The Lord of Opium

“They’re microchipped. They can’t attack me any more than you—” The minute Matt said it, he realized his mistake. The Farm Patrolmen were chipped, and they didn’t want to be reminded of it. A look of pure fury crossed Cienfuegos’s face. He leaned against the door frame, breathing heavily.

“Celia told you, didn’t she?” he said, shivering with repressed emotion.

“Don’t blame her. I’m the patrón. I’m supposed to know everything,” said Matt. “She said everyone was”—he searched for a word—“controlled.”

“You could call it that.”

“But your intelligence isn’t harmed,” Matt said, trying to preserve the jefe’s honor.

“Too bad they didn’t leave my soul alone.” Cienfuegos laughed shakily. “Dr. Rivas is probably wetting his pants right now if he’s watching the monitors. Come on. You have to know what he’s hiding.”

20

THE BUG

Matt looked back, expecting to see more bodyguards running through the garden, but the paths were empty. Inside the building was a large room with swings and a jungle gym and beds. Eejit caretakers were stationed around the walls. One table was set up with art supplies. Another had pitchers of lemonade and sandwiches. It was an ordinary playground for children, or what Matt supposed was ordinary. He’d only seen such things on TV.

Mbongeni was sucking on the bars of a large cage, the floor of which was littered with stuffed toys. He seemed happy enough. Listen’s legs were poking out from under a bed, and Matt ran over and dragged her out. “Give her back, you stupid ca-ca face!” a boy roared from the shadows.

The little girl’s arms were scratched, and her eyes were wide with fear. Her skin had turned an ashen color. “Carry her to a bed, and don’t let anyone near her,” Matt told Cienfuegos. A hand raked out from under the bed and Matt jumped back before he got his ankle clawed. The boy’s fingernails were long and dirty. Matt dumped a couple of pillows out of their cases and used the cloth to protect his arms. He put his foot temptingly close, and when the hand raked out again, he grabbed it.

A small boy, perhaps seven, came out clawing and spitting like a wildcat. He fastened his teeth onto the cloth hard enough to rip it open. “Cienfuegos!” cried Matt in alarm. In an instant the jefe was there, expertly twining a blanket around the boy’s body and tying him up with a jump rope until the child looked like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Still the boy thrashed and struggled. Cienfuegos found another jump rope and doubled the bonds.

“Crap eater! Poo-poo brain!” raved the little boy. “I’ll have you killed! I’ll cockroach you!” He was practically foaming at the mouth, but eventually he stopped fighting. His face was red with exertion, and his black hair was plastered down with sweat. “How dare you touch me! I’m El Patrón!” he screamed.

Matt took a closer look at the child. It was hard to see his features, for the boy was not only in a rage, he was also extremely dirty. But the resemblance was unmistakable. “He’s—he’s—” Matt couldn’t finish the sentence.

“A clone,” said Cienfuegos. “He thinks he’s El Patrón’s heir. Those bodyguards at the door thought he was too, and they would have defended him to the death. That’s why I had to shoot them.”

Matt sat on the floor, far enough away to avoid being spat on by the boy. “Why did Dr. Rivas hide this from me?” he asked. He could hardly take in the reality of the child, his brother—no, not his brother, any more than El Patrón was his father.

“Well may you ask,” said Cienfuegos. He went over to take care of Listen, who was beginning to stir. The jefe found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and set about disinfecting her scratches, an activity that woke her up quickly.

“Ow! Stop it!” she yelled.

“It’s good for you,” Cienfuegos said, relentlessly swabbing the wounds. All the while a dozen eejits sat around the walls, oblivious to the battle going on. Presently a bell rang, and they rose to perform their chores. Two of them opened Mbongeni’s cage and hauled him off to a bathtub. Others swept the floor and tidied up the room. Still others poured lemonade into cups and brought them to Listen and the boy. They didn’t notice that the boy was trussed up in a blanket and couldn’t drink properly. The eejit simply poured the liquid over his face.

“Go away! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you,” the boy screamed. Matt thought about helping him, remembered the torn pillowcase, and decided against it.

Listen sat up and dangled her legs over the edge of the bed. “Oh, crot! Now there’s two of them,” she said.

“Don’t use language like that,” Cienfuegos scolded her.