Chapter 8

The Loka came to much use in the months that followed.

Vodka built ever more sophisticated versions of the memory-enhancing machine, and fed it now with not only food, but metal and inorganic matter as well. His habitat became a factory for producing trinkets from dreams and thoughts, various drug paraphernalia (such as a waterpipe for Tripod) ... and weapons.

The 2-2-2 only interfered with the manufacturing process indirectly, by preventing the Lokas from making chemicals, poisons or explosives. The unseen machine ruler could intercept any part of the process and stop the creation of parts for a large warhead or a laser cannon.

The humanoids kept trying to outsmart the machine intelligence and create a stockpile of weapons under their own control.

Every attempt failed; the 2-2-2 was all-seeing, its patience endless, its memory perfect.

Snowball traded metal parts from Sergei's old Mercedes, in return for his collection of human bones (which Sergei promptly buried).

Feeding the metal into the Loka, Snowball strained his mind and managed to create a replica of his own personal weapon. It was still hot when it emerged from the machine's assembly chamber, but Snowball ignored the burning heat and grasped the weapon with his clawed, trembling hands.

Immediately, rows of red lights lit up on his weapon's surface. The 2-2-2 had automatically taken control of the replica, even as it was being assembled. Snowball's trunk let out a honking screech, and he threw the (for him) useless weapon away.

Vodka directed its detachable robotic limbs to pick up the device, and he put it in a cauldron for melting and recycling.

"Could you make me a radio transmitter?" Sergei suggested to the transparent cyborg. "For sending messages from the base planet."

"Four times this unit tried to build a communications device under its control," Vodka replied. "Four times the 2-2-2 sent its microscopic machines and caused the device to malfunction. Ask again when you know a better way to do it."

Sergei nodded. "That's the first time I caught you sounding angry, Vodka. Don't take it personally. We all know how things are."

Vodka's bottle-shaped surface expressed nothing - but his innards sloshed and shifted, as if he was having indigestion. "To lose communication is, to this unit, what losing an eye or limb is to you. This unit is not working at its highest capacity. This unit suffers from it."

The Russian held out his hand and was about to touch the transparent shell, but changed his mind and pulled back. "Listen to me, Vodka, and you will learn a better way. One day. Trust me. And wait."

"Wait..." Vodka lingered on the word, his artificial mouth as lifeless as a machine part. "Wait, wait, wait... this unit wish it could go mad."

Sergei visited Vodka's Loka factory and manufactured new clothes and shoes. He attempted to make cigars and tobacco, but they never turned out quite right and had to be discarded.

The 2-2-2's drug rations were always quite small, and were automatically destroyed a few hours after their creation, so they could never be hoarded into dangerous amounts.

Among Sergei's more successful Loka creations were a calendar, in which he wrote down dates and events. He kept track of ship-time using a water clock, and noted the passage of days and months - weekdays no longer mattered.

His writing would have been near-impossible for Earthlings to decipher: he mixed the other humanoids' lingo with Russian and English.

The crew unthinkingly, instinctively developed its own common language.

Social relations within the crew remained strained. Threats were often implied by mere gestures and looks, always kept in check by the ever-present 2-2-2's readiness to deal out needle-stings and electro-shocks.

When the males felt the urge to put up a display of status or rank, they found it increasingly difficult to agree on a matter worth fighting over.

Food? They did not eat the same food.

Turf? They did not share the same types of habitats.

Stakes and dares? There were no stakes to squabble over, since everyone was practically immortal, and dares would imply risk to life and limb.

So an unspoken consensus evolved, that they should stay united against the 2-2-2.

Their flight and combat training sessions grew ever longer and more complex. The crew formed teams in the simulations, and fought each other for sport and status. Rivalries between training teams became so intense at times, the crewmembers almost came to blows - but the 2-2-2 was always there with a helpful electric shock, to remind them of their true enemy.

Sergei became the leader of his favorite combat training team, the "Jeek-Jeeks" - consisting of himself, Tripod, and Afro.

Vodka led a team of himself, Turd, Spider and Bat.

Only Snowball refused to join a training team, and he remained the most shunned of the crew. He really was the dumbest of the lot: completely incapable of teamwork, obsessed with displays of personal status. Sergei sometimes cracked jokes at the expense of Snowball, but seldom in the four-eyed humanoid's presence.

One of Sergei's jokes was to mold a piece of white food-paste into the likeness of Snowball. Then he yanked the sculpture's nose-trunk, made screeching noises ("Eeek! Don't eat me!"), and devoured the sculpture in one bite.

The almost total absence of sex in the base planet was strange; even the solitary variant occurred infrequently.

No one attempted to physically abuse anyone else; the level of sexual aggression simply wasn't high enough. Crewmembers voiced their nagging suspicion that the 2-2-2 were putting chemicals in their food to restrain their sex drive, at least until the time for another raid.

Vodka, the crew's master chemist, examined their food rations and took tissue samples to prove the existence of suspect additives.

Sergei reacted with surprise and disbelief, when Vodka's tests came up empty: no anti-sex drugs could be found in the food, water or their own bodies.

Vodka admitted that the crew's hormone levels might be lower than normal - but since only one member of each species was present, they could not compare their status to any "normal" level.

According to Sergei's calendar that hung on a wall in his house, five ship-months had passed when the 2-2-2 addressed the entire crew and told them to enter their quarters. The time had come for another "deep sleep."

Sergei called for Tripod and Afro over the intercom link, and caught up with them as they headed for their habitats.

He asked if they would be able to recognize their home planets, even after thousand of years had passed outside. Afro, running for the entrance, nodded yes. Tripod hesitated in his doorway, and said "Maybe." Already they started to feel heavy with the ship's acceleration; Sergei only had time for a quick question.

"If you see that the target is your own planet, will you ask me not to fight?"

Afro shook her head and scribbled quickly on her electronic pad: "Not important. We are the Jeek-Jeeks now. Do what you must." Then she sank down on the floor, lapsing into sleep.

"We are Jeek-Jeeks, Sergei," Tripod slurred. "We are the..."

Whatever the three-legged humanoid was about to say died, as he too lost consciousness. Sergei lay down on a couch, muttering curses.

And the crew slept, while the base planet entered the star system of a yellow-orange sun.

The crew of eight awakened, feeling the tickles and stings of electricity through the floor, as the 2-2-2 shouted commands at them throughout the domed city.

Again they were called to raid, destroy and spread terror. Once more they entered their black attack ships, and were launched into space.

The 2-2-2 seemed in a hurry to start the attack, and less inclined to brief them. They saw their target from space: not one, but two planets in a highly advanced state of development.

The outer planet held the older culture, which had molded seas and coastlines into complex patterns; its oceans were completely covered by a patchwork of structures.

The inner, warmer planet had a denser atmosphere; most of its culture showed only by the string of satellites and solar-power plants in orbit around it.

In his ship, Tripod attempted to contact the others through the comlink, but the 2-2-2 shut it down for him. He wrote down a message on his electronic notepad:

Sergei. When I smell the air I will know. That the planet is my Yyyy. If it is and if my people kill me, it is right. If not, it is right also. I am not angry for what you and Afro will do. It is what happens. As we do, so will we receive, in the place-in-death.

-Yyypyylyy

Tripod put away the notepad and put his three-fingered, knobby hands on the weapon controls.

He selected the nearest space station in orbit around the outer planet - a vast relay-station for solar energy, full of mirrors and reflecting disks, and fired a round of energy pulses.

The pulses partly blew away the mirrors, while some of the energy bounced back toward his ship. The ship shook with the impact, and Tripod fired again. His ship immediately reacted, and a giant inflatable reflect-shield emerged on the ship's nose.

The reflected pulses scattered against the inflated shield.

"Not big boom time," he said in crew lingo. "Not yet."

The attack ships entered the planet's atmosphere, and a barrage of missiles greeted them. The second raid had begun.

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