Хосе Гомес - A Planet for Rent

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 whatever 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…