A Planet for Rent (15 page)

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 the 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.

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.