George Pollock, Jr.
Newport News, VA 23608
GJJPJR@aol.com
No Greater Love
by George Pollock, Jr.
Where are the windows? Kiyone wondered.
You'd think the new Galaxy Police headquarters would have windows, she thought.
You'd think the inspector general's office would have them, at least …
But it didn't.
She looked around: a utilitarian room with bright white walls. A career of pictures, certificates and honors
covered them. Tall, potted palmlike plants stood in the corners, their green a shocking contrast to the walls.
How could it be so bright in here? There was only standard lighting in the ceiling – though it seemed
brilliant. And there were no windows.
Where were the windows?
How could you tell what's going on in the universe outside without windows?
The inspector general sighed and continued reading the datapad in his hands.
At that, the female officer with the long dark-blue hair refocused on him. An older man – late middle age,
at most -- sat across from her in uniform at an efficient but magnificent wooden desk. He was powerfully
built and solidly trim. Broad-shouldered, as if the entire weight of life could rest on him and he wouldn't
notice.
A head of full, rich white hair. A darkening, foreboding face highlighted by a short, thick beard and
mustache, both of white. A face that seemed to radiate innate authority.
And his eyes, she thought. His eyes …
Dark and deep. As if he had seen everything possible in the Galaxy Police. Eyes that didn't admit of
surprise because he had seen every one there had been. And knew of every one there could ever be.
But they were soft and understanding. As if his power were tempered by experience and wisdom. Even
— Kiyone thought — by mercy.
Which was something she suspected she would need. Because every Galaxy Police officer who ever
faced an internal-affairs investigation, as she did now, had come out of it with the same observation:
Better the devil on a bad day than the inspector general on a good one.
And she wasn't sure this was going to be a good day …
How else could she have ended up here?
Which struck her: For the life of her, she couldn't exactly recall how she got there. But for some reason,
she had a sense of the signs outside his office. And she couldn't explain that.
But she knew — somehow, she knew — there was a wall plate of polished brass:
Inspector General
And below it, incongruously, was an electronic message sign:
ON DUTY
So she had … reported. Reported to the bright, spartan office.
As she knew she had to.
Finally, he laid the datapad on his desk and looked at her. To Kiyone, his face seemed almost lost in the
glow from the walls behind him. But she could see his eyes. And she had the feeling they already knew
every thought and answer and excuse — and even every lie — she could offer. So far, she hadn't had to lie.
She deeply didn't want to; it would just come back to hurt her. Badly. So she decided it wasn't worth it.
She was gambling on the inspector general's mercy. If he had any today. If he ever had any.
He folded his hands slowly on the desk. "Let's go over it again."
Kiyone sighed painfully, crossed her arms, glanced away and shifted in her chair uncomfortably.
"I'm aware this will start to get old," he said, unimpressed by her irritation, "but I'd point out that this is
as much for your benefit as mine, Detective." He leaned forward. "Is that clear?"
The policewoman was silent for an instant. At last, she straightened slightly and faced him again. "Yes,
sir," she said respectfully.
He leaned back. "Start from the beginning."
Again, Kiyone thought …
"On the day in question," she began formally, "Detective Mihoshi Kuramitsu and I received a bulletin
from GP headquarters about an Orion Syndicate drug-smuggling operation in the Sol system. The suspects
were expected to land in a remote area of Earth …"
"Mountainous rural Japan," the inspector general noted.
Kiyone paused, thrown off by the interruption. "… Yes, sir … There, they were expected to transfer the
contraband, which informants had indicated was bound for the Vega system. The informants said Earth was
likely chosen for the transfer because of its off-limits designation, as the indigenous sentient species …"
"Humans," he specified.
Kiyone nodded. "… had not made their own official first contact with off-world intelligence yet.
Detective Kuramitsu and I were ordered to observe and record the transfer, thus becoming witnesses for
future judicial proceedings. The suspects were to be apprehended by GP backup after they left Earth."
She stopped. She knew what he was going to ask at this point. He had already asked it many times today.
And he asked it again:
"You and Detective Kuramitsu were ordered only to observe and record the transfer?"
"Yes."
"Did your orders make any mention of engaging the suspects on Earth, in any manner?"
She closed her blue eyes. "No, sir …," she said quietly.
"I can't hear you, Detective," he replied sharply.
Her startled eyes flew open. "No, sir!" she repeated a bit louder. "Our orders did not include any
instructions on engaging the suspects."
The inspector general studied the young woman for a moment. She sensed he was making sure that she
was positively reminded who was in charge here. Almost as quickly, his expression lost its edge. He waved
a hand curtly. "Describe what happened once the suspects landed on Earth."
Kiyone collected herself. This was the toughest part. The part she knew she couldn't completely explain.
What was worse, she thought: He knew that, too.
"The suspects landed in remote rural Japan, as predicted," she recalled. "Mihoshi and I put our ship,
Yagami, under cloak to approach the area. Once on the ground, we proceeded to observe and record the
transfer of the contraband. There were only three suspects — two from the transfer ship and one from the
ship that would take the drugs to the Vega system …"
Now she proceeded cautiously, delicately:
"It … struck me … that if the suspects were … ambushed … while they were physically transferring the
drugs … we would have the … element of surprise … We might … collar them then … and call in the
backup to take them off-planet …"
"I see." He pondered another matter, then regarded her a shade more critically. "What did you hope to
accomplish by engaging the suspects against orders, Detective?"
Kiyone laced her fingers in her lap and paced her response. "I hoped … to make the collar more …
quickly … than planned … and thus reduce the risk … that the suspects would … elude … the backup …
once they left Earth …"
He considered it. "Did you discuss this scenario with your partner?"
"Yes, sir …"
"And what did she have to say?"
Another deep sigh. "Mihoshi … agreed with it … She usually went along with … my suggestions …"
She gazed downward slightly. "God help her for that …," she whispered.
The inspector general was silent for a moment. Then he glanced away and cleared his throat
conspicuously. "Detective Kuramitsu's status in this matter," he finally said, "is … unclear … at the
moment." He faced the policewoman again. "Proceed."
Kiyone was still looking down. This was the part she hated most. Every time she retold it, it was like
reliving every instant. Every horrible, painful moment.
But she knew she had to. So she looked up at the inspector general again and collected herself.
And continued.
"I suggested … that we make a pincer movement toward the suspects under the cover of nearby brush —
Mihoshi on the left, me on the right. I told Mihoshi to stay low but visible to me until I gave her the signal
to surprise the suspects. We advanced to the brush line with weapons drawn, and I was about to give the
signal … when … Mihoshi …"
Kiyone stopped. She didn't want to say what came next. It hurt. The thought that she had come to this
because of something so stupid was painful. It was unjust. It was so … unfair …
It was cruel, she thought.
"Go on," the male officer said, as if knowing what she would say next. Which he did.
She took a deep breath. "Mihoshi," she said, "stepped … on … a twig …" She closed her eyes again and
shook her head in disbelief. "A God-damned twig …"
The inspector general considered it for a moment. "I doubt the twig … was fated … to give your position
away, Detective."
What a strange thing to say, the policewoman wondered. It seemed as out of place as worrying about a
baby bird falling out of its nest in the middle of a great battle. Was he getting bored with the story? she
asked herself. My career, my future — my freedom — is on the line, and he's worried about a twig? Did he
know what this means to me? Does he really?
"You lost the element of surprise," he observed, snapping her out of her reverie.
"Yes …," she conceded. "I immediately looked in Mihoshi's direction … and saw her looking down at
the twig … Then she looked up at me. I knew what she was thinking. I'd seen the expression on her a lot …
way too much …"
"Which was …?"
Kiyone couldn't help herself. Critical mockery of her absent friend seized her and animated her face like
a puppet master would.
Her eyes went as wide as they could. Her head cocked to one side. And in her best impression of a
bubble-headed, big-haired blonde, she said simply:
"Oops!"
Immediately, she dropped the façade and glanced away. She suddenly felt guilty for making fun of
Mihoshi. Not when she knew what had happened next to her partner. She felt like she had just kicked a
wounded animal for the fun of it.
She felt small.
It seemed in the silence afterward that the man across the desk could feel her discomfort, her shame.
"Continue," he finally said, quietly.
She sighed. "We … did lose the element of surprise … I yelled, 'NOW!' to Mihoshi and stood up.
Mihoshi also stood up, and with weapons drawn, I identified us as Galaxy Police and ordered the suspects
to put the containers of contraband down slowly. But … even then …"
She halted. Why do I have to tell all this again? she thought. He knows what happened next. I've told him.
I've told him a dozen times now. Why is he making me go through this again?
Does he like seeing me suffer? Does he enjoy that? Is he that cruel?
"Even then …" the inspector general prompted.
Oh, God, help me, she prayed.
Kiyone swallowed hard. "Even then …," she said, "… the twig snapping gave the suspects enough time
… to react … They already had their weapons drawn …
"And …
"… they fired at us …
"I remember red blaster rounds … flying at us like a plague of locusts …
"I dropped back behind the brush immediately. The branches and leaves above me disappeared … like a
scythe cut them off …
"And … I heard …
" …a scream …"
The male officer propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers in front of his chin. He studied the
blue-and-white-uniformed woman seated in front of him: She was trying to maintain a professional
demeanor, but her hands were clasped tightly together. And though it was by no means hot in the office,
her orange headband was slightly darkened with sweat.
"It was," he recalled from previous tellings, "Detective Kuramitsu screaming."
After a moment, Kiyone whispered, "Yes …"
"She had been hit by the suspects' gunfire."
A pause, then a nod. "When I looked over … I saw her on the ground on her left side. She was bleeding
from the right hip and thigh, and her hand …" Kiyone put her right hand on her own right hip. "… was
covering the wound …"
She looked lost for a moment. "It was covered with blood … And she kept screaming …
"… my name …"
"What did you do then?" he asked.
The female officer was looking down at her own right hand intently. For an instant, it seemed as if she
hadn't heard him.
"Detective?" he asked in a louder tone.
She started, then straightened in her chair. "Yes, sir. I'm … sorry …" A heavy sigh. "The suspects were
saturating the brush with gunfire, so I crawled along the ground over to Mihoshi. The top of her uniform
slacks was already soaked with blood, and I pulled away her hand … to see how badly … she was hurt …"
He glanced at the datapad on his desk. "Very badly, apparently."
Kiyone pulled her right hand away from her hip to illustrate. "When I pulled her hand away …" She
shuddered. "… her entire right hip was …"
She struggled for the right word. Finally, it was the simplest:
"… gone …"
Again, she started studying her right hand.
"She kept screaming … my name …," she repeated absently.
The inspector general leaned back in his chair. Now they were at the most difficult part. The part that had
required the policewoman to tell the story again and again.
The part he couldn't get her to bring out.
"What happened … next?" he asked.
Still looking at her hand, she replied, "I don't know …" Finally, she lowered her hand to her lap. "To be
completely honest, sir, I don't remember much after that."
"Obviously, you survived."
"God knows how." She noticed that he nodded nonchalantly at that. "I know I don't. I don't even know
what happened to Mihoshi. Sir, what happened to her? Is she all right? I can't get anything from anyone
here."
Then she thought. "I didn't even notice too many others here today …"
"As I said before," the man noted, "Detective Kuramitsu's status is … unclear … at the moment."
"With all due respect, sir, what does that mean?"
"It means her status is unclear, Detective." His tone signaled that she was to leave the issue at that. "Let's
return to the incident in question: The suspects were firing at you, and Detective Kuramitsu was severely
wounded." Then he considered his approach. "Even … possibly … mortally wounded …"
His implication sank in, and Kiyone shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, are you saying …?"
"Detective," he interrupted suddenly, "do you like your partner?"
The surprise threw her off, as intended. "What?"
"Do you like Detective Kuramitsu?"
She actually had to think about it. "Well … for the most part … I suppose. It's kind of … difficult … to
be totally … comfortable … around her …"
At last, all she could do was shrug. "She can be … frustrating …"
The inspector general took up the datapad, tapped some keys and got a response tone. He turned slightly
in his chair. And he read. And read. And read some more.
He eventually looked up at her, out of the corner of his eye. "Frustrating enough to kick her in the face
when she was sleeping on a futon, Detective?"
Shock paralyzed Kiyone and took her breath away. Her blue eyes widened.
Truth, she learned, felt very, very, very cold ...
"Who …?" she finally choked out.
"Detective Kuramitsu herself, actually. Apparently, she was joking — joking, mind you — to her
grandfather — the marshal of the Galaxy Police, Detective — that she was such a heavy sleeper when you
roomed together on Earth, you had to kick her in the face to wake her up." He paused. "Is that true,
Detective?"
"Sir …"
"Yes or no, Detective?"
Not for the first time today, she realized that a lie would just come back and hurt her. Badly. So she
avoided one.
She bowed her head. "Yes …," she said at last, "it's … true …"
"And the yelling?"
She faced him again. "Yes, I did yell at her … from time to time …"
"And the strong-arming that sometimes bordered on physical attacks?"
Kiyone was beginning to wonder just how much Mihoshi had shared with the marshal. "Yes … I'm …
sorry for that …"
"AND that you openly blamed Detective Kuramitsu — not yourself — for your lack of advancement at
the Galaxy Police? And that you did so not only to your fellow officers but to civilians — specifically, a
bounty hunter named Nagi?"
A deep sigh. "Sir … I'm sorry for everything … I know it's weak to say that now …"
The inspector general put down the datapad, crossed his arms and regarded her. "There was also a period
…," he began, as if trying to recall a vague memory, "when Detective Kuramitsu was missing in action and
presumed dead. Do you remember that?"
She nodded reluctantly.
"Isn't it a fact that during that time — when you were stationed alone on your ship, Yagami — you were
delighted with the thought that Detective Kuramitsu was dead?"
From somewhere, Kiyone felt indignant. "Sir," she answered, "I won't deny I felt that at the time. Not at
this point. But may I ask how you found that out?"
"Yagami's internal video logs. In one incident, you told a picture of Detective Kuramitsu at a memorial
shrine in the common room that you were happy she was dead."
She took a deep breath. "Oh … my … God …"
"Don't change the subject," he advised. "I mention all this to back up a theory I have at this point about
the incident on Earth. Shall I explain it to you, Detective?"
His question, she knew, wasn't a request. Not really. He was actually telling her that he was going to
explain it. So again, she nodded.
She immediately wished she hadn't.
His visage suddenly turned dark, and his eyes gleamed so brightly, they seemed to shine. She didn't know
whether it was from the brilliance in the office. Or whether it was from somewhere within him.
"I see an officer who disobeyed orders," he began in a low rumble. Somehow, and she wasn't sure how,
Kiyone felt it drive her deeper into the chair she was sitting in. "I see an officer who hates her partner to the
point of wishing her dead. I see an officer whose poor judgment gets that partner severely wounded in a
gunbattle with suspects."
He leaned forward, which made the policewoman feel even smaller. Now his tone was calculating. "I see
an officer presented an … opportunity …"
She was silent.
"Her partner is lying wounded before her. They're under fire. They're hidden behind brush — even the
suspects can't see them for those few seconds. Her partner — the partner she hates — is … helpless. She
can't fight for her life …
"The officer responsible for the situation is presented … an opportunity …," he repeated. The final word
sent a shiver through Kiyone.
"What if …," he rumbled, "the officer sees a chance … to be rid of her partner …?"
Oh, dear God, she thought as her soul froze. "No …," she whispered weakly.
"One shot. In the face. The forehead. Through the heart. One shot. That's all. Simple."
Kiyone shook her head slowly as the image he was drawing played in her mind: The red blast of energy
from her gun. The noise. The explosion and spray of bone and blood. "No …," she choked out.
"Chalk it up to the suspects' gunfire. Easy: 'Detective Kuramitsu, killed in the line of duty' …"
She sat upright. "No."
"No questions asked. Everyone knows the risks; Mihoshi just gambled and lost."
"NO!"
"And you walk away clean …"
"NO!!" she yelled.
Instantly, he stood up and leaned over the desk, propping himself with his arms. "I put it to you,
Detective …," he said in an almost-vicious low tone that cut into her soul, "that you … KILLED your
partner …You aimed your gun while she was wounded on the ground AND BLEW HER BRAINS OUT!!"
Kiyone stood so fast, she knocked the chair over. "NO, SIR!! I'D NEVER DO THAT!! NEVER!!"
"I've got people who will testify to hearing you tell Mihoshi on several occasions, 'I'll KILL you!' "
"I didn't MEAN it!! That was FRUSTRATION!!"
He studied her for a moment as she caught her breath. "All right …," he finally said, "then what
HAPPENED out there, Detective? What happened NEXT?!"
Slowly, the officer lifted her face to the warm, brilliant lights above. And she closed her blue eyes and
thought. "I … don't … know …"
"That's too convenient," he replied caustically.
She faced him again. "With God as my witness," she said quietly, "I don't remember anything after
Mihoshi was hit, sir …"
"You're either blocking it, Detective," the inspector general suggested menacingly, "or … you're lying
..."
Kiyone bristled. "I have NEVER lied in my capacity as a Galaxy Police detective, sir …" The edge on
the last word was blade-bright, knife-sharp.
He straightened and considered it. "So you're not lying when you deny killing Detective Kuramitsu?"
"I … did … NOT … kill … Mihoshi," she said, pacing her response. "I don't even know whether she's
dead … SIR … All I know is …"
She stopped because the thought waiting to be spoken surprised her. She never thought that in a thousand
years, she'd say what she was just about to tell him.
"All I know is …," she repeated in a more tender tone, "… is that I would NEVER kill …"
Say it, she told herself.
You're being accused of murder. Forget the frustration. Forget the million aggravations that Mihoshi
caused you. Forget your damned pride.
Say what's in your heart.
Say it …
"… my best … friend …"
He nodded. Strangely, the female officer noticed, he didn't seem surprised. His face, in fact, bore the
quiet satisfaction of a teacher whose student had finally understood an important lesson.
"But … it would be a tempting thought … wouldn't it …?" he asked gently.
The truth, she thought. Only the truth will help you now. "Maybe … God forgive me …," she whispered.
"But … I could … never …"
She shook her head. "Sir … I was an orphan … I never had someone to … talk to … or … laugh with …
or … just look back on a day with … before I met Mihoshi. As frustrating as she is, I feel …"
What was the word? she asked herself. And then she knew:
"I feel … complete … with her …"
She shook her head again, as if to expel a final, unpalatable thought. "Kill her …?" she asked no one,
quietly. Then she faced him squarely and spoke like she was professing love. "I would die trying to save
her, sir …"
The inspector general sighed. "You truly can't remember what happened after Detective Kuramitsu was
wounded, can you?"
Kiyone gazed down at the floor. "No." Then she regarded him again. "Sir … is Mihoshi … dead …?"
After a silence, he came around the desk and stood in front of her. "THAT, Detective," he said in a
bizarrely official tone, "depended totally on your true feelings for her. I had to learn those before I
determined her status. More important, you had to understand your own feelings toward her before the
outcome was decided. You had to completely accept your feelings toward Detective Kuramitsu before you
could accept fully what you finally did in that gunbattle."
The policewoman was confused. Profoundly confused. "But, sir … I truly don't remember what I did in
that fight."
Unexpectedly, he reached out and clasped her right hand with both of his. They were warm, comforting,
secure. She felt a sudden calm wash over her — a calm that no matter what happened next, she would be all
right. Everything would be all right.
She felt at peace.
"Child," he said tenderly, "please forgive me for putting you through this. But the fact is … it's
impossible for you to remember something that hasn't happened yet …"
With that, his right hand rose and gently cupped the back of her head. For an instant, she felt his
reassuring warmth through her long dark-blue hair, even all the way through her. All the way, she felt, into
her soul.
At which, darkness deeper than her hair — deeper than sleep — overtook her, and the brilliant white
office went away.
"OH, GOD, KIYONE!! I'M HIT!! I'M HIT!! KIYONE!!"
A nightmare of dust and dirt and dead leaves. And bright-red shots of death, blasting branches and
gouging the earth.
Kiyone's heart stopped. Then it started again.
Mihoshi was screaming and writhing grotesquely on the ground — on soil already scarlet with the blood
pouring from the crater that had been her right hip. Her left cheek was smeared and scratched by the grit as
the policewoman coiled and uncoiled in agony. Dead yellow grass and brown leaves and dirt were
enmeshed in her abundant blond hair.
"KIYONE!! OH, GOD, KIYONE!! HELP ME!! KIYONE!! PLEASE!! KIYONE!!"
The dark-haired woman caught her breath, but she still was breathing fast. She lay flat on her stomach
next to Mihoshi, her blaster in her right hand.
Sweet God, she thought in an unreal calm …
… where am ..?
What was…?
Who … ?
There would be no answers that day.
Blasts of energy snapped her back to the moment. They were closing in on her. And on Mihoshi.
Mihoshi …
Helpless Mihoshi …
Her …
… friend …
Her … best friend …
Dying …
No, Kiyone thought ...
No …
… not today.
Not while I live …
She reached over to her wrist com, popped open a small cover and pressed the black button revealed. The
Galaxy Police signal for backup: Officer is down and needs assistance.
They called it the "body-bag button." If you didn't use it, you might go home in a body bag. And even if
you did use it, you still might go home in one. Often, it was an officer's last, desperate act.
"BEHIND THOSE BUSHES!!"
A man's harsh voice ripped through Kiyone. One of the suspects. Had to be. And shockingly close.
One last chance.
A quiet came and surprised her: She could see Mihoshi in pain, but her cries seemed remote. The sounds
of the woodlands that they were in had been muted away. Red-sparked explosions of dirt erupted closer and
closer, only in bizarre silence.
The policewoman reached out her hand and touched the face of her one true friend.
Mihoshi, she thought, I can't take away your pain. Not your pain right now. Not any of the pain you've
ever had …
… had from … me …
Forgive me, friend …
But … by God … for you …
… I can do this …
Faster than panic, Kiyone jumped up, steadied her blaster and aimed.
A dozen meters away, three men — advancing on foot through a field — stopped. All were armed. All
were startled. But only for an instant. An instant was all the more they lived.
Kiyone let out a scream that shocked heaven. And frightened hell.
And she fired. Three times.
The man on the far right spun insanely when he was hit square in the chest, and he toppled. A sliver of
an instant later, the man in the middle fell away, too.
But the third …
Time slowed, it seemed: Kiyone saw him raise his weapon and fire. She fired. The lethal red beams
needled their way through the air and passed each other with surreal slowness. Each speared closer to its
victim.
She felt the shot full in her chest. The blinding flash, the horrifying heat.
And then, not a thing.
She felt as if her body had been cut out from under her and her mind left floating in the air. For an instant
more, she knew — but couldn't feel — that she was still standing. Long enough to see her own shot smash
the final man over backward. He flipped, hit the ground heavily face-down and didn't move.
A moment later, in a blur of yellow grass and brown leaves, Kiyone's mind fell to earth, as well.
Nothing. She felt nothing. All she saw was Mihoshi's wretched, crying face, her left cheek smeared now
by the tiny puddle of mud that her tears had made beneath her.
Nothing. Kiyone felt nothing.
But finally, she saw Mihoshi close her eyes and whisper among her tears:
"Oh, God … Kiyone … help .. me … don't … leave … me … help … don't leave … Kiyone …"
Darkness deeper than sleep overtook Kiyone, and her best friend went away.
It was gray and overcast and wet, and it looked cold. If it was cold, Kiyone couldn't feel it. She felt
nothing.
She was at the Masaki shrine, at one end of the courtyard out front. How she ended up there, she wasn't
sure — but somehow, it felt right to be there. And for reasons she couldn't explain, that was all she needed
to know.
At first, she thought that she was the only person there, but then the sliding front doors of the shrine
opened. Katsuhito came out in his full Shinto priestly attire: white robe and tall conical black hat. He was
carrying a white wooden box about the size of a shoebox, and he seemed unusually somber.
She recognized the box: It was the type that cremated remains were buried in.
Tenchi followed him, also dressed for his sacred shrine duties. He, too, looked exceptionally sad.
There was an empty pause at the door. Then, faintly, Kiyone heard the regular thumping of something
hitting a wooden floor. A moment later, Mihoshi appeared. She was using crutches and lifting her right foot
slightly. Methodically, she made her way across the shrine's porch. Tenchi helped her gently down the
short stairs to the courtyard.
The blond woman appeared devastated, as if she were hollowed out and incomplete inside.
Out of nowhere, Kiyone felt something. Joy. Very quiet joy, but it was there. Mihoshi was alive. And
Kiyone was filled with an inexplicable desire to rush over and embrace her partner and never let her go
again.
Never thought I'd feel anything like that for her, she marveled, and she went to move.
And couldn't.
She felt her mind telling her body to move, but nothing happened. She looked down: She was standing
firmly on the courtyard, dressed in her blue-and-white police uniform. Her feet weren't caught among the
stones of the yard. They just wouldn't move.
What the hell? she thought with a hint of concern. So she called out to Mihoshi.
And couldn't. Again, her mind was telling her mouth to move, her voice to sound. They just wouldn't.
It was, Kiyone realized, as if she were sealed in a transparent tube and could only watch what has
happening. For an instant, she thought that just over the horizon of her mind, she could feel the cold breath
of fear.
And just as quickly, it was gone. Why, she didn't know, but a calm filled her — that no matter what
happened next, she would be all right. Everything would be all right.
She felt at peace.
Behind Mihoshi, the rest of the Masaki household left the shrine. Ayeka had an arm around smaller
Sasami's shoulder. The older alien princess was striving to look strong and in control for her younger sister,
but there was an underlying aura of sadness on her face. For her part, the aqua-haired Sasami's pink-red
eyes were moist. She sniffled once and brushed away tracks of tears on her cheeks.
Ryoko walked out stonily, trying to seem impervious to emotion. She was trying too hard, though, and
Kiyone saw it. She had seen the same expression on Galaxy Police officers who wanted to seem
invulnerable to the tragedies that they sometimes witnessed. Just as the officers truly weren't hardened in
their hearts, the space pirate's gold eyes had a slight, revealing mist. Given the right mood in this instance,
Kiyone knew, Ryoko would burst out in sobs.
At the end were Nobuyuki and Washu the scientist. She carried a polished dark-wooden box. Nobuyuki,
Tenchi's cipher of a father in the best of times, seemed to be the most comfortable, after Katsuhito.
Whatever the group was doing, Nobuyuki knew his place. It was as if he had done this all before and
accepted it calmly.
The procession went to the other end of the courtyard — where Kiyone finally noticed the princesses'
wooden guardians, Azaka and Kamadake, standing near a low black stone slab. Nearby was the black-
obelisk grave of Tenchi's mother, Achika. The policewoman sighed: She had met Lady Achika passingly in
literally another time, another place — in a trip through time when Achika was a schoolgirl. In the short
time that Kiyone had known Achika, the officer had seen the strength and courage that the descendant of
planet Jurai had given her son. A fine woman, she thought — and a fine son.
At the slab, Katsuhito performed rituals over the white wooden box, then held it before Mihoshi. The
blond woman had been slowly breaking down during the rites, and now she sobbed openly. She leaned on
her crutches and falteringly took the box in her hands. After a tearful moment, she lifted the box to her face
and kissed it. She rested a cheek on the top of the box and cried a little more. Finally, after a gentle touch
on an arm by Tenchi, she returned the box to the priest.
Washu walked up with the dark-wooden box and opened it. From within, she withdrew a purple satin
ribbon that unfolded heavily. At the end of the ribbon, there appeared a military-type medal that Kiyone
recognized: the Galaxy Police Medal of Valor.
Washu placed the medal atop the box in the priest's hands, stepped back and bowed. She paused by
Mihoshi. The scientist embraced the policewoman tenderly, offered a consoling whisper and patted her
warmly on her back. Finally, she returned to her former place.
Katsuhito turned slowly toward the slab, then placed the white box and the medal in a deep niche in the
black stone. He gave a dignified nod to each of the guardians.
The wooden beings started to glow. Their auras merged. And from behind the slab — hidden until now
by the dark object — a black obelisk arose from where it had lain on the ground. It had a projection at its
base, and once the obelisk was over the niche, the guardians lowered its projection slowly into the slab with
a grating, gritty, rasping sound. A final, deep clinky boom echoed across the courtyard when stone finally
met stone.
Across the courtyard, Kiyone could see the Galaxy Police symbol engraved near the top of the obelisk.
Below the device, she could make out the strange Earth symbols that Tenchi had taught her to read — the
kanji used by his people.
Her final sadness was in the monument's words:
Kiyone Makibi
Our Beloved
The sadness passed. Again, she felt nothing. She watched Katsuhito offer a final prayer before the
monument.
"I never got to say … goodbye …" Kiyone whispered.
"It always amazes me. That's what almost everyone says."
She knew the voice. She knew without looking.
She just knew.
She turned toward the voice.
The inspector general.
His profound eyes were cast toward the group now heading for the steps down the shrine's hill. "Still," he
said, his glance not moving, "you're lucky. Some people have no one to feel their loss."
He finally faced her. "You have no idea how sad that is. No idea."
The policewoman studied him in silence. "Who ……………... ARE … you …?" she asked. "Really …?"
"I'm the inspector general."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "Of … what …?"
For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then he waved his hands slowly, with no particular
purpose, seemingly indicating this thing or that — something in particular, or all that she saw. At last, he
put his arms down. An almost-sheepish, almost-playful smile spread across his face.
Then he shrugged.
"Everything."
Kiyone thought she knew what he meant. She thought she knew. But it wasn't possible. It couldn't be.
Things like THAT don't happen to me, she thought.
Mihoshi happens to me, she mused …
"It was on the signs," he observed.
"What signs?"
"The signs outside my office, Detective."
She gave him a puzzled look. He recited, "Inspector General. On Duty."
A deeper puzzled look.
He smiled. "I …" He paused. "… G … O …"
Her jaw dropped. "Ooooooh … my ….
"PLEASE!!" he interrupted sharply, holding out a hand to halt her. Then he offered a devilish grin and
waved the hand slightly. "No autographs …"
She collected herself and surveyed him from head to toe. "This … is … you …?"
"Wellll …, for you, yes. I tend to appear as whatever will get someone to stop and pay complete attention
to me. In your case, I'm the inspector general."
"Wonder what Ryoko would see," she muttered.
"Ooooh … you don't want to know …," he said. "But when I talked with Mihoshi, I looked like her
grandfather, the marshal."
Kiyone's eyes were curious again. "When did you talk to Mihoshi …?"
"When she passed out after the gunbattle. She begged to live; I told her she would. She also wanted you
to be all right. I told her you would be."
She looked back at the new black obelisk, then regarded him coolly. "I think you struck out on that one,"
she suggested dryly.
"I told her you would be all right, and you are. I didn't say you would live."
Crestfallen, she bowed her face toward the ground. "Oh …"
"Mihoshi didn't understand that, either, so I had to explain it to her when she was put under for her hip-
replacement surgery. She was angry that you were gone. Anger is one of the stages she had to go through.
Denial is another. Acceptance comes later."
Kiyone sighed and faced him again. "What … happens now?"
He hesitated. "Wellll …, that's kind of a delicate matter …"
She was blunt: "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"
He was imperial: "NO. But NEITHER are you going to heaven. NOT right away."
"Story of my life," she quipped.
"You weren't evil, Detective, but neither were you completely good. No one ever is, but you could have
been much kinder to Mihoshi. You had chances and choices for that, but more often than not, you didn't
take them."
She was silent. Offering excuses about a frustrating blonde was useless now.
"But …," he continued, "you did save her life. That saved you. The question is: To what extent?"
"OK …," she ventured, "what's the answer?"
He chuckled. "Know what happens to good cops?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"They become guardian angels. For each life that enters existence. Or there are cases like Mihoshi's."
"What about her?"
"Wellll …, after that last gunbattle, her guardian retired. Said it was the last straw. Can't say I blamed the
soul ..."
A picture appeared in Kiyone's mind. A picture she didn't like. A picture she really didn't like. She
started shaking her head slowly. "Noooo …," she said quietly. "Oh, no, no, no … Noooo …" She saw the
smile growing on his face. "NO!!" she yelled.
"You don't have to," he noted. "You can be someone else's guardian, if you want to. That's the other
option."
She was stunned. "I can?"
"Certainly. And after about 1,500 people's lifetimes, you're a shoo-in."
She was more stunned. "Fifteen … hundred …?"
"Or be Mihoshi's guardian for her lifetime. It's an express ticket upstairs. Believe me."
The policewoman pondered it. Then she began to regard him cautiously, warily. "Tell me the truth … I
have to know … This is really … damnation … for me … isn't it?"
"If it were," he replied quietly, "you wouldn't have to ask. You'd know."
Kiyone thought about that — and about her prospects. "Another lifetime with Mihoshi …?"
"Wellll …, you'll find that time goes by relatively fast around here. In fact, I think you'll really like
Mihoshi's first child. It'll be a girl, and she'll be a lot like you: She'll be frustrated by her mother's
klutziness but love her, deep down. And she'll join the Galaxy Police and bring great honor to her name."
"Marshal Kuramitsu will be glad someone will carry on the name. I know that much."
"Wellll …, I wasn't thinking of her family name. Actually, Mihoshi will take her husband's family
name."
She glanced back at the cold, hard, gray stone steps. Most of the group was on its way down, but Tenchi
had stayed behind to help Mihoshi on her crutches as they kept near the side of the stairs. Kiyone saw the
kindness and caring in his brown eyes.
And she wondered …
"No," the inspector general said, "not him. His destiny lies elsewhere. On the other hand, Mihoshi's
husband will be perhaps the bravest man to ever live."
"Really?"
"Wellll …, he'll have to be, to be married to Mihoshi, right?"
"Oh, yeah …"
"What I was thinking of," he resumed, "was the girl's first name."
"What's that?"
He beamed at her divinely. "Mihoshi will name her first child 'Kiyone.' "
For the first time in a long, long time, Kiyone felt the warmth of friendship remembered across the years.
"Oooooh …," she said, suddenly deeply satisfied.
She glanced back at her partner on the steps. The cold, hard, gray stone steps. Slick with a passing rain.
Covered with the first leaves of fall. Slowly, Tenchi guided her on her crutches.
At that moment, Kiyone put it all together:
Cold, hard, gray stone steps.
Wet leaves.
Mihoshi on crutches …
And she knew what she had to do.
"Oh … my … God …," she sighed.
"Yo." It was all that the inspector general said. Or needed to.
She turned back to him. She started to speak but felt something tickle her right cheek. Absently, she
raised a hand to brush it away. But she felt that touching the thing was like touching her long dark-blue hair
— a part of her. She looked at it as the light slowly grew where she stood.
A white, ephemeral feather.
She turned further and saw a host of them curling around her from her back. Looking to her left, another
bank of feathers curled the same.
The light got brighter. She looked up, expecting to see the sun breaking through the clouds.
The clouds were still there. But just above her was bright white brilliance.
Just as it had been in the inspector general's office.
And she knew then and forever that everything would be all right.
A final time, she viewed him. "Excuse me, sir," she said, entirely at peace, "but I think I'm on duty."
His smile warmed her soul. "Carry on, Detective …"
Tenchi didn't see the wet leaf. Mihoshi certainly didn't.
But one of her crutches found it on the cold, hard, gray stone steps. Found it and flipped it.
And flipped Mihoshi and Tenchi.
As the blond policewoman cried out and tumbled, her arms flew out in desperation. Tenchi tried to break
her fall, but her weight and gravity threw him and her down to be smashed on the harsh, unyielding,
merciless stone.
When …
Mihoshi later said it felt as if her right arm had a mind of its own. As if someone had grabbed her wrist
and yanked it in a direction that she wouldn't have moved it in her panic.
And her hand was planted squarely on a young cherry tree.
Their fall stopped abruptly in a tangle of arms and bodies.
And they were all right.
Until all the rain trapped in the tree's remaining leaves drenched them in a cascade.
Gasping for breath after the cold shock, Mihoshi gazed at Tenchi, then — slowly — started to cry.
"Mihoshi," the boy said, "are you hurt?"
"No …," she said between tears, "it's just … Kiyone's gone … and her funeral … and I … got you all
wet … I'm SORRY …" She lowered her head and started crying again.
"Hey, hey, it's all right. As long as we're just wet, not hurt, it'll be fine." He helped her back onto her
crutches. "C'mon. Let's go back to the house and change into some dry clothes, OK?"
She sniffled and offered a faint smile. "All right …" Then she noticed that he was staring at her. "What
…?"
"Hmm …," he said, reaching slowly toward her. "I thought most of the birds had migrated by now ..."
His hand gently touched her. Delicately, he plucked something from her right shoulder and studied the
object. He held it out to Mihoshi, who received it after cupping her hands.
She looked down in wonder.
In her palms rested a white, ephemeral feather.
"Tenchi Muyo!" characters copyrighted by their owners. Story and original characters copyright 2002 by
George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.
Newport News, VA 23608
GJJPJR@aol.com
No Greater Love
by George Pollock, Jr.
Where are the windows? Kiyone wondered.
You'd think the new Galaxy Police headquarters would have windows, she thought.
You'd think the inspector general's office would have them, at least …
But it didn't.
She looked around: a utilitarian room with bright white walls. A career of pictures, certificates and honors
covered them. Tall, potted palmlike plants stood in the corners, their green a shocking contrast to the walls.
How could it be so bright in here? There was only standard lighting in the ceiling – though it seemed
brilliant. And there were no windows.
Where were the windows?
How could you tell what's going on in the universe outside without windows?
The inspector general sighed and continued reading the datapad in his hands.
At that, the female officer with the long dark-blue hair refocused on him. An older man – late middle age,
at most -- sat across from her in uniform at an efficient but magnificent wooden desk. He was powerfully
built and solidly trim. Broad-shouldered, as if the entire weight of life could rest on him and he wouldn't
notice.
A head of full, rich white hair. A darkening, foreboding face highlighted by a short, thick beard and
mustache, both of white. A face that seemed to radiate innate authority.
And his eyes, she thought. His eyes …
Dark and deep. As if he had seen everything possible in the Galaxy Police. Eyes that didn't admit of
surprise because he had seen every one there had been. And knew of every one there could ever be.
But they were soft and understanding. As if his power were tempered by experience and wisdom. Even
— Kiyone thought — by mercy.
Which was something she suspected she would need. Because every Galaxy Police officer who ever
faced an internal-affairs investigation, as she did now, had come out of it with the same observation:
Better the devil on a bad day than the inspector general on a good one.
And she wasn't sure this was going to be a good day …
How else could she have ended up here?
Which struck her: For the life of her, she couldn't exactly recall how she got there. But for some reason,
she had a sense of the signs outside his office. And she couldn't explain that.
But she knew — somehow, she knew — there was a wall plate of polished brass:
Inspector General
And below it, incongruously, was an electronic message sign:
ON DUTY
So she had … reported. Reported to the bright, spartan office.
As she knew she had to.
Finally, he laid the datapad on his desk and looked at her. To Kiyone, his face seemed almost lost in the
glow from the walls behind him. But she could see his eyes. And she had the feeling they already knew
every thought and answer and excuse — and even every lie — she could offer. So far, she hadn't had to lie.
She deeply didn't want to; it would just come back to hurt her. Badly. So she decided it wasn't worth it.
She was gambling on the inspector general's mercy. If he had any today. If he ever had any.
He folded his hands slowly on the desk. "Let's go over it again."
Kiyone sighed painfully, crossed her arms, glanced away and shifted in her chair uncomfortably.
"I'm aware this will start to get old," he said, unimpressed by her irritation, "but I'd point out that this is
as much for your benefit as mine, Detective." He leaned forward. "Is that clear?"
The policewoman was silent for an instant. At last, she straightened slightly and faced him again. "Yes,
sir," she said respectfully.
He leaned back. "Start from the beginning."
Again, Kiyone thought …
"On the day in question," she began formally, "Detective Mihoshi Kuramitsu and I received a bulletin
from GP headquarters about an Orion Syndicate drug-smuggling operation in the Sol system. The suspects
were expected to land in a remote area of Earth …"
"Mountainous rural Japan," the inspector general noted.
Kiyone paused, thrown off by the interruption. "… Yes, sir … There, they were expected to transfer the
contraband, which informants had indicated was bound for the Vega system. The informants said Earth was
likely chosen for the transfer because of its off-limits designation, as the indigenous sentient species …"
"Humans," he specified.
Kiyone nodded. "… had not made their own official first contact with off-world intelligence yet.
Detective Kuramitsu and I were ordered to observe and record the transfer, thus becoming witnesses for
future judicial proceedings. The suspects were to be apprehended by GP backup after they left Earth."
She stopped. She knew what he was going to ask at this point. He had already asked it many times today.
And he asked it again:
"You and Detective Kuramitsu were ordered only to observe and record the transfer?"
"Yes."
"Did your orders make any mention of engaging the suspects on Earth, in any manner?"
She closed her blue eyes. "No, sir …," she said quietly.
"I can't hear you, Detective," he replied sharply.
Her startled eyes flew open. "No, sir!" she repeated a bit louder. "Our orders did not include any
instructions on engaging the suspects."
The inspector general studied the young woman for a moment. She sensed he was making sure that she
was positively reminded who was in charge here. Almost as quickly, his expression lost its edge. He waved
a hand curtly. "Describe what happened once the suspects landed on Earth."
Kiyone collected herself. This was the toughest part. The part she knew she couldn't completely explain.
What was worse, she thought: He knew that, too.
"The suspects landed in remote rural Japan, as predicted," she recalled. "Mihoshi and I put our ship,
Yagami, under cloak to approach the area. Once on the ground, we proceeded to observe and record the
transfer of the contraband. There were only three suspects — two from the transfer ship and one from the
ship that would take the drugs to the Vega system …"
Now she proceeded cautiously, delicately:
"It … struck me … that if the suspects were … ambushed … while they were physically transferring the
drugs … we would have the … element of surprise … We might … collar them then … and call in the
backup to take them off-planet …"
"I see." He pondered another matter, then regarded her a shade more critically. "What did you hope to
accomplish by engaging the suspects against orders, Detective?"
Kiyone laced her fingers in her lap and paced her response. "I hoped … to make the collar more …
quickly … than planned … and thus reduce the risk … that the suspects would … elude … the backup …
once they left Earth …"
He considered it. "Did you discuss this scenario with your partner?"
"Yes, sir …"
"And what did she have to say?"
Another deep sigh. "Mihoshi … agreed with it … She usually went along with … my suggestions …"
She gazed downward slightly. "God help her for that …," she whispered.
The inspector general was silent for a moment. Then he glanced away and cleared his throat
conspicuously. "Detective Kuramitsu's status in this matter," he finally said, "is … unclear … at the
moment." He faced the policewoman again. "Proceed."
Kiyone was still looking down. This was the part she hated most. Every time she retold it, it was like
reliving every instant. Every horrible, painful moment.
But she knew she had to. So she looked up at the inspector general again and collected herself.
And continued.
"I suggested … that we make a pincer movement toward the suspects under the cover of nearby brush —
Mihoshi on the left, me on the right. I told Mihoshi to stay low but visible to me until I gave her the signal
to surprise the suspects. We advanced to the brush line with weapons drawn, and I was about to give the
signal … when … Mihoshi …"
Kiyone stopped. She didn't want to say what came next. It hurt. The thought that she had come to this
because of something so stupid was painful. It was unjust. It was so … unfair …
It was cruel, she thought.
"Go on," the male officer said, as if knowing what she would say next. Which he did.
She took a deep breath. "Mihoshi," she said, "stepped … on … a twig …" She closed her eyes again and
shook her head in disbelief. "A God-damned twig …"
The inspector general considered it for a moment. "I doubt the twig … was fated … to give your position
away, Detective."
What a strange thing to say, the policewoman wondered. It seemed as out of place as worrying about a
baby bird falling out of its nest in the middle of a great battle. Was he getting bored with the story? she
asked herself. My career, my future — my freedom — is on the line, and he's worried about a twig? Did he
know what this means to me? Does he really?
"You lost the element of surprise," he observed, snapping her out of her reverie.
"Yes …," she conceded. "I immediately looked in Mihoshi's direction … and saw her looking down at
the twig … Then she looked up at me. I knew what she was thinking. I'd seen the expression on her a lot …
way too much …"
"Which was …?"
Kiyone couldn't help herself. Critical mockery of her absent friend seized her and animated her face like
a puppet master would.
Her eyes went as wide as they could. Her head cocked to one side. And in her best impression of a
bubble-headed, big-haired blonde, she said simply:
"Oops!"
Immediately, she dropped the façade and glanced away. She suddenly felt guilty for making fun of
Mihoshi. Not when she knew what had happened next to her partner. She felt like she had just kicked a
wounded animal for the fun of it.
She felt small.
It seemed in the silence afterward that the man across the desk could feel her discomfort, her shame.
"Continue," he finally said, quietly.
She sighed. "We … did lose the element of surprise … I yelled, 'NOW!' to Mihoshi and stood up.
Mihoshi also stood up, and with weapons drawn, I identified us as Galaxy Police and ordered the suspects
to put the containers of contraband down slowly. But … even then …"
She halted. Why do I have to tell all this again? she thought. He knows what happened next. I've told him.
I've told him a dozen times now. Why is he making me go through this again?
Does he like seeing me suffer? Does he enjoy that? Is he that cruel?
"Even then …" the inspector general prompted.
Oh, God, help me, she prayed.
Kiyone swallowed hard. "Even then …," she said, "… the twig snapping gave the suspects enough time
… to react … They already had their weapons drawn …
"And …
"… they fired at us …
"I remember red blaster rounds … flying at us like a plague of locusts …
"I dropped back behind the brush immediately. The branches and leaves above me disappeared … like a
scythe cut them off …
"And … I heard …
" …a scream …"
The male officer propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers in front of his chin. He studied the
blue-and-white-uniformed woman seated in front of him: She was trying to maintain a professional
demeanor, but her hands were clasped tightly together. And though it was by no means hot in the office,
her orange headband was slightly darkened with sweat.
"It was," he recalled from previous tellings, "Detective Kuramitsu screaming."
After a moment, Kiyone whispered, "Yes …"
"She had been hit by the suspects' gunfire."
A pause, then a nod. "When I looked over … I saw her on the ground on her left side. She was bleeding
from the right hip and thigh, and her hand …" Kiyone put her right hand on her own right hip. "… was
covering the wound …"
She looked lost for a moment. "It was covered with blood … And she kept screaming …
"… my name …"
"What did you do then?" he asked.
The female officer was looking down at her own right hand intently. For an instant, it seemed as if she
hadn't heard him.
"Detective?" he asked in a louder tone.
She started, then straightened in her chair. "Yes, sir. I'm … sorry …" A heavy sigh. "The suspects were
saturating the brush with gunfire, so I crawled along the ground over to Mihoshi. The top of her uniform
slacks was already soaked with blood, and I pulled away her hand … to see how badly … she was hurt …"
He glanced at the datapad on his desk. "Very badly, apparently."
Kiyone pulled her right hand away from her hip to illustrate. "When I pulled her hand away …" She
shuddered. "… her entire right hip was …"
She struggled for the right word. Finally, it was the simplest:
"… gone …"
Again, she started studying her right hand.
"She kept screaming … my name …," she repeated absently.
The inspector general leaned back in his chair. Now they were at the most difficult part. The part that had
required the policewoman to tell the story again and again.
The part he couldn't get her to bring out.
"What happened … next?" he asked.
Still looking at her hand, she replied, "I don't know …" Finally, she lowered her hand to her lap. "To be
completely honest, sir, I don't remember much after that."
"Obviously, you survived."
"God knows how." She noticed that he nodded nonchalantly at that. "I know I don't. I don't even know
what happened to Mihoshi. Sir, what happened to her? Is she all right? I can't get anything from anyone
here."
Then she thought. "I didn't even notice too many others here today …"
"As I said before," the man noted, "Detective Kuramitsu's status is … unclear … at the moment."
"With all due respect, sir, what does that mean?"
"It means her status is unclear, Detective." His tone signaled that she was to leave the issue at that. "Let's
return to the incident in question: The suspects were firing at you, and Detective Kuramitsu was severely
wounded." Then he considered his approach. "Even … possibly … mortally wounded …"
His implication sank in, and Kiyone shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, are you saying …?"
"Detective," he interrupted suddenly, "do you like your partner?"
The surprise threw her off, as intended. "What?"
"Do you like Detective Kuramitsu?"
She actually had to think about it. "Well … for the most part … I suppose. It's kind of … difficult … to
be totally … comfortable … around her …"
At last, all she could do was shrug. "She can be … frustrating …"
The inspector general took up the datapad, tapped some keys and got a response tone. He turned slightly
in his chair. And he read. And read. And read some more.
He eventually looked up at her, out of the corner of his eye. "Frustrating enough to kick her in the face
when she was sleeping on a futon, Detective?"
Shock paralyzed Kiyone and took her breath away. Her blue eyes widened.
Truth, she learned, felt very, very, very cold ...
"Who …?" she finally choked out.
"Detective Kuramitsu herself, actually. Apparently, she was joking — joking, mind you — to her
grandfather — the marshal of the Galaxy Police, Detective — that she was such a heavy sleeper when you
roomed together on Earth, you had to kick her in the face to wake her up." He paused. "Is that true,
Detective?"
"Sir …"
"Yes or no, Detective?"
Not for the first time today, she realized that a lie would just come back and hurt her. Badly. So she
avoided one.
She bowed her head. "Yes …," she said at last, "it's … true …"
"And the yelling?"
She faced him again. "Yes, I did yell at her … from time to time …"
"And the strong-arming that sometimes bordered on physical attacks?"
Kiyone was beginning to wonder just how much Mihoshi had shared with the marshal. "Yes … I'm …
sorry for that …"
"AND that you openly blamed Detective Kuramitsu — not yourself — for your lack of advancement at
the Galaxy Police? And that you did so not only to your fellow officers but to civilians — specifically, a
bounty hunter named Nagi?"
A deep sigh. "Sir … I'm sorry for everything … I know it's weak to say that now …"
The inspector general put down the datapad, crossed his arms and regarded her. "There was also a period
…," he began, as if trying to recall a vague memory, "when Detective Kuramitsu was missing in action and
presumed dead. Do you remember that?"
She nodded reluctantly.
"Isn't it a fact that during that time — when you were stationed alone on your ship, Yagami — you were
delighted with the thought that Detective Kuramitsu was dead?"
From somewhere, Kiyone felt indignant. "Sir," she answered, "I won't deny I felt that at the time. Not at
this point. But may I ask how you found that out?"
"Yagami's internal video logs. In one incident, you told a picture of Detective Kuramitsu at a memorial
shrine in the common room that you were happy she was dead."
She took a deep breath. "Oh … my … God …"
"Don't change the subject," he advised. "I mention all this to back up a theory I have at this point about
the incident on Earth. Shall I explain it to you, Detective?"
His question, she knew, wasn't a request. Not really. He was actually telling her that he was going to
explain it. So again, she nodded.
She immediately wished she hadn't.
His visage suddenly turned dark, and his eyes gleamed so brightly, they seemed to shine. She didn't know
whether it was from the brilliance in the office. Or whether it was from somewhere within him.
"I see an officer who disobeyed orders," he began in a low rumble. Somehow, and she wasn't sure how,
Kiyone felt it drive her deeper into the chair she was sitting in. "I see an officer who hates her partner to the
point of wishing her dead. I see an officer whose poor judgment gets that partner severely wounded in a
gunbattle with suspects."
He leaned forward, which made the policewoman feel even smaller. Now his tone was calculating. "I see
an officer presented an … opportunity …"
She was silent.
"Her partner is lying wounded before her. They're under fire. They're hidden behind brush — even the
suspects can't see them for those few seconds. Her partner — the partner she hates — is … helpless. She
can't fight for her life …
"The officer responsible for the situation is presented … an opportunity …," he repeated. The final word
sent a shiver through Kiyone.
"What if …," he rumbled, "the officer sees a chance … to be rid of her partner …?"
Oh, dear God, she thought as her soul froze. "No …," she whispered weakly.
"One shot. In the face. The forehead. Through the heart. One shot. That's all. Simple."
Kiyone shook her head slowly as the image he was drawing played in her mind: The red blast of energy
from her gun. The noise. The explosion and spray of bone and blood. "No …," she choked out.
"Chalk it up to the suspects' gunfire. Easy: 'Detective Kuramitsu, killed in the line of duty' …"
She sat upright. "No."
"No questions asked. Everyone knows the risks; Mihoshi just gambled and lost."
"NO!"
"And you walk away clean …"
"NO!!" she yelled.
Instantly, he stood up and leaned over the desk, propping himself with his arms. "I put it to you,
Detective …," he said in an almost-vicious low tone that cut into her soul, "that you … KILLED your
partner …You aimed your gun while she was wounded on the ground AND BLEW HER BRAINS OUT!!"
Kiyone stood so fast, she knocked the chair over. "NO, SIR!! I'D NEVER DO THAT!! NEVER!!"
"I've got people who will testify to hearing you tell Mihoshi on several occasions, 'I'll KILL you!' "
"I didn't MEAN it!! That was FRUSTRATION!!"
He studied her for a moment as she caught her breath. "All right …," he finally said, "then what
HAPPENED out there, Detective? What happened NEXT?!"
Slowly, the officer lifted her face to the warm, brilliant lights above. And she closed her blue eyes and
thought. "I … don't … know …"
"That's too convenient," he replied caustically.
She faced him again. "With God as my witness," she said quietly, "I don't remember anything after
Mihoshi was hit, sir …"
"You're either blocking it, Detective," the inspector general suggested menacingly, "or … you're lying
..."
Kiyone bristled. "I have NEVER lied in my capacity as a Galaxy Police detective, sir …" The edge on
the last word was blade-bright, knife-sharp.
He straightened and considered it. "So you're not lying when you deny killing Detective Kuramitsu?"
"I … did … NOT … kill … Mihoshi," she said, pacing her response. "I don't even know whether she's
dead … SIR … All I know is …"
She stopped because the thought waiting to be spoken surprised her. She never thought that in a thousand
years, she'd say what she was just about to tell him.
"All I know is …," she repeated in a more tender tone, "… is that I would NEVER kill …"
Say it, she told herself.
You're being accused of murder. Forget the frustration. Forget the million aggravations that Mihoshi
caused you. Forget your damned pride.
Say what's in your heart.
Say it …
"… my best … friend …"
He nodded. Strangely, the female officer noticed, he didn't seem surprised. His face, in fact, bore the
quiet satisfaction of a teacher whose student had finally understood an important lesson.
"But … it would be a tempting thought … wouldn't it …?" he asked gently.
The truth, she thought. Only the truth will help you now. "Maybe … God forgive me …," she whispered.
"But … I could … never …"
She shook her head. "Sir … I was an orphan … I never had someone to … talk to … or … laugh with …
or … just look back on a day with … before I met Mihoshi. As frustrating as she is, I feel …"
What was the word? she asked herself. And then she knew:
"I feel … complete … with her …"
She shook her head again, as if to expel a final, unpalatable thought. "Kill her …?" she asked no one,
quietly. Then she faced him squarely and spoke like she was professing love. "I would die trying to save
her, sir …"
The inspector general sighed. "You truly can't remember what happened after Detective Kuramitsu was
wounded, can you?"
Kiyone gazed down at the floor. "No." Then she regarded him again. "Sir … is Mihoshi … dead …?"
After a silence, he came around the desk and stood in front of her. "THAT, Detective," he said in a
bizarrely official tone, "depended totally on your true feelings for her. I had to learn those before I
determined her status. More important, you had to understand your own feelings toward her before the
outcome was decided. You had to completely accept your feelings toward Detective Kuramitsu before you
could accept fully what you finally did in that gunbattle."
The policewoman was confused. Profoundly confused. "But, sir … I truly don't remember what I did in
that fight."
Unexpectedly, he reached out and clasped her right hand with both of his. They were warm, comforting,
secure. She felt a sudden calm wash over her — a calm that no matter what happened next, she would be all
right. Everything would be all right.
She felt at peace.
"Child," he said tenderly, "please forgive me for putting you through this. But the fact is … it's
impossible for you to remember something that hasn't happened yet …"
With that, his right hand rose and gently cupped the back of her head. For an instant, she felt his
reassuring warmth through her long dark-blue hair, even all the way through her. All the way, she felt, into
her soul.
At which, darkness deeper than her hair — deeper than sleep — overtook her, and the brilliant white
office went away.
"OH, GOD, KIYONE!! I'M HIT!! I'M HIT!! KIYONE!!"
A nightmare of dust and dirt and dead leaves. And bright-red shots of death, blasting branches and
gouging the earth.
Kiyone's heart stopped. Then it started again.
Mihoshi was screaming and writhing grotesquely on the ground — on soil already scarlet with the blood
pouring from the crater that had been her right hip. Her left cheek was smeared and scratched by the grit as
the policewoman coiled and uncoiled in agony. Dead yellow grass and brown leaves and dirt were
enmeshed in her abundant blond hair.
"KIYONE!! OH, GOD, KIYONE!! HELP ME!! KIYONE!! PLEASE!! KIYONE!!"
The dark-haired woman caught her breath, but she still was breathing fast. She lay flat on her stomach
next to Mihoshi, her blaster in her right hand.
Sweet God, she thought in an unreal calm …
… where am ..?
What was…?
Who … ?
There would be no answers that day.
Blasts of energy snapped her back to the moment. They were closing in on her. And on Mihoshi.
Mihoshi …
Helpless Mihoshi …
Her …
… friend …
Her … best friend …
Dying …
No, Kiyone thought ...
No …
… not today.
Not while I live …
She reached over to her wrist com, popped open a small cover and pressed the black button revealed. The
Galaxy Police signal for backup: Officer is down and needs assistance.
They called it the "body-bag button." If you didn't use it, you might go home in a body bag. And even if
you did use it, you still might go home in one. Often, it was an officer's last, desperate act.
"BEHIND THOSE BUSHES!!"
A man's harsh voice ripped through Kiyone. One of the suspects. Had to be. And shockingly close.
One last chance.
A quiet came and surprised her: She could see Mihoshi in pain, but her cries seemed remote. The sounds
of the woodlands that they were in had been muted away. Red-sparked explosions of dirt erupted closer and
closer, only in bizarre silence.
The policewoman reached out her hand and touched the face of her one true friend.
Mihoshi, she thought, I can't take away your pain. Not your pain right now. Not any of the pain you've
ever had …
… had from … me …
Forgive me, friend …
But … by God … for you …
… I can do this …
Faster than panic, Kiyone jumped up, steadied her blaster and aimed.
A dozen meters away, three men — advancing on foot through a field — stopped. All were armed. All
were startled. But only for an instant. An instant was all the more they lived.
Kiyone let out a scream that shocked heaven. And frightened hell.
And she fired. Three times.
The man on the far right spun insanely when he was hit square in the chest, and he toppled. A sliver of
an instant later, the man in the middle fell away, too.
But the third …
Time slowed, it seemed: Kiyone saw him raise his weapon and fire. She fired. The lethal red beams
needled their way through the air and passed each other with surreal slowness. Each speared closer to its
victim.
She felt the shot full in her chest. The blinding flash, the horrifying heat.
And then, not a thing.
She felt as if her body had been cut out from under her and her mind left floating in the air. For an instant
more, she knew — but couldn't feel — that she was still standing. Long enough to see her own shot smash
the final man over backward. He flipped, hit the ground heavily face-down and didn't move.
A moment later, in a blur of yellow grass and brown leaves, Kiyone's mind fell to earth, as well.
Nothing. She felt nothing. All she saw was Mihoshi's wretched, crying face, her left cheek smeared now
by the tiny puddle of mud that her tears had made beneath her.
Nothing. Kiyone felt nothing.
But finally, she saw Mihoshi close her eyes and whisper among her tears:
"Oh, God … Kiyone … help .. me … don't … leave … me … help … don't leave … Kiyone …"
Darkness deeper than sleep overtook Kiyone, and her best friend went away.
It was gray and overcast and wet, and it looked cold. If it was cold, Kiyone couldn't feel it. She felt
nothing.
She was at the Masaki shrine, at one end of the courtyard out front. How she ended up there, she wasn't
sure — but somehow, it felt right to be there. And for reasons she couldn't explain, that was all she needed
to know.
At first, she thought that she was the only person there, but then the sliding front doors of the shrine
opened. Katsuhito came out in his full Shinto priestly attire: white robe and tall conical black hat. He was
carrying a white wooden box about the size of a shoebox, and he seemed unusually somber.
She recognized the box: It was the type that cremated remains were buried in.
Tenchi followed him, also dressed for his sacred shrine duties. He, too, looked exceptionally sad.
There was an empty pause at the door. Then, faintly, Kiyone heard the regular thumping of something
hitting a wooden floor. A moment later, Mihoshi appeared. She was using crutches and lifting her right foot
slightly. Methodically, she made her way across the shrine's porch. Tenchi helped her gently down the
short stairs to the courtyard.
The blond woman appeared devastated, as if she were hollowed out and incomplete inside.
Out of nowhere, Kiyone felt something. Joy. Very quiet joy, but it was there. Mihoshi was alive. And
Kiyone was filled with an inexplicable desire to rush over and embrace her partner and never let her go
again.
Never thought I'd feel anything like that for her, she marveled, and she went to move.
And couldn't.
She felt her mind telling her body to move, but nothing happened. She looked down: She was standing
firmly on the courtyard, dressed in her blue-and-white police uniform. Her feet weren't caught among the
stones of the yard. They just wouldn't move.
What the hell? she thought with a hint of concern. So she called out to Mihoshi.
And couldn't. Again, her mind was telling her mouth to move, her voice to sound. They just wouldn't.
It was, Kiyone realized, as if she were sealed in a transparent tube and could only watch what has
happening. For an instant, she thought that just over the horizon of her mind, she could feel the cold breath
of fear.
And just as quickly, it was gone. Why, she didn't know, but a calm filled her — that no matter what
happened next, she would be all right. Everything would be all right.
She felt at peace.
Behind Mihoshi, the rest of the Masaki household left the shrine. Ayeka had an arm around smaller
Sasami's shoulder. The older alien princess was striving to look strong and in control for her younger sister,
but there was an underlying aura of sadness on her face. For her part, the aqua-haired Sasami's pink-red
eyes were moist. She sniffled once and brushed away tracks of tears on her cheeks.
Ryoko walked out stonily, trying to seem impervious to emotion. She was trying too hard, though, and
Kiyone saw it. She had seen the same expression on Galaxy Police officers who wanted to seem
invulnerable to the tragedies that they sometimes witnessed. Just as the officers truly weren't hardened in
their hearts, the space pirate's gold eyes had a slight, revealing mist. Given the right mood in this instance,
Kiyone knew, Ryoko would burst out in sobs.
At the end were Nobuyuki and Washu the scientist. She carried a polished dark-wooden box. Nobuyuki,
Tenchi's cipher of a father in the best of times, seemed to be the most comfortable, after Katsuhito.
Whatever the group was doing, Nobuyuki knew his place. It was as if he had done this all before and
accepted it calmly.
The procession went to the other end of the courtyard — where Kiyone finally noticed the princesses'
wooden guardians, Azaka and Kamadake, standing near a low black stone slab. Nearby was the black-
obelisk grave of Tenchi's mother, Achika. The policewoman sighed: She had met Lady Achika passingly in
literally another time, another place — in a trip through time when Achika was a schoolgirl. In the short
time that Kiyone had known Achika, the officer had seen the strength and courage that the descendant of
planet Jurai had given her son. A fine woman, she thought — and a fine son.
At the slab, Katsuhito performed rituals over the white wooden box, then held it before Mihoshi. The
blond woman had been slowly breaking down during the rites, and now she sobbed openly. She leaned on
her crutches and falteringly took the box in her hands. After a tearful moment, she lifted the box to her face
and kissed it. She rested a cheek on the top of the box and cried a little more. Finally, after a gentle touch
on an arm by Tenchi, she returned the box to the priest.
Washu walked up with the dark-wooden box and opened it. From within, she withdrew a purple satin
ribbon that unfolded heavily. At the end of the ribbon, there appeared a military-type medal that Kiyone
recognized: the Galaxy Police Medal of Valor.
Washu placed the medal atop the box in the priest's hands, stepped back and bowed. She paused by
Mihoshi. The scientist embraced the policewoman tenderly, offered a consoling whisper and patted her
warmly on her back. Finally, she returned to her former place.
Katsuhito turned slowly toward the slab, then placed the white box and the medal in a deep niche in the
black stone. He gave a dignified nod to each of the guardians.
The wooden beings started to glow. Their auras merged. And from behind the slab — hidden until now
by the dark object — a black obelisk arose from where it had lain on the ground. It had a projection at its
base, and once the obelisk was over the niche, the guardians lowered its projection slowly into the slab with
a grating, gritty, rasping sound. A final, deep clinky boom echoed across the courtyard when stone finally
met stone.
Across the courtyard, Kiyone could see the Galaxy Police symbol engraved near the top of the obelisk.
Below the device, she could make out the strange Earth symbols that Tenchi had taught her to read — the
kanji used by his people.
Her final sadness was in the monument's words:
Kiyone Makibi
Our Beloved
The sadness passed. Again, she felt nothing. She watched Katsuhito offer a final prayer before the
monument.
"I never got to say … goodbye …" Kiyone whispered.
"It always amazes me. That's what almost everyone says."
She knew the voice. She knew without looking.
She just knew.
She turned toward the voice.
The inspector general.
His profound eyes were cast toward the group now heading for the steps down the shrine's hill. "Still," he
said, his glance not moving, "you're lucky. Some people have no one to feel their loss."
He finally faced her. "You have no idea how sad that is. No idea."
The policewoman studied him in silence. "Who ……………... ARE … you …?" she asked. "Really …?"
"I'm the inspector general."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "Of … what …?"
For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then he waved his hands slowly, with no particular
purpose, seemingly indicating this thing or that — something in particular, or all that she saw. At last, he
put his arms down. An almost-sheepish, almost-playful smile spread across his face.
Then he shrugged.
"Everything."
Kiyone thought she knew what he meant. She thought she knew. But it wasn't possible. It couldn't be.
Things like THAT don't happen to me, she thought.
Mihoshi happens to me, she mused …
"It was on the signs," he observed.
"What signs?"
"The signs outside my office, Detective."
She gave him a puzzled look. He recited, "Inspector General. On Duty."
A deeper puzzled look.
He smiled. "I …" He paused. "… G … O …"
Her jaw dropped. "Ooooooh … my ….
"PLEASE!!" he interrupted sharply, holding out a hand to halt her. Then he offered a devilish grin and
waved the hand slightly. "No autographs …"
She collected herself and surveyed him from head to toe. "This … is … you …?"
"Wellll …, for you, yes. I tend to appear as whatever will get someone to stop and pay complete attention
to me. In your case, I'm the inspector general."
"Wonder what Ryoko would see," she muttered.
"Ooooh … you don't want to know …," he said. "But when I talked with Mihoshi, I looked like her
grandfather, the marshal."
Kiyone's eyes were curious again. "When did you talk to Mihoshi …?"
"When she passed out after the gunbattle. She begged to live; I told her she would. She also wanted you
to be all right. I told her you would be."
She looked back at the new black obelisk, then regarded him coolly. "I think you struck out on that one,"
she suggested dryly.
"I told her you would be all right, and you are. I didn't say you would live."
Crestfallen, she bowed her face toward the ground. "Oh …"
"Mihoshi didn't understand that, either, so I had to explain it to her when she was put under for her hip-
replacement surgery. She was angry that you were gone. Anger is one of the stages she had to go through.
Denial is another. Acceptance comes later."
Kiyone sighed and faced him again. "What … happens now?"
He hesitated. "Wellll …, that's kind of a delicate matter …"
She was blunt: "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"
He was imperial: "NO. But NEITHER are you going to heaven. NOT right away."
"Story of my life," she quipped.
"You weren't evil, Detective, but neither were you completely good. No one ever is, but you could have
been much kinder to Mihoshi. You had chances and choices for that, but more often than not, you didn't
take them."
She was silent. Offering excuses about a frustrating blonde was useless now.
"But …," he continued, "you did save her life. That saved you. The question is: To what extent?"
"OK …," she ventured, "what's the answer?"
He chuckled. "Know what happens to good cops?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"They become guardian angels. For each life that enters existence. Or there are cases like Mihoshi's."
"What about her?"
"Wellll …, after that last gunbattle, her guardian retired. Said it was the last straw. Can't say I blamed the
soul ..."
A picture appeared in Kiyone's mind. A picture she didn't like. A picture she really didn't like. She
started shaking her head slowly. "Noooo …," she said quietly. "Oh, no, no, no … Noooo …" She saw the
smile growing on his face. "NO!!" she yelled.
"You don't have to," he noted. "You can be someone else's guardian, if you want to. That's the other
option."
She was stunned. "I can?"
"Certainly. And after about 1,500 people's lifetimes, you're a shoo-in."
She was more stunned. "Fifteen … hundred …?"
"Or be Mihoshi's guardian for her lifetime. It's an express ticket upstairs. Believe me."
The policewoman pondered it. Then she began to regard him cautiously, warily. "Tell me the truth … I
have to know … This is really … damnation … for me … isn't it?"
"If it were," he replied quietly, "you wouldn't have to ask. You'd know."
Kiyone thought about that — and about her prospects. "Another lifetime with Mihoshi …?"
"Wellll …, you'll find that time goes by relatively fast around here. In fact, I think you'll really like
Mihoshi's first child. It'll be a girl, and she'll be a lot like you: She'll be frustrated by her mother's
klutziness but love her, deep down. And she'll join the Galaxy Police and bring great honor to her name."
"Marshal Kuramitsu will be glad someone will carry on the name. I know that much."
"Wellll …, I wasn't thinking of her family name. Actually, Mihoshi will take her husband's family
name."
She glanced back at the cold, hard, gray stone steps. Most of the group was on its way down, but Tenchi
had stayed behind to help Mihoshi on her crutches as they kept near the side of the stairs. Kiyone saw the
kindness and caring in his brown eyes.
And she wondered …
"No," the inspector general said, "not him. His destiny lies elsewhere. On the other hand, Mihoshi's
husband will be perhaps the bravest man to ever live."
"Really?"
"Wellll …, he'll have to be, to be married to Mihoshi, right?"
"Oh, yeah …"
"What I was thinking of," he resumed, "was the girl's first name."
"What's that?"
He beamed at her divinely. "Mihoshi will name her first child 'Kiyone.' "
For the first time in a long, long time, Kiyone felt the warmth of friendship remembered across the years.
"Oooooh …," she said, suddenly deeply satisfied.
She glanced back at her partner on the steps. The cold, hard, gray stone steps. Slick with a passing rain.
Covered with the first leaves of fall. Slowly, Tenchi guided her on her crutches.
At that moment, Kiyone put it all together:
Cold, hard, gray stone steps.
Wet leaves.
Mihoshi on crutches …
And she knew what she had to do.
"Oh … my … God …," she sighed.
"Yo." It was all that the inspector general said. Or needed to.
She turned back to him. She started to speak but felt something tickle her right cheek. Absently, she
raised a hand to brush it away. But she felt that touching the thing was like touching her long dark-blue hair
— a part of her. She looked at it as the light slowly grew where she stood.
A white, ephemeral feather.
She turned further and saw a host of them curling around her from her back. Looking to her left, another
bank of feathers curled the same.
The light got brighter. She looked up, expecting to see the sun breaking through the clouds.
The clouds were still there. But just above her was bright white brilliance.
Just as it had been in the inspector general's office.
And she knew then and forever that everything would be all right.
A final time, she viewed him. "Excuse me, sir," she said, entirely at peace, "but I think I'm on duty."
His smile warmed her soul. "Carry on, Detective …"
Tenchi didn't see the wet leaf. Mihoshi certainly didn't.
But one of her crutches found it on the cold, hard, gray stone steps. Found it and flipped it.
And flipped Mihoshi and Tenchi.
As the blond policewoman cried out and tumbled, her arms flew out in desperation. Tenchi tried to break
her fall, but her weight and gravity threw him and her down to be smashed on the harsh, unyielding,
merciless stone.
When …
Mihoshi later said it felt as if her right arm had a mind of its own. As if someone had grabbed her wrist
and yanked it in a direction that she wouldn't have moved it in her panic.
And her hand was planted squarely on a young cherry tree.
Their fall stopped abruptly in a tangle of arms and bodies.
And they were all right.
Until all the rain trapped in the tree's remaining leaves drenched them in a cascade.
Gasping for breath after the cold shock, Mihoshi gazed at Tenchi, then — slowly — started to cry.
"Mihoshi," the boy said, "are you hurt?"
"No …," she said between tears, "it's just … Kiyone's gone … and her funeral … and I … got you all
wet … I'm SORRY …" She lowered her head and started crying again.
"Hey, hey, it's all right. As long as we're just wet, not hurt, it'll be fine." He helped her back onto her
crutches. "C'mon. Let's go back to the house and change into some dry clothes, OK?"
She sniffled and offered a faint smile. "All right …" Then she noticed that he was staring at her. "What
…?"
"Hmm …," he said, reaching slowly toward her. "I thought most of the birds had migrated by now ..."
His hand gently touched her. Delicately, he plucked something from her right shoulder and studied the
object. He held it out to Mihoshi, who received it after cupping her hands.
She looked down in wonder.
In her palms rested a white, ephemeral feather.
"Tenchi Muyo!" characters copyrighted by their owners. Story and original characters copyright 2002 by
George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.