by Nancy Farmer
“Corrupt,” finished the jefe. “Now you know how big governments work. Not so different from El Patrón after all.”
Celia entered with a basket of vegetables she had personally selected from the greenhouses. She laid out lettuces, tomatoes, celery, and spring onions on the table. “Would you like a salad for dinner, mi patrón?” she asked. “Or roasted eggplant with tomatoes?”
“You choose. Everything you cook is wonderful,” responded Matt, wishing she wouldn’t be so formal. Turning to Cienfuegos, he said, “How do you look up an expiry date?”
“It’s tattooed on the bottom of the foot,” said the jefe.
Matt caught his breath. He had writing on the bottom of his foot: PROPERTY OF THE ALACRÁN ESTATE. He’d meant to have it removed, but with one thing and another he’d forgotten.
“I see,” he said.
“A worker with fewer microchips lasts longer and some, like Eusebio, can count on a normal life span. Personally, mi caramelito,” Cienfuegos said to Celia, “I’d like a big beefsteak for dinner and to hell with the vegetables.”
“You’ll get what I cook,” said Celia.
The jefe and Matt went out for a riding lesson. Matt had taken to this with enthusiasm and unmistakable talent, which was to be expected, since El Patrón had been a legendary horseman. They rode to the armory, where Cienfuegos discovered he had work to do. “You can return to the hacienda on your own, mi patrón,” he said. “You don’t need a babysitter anymore. Of course you can stay and watch. We’re disposing of a couple of expired eejits in one of the fields.”
Matt hastily left. He wondered how many bodies were buried out there. If it took one thousand eejits to run an opium farm, and each one lived for six months, and the ranch had existed for a hundred years . . . It was like one of the problems he’d been given when he studied math. The answer was two hundred thousand bodies. That was if only one thousand eejits were needed. The real number was much higher.
He ought to return to the hacienda to work on the books and answer frantic calls from dealers who hadn’t received their shipments. But the weather was too good. He had a bottle of water attached to his saddle—Cienfuegos insisted that he go nowhere without it—and he had a packed lunch. Matt turned the horse toward the Ajo hills.
He skirted the eejit pens, knowing from experience how foul they were. That would be his next project, to construct better, cleaner housing. He could see ponds of fetid waste and a miasma of stinking haze near the water purification plant. An underground canal flowed from where the Colorado River emptied into the Gulf of California, and the water needed extensive cleaning. The river had become so polluted that nothing could live in it except mutated horrors. If you ate one of its fish, your lips blistered.
Long ago the gulf had extended farther north, and the water had been full of life. The great whales had used it as a nursery, but now the whales were gone and their bones filled a great pit near the plankton factory.
It was strange that Opium contained a running sore like the eejit pens. It was completely unnecessary, yet El Patrón had seen nothing wrong with housing his slaves there and feeding them plankton pellets. As Cienfuegos said, he was an accidental ecologist. If he’d paid more attention to the rest of the country, it would have deteriorated like the rest of the world.
The rest of the world had turned into God’s Ashtray. Forests had been cut down, animals hunted to extinction, land poisoned, and water polluted. God had finally grown tired of his unruly children and was in the process of stubbing them out.
Matt rode on until he reached the dry streambed that led into the hills. He dismounted, led the horse into the shade of a cliff, and tethered it to a wooden trough. He filled the trough with water from an old, rusty pump, and the animal eagerly began drinking. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” the boy told it, scratching it under the chin at a sweet spot he’d discovered horses liked.
What a difference it made to have a creature that could respond to his voice! Unlike a Safe Horse, it could twitch its hide when flies landed on it and snort when it smelled something interesting. Matt had ordered that no more animals should be microchipped and that the ones already harmed should be cared for until the doctors discovered a cure. If Ton-Ton or Chacho got thrown off while learning to ride a Real Horse, that was their problem.
Thinking of his friends, he sighed and walked up the dry stream. When he got to the boulder blocking the trail, he looked back. Behind him was desert. Ahead—after he climbed through the donut hole—was another world. Matt hadn’t been there since the first night he returned to Opium.
Creosote bushes and paloverde trees framed a small, narrow valley, and in the center was the oasis. A ripple of little fish moved away as he approached. “I’m back,” Matt announced to no one in particular. He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one, yet he had the feeling that the place wasn’t deserted. He sat in the shade of the old grape arbor, after sweeping the ground for scorpions, and ate his lunch.
A small flock of sandhill cranes floated on the far side of the pool. More circled in the air, uttering high, sweet cries. Tam Lin said that in the old days they flew all the way from Siberia to spend the winter here. When spring came they flew back, but El Patrón had fixed them so that they no longer migrated. That first summer must have been hell for them, the bodyguard had said. But the birds had adjusted, as the lions had, to the new environment.
“I’m the new Lord of Opium,” Matt told Tam Lin. “I don’t think you ever expected that. I sure didn’t. Everyone treats me differently now. Celia calls me patrón and won’t eat with me anymore.” It felt good to talk, even if his friend couldn’t answer.
Matt told him about Dr. Rivas, the Bug, and Listen. “I like Listen even though she’s usually a pest. Cienfuegos likes her too. I guess you knew him.” Matt talked about losing Chacho’s friendship. He described how El Patrón sometimes seemed to be inside his head, telling him what to do.
Not here, said a voice. Matt jumped. He wasn’t sure whether it had been an actual voice or an illusion. “What isn’t here?” he said cautiously.
Heed the high cliffs, lad. They keep things out. Matt didn’t understand the meaning of this. He wondered whether he was remembering something Tam Lin had actually said on one of their visits. He sat quietly for a while. The voice didn’t come again.
33
MIRASOL DANCES
He had dinner alone with Mirasol, because everyone else was at the guitar factory. “It’s not my fault,” he told her. “I didn’t turn Eusebio into an eejit, but they blame me just the same. Why can’t they understand that I was just as much a prisoner as he was for many years?”
Mirasol watched his face, although her eyes showed no emotion. “I wish you were María,” Matt said. “No, I shouldn’t say that. You can’t help being what you are.” He gave her as much food as he thought healthy and then, on a whim, ordered her to take off her shoes. He knew this was a bad idea, but the impulse was irresistible.
The writing on the sole of her left foot was extremely small. He fetched a magnifying glass. It was a three-part number for month, day, and year, and the date had expired three months before.
Matt sat back, shocked. Mirasol looked healthy, and he’d been feeding her well. He tried to limit the amount of work she did, but she was programmed to work. If she didn’t, she jittered. She might live for years or she might die tomorrow. The microchips had an unknown physical effect, and the more there were, the more they interfered with life.
“Oh, Mirasol,” he said, taking her hands. What if she never awakened? What if she simply went out like a candle? A machine did that. It worked until one day you turned it on and nothing happened. Cienfuegos had warned him that awakening Mirasol could kill her, but what did it matter when she was doomed already?
“What do you like?” said Matt. Suddenly it seemed important to make the rest of her existence happy, if only he could figure out how. So far the only thing that penetrated the dull surface of her mind was a crème
caramel custard. And then he thought of Eusebio.
Microchips blunted conscious thought, but certain things escaped them. He remembered Mirasol standing by the window of the dining room and smelling—he was certain of it—a creosote-laden breeze from the desert. She’d responded to his illness by fetching help. She’d wiped his forehead with a damp cloth when he had a fever, and no one had told her to do that. Smell, taste, the sight of pain—all these had gotten through to her.
Mr. Ortega had reached Eusebio with music. The man had been a composer, and music existed on such a deep level with him that nothing could erase it. Matt knew he was the same. “Come with me,” he told Mirasol. They went to his music room, and he played the piano and guitar. He put on recordings, and when he played a recent dance piece, she reached for his hand.
She’d never done that before.
“Do you like that? Can you hear it?” Matt asked. The piece was called “Trick-Track.” He’d recorded it when he learned how much María liked dancing. It involved stamping, clapping, and twirling. Every now and then someone would shout, “Trick-Track!” and you had to change partners. Matt had seen it on TV.
Mirasol trembled as he pulled her to her feet. “I don’t know how to do this, but we’ll play it by ear,” he said. It turned out that Mirasol knew all the steps and didn’t need him. She was dancing with someone only she could see, and when the recording shouted “Trick-Track!” she moved to another unseen partner.
Matt watched. She was very good, but then she’d always been graceful. When the music ended, her head and arms drooped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. And then she fell.
He caught her. He laid her on the carpet and lifted his hand to ring for help before remembering that he would get Dr. Kim. Anxiously, he felt her pulse. It was normal. Her breathing was untroubled. There was none of the jitteriness that went with an eejit about to go rogue. In fact, she seemed to be deeply asleep, and he watched her for a long time.
Finally, he bent down and kissed her. “Wake up, Waitress,” he said. She sat up at once and watched him with incurious eyes, waiting for his next command.
* * *
This was a secret Matt intended to keep from everyone. He could imagine what Celia and Sor Artemesia would say. Cienfuegos would tell him Mirasol didn’t understand what she was doing, and Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega would make sly jokes. As for Ton-Ton, his probable reaction made Matt’s blood run cold. You’re d-dancing with an eejit? Way to go, muchacho. You’re s-so hard up for girls you have to take advantage of someone without a brain.
The next day he gave orders that no one was to disturb him when he was at work. He had computers and a desk moved into what had been Felicia’s apartment. He aired out the sickly smell of alcohol and drugs and ordered her supply of laudanum to be taken to the opium factory.
He did have work, lots of it. He received reports from all over the country about supplies needed, worker shortages, and the energy flow from the two nuclear plants in Tucson. The doctors in Paradise wanted more equipment. Dr. Rivas said that the Bug had smeared excrement on the walls of the observatory, and they needed to be repainted. Mbongeni kept calling for Listen, which was interesting, the doctor said, because it was the first real word the little boy had learned. Other reports came from places Matt hadn’t visited, Farm Patrol outposts close to the border of Marijuana to the east and Cocaine to the west. Fortunately, El Patrón had set up such a well-organized empire that things ran smoothly without much interference.
After a couple of days, everyone except Chacho and Mr. Ortega returned to the hacienda. “He’s, uh, pretty torn up,” said Ton-Ton. “M-maybe you should visit him.”
“He knows where I live,” Matt said.
“You know where he lives,” Listen said pertly. She and Fidelito had formed an alliance and swaggered around arm in arm, getting into all sorts of mischief. “You’re the Big Bug. You visit him.”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” said Matt, irritated. Still, he was pleased to have some of his friends back, and if they deserted him to visit Chacho he had his new office. And Mirasol.
Matt unbent enough to take them to the greenhouses. As he expected, they were delighted, and he let them select flowers and fruit to take back to Chacho. “It would mean more if you took them,” said Sor Artemesia. Matt ignored her. His plan was to find a cure for the eejits first and then present Chacho with the happy news.
Weeks passed. Cienfuegos sent plants and animals to Esperanza and ordered supplies. He disappeared once a week to visit the Mushroom Master. Matt would have liked to go too, but there simply wasn’t enough time. Opium products moved out steadily. María was allowed access to the holoport a few times with her mother present. The doctors did not find a way to remove the microchips.
Suddenly it was fall. Summer had passed unnoticed in a daily routine of horseback riding, hovercraft flying (Ton-Ton shone there, too), bookkeeping, construction of new eejit pens, and, after the work was done, dancing with Mirasol.
Matt didn’t do it too often. He was afraid to, although Mirasol seemed unharmed by the exercise. He’d been unable to find any other piece of music that affected her. By now he was thoroughly sick of the cheesy rhythms of “Trick-Track,” but it was worth it to see her briefly awakened. It was like glimpsing a statue at the bottom of a lake. For a few moments the water cleared, sunlight poured into the depths, and the features of the statue became distinct. When the music stopped, the darkness closed in again, and Mirasol fell asleep.
He had kissed her only twice more. It seemed he would be setting out on a dangerous path he might not want to follow. When she lapsed into unconsciousness, he held her. He was holding her now and wondering how long this situation could go on. Outside, the clouds had built up, and thunder rolled around the horizon. It was the monsoon season. The storm made him restless, and he wanted to be out on a horse.
The expiry date on Mirasol’s foot was now six months old. He had protected her in every way possible, but time was running out. He hugged her more closely.
“Wow! So this is what you do in here,” said a sharp little voice.
Matt looked up to see Listen standing in the closet doorway. “You! How did you get in here?”
“There’s this neat tunnel behind the music room with doors opening into other rooms. Fidelito found it.”
“Is he here?” Matt felt sick. Now the story would get out everywhere.
“He saw a big spider and took off,” said the little girl, smirking. “It was only a daddy longlegs. They can’t bite. Dr. Rivas says they’d like to, but their jaws aren’t strong enough.”
Matt lowered Mirasol to the carpet.
“What’s wrong with her?” Listen asked.
“I’ve been trying to wake up her mind,” said Matt. “She responds to certain things, but the effect doesn’t last.”
“You mean, like the crème caramel custards?”
“How did you know about that?”
“They don’t call me Listen for nothing,” said the little girl. “Big people don’t pay attention to little kids, and I learn lots of stuff. Dr. Rivas told Cienfuegos that the only way to keep Mirasol awake was to feed her crème caramel custards until she was fat as a pig.”
Thunder shook the building, and the lights dimmed briefly. The air outside must be fresh and cool, but inside it was stale. Matt had closed all the windows to keep from being observed. “She also responds to music—well, one piece of music,” he said.
“Like Mr. Orozco,” said Listen.
Matt remembered that this was Eusebio’s other name. “Yes. She dances to it and when it’s over, she falls asleep. I leave her alone for a while because I think she needs to rest.”
“Wow! It’s like Sleeping Beauty.”
“I thought you didn’t like fairy tales,” said Matt.
Listen stuck out her tongue. “Sor Artemesia says it’s ‘cultural history.’ She says it’s no different from anthropology, which is a respectable science.”
&
nbsp; Clever Artemesia, thought Matt. She’d found a way past Listen’s prejudice. “You like Mirasol, don’t you?” he said.
“Sure! She saved me from the Bug. She can’t help being a crot.” (Matt winced inwardly at the word.) “Mirasol’s like Mbongeni. He can’t help being brainless, ’cause Dr. Rivas made him that way.”
For a minute the enormity of what Listen had just said didn’t sink in on Matt. “You knew that?” he said in amazement. “And you still like Dr. Rivas?”
Listen squatted next to Mirasol and stroked her hair as you might a dozing cat. “She’s really pretty when she’s asleep.”
Matt nodded. That thought had occurred to him, too. Awake, you noticed the eejit eyes and the utter passiveness. You couldn’t get past it. Asleep, you could see that she was outstandingly beautiful.
“Dr. Rivas told me about Mbongeni ages ago,” said Listen. “It was when the other Mbongeni was operated on.” She stopped stroking Mirasol’s hair and turned away. “People hate clones. They’re mean to them and say all kinds of nasty things about them. I was lucky because my original died before I was born, but Mbongeni wasn’t. Dr. Rivas said that it was right to keep him a happy baby, ’cause then he’d never know when people were insulting him. And he is happy. I play with him all the time, and I wish you’d let me go back there.”
“What other Mbongeni?” asked Matt.
Listen put her arms around her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not telling.”
“There was another clone, wasn’t there? An older one.” Matt bent down and spoke directly into her face. Listen scooted around until her back was to him. “It’s no good keeping your eyes closed. I know what happened and so do you. Glass Eye Dabengwa came to the hospital and the other Mbongeni was operated on.”
“Didn’t see any Glass Eye Dabengwa. The other Mbongeni was sick. Dr. Rivas said so. He had a bad heart, and they had to take it out.”
The little girl was shaking, and so Matt held her. He rocked her back and forth, saying, “That’s all right. We won’t talk about it anymore.” He cursed the doctor for exposing her to things no child should know. He had a good idea where Listen’s night terrors came from. “I’m sorry I asked you the question. Let’s wake up Mirasol, and I’ll take you horseback riding.”
