The Lord of Opium

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.”