The Lord of Opium

22

THE ALTAR CLOTH

I want to go back to Ajo immediately,” Matt told Cienfuegos.

“¿El Bicho se encabronó, verdad?” said the jefe. “The little pest got your goat, didn’t he?”

“You find out about everything.”

“It’s my job.” Cienfuegos grinned. “I won’t be sorry to leave this place. Dr. Rivas has too many secrets for my liking, and I can’t make up my mind whether he’s a villain or not. But then Opium is full of villains.” They were sitting under the trees next to a warehouse the jefe had used to store the plants and animals he’d collected for Esperanza. Matt could see cages of squirrels, rattlesnakes, and roadrunners.

“Why would anyone want rattlesnakes?” asked Matt.

“They’re part of the ecosystem, mi patrón. No matter how nasty something is, it has some purpose.” Cienfuegos gazed fondly at the animals he’d rounded up. “This is the kind of work I was made for, not hunting Illegals.” For a moment he looked sad. It was the first time Matt had seen any sign of regret.

“You can spend all the time you like on it,” the boy said, “when you don’t have duties with the Farm Patrol.”

Cienfuegos grimaced. “I always have duties with the Farm Patrol. It’s what I’m programmed to do.”

Matt paused, understanding what the word programmed meant. He tried to think of a way to ask about it without offending the jefe. “This programming,” he began, “there seem to be several levels. You, for example, show no evidence of control. Mr. Ortega doesn’t either, but Eusebio, the guitar master, works like a machine. Music can awaken him briefly, and Mirasol responds to food. The field eejits don’t respond to anything. How is this possible?” Cienfuegos stiffened, and Matt braced himself for an attack.

“If you weren’t the patrón, I would have killed you by now,” the man said. “That is the one topic I can’t bear to think about. I wake up at night remembering what I’ve lost and that there’s nothing I can ever do about it. I can’t kill myself. That’s part of the programming too. All I can do is get up, inspect my troops, and send them out on their missions. Now, of course, with the border sealed, there’s no one to hunt. Long may it stay that way.”

For the first time the jefe had let his guard slip. He was a relentless hunter and showed no compassion for his prey, but how much was part of the man and how much was induced by the microchips?

A breeze brought the smell of pinewoods from farther up the mountain and blew dust along the road. Sometimes the winds were so fierce they made the walls of the mansion shudder. It was a place both wild and ultracivilized, Matt thought. Some parts were beyond anything else in the world, like the hospital, but hawks nested in the crags above its roof, and black bears prowled the grounds after dark.

“The microchips form a kind of constellation,” Cienfuegos said after a while. “Depending on their makeup, they attach to different parts of the brain. Dr. Rivas knows far more about it than I do. The eejits get a dose like the blast of a shotgun. Everything is shorted out. The lab technicians get enough to control their will, but not enough to dampen their intelligence. Almost everyone in this place is controlled to one degree or another. Celia was spared because she was a woman and not considered important enough to be a threat. Dr. Rivas and his son and daughter at the observatory were left untouched as well.”

“Why them?” asked Matt.

Cienfuegos gazed up at the trees, white sycamores that were just coming into leaf. The scanty shade sent speckles of sunlight onto the man’s face and illuminated his yellow-brown eyes. “Dr. Rivas was El Patrón’s guarantee of immortality,” he said. “I don’t know why the two astronomers were spared, but you can bet it was for a good reason. Well”—the jefe stood up—“I’d better see about packing. We’ll need a large hovercraft, though most of the plant and animal samples can go by road.”

“Major Beltrán could help with the collecting,” said Matt. “He’s got nothing better to do.”

Cienfuegos’s sudden bark of laughter took the boy by surprise. “I’m afraid his job is limited to pushing up daisies right now.”

“You didn’t!” cried Matt.

The jefe shrugged. “He was a security risk.”

“But I didn’t want him killed! What will Esperanza do when she finds out?”

“Nothing,” said Cienfuegos. “She has no problem with sacrificing people for her schemes, and she’s probably forgotten Beltrán’s existence. Please don’t look so shocked, mi patrón. Didn’t I tell you Opium was full of villains?”

* * *

What would Esperanza do? Matt didn’t think she’d excuse an out-and-out murder. Would she permanently keep him from María? And would María even want to see him? She’d always forgiven him before, but this time was different. She wasn’t a little girl with simple loyalties and opinions like Listen. She was almost a woman. Matt wished he knew what the dividing line between girls and women was. He might ask Ton-Ton, but he could imagine his friend’s reaction. (“¡Me burlas! You’re kidding! You really don’t know what a woman is? Hey, Chacho! Guess what Matt just told me?”)

No, he couldn’t ask Ton-Ton.

Matt went to the holoport room and sat in front of the giant portal. He hadn’t told Cienfuegos or Dr. Rivas where he was going, but why should he? He was the patrón, the boss of all bosses. He didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.

The icon for the Convent of Santa Clara was winking, but before he reached for it, he looked around.

Mirasol was sitting on the floor, hands folded on her lap. “Waitress, go to the kitchen,” Matt said, irritated because she wouldn’t leave him alone, and then, “Stop. Stay.” He couldn’t send her to the kitchen, because she made the cooks nervous. Cienfuegos said they were afraid she would go rogue, something that happened to eejits when their brains were under too much pressure.

Perhaps she would be all right if he gave her something to do. “Come with me,” Matt ordered, and Mirasol rose to her feet. He went in search of Listen, but the little girl had dodged her caretaker as easily as she’d eluded the Bug. He found her in Mbongeni’s crib. El Bicho was nowhere to be seen.

“Listen, I told you to stay away from here,” Matt said.

“Yep, you sure told me,” she said, playing peek-a-boo with the little boy, “and I sure ignored you. Mbongeni is my best buddy. I’m not leaving him for anything.”

“You aren’t safe.”

Listen climbed out of the crib and stood before him like a small general. “Why not? I got by before.”

“The bigger El Bicho gets, the more dangerous he is.”

“Why don’t you put him in a cage? Feed him worms or something.” Listen folded her arms and thrust out her chin.

“He’ll never get better if he’s treated like an animal,” said Matt.

“Guess what? I don’t care.”

When Matt tried to pull her away, she shouted insults at him. “I won’t desert Mbongeni! I won’t!”

Matt gave up. The playroom was a cheerful enough place, with pictures of animals tacked to the walls—probably one of Dr. Rivas’s biology lessons. One wall had dinosaurs, another reptiles, and a third insects. Each was labeled with both the common and scientific names. There were no bunny rabbits or kittens.

Six eejits sat in chairs by the kitchen, programmed to fetch food, tidy up, or give baths when a bell rang. “Where’s the Bug now?” Matt asked.

“Dr. Rivas took him off for a walk when I got here,” said Listen.

At least he’s keeping them apart, thought Matt. He’d made it very clear to the doctor that Listen was not to be harmed. “I guess I can leave you for a while,” he said.

“Great! Let me show you something Mbongeni loves better than anything in the world.” Listen ran to the kitchen and took a bottle of molasses from a shelf. Then she ripped open the side of a pillow and pulled out a chicken feather. “Look, Mbongeni, look,” she crowed.

“Muh! Muh!” cried the little boy, bouncing up and down. Listen dabbed a drop of molasses on each finger and glued the feather onto one. “Muh!” he squealed as he transferred the feather from one sticky hand to the other.

“He’ll do that until the feather falls apart,” said Listen with shining eyes. “He learned to do it all by himself.”

Matt looked away, dismayed, but it was clear that the little boy enjoyed the game. “Waitress, I want you to watch over Listen. This is very important. Don’t let the Bug hurt her in any way.” He waited a bit longer, hypnotized by Mbongeni, until Listen applied molasses to Mirasol’s fingers. Like all eejits, she was programmed to copy others and soon she, too, was transferring a feather from one hand to the other.

* * *

Matt scrolled through the icons in the holoport room and highlighted the Convent of Santa Clara. The familiar room appeared. Sor Artemesia’s altar cloth was pinned on a back wall with a vase of red roses placed in front of it, and next to the roses was María.

He thrust his hand against the screen before she could leave the room. As always, he felt sick and his heart pounded, but he knew the sensation would pass. For a moment the wormhole swirled with mist and he lost sight of María. Don’t go. Don’t go, he implored, and sure enough, when the image resolved she was standing directly in front of the portal.

“Don’t touch the screen,” he gasped, trying to recover from the scanner.

She held her hands clasped over her heart and they gazed at each other, too overcome to speak. They were alone. There was no Esperanza to interfere and no Cienfuegos to make jokes. Finally, she said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” said Matt. How could he have thought her angry and unforgiving? María was made for forgiveness. She was the one still point in a world full of lies and shifting loyalties. “I’m sorry I was cruel to you. I didn’t mean it. I would never mean it.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I lost my temper too. I know you wouldn’t betray me.”

“Never,” he swore. “Mirasol . . .,” he began, not knowing how to explain.

“Mirasol doesn’t exist,” said María firmly.

“She doesn’t exist,” he repeated. He didn’t believe this. Somewhere Mirasol did exist where he couldn’t find her, but he wasn’t going to risk an argument. “I wish we were together.”

“Mother won’t let me come,” said María, “but I will. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”

“I could come there,” Matt said.

“It’s too dangerous. I hate to say this—I know it’s wicked and God tells us to honor our parents—but I don’t trust Mother. She’s become so powerful. Presidents and generals listen to what she says, and she’s so single-minded. I don’t think you’d be safe here.” María unpinned the altar cloth from the wall. She put it into one of the cylinders Esperanza used to send messages through the holoport. “Remember me,” she said, and tossed the cylinder into the portal.

Mist billowed around the missile as it made its slow journey through the wormhole and fell to the floor with a metallic chime. The image of the Convent of Santa Clara filled with snowflakes, and a finger of icy air touched Matt’s face. After a moment the image resolved, but by that time María was gone.

* * *

Matt wandered through the gardens in a dream. At last he’d seen María, and although they couldn’t touch each other, they were as close as if they were in the same room. Esperanza hadn’t been able to change her. Matt smiled. María’s mother might have the power to order generals and presidents around, but she couldn’t control her daughter.

Matt had the altar cloth folded inside his shirt next to his skin. When he drew the fine silk from the cylinder, it was as though María had reached through the portal and touched his hand. He was transfixed, unable to move for several minutes. He would keep the cloth always. He would never be without it.

Birds crowded the garden, feasting at various feeders that were refilled each morning. Goldfinches clung to bags of thistle, jays squabbled over sunflower seeds, woodpeckers complained loudly when he walked by. Hummingbirds hovered in front of his face, daring him to steal their sugar water. The air was full of their colors—yellow, blue, iridescent ruby, and green—and of the whirring of their wings.

María said that when Saint Francis went into the fields, throngs of birds filled the trees. “My little sisters,” the saint told them, “God has granted you the freedom to fly anywhere. He has given you pretty clothing and taught you beautiful songs. He has created the rivers and springs to drink from, the rocks and crags for refuge, and the trees for your nests. The Creator loves you very much. Therefore, my little sister birds, you must praise Him.” And the birds rose into the air, singing marvelously and circling ever higher.

I shouldn’t have made fun of Saint Francis, Matt thought. Even if he didn’t quite believe the stories, she did. He would try to be respectful.

He had no idea how much time had passed. The sun had moved toward the mountains, and the shadows had lengthened. He arrived at last at the playroom, vaguely aware that he had to fetch Listen and Mirasol and enter the real world again.

Mbongeni was asleep in his crib, with Listen curled up beside him. She was sucking her thumb and looked at Matt with wide, scared eyes. Matt immediately looked around and saw the line of eejits next to the kitchen. If they had moved in the time he had gone, there was no evidence of it. Mirasol . . .

Mirasol was standing next to a bed, and around her lay a drift of pictures pulled off the walls—dinosaurs, reptiles, and insects. The thumbtacks had been removed, and now Matt saw where they had gone.

El Bicho was standing next to her and very carefully pressing the tacks into her skin. Her whole right arm glittered with metal as though she were in armor. Mirasol herself showed not a trace of emotion. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Matt hurled himself across the room. “You little crot!” he yelled. He struck the Bug, sending the boy flying across the bed. The Bug screamed and scrambled over the other side. Matt flung himself on the bed, but he was stopped by Listen, who had jumped out of the crib.

“Please, Mr. Patrón. Please help Mirasol,” she cried, grabbing Matt’s ankle. “I tried to stop him, really I did. He wanted to hurt me, but she came between us. Every time he tried to get me, she put herself in the way.”

The red mist that had descended on Matt’s brain cleared. He’d been about to kill El Bicho. He knew it. He panted as though he’d been running a race. He sat down on the bed, his heart pumping.

“We’ve got to take Mirasol to the hospital,” said Listen. “She didn’t even move when he put those tacks in. She didn’t cry or anything, but it’s got to hurt.”

Matt blinked at her. The Bug was still under the bed, screaming.

“Mr. Patrón? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Matt said dully.

“You can order the eejits to carry Mirasol to the hospital. I can’t,” said the little girl. “I tried.”

At last Matt responded. “Did Dr. Rivas come here?” he asked.

“He dropped the Bug off and left.”

The Bug is the wrong one to kill, thought Matt. Dr. Rivas is the one who knew what would happen. But he couldn’t unleash Cienfuegos on the doctor. He needed him to train the new physicians and nurses. It was another compromise in the battle to save the eejits, like shooting down an aircraft to avert a war. As Dr. Rivas said, you could get used to being evil. Matt got up and gave the orders to the eejits.