The Lord of Opium(35)

“Don’t . . . understand,” Matt said. It was hard enough to think without puzzles like that.

“El Patrón didn’t either,” said the jefe. “He was repeating what some scientist told him. He must have had a good reason to build the observatory, because it cost him a quarter of his fortune.”

“Maybe . . . ” Matt swallowed. His fever must be going up again, because when he blinked he saw lights flashing. “Maybe . . . he was looking for heaven.”

Cienfuegos chuckled. “If he found heaven, you can bet the angels were out building fences to keep him away. I’ll tip slightly so you can see the trees as we go into the mountains.”

Scrubby mesquite and cholla gave way to juniper and oak, and then to pine. Cliffs rose on either side, with folded rocks and caves in which anything might hide. A flock of brightly colored parrots went by. The hovercraft was getting lower as they followed a road with a stream at its side. A mule deer looked up from drinking.

“There it is,” said the jefe. In the middle of the wilderness was a fabulous mansion, with many outbuildings extending under trees on either side. It was so cleverly built of native rock that at first it looked like part of the mountain. Only up close could you see verandas and reflecting pools and gardens. “El Patrón loved this place. He sometimes said, ‘If there is Paradise on Earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.’ That’s a quote from an ancient Indian emperor. The old man could surprise you with what he knew, but then he had a hundred and forty-six years to learn. Anyhow, that’s why this place is called Paradise.”

The hovercraft set down as delicately as a feather, and at once men in green scrubs ran out. They unloaded Matt and carried him to one of the outbuildings. In an instant he was moved from a cool, pine-smelling forest to a bed in a place filled with the odors of medicine and antiseptics. He tensed up. He couldn’t help it. Hospitals had never been good to him.

An older man in a lab coat appeared and felt Matt’s head. “Por Dios, Cienfuegos! Why hasn’t anyone treated this boy?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Rivas,” said the jefe. “We don’t have anyone left at the Ajo hospital except a nurse called Fiona.”

Dr. Rivas gave a barking laugh. “Fiona! She’s no nurse. She was in charge of sterilizing equipment. She must have taken advantage of the situation and put on a uniform.”

“You don’t say! She stitched up my arm.”

“You’re lucky not to have gangrene,” said the doctor. “Well, let’s look at you, chico. Where does it hurt?”

“Uh, Dr. Rivas. This is the new patrón.”

The doctor flinched as though he’d been shot. “This child? How is it possible? Nobody told me.”

“He was, uh, he was . . . ” Cienfuegos trailed off.

“A clone,” Matt finished for him.

A look of wonder crossed the doctor’s face. “This is the one I remember. I thought he’d been harvested.” He touched Matt’s head again very gently. “Let’s get you better before I go off on a tangent.” He opened Matt’s shirt and pressed his fingers on the boy’s chest. “Look, Cienfuegos. That’s classic. The skin is red as though scalded, and when I take my fingers away, you can see a white imprint for a few seconds. His lymph nodes are swollen. I’ll bet your throat’s sore, mi patrón. God, it feels strange to call a child patrón.”

Matt smiled weakly. He wasn’t upset that the doctor had called him a child.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Cienfuegos.

“Scarlet fever. I haven’t seen a case for years and certainly never expected it in”—he paused—“someone so heavily immunized.”

“The patrón accessed the holoport twice and fine-tuned the border once in little more than a day,” said the jefe. “I thought that the scanner might have weakened his immune system.”

“Interesting,” said Dr. Rivas. “You know, clones aren’t exactly like the original. The physical differences are small, but they’re there. The scanner might have thought he was an outsider for an instant. Well, I’d better stop nattering and do something.” He filled a fearsomely large hypodermic needle from a sealed bottle and swabbed Matt’s arm with alcohol. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, but the old ways are best with infections of this kind.”

Dr. Rivas was correct. It was the most painful injection Matt had ever had, and he gritted his teeth to keep from groaning. “Very good,” the doctor said. “Now you try to rest. I’ll send someone with fruit juice and water. You’re to drink as often as you can stand it, and I’ll have the nurse pack you in ice bags until the penicillin takes effect.”