The Lord of Opium

42

THE SUICIDE BOMBER

They had lunch under a grape arbor. Fidelito and Listen had quarreled, and Sor Artemesia sat between them to keep the peace. “He wouldn’t play with Mbongeni,” Listen complained.

“Who wants to sit in a baby crib and glue chicken feathers to your fingers?” retorted Fidelito.

“You’re jealous ’cause Mbongeni likes me and not you.”

“He bit me,” cried the little boy.

“So? You had molasses on your hand. He likes sweets.”

“Both of you keep quiet,” said Sor Artemesia. She was out of sorts and was distant with Dr. Rivas. He, too, spoke little and appeared agitated. An uneasy atmosphere brooded over the gathering.

Only the Mushroom Master seemed relaxed. He rambled on about how mycelia wrap the roots of young fir trees and draw food to them when the soil is poor. “I think of them as babysitters,” he said. “ ‘Time for your three o’clock feeding,’ they say, and the little trees sit up and pay attention.”

“Shut up!” exclaimed Dr. Rivas. “I can’t take much more of your drivel. What in hell are you doing here anyway?”

“He’s helping us clean up the pollution near the eejit pens,” Cienfuegos said.

“Why bother? The eejits don’t care.” The doctor glanced toward the lab, where the cow was walking slowly through flower-filled meadows in her mind. “I’m sick of eejits. Nothing fixes them. Nothing works.”

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” the Mushroom Master said brightly. Dr. Rivas threw down his napkin and stalked off.

“I think all of us have been put into his freezer,” said Listen.

“He certainly seems nervous,” the jefe said. “Did you see the Bug when you visited the nursery?”

“Nope. I hope somebody got him with a flyswatter,” said the little girl.

They finished lunch, and Sor Artemesia took Fidelito and Listen off for a nap. The Mushroom Master said he wanted a nap too.

That left Matt and Cienfuegos. “I’m going to call María, and I want to be alone,” Matt said.

“Bad idea,” said the jefe.

“What? Calling María?”

“Being alone.” Cienfuegos looked pointedly at the grape arbor and cupped his ear. Matt understood. Someone was listening. There was an undercurrent of danger in Paradise, and the jefe had picked it up. He was practically sniffing the air like a coyote.

Matt felt the strange tension too. Something was building up, and he wished he could count one-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two to see how close it was. Along with Cienfuegos, he went to the holoport room and opened the wormhole to the Convent of Santa Clara. A UN peacekeeper in full battle dress was standing in front of the portal. He was covered from head to toe with riot gear, and his helmet was darkened so no one could see his expression. The soldier hurled himself into the wormhole.

“Close the portal!” screamed the jefe.

Matt was frozen.

“Close it! That’s a suicide bomber!”

The figure drew closer with agonizing slowness, and Cienfuegos tried to reach the controls. Matt shoved him away. “We don’t know what he is. Stay back! That’s a direct order!”

The jefe collapsed to his knees. “I can’t disobey, but please, please, please close the portal! Esperanza wants to kill you!”

What would El Patrón do? thought Matt as the lethal mists swirled about the figure. The answer came at once. I’d wait and see, said the old, old voice in his mind. I didn’t become a drug lord by wetting my pants every time something went wrong.

Cienfuegos was doubled up with pain, the two directives at war in his mind: to protect the patrón and to obey a direct order. It was killing him. Matt laid his hand on the man’s head and said, “I forgive you.”

The peacekeeper’s body shot out of the wormhole and fell with a clatter. The portal closed with a thunderclap that shook the room. Matt kicked away ice, wrapped his hands in a towel, and undid the helmet. The cold still penetrated to his fingers. He blew on a face that was heartbreakingly still and white.

“¡Por Dios!” cried Cienfuegos. He raced from the room and returned with a hair dryer. “Quick! Quick! Get the uniform off!” He ran the hair dryer over María’s face while Matt undid buckles and snaps. She wasn’t breathing, and Matt blew air into her lungs. She shuddered and gasped.

“She’s in shock,” said Cienfuegos. He called for help. Servants came running and carried her to a hospital room. By that time a doctor and nurse had arrived and began working to keep her warm and to feed oxygen into her lungs. A blood pressure cuff and heart rate monitor recorded life signs. Matt watched in a daze, not knowing what they meant but only that there was still something to measure.

Time passed. She began to breathe regularly. The color had come back into her skin, and the doctor said that she wouldn’t lose her fingers or toes. The biggest problem was that she’d gone without air for an unknown time. No one knew how time was measured inside a wormhole.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the doctor said. “Astronauts undergo the temperature of outer space, but they have the right protection. This uniform was meant for Earth conditions. I didn’t know it could keep out cold.”

María had come up with the only way she could escape her mother and used the only kind of uniform she could lay her hands on. “She didn’t know either,” Matt said.

* * *

He briefly went to his room to fetch the altar cloth María had sent to him through the holoport, and this he pinned to the wall in front of her bed. It would be the first thing she saw. All other concerns went out of his head. He sat for hours in her room, refusing food and turning away visitors. Lack of oxygen had harmed Chacho, though he had recovered eventually. He had never lost consciousness like this. Finally, Sor Artemesia came and refused to go. “You must rest, Don Sombra. You must eat.”

“I’ll do it here,” said Matt. He had a cot brought in, but when he tried to eat, his stomach revolted and he couldn’t keep anything down. This was too much like Mirasol’s last hours. He dreaded seeing the doctor come, afraid that the man would tell him the situation was hopeless. Nurses arrived regularly to change the girl’s position in bed and to administer intravenous feeding.

And still she did not awake. One of the new doctors measured her brain activity and pronounced himself satisfied with the results. “She seems normal in all respects except one. It isn’t like a coma, Don Sombra. It’s more like a deep sleep and that gives me hope that she will recover.”

Matt said nothing. He remembered Mirasol collapsing after one of her dance sessions, only to be roused by a command. How long would she have slept if he hadn’t given that command?

When the doctor had left, Matt said, “María, wake up!” but nothing happened. He talked to her as he’d spoken to Rosa after she’d been turned into an eejit. He told her about the disastrous party he’d thrown for the boys, about Chacho and his father, about the visit to the biosphere. But he left out any reference to the Mushroom Master in case Dr. Rivas was listening.

Day turned into night. He dozed, sitting up each time the nurses came in. They flexed María’s arms and legs to stimulate her circulation. On the second day the doctor noted her eyelids fluttering. “She’s dreaming, Don Sombra. Her brain is active.” Matt wondered whether it was a nightmare or whether she was walking through flower-filled meadows like the cow. At this point he would have welcomed one of Listen’s night terrors, if only to prove that María was still there.

Matt fell into a trancelike state. The sight of food revolted him, and he was no longer sure whether he was awake or dreaming. Nurses came and went. The sound of voices echoed distantly from the hall. The window lightened and darkened as the sun moved across the sky.

Matt saw Dr. Rivas bent over María and wondered vaguely why the man hadn’t come before. The doctor held up a syringe, tapped it to dislodge air bubbles, and squirted a small amount of liquid from the tip.

“What are you doing?” asked Matt.

“Giving her a stimulant,” said Dr. Rivas.

Something was wrong—the doctor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and behind that smile his teeth were clenched. Matt jumped up and smashed the syringe out of the doctor’s hand.

Dr. Rivas backed away, hands in the air. “I meant no harm, Don Sombra. I exist to serve.”

“Like you served El Patrón by carving up his clones.”

“Good heavens! I’m your best hope for María’s survival. Look. She’s stirring.”

Matt turned to see her fingers fluttering on the sheet. “María, it’s me. I’m here. You made it. You’re safe.” The girl tossed her head from side to side. Her dark hair whipped across the pillow. “What’s wrong?” the boy cried.

“She’s trying to wake up. This will pass,” said Dr. Rivas. And indeed, after a moment María calmed down and breathed easily again. Her lips opened slightly as though she wanted to speak. Matt watched, fascinated, willing her to come to life.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Dr. Rivas,” said Matt, holding her hands and feeling warmth return to them. He turned, but the room was empty.