Хосе Гомес - A Planet for Rent

“ Alea iacta est ,” he thought, the die is cast, and he greeted the darkness.

The nanos that had penetrated his brain suddenly cut the supply of blood and glucose to its neurons, while hitting his major synapses with well-calculated electrical shocks. Moy sweetly lost consciousness.

Clinically, he was already dead, though his heart continued to beat. No one in the audience had realized that what the machine was displaying to them was a cadaver. It was essential for the final act. No analgesic drug could even lessen the supreme pain of that finale.

The pneumatic nanomachine injected air at high pressure into Moy’s larynx, modulating the horrific posthumous scream that made the vocal cords vibrate until they broke.

Prelude to apotheosis.

The explosive charge went off in his heart, and a fraction of a second later, the one in the corpus callosum of his brain.

The two most important organs in the body flew to bits. The spikes and ridges of the machine fell upon the remains like hungry hyenas. They danced their frenzied choreography, mincing the remnants of the body like the teeth of some gigantic cannibal. And when there was nothing left to cut, they rose, oscillating menacingly, as if looking for their next victim.

Moy’s recorded voice, reverberating deeply, could then be heard:

“The world is the machine. Devouring art, it devours its creator. It always thirsts for blood, pain, and art—and there are always new artists yearning to become its food. This is life, and this is history. This is the great cycle.”

And the machine folded up, slowly, deliberately. The lights came on and the applause exploded, more fervent than ever.

Most of the audience left. Whispering, overwhelmed, looking eager to go back outside, back to reality.

Kandria waited longer. With tear-filled eyes, she exchanged views, brightly at first, then forcefully, with her agent-father. She wanted to see Moy and congratulate him—it had simply been perfect.

The Centaurian felt there was no need to overpraise the competition. Besides, this Moy wasn’t decent company for her. They might establish an emotional relationship that could distract her from her artistic path. And he was her father, and she owed him her obedience…

They argued until Kandria, furiously disengaging from the Centaurian, ran into the crowd without a backward look. Her father-agent smiled: this was just another form of respect.

He calmly followed her. Outside, his large purple eyes met the beady eyes of Ettubrute, and the two agents exchanged knowing looks and a shrug of the shoulders.

Yes, human artists were very difficult to deal with. Whether it was your child or your lover-friend… You often had to be hard on them, for their own good.

The art dealers and collectors, Cetians and members of other races, flocked to the platform like flies to the scent of a fresh cadaver. The Colossaur, cold and professional, responded to their offers and organized an auction, quickly and efficiently.

The great canvas that served as stage, plastered with Moy’s limbs and viscera, was sprayed with epoxy resin by an automated mechanism. The fast-drying substance formed a thin, transparent layer that would protect the work from time and putrefaction.

After a short bidding war with two grodos, an Auyar bought it for seventy thousand credits, cash. He then offered half a million credits for the machine, but Ettubrute was unshakeable. No, it wasn’t for sale. He wouldn’t even listen to proposals.

The Auyar made another offer. Magnificent…

Ettubrute’s little eyes shone with greed.

Well, he’d have to confer with the artist…

A hologram of Moy taken at the start of the performance, with a succinct biography in the Cetian syllabic alphabet, was projected in the space above the platform. The audience members who still remained, as if reluctant to leave, applauded once more. For fifteen credits, anyone interested could have a copy of the documentary. For 150, a holorecording of the entire performance.

There were more than fifty buyers. The show was a resounding success.

Moy, of course, only found out an hour later, once the autocloning was complete and his new body was available. Ettubrute, solicitous, gave him the whole story as he helped him from the mechanical womb hidden under the platform.

Despite the news, Moy felt no better. He coughed repeatedly to clear the mucilaginous pseudoamniotic fluid from his lungs. His hair and body felt disgustingly sticky, and he had a horrible taste in his mouth. All his muscles were shaking. He urgently needed to shower, to eat… and to sleep.

These cloned rebirths were wearing him out more and more.

“Having sold very well. Your debt being paying off,” the Colossaur encouraged him. “Having very interesting Auyar offer. They pay much.”

“Forget about it. I’m not going to Auya. I don’t trust guys who don’t show their faces, and I like my memory too much to let them erase it.” Moy shook his head, blinking to improve his vision. In spite of high-speed cloning, this business of changing bodies twice a week had its disadvantages. It always took you at least six hours to get totally used to your new anatomy.

“Not being on Auya, being here in Ningando,” the Colossaur persisted. “For Auyar diplomatic staff. The erasing of memory being only… partial. Lasting one month the contract. Eight thousand credits per performance… not counting profits from selling canvas at end.”

Moy whistled: that was nearly five times what he earned in a typical performance. The Auyars were loaded, for sure.

“Well, that changes everything,” he smiled. “With those kinds of earnings, we could both retire. You told him yes, of course, we’d love to do it, I imagine, Bruiser?” He playfully slapped his pectoral plate.

“There being one detail,” Ettubrute clarifies, almost timidly. “Requesting daily performances, and double performances weekends, or being no contract.”

“Shit on a spaceship,” Moy muttered, gulping as he mentally calculated as quick as he could. That made nine times a week. Thirty-six deaths and resurrections in a month. At eight thousand per, plus the canvasses—it was a tempting offer. But all those autoclonings…

All that discomfort, half the time adapting to a new body… plus the chance of brain damage from abusing the process, which wasn’t trivial.

On the other hand—he’d be able to return to Earth a potentate, make whatever art he wanted without ever having to worry anymore about whether it sold or not.

Two scales, one balance.

And the scales weighed practically the same. Hard to decide.

Without really knowing why, he thought of Jowe. Jowe never would have ended up in a situation like this, but… he wished he knew what Jowe would have done in his place.

“You think it’s worth it, Bruiser?” He looked at Ettubrute.

The Colossaur stared at him in turn, then shrugged. “I not risking anything. Being your life. Deciding you. Thinking that getting better price possible from Auyar? Being hard bargainers they…”

“I’ll try, but eight thousand’s pretty good,” Moy sighed. “Hey… Did you see that girl… you know, Kandria? The mestizo girl, human and Centaurian? She didn’t wait for me?”

Ettubrute looked at him slowly, for a long time. “No,” he finally grunted, shifting his gaze. “Leaving almost right away. Arguing with father-agent about possibility her doing something similar. Differing opinions.”

“Oh! So she’s a plagiarist,” Moy said, and something broke inside him. Suddenly the world looked and tasted like ash. “Alright… I think I’ll take their offer, Bruiser.”

The Colossaur lay his enormous paw delicately on his shoulder. “Moy…” It was the first time in months that he had pronounced his name. “You… you… being able taking it… so often?”