A Planet for Rent

by Yoss

  A street kid’s master is always ready to pay. Ahimasa would’ve paid you a handsome sum for you not to tattoo his boy. A nice bargain, and everybody’s happy—even the kid. He might get a bit of a whipping, more for his clumsiness that for the purse-snatching itself, but at least he’d still be alive and still have a job.

  If it troubles your sense of morality for the kid to get off without being punished for stealing, I assure you that the beating Ahimasa would have given him when we turned him over would have taken away his appetite for robbery for quite a while. The guys in the Yakuza are heavy-handed, and they don’t hold back with the neurowhip. If that boy ever tried it again, he’d be a lot more careful not to let his victim detect him.

  Instead, what do they have now? Just a registered kid who’s worth nothing and who knows too much. Ahimasa will have to rid himself of him as quick as possible.

  So, all on account of you, because you followed the regulations just as they’re laid out in the Manual and you don’t know the rules of the game, we now have a businessman—maybe not a totally legal one, but honest after his own fashion—who’s forced to contract a hitman to get rid of a poor kid. A kid who, for all we know, he might have even come to like. And a minor, a runaway, scared to death, who’ll be very lucky to escape with his life. A waste of time, credits, and human resources, and so much trouble...

  That’s not how things are done, Markus.

  Have you seen how many people greet me when we’re making our rounds? Some of them were kids like him, years ago—and I’m sure that every night, before they go to sleep, they still give thanks to God and the Virgin that I was the one who first caught them. I feel proud to be a member of Planetary Security every time I recognize one of them... They’re alive and they’ve grown into men thanks to me.

  That’s what it means to be generous and to serve the public interest, Markus.

  Do you understand the difference?

  So you see, things are always more complex that they seem. The stuff they told you in the Academy, that there’s a war between our forces and crime that’s being fought on the streets across this planet—forget it, right now. There aren’t two sides. We’re equals. All fish swimming in the same water. The only thing that makes us seem different is this uniform.

  You’re an educated kid, Markus, so I imagine you must have heard of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and his social contract.

  Well, there’s another social contract at work on Earth today, and we’re the guardians of it. Since nobody could survive if they followed all the laws, we’re the ones in charge of turning a blind eye to the minor infractions that are necessary to stay alive—so long as the violators don’t question the system itself too much.

  Every seemingly honest citizen is breaking the law, one way or another. You yourself: sincerely, have you always paid your taxes properly and on time? Have you never rigged an energy meter? Aha, you see?

  We make sure that the narrow margin of illegality we all live in is kept under control. Kept at a level acceptable to everyone. No serial killings or xenophobic terrorism, but everything else? Illegal gambling, soft drugs, unincorporated services, small-time pickpockets, minor robberies... Those aren’t the enemy, the others are. The xenoids, you understand?

  How did you insult agents when you were little? What did you yell at them? “Buglickers,” am I right? Servants of the extraterrestrials, that’s what you thought we were. Don’t deny it...

  In a way, those people from other planets pay our salaries so we’ll keep the peace in their tourist and finance paradise. And they could care less whether we kill each other, or eat each other—just as long as we don’t bother their sacred inhuman selves.

  This planet could be blown to smithereens; if no xenoid gets hurt, it wouldn’t even be third-class news in the galaxy. But all it takes is for one stupid tourist to cut a tentacle, and all hell breaks loose.

  It’s like the story of the boy who was playing with the leash of the organ-grinder’s monkey; nothing happened, the monkey didn’t react. The boy got bolder, touched the animal, and—chomp! He started screaming about how the monkey had bitten him. And what did the owner say? “You asked for it. Play with the leash—but don’t touch the monkey.”

  On this planet, the monkey is anyone from another planet.

  Still, you should know that the secret motto of the Planetary Tourism Agency also applies to us: “Take their credits at all costs and by any means.”

  Which, translated into our slang, means something like: “The tourist is always at fault, and must pay for it.” And I’m talking about paying credits, for the record.

  It isn’t that difficult.

  Fortunately, the xenoids who visit us have considerable inherent respect for the Law and its representatives. Maybe things work differently on their worlds, and people in our line of work really do follow their Manuals to the letter there. Though I can’t imagine how that could be possible...

  Fact is, if you’re intelligent, authoritative, and likeable enough, the way they expect public authorities to be, they’ll always believe you. That’s just what you need. Get them to believe that they were the ones at fault in the aerobus accident where a human with his lights off crashed into their vehicle from behind. Or that they are guilty for being robbed because they were carrying their pile of credit cards in a bag strapped across their bellies, where it’s child’s play for any pickpocket with a razor to swipe it.

  Trip them up with all the legal technicalities ever invented. Make them feel guilty. That’s the key point. And get them to pay you to get rid of their guilt.

  That last bit, most of all.

  I’m probably underestimating you. You must know all this already. If you decided to join us, I bet it wasn’t out of civic duty or because you were wowed by the guns and the uniforms or the power and the authority you’ll represent to your old neighborhood friends and to social workers and girls in general.

  Though that’s another advantage we have. Kid, if I told you half my sexual experiences, you’d spend half a year masturbating. I’ve never gotten married. What for? I’ve got everything I could want and more.

  Inexperienced teenage beauties who take to the streets out of poverty, ignorantly wander into the forbidden areas in the astroport, and are willing to do anything if you just won’t start a file on them for being illegal underage workers. Hey, Markus, I do mean anything...

  I’ve deflowered more virgins than a Cetian millionaire.

  And the legal ones, the girls who have health insurance and everything, the real sex artists—don’t they know how to thank you when you intervene in time and free them from some client with more sadistic tastes than usual.

  We protect them, and they pay us back the way they know best. Think of it as an exchange of professional services.

  Though that’s only one option, obviously. Some prefer hard cash, even if it comes from one of them. But an agent’s life is unstable and solitary... Patrolling the streets, there’s not much chance you’ll meet the girl of your dreams. And even less that you’ll keep her.

  If the only way to get voluntary sex is from paid professionals, I prefer to get it for free at least, and do it with ladies I know and who are grateful and almost friends to me. I feel safer with them than with a social worker who’s a stranger. With one of them, you can never be sure she doesn’t keep a stiletto under her pillow, waiting for you to fall asleep so she can kill you and rob you.

  Of course, that’s my taste. You can do whatever you want.

  There are some things you can’t allow. And if they try to take advantage of your inexperience and bribe you to turn a blind eye, I want you to tell me about it right away. I’ll take care of those dealer bastards...

  I’ve read a bit of history, and I know that in the past they also went after drug dealers. But for all drugs.

  How ridiculous. Our system is a lot more rational: you can get whate
ver you want in the Medical Amusement Centers. Good prices, quality guaranteed, and under the care of trained toxicology experts. It’s one of the basic attractions for tourists who can afford it.

  That’s why guys who deal dirt-cheap, presumably adulterated drugs underground are a discredit to the planet and a threat we can’t tolerate. No mercy for them. The guidelines when we catch one of them are hard and clear: take no prisoners. They don’t even want that scum in Body Spares. They’re almost always addicted to the same junk they sell, and no extraterrestrial in his right mind would want to “mount” a body with such a wasted metabolism.

  On the other hand, there are priorities. It goes without saying that if some xenoid perishes under suspicious circumstances, we have to drop all other business and focus on the investigation into the cause of death. And if no guilty party turns up... one has to be invented, by hook or by crook. Too much depends on our efficiency in such cases.

  Always bear in mind how they wiped Philadelphia off the map: Somebody, probably fighting over a skirt, slit the throat of some Cetian nobody, and the local district guys didn’t manage to find out who it was. And the reprisal by the fellows from Tau Ceti: two million humans, evaporated. I doubt you’d like to see the demonstration repeated in another city—with you in it.

  There’s only one thing more urgent than discovering who killed a xenoid. And that’s giving anyone who kills one of our own what they deserve. Making sure they never even make it to trial... alive. That’s solidarity and esprit de corps. It’s plenty comforting to know you’ll get your revenge if the worst happens.

  But don’t look like that, Markus; it isn’t all risk and revenge in this job of ours. There’s also lots of ways a clever agent can pick up a few extra credits, when he’s off duty, pretty safely.

  For example, the protection business.

  The Yakuza and the Triads monopolize it; they even control most of the freelancers. But if you want to earn every credit that goes into your account through honest labor, and you want to spend your free time doing it, the organized crime guys won’t interfere.

  Though there are some very good freelancers, lots of retailers think that contracting a Planetary Security agent is the best. It means contracting quality. There’s a good reason why we earn our reputation in physical training and gun-handling skills. And just as important, we’re permitted to keep and use our guns, even off duty. The Agent’s Personal Protection Clause, remember?

  That’s how it is, Markus: this protection deal has the advantage of not even being illegal. So long as you don’t wear your uniform, of course, ha ha! If anything happens, you just state that you were “passing by” and you “fired in self-defense.” The Homicide officer who takes the case will know how to exonerate you of any charges. Esprit de corps, get it?

  Some expert advice: if you’re seriously interested in the protection business, the best thing you can do is spend a few credits on a small initial investment in the Logistics officer at headquarters. He’ll give you a Kevlar jacket to protect you, also an unregistered gun. And the price won’t be as steep as it might seem, if you stop to think about it. Keep in mind, it’ll mean that any shots you fire off duty won’t leave a trace on the central computer. To which all our minimachine guns are connected, as they must have told you in the Academy.

  The shopkeepers will reward your efforts with a nice, fat bonus. A guard who can fire his gun without worries is always more effective than one who can only turn to it under extreme circumstances, don’t you think?

  After the man without the uniform, something about the uniform without the man. And here we’re departing from the Law. In case you’re ambitious and you really like to gamble.

  Every once in a while one of these self-employed businessmen, like our friend Ahimasa, will approach you and offer a considerable sum for the loan of your Kevlar-armored suit. A very considerable sum. Don’t hesitate for even a second; give it to him. Without the slightest remorse, and without thinking it makes you an evil traitor to the corps.

  There’s nothing wrong with agreeing; they rarely use our uniforms for anything but settling inside scores. And if it turns into too big a mess and we have to intervene... a Kevlar suit won’t guarantee anybody’s life when they’re up against us. Every reputable hitman knows that the hollow-point bullets we use will blast straight through our own armor. Fortunately, no other weapon on Earth has the necessary firepower.

  That’s why we’re so relentless in going after the arms traffickers who sell masers and rocket-propelled explosives. If gizmos like that started circulating widely in the black market, we’d completely lose control of the situation.

  Oh, a couple of details. When you rent out your uniform, never forget two precautions: first, and it’s so obvious it’s hardly worth saying, remove the ID vibroplate and any corps badges, in case your “clients” get captured. Second, put in a request for a new uniform because your old one was stolen. And make sure the request is backdated to at least three days before you “loaned” it. If they return your suit without any problems, you cancel the request. But if your “clients” are caught or killed, it’ll be your best alibi: Another stolen uniform, not your fault, you told them about it in plenty of time, what a pity, there’s no decency anymore, somebody from your neighborhood who hates you must’ve stolen it off the hanger to sell it to those killers, what a coincidence...

  And don’t protest if the service officer charges you a little more for your new Kevlar-armored uniform. He’s no fool, and since he hardly has any contact with the outside world, he has to make his extra profit somehow, don’t you think?

  We all have a right to live.

  Oh, about food sellers...

  Even though you look like the sort who’s obsessed with organic vegetables and meat without synthetic hormones and all that old ecological stuff, let me tell you something: It’s been years since I’ve spent practically anything at all on food. My microwave has the immaculate gleam of a machine that never gets used. But I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day like an emperor. Look at the belly I’m starting to get... And that’s after spending half an hour every day on the jogging simulator.

  My secret? Easy...

  One of the hardest subjects in the Academy was Commercial Hygiene. Was it for you, too? I don’t know about you, but I had such a tough time learning the basic regulations about transporting, storing, preparing, and selling foodstuffs. But I have to admit that it turned out to be the most useful subject I took, out of all my preparatory classes. Because, surprise! Hardly any of those regulations are applicable to real life.

  It’s like everything here on Earth: if food retailers tried to follow to the letter every one of the thousand specifications that the Law demands, they’d go broke. They know it, we know it... the Law knows it. There used to be a corps of inspectors who got all the gifts for pretending to have bad eyesight. And the rest of us, twiddling our thumbs and dying of envy. Fortunately, five years ago Amendment 538 gave us total power by turning us into the only control force all over the planet. No more than what we deserved, if you ask me.

  So, if you see a grocer selling vegetables that smell like dextrinone, or chickens that are a little swollen from synthetic steroids, and he invites you to breakfast—don’t hesitate, accept. Sure, it’s a bribe... but you can bet he won’t set his own table with any of the garbage he sells. Most likely that’s stuff he keeps for extraterrestrials, so you won’t be harming any humans with your “laissez faire.”

  And I assure you, in exchange for being tolerant, you’ll eat true delicacies. Those are the great pleasures of life, the most basic ones: sex and food. A man has a right to pamper his palate, doesn’t he? After all, he isn’t some xenoid with a brass gullet.

  Yeah, because those bugs don’t care whether they’re eating crap or caviar so long as the chef swears that it’s some exotic Earthling dish. Idiots.

  Aside from sybaritic pleasures, my advi
ce is that, if you want to be a father someday, don’t sink your teeth into any of the succulent produce you see in the windows, or let yourself be tempted by the cheap, juicy ten-day chicks that look as big and fat as forty-day chickens. They don’t do much harm to the metabolisms of the weird guys from other worlds, but those synthetic hormones can really mess up your innards—or your children’s, if your wife and you decide to have any in the natural way. Though, personally, I’d invest a few extra credits and get a good custom genetic design. Clean, safe, efficient.

  As for the rest, you have to be tough on the retailers and small industrialists who contaminate the environment by dumping their rotting and carcinogenic waste and their untreated sewage straight down the drain. Fine ’em! As often as you have to! So they’ll learn once and for all that in the long run it’ll be cheaper for them to install a waste treatment plant than to keep breaking the environmental protection laws.

  As you can see, even though I make fun of it, I’m halfway on your ecology and conservation bandwagon. Simple pragmatism: survival instinct, not religious fervor about bugs and flowers.

  Earth is our planet, isn’t it? Just because the guys from beyond Pluto own it now, it doesn’t mean that we don’t care anymore, or that we should commit suicide by drowning in our own shit. Not to mention, that would also mean losing the tourism that still barely keeps us afloat, which depends so much on our virgin forests and all that...

  What else...

  Oh, yeah. Practically the most important thing: They must have talked to you about staff rotation in the Academy. Three months here on patrol, three in Deterrent Force, three in Homicide, and so on and so forth. A cute little system that one of the big bosses must’ve dreamed up—with the idea, I guess, of preventing the poor agents and regular old sergeants from feeling too tempted to fall into the horrendous venial sin of corruption... No doubt the moron thought he was an absolute genius for coming up with that.