Chapter 2

After a brief rest in his private quarters, Sergei set to work with the electronic notepad that he'd been given. It resembled an Etch-A-Sketch, only it had more options, which he found out as he tried them. His first drawings were clumsy, but they made communication easier.

The first thing he did was to draw sketches of each and every one of the nine humanoids, including himself. And he gave every sketch a nickname:

Tripod.

Afro.

Snowball.

Turd.

Vodka.

Bat.

Spider.

Hairball.

And Sergei, a.k.a. "Jeek Jeek."

Upon returning to the main assembly hall, Sergei showed and read his notes out loud to the other humanoids. They reacted differently to his attempts to tell them their nicknames. Some made weird noises and gestures, others fingered their weapons in an ominous manner.

Sergei had been the first to initiate communication among the group. So far only he and Tripod (a.k.a. "Yyypyylyy") had made any sort of progress. The seven other ones were still reluctant to speak with strangers, or didn't use sounds to communicate.

Tripod was now starting to speak his own language with Sergei, who understood nothing of it yet. Tripod sounded a little angry after having repeated a phrase ten times, without getting any intelligent reply from Sergei.

The Russian sat down in a corner of the hall and observed the other beings. Tripod's eyes narrowed and he stood still, no more than four meters from Sergei. Both scanned the environment, as if they were preparing for trouble.

Then, Tripod sniffed and pointed to one corridor: "Af-ro? Afro."

The one Sergei had named "Afro" emerged from its quarters and was approached by the one called "Hairball." Afro was five feet tall; only Snowball was shorter. Hairball was a musclebound seven foot three, armed with a massive spiked mace. He (she?) twisted rings on the mace handle, and it hummed with electric power. Hairball placed himself in Afro's way, focusing double pairs of blue eyes on the much shorter humanoid. The ball of fur that completely covered Afro's head shifted color rapidly - from blue to red to black spots on yellow.

"Warning colors," Sergei said in a low voice. "Tripod... careful. Hairball wants Afro as his bitch, I'm sure. Thank God I'm not hairy enough for his taste..."

Tripod sniffed again, and said: "Iii-pyy Afro! Pyy Jeek-Jeek, oo-pyy Hair-baall!"

Sergei blinked uncertainly in Tripod's direction; the three-legged, pale being had his hands on his spear-like weapon, but aimed the pointy end to the metal floor.

Sergei nudged his bald head in Hairball's direction; the big hairy being was making threatening noises at Afro, who crouched tensely, both hands held out in front like a martial artist.

"Shall we...?"

Tripod grunted: "Pa."

"Pa means no, right? Or wait..."

Suddenly, Hairball reached out for Afro's arm with claw-like hands. Then he howled with pain: the hand fell onto the floor, black blood gushing from the wrist. He bared his flat yellowed teeth and thrust his mace at Afro's head. Only, Afro wasn't there anymore - but had darted past Hairball, and stabbed him in the back, so fast that a human eye couldn't register what the weapon looked like.

Hairball gave up an agonized sigh, and fell face forward to the floor - a little slower than he would have on Earth, because of the lower gravity.

The globe in the ceiling let out a high siren signal, and the eight humanoids looked up at the globe with their eyes and other organs. The voice of 2-2-2 spoke in eight different tongues from the eight food dispensers. Signs appeared on the ceiling globe.

To Sergei, 2-2-2 spoke in Russian words and letters: "The being who died was punished for its attempt to attack the crew. The 2-2-2 shall now send a probe to the dead being's home planet, and destroy all organic life there. The dead being's culture shall cease to exist. All its records will be destroyed.

"The being who was attacked shall not be punished, for such a threat could be abused by crew members to blackmail each other. Our system cannot be abused. Every one who dies, its species is destroyed. This is our law."

Sergei looked at Hairball's corpse. The floor opened and the corpse vanished with an obscene slurp. Then the floor closed, and Afro stood there in a pool of blood, shaking. Afro's furball head turned pale, pulsating between yellow and off-white.

"What the hell did he use as a weapon?" Sergei wondered. "Tripod, could you see what Afro did?"

Sergei turned around; Tripod was gone. The three-legged being returned shortly, carrying an electronic notepad of his own. Tripod sketched on the pad with his fingers, and Sergei watched signs and symbols take shape. One stick figure had a head and two legs, framed by a triangle with symbols in each corner. The other stick figure had three legs and longer arms, and the triangular frame contained different symbols.

Sergei nodded, flipped his own notepad with the control buttons and copied Tripod's notes with a pen.

"We're making progress, Yyypyylyy," said the Russian as he drew the copies. "Just don't try to pop my cherry, and we might become friends..."

The voice of 2-2-2 addressed him from the food dispenser.

"Sergei. Explain the expressions 'his bitch' and 'pop my cherry.' Are you trying to speak in code to confuse the 2-2-2?"

Sergei squinted up at the ceiling globe, where eight different languages communicated simultaneously with the eight humanoids.

He shouted upward: "2-2-2, what the hell do you expect to happen when you lock up nine hardened criminals in a space prison? We want to move, we get crazy in here, we need open air! And some vodka..."

"Wait, Sergei. You will soon come to the base, where you shall have open air. No vodka."

"Cigarettes?"

"No cigarettes."

"Cocaine? Heroin? Medicine?"

"You do not need medicine. The 2-2-2 controls this environment. Infections are impossible. Injuries are instantly, constantly repaired. Your life spans have been greatly extended."

"So why did you let one of us get killed?"

"The dead being became too unstable. We let it die as an example to the others."

"I see." He pointed casually up at the ceiling, attracting Tripod's attention. "Did they explain to you too? Same instructions?"

Maybe Tripod understood. Maybe not. But he rolled his eyes up at the globe above them.

Sergei frowned and said slowly: "Pa, Tripod. Pa, pa, pa..."

The being called Afro went over to its food dispenser and drank furtively, in jerky movements, and then retreated to its own corridor. The other humanoids stared at it, then at each other. Snowball made a hissing sound and his trunk dived into his food trough.

The eight surviving humanoids of the 2-2-2 Crew spent another 120 hours in the space assigned for them. Sergei and Tripod learned a few phrases from each other's languages: Yes, no, follow, look, Don't know/won't say - plus the Russian expression Nichevo, meaning approximately: "Not my problem."

After 120 hours, with little warning, the entire habitat shook and vibrated; the pressure of deceleration made them feel twice as heavy. They were ordered back to their respective quarters, chased by electro-shock needles spouting from the floors, and huddled down as they waited for the ship to stop.

10 hours later, the ship stopped shaking. The corridors opened. Like burrowing animals in spring, the eight passengers made their way out into a new, different light...

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GALACTIC GANGSTA(c)A.R.Yngve 2003, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.

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