A/N Zeta Omega:- Any footnotes [written as numbers in brackets (or parenthesis, if you're American), following a word, phrase, sentence etc. etc.] should be read posthaste. Missing such notes may result in complete misunderstanding of the fic or, in severe cases, death.

Note:- Ha-ha! I think I've beaten the alignment errors in FF.net! Thanks, FF.net Help People! You've saved my story!

Dedicated to: Detective Constable Stephen Oake; Greater Manchester Police.

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* * * * *

LOCK, STOCK AND THREE SOJA GEMS

"Not a lot of people know that."

* * * * *

The pavement outside the S-MART convenience store shimmered in the midday sun. The heat given off created a shifting, hallucinogenic facade to the shop's front, like a mirage it swam in the haze. Across the length of the street only the litter and a few early autumn leaves stirred. A soft drink can in the gutter clattered noisily between the drain covers. It finished rolling, and came to rest against the wheel of a hotdog stand, which straddled the pavement and the road. The vending's parasol twirled on its bearings, scraping noisily in the wind.
A few yards away a hotdog, still wrapped in its bun and napkin, lay under the awning of the S-MART's entrance. Sauce the colour of blood was smeared around it; crude splatters left on the asphalt.

Behind the shop window's pane, half indistinct through the tinted mirror like quality it had, the figure stared out. Even though he looked like he was standing a hundred miles underwater, the gun was still plainly visible in his hands. The crowd of officers kneeling behind their vehicles saw it and tensed, their fingers tightening ever so slightly on their pistols' trigger guards. Already one of their members was being carted away on the back of an ambulance, breathing apparatus and all. The smear of hot red that was splashed across the automatic doors was hardly tomato sauce.
From inside there was the sound of shouting. Crying, also.

What idiot would try to hold up a convenience store in the "Planets Of The Universe" section of the Darixland Theme Park was a question on the lips of those police and civilians who were outside. Behind the police cars the artist's interpretation of a Generic American City on Earth (one of those interesting little Juraian satellites that people heard of in the news every so often) bled into the lush and cultivated fields of Jurai. A pair of theme park attendants dressed as Generic American Gas Station Attendants were being interviewed by two uniformed policemen. They stayed hidden and protected behind the trunk of a thick limbed Holy Tree, which was actually made of a cheap yet durable plastic.

The Theme Park's manager, a balding man with dead-rat toupee and business suit, sweated nervously behind the armour-plated sides of a local constabulary vehicle. "I don't understand it," he said to the sergeant beside him. "We always check for weapons before they come in."
The sergeant shrugged and peeked over the bonnet. From the darkness inside the novelty shop (of which it was; selling hats and pens and the token paraphernalia of a family outing) one of the men stepped out. His blaster was pressed beneath the chin of his female hostage, who he held roughly about the throat. The woman kept still, eyes wide in fear.
"We want to talk to an inspector!" screamed the man, "a BLEEPIN' sharp one, goddamn it! You pig-BLEEPERS understand?"
"We understand!" called back the sergeant, hands cupped to his mouth, "just please don't hurt anyone!"
"I'll BLEEPIN' kill her!" the man raved suddenly. He pushed the blaster further, so the flesh dimpled and the sights dug into her skin. "We want a BLEEPIN' inspector who knows his stuff, don't you get it! We want one NOW! And if we don't get one we're gonna kill every BLEEPIN' one of these BLEEPS!"

There was a torrent of shrieked abuse from inside the shop and the man in the doorway half turned to look back in. He turned back. "If you don't give us someone to talk to, we'll kill 'em all! GOT IT?" He sidled back in, dragging the woman with him. There was a long and tender wait, and finally the sergeant crab-crawled across to the vehicle next to his. This car's officers were kneeling in its passenger door, one of them aiming through the open driver's window, the other toying with the radio. He looked up as his superior approached.
"Anybody available?" asked the sergeant. He took off his peaked cap and wiped the badge clear of dirt.
The constable nodded vaguely. "Yes, Sarge. Sort of. Everybody at the Leistrausse station is out on cases, but there's that GP liaison officer. He's en route right now."
The sergeant ignored his cap polishing duties for the moment. "Galaxy Police?" He grimaced. "More talk, less action if that's the case. Never trust a 'fez-hat' to start anything that might lose him a promotion, kid." He used the derogatory term for the GP officer, a reference to the fez-like hats that were still worn when space-borne. The constable nodded, filing that to some dark part of his memory, and got back to the radio.

The sergeant looked over towards the end of Main Street Galaxy, the subdivisions of the universe seeming strangely hollow with the tourists being kept behind yellow tape and police officers. Small children were held around their parents shoulders, still eating their ice-cream, watching the spectacle in silence. Here was Nodnol, with its charming cobbled area and mocked-up parliamentary building. There was a fake Kunhauser, with its spherical building structure and harsh shrubbery. A surreal tableau. In the distance he could see the park's main gate and the glittering dot that was a moving vehicle. Leistrausse station was only a two-minute drive from the park so it could either be the armed response team or the GP inspector. The sergeant easily knew which one he preferred.

"Where's that BLEEPING inspector!" screamed a voice from inside the shop. There were the sounds of novelties being scattered and the crying became a soft whimpering. The sergeant turned around to answer and as he did so heard the car pull up behind him. Its repulsor system brought it down to a grumbling stop, and its door opened.

Harri Scagnettee got out with a sigh. He turned the collar of his raincoat up and, with a silent look at the surroundings, stalked towards the car that the sergeant was hiding behind. When he reached it he waited, standing tall above the vehicles silhouette, his body a perfect target for anyone who felt like taking a potshot.
"Hi," he said with feeling. The chewing gum in his mouth showed when he spoke.
"Who the hell are you?" asked the sergeant, staring at the man towering above him.
"Detective Inspector Scagnettee," continued the standing man. He surveyed the shop front. "They shoot anyone?"
"Yeah. One of our boys."
"Hostages?"
"We don't know how many. At least two." The sergeant looked at the rhythmically chewing face above him. "Who did you say you were again?"
Scagnettee didn't bother to dignify the question with an answer. "Hold this for me," he said and undid his coat. He removed the gun from the holster across his chest and handed it to the other man. It was a massive thing, and the sergeant's hands dropped slightly under its weight. Then Scagnettee was off, weaving between the cars and the men who aimed over them.
"Where the hells do you think you're going?" roared the sergeant, but all he could see was the rapidly retreating back of the detective and the enveloping darkness of the Generic American Shop.

The automatic doors were stuck in the open position, the blood already beginning to coagulate on its metal and glass. Scagnettee stepped over the worst of it, hands raised above his head and stopped outside the door. "Come in to my parlour," laughed a voice inside. Scagnettee did as he was told.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the twilight inside as someone had turned the interior lights off and the stands full of plush toys and novelties cast dark and surreal shadows. "Don't move," the same voice from earlier hissed in his ear and he felt a gun press into the side of his ribs. "Pat him down," said the voice, "make sure he's not packing."
A wild-haired man stepped from behind a postcard rack, a hunting rifle in his hands. He propped the gun against a stack of fudge boxes ("DARIXLAND FUDGE! Where Happiness Happens") and ran his hands along Scagnettee's torso and back, legs and arms and waist.
"He's not got nothing," said the man finally and retrieved his rifle. The gun in the ribs prodded a little harder and Scagnettee waited.
"You an inspector?" asked the voice in his ear.
"Yes."
"Check his I.D."
The wild-eyed man stepped forward and felt around Scagnettee's pocket for the policeman's wallet. He tore it free, loose change scattering across the tiled floor. He held it out for the unseen accomplice to view.
"Scagnettee, huh? I heard about you."
"At least I've been heard about by someone," replied Scagnettee and the voice giggled slightly.
" I want a car," it snapped a moment later, all amusement gone. "A fast one, gettit? It's gotta be good for-" and it continued, but Scagnettee was only half listening.

There was a third perp behind the shop counter. He had a knife and was shoving wads of money from the till down his trousers. A fourth man was guarding the hostages... two... no, three. Two men and a woman. He squinted, and now he realised there were more; perhaps four or five altogether. They were shielded behind a rack of t-shirts and trousers and slave-labour made clothes with Darix logos.
"You get all that?" hissed the voice.
"Completely."
"Then go out and get us a car!"
Scagnettee felt himself being manhandled towards the door, and the unceremonious booting out. Stumbling, he slipped on the stain by the door, but managed to right himself. Without looking back he marched back towards the line of police cars, the boos and laughs following.

"What do they want?" asked the sergeant when the DI got back.
"The usual," replied Scagnettee. "Car. Immunity from their crimes. Text-book stuff." He took the chewing gum out of his mouth and stuck it to the side of the police car. The sergeant looked pained. Scagnettee ignored it. "My gun please."
The sergeant handed it back gingerly. When it was out of his hands he looked far happier. "Well, Inspector," he smiled, "you've done your part. Now let's wait for the SWAT team and the negotiator. They're on their way from District HQ." He turned to look at the park's manager. "Once they arrive, we can sort all this out." He turned back to a large Harri Scagnettee shaped hole in the scenery and the sounds of the repulsor-lift car starting up behind him.

The hover-car that Scagnettee had arrived in was a Rinio Escort, housing a 550cc gas-driven pump and turbine system which allowed it to reach speeds of up to 250mph. After a short run as a marked police car, Head Office had decided to turn it over to plainclothes because the wiring was too finicky to get the sirens to turn off. In its distinguished history as a police vehicle it had been involved in eighteen chases, carried a total of seventeen kilos of high-class drugs and had been used as an impromptu ambulance. It had, however, never been used as a battering ram before.
It crashed through the shop window, pulling off a hand-brake turn that left its driver's door facing inwards toward the shop. Racks of sweets and shards of glass imploded, scattering across the floor and pelting the people inside and before the dust had even begun to rise Scagnettee was out of the door, striding towards the surprised collection of gagging, choking, but still armed and dangerous suspects.
From outside, the sergeant saw the rolling wave of ash and dirt and then the roar and brilliant flash of a sporting rifle going off. There was a heavy twang and one of the police cars nearest the shop suddenly developed a very terminal fault in its engine.
There was a boom, like thunder.
Then another.
Then a quieter crack of gunfire.
BOOM! followed by a screaming ululation of pain which rose above the other shrieks that were coming from inside.
There were two more booms and out from the fug flew a man. He hit the floor, his knife clattering from limp fingers.

The crowds behind the police cordon watched in silence. Even the officers manning it turned around to survey the scene. Then from the dust ran a man. He scrambled over the detritus of the crash and slipped on the slimy mess of red by the door. He fell, half pirouetting to land on his backside. One of his trouser legs was torn. Beneath it shone a sticky mass of flesh-hue, white and crimson.
The man grunted in pain, and the gun in his hand hit the ground next to him. He reached for it, even as the shape reached out of the smoke for him.

It moved forward, that heavy black shadow and In its hand was a heavy black gun. The knocked-down man stopped reaching for his own dropped pistol, which was now only inches away from his outstretched hand.
Harri Scagnetee stood like some avenging angel in his dust-ridden raincoat. His hair was alive with grit and as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, it burned through the smoke around him and left a grey and glowing halo about his head. There was a hushed silence from the watchers.
Scagnettee saw the perp looking at the massive barrelled pistol in his hands and he smiled knowingly, as if he had seen it a hundred times before. "I know what you're thinking punk," he said. "You're thinking; 'Did he fire six shots or only five'? Well, to tell you the truth, I've forgotten myself in all this excitement. But being this is a Magnin Blaster, the most powerful handgun in the galaxy and would blow your head clean off... You gotta ask yourself a question, 'Do I feel lucky'?
His teeth glittered.
"Well, do ya? Punk?" He spat the word like a curse.

"Yeah," said the punk, "I do."
He reached for the gun.
So Scagnettee kicked him in the head.

When he was finished, the sergeant walked up to him and stood, hands on hips, looking at the destroyed shop. He turned to Scagnettee. "I remember you now," he said, "Scagnettee, right?"
"At least I've been heard about by someone," Scagnettee replied. He reloaded his Magnin and returned it to its holster.
"Yeah." The sergeant reached up to his breast pocket and undid the brass popper on it. From it he pulled a little paperback book which he cradled in his hands like a baby. The cover was faded and the pages were dog-eared but still the title and author were visible: Scagnettee On Scagnettee, A Look At The Thief-Taker's Mind From The Man Who Knows It Best by Harri Scagnettee.
"You wouldn't mind signing this would you?" the sergeant asked. Then, as if realising where he was, he leant forward, looking around conspiratorially. "It's for my brother, you see..."

In the distance, above the wailing of the of the park's manager was the equally scything wail of the armed response unit's sirens.

* * * * *

"What the hell were you doing?!"

The Chief Superintendent of the Galaxy Police's Eighteenth Precinct paced his office like some caged animal. It was a cluttered affair, stacks of papers littering those spaces that weren't taken up by filing cabinets and manila folders. The desk was hidden beneath a mountain of white edges.
"A disaster! A complete disaster!"
At the academy he had gained the nick-name 'Quick-Step' for his continued pacing and pounding of fist into palm in times of duress. Now he was called 'Slow-Step', although only behind his back.
"I send you away for six weeks to keep you out of the public eye after that junkie shoot-out and you go and do this!"
He grabbed a newspaper off the top of a stack of ARV Requisition forms and threw it into the lap of the man sitting in the chair by the door.

Scagnettee, arms crossed, watching his Ch. Sup.(1) in the same way that an arrogant child might, picked up the paper and looked. It was one of the local sector rags, a tabloid sheet with nothing but hacks and top-less models, but still well read by the masses. Emblazed across a good three-quarters of its front page was "CELEBRATED COP IN THEME PARK SHOOT-OUT!" There was a grainy photograph of a man being tended to by paramedics outside the husk of the Generic American City's convenience store. The caption read, "Another one bites the bullet!!!"
There really were three exclamation marks.

Harri handed it back to the Superintendent silently.
"Nothing to say?" asked the superior officer. "No? How about this;" he took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from a pocket and opened the newspaper. "Detective Inspector Harri Scagnettee, famed police officer and author, struck another blow for justice yesterday with the single-handed arrest of four armed and dangerous robbers. The four suspects, who cannot be named for legal reasons, attempted to hold-up a faux convenience store at the Darixland Theme Park on Yaviin 5..." He skipped a few paragraphs. "'It was so exciting,' related Mr. Tantshaun, 451, father of two, who was watching the scene, 'There was so much shooting. But when I saw the officer kick the man to the ground, I knew that everything would be okay.' DI Scagnettee declined to comment on the situation and was led away from the scene by what appeared to be some kind of armed honour guard. This group accompanied him in the back of a police van which left the scene shortly after the reporter's arrival."
The Superintendent raised his eyes to the other man and then continued.
"Of the five hostages, one was admitted to hospital for minor breathing difficulties attributed to dust inhalation. The suspects are under armed guard at a local hospital, all in a serious but stable condition."
He put the newspaper down, removed the glasses and sighed. "You're a menace, Harri."

"I solved it, didn't I?" Harri said, speaking for the first time since entering the office. "Nobody died."
"For once! One of those suspects has multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. He had to have a goddess-damned triple heart-bypass just to stop him going under!"
"I didn't know we put the lives of scum over normal people. Why don't you try explaining that to the cop in intensive care-"
"Oh, BLEEP the moral high-ground, Inspector. I know it's for your lousy book, so you can stop trying to make me look like the bad guy. Did you know that one of those hostages is suing the Darix Corporation, the Yaviin Police Force and us for damaging negligence? Did you? NO! YOU DIDN'T! He gets hit with a BLEEPING gobstopper that got thrown at him by you smashing a car into a shop window, both of which are write-offs might I remind you, and he sues for a breathtaking.... Wait for this number, Scagnettee, I'm sure you'll be impressed... SIXTEEN MILLION CREDITS! Wow! Thanks Inspector! Now I have insurance crawling up my ass. Seeing as the Assistant Commissioner's wriggling around up there, 'cause I didn't fire you six months ago, do you think the insurance guy's going to find any room?"
Harri thought about it.
"Yes," he said finally.
"You're BLEEPING hilarious, Harri. BLEEP you too. If I had my way, I'd have you put on unpaid leave for six months. If the Assistant Commissioner had his way he'd put a bullet in your head. I've heard that the Chief Constable of the Yaviin 5 department you stole custody from wants to remove your BLEEP with a pair of blunt scissors and use it as a salt seller.
"But I can't put you on unpaid leave, because you'd just spent the time writing your goddamned book. And I'd get screwed because you'd be unable to help on some Special Operations crap they've called you up for."

Harri perked up. "Special Operations?"
"Yeah. I have no idea why they'd want an absolute BLEEP like you, but they do. SO15 apparently." The Ch. Sup. took an envelope from another stack of paper.
"There isn't an SO15," said Scagnettee.
"Well, there is now otherwise they wouldn't be sending you stupid letters, would they?"
The letter was tossed, in the same manner as the newspaper, into Scagnettee's lap. He picked it up and read the writing on the front:

Detective Inspector Harri Scagnettee,
Precinct 18,
IMMEDIATE PRIORITY!
TOP SECRET!
ORDER OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS 15

The postmark was today's, and it had the emblem decreeing that of the first precinct. He opened it and read the letter inside;

Detective Inspector,
Under immediate priority, you have hereby been transferred to Special Operations 15. Report immediately after reading this letter to (and then scrawled in pen) Docking Bay 5 at 12:00 hours. All preparations have already been made for your journey. Do not speak about this letter to anyone or attempt to enquire about the operations of SO15.
Directly,
Commissioner P'onti BSc

"So what the BLEEP'S SO15 then?" asked the Superintendent.
"I'm not authorised to tell you that, Sir. And," Harri checked his watch, "I have a ship to catch in an hour. So I'd better be going."
"Don't mess about, Harri. What's going on?"
Harri ignored him and stood to leave. The Superintendent growled. "Hey! What did I just ask you?"
But Scagnettee was gone.

Outside the office, in the Superintendent's secretary's office, Harri reopened the letter and read it again. Then he laughed. He jumped up and down, pumped his hips in the touch-down shuffle. The pretty, bob-haired woman behind the computer watched the trench-coated man in shock. Harri brought the letter up to his lips and planted a massive kiss across it. Then he noticed the secretary, and as if a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, his face fell. Tall, masculine and stony faced he looked at her.
"I'm excited," he said.
Then walked away.

This, however, would not occur for another eighteen hours.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 5:-
MAN MACHINE

Lucius Grimm was not particularly enjoying the nuances that the KOCORREL was throwing at him. Then again, he wasn't particularly enjoying the KOCORREL altogether. He was used to the more delicate of ships, ones that turned on a coin and went like crap off a shovel. Under the subtle shifting of hand movements he could pull off the most delirious maneuvers. Mesmerising pirouettes, blinding barrel-rolls, loop-the-loops to make eyes water...
This ancient, near-scrap bulk freighter felt in his expert hands, however, like a lump of charcoal.
That is, for example, if you had bought a piece of charcoal from a shady man who positively guaranteed that said piece of charcoal would fly, and then you took said charcoal home and put it on the floor, then waited for it to take off in aerobatic brilliance, you would likely be feeling the same sort of anxiety that Grimm was.
After dragging the ship through its wheezing gears and out into what he hoped was a particularly devoid area of space, his pique had finally surfaced and he had wandered the corridors of the ship.

For some reason his feet had led him down, further and further into the very bowels of the craft, until he was standing in the hold; watching the latest 'acquisition' in a list that spanned a good few centuries.
It worried him.
The gem didn't seem to notice this, but bobbed gently on the anti-gravity trolley that had carried it in. The beautiful and surreal glow that was cast out from it lit the hold in an alien gold.
It was strange, thought Grimm, that he would use the word 'alien'. He had seen enough of the galaxy, a lot more of it than legally allowed, and because of it he no longer uttered the word. It wasn't really used at all anymore anyway, except by those who still whispered 'off-worlder' and 'alien' in barbed and spiteful tones, as if it were some kind of hateful disease.
But this was thing, this gem, was exactly that. It was alien, in the most true and literal sense. Somewhere, deep in the very pit of his soul, he knew that this thing should not exist... not here, not now, not in this universe, not ever.

The force-field that surrounded it though (a necessity on any ship these days what with the threat of hull-breach or other space-borne disaster) hummed gently and every so often gave off a brief forked flicker of static. The threat of radiation had seemed rather high, but it became readily apparent that if this thing was what Arikaan wanted, he might have warned them about third-degree burns before they took-off. At least, they hoped this was what he wanted. And they hoped that he would have warned them.
Grimm moved closer, the feeling of utter inconsequence to the thing growing with each step, and the force-field seemed to cast shadows on the gem, where shadows would generally not be cast...
And then he was suddenly feeling the sweat begin to pour down his back... heard the beat of his pulse in his brain, a deep and terrific drone that seemed to block out everything except for the gem in front of him...

"Having a look at our little find?" called out the voice from behind him.
Grimm span around, hand prepared to go for the blaster in its holster, but not quite doing so as he saw the speaker. Kras was standing in the doorway, still dressed in his frayed uniform and now carrying a rolled up magazine and a cup of something that was wet and steaming lightly.
The two stood there for a second, and Grimm surely thought that the boy had seen his strange turn, until Kras looked down at his drink.
"It's coffee," he said, as if trying to explain a wayward problem. "This ship might not have a cordon bleu galley, but it has the best instant coffee I've tasted in years."
Grimm smiled in the style of his namesake and turned back to the gem.

It didn't appear so awesome now.

"I just came down here for a quick look at it," said Kras, who had walked up beside him. "I'm positive it's the only thing that Arikaan would have wanted us to get." The boy blew the steam from his cup and took a sip. "I mean, if I were Arikaan, I wouldn't want anything else."
"Where's Orifati?" asked Grimm. He couldn't really be bothered with the boy's prattling after that.
"In his cabin. He appears to have found out that radiation suits crease his trousers." He smiled briskly and then slipped back into formality. "If you want my opinion, I don't think we can trust him..."
Grimm caught the conspiracy forming behind the boy's words. "That's funny," he replied, "I don't trust you."

Kras walked forward to the force-field and knelt down by it, staring through its more than semi-opaqueness and at the object within. It made him appear even smaller than he already was. "Even better, because I told Orifati that I didn't trust you either." He looked around. "Is there anyone you do trust, Mr. Grimm?"
"Only two people. And you're not one of them."
"I'm beginning to trust you already." Kras returned to the gem.
"What is it, do you think?" asked Grimm. Trust and interest were two different things.
"I'm not too sure," came the reply. The scientist didn't avert his gaze from the gem. "It's a stone, obviously... but I haven't seen any sort like it before." He stood and dusted his trousers with his hands. "I'm rather curious, to be honest."
"So am I." Grimm gave it a stern look, and decided not to bother speaking out about his own feelings about it. "It's pretty obvious why Arikaan wants it though. It's got to be worth millions."
"Perhaps."
Nothing else was forthcoming.
"I'll get back up to the bridge," said Grimm after a short and uneventful wait, "the Galaxy Police are going to be riled after this."
He walked off and behind him Kras turned his head and watched the retreating pirate's figure.
He shook his head in dumb mirth.

Past the view from the door, Grimm steadied himself against the nearest bulkhead and wiped at his forehead. He wasn't sweating anymore, but his face was burning and his throat was as dry as he could ever remember. What had happened in there, he wasn't too sure, but he didn't want to go through a re-run of it...
He coughed and righted himself, let his feet take the weight. It had to have been the glow... the doctors had always said he was a little epileptic. If he hadn't had that operation, he would probably be biting his tongue off in there right about now.
Yes. That was it.
He didn't believe it though.
You had to be a damn good liar to trick Grimm and unfortunately he wasn't as good as he needed to be.

Anyway that scientist boy with the dictionary-mouth was in there now.
Better Kras than him, he decided.
He didn't believe that either.

* * * * *

"Yes," said Acting-Captain Alvero Masson, "Oarymgians.(3) A bunch of them."
The RED SAPPHIRE's captain (a full blown one, Masson had found out. Pips and all... smug-BLEEPARD) looked at the six crewman lined up in his docking bay. It was his docking bay, because this was his ship.
This annoyed Masson rather considerably.
"Oarymgians?" the captain asked. He blinked.

The RED SAPPHIRE had found the stricken EMERALD bobbing about the asteroid field like a cork in a rock pool. It's hull had bowed in places from a change in air-pressure, most likely caused by some kind of internal explosion. For a brief moment, as they had stared upon the damaged ship, there was a feeling on the SAPPHIRE that the other ship's crew was dead.
Then the single static-ridden remark over the radio; "Mayday."

"Oarymgians," said Masson again, and looked at his crew, who nodded. "There must have been at least ten or twelve of them... they tricked us into the asteroids and hijacked us."
The captain's face turned a subdued shade of white. "My Goddess," he said. "And they didn't kill you?"
"Well, two of my men were injured."
"They're in the sick-bay right now," said the captain. "I'm surprised they've still got all their limbs intact if it was Oarymgians!"
Masson nodded and tugged at his uniform in an effort to straighten it. "My crew is highly motivated though. The hijackers were probably worried about reprisals."

The captain turned to one of his crewmen. "Tell the comms-officer to send an immediate hail to the ONYX... tell them to leave the field and send an emergency message to be relayed to GPHQ; the GREEN EMERALD has been hijacked; cargo is gone."
As the runner set off, Masson looked at the captain. "Cargo? You mean the drugs in the hold?"
The captain shrugged, "I don't know. I was just told to report if the 'cargo' was gone."
"Must be drugs then," said Masson. "That's the only reason why Oarymgians would hijack a ship."

* * * * *

Somewhere in the outer regions of space; far beyond the usual through-ways and hubs of the major universal sectors, beyond the farther most spiral arms of the most outer reaching galaxies, beyond even the Great Barrier Reef(2), there was a large clump of nothingness.
It wasn't a particularly pretty piece of nothingness, nor was it in any way very interesting. This was largely due to the attribution of there being nothing there to be pretty or interesting.

For what could have been an aeon there was silence, then with a noise that sounded like a hundred-thousand people saying 'thwak' at the same time, a temporal anomaly opened and spat out a rather surprised looking corkscrew and bottle of French champagne.
The champagne floated there for awhile, not speaking. It was that surprised. Eventually the corkscrew rotated its eye towards it and the pair hovered in silent contemplation of their present situation.
"Well," the bottle would have said, if it weren't so surprised, "that's the last time I trust them."
But of course it couldn't speak, because it was shocked beyond all rational thought.

The only person who noticed this was a quantum surveyor who was some fifteen jillion light years away. As is often the case in such incidents, he ignored it and seeing as he was the only person on watch that day, it was completely missed.
If you had told the champagne bottle this, its indignation would have been truly wordless.
It wasn't a deliberate act on the part of the surveyor that resulted in this incident from never being truly catalogued, but because a) he was too busy thinking about the date he was meant to be going on with the really cute t'Dnal, who worked as a system's programmer on the floor above, later that night, and b) he was stupid.

Therefore one of the most important points of the next few weeks; weeks that would be drenched in blood, sweat, toil and tears, was completely lost on the majority of the population. Many would die, sooner or later, without realising the full extent of what majestic and gargantuan skein of fate they had been weaved in.

Some hours later the bottle became supremely annoyed at the unfairness of the universe and, in a blazing temper, blew its top.

The corkscrew watched mutely.

* * * * *

At exactly the same time as three criminals were making a decidedly speedy getaway with a large and glowing gem, and at approximately the same time that Tenchi Masaki began to angrily sweep the leaves from the steps of his grandfather's shrine, and approximately eighteen hours before Harri Scagnettee received his letter, and some minutes after a bottle of champagne suddenly appeared in the depths of space, a rather deflated looking Galaxy Police cruiser was towed by its compatriots out of an asteroid field.
It was hardly big news, and seeing as there weren't any reporters, it was hardly little news either.
But, of course, it was big news and as soon as it was realised what had taken place the entire ship was placed in quarantine for forensics and scene of crime officers to pick over DNA samples and evidence.
The GREEN EMERALD's crew was cross-examined in an effort to find just who exactly would plan and carry out such a nefarious crime.
"Oarymgians," had said the captain. "Twelve-feet tall Oarymgians. With guns. We had no way of holding them off."
The other crewmembers agreed wholeheartedly that the ship had been hijacked by twelve-feet tall Oarymgians with guns.

But what the hell would some pokey little acting-captain and his crew know? asked the Galaxy Police top-brass. What if it was something more evil and terrifying than that...
What if it was twelve-feet tall Oarymgians with guns, who were disciples of (or at least influenced somehow by) Kagato?

"I mean," said one of them, "it's, like, totally true that he would go totally hoopy if he knew we had one of his gems!"
There was a general agreement, apart from the definition that Kagato would 'go hoopy' because none of the others knew what it actually meant and they also pointed out that the bespectacled Ruin Buster was dead.
"But," he continued, "what if he had some, like, waaaaay zapgard disciples? How do we know he didn't have any? He wasn't no doop."
The rest of the brass was forced to agree, to some extent.
"And they would be totally hoopy if they knew we had his gem."

Desperately, a plan was formulated and, as is the case with most plans made up without aforethought, it wasn't very good.

* * * * *

The two Galaxy Police officers at the Seventh Precinct's VIP Docking Bay waited with considerably obvious trepidation. Constable Donahue was sitting on one of the sofas that had been provided for those unlucky enough to be given the duty of greeting dignitaries. He was short and youthful and his hair was an inch longer than the regulations officially permitted, but he continued to somehow wrangle a way out of seeing the station's barber. This was his first official police case, and it wasn't what he had been expecting.
The other man, his chevrons denoting Sergeant, was over by the water-tank getting himself a cupful of water. His name was Nabo and of the pair he was the really clever one. He had a bachelor's degree in physics. He also had a handlebar moustache.
Nervously, Donahue shifted his cap from one knee to the other and looked about the room for what must have been the hundredth time. Pale peppermint walls with a couple of reproduced prints of famous art and a soft cream carpet on the floor. He picked last month's copy of 'What Ship?' from the coffee table in front of the sofa and flicked through the pages.
Nabo, transparent plastic cup in hand, walked over to the window that gave a view of the hangar and seeing nothing there, sat down on one of the seats opposite the sofa. "Would you stop doing that?"
"What?" asked the constable.
"Not 'What?' It's pardon," replied the sergeant, nursing the drink. He saw the look of complete misunderstanding on his junior's face. "You say 'Pardon?'"
"You what?"
Nabo shook his head and raised his eyes. "For Goddess' sake. I told you VIP duty would be boring, but would you listen?"

The constable put the magazine back down and sat in silence while the sergeant drank his water.
"Who is this guy then, Sarge?" he asked after a while.
"His name's Karter. Detective Chief Inspector Karter." Nabo said reverently and took another sip of his drink.
"I think I've heard of him."
"You probably have." The cup was placed on the floor next to the chair. Where the light shone through, a rainbow crawled the carpet.
"Where then?"
"The Jyantai."

Donahue's forehead crumpled in concentration, the eyebrows knitting, lips pursed. Then his eyes opened wide. "You mean the ship? The Jyantai?"
The sergeant rolled his eyes at the naivety displayed by his charge. "Yes, the ship."
"What about it? I know it was lost." He paused. "I mean destroyed."
"It was a carrier," said Nabo suddenly. "A blockader; a ship made to stop pirates from attempting to escape a sector. Had a crew of eight-thousand. Carried two-thousand fighter craft... a massive thing. Completely unique. One day it investigated a distress signal from a cargo-freighter out in an uninhabited sector.
"The freighter, when it found it, was a wreck. The Soja, however, wasn't. And it was waiting for them."

The constable paled.
"When it was over, the Jyantai was a shell. Only half the ship was still survivable. I met one of the technicians who helped to pick through it at dry-dock. A real mess, he said."
Donahue shook his head. "What about the escape pods?"
"Those that weren't obliterated were empty. They jettisoned too early, you see; they were designed to evacuate themselves at the utmost point of danger. Most of them did, but without people onboard."
"Then the crew were...?" It was left hanging.
"Dead," said Nabo. "Most of them from the attack. All the pilots had been launched and been cut down while strafing the Soja... or at least that's what they thought at first. The funny thing was that some of the crew were found sliced apart in the untouched areas of the ship, and most of them were armed. Some of them even got off a few shots."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, they found one survivor. He was onboard an escape pod that was a few miles from the battle. Its boosters had kicked in and it had managed to escape unscathed."
Donahue whistled in admiration. "DCI Karter? He was the survivor?"
"Constable Karter back then."

Donahue slapped his thigh. "I knew I recognised Karter! The only copper to meet Kagato and live!" He smiled. "Lucky BLEEPARD!"
"Not particularly," replied Nabo, "there wasn't much of him when they rescued him."
"Huh?"
"The Jyanatai came under attack from Kagato and Ryoko. While the Soja attacked the Jyanatai, Ryo-ohki attacked the fighters. Then she boarded."
"Ryoko?" The mouth hung open again. "But why?"
"A bit of fun, I guess. Then she went after Karter's escape pod..."
"And what happened?"
"He got carved up."
"How badly?" asked the constable.

The sergeant prepared to answer and at just that moment, the door at to the hangar opened and a quartet of Galaxy Police officers stepped through. Three of them were ship's flight-crew and they moved aside, as if in awe of the man who followed them. Donahue and Nabo came to attention as snappily as a crocodile with a mouth full of cheese crackers.
"DCI Karter! It's a pleasure to meet you sir!" Nabo said, nearly as snappily the salute.
Donahue watched the Detective Chief Inspector with interest. He was a muscular man, hardly hidden beneath the well-measured blue uniform, and he certainly looked suitably formidable. Nabo noted that for a man who was over 800 years old, the DCI was particularly spry. His neck was tightly muscled, the shoulders broad and the face could well have been hewn from solid granite. If you looked at him in profile, he wouldn't have seemed out of place on a stamp. Both hands were behind his back in the most imperious fashion, as if he was at a parade ground back at the Academy.
When he moved over to the two policemen he did not walk. He marched.

"Sergeant." He nodded. "Constable. You don't need to salute, I'm only a Chief Inspector."
"Yes, sir," replied Nabo. He held out his hand, "But it's a pleasure to meet a man who rose through the ranks like you did."
The DCI returned the favour by bringing his hand out from behind his back and going to shake his subordinate's hand. Instead, the constable and sergeant shrank back and stared at the extremity.
"Oh. I'm sorry," said Karter sincerely, looking at the stump where his right hand should have been, "I got it shot off in a drugs bust yesterday. They're growing me a clone one, but you know how it is."
"No," said Donahue and was rewarded with a look of pure unbridled contempt from his sergeant.
"Excuse him," said Nabo angrily. He held out the other hand. Karter's left hand came out from behind his back and the two subordinate officers did a double-take for the second time in as many minutes.
"Ah, now this one isn't getting a clone," said Karter. The metal claw, like that of a crab's, glinted. "This is my reminder," he said. "Shake?"
With a fixed grin, Nabo took the cold metal appendage and shook it as gentlemanly as could be allowed.

"So," said the DCI finally, "I heard you talking about me. What part did you get up to?"

* * * * *

"There are lots of things a man can lose in those kind situations," said DCI Karter from behind his cup of Java. The three of them; Nabo, Donahue and himself, were sitting in one of the facility's many cafeterias. Surrounding them was a horde of rabid policemen, each of whom hung on Karter's every word.
"In my case, I lost a number of things;"
He put the cup down and tapped his hand in time with what he said, "My pancreas, my kidneys, seventeen feet of small intestine, two feet of large intestine, my liver, both my eyeballs, my left arm, both my legs, my genitals, three pints of blood... there was more but they weren't as important at the time."
A hushed silence befell the listeners. One of the chefs came over and served a slice of cheese-cake to the DCI.
"How? How did it happen?" asked a transport-policewoman.

"I was onboard the Jyantai," said Karter, "when the Soja attacked. I won't embellish the story... I wasn't doing anything heroic like the rumours say. I was getting a drink at the time. And I didn't play any part in the actual battle, no matter what anybody tells you. I was only there because it was thought it would be better for someone inexperienced like me to get a job on an easy operation.
"After the first twenty... twenty-five minutes of combat, the captain gave the order to abandon ship. All non-essential personnel first, which included me. Five thousand of us in the first wave. There was a group of us, eighteen or nineteen, heading for F-Deck's escape pods, when she attacked. Just a blur," his face contorted in self-loathing, "and something goes speeding past me... I just kept running. I heard them screaming, but I couldn't help them..."
A hand patted him on the shoulder, and Karter shrugged it off.
"So, I got to the pod and it jettisoned itself. It realised that there was no one else alive in the area apart from me, so it left.
"It felt like hours before I realised I was missing my arm." He raised the claw. "Sliced off when she came past, I guess. Cauterised the wound.
"I didn't think she'd come after me. She came through the wall. I tried to shoot her, she struck out, and eventually I was lying there with my guts hanging out, staring through one good eye at that BLEEP looking down at me."
"Ryoko?" asked someone.
Karter didn't seem to notice though. His voice darkened. "God, she was evil... even though I screamed for her to kill me, she wouldn't. She just kept watching me until Kagato showed up... after a while they both left, and I blacked out.
"When I came to, I was in hospital. A rescue fleet had been sent after they'd received the Jyantai's distress signal. They'd found me in the escape pod and managed to... rebuild me."
He scratched at his nose with his claw and sniffed loudly. "No one... no one else made it."

The group waited, the barest of breathing all that could be managed.
"And that's that," said Karter finally, tiredness creeping into his voice. "That's the tale of DCI Karter."
He started on his cheesecake, with some difficulty, as the dessert fork proved dangerously unsuited for his mechanical appendage. In the end he pinned down the plate with his stump and scooped the cake onto the cutlery.
Nabo exhaled sadly. "Why are you here then, Sir?"
"I don't know," replied the other man, after swallowing his mouthful, "but it involves the Commissioner, so it's got to be important, I suppose." He downed the last piece of cake and looked across at Nabo;
"Let's go."

* * * * *

Nabo and Donahue led Karter around the maze of twisted corridors and jutting walkways that crisscrossed the station. Eventually they stopped outside the usual blank-faced door and equally blank-faced secretary that isn't often found outside of bureaucratically minded societies or big-money record-companies.
Karter entered.

The Assistant Commander's Office was a squat box of pastel colour, much like the waiting room outside the VIP Docking Bay. It was tidy, clean and efficient, much like the man who owned it. He sat behind the desk at the back of the room, in all his uniformed status.
He was short and it was this, heightened somewhat, by the quick agile movements he made, that caused him look like some large, featherless bird. His neck seemed to move in ways that were beyond the normal three-dimensions, like it was made of inter-dimensional elastic bands.
There was another man, dressed in civilian garb, taking up on of the other seats opposite the desk.
Karter stood in the doorway and surveyed the room with the height of politeness.

"Ah," said the Assistant Commander, who was sitting behind his desk and trying to sort out the folders on its surface into neat piles, "Detective Chief Inspector, come in. Sit! Sit!" He waved his empty hand at the chair opposite him.
Karter moved the stack of papers on his seat down to the floor, then sat down.
"I'm afraid the Commander won't be joining us. He's in a meeting with the Marshall about the situation." The Assistant Commander skimmed through the folder he was holding and, finding it not to his liking, threw it into the wastepaper bin in the corner. "Drink?"
"Yes please," replied Karter. It didn't take his intuition to work out that his being called here was involved in the unnamed situation. "What situation is this, Sir?" he asked.
The Assistant Commander fumbled with some more papers before deciding that they weren't that necessary. "Tea? Coffee? Or perhaps something stiffer?" He tapped his nose and looked at the civilian. "We're all friends here," he said, "and what's alcohol amongst friends? Oh yes. The situation. Quite a mess, really."
Karter felt like he was going in circles. "I'll pass on the drink, thank you, Sir. So... what is this mess?" He smiled in his most information-garnering way.
"Oh, you know..." started the Assistant Commander, then he opened his desk drawer and peered in. "Are you sure you don't want a Vodka? It's all I've got..." He retrieved a half-empty bottle of Kinhauser Vodka and two shot-glasses from the hide-away, resting them gently on an empty area of the desk. He poured them both out a drink. "... The Emerald problem... quite a mess."
"And what is the Emerald problem?" goaded Karter gently.
"Actually, I'm meant to brief you on that," said the superior.
"Ah," Karter smiled.
The Assistant Commander shook his head and pointed at the untouched shot-glass. "You'd better drink up," he said rather more soberly. "You're going to need it." He cleared his throat. "The GREEN EMERALD, one of ours obviously, was hijacked this morning; lured into an asteroid field, crew overpowered. Oarymgians apparently. That's why you're here... your expertise on the matter."

"You think it was one of the regulars out of the Organised & Serious Crimes list?" asked Karter. The O&S.C. Department, the one he headed, held the largest number of records on criminals in the known universe. This was all down to him, it could be added, as it was Karter who had put forward the idea that all records should be kept indefinitely on the Galaxy Academy's records rather than being deleted when they were deemed unnecessary.
He would flatly deny it was his own doing, though. Apparently, he was just going on good advice from his subordinates.

"Not... um... not exactly," replied the Assistant Commander. He took interest in another folder and slid it into his Outbox. "Erm... you're a top man on the force, Detective Chief Inspector. Nine-hundred years service, arrests as long as your..." He looked at Karter for a second, and then at the man's arms. "Lots and lots of arrests," he said finally, "and one of those whose aim it is to arrest Kagato and Ryoko."
"Until they died," said Karter. "That made it a little bit harder."
"Yes... Are you sure you don't want that drink?"

When Karter answered, yet again, to the negative, the Assistant Commander continued, "You do, of course, know about the Kagato incident?"
The DCI nodded. "Why?" he asked slowly. "Is there something about it that relates to this hijacking?"
"Ah... yes. Well, you see, it's like this;" said the Assistant Commander and he told him.

"Kagato wasn't exactly killed by a GP fleet. It wasn't even a fleet at all, actually. Erm... y'see..." He thought about what to say. "You see, Kagato was killed by someone called Tenchi Masaki."
"Someone?" asked Karter. "You mean to tell me that the official reports are a lie?"
The Assistant Commander nodded slowly. "Yes... I'm not privy to all of the facts, but I have been authorised to tell you the situation leading up to Kagato's death. Tenchi Masaki raided the Soja with the help of a number of others, who I haven't been told about, and then subsequently... killed him with a beam-sabre. I'm not entirely sure on some of the information, but this is a Juraian political problem, and it was necessary to keep it hushed up."
"This man, is he some kind of one man killing-machine?"
"Well, it's a bit more technical than that. Apparently he's Juraian."
Karter nodded. "Ah." That explained everything. Juraians. Always those zany Juraians!(4)
"But he was born on some little outback planet," continued the Assistant Commander, "it's not really that important.

"The thing is, the Soja was destroyed along with Kagato and in the process the source of the ship's energy appears to have... manifested itself in solid. In theory at least."
"I'm not sure I get you."
"During a drugs bust a few days ago, a gem was found. We secured it, examined it and found it to be... rather more energetic than your average rock. It seems to be one of the Soja's energy sources. We were transporting it to a more secure facility when its transport, the GREEN EMERALD, was hijacked."
"But who could have known?" Karter asked, already one idea spawning in his mind.
"An inside job? That's something for CIB to investigate certainly. Of course, it could just be coincidence. But then, why would someone go to the bother of robbing a cruiser, when there are easier targets?"
"They must have known."
"And Oarymgians aren't well known for their 'intellectual capacity'. Which means one thing; the people involved wanted that gem, and the only people who would are those who know what it is. Only twenty people in the entire GP staff know, plus an extra thirty in the Juraian Council. All of them are security checked and read-on or -off when necessary. It's unlikely they'd want it."
Karter sat silently for a moment. "Kagato."
"He was no fool. Perhaps he had a back-up plan, maybe he took on some disciples." The Assistant Commander pulled a pained grin. "There's no telling what could happen if it falls into the wrong hands."

DCI Karter sat in the chair, letting his mind take in everything he'd just heard. Incredible as it sounded, with it being so many months after Kagato's death, he could quite easily believe what was being told to him. "And you want me to act as an Investigator on this case... I'd be glad to, Assistant Commander."
"Er... no," replied the Assistant Commander, "you'll be leading the investigation, Detective Chief Inspector. Someone is needed who will get to the bottom of this without conforming to the general... niceties that are followed by the Galaxy Police. You will have complete authority to ask for equipment and personnel as you deem fit. You can pass on these requests directly to the Marshall. The budget will, of course, be written up when the case has been closed."
Karter clicked his teeth with his tongue. He nodded slowly.
"Specialist Operations 15 is, as of this moment, now under your control-"
"There isn't an SO15," said Karter.
"There is now..." The Assistant Commander cleared his throat again. "You may use any means at your disposal in order to apprehend the perpetrators of this act and, if necessary-"

The civilian, who Karter had forgotten was even there, leant forward. "Terminate," he said, "with extreme prejudice."
"... Yes. Paperwork won't be necessary," affirmed the Assistant Commander, "as it's not on any of the books. And as that is the case, you must remember this is completely top-secret and need-to-know information. Is there anything you'd like to requisition now?"
"I'll do that myself, thank you, sir," replied Karter as calmly as he could. "But I would like to see this ship; the EMERALD. It is here, isn't it?"
The two other men exchanged looks. "No," said the Assistant Commander. "It's at a dry dock on one of the Altioc colonies... You do, of course, have access to it, DCI Karter. All questions can be sent directly to the Marshall. The full report on the situation is, of course, on the computer networks. I'd recommend you have a look at it..." He cleared his throat in a manner that gave the impression that the conversation was over.
"Thank you, sir," replied Karter. The two men rose and shook hands, the civilian proving to be totally devoid of interest in the current situation, and Karter left the office.

Somehow he couldn't shrug off that sentence; "Terminate with extreme prejudice."
He couldn't remember a time when he didn't look at his arm and wish he could engage in it, but they were dead and it was simply a distant, yet painful, memory.
"Terminate," he said slowly, tasting the relish and discomfort slide out with it, "with extreme prejudice."

* * * * *

CHAPTER 6:-
EVERYBODY'S TRYING TO BE MY BABY

Tenchi slid the front door open and peeked around it as stealthily as he could.
The hall was empty, the doors leading off from it pulled to. From the living room came the drone of the television.
Quietly he moved inside, trying to keep his own sounds beneath that of the TV's. He sat down on the hall step and slipped off his shoes, keeping hold of them, so as to not make more noise than necessary, and then crept upstairs.

Why he was sneaking about in his own home, like a thief, he couldn't be too sure, but he could guess. The pangs of pain and anguish and shock that he had felt at the beginning had lessened to a dull throbbing at the back of his head. It was like a headache, but something more:
It was anger, but on a scale he had never felt before...
It was helplessness and futility at its most base. At being lured and used...
It was humility and self-loathing at his own weak-willed, pathetic stupidity...

He reached the top of the stairs and tip-toed down the landing, shoes in hand. His clothes were clinging to his back, sweat caused from his above-average enthusiasm to carry out his chores. And perhaps a little from fear at what he knew he had to do, something that he knew probably wouldn't go down to well with the girls.

"Tenchi."

He froze and then turned around slowly, half his instincts calling for him to run and the other half telling him that he had a job to do.
Ryoko was standing before him. Not floating, not lunging at him, not groping at him. She was simply standing there, dressed in that pink and green dress that she's worn when he first met her(5). Her face, however, was different. Almost serene in its tranquility, as if she had just woken from a well-rewarded sleep.
And it was that which scared Tenchi the most.
She took a step towards him.
He took a step back.
"Tenchi," she said again, "it's okay."

He thought about that. The idea that 'it' was 'okay' was somehow rather mutually exclusive to his situation.
Take a stand Tenchi... Tell her it wasn't meant to happen...
"Ryoko," he started. "What happened last night... that was..." He stopped and struggled for the right way to say it. "Well, when we had s-" He choked on the word and attempted to restart the sentence. That was slightly off-put by Ryoko leaping at his inert form and dragging him to the floor.
"I know, I know... it was fantastic!" There was a flurry of arms as he tried to push her off and she held him down, straddling him. "It's okay though, I've got it all fixed! We take Ryo-ohki and get out of here before Ayeka tries anything..."
Tenchi was only half-listening however. His near-strangled cries had been stifled by the sudden freezing of his vocal chords, an act that was most likely attributed to staring up through the gully of Ryoko's not entirely slight cleavage, in order to see her face.
"I know what you're going to say. I'm not sure I like ditching them all like this either." She pouted prettily for a second. "But it's love Tenchi!" She peered down at him. "Isn't it?"
"Ahhh," said Tenchi, feeling like he was suffering from a severe case of tunnel-vision.
"I mean, I know I never really said it straight out, but it is." She shuffled backwards a little, so she could bend forwards, her face now only inches from his. Her features registered confusion for a second as her backside met an obstruction. Then she smiled, fanged incisors glinting in evil lust.
"Oh, Tenchi, I'm not getting you all hot already, am I?" She let go of one of his arms, letting her other arm pin his torso down, and sat up. The unburdened arm reached behind her and grabbed the offending article that jutted upwards from his body. "Do you like that?"
"No," grunted Tenchi. His face screwed up and he bit his lip.
"Really?" She began stroking it lightly through the material of his trousers.
"No." Tenchi gave a tight-lipped groan of pain.
She started moving it faster; smiling down at him.
"You're stabbing me with the Tenchi-ken."

Ryoko sat there for a moment or so, staring off into space, her hand still massaging the article. "You're right."
"Get off me."
"Oh TENCHI !" A wail of near-anguish. "We've got something here, and you're trying to get away from it again!"
With well-rehearsed skill Tenchi slid himself out from under the pirate's body and righted himself. She stared up at him from the position that, a few moments ago, could have been one of the most erotic in Tenchi's life, up to that moment anyway. Somehow he didn't feel very impressed.
"No, we don't," said Tenchi. "Last night didn't happen."
"What didn't happen?"
"You, me and Ayeka."
Ryoko nodded. "You're right. We can pretend Ayeka wasn't a part of it."
"No!" Tenchi cried. "None of it happened, period. I didn't sleep with you. I didn't do that. We can just pretend it didn't happen and go back to how it was before."
Ryoko stared at him, then slowly began to nod. "I get it. You want Ayeka and you want me to forget about it all."
"NO! I don't want Ayeka. I want you both to forget about it. I want to pretend it never happened."
He blinked and suddenly Ryoko was behind him, one arm wrapped around him, the other stroking his hair. "Why?"
"Because it would be better if it was like that."
Her mouth pressed close to his ear. Blew in it gently. "For who?"
"Don't be silly, Ryoko."
She gave another long blow, and he felt himself tense again. "For who?"
"For us all."
"I don't think it would." She rested her chin on his shoulder. "We wouldn't be able to do this anymore..."
"That's really the whole point." Although he wasn't too sure whether that was entirely the point, because she was pressing a lot closer to him now, far too close and his chest was beginning to tighten and the world was starting to spin...
And then, thankfully, the sound of a toilet flushing came from behind one of the thin paper doors and it opened.

The girl with black pony-tailed hair and the tight t-shirt who stepped out of the washroom looked at Tenchi and his cohort in would-be wanton love. Her eyes widened and she smiled in that polite way that you reserve for strange situations. "Hi, Tenchi," she said.
Tenchi recognised who it was immediately. He looked at her. "Hello, Mina," he said.
Mina Whatsername gave another strange smile and walked towards the stairs, eyes never leaving Tenchi's face. "Great party," she said.
"Good," squeaked Tenchi. Ryoko didn't appear to be too bothered about showing affection in public. He twitched as another breath tickled his ear. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"It's great you did well on your grades." Her walking had now become a sidling as she neared the wooden steps.
Tenchi nodded. "And you too."
"I failed them," said the girl.
"Oh. Sorry."

There was a brief second as she lingered at the top of the stairs and looked him up and down, wide-eyed, and then she was gone.
Tenchi broke free of the arms around him and wandered over to the brink of the stairs to see where she'd gone. He looked at Ryoko. "What was she doing here?"
"Oh, her?" Ryoko waved her hand. "She got a bit tipsy last night and stayed over." Then her eyes closed to tiny triangles of anger. "Why? What does she mean to you?"
"What? Ryoko!" He shook his head, the ache returning, "She's... she's not my type, okay."
The space-pirate floated over to him and tried to grope him again, but he stepped away.
"She didn't... do anything with Dad, did she?"
"Ew!" Ryoko pulled a face. "Him and her? Tenchi, your mind's really in the gutter today..." She floated up again. "I like it."
"Ryoko..."
"Okay, okay... well, I remember a little bit of a kiss. Y'know, none of them seemed to mind too much."

Tenchi felt a wave of calm press over him. "Okay," he said. "And why was she looking at me like that?"
"Maybe she was impressed."
"Impressed?" Tenchi turned to look at her properly. "With what?"
He followed her gaze down to his groin and blushed as he saw the massive tent that had set up in his trousers.
"Is that-" she started, and her cheeks slightly rouged.
"The sword," Tenchi finished for her. He reached into his pocket and removed the hilt, which had been digging into the inside of his thigh with painful strength.
He found his shoes scattered across the landing, and he picked them up before starting for his room.

Ryoko watched him go and wished he wouldn't play so hard to get all the time. But then again, it was now only a matter of waiting...
She watched until the bedroom door had closed, before hugging herself as tightly as she could and span around, lifting gently into the air...
He couldn't keep like this forever. She'd seen that in his eyes.
Not after going that far last night.
All he needed now was one tiny push in the right direction.
And she'd always be there to give it!

She smiled, but not without that niggling little tic of doubt at the back of her mind.

Still, she smiled.

* * * * *

It was most unfitting for a princess to engage in such acts.

Her Highness, Princess Ayeka, Crown Royalty of Jurai, Daughter of the Emperor-King Azusa and Queen Misaki, Holder of the Royal Court of Jurai and its Dependants, Colonies and Commonwealths, slid a little further into the onsen's mirrored waters and let it lap at the porcelain skin at the nape of her collarbone. Resting peacefully near her was a little floating wooden tray. A bottle of saké and a small china saucer for drinking from rested atop it, the bottle having been found in the kitchen shortly after her impromptu appearance in Tenchi's bedroom. She couldn't help by redden at that, and in response she poured herself another drink.

The very idea of it. Her... Oh!
She wished her hangover would go away.

There was a pause of thought as she downed the drink and sat back, her ears and cheeks feeling far warmer than before. Nearly as warm as being entwined in Lord Tenchi's arms, she thought. Probably, anyway. There was a bit of a black-spot as to what exactly happened last night.
Those brief flashes of remembrance were enough, however, to send her pulse racing.

It hadn't really worked out the way she had thought it would. Long nights spent in her mid-teens, hiding in her room and pretending to be revising for her tutors' frequent exams and tests, while actually really reading the explicit books she had found in Funaho's bedroom closet had drawn up a complex and systematic check-list for that sort of thing: illicit meetings beneath the boughs of an old tree; symbolic exchanges of flowers and rings; tender candlelit meals; gentle, yet sticky, fumblings involving too many adjectives...
She rested her head against the onsen's side and sighed deeply.

It wasn't that she was particularly bothered about what had happened. It had been surprisingly... enjoyable, to say the least. It would have been more enjoyable if that brazen harlot of a hussy's whore hadn't been there...
She needed another drink.
What would her mother think? What would father think? Good grief, the very idea of her doing that to Lord Tenchi would be enough to give him a coronary.
She wondered what doing that would be like and decided it would probably be even more enjoyable...

No! Don't think like that. Lord Tenchi is an honourable and humble gentleman. How would he feel if he could see you thinking those sort of thoughts?
 Flattered, hopefully.

If only that Demon hadn't been there, it would have been the most perfect day she had ever had. Ayeka's finger drew patterns in the water, the wakes rippling. Why did she always have to spoil everything? Was it her lot in life to play second to whatever Ryoko wanted? Yosho, Sasami, Tenchi... couldn't that wretched woman just let her have some happiness for a change?

Her finger weaved an intricate pattern of circles before she let her arm drop back down to her side. Here, alone in the onsen with only her thoughts and some saké, she could think clearly. Inside the house, around Ryoko - although she had to admit the pigeon-breasted temptress wasn't as bad as she had been before; maybe even more friendly - she could hardly allow herself any time to ponder. A second without keeping her eyes open could be the only thing between Lord Tenchi and a terrible fate. Although, now she could think clearly, that terrible fate had already come true.
She wondered where Tenchi was, and what he was doing. Whether he was thinking the same thoughts as her.

Was he with her?

Would it really matter if he was?
Of course it would.
 Why?
Wake up Ayeka! What the Devil's wrong with you? You're thinking like a loser again.
 What? Is this a game? Is that what this is?

Tenchi was the only person she could honestly say she had grown to love. Yosho, yes, she had loved him, but deep down she had known that it was a marriage of convenience. She had loved him because he was her brother and because he was handsome and clever and all the other things that should be found in a prospective husband.
Lord Tenchi however. He was something different. He was not Yosho, he was unlike Yosho in a way that was fundamental, yet so intangible... even she couldn't work out what it was.
What was it they said about true love? "If you love someone enough, you'll let them make their own decisions."
Was that it? No matter.

Ayeka rose from the pool, water cascading from her body. Rivulets traced the contours of her body, and she grabbed the dry towel that was resting by the side, wrapping it around her as she did so.

If Tenchi was going to make a choice on the subject, then so be that.
But she wasn't going down without a fight.
Now, what was it she needed? Some candles would be nice; romantic music, something from Earth most likely; chocolates perhaps...
What the hell was she thinking about? She wasn't trying to entertain one of her little fantasies here!
Better to go to Stage 2.

She smiled, a polite but deeply hungry smile.

Still, she smiled.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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(1) It's pretty bloody obvious what this means.

(2) The Great Barrier Reef of the Galaxy should not be mistaken for the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia. Even though both can be seen from space, they are certainly dissimilar enough for misunderstanding to be only temporary. The same cannot be said of the Russian Kremlin and the Russian Kremlin, one of which exists in a place called Moscow on Earth while the other resides in a place called Moscow on Earth.
The only difference between the two is that the Moscow not on Earth, but on Earth, is in fact a very large crater where an atomic device detonated during a conflict known as the Third World War and that the Earth it resides on is little more than a chargrilled lump of glass for very much the same reason.
The other Moscow is a city on a beautiful planet that has never seen nor heard of anything such as hate, famine, suffering, war, pestilence or pain.

(3) Oarymgians are best summed up by the infamous words put forward by Lt. Commander Ramataki of the 2nd Imperial Diplomatic Division during the Thirty-Year War:
"What do I think about Oarymgians? They're big, they're stupid and they can tear a man in half. I'm just glad we allied with these things before we starting picking on everyone else..."
May his words be forever struck from official records.

(4) Except, quite obviously, in those cases when it's not.

(5) Author's Side-note: Re-watching the OVA's on DVD I noticed that Ryoko was drawn far, far more... how should we say it?... attractively, in the first episode as compared to later ones. What happened guys? Did the budget run out, or did you get bored?

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Handy Galaxy Police Rank & SO Guide:-

The Galaxy Police uses the following descriptions to help distinguish one rank from another;

Marshall:- Leaps tall buildings with a single bound. Is more powerful than a locomotive. Is faster than a speeding bullet. Walks on water. Gives policy to God.
Commissioner:- Leaps relatively tall buildings with a single bound. Is more powerful than a diesel engine. Walks on water if sea is calm. Talks to God.
Deputy/Assistant/or Deputy Assistant Commissioner:- Leaps relatively tall buildings with a running start. Is almost as powerful as a new diesel engine. Shuffles along water. Whines about God. Talks to Apostles. Whines about Apostles to God.
Captain:- Leaps short building with a running start. Is almost as powerful as a switch engine. Walks on water in an indoor swimming pool. Is faster than a speeding BB. Talks to God if a special request is approved.
Commander:- Leaps short buildings with a running start and favourable winds. Loses tug of war with locomotives. Can fire a speeding bullet. Swims well. Is occasionally addressed by God.
Chief Superintendent:- Jumps hoops. Is slightly less powerful than a car. Can outrun speeding bullets. Can keep head above water. Frequently screams the name of God in morose pity.
Superintendent:- Makes high marks when trying to leap buildings. Is run over by locomotives. Can sometimes handle a gun without inflicting self-injury. Talks to animals.
Chief Inspector:- Runs into buildings. Recognises locomotives two out of three times. Sometimes recognises a gun. Can stay afloat if properly instructed in the use of a Mae Vest. Talks to walls.
Inspector:- Falls over doorsteps when trying to enter buildings. Says, "Look at the Choo-Choo". Wets himself with a water pistol. Plays in mud puddles. Mumbles to himself.
Sergeant:- Knocks on the building's door. Uses trains in order to maximise productivity. Recognises that a gun is a valuable asset in the fight against crime. Doesn't swim, uses a boat. Doesn't talk, just writes memos.
Constable:- Lifts buildings and walks under them. Kicks locomotives off the track. Catches speeding bullets in his teeth and eats them. Freezes water with a single glance. Roars.

Special Ranks

Detective:- Is given to officers who have been assigned to investigative work after completing the appropriate selection and training. Detective ranks parallel uniformed ranks and range from Detective Constable to Detective Chief Superintendent. There are three special Detective ranks;
Detective 1st Class:- Ranks between Inspector and Chief Inspector. Detective 1st Class is a special rank given only to those with exemplary records of achievement. They are assigned tasks listed under the Special Duties Charter of the GPHQ.
Detective 2nd Class:- Ranks between Sergeant and Inspector. Only taken from those with skills or abilities designated as above that of the necessary standard. Holds precedence as a candidate for Special Duties.
Assistant Detective:-Not a true rank per se. It is one given to those who have not completed the Galaxy Police Training Academy, but are assisting and learning from official Galaxy Police Officers holding a rank of Detectives 1st Class or higher.

Investigator:- Investigators are not a rank, but a term used to describe those assigned to Specialist Operations or Special Duties because of their skills or expertise in a field that is necessary to the case. As any rank can be designated an Investigator, the holder's official rank can be upgraded for their time spent on the case, at the behest of their superior.

Transport-Officer (Traffic Patrol):- Transport officers hold the same rank as their counterparts, ranging up to Superintendent, but include the prefix 'Transport'. Transport-Officers patrol specially designated areas of space, including Pan-Galactic Route 3 (P-GR3), P-GR4, P-GR7 and P-GR52. Officers also liaison with planetary police constabularies as part of the Gheind Treaty 5243.

Trooper:- Troopers handle the policing of specially protected reservations and areas of a similar nature. The arrest of poachers and other breaches of the Universal Animal Act are handled by Troopers, along with animal protection and the capture of dangerous creatures. All members of the Galaxy Police Veterinary Service hold the rank 'Veterinary - Trooper'.

Ship Crews:- From highest to lowest; Admiral of the Fleet (currently the Marshall of the GP), Admiral, Commodore, Captain, Commander, Lieutenant, Sub-Lieutenant, Mid-Shipman, Warrant Officer, Petty Officer, Able Rating, Ordinary Rating. These ranks are for crewman only, and do not include those stationed onboard a ship for other reasons, or for ships with less than three crewmen.

Specialist Operations

Are, as the name suggests, specialist units that deal with intelligence, security, protection of politicians, embassies and the investigation of certain categories of serious crimes, including racial and violent crime and terrorism.
SO1 (Specialist Crime Unit):- Divided amongst its various departments, responsibilities include; Fraud Squad; Cheque & Credit Unit; Computer Crime Unit; Art & Antiques Unit; Extradition & Intergalactic Assistance Unit; Money Laundering Investigation Team; Special Enquiry Team (which handles complex arts & antique enquiries, sophisticated attacks against the banking industry, allegations of jury interference and allegations of perversion of the justice system).
SO3 (Directorate of Forensic Services):- Responsibilities include; storage and collection of fingerprints etc.; forensic development; crime scene management; photographic services.
SO4 (Child Protection):- Responsibilities include; child protection (in tandem with other non-police agencies); investigation into paedophiles; investigation into major paedophile rings; to aid other non-police agencies in child abuse prevention.
SO8 (Advanced Actions Unit):- Responsibilities include; the coordination of officers in the arrest of super-beings or other highly dangerous persons; coordinating the protection of the Galaxy Academy and other areas of highly advanced learning; aiding and coordinating the Galactic Council on matters pertaining to weaponry or other scientific methods, objects or personnel that may prove a threat to the universe at large.
SO11 (Serious & Organised Crime Unit):- Divided amongst its various departments, responsibilities include; Kidnap & Specialist Investigations Unit; Special Projects Team (which handles pan-galactic organised crime, contract killings, systematic and widespread extortion, major drug suppliers, crime groups including ethnically composed gangs and serious large scale firearms trafficking); Stolen Vehicle Unit (this unit undertakes operations against organised vehicle and heavy equipment theft by gangs where the scale of the crime means it is beyond the level which can be investigated by non-specialist means); Hostage & Extortion Unit; Anti-Piracy Unit (see SO14)
SO13 (Anti-Terrorism Branch):- Responsibilities include; investigation of all acts of terrorism within non-jurisdiction controlled area or if specifically asked; this includes economic terrorism, politically motivated crimes, and some cases of kidnap and extortion; taking responsibility for prevention and planning as well as running of counter-terrorist exercises for training and contingency planning purposes; providing explosives officers within GP jurisdiction areas or if specifically asked.
SO14 (Anti-Piracy Unit):- Although a separate operations unit, SO14 comes under SO11 budget and control. Responsibilities include; the investigation into, and arrest, of known pirates; the collection of outstanding warrants on known pirates; the handling and storage of all data pertaining to pirates and their acts; the investigation into theft of matter- and energy-cells.
SO15:- There is no SO15. It is recommended you remember that; if you know what's good for you.
SO16 (Diplomatic Protection Group):- Responsibilities include; providing high visibility armed protection to diplomats, their missions and residences under the Fandigo Act; providing security at police buildings, such as GPHQ and the Galactic Police Records Office; maintaining the Central Index of Privileged Persons and Diplomatic Vehicles; providing crime prevention and security advice to Galactic Council Governments; liaison between armed forces to meet obligations under the Fandigo Act (Amendment 35, Subparagraph C)
SO19 (Specialist Firearms Unit):- Responsibilities include; leading arrests on suspects known to be armed, dangerous and willing to kill; instigating raids on buildings or areas known to contain such people; handling siege or hostage situations in which highly motivated and trained operatives are a necessity; other such operations needing highly trained and motivated armed support.

All Specialist Operations officers can be recognised by the distinctive badges that are worn on their uniforms.

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A Guide To Last Chapters In-Jokes And Trivia:-

Those little quips, puns and all around hidden or unknown things that you might have missed, or not even realised, the first time around...

1. The opening quote, "I'm hungry, let's get a taco" is from the Tarantino movie, Reservoir Dogs. Which also ties in with the chapter title...
2. The KOCORREL pretends to be THE DISINGENUOUS PRETEXT, which when translated into more easily understood synonyms means 'False Alibi'.
3. Kras' warning about the Kintari General Issue Blaster he is apparently armed with is a paraphrasing of the warning issued to hostages onboard a subway car in the film, Taking Of Pelham One Two Three.
4. Colour-coded names are a double-barrelled in-joke; in Reservoir Dogs, the characters are given names of colours so that when they commit their diamond-heist they can't be traced. There is no Mr. Green. In the movie, The Taking Of Pelham One Two Three colour-coded identities are also used. There is a Mr. Green.
4. When Grimm and Orifati prepare to open the vault door, their conversation and actions are the same that take place in the Tarantino film Pulp Fiction. In the film, the characters open a locked briefcase and are bathed in a beautiful, glowing light. In this story, it's... well, you know.
5. It's Sunday the 23rd on Earth. 'Nuff said.
6. Mr. Iwajima never made it into the original story he was slated to be a key player in (Everything Must Go, if you really must know). Neither did he turn up in the other fic that was going to be his debut. Therefore he's been relegated to a cameo scene in a poorly-written comedy, which, to be honest, isn't good for the poor man's social status. Perhaps he'll show up in his proper form in another novelette?
7. In the original draft for the scene where Tenchi and Katsuhito have tea and talk, there was a huge chunk of (now-lost) conversation which lasted quite some time longer, like some literary Energizer Bunny. Things included were; Katsuhito talking about his past wives, the fact that Tenchi should stand up to his responsibilities and a longer "Whoa! You slept with both of them!?!" response. Interestingly, the rough, hand-written version had Katsuhito attempting to commit seppuku with his bokkon. Probably.
8. Have you noticed that all the Galaxy Police cruisers are named after types of precious, semi-precious or just plain stones? Obvious really. But keep your eyes peeled...

Okay, so most of those were pretty obvious, and with a severe Quentin Tarantino bent. Then again, later chapters are going to be rather more subtle: London Gangster movies and Citizen Kane anyone?

Happy hunting!

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AIC & Pioneer own Tenchi Muyo! Star Wars is owned by Lucasarts. Lock, Stock... is owned by Guy Ritchie (probably). Song names, lyrics etc. are copyright of their owner and is in no way an attack on that person or group. All things not owned by a particular company are the intellectual property of the author (Ministry Agent). Some of the information provided on the various Specialist Operations is used without permission from the Metropolitan Police website. Seeing as I pay for them, and I'm not recouping the losses off this story, I think I should be allowed to use it really. Apologies to 'alighthawk'... credit where credit's due.

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Special Thanks To (Presented In Stereo) :

You, The Reader You, The Reader
BobR BobR
Ledzepfan Ledzepfan
Metallica_Wedo Metallica_Wedo
Negative-Z Negative-Z
Koroshiya Koroshiya

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METAPHYSICS, CHARACTERISATION
AND THE NATURE OF EVIL

Metaphysics and meta-mathematics are fun. If you don't know what I'm talking about at the moment, please bear with me; all will be revealed. If you know what metaphysics and meta-mathematics are, please watch how I cleverly prove my complete and total knowledge of the subject.

Metaphysics has taken practically every moderately sensible, seriously crack-pot and mildly amusing theory under its wing in its rather short life-span; parapsychology, meditation, tarot, telekinesis, aliens, the after-life, a rather heavy smattering of flat-Earth theorems and a heck of a lot of religion. It's the scientific equivalent of New Ager's mescaline driven scrawls on a toilet wall.
Meta-mathematics is less fun because it involves squares that are circles and non-Euclidean angles... and if I had the choice between a thirty-round, anything-goes, doesn't end till the blood hits the canvas bout of fisty-cuffs with Lennox Lewis, or going through the pictorial rendition of Greek insanity, the sort that would make Pythagoras go for a cold shower and a lie down, I know which one I'd choose.
Give me the gum-shield and get out of the way.

However, non-Euclidean space (or theory, or principle, or whatever else your top-notch £80,000 per annum mathematics professor taught you at your Ivy League university) is good for one very important thing: It allows for some really great scenes in books. Every H.P. Lovecraft styled horror novella features at least one reference to it because, unlike 'blood and guts' horror writers, Lovecraft creeped you out with the sensible stuff:
Triangles whose sides add up to more than 180 degrees? Eldritch cities that turn physics to silly-putty?
That's the fun side of meta-mathematics. If I could do that, I'd start by making my boss' car exist in eight dimensions and see what happens when he attempts to get in. Then I'll start working my way up the metaphorical food-chain.
I'm sure the newspapers and do-gooding anti-war protesters would probably complain, but when their lungs exist in a different dimensional state to their air-ways the only complaints would likely be "....." which roughly translates as "Help! He's removed my lungs from their normal dimensional state!"

One of the interesting theories that I actually enjoyed in school was dimensions. If 'X' is a length, for instance, and 'P' is a width, but '2' is also a length, what is X+2P?
(Anybody with an ounce of mathematical skill will probably realise that makes no sense whatsoever. If you might draw your eyes to the past paragraph; I said it was 'interesting'. I didn't say I actually listened to the teacher.)

We exist within a 3-dimensional universe (or 3D, to use the short-hand). That's self-explanatory. We have a height, a width and a depth or volume ergo we have three dimensions. So does everything else in this universe. Except, perhaps, Tony Blair, but I think that might have something to do with non-Euclidean space and the concentric-waves of energy he creates when he flaps his arms about during 'political' speeches. I suspect the same thing with news reporters.
In our universe we don't have any ready examples of a one-dimensional object (a single point in space), although I suppose you could say that the entire universe is made up of 1D objects if you're going to get that picky about the situation.
On top of that, there aren't many examples of a 2D object except, perhaps, for a single line line drawn on a piece of paper. Although the graphite in fact builds up on the paper and creates a depth, the naked eye only perceives it as a width and height.
A 3D object casts a 2D shadow so, logically, a 2D object casts a 1D shadow.

If this theory stands true (and let's face it, this is me we're talking about) a 4D object therefore casts a 3D shadow and in retrospect we could, in fact, be nothing more than the shadows of 4D creatures in a higher dimensional plain. In the same way that our shadows blindly follow us, so we may be blindly following the lead of things that exist in a universe that has more corners than a French Grand Prix track.

Now, here's where I seamlessly tie this into the principles of characterisation.

Characters are, for want of better description, shadows. They faithfully obey the whims of their creator whether through torpidity or loftiness. However, unlike real shadows, they possess something that makes them rather more: emotions.

Emotions are the only thing that separates us from animals. Animals don't claw the carpet when their spouse leaves them and takes the car; animals don't hate the neighbours because they have a bigger television than they do; animals are not a seething mass of spoilt psychoses and idiosyncrasies, only one step away from feeling the last straw and burning out in some kind of rabid blood-frenzy that ends up making the News At Ten. Yet somehow writers appear to find it easier to squander their characters' emotions then to spend a little bit of time and make them interesting, sensible and more than filler. Let me explain;

The most frequent insult for a badly done character is that he (or she, but for the sake of example I will use he in the even examples and she in the odd examples. Women's libbers, please don't burn down my house) is 'two dimensional'. Cardboard cut-outs, cookie-cutter examples, archetypes, etc. etc. all of which run as analogies for the shadow principle I put forward; they follow blindly and without reason.
The staple of a good character is one that is 3D. One that embodies all that is human, or universal if you will, in a character.
I want to dispell that myth.
The most basic character in any story needs a 'motivation' and a 'purpose'. You don't have to look very far for these, and this is probably where the 3D idea springs from.

When an author describe their characters, they are often asked to state a characters' motivations. A common reply might be, "The character Billy-Bob wants to become President of America." For the most part, people accept that with their nod and 'yeah' talk. In fact, becoming president is Billy-Bob's Purpose, not his motivation. His motivation may be because he was shunned as a child and now wants to get his own back on the world. It might be that he's a pro-life supporter and he wants all those screaming, aborted foetuses to stop wailing at him in the night. Maybe it's as plain as because he likes the idea of wearing a snazzy suit and getting to invite pretty secretaries to the Oval Office.

Motivation is the basic building block from which any character can be made. It is the birth, the inception, of a character and I have never met an author, however bad, who has simply left it at that. The motivation can be as simple as 'I've always hated the good guy because he has shinier teeth', to as far-reaching and complex as 'I want to prove to my father that I'm not the good-for-nothing everyone believes'. Motivation is the foundation of a character. Without a motivation he is acting towards a goal without reason. Even the man who climbs a mountain gives a reason although, deep down, he probably means more than his 'because it's there' act. More often than not it's plain old ego.

The final part of a character is the 'Purpose'; the eventual goal of the character. If the evil-villain (TM) hates Mr. Shiny Smile because of his teeth it might be "Get my own back on Mr. Shiny Smile". The man who wants to prove himself to his father might have "Set up a top-notch fast-food chain that will demonstrate to the world that I'm not a wasteful sack of skin". They're valid purposes. They may be blasé, pig-headed, even down-right stupid... but they're purposes. Then again they might be bitter-sweat, air and light and all that hippy rubbish and still be purposes so it's a two-way process.

That's where most people leave it. They've got their Tenchi Muyo! character... who for the sake of this argument will be female. She's going to be the major villain and will be more realistic than the usual stock-character that fills the place for 'Black-Cloak and Helmet' baddies.
She's good-looking, ferocious when roused and fights well, but her one sticky-wicket is her severe aversion to pain (which makes her different enough from Ryoko to stop plagiarism charges, natch). She likes reading romance novels (when she's not plotting the down-fall of empires) and enjoys light music and good food. She hates the Juraian Empire and spiders. Her motivation: She was outcast by Jurai; Her purpose: To depose the Emperor of Jurai and take his place!
SHOCK-HORROR!

Well, it might look good on paper, but it doesn't work. Even with her little perks (every little personal quirk makes a character more 'real'. At least, as long as you don't go overboard) she is still a walking plot-hole, and no matter how many corks you try and plug her with... that analogy just sounds perverse. The character will feel laboured. She will appear at one point to be one person and at yet another point will be her exact opposite. Readers pick up on this quicker than a used-car salesman smells interest on a customer.
Welcome to the world of being called a cut-out author, kids. Believe me, it ain't fun. And the editors return your stories with surprising efficiency.

Now, the 3D character; that's what we're aiming for, isn't it? The final piece of the puzzle to fit between the Motivation (beginning) and the Purpose (end). It's called Methodology, and it's surprisingly how often it's forgotten.
Motivation is the bricks between the roof and foundations of the character. If Mr. Bad-Teeth wants to get at Mr. Shiny Smile his methodology (in true Hollywood fashion) might be "Kidnap Mr. Shiny Smile's daughter and threaten to kill her unless he smashes all his teeth out". The burger-bar builder's may be "Invest in the stock-market and using careful stocks and share management, amass a small fortune. Whereupon I will buy vast tracts of land and build burger-bars on them." Then again, it might be "I will tear down orphanages and build burger-bars on them". This is what makes a character, don't forget... if the builder is the protagonist he will likely be an appropriately suitable Hero-type character. If he is the antagonist, he's probably a really nasty version of Bill Gates but with an over-bite the size of the Eiffel Tower. Vice versa occurs though... and that's where characterisation really shines.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about which one of those is correct. I'm just talking about whether or not the character is a 'character' or a piece of story-prop.

So you've got your character have you? Go on. Write one down. Just put down a motivation, a purpose and a methodology... maybe a couple of quirks.
Well done! You have now created your very own example of a realistic character, as given by you the fans!
WRONG! DO NOT TRUST THE PAPER! THE PAPER LIES! IT ALWAYS LIES!

What you have now is a sham travesty of realism... much like a politician. Sure, she'll outlast the other 2D version and she'll certainly look nicer and shinier when shown off in your story. She has a name and looks and loves and hates. She motivates herself for a reason and she has a goal to reach and she knows exactly how to get there. What she doesn't have is an Evaluation.
How do you know when you've reached your goals? I certainly don't. I sit there writing until I'm blue in the face and I still don't think I've reached what I want to reach. Evaluations are therefore the standards by which a character measures their progress in the world around them.

As an example of the concept of Evaluation, imagine two business partners who share motivations, methodologies and purposes. They might agree on what drives them (a motivation to be independent), what they want to achieve (a purpose of creating a thriving business), and how to achieve that (poster advertising as a methodology). Still, they argue if sales are up but satisfaction is low because one evaluates based on gross sales and the other evaluates based on customer satisfaction. Their poster-based methodology brings in more business because their prices are good, but repeat business is non-existent because of poor customer satisfaction. As a result, the two partners hurl crockery and insults all the time, even though they agree in all three dimensions of Motivation, Methodology, and Purpose.

If Space Demon Ryoko was a character, it would be something like this :
Motivation:- I was always abused and have never known real emotions.
Methodology:- I'll keep Tenchi knowing that I love him using my feminine wiles and massive, heaving breasts. And sometimes I'll jump on him.
Purpose:- To get Tenchi to love me. Physically and emotionally.
Evaluation:- When I get Tenchi in the sack, or Ayeka's finally gone, then I'll know I can rest easy.

Then again, Tenchi might read like this :
Motivation:- I've always been a little nervous around women, and I'm more interested in friends anyway.
Methodology:- I'll treat both of them as fairly as I can and attempt to stop any of the usual cat-fights that go off 'round here.
Purpose:- To keep both the girls happy but not make a choice.
Evaluation:- When they're not trying to kill each other, and they're not trying to tear me in half, then I'll be happy.

Don't take those as gospel. They're just demonstrating what can work... and believe me, if you remove one of those dimensions the entire thing comes down faster than a Challenger shuttle. The Law of Four might seem a little silly, and I admit that when you look at it on paper, it doesn't seem any more impressive (or less impressive) than the two and three dimensional characters that were playing with earlier. The reason is this;
All characters need conflict.

Mankind is forever in conflict. When we're not fighting wars, we're fighting starvation, or flood, or fire, or our own minds. When I go down to the corner-shop, I'm in conflict over whether to buy the Mars bar or the Twix, and a story's no different. If all everyone did was have the correct choice or the right act handed to them on a silver-platter, the story would be boring. The readers would vote using their toes and go to find a better story to read, one with a bit more action in it... even if it does mean all the main character has to mull over is a Mars bar.
The most simple act found in conflict is violence. That's because violence is one of those pseudo-erotic things and if it's done well people love it. Violence has been around since some hairy Cro-magnon man crushed his friends skull in with a handy piece of stone and found, to his great delight, that his friend stopped talking about how much he really liked cave-paintings. I suspect the Cro-magnon man continued this trend for some time, passing it down to his young when he eventually went to the great cave in the sky.
What the Law Of Four does is open up conflict far easier. It allows all the characters to be looked upon far more easily as 'players' rather than being employed as props for storytelling. This can be made far easier if you use one-word examples for the dimensions and then elaborate on them in parenthesis... Watch....

Ryoko again:
Motivation:- Temptation (because she needs to)
Methodology:- Pro-action (jumping the gun in other words)
Purpose:- Desire (obvious really)
Evaluation:- Acceptance (getting him to love her)

Tenchi gets the treatment now :
Motivation:- Conscience (he's the opposite of her in that his conscience rules his ... head)
Methodology:- Avoidance (he doesn't want to get involved)
Purpose:- Equity (he wants... equity)
Evaluation:- Trust (at the point where he can stop worrying)

There you have it... Tenchi is in confliction with Ryoko in motivation and methodology, but they're pretty close in evaluation. The purpose is really, really conflicting, which means we have serious opposites here. Imagine two people attempting to get past one another. One is Tenchi's conscience, the other Ryoko's temptation. If neither backs down, a contest of wills will occur in which both will attempt to force the other out of the way. Conflict can only result in one thing; one of them must give way.
It may take minutes, hours, weeks or months, but barring outside influence (I'm leaving Ayeka out of this for the moment, because otherwise it gets pretty complex) one of those facets will break down and let the other pass. In any case, that will always force the character out of their purpose... most likely with a change to their motivation and therefore their methodology.

And it is conflict that bears the full force of what can be called, in its most polite form, 'atrocious examples of idiots attempting to write'.
I've been reading for a long time (not as long as BobR though. He can remember when 'The Pickwick Papers' was released... or so I've been informed) and I've watched a lot of films.
I've worked with a professional script-writer. Although not on scripts unfortunately.
And if there's one thing that annoys me than a poor story, or a poor character... it's a poor villain. And the only thing that annoys me more than a poor villain is a villain, full stop.
When people start writing they usually see their story in black and white. The character through whom we see the action is the 'Hero'. The character who stands against the character is the 'Villain' or his 'Minions'. It's interesting that this style of story is not even a cultural one, but a global one. It is therefore a deep and ingrained part of the human psyche that dictates what is 'good' and what is 'evil'.
After a short while at writing, and the author begins to try his skills with a little more bravado, two new factors open up. One is the change from Hero-centred writing, to watching the actions of the hero via a side-kick or other secondary character (a good example being the original Arthur Conan Doyle versions of 'Sherlock Holmes', the stories not being told through the detective's eyes, but through Watson's). The other is removal of 'Villainy' from the story.
The movement from hero to protagonist and villain to antagonist is a subtle one, but far more rewarding for the reader and most likely for the writer as well, seeing as they are no longer constrained by typified archetypes.
The protagonist is the mover-shaker of the narrative, the guy or gal whose goal is what drives the story onwards. S/he is in search of something, as is the heart of any story, be it love, fame, fortunes or for an answer. The antagonist is the one who is directly opposed to the protagonist's goal, someone who will attempt to stop the protagonist from completing their goal. Sometimes, however, the antagonist is the instigator of their own search for a goal and it is the protagonist's goal to simply stop the antagonist... or stop the antagonist and collect their own reward.

The difference between an antagonist and a villain is that an antagonist is not opposed to the protagonist or hero. It's simply opposed to the goal. The villain wants to stop the Hero or protagonist; the antagonist wants to stop the goal, or stop the goal as well as the character. The villain's stopping of the goal is a by-product. In fact, an antagonist's wish to stop the goal might have nothing to do with the heroes or protagonists whatsoever.
For instance, if the man who wanted to make burger-bars suddenly gets an assassin sent after him because he annoyed a rival businessman by buying the land (but the rival has no interest in getting the land now), the assassin's a villain. If however, the local tree-hugger's society is opposed to the idea of making a burger-bar and so attempts to stop the construction with their usual monkey-wrenching tactics, then they're antagonists... they're also antagonists if, in their bid to stop the construction, they let loose an assassin on the company's CEO. The aim is to stop the construction, even if it means killing him... not to kill him for the sole reason of killing.

The problem is that people are quite adamant to keep their characters as simple as possible. Personally, I can't count how many times an all-powerful alien attacks Tenchi or his consorts, takes over Jurai (does this planet actually have a defensive force, or what?) or generally stirs the ire of our lovable, big-bosomed Heroines... and Tenchi. These are all villains in the way that they are actively attacking the characters (in the taking over of Jurai part, the protagonists are needed to be wiped out because they pose a threat to the villain's power-base).
If white-hats were a fashion statement, I'm sure they would be worn with impunity by the Tenchi Muyo! protagonists, as would black-helmets and long dark cloaks for the baddies.

Pour examplé, in terms of characterisation the OVA Kagato was hardly something to set the world alight. He was sharp, clever, analytical and harsh and he was certainly dangerous, but could easily have been replaced with any other character you could fit in the space.* He really was 2D, as his motivation wasn't enigmatic, it was simply non-existent.
"But that's okay," say the Tenchi Muyo! fans, "because he was evil."

The question has to be, "Is evil a suitable means of explaining a character and its actions in a story?" or, better yet, if we are basing the creation of a character on real-world principles , "Is evil a suitable means of explaining a person in the real world?"
(Please do not misconstrue 'motivation' with 'motivating'. Motivation is a dimension of character. Motivating is the following of the story that the character takes.)

To be perfectly honest, the first one's a 'no' and the second one's a 'maybe'.

I have been told, however, that this doesn't matter as long as the character is made in the most human way possible. He needs loves and hates, little quirks and idiosyncrasies that make him all the more realistic when compared to the rest of the ensemble.
They appear to be mistaking 'Villain' with 'Antagonist' again.

Return to Kagato. His explanations are poor at best. His search for Tsunami appears to be more of a by-product of committing harm and causing destruction. Maybe he's lying to himself about his own purpose, but it's unlikely. You'll also probably notice that this weakness in the 4-dimensional build-up is often attempted to be righted in fanfiction that examines Kagato's history in any sort of detail (I recommend BobR's "A Scientist's Tale" and a couple of ideas put forward in The Entry Plug's "Angel In The Dark" if you want to see what I mean).
Now, look at Kagato's good points... apart from wearing some pretty funky clothes and playing the pipe-organ rather well, he hasn't got much going for him. He is the 'Evil Antagonist Archetype". He is not a villain because he's not worried about the protagonists' goals. He just wants to continue on with whatever he's doing (his attempt to retrieve Ryoko, and subsequent attack on the rest, is therefore a by-product of his quest for a goal. Notice how he even attempts to leave without causing any fuss).

However, villains aren't to be taken lightly either. Hitler was a villain to many; his invasion of Poland, Russia, France et al were seen not as a means to a goal, but rather a goal in itself. Many authors use this too, as a means by which to show off their character's realism.

Let's compare this to the real world's epitome of evil antagonist archetype: Fuhrer Adolph Hitler.
Well, no cool clothes there (unless you're really into Brown Shirts *guffaw* *snort* *giggle*), but some things that are all too human. He loved animals, especially dogs (he contemplated having all SS squads in Germany wear bells while on night patrols, so that wild animals would hear them and be able to flee without being stepped on. He banned hunting and nearly brought back the old German ritual of holding court-bound trials for rodents that had caused mischief). He was a staunch vegetarian and anti-smoker. He was polite, humorous and a very good artist.
If you were to change the name and forget the more famous parts of his life, he could very well be your next-door neighbour.

And then there's the question of whether what he committed was evil in the true sense: he actively believed that what he was doing was right. When he took to power in Germany, it was because the country was, literally, going to hell. When he formed an alliance with Austria, he did it because he honestly believed that he was bringing together two countries that were, in fact, the same country. When he sent troops into the demilitarised zone between France and Germany, he honestly believed that the people of the area wanted to be under German rule (and they did). When he took over Czechoslovakia for Lebensraum, he honestly believed that it would allow more space for a happier, healthier peoples. And when he started killing the Untermensch using Einsatzgruppen and gas-trucks and Zyklon-B, he honestly believed that he was doing them, and the future, a favour.
Can you see a pattern building here? The evil man does not see himself as evil, not because he is mad or blind, but because... he isn't. He saw it as this; "If you have to kill millions in order to make the world the perfect place, is that evil?"

Very few writers want to get that up close and personal to their characters, especially if they're *open quote* EVIL *close quote*. Realism isn't how many neat little snippets about the character you can fit into a biography; it's about how the person influences and is influenced by the world around him. Why don't evil people in stories have parents? Or pets? Or go out on dates?
Sure, they're evil but don't they have anything to do other than take over the universe and butcher the heroes? Don't they feel the need for emotional fulfillment? (most 'evil' acts are perpetrated simply because of a lack of emotional fulfillment, but it doesn't mean that people stop searching while they kill. Look at Dhamer, or Manson.)

Was Himmler evil? He was certainly human. When he visited the killing-fields of the concentration camps he was so shocked at the horror of death by firing squad he ordered that the 'more humane' method of gassing be used. He would go home from a hard day's massacring of the innocent and have a charming dinner with his wife and children, and then the next door neighbours would come around and play. Sometimes, if the visiting kids asked really nicely, they'd get to sit on the chair made out of human femur bones in his study.
Is that evil?

I think Terry Gilliam said it best when asked about whether the honesty in his films made him anti- Lucas or anti-Spielberg;
"I don't even know what those guys are. George Lucas thinks his films are talking about good and evil. I told him that's bullshit. Darth Vader isn't evil. Evil is Michael Palin in Brazil, who is your best friend and then betrays you. That's evil because he's not questioning the world that he's supporting..."

The villain isn't the person who wears the black-helmet and tries to stop the characters: It's the one who commits cold-blooded murder, comes home each night and tucks his kiddies into bed and then goes and watches TV.

* The original OVA had Washu not hiding her true persona by disguising herself as a young girl, but rather as a man. In the original script it was Washu in her male form that arrived and attacked the Tenchi cast, but when she was changed it's easy to see where the 'evolution' into Kagato occurred. Take note also that the weakest protagonist of Cowboy Bebop (Ed) was originally a boy... explains a lot, doesn't it?

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Next Chapter:-
Ministry Agent either talks about British Crime-Flicks that you should really go out and buy, or whether it's animé fans that are destroying this intrinsic art form that we call... 'Japanimation'. Or rather, we don't.
Then again, he might just talk about 'Fight Club'. He's not a particularly enlightening fellow.

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Happy reviewing!