The Lord of Opium

“A century of research went up in those flames,” said Dr. Rivas. “My life’s work. I begged Glass Eye for more help. I told him his health depended on the lab, and he said that his life depended on being guarded. Cienfuegos is at the bottom of this. I hope he’s proud of his stupid Neanderthal act of terrorism. He must have used a flamethrower.”

He probably is proud, Matt thought. Among those samples were the deadliest germs known to humankind.

The same caretakers were sitting along the wall of the nursery, but the dead eejit had been removed. Listen peeked into the kitchen, the bathroom, and the cupboards. “Where’s Mbongeni?” she said.

“You know where he is,” Dr. Rivas said impatiently.

Listen looked wary. “How would I know?”

“Because I explained it to you when the first Mbongeni was sacrificed. He’s been used for spare parts,” said Dr. Rivas.

Listen shrieked, “You did it! You said you wouldn’t do it, and you did! You did! You did! You did!”

“You’re a beast,” said Matt, trying to calm the little girl.

“We’re all beasts.” The doctor sat down on one of the beds, and one of Mbongeni’s stuffed toys fell to the floor. “Sor

Artemesia can talk about souls all she likes, but when we die, we turn into compost like any other piece of rubbish.”

“Mbongeni was not rubbish!” Listen shouted.

“For twenty years I have been El Patrón’s slave. I created life out of nothing, fed it, cared for it, and in the end killed it to prolong his existence. That’s what clones are for, Listen. You knew that, so don’t pretend you didn’t. It’s no different from dissecting rabbits.”

“You don’t cut up people!” she cried.

“Clones aren’t people. They’re collections of cells.”

Listen threw herself at the doctor, but Matt held her back. He was afraid for her. She’d hidden the truth from herself for years. She knew on one level what had happened to the older Mbongeni, and she knew what the fate of the younger one would be. But it was too much for a seven-year-old child to face consciously. The truth had only surfaced in her night terrors.

The African soldiers kept glancing outside as though expecting trouble. Boris and Samson had, Matt noticed, armed themselves with stun guns. A breeze laden with smoke from burning cholera, smallpox, and plague germs stirred the curtains of the windows. It was another beautiful day in the drug neighborhood.

“You’re one of the lucky ones, Listen,” said Dr. Rivas. “Glass Eye likes you. He wants you to grow up to become his hundred and fiftieth or two hundredth wife. I forget how many there are.”

The little girl refused to look at him. “I’m putting you into my freezer,” she hissed.

Matt longed to lunge at the doctor and silence him forever, but the soldiers would stop him. “Glass Eye won’t live that long,” he said, lifting Listen onto one of the beds.

The doctor laughed bitterly. “Oh, yes he will. He isn’t in as good a shape as El Patrón was, but we can do wonderful things with machines. I can build a mechanical heart that will keep him going. Just think, Listen. In ten years you’ll be seventeen. You always wanted to be a drug queen, and here’s your chance.”

To Matt’s surprise, Listen didn’t look grief-stricken, as he’d expected. The expression on her face was rage. It made her seem a lot older than seven.

“I think it’s time for lunch,” said Dr. Rivas, getting up and brushing the wrinkles from his lab coat. He sent the eejit caretakers to the nursery kitchen, and they soon returned with cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk. Matt didn’t think he could eat, but he’d grown so tired of stew and polenta that the new food was welcome. Listen spat on her sandwich and threw it on the floor. The soldiers and Russian bodyguards stood by the door and watched.

Matt picked up Mbongeni’s stuffed toys and put them into a cupboard, where Listen couldn’t see them. He rolled the crib into the kitchen, but the eejits, when they tidied up, put everything back. They’d been programmed to keep things in order, and it was useless to argue with them.

“Happy Man has been going on hunting parties,” Dr. Rivas said suddenly. “He and a few friends have been flying around in those little stirabouts.”

“I suppose they want to turn this place into a wasteland like the rest of the Dope Confederacy,” said Matt.