Matt left the men, laughing and congratulating themselves on their success. He felt deflated by the easy way they had outwitted him, yet he couldn’t argue with the results. He ran his hand over the smooth outer wall of the building. It was made of a photosensitive plastic that darkened in sunlight, ideal for raising mushrooms. It was probably worth half a ton of opium.
Deeply thoughtful, he walked back to the hacienda and encountered Listen and Fidelito in the swimming pool, with Sor Artemesia watching at the side. “What was that building?” called the little girl. “Was it another greenhouse?”
“It was a sewage treatment plant,” Matt said, and went inside.
35
THE EXPIRY DATE
Chacho did not take his father to the greenhouse. Mr. Ortega explained that removing an eejit (or “a man in your father’s condition” as he put it) from his job caused jittering. It was a sign of extreme stress and might actually kill him. This threw Chacho into an even deeper depression. He refused to leave the guitar factory and barely spoke to anyone.
Several days later, after prolonged nagging, Matt let Listen watch Mirasol dance. He turned on the music, and the girl twirled and clapped. She bowed to an invisible partner before moving to the next.
“That’s spooky,” said Listen. “She’s really seeing something.”
“It’s a memory,” Matt said sadly. “Somewhere, the real Mirasol exists where we can’t find her.”
“What if you played the music over and over?” suggested the little girl.
“I’m afraid to. I don’t know how strong she is. She’s past her expiry date.” Too late Matt realized he’d opened the door to something he didn’t want to talk about.
“What’s an expiry date?” asked Listen.
“It means . . . the day something is finished,” Matt said, thinking rapidly. “It means Mirasol has to be repaired, like putting a new battery into a flashlight.”
“So why don’t you fix her?”
Matt wished, not for the first time, that the little girl weren’t so quick to pick up on things. “The doctors are trying to figure out how. It’s part of the microchip problem.”
Listen nodded and fortunately didn’t ask what would happen if Mirasol wasn’t fixed. “How do you know when her expiry date is?”
“It’s printed on the bottom of her foot.”
By now the music had ended. Matt caught Mirasol and eased her to the carpet. Listen got a magnifying glass and inspected the date. She pulled off her shoes and checked her own feet. “Nothing,” she said. “What about you?”
“I have writing,” said Matt. “It got me into a lot of trouble when I was at the plankton factory in Aztlán.” He’d gotten into the habit of talking to the little girl, always being careful not to give her more information than was good for her. Sometimes he forgot she was only seven years old, she was so intelligent, but he knew she wasn’t able to handle many things.
“The Keepers and other boys found out I was a clone. They thought I was lower than the lowest beast . . . except for Chacho, Ton-Ton, and Fidelito. They stood by me.”
“You were like Mbongeni,” said Listen. For a moment she looked sad, and he realized that she missed her playmate. He would have to figure a way to bring them together, minus the Bug. “I saw writing on Mbongeni’s foot,” the little girl said. “I didn’t know what it meant. Can I see yours?”
For a moment Matt was revolted by the idea. It was a shameful memory, but she had no concept of the beastliness of it. She’d grown up with the idea. It meant no more to her than a freckle or a mole. He took off his shoe, and she got a flashlight to see.
“I don’t know all the words. I recognize ‘of’ and ‘the,’ ” she said.
“It says ‘Property of the Alacrán Estate.’ ”
“That means you belong here, huh? It’s like a cattle brand.”
“I suppose so,” Matt said unwillingly.
“Wait. There’s more.” She fetched the magnifying glass.
More? thought Matt.
“It’s a little squinched-up line below the words.” She applied both the magnifying glass and flashlight. “It’s numbers.” She repeated them, and Matt turned cold. It was a date, a number related to the only birthday he would ever have, the day he was harvested from a cow.
His thirteenth birthday.
He was more than fifteen now. Who could tell him what it meant? It couldn’t possibly be an expiry date, because he wasn’t microchipped. Or was he? How could he know?
“Are you okay?” asked Listen.