The Lord of Opium(26)

“Why did he do that?” exclaimed Celia, horrified.

He was out of his mind, wrote Daft Donald.

“But the microchip is supposed to stop attacks against the patrón!”

“I’ve heard that samurai warriors go into a state of no-thought,” said Mr. Ortega. “If Cienfuegos wasn’t aware of what he was doing, the microchip wouldn’t recognize the threat.”

I agree, wrote Daft Donald.

“Whatever the reason, mi vida—I mean mi patrón,” Celia said, “you must be very careful around him. You should have let him finish Waitress’s training.”

“I wouldn’t let an animal suffer like that,” said Matt.

Celia paused before she answered. “Waitress isn’t like an animal . . . or a human. She may look like she’s suffering, but it means no more to her than rain falling on a rock.”

“That’s how people used to talk about me,” said Matt. “When I was a clone, people insulted me all the time, and I felt it. Why wouldn’t she?”

No one said anything for a while. A pair of kitchen eejits peeled potatoes by the sink, and a fussy-looking man measured spices into a pot on the stove. Matt thought he might be the French chef Celia had talked about.

“I’m worried about you,” said Celia after a few minutes. “It isn’t healthy to care for someone who can never love you back.”

“That would be true if Mirasol were a Real Person,” Matt argued, “but I’ve decided that she’s a pet. People keep all kinds of things, dogs, horses, cats, even fish. How much love can you get from a fish? They’re pretty and fun to feed, and that’s about it. From now on I’ve got a pet Waitress, and I’m going to feed her whenever I like.”

“What did he say? Waitress is a fish?” said Mr. Ortega, who didn’t always understand what people said.

She’s the best-looking fish I’ve ever seen, wrote Daft Donald. I’d have liked one myself when I was that age.

“We’re in trouble,” muttered Celia, getting up to move the French chef to another chore.

* * *

That evening Matt and Mirasol sat side by side in a pool of light under the great crystal chandelier. He served the food because her hands were bandaged, and he cut the meat up for her too. “Eat slowly,” he urged. But Mirasol seemed to have an on-off switch where feeding was concerned. The command eat meant gobble unless it was baked custard.

He tried various dishes—asparagus, turkey, fried shrimp, polenta—and they all met the same rapid treatment. For dessert he gave her strawberry ice cream, and she wolfed that down too.

Matt put the small gold statue of a deer he’d discovered in El Patrón’s apartment in front of Mirasol. “What do you see?” he asked. She remained silent, staring ahead. Perhaps that was too difficult a problem, he thought. He put her fingers on the cool metal. “What do you feel?” She was silent.

“If you don’t know, I’ll tell you,” he said. “That’s a deer. Not a real one, of course. It’s made out of gold and is muy valioso. Those things on its head are antlers. Real deer are warm because they are alive, but this one is metal and so it’s cold. Like this spoon.” He moved her fingers off the statue, picked up the utensil, and pressed it against her cheek. “Cold is what you feel when you eat ice cream.”

It was no use. She sat there like a stuffed bunny, yet there had to be a way to awaken her. With Eusebio it was music. With her, baked custard. If you could find one pathway, couldn’t you find others and gradually open up her soul?

Whatever a soul was. María talked about them, but Matt hadn’t paid attention because he didn’t have one until El Patrón died. According to the priest, clones went out like candles when they died and didn’t have to bother about heaven and hell.

Celia—surprisingly, for she had never before ventured into El Patrón’s private wing—appeared in the shadows at the far end of the banquet hall. “It’s time for Waitress to go to bed,” she said. “She’ll be exhausted tomorrow if she doesn’t rest.”

“Where does she sleep?” Matt asked, interested.

“Far from here. Come along, Waitress.”

The girl stood up obediently.

“I don’t want her to go to the eejit pens,” said Matt. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her lying in the dirt next to a toxic waste pit.

“Don’t worry, mi patrón. The house eejits have their own dormitory.”

“She could stay here,” he suggested.

“That would confuse the poor girl. She’s programmed to go to the dormitory, and any change would require retraining.”