strapped into their battle stations in full crash webbing. The air reeked of burning metal and the funk of reptilian stress hormones, and the erratically shifting gravity threatened to add a sharper stench: the faces of several of the bridge officers had already paled from healthy gray-green to nauseated pink.
The sole being on the bridge who was not strapped into a chair stalked from one side to the other, floor-length cape draped over shoulders angular as exposed bone. He ignored the jolts of impact and was unaffected by the swirl of unpredictable gravity as he paced the deck with metal-on-metal clanks; he walked on taloned creations of magnetized duranium, jointed to grab and crush like the feet of a Vratixan blood eagle.
His expression could not be read-his face was a mask of bleached ceramic armorplast stylized to evoke a humanoid skull-but the pure venom in the voice that hissed through the mask's electrosonic vocabulator made up for it.
"Either get the gravity generators calibrated or disable them altogether," he snarled at a blue-scanned image of a cringing Neimoidian engineer. "If this continues, you won't live long enough to be killed by the Republic."
"But, but, but sir-it's really up to the repair droids-"
"And because they are droids, it's useless to threaten them. So I am threatening you. Understand?"
He turned away before the stammering engineer could summon a reply. The hand he extended toward the forward viewscreen wore a jointed gauntlet of armorplast fused to its bones of duranium alloy. "Concentrate fire on Indomitable,'' he told the senior gunnery officer. "All batteries at maximum. Fire for effect. Blast that hulk out of space, and we'll make a hyper-pace jump through its wreckage."
But-the forward towers are already overloading, sir." The officer's voice trembled on the edge of panic. "They'll be at critical failure in less than a minute-"
"Burn them out."
"But sir, once they're gone-"
The rest of the senior gunnery officer's objection was lost in the wetly final crunching sound his face made under the impact of an armorplast fist. That same fist opened, seized the collar of the officer's uniform, and yanked his corpse out of the chair, ripping the crash webbing free along with it.
An expressionless skull-face turned toward the junior gunnery officer. "Congratulations on your promotion. Take your post."
"Y-y-yes, sir." The newly promoted senior gunnery officer's hands shook so badly he could barely unbuckle his crash web, and his face had gone deathly pink. "Do you understand your orders?"
"Y-y-y-"
"Do you have any objections?"
"N-n-n-"
"Very well, then," General Grievous said with flat, impenetrable calm. "Carry on."
This is General Grievous:
Durasteel. Ceramic armorplast-plated duranium. Electro-drivers and crystal circuitry.
Within them: the remnants of a living being. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't eat. He cannot laugh, and he does not cry.
A lifetime ago he was an organic sentient being. A lifetime ago he had friends, a family, an occupation; a lifetime ago he had things to love, and things to fear. Now he has none of these. Instead, he has purpose. It's built into him.
He is built to intimidate. The resemblance to a human skeleton melded with limbs styled after the legendary Krath war droids is entirely intentional. It is a face and form born of childhood's infinite nightmares.
He is built to dominate. The ceramic armorplast plates protecting limbs and torso and face can stop a burst from a starfighter's laser cannon. Those indestructible arms are ten times stronger than human, and move with the blurring speed of electronic reflexes.
He is built to eradicate. Those human-sized hands have human-sized fingers for exactly one reason: to hold a lightsaber. Four of them hang inside his cloak.
He has never constructed a lightsaber. He has never bought one, nor has he recovered one that was lost. Each and all, he has taken from the dead hands of Jedi he has killed. Personally.
He
The sole being on the bridge who was not strapped into a chair stalked from one side to the other, floor-length cape draped over shoulders angular as exposed bone. He ignored the jolts of impact and was unaffected by the swirl of unpredictable gravity as he paced the deck with metal-on-metal clanks; he walked on taloned creations of magnetized duranium, jointed to grab and crush like the feet of a Vratixan blood eagle.
His expression could not be read-his face was a mask of bleached ceramic armorplast stylized to evoke a humanoid skull-but the pure venom in the voice that hissed through the mask's electrosonic vocabulator made up for it.
"Either get the gravity generators calibrated or disable them altogether," he snarled at a blue-scanned image of a cringing Neimoidian engineer. "If this continues, you won't live long enough to be killed by the Republic."
"But, but, but sir-it's really up to the repair droids-"
"And because they are droids, it's useless to threaten them. So I am threatening you. Understand?"
He turned away before the stammering engineer could summon a reply. The hand he extended toward the forward viewscreen wore a jointed gauntlet of armorplast fused to its bones of duranium alloy. "Concentrate fire on Indomitable,'' he told the senior gunnery officer. "All batteries at maximum. Fire for effect. Blast that hulk out of space, and we'll make a hyper-pace jump through its wreckage."
But-the forward towers are already overloading, sir." The officer's voice trembled on the edge of panic. "They'll be at critical failure in less than a minute-"
"Burn them out."
"But sir, once they're gone-"
The rest of the senior gunnery officer's objection was lost in the wetly final crunching sound his face made under the impact of an armorplast fist. That same fist opened, seized the collar of the officer's uniform, and yanked his corpse out of the chair, ripping the crash webbing free along with it.
An expressionless skull-face turned toward the junior gunnery officer. "Congratulations on your promotion. Take your post."
"Y-y-yes, sir." The newly promoted senior gunnery officer's hands shook so badly he could barely unbuckle his crash web, and his face had gone deathly pink. "Do you understand your orders?"
"Y-y-y-"
"Do you have any objections?"
"N-n-n-"
"Very well, then," General Grievous said with flat, impenetrable calm. "Carry on."
This is General Grievous:
Durasteel. Ceramic armorplast-plated duranium. Electro-drivers and crystal circuitry.
Within them: the remnants of a living being. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't eat. He cannot laugh, and he does not cry.
A lifetime ago he was an organic sentient being. A lifetime ago he had friends, a family, an occupation; a lifetime ago he had things to love, and things to fear. Now he has none of these. Instead, he has purpose. It's built into him.
He is built to intimidate. The resemblance to a human skeleton melded with limbs styled after the legendary Krath war droids is entirely intentional. It is a face and form born of childhood's infinite nightmares.
He is built to dominate. The ceramic armorplast plates protecting limbs and torso and face can stop a burst from a starfighter's laser cannon. Those indestructible arms are ten times stronger than human, and move with the blurring speed of electronic reflexes.
He is built to eradicate. Those human-sized hands have human-sized fingers for exactly one reason: to hold a lightsaber. Four of them hang inside his cloak.
He has never constructed a lightsaber. He has never bought one, nor has he recovered one that was lost. Each and all, he has taken from the dead hands of Jedi he has killed. Personally.
He
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