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 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.