It was strange that Opium contained a running sore like the eejit pens. It was completely unnecessary, yet El Patrón had seen nothing wrong with housing his slaves there and feeding them plankton pellets. As Cienfuegos said, he was an accidental ecologist. If he’d paid more attention to the rest of the country, it would have deteriorated like the rest of the world.
The rest of the world had turned into God’s Ashtray. Forests had been cut down, animals hunted to extinction, land poisoned, and water polluted. God had finally grown tired of his unruly children and was in the process of stubbing them out.
Matt rode on until he reached the dry streambed that led into the hills. He dismounted, led the horse into the shade of a cliff, and tethered it to a wooden trough. He filled the trough with water from an old, rusty pump, and the animal eagerly began drinking. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” the boy told it, scratching it under the chin at a sweet spot he’d discovered horses liked.
What a difference it made to have a creature that could respond to his voice! Unlike a Safe Horse, it could twitch its hide when flies landed on it and snort when it smelled something interesting. Matt had ordered that no more animals should be microchipped and that the ones already harmed should be cared for until the doctors discovered a cure. If Ton-Ton or Chacho got thrown off while learning to ride a Real Horse, that was their problem.
Thinking of his friends, he sighed and walked up the dry stream. When he got to the boulder blocking the trail, he looked back. Behind him was desert. Ahead—after he climbed through the donut hole—was another world. Matt hadn’t been there since the first night he returned to Opium.
Creosote bushes and paloverde trees framed a small, narrow valley, and in the center was the oasis. A ripple of little fish moved away as he approached. “I’m back,” Matt announced to no one in particular. He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one, yet he had the feeling that the place wasn’t deserted. He sat in the shade of the old grape arbor, after sweeping the ground for scorpions, and ate his lunch.
A small flock of sandhill cranes floated on the far side of the pool. More circled in the air, uttering high, sweet cries. Tam Lin said that in the old days they flew all the way from Siberia to spend the winter here. When spring came they flew back, but El Patrón had fixed them so that they no longer migrated. That first summer must have been hell for them, the bodyguard had said. But the birds had adjusted, as the lions had, to the new environment.
“I’m the new Lord of Opium,” Matt told Tam Lin. “I don’t think you ever expected that. I sure didn’t. Everyone treats me differently now. Celia calls me patrón and won’t eat with me anymore.” It felt good to talk, even if his friend couldn’t answer.
Matt told him about Dr. Rivas, the Bug, and Listen. “I like Listen even though she’s usually a pest. Cienfuegos likes her too. I guess you knew him.” Matt talked about losing Chacho’s friendship. He described how El Patrón sometimes seemed to be inside his head, telling him what to do.
Not here, said a voice. Matt jumped. He wasn’t sure whether it had been an actual voice or an illusion. “What isn’t here?” he said cautiously.
Heed the high cliffs, lad. They keep things out. Matt didn’t understand the meaning of this. He wondered whether he was remembering something Tam Lin had actually said on one of their visits. He sat quietly for a while. The voice didn’t come again.
33
MIRASOL DANCES
He had dinner alone with Mirasol, because everyone else was at the guitar factory. “It’s not my fault,” he told her. “I didn’t turn Eusebio into an eejit, but they blame me just the same. Why can’t they understand that I was just as much a prisoner as he was for many years?”
Mirasol watched his face, although her eyes showed no emotion. “I wish you were María,” Matt said. “No, I shouldn’t say that. You can’t help being what you are.” He gave her as much food as he thought healthy and then, on a whim, ordered her to take off her shoes. He knew this was a bad idea, but the impulse was irresistible.
The writing on the sole of her left foot was extremely small. He fetched a magnifying glass. It was a three-part number for month, day, and year, and the date had expired three months before.
Matt sat back, shocked. Mirasol looked healthy, and he’d been feeding her well. He tried to limit the amount of work she did, but she was programmed to work. If she didn’t, she jittered. She might live for years or she might die tomorrow. The microchips had an unknown physical effect, and the more there were, the more they interfered with life.