Chapter 7

When Sergei's ship landed and opened, he refused to come out. He held on to his gun, and resisted several electric shocks. Eventually, robotic arms reached into the ship and forcibly pulled him out into the launch silo.

Carried by the arms which hung down from the ceiling, Sergei was transported back to the planet's monitoring room. The other eight humanoids were waiting for him there, and watched him being dropped onto the metal floor.

On the screens, the 2-2-2 was replaying recorded sequences of each and every humanoid as they caused destruction and mass slaughter on Earth.

Sergei pointed his gun at them, one by one. They stood unflinching, unphased by what must seem a puny handgun after their large-scale ransacking of his homeworld. The short rotund being with the four red eyes, called Snowball, was carrying a fresh souvenir from Earth. On his spiked belly-weapon hung a small human skull, shiny and polished.

Sergei's gun protested while he aimed it around: "No. - No! - Stop! - Stupid!"

"Did any one of you know?" Sergei asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes were bloodshot. "Did you know that we attacked my planet?"

"Sergei, not," said Tripod, his flattened face stretched and pale. "Not we. "2-2-2 must know where you come from. But... I think before, that this is to happen one of us, in the future. The 2-2-2 wants it to happen. That is how it tells us... tells us we never go home. This will happen to me, to all of us."

Sergei lowered his gun, slowly, and wiped the sweat off his face.

"I have a suggestion," he said. "We all kill each other. Now. And then we will know that our home planets will at least be safe... safe from us. If the 2-2-2 attacks then, without us, our people know the true enemy."

The eight humanoids reacted with agitated sounds and movements.

Vodka spoke, repeating himself in several tongues: "If we die, in this room, this moment, the 2-2-2 can still clone us and continue its attacks... in our names. Would you prefer it to be so? Does your people believe in an afterlife? Sergei?"

"Afterlife..." he breathed heavily, and clutched his chest in desperation. "Not for me. I don't fear what comes after death. It can't be worse than this."

"I fear what comes after I die," said Tripod. "When my people-in-death punishes me for what I did to my people-in-life. This way I live on and I am not punished by them."

A few other humanoids agreed in muted, muttered phrases. It seemed many species shared the belief in Judgment Day.

"Snowball," Sergei said slowly, "will you remove... that thing?" He pointed at the infant skull that adorned Snowball's belly weapon. "It offends me."

The rotund white being shifted on its four short legs. "No!" it peeped. "My kill! My trophy!"

Sergei bared his teeth and lunged at Snowball, who reached for his weapon. Small green and red lights lit up on the spikes, and the weapon said "no" in his own tongue. Sergei grabbed Snowball's nasal trunk and yanked as he wrestled the being to the floor; Snowball screeched and dug its clawed hands into Sergei's skin.

The others watched, some egging them on with shouts and noises. The 2-2-2 interrupted the fight with electric shocks through the floor; everyone writhed and fell.

Afro made a leap onto the wall of screens, but darted back - every part of the room was electrified.

The 2-2-2 turned down the shock power to a harmless - but painful - level, and spoke:

"This is futile. Accept what you observe. When one of you die, that being's home planet and entire species will be permanently destroyed by us. But we do not wish to kill all of you. Do you see your error? We the 2-2-2 are not your enemy. You are your own enemies.

"It is you, organic life, that tries to destroy itself and other life forms. We the 2-2-2 only want control, order, peace. You will help us keep this peace in the cosmos. Do you understand now, your great and good work? We do not have your emotions and dreams, but it confuses us that you will not understand."

Sergei watched Snowball caress his bruised nasal trunk; his four red eyes flickered. The cuts his claws had made in Sergei's jacket and arms were already starting to heal, as if by magic. Microscopic robots in the air repaired all injuries within seconds.

"Immortal," Sergei mumbled, touching the rapidly fading wounds on his arms. "We are immortal, as long as we work for the 2-2-2. This is our punishment. There is nothing else for us."

He raised his hand to the glowing communications globe above. "I accept, 2-2-2. I will do your work. Can I ask for something to help me do this work?"

"Ask."

"Make me forget where I came from."

There was a pause, and everybody's attention seemed to focus on the globe that represented the 2-2-2 - though this was unnecessary, since the 2-2-2 controlled every part of the artificial environment.

The pause dragged on for minutes, then an hour. The humanoids were silent.

"We have consulted with ourselves. It is impossible to erase or suppress your memories without causing long-term damage or lowering your efficiency. Your memories must remain. But... from now on, we will allow you to use strictly controlled doses of narcotics and alcohol. The machines inside your bodies will prevent long-term damage."

"Thank you." If Sergei felt anger or hate, it didn't register in his voice or heartbeat, or the many other signals the 2-2-2 constantly monitored. "Now please let us get drunk for a while, until the next mission."

"Go to your quarters. You will find what you want there."

The eight humanoids scrambled and pushed to reach the exits first.

Outside, the base planet - their home - slowly accelerated away from the Solar System, toward another star...

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