The Lord of Opium

What a fool I was to walk into the hands of our enemies, Matt thought as they walked on. He should have hidden until he found Cienfuegos. How easily the soldiers had disarmed him. He might as well have handed the weapons over and saved them the trouble.

I wonder what shape Glass Eye is in, said El Patrón in a casual, chatty way. His replacement parts used to wear out faster than mine.

Do you know something I don’t? thought Matt. He heard a dry cackle and imagined the old man sitting in the back of Hitler’s car, enjoying the homage of his slaves.

Just because they took your weapons doesn’t mean you aren’t armed, said El Patrón. Matt waited for more information, but the voice only came when it felt like it. He had no control over it.

Matt experienced a moment of abject terror when he entered the hospital room. Glass Eye Dabengwa almost overflowed the chair he was sitting in. His legs were like tree trunks covered in gray bark, and his toes, with their gnarled and discolored nails, spread out like the talons of a bird of prey.

He was dressed in a skimpy hospital gown, and his seamed arms, repaired from many battles in his youth, bulged out of the sleeves. His body was massive, nourished, so rumor said, on the blood of children. But much the same rumor had been circulated about El Patrón. It could be said of any drug lord who harvested clones.

The only mercy was that Dabengwa’s eyes were cloaked by dark glasses. The curtains in the windows were drawn too, and the only light was from a dim lamp covered by a shade. Matt wondered whether something was wrong with the man’s vision. He certainly hoped so.

Dr. Rivas was seated in another chair across the room, and Listen immediately flew to him. A pair of nurses cowered against a wall. The rest of the space was taken up by African soldiers.

“Who is this child?” Glass Eye said in a voice that resonated like distant thunder.

“The baby patrón,” said Happy Man.

“Baby Patrón. I like it. Come closer, boy,” said Dabengwa.

Matt struggled to hang on to his courage. Was it his imagination or did he hear an odd sound in the room? “I am the heir of El Patrón,” he stated as firmly as he could. “I am the Lord of Opium.”

Dabengwa’s large head turned toward him. Click. Whirr. There were those strange noises again. “I see only a boy.”

“Appearances are deceiving. I’m actually a hundred and forty-seven years old.”

Glass Eye wheezed. It took a moment for Matt to realize it was a laugh. “You sound like the old vampire, at any rate.”

“We don’t know how much of the personality clones inherit,” said Dr. Rivas. “None has survived this long.”

Glass Eye dismissed the comment. “No matter. He’s in my power now.”

Dr. Rivas paused before saying, “Mi patrón, let me warn you that he still has an army. There are men in Ajo—”

“Silence!” Glass Eye nodded to a nurse, who looked perfectly terrified as she approached with a bottle of some liquid. The man sucked on a straw. Click. Whirr.

Matt thought, So Dr. Rivas is calling him patrón now. He was disgusted, but not surprised.

“Where’s Mbongeni?” Listen suddenly asked. Dr. Rivas shushed her, but it didn’t work. “Mbongeni’s my best buddy, and I want him back.”

Glass Eye seemed to notice her for the first time. “Another child,” he said.

“I’m Listen,” said the little girl, wriggling out of the doctor’s grasp. “I want my buddy, and I know he wants me. Do you know where he is?”

Matt grabbed her before she could get too close to the ancient drug lord. She didn’t seem to understand the danger she was in. Dabengwa removed his glasses, and there they were, the yellow eyes that never blinked, the eyes of a crocodile peering up through leaf-stained water. They whirred as he focused on her.

“I am Mbongeni,” said Glass Eye.

Matt felt sick. Part of him was, of course—the heart, maybe the liver.

Listen laughed. “You’re making fun of me ’cause I’m a little kid. Mbongeni is about so high”—she held out her hand, palm down—“and he’s not too bright, but that’s not his fault. He’s a baby and always will be.”

Glass Eye was paying close attention to her. He reached out his hand and turned hers over. “This is how they measure size in Africa. With the palm up.” Matt shuddered to see his massive paw enclose hers, but she shook him off.

“I’m an African, but I’ve never been there,” she said.

“Is your name really Listen?”

“She’s your wife’s clone,” said Happy Man Hikwa.