A Planet for Rent

by Yoss

  Don’t tense up. Just a little talk between partners, not another exam. Basic training’s over. I just want to talk, one Planetary Security guy to another. Man to man. Forget that I’m a sergeant for now, doesn’t matter.

  Truth is, right now we practically are the same rank. You’re a rookie agent, and I’m a sergeant in the doghouse...

  No, it’s no secret, and it doesn’t bother me, I’ll tell you what happened: a stupid minor incident. This over-sensitive social worker, at the astroport a couple of weeks ago. Girl named Buca... Her face was smeared with that waterproof makeup they all use now, like a mask. I guess it helps them all look the same. And the xenoids love it.

  I swear I tried to be nice to the little slut. I thought it was what she needed; she looked so nervous after one of those suicidal Xenophobe Union maniacs started a shootout. Though we neutralized him right away. And one of my agents got a little rude with her. I tried to fix things up—and, see what you get. Seems the girl didn’t like my style. And she complained to headquarters.

  Happens every day. Normal procedure is, you file the complaint and that’s that. But some grodo had picked this Buca for incubation, so I was screwed. Complaints from the xenoid big fish always cause a stink in the corps—and that’s never good for us little guys. Something you’d better start learning now. Result? Sergeant Romualdo gets a full month of street patrols, night patrol every third night, and a cut in salary.

  Hope nothing like this ever happens to you.

  Though, if my nose isn’t mistaken, you’ll go far. Think that’s funny? Whatever. Sergeant Romualdo Concepción Pérez rarely goes wrong in his predictions. I see a very promising career here waiting for you in Planetary Security. As clear as I see your face right now. I’d even dare to bet that, if you put nose to the grindstone a little, you’ll make NCO at least in a couple of years.

  Me? Been sergeant twelve years now. But don’t think I envy you for that. In this life, everybody gets as far as they’re gonna get. I have no complaints, sergeant’s fine with me. When it comes right down to it, though I’ve picked up some culture, I’m still a poor ignoramus who has a hard time reading.

  But you, with the schooling you’ve got... IQ of 148, and you can tell you’re educated. Mind if I ask you a question? Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you finish your degree in fission engineering, if you were already in your fifth year and you just had two more to go?

  Oh, sure, financial problems. Can I guess? Your parents were paying for college, and all of a sudden business slowed down for them... Oh, an aerobus accident? Sorry, kid... Guess you’d rather not talk about it...

  Lots of guys go into Planetary Security for the same reason. As unpopular as the corps is, it’s one of the few places that’s always posting new jobs. And compared with the crumbs you get paid for any other job on this planet, our 350 credits a month isn’t so bad, is it? Especially when you think that they don’t require prior experience or training. Everything you need they teach you in the Academy, eh?

  How do I know what you studied? Come on, kid, I just read your file... Sure, it’s supposedly private, only officers know the access code and blah blah blah... but being practically an oldtimer in the district gives you certain privileges, even on the computer.

  Illegal? No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say illegal. Just... unconventional. If we’re going to be partners, it’s only logical I oughta be a little curious about your bio, right?

  Besides, I don’t know what you have to be ashamed of, your record’s impeccable.

  I could tell from the start, you were good material. I’ve been observing you for days, and I like what I see: enthusiastic kid, a little impulsive, only natural at your age. Twenty-four, right? But you think before you act. In this line of work, that’s the key thing.

  Besides, I’ve come to like you, though you’re pretty quiet. Or maybe that’s why. Listen before you talk. I hate those smart-alecky cadets who graduate from the Academy and think right away they know everything because they’ve had a few practice hours on the simulators. The best school, the only school that really matters, is the street. Here in the daily grind, this is where you truly learn. Your whole life long. Tell me if it isn’t true: you never graduate from the street, and you never finish learning all its rules.

  The rules of the Great Game.

  Yep, Markus.... Life is a Great Game, and an agent has to know its rules like the back of his hand... especially if he hopes to advance his career, like I suppose you do. To be a winner, not a loser.

  You don’t catch where I’m going? Oh, kid, come on...

  I’m gonna tell you a little story to help you understand. You like stories? Good thing.

  When I was a rookie agent like you, I also served with an old sergeant, like me now. I remember him like it was yesterday. Aniceto Echevarría was his name. A good guy, generous, brave. The wackos from the Xenophobe Union wiped him out, and to avenge him we spilled a lot of blood. Whoever we wanted.

  How time flies. It’s been a long time since then, yeah...

  Well, turns out poor Aniceto was crazy about raising fish. He read lots of stuff about it and he was always talking about exotic species of saltwater fish and freshwater fish, artificial food, live bait, temperatures, the pH of the water... And about his “little collection,” as he called it, with more love in his voice than some parents show when they talk about their own kids.

  One day, two weeks into partnering with him on street patrol, he invited me over to his house, and... Stop thinking those nasty thoughts, Markus: Aniceto was all man. Me too. So wipe that little smirk off your face or I’ll get angry.

  Ok, that’s better.

  It was a tiny one bedroom, but beautiful. Nice furniture, full of appliances, but no glitz or ostentation. What especially caught my eye was how many huge fish tanks he had everywhere. His “little collection” was almost better equipped than the Great Aquarium of New Miami, believe me. With aerators, a gas recycling system... the works. And he had so many fish—and what fish! No lie, old Aniceto had managed to put maybe half a million credits worth of fish behind those glass walls.

  And when I, dazzled by all that beauty, naively asked him how he could support such an expensive hobby on a sergeant’s pay, he just smiled. He stroked his mustache and showed me something I’ll never forget.

  At the bottom of one of his saltwater fish tanks he had this huge thing. It looked like a flower with a thick stalk and semitransparent reddish petals that swayed in the gentle current of the water. A beautiful underwater flower...

  But it was a voracious animal. What I had thought were petals turned out to be tentacles that could release a powerful toxin. In the middle was its mouth, always hungry.

  What? It’s called an anemone? Well, if you say so… I’m a simple ignorant sergeant. What do I know about critters.

  Aniceto told me to keep an eye on the anemo-thingy. It was beautiful. Really beautiful. And I thought it was even more beautiful when a mid-sized fish swam by and got caught by its lethal tentacles, torn to shreds, and gulped down in a matter of seconds. There was an innocent cruelty in that act.

  The best part is that earlier, lots of other much smaller fish had been swimming around it, and nothing had happened to them.

  I called Sergeant Aniceto over to show him, amazed. But he just glanced at the deal and told me, “Keep on looking. Look very closely now, Romualdo.”

  And that was when I realized, Markus, that this wonderful, deadly creature was now surrounded by other little fish. Red, blue, and violet, painted like clowns. They were nibbling at the remains of the bigger fish that had gotten stuck in the tentacles, and they seemed immune to the terrible toxin. Now and then they would corner some unlucky little animal that had lost its way in the forest of tentacles, and they would devour it. The huge beast let them do it. Afterward they even hid out among the poisonous tentacles.

  Oh... symbiosis, you say?
Okay, then, symbiosis.

  So Aniceto put his arm over my shoulders and said, “That poisonous animal is the Law. Or all of Planetary Security, if you prefer. It’s like a blind net, but it has a mind. It doesn’t care about the tiny fish, so it lets them be. Same with the really big fish, which are so strong they might cause problems. It’s just the mid-sized fish that are food. Those, it attacks.”

  “And those painted clowns, what are they?” I asked, amused by what I thought was his two-bit philosophy.

  “They’re us,” replied the old sergeant. “We help make sure the Law is carried out, that Planetary Security works. Make sure the garbage doesn’t accumulate and clog the net or strangle the hungry beast. In exchange, we prosper in its powerful shadow, with impunity. The monster recognizes us and identifies us by our uniforms. That’s how things work in this world. Do you get it, Romualdo?”

  You bet I got it, Markus. So well, I’ve never forgotten it.

  Do you get it now?

  We lost a great actor when you decided to enter the Academy, kid! You’re blushing like a virgin overhearing guys talking about an orgy. But you don’t have to pretend you’re naïve or innocent around me: If you still haven’t figured out, at the age of twenty-five, that the salary Planetary Security pays us, big as it might seem, isn’t enough even to pay for the wax we use to shine our service boots, I’m gonna start thinking you cheated on your IQ test.

  You aren’t that big an idiot, I don’t think.

  Oh, I know—something else has you worried. You’re afraid of the bloodhounds from Internal Affairs, eh? Prudent kid. I know all the symptoms: the twitchy eyes, the constant glancing around, like a trapped cat...

  But tell me honestly: do I look like an undercover Internal?

  And I assure you there aren’t any hidden microphones or nanocameras. In here we’re totally safe from indiscreet eyes and ears. Why do think I insisted on going inside? The rain wasn’t really all that bad...

  It’s because electronic recording gizmos don’t work in here. The science guy from headquarters can explain it better than me. Something to do with the electromagnetic pulse they need to keep some of the weird types in anabiosis. Like the polyps from Aldebaran.

  That’s exactly why we’re talking in here. I like to look out for myself, too.

  Oh, and the guys from Internal Affairs... Don’t believe everything you hear about them. They aren’t so mean as they’re made out to be. We’re in the same boat, all of us. Even they need a present for the girlfriend now and then, or something extra for their kid’s registration in the University, and then they come to us. Coworker to coworker, get it?

  Of course, if you go overboard and try to become a millionaire in one month, you’ll stick out like a bonfire on a dark night. Then they won’t have any choice but go after you like hunting dogs. That’s their job—keeping up appearances, maintaining the façade. It has to look like the system is working perfectly.

  Don’t look like that, son. It’s about time you figure out, once and for all, that the whole business of Protect and Serve, the thin wall between Earth and Chaos, and all that stuff they made you learn by heart in the Academy—it’s pure veneer. Working for Planetary Security isn’t what you imagined it was, Markus. Believe me, not your instructors.

  I was already patrolling this city when they were still playing with their robot nannies. The devil knows as much as he does because he’s old, not because he’s the devil. Forget your hypnopedia articles about the agent’s duties, paths of glory, keepers of public order, and on and on. That’s all cosmetic, to impress the civilian sheep who pay our salaries with their taxes.

  This is drudgework. Breaking your back and risking your skin day after day for a bunch of civilian ingrates who’ll never see you as their savior, but their enemy. Never as the sheepdog guarding the herd, just another wolf, and that’s how they treat us. They despise us, they exclude us... Why do you think we almost always marry women who are also in the corps?

  All that for poverty wages and a pension that’s not worth shit—if you even make it to retirement age.

  I bet you’re wondering, if this is such a nasty life, why are there still any agents? Why hasn’t everybody in Planetary Security thrown away their vibrobadges and said the hell with it? Why is it still so hard to get into the Academy and why do all the young people fight to make it? I mean, it must’ve been pretty hard even for you with your big IQ, eh?

  Fact is, maybe the salary doesn’t go far enough, but the uniform gives you certain opportunities... I prefer to call them “unadvertised rights.” Sheer justice. There has to be some sort of benefit in it for you, when it’s your hide on the line when one of those drugged-up wack jobs from the Xenophobe Union for Earthling Liberation tries to make mincemeat of a grodo just because he’s been scared of bugs since he was a kid.

  Corruption, you say? Oh, Markus, that’s a real big word, and real ugly.

  I can see you and me have a serious problem with terminology. I’d rather call it compensation. But if you insist, sure. Corruption. Call a spade a spade.

  But don’t start trembling at the sound of those three syllables. Cor-rup-tion. And not just here in Planetary Security; it’s practically the official sport of this planet. All those officials who pretend to be so pure, who love to give holonet interviews where they spout off diatribes against the “intolerable venality” of our corps—they take in tons more than we do, and for less risk. Criticizing your neighbor for being dirty is still the best method for concealing the dirt you’re covered in yourself. So forget about them and live your own life, son.

  That’s how it is.

  But at the same time, you shouldn’t think that you’re a god because you have a gun on your hip and a vibrobadge ID. And you can’t let people get away with anything just because there’s some money in it. You’d make a huge mess of things, and it would end up costing you.

  We’re the ones who keep order—even if it isn’t the same order the Manual talks about. But it’s a lot different from chaos, is that clear? And a lot better. Chaos is bad for everyone, even the Mafia and the Yakuza, the biggest fish. That old saying about “good fishing in troubled waters” is bunk. Nobody comes out ahead when things are messed up.

  That’s why there are rules that everybody follows. To keep the system working, Markus. And that’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you from the beginning... Sorry if all that about Aniceto’s aquarium sounded like a shaggy dog story.

  At least it’s a good story, isn’t it?

  I’m not very good with words. I could never have made a good instructor sergeant. Luckily I prefer to be on the street. I’m more used to using my electroclub and my minimachine gun than my tongue. And that’s even after all the education I’ve gotten since I joined the force.

  Look, to get to the point... This is all about what happened the other day. When we were patrolling around Little Havana and that small-time pickpocket snatched the Cetian lady’s purse. You had fast reflexes and you were very fast when you ran after him through the middle of that crowd. Perfect, that’s what’s expected of you... And your legs are a lot younger than mine.

  You caught him and returned the purse to that xenoid lady, all dolled up in phosphorescent flowers. Just like you’re supposed to do. And her? All she can do is say, “Thanks, officer, these Earthlings are awful”—as if you’re a Colossaur, not a human. And not a single credit. Bad luck—tourists are almost always more grateful. But that’s work.

  The bad part is, afterwards, you acted like a total idiot. You wasted time and money, and you created unnecessary problems.

  In spite of all the signs I was making, you announced publicly that you were going to drag the poor kid down to headquarters. Even worse, you actually did it. You didn’t care about his tears, you didn’t care that he said he was on Ahimasa’s list, you entered him into the computer. Just like the Manual says.

  Now t
he little thief has his arm tattooed with the ultraviolet marker, and there’s no way to mistake him for anyone else. I bet you feel proud about what you did? Branding a juvenile delinquent, making it easier to follow him and keep him from committing more crimes in the future. What a model public servant. You even think you were generous with him, dropping the charges. Because if you had reported him, he would have ended up with a couple of months in Body Spares, right?

  Well, let me tell you what you really did. You condemned him to death... Unless he’s brave enough to amputate that piece of flesh from his arm by himself. That’s the only way he’ll get rid of that tattoo.

  And I’d like to imagine you did it out of ignorance. Because if I thought you had done it on purpose... Better not even mention what might have become of you by now. Here in Planetary Security, the worst sin you can commit is to lack esprit de corps. Break the rules and you’re automatically out of the game.

  Markus, in case you didn’t know it, those kids from the gutter are worth their weight in gold for certain “jobs.” Not especially legal ones, of course. Since they were never registered by their parents or families, they don’t have Social Security numbers, which makes them unidentifiable citizens. That means they can get in anywhere without being detected.

  That’s why they’re allowed to live. Too bad their bosses pay them chicken feed, which is why they have to risk small-time robberies on their own account. A street orphan’s life is tough. Only one out of a hundred reaches the age of fourteen.

  When some xenoid who’s paying more attention than average discovers that one is lifting her purse, and she calls for help, that’s where you step in. The whole “Stop that thief!” scene: you chase him down, catch him, return the purse to the extraterrestrial, just like the Manual says, and they either give you a tip or they don’t... But then you throw out your instructions, and you ask the kid who his boss is.