oddities of behaviour; even Nagas's assurance that Grievous would be inclined to listen to her made better sense now. Lissa studied the big cyborg happily. How good it was to finally have a halfway genuine, casual conversation with him! And how gratifying to see him able and willing to share information about himself at last and recalling his facts and memories without hesitation or any evident lingering difficulty. He was recovering, regaining his personality, becoming whole and well again. Lissa's own pride rose up at that moment, and in her justifiable conceit over the success of her work she made one crucial error; she forgot that his psyche was, in many respects, still severely damaged and very alien.

"What would a male Kalee's most important duties be?" Lissa went on, eager to continue their talk and take advantage of his good mood while it lasted. "Protecting your family would be one, I presume."

"That is paramount, yes. Safeguarding the family, ensuring that one's wives are secure and content, getting them bred when they wish it—I was not so good at that sometimes because I was gone so much. Then we must also help protect our clan's interests, our stock and game, our hunting grounds. We all do our share and some of us specialize in that."

"Like game wardens."

"Yes! You have read of this, have you? Are familiar with this?"

"We-ll, not that much. It's more that I've known people, other aliens, who share some of your hunter-warrior traditions. There are always certain base similarities in such cultures, even some human ones."

"Huh," Grievous remarked. He didn't much care to contemplate any parallels between his own people and other species. He liked to think of the Kaleesh as being utterly unique and a little superior. "I think humans maintain such traditions only for sport. For us, it is a way of life. And not all of you practise warrior skills—we do."

"Maybe not everyone," Lissa countered mildly, "but we do have a few warriors kicking around, the Jedi Knights for one. I think their membership's still predominantly human, even though the Order's open to people of any species."

"Jedi!" Grievous spat. "They may have some skill, but they have no honour. They're assassins and murderers, not warriors."

"Oh, come now. There's nothing more goody-goody than a Jedi. They're practically—"

"It's because of Jedi that I wear this body!" Grievous interjected angrily. "They tried to kill me, assassinate me, on my own homeworld." He flipped one hand up in a derisive, dismissing gesture. "So much for your Jedi honour!"

"Wha-at?" Surely she hadn't heard right! "What do you mean, they tried to assassinate you? Jedi don't do that."

"They sabotaged my shuttle on Kalee by planting a bomb," Grievous related, forcing each word out as if through gritted teeth. "It went off and I crashed. I barely survived."

"The Jedi made your shuttle crash?" Lissa reiterated stupidly. Bewildered, she shook her head. "But that doesn't make any sense. Are you sure it was a Jedi who planted the bomb?"

"Yes! They did it!"

"You have proof of that? Someone saw them?"

A fine shudder passed through the cyborg's frame. "I— They wanted me dead," he insisted. "I know they did."

"Well, maybe so, but they still wouldn't try to assassinate you. They aren't allowed to do things like that."

"They did try! I am certain of it. San Hill said—"

"Excuse me, General," Lissa interrupted, too troubled and annoyed to be polite any longer, "but I really do think you ought to yield to my greater experience in this matter. Now, I'm no fan of the Jedi, but I do know they have these very strict rules governing their behaviour. I've never heard of them using sabotage to target anyone and I know darn well that their Council never sanctions assassination, even when it seems warranted—I even remember there being a public debate or two about that." She paused and her brow began crinkling up, her eyes narrowing with some suspicion of her own as the latter part of Grievous's last outburst sank in. "What was that you just said about San Hill?"

Grievous shuddered again. "He told me that it was the Jedi who set the bomb."

"San Hill told you that? But he's the chairman of the Intergalactic Banking Clan!"

"Yes, and—and I worked for him then. And—they rescued me."

"The Munns rescued you? From the crash site? You mean to say they were there on Kalee, conveniently present when this accident occurred?"

She stared at Grievous and he stared right back, without replying. Instead, he started clutching at his chair. The thick padding on the armrests indented deeply as his fingers began to squeeze. He drew his head in, almost ducking it, as if recoiling, yet the rest of his body sat bolt upright.

"General!" she persisted, "Does that not seem very odd to you, that they'd be right there? And the IBC, it was one of the very first organizations to join the Confederacy, wasn't it?"

Another stare. It was his wilful look, angry and defiant, laced with something else she couldn't identify yet. "No," he snapped.

Lissa was unsure of which part of her query his response was meant to answer. "Well, I know they joined up early," she replied. "Any Munns I've talked to about it have said they were Separatists long before the war started. So they must have known Count Dooku even back then. And if they were already willing to do to you what they did when you were hurt, then maybe you ought to reconsider whether it was—"

"No!"

Grievous shouted it this time, furiously. One hand came up again, to point at her, the slender digit stabbing at her through the air.

"I don't want to hear any more of this!" he cried. "I won't hear it! It was the Jedi! No one else!"

"But, sir—"

"Enough!" he roared and leapt out of his chair. Lissa got a brief impression of his body crouched to spring, his arms poised, his eyes blazing with rage yet somehow also expressing hurt and confusion, then he whirled about and stormed out in a terrific huff. Just like that. Without explanation.

Lissa, who'd straightened up onto her own feet as soon as Grievous had jumped up, began trembling herself. Wow! Evidently she'd not only stumbled onto one of his sore points, but had jabbed at it with a full payload of pointed sticks! Embarrassment crept over her, pinking her cheeks, drawing her lips back off her teeth in a self-conscious grimace. She should have clued in the instant he'd started stiffening up. She always pushed it too far, got caught up in her own rhetoric when stuck on a subject, and she knew perfectly well that it was not a safe thing to be doing with anyone who held a great deal of power over her. Then she remembered Grievous's ordering her never to lie to him, ever, and the memory of his own directive and his snooty attitude hardened her up again like nothing else. Fine! If that was how he wanted it, then that was what he'd get. She'd only pointed out the holes in his damned silly flawed assumptions, after all!

Reasoning through what had just occurred calmed the woman's own nerves and stamped out any budding guilt, and she plopped herself right down on her workstation chair again with some grim defiance of her own. Grievous had been far too angry for there not to have been some truth in her postulating. Lissa had a feeling he'd be back before long, if only to yell at her some more while he stomped around and postured, and in the meantime, she had plenty of reading to catch up on. Nothing new about the Kaleesh, though. Grievous had told her more about his people before he'd wigged out than she'd been able to find in months. She relaxed some more, her indignation fading, and sighed. That part of it had actually been very pleasant, interacting with him like that, like two normal adults…she really ought to work more on coaxing him along and trying to befriend him. It would be a lot healthier for Grievous if only he would trust someone enough to confide in them instead of always running off to stew in his miseries and rancour alone.

But for now, time to get that computer on and study!

TBC