The Lord of Opium(24)

“I’ve been told that they’re tiny batteries. They work together like a second brain, only much simpler than ours. The process takes less than fifteen minutes, and when it’s done the patient—though you could hardly call him a patient, more like a victim I’d say, only don’t quote me—is catatonic.”

“What’s ‘catatonic’?”

“It’s like a coma. All the brain functions are on hold, so to speak. The doctor marks the forehead with the number 666 to show the operation’s been done. Then the orderlies take the patient away to be trained.”

“Who does that?”

“The Farm Patrol.” For once, Fiona didn’t look chirpy. “I hear it’s brutal and that they enjoy doing it.”

Brutal! And Matt had sent Waitress to be retrained! He pushed the bed table away.

“Lie down, young master! You’ll undo my good work if you don’t rest,” protested the nurse.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got to rescue Waitress.” Matt stood up and steadied himself as a slight dizziness struck him.

“If she’s an eejit, it won’t matter,” Fiona said. “They don’t feel anything. The doctors say they react to stimuli the same way a dead frog jerks if you give it an electric shock. Mind you, I never liked that part of biology, the poor froggies looking like little old men in green pajamas—”

“Shut up!” cried Matt again. He went straight to the kitchen, where, as he had expected, Daft Donald was having lunch. “Get the car,” the boy commanded. “Take me to where the eejits get trained.”

They sped through the opium fields with a long plume of dust rising behind them. Matt wished Daft Donald could talk, because he suspected the man knew a lot about the training. It was too late now. The man couldn’t drive and write notes at the same time.

They arrived at the armory, and a group of men sitting outside jumped to attention. “Where—” Matt began. Daft Donald took his arm and pulled him through the courtyards surrounding the armory and on to another building behind it.

Matt heard a scream. He shook off Daft Donald and raced ahead. “Step aside!” he shouted at a pair of Farm Patrolmen, and such was the authority in his voice that the men practically fell over getting out of his way. Inside the building, Matt saw a windowless room with a drain in the middle of the floor. At the far end was Waitress, bound to a chair with her hands taped around electrodes, and Cienfuegos in front of a machine. Such was his concentration that he didn’t hear Matt enter.

“Your name is Mirasol,” the jefe said.

“No! No! I am Waitress!” sobbed the girl.

Cienfuegos shook his head and turned a dial. The girl’s body jerked.

“Take him, Daft Donald,” Matt ordered. The bodyguard lunged past and smashed his head into Cienfuegos’s lower back. Matt yanked out the wire leading into the machine. But when he turned, he saw that the jefe had recovered from the blow and had cut a slash across Daft Donald’s face.

“Stop, Cienfuegos!” shouted the boy. “Obey me!”

The jefe aimed another swipe at the bodyguard’s face, but Daft Donald was no amateur at this kind of fighting. He produced his own knife from a scabbard on his leg. With this he blocked the jefe’s arm and inflicted a vicious cut.

“Stop! Both of you!” Matt thrust himself between them, and Daft Donald backed away. Cienfuegos, however, was beyond reason. He raised his stiletto, and his eyes were completely blank. For a frozen instant nothing happened. Then Matt said, “I am the cat with nine lives. You will not prevail against me.”

Where had those words come from? They weren’t like anything Matt would say.

“El Patrón,” whispered Cienfuegos. He dropped the stiletto and doubled up, clutching his stomach. If the cries of Waitress had been bad, the screams coming from the jefe were even worse. He sounded like he was enveloped in flames. Daft Donald caught him and mouthed words at Matt. “What do you want? What should I do?” the boy said.

Daft Donald mouthed again, Forgive him. Could he possibly mean that? Why would the bodyguard care what happened to Cienfuegos? Forgive him, Daft Donald said again. The jefe’s screams were growing weaker.

“I forgive you,” Matt said. Cienfuegos shuddered and relaxed into Daft Donald’s arms. Blood dripped from his wound. The microchip, Matt thought. He’s under the control of the microchip. When he attacked me, it was programmed to kill him. But El Patrón added a fail-safe to stop the process.

“Get one of the men to drive,” Matt told the bodyguard. “You and Cienfuegos must go to the hospital. Waitress, too.” He knelt down beside her and began to unwind the tape holding the electrodes to her hands. “I never meant this to happen, Mirasol, and it will never happen again,” he said.