The Lord of Opium

24

THE BIOSPHERE

They floated over a series of low hills. The canyons were full of streams and a wild profusion of plant life. The dry hilltops were covered with cactuses and paloverde trees. Ahead was a shimmering, transparent curtain that distorted the land beyond.

“That’s the northern border of Opium,” said Cienfuegos.

Matt had seen the southern border. It consisted of a line of poles with nothing in between. Beyond had been a seething mass of factories and skyscrapers. The air had been a smudgy brown, and the noise emanating from the city had been terrifying. Here, there was only rippling air and vague shapes. This was how the border looked during lockdown.

“We’ll land at the Alacrán Biosphere,” said Cienfuegos. They paralleled the shimmering curtain, and Matt felt the hairs on his arms stir. Listen rubbed her face. “What you feel is the energy field that protects Opium,” said the jefe.

Matt could detect vague shapes on the other side of the curtain—specks in the air that might have been hovercrafts. Behind them rose a hazy mountain. “What’s that?” cried Listen, grabbing Matt’s arm.

There were bodies embedded in the energy field. They were frozen in midstride, as though the men had been running and were still alive, but one skeletal hand stretched bony fingers into Opium. “I wish the news would get out that it’s lethal to cross the border,” the jefe said crossly. “What a waste! There were at least a dozen good farmworkers there.”

Listen covered her eyes, and Matt turned away. He saw that they were approaching a collection of huge buildings, each one at least a mile long. Surrounding them was a clear bubble. “That looks like the Scorpion Star,” said Matt in amazement.

“The space station was copied from this. I’ve always wanted to go inside, but I couldn’t get permission from Dr. Rivas,” said the jefe. “Now, of course, I have the new patrón to back me up.”

“I’ve seen the Scorpion Star dozens of times,” boasted Listen. “Dr. Angel lets me come whenever I want, because I’m clever and I don’t break things like the Bug.”

“The first biosphere was built in the United States,” said the jefe, ignoring her. “El Patrón captured it during the drug wars, but the US army drove him away. In revenge, he took every plant and animal with him and destroyed the buildings to keep anyone else from using them.”

“He wasn’t much of an ecologist, was he?” Matt said.

Cienfuegos grinned. “You could call him an accidental ecologist. His real motive was to collect as much loot as possible. He rebuilt the biosphere, improving and refining it until he had a model for the Scorpion Star.”

“Let’s go inside,” said Listen, her eyes bright with excitement.

“No one has done that since the scientists collected plants to make the jungle you saw,” said the jefe. “That was eighty years ago.”

Imagine being locked up all that time, Matt thought, looking at the miles of buildings. Generations had passed, wars had been fought, and governments had toppled. “Didn’t El Patrón get curious about what was going on inside?” If anything is, he thought with a thrill of horror. Maybe they’re all dead.

“He was interested for as long as it took to build the Scorpion Star,” said Cienfuegos. “Then he had a new toy to play with. There are lots of things knocking around Opium that no one has bothered with for a long time.”

Cienfuegos eased the hovercraft onto a magnetic strip. “I hope to hell the recharger still works. I wouldn’t want to get stranded here.” He opened the hatch, and all climbed out. The jefe produced a device like a TV remote and clicked in numbers. A door in the biosphere bubble opened up. It moved reluctantly, as though decades of dust had found its way into the machinery. “Dr. Rivas says we have to go through a screening process to keep germs from entering.”

The door closed behind them, and Matt jumped at a sudden grinding, creaking noise. Ancient robots were coming to life, their arthritic limbs jerking into motion. Smaller machines hurried among them, oiling and flexing their joints. “They look like bugs! Big, horrible, ugly bugs!” cried Listen, trying to wrench open the door. “Don’t let them touch me!” She screamed as the fully lubricated robots moved forward, their metal hands clicking.

“Easy, chiquita. They’re programmed to disinfect us. I’ll go first,” said the jefe. But even he looked nervous as the ancient robots sprayed his clothes and the little machines crawled over him like mice to poke disinfectant into his ears and nose. When they were finished, they moved on to Matt, and he did his best not to panic. Listen tried to climb up the smooth wall of the bubble, but the robots pulled her down.

“Show some class. No drug lord would ever marry such a crybaby,” Cienfuegos scolded.

“I don’t care! They’re big, horrible, ugly bugs!” yelled Listen. She batted away the little machines, but they kept on coming, and finally she rolled herself into a ball and endured the process. Then the robots cleansed Mirasol, who of course showed no reaction at all.

They were allowed through to a second chamber, where they were dried and told to breathe deeply by a large machine that belched scented air. “I believe this is to clear the germs that live inside us,” said Cienfuegos. After an hour they were released to yet a third area, where new clothes were presented to them. These were white tunics, and each of them received the correct size. By now Listen had calmed down, and she fingered the cloth with interest.

When they had passed through the final door, they found themselves in a grove of trees whose branches stretched toward a distant glass ceiling. It was like a place in a dream where the colors were unusually clear and bright. The air had the smell of green, growing things. They heard a brook and saw the pond into which it emptied behind a screen of reeds. “It’s raining,” whispered Listen, her voice muted with awe.

“Yes, it is,” said Matt. The room was so huge that clouds had formed between them and the ceiling, and cool drops pattered around them. In the distance, between stands of oak, laurel, and pine, was a field of golden wheat. People in white tunics bent to harvest it. “It’s so peaceful,” Matt said, and was swept by a longing to live in such a place forever.

Rain pocked the surface of the pond, and a frog suddenly bellowed, Kre-ek! Kre-ek! Another frog answered, and soon a whole chorus was calling.

Listen ran over to the pond and thrust her hands into the water. A loud splash followed. “Crap! I almost had him!”

“No, no, no, no, no,” came a voice from behind the reeds. A second later a man emerged and shook his finger in front of the little girl’s face. “Please do not tease the amphibians,” he said. “They must sing if they are to mate.”

Listen goggled at the strange man. His tunic and hair were streaming with water. “Are you a scientist?”

“The scientists have been gone for years. I am a frogherd,” the man said.

Listen burst into laughter. “A frogherd? What do you do? Chase ’em up and down the pool?”

“Frogherd is an honorable profession,” the man said stiffly. “You are obviously a brat and should be penned up with the other immatures.”

Cienfuegos laughed. “You’re right about that, señor. But we are visitors and can only stay a few hours.”

“Visitors?” The man frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“People from outside.”

“I have heard of such beings but thought it was a legend.” A frog croaked, and the man’s head jerked toward the sound. He seemed to have forgotten the existence of anything else.

“What happened to the scientists?” asked Matt.

The frogherd turned back with a look of impatience. “They have gone to Gaia, but there is no need for them anymore. We know everything about our world and merely care for our companion animals and plants.”

“You don’t say! Where’s Gaia?” Cienfuegos asked.

“Surely you are joking. Gaia is not a place. She is the Mother of All, the Earth Herself. Now I must return to my frogs.”

“Wait! I’ve brought the new patrón to see you,” said the jefe.

“Patrón? I seem to have heard that word before,” mused the man. “Is it a kind of animal?”

“He’s your boss,” said Cienfuegos.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” the man fussed. “No one owns nature. We are all Earth’s creatures.” He walked off without saying good-bye.

“What a strange person,” said Matt.

“The original inhabitants were top-grade scientists, but at least four generations have passed,” Cienfuegos said. “Perhaps their children have gone back to the wild.”

They walked on, admiring the birds and trees. “I think this is the ecosystem of northern Europe,” the jefe said. He pulled out a map and peered at it closely. “Yes. This is northern Europe, or at least the way it was.” They sat down on a small hill. In the distance the frogherd swam around the pool, flexing his long, white legs.

“I can see why you wanted to come here,” said Matt. “It’s the most magical place I’ve seen.”

“I had another reason.” Cienfuegos fell silent for a moment, perhaps considering how much to reveal. “Before I came here, I studied agriculture in college.”

“I know. Chapultepec University. Celia told me,” Matt said.

“If you ever want a story to get all over the place, tell it to Celia,” said the jefe with some annoyance. “She probably told you that the farmland in Aztlán was poisoned with chemicals.” Matt nodded. “It would break your heart to see it. What were once beautiful fields of corn and wheat have turned into desert. The plants grow twisted. Men and women who tend them fall ill with strange diseases. It’s like what happened to the Maya in Yucatán long ago. They ruined their environment, and their civilization collapsed. You’d think their descendants would have learned not to kill the earth that feeds them, but humans are endlessly stupid and greedy.”

A line of men and women in white tunics walked from the distant grain fields. Each carried a basket of wheat on his or her head, and they walked with such grace that Matt caught his breath. They were like a line of music.

“Originally, I planned to go to the United States,” said Cienfuegos. “There’s a place in the north where they study how to repair soil, but as you know, I ended up here. Then I heard about the biosphere.” A rain cloud passed briefly and pattered rain on their heads. Listen turned up her face and tried to catch the drops in her mouth. Mirasol didn’t appear to notice, but somehow in this cool, clean atmosphere, she looked more alive. More beautiful.

“The first biosphere, the one in the United States, had a problem,” the jefe continued. “No matter how careful the scientists were, they couldn’t keep the soil productive. Toxic waste built up.”

The harvesters had disappeared among trees at the far end of the building. Matt would have liked to follow them, to see what they did with the grain, but he didn’t want to interrupt Cienfuegos.

“El Patrón solved the problem. Oh, not by himself,” the jefe said. “He hired top scientists to do it. They were the first inhabitants of the Alacrán biosphere, and according to Dr. Rivas, they were imprisoned here. They had to find a way to purify the soil or they would die when the system broke down. A typical El Patrón strategy.”

“Why didn’t he let them go home after they fixed things?” asked Listen.

Cienfuegos laughed. “Once the old man owned something, he never let it go.”

“So they stayed here, had children, and turned into frogherds.”

“I think that’s what happened,” said the jefe.

“We’re here to find out how they purified the soil,” Matt guessed.

“I hope so. This place is huge, and I don’t know who to ask. If all the scientists are gone, perhaps no one can explain how it was done.” Cienfuegos unfolded the map again and laid it out so the children could look at it. Buildings were labeled NORTHERN EUROPE, THE MEDITERRANEAN, OCEANIA, SUB-SAHARAN AFRICA—

“Let’s look at that,” cried Listen, poking the map with her finger.

“I didn’t know you could read,” Matt said.

“Can’t read everything. But I know Africa,” the little girl declared.

“Let me see. We probably have time to visit four ecosystems on this trip. We can pass through Africa on the way to the Mushroom Forest,” Cienfuegos said.