The Lord of Opium

“Major Beltrán could help with the collecting,” said Matt. “He’s got nothing better to do.”

Cienfuegos’s sudden bark of laughter took the boy by surprise. “I’m afraid his job is limited to pushing up daisies right now.”

“You didn’t!” cried Matt.

The jefe shrugged. “He was a security risk.”

“But I didn’t want him killed! What will Esperanza do when she finds out?”

“Nothing,” said Cienfuegos. “She has no problem with sacrificing people for her schemes, and she’s probably forgotten Beltrán’s existence. Please don’t look so shocked, mi patrón. Didn’t I tell you Opium was full of villains?”

*  *  *

What would Esperanza do? Matt didn’t think she’d excuse an out-and-out murder. Would she permanently keep him from María? And would María even want to see him? She’d always forgiven him before, but this time was different. She wasn’t a little girl with simple loyalties and opinions like Listen. She was almost a woman. Matt wished he knew what the dividing line between girls and women was. He might ask Ton-Ton, but he could imagine his friend’s reaction. (“¡Me burlas! You’re kidding! You really don’t know what a woman is? Hey, Chacho! Guess what Matt just told me?”)

No, he couldn’t ask Ton-Ton.

Matt went to the holoport room and sat in front of the giant portal. He hadn’t told Cienfuegos or Dr. Rivas where he was going, but why should he? He was the patrón, the boss of all bosses. He didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.

The icon for the Convent of Santa Clara was winking, but before he reached for it, he looked around.

Mirasol was sitting on the floor, hands folded on her lap. “Waitress, go to the kitchen,” Matt said, irritated because she wouldn’t leave him alone, and then, “Stop. Stay.” He couldn’t send her to the kitchen, because she made the cooks nervous. Cienfuegos said they were afraid she would go rogue, something that happened to eejits when their brains were under too much pressure.

Perhaps she would be all right if he gave her something to do. “Come with me,” Matt ordered, and Mirasol rose to her feet. He went in search of Listen, but the little girl had dodged her caretaker as easily as she’d eluded the Bug. He found her in Mbongeni’s crib. El Bicho was nowhere to be seen.

“Listen, I told you to stay away from here,” Matt said.

“Yep, you sure told me,” she said, playing peek-a-boo with the little boy, “and I sure ignored you. Mbongeni is my best buddy. I’m not leaving him for anything.”

“You aren’t safe.”

Listen climbed out of the crib and stood before him like a small general. “Why not? I got by before.”

“The bigger El Bicho gets, the more dangerous he is.”

“Why don’t you put him in a cage? Feed him worms or something.” Listen folded her arms and thrust out her chin.

“He’ll never get better if he’s treated like an animal,” said Matt.

“Guess what? I don’t care.”

When Matt tried to pull her away, she shouted insults at him. “I won’t desert Mbongeni! I won’t!”

Matt gave up. The playroom was a cheerful enough place, with pictures of animals tacked to the walls—probably one of Dr. Rivas’s biology lessons. One wall had dinosaurs, another reptiles, and a third insects. Each was labeled with both the common and scientific names. There were no bunny rabbits or kittens.

Six eejits sat in chairs by the kitchen, programmed to fetch food, tidy up, or give baths when a bell rang. “Where’s the Bug now?” Matt asked.

“Dr. Rivas took him off for a walk when I got here,” said Listen.

At least he’s keeping them apart, thought Matt. He’d made it very clear to the doctor that Listen was not to be harmed. “I guess I can leave you for a while,” he said.

“Great! Let me show you something Mbongeni loves better than anything in the world.” Listen ran to the kitchen and took a bottle of molasses from a shelf. Then she ripped open the side of a pillow and pulled out a chicken feather. “Look, Mbongeni, look,” she crowed.

“Muh! Muh!” cried the little boy, bouncing up and down. Listen dabbed a drop of molasses on each finger and glued the feather onto one. “Muh!” he squealed as he transferred the feather from one sticky hand to the other.

“He’ll do that until the feather falls apart,” said Listen with shining eyes. “He learned to do it all by himself.”

Matt looked away, dismayed, but it was clear that the little boy enjoyed the game. “Waitress, I want you to watch over Listen. This is very important. Don’t let the Bug hurt her in any way.” He waited a bit longer, hypnotized by Mbongeni, until Listen applied molasses to Mirasol’s fingers. Like all eejits, she was programmed to copy others and soon she, too, was transferring a feather from one hand to the other.

*  *  *