“It’s nothing like that!” cried Matt.
“Then . . . what is it?” said María. She had backed away from the portal and was standing next to her mother.
“She’s a pet.” Matt knew immediately that he’d made a mistake. The argument might work with Mr. Ortega and Daft Donald—though he suspected they laughed at him behind his back—but not María.
“You don’t make pets out of eejits,” she said.
“You made one out of me,” Matt said, hoping to deflect her anger. “I used to be an animal, remember?”
“You were a friend. Eejits are different. Liking them is—is—perverted.” María had a mulish streak, and it was in full display now.
“I felt sorry for her, that’s all,” Matt said lightly. “Like you do with the homeless.”
“It’s not at all the same.”
María’s face was pale, and her hands were clasped—a bad sign, Matt remembered. She did it when she was about to lose control of her emotions. He was close to losing his, too. How dare she attack him when he was trying so hard to do the right thing? All he wanted was to save the eejits.
“I understand about drug lords having girlfriends,” said María. “They all do it, and the wives have to put up with it. MacGregor kept Felicia for years. But at least she was a real woman, not—this.”
“Shut up and listen for a moment,” said Matt. “Waitress is just someone I’m trying to help. I don’t know where you’re getting these crazy ideas, but if you don’t like her, I’ll send her away. Go to the kitchen, Waitress. Now.”
Mirasol turned and glided out of the room.
“I don’t know if I believe you. I’ll have to think about it,” said María.
“Fine! Go ahead and think. You’ve been doing the huka huka with greasy men in New York, but that’s okay. You’re Miss Butter Wouldn’t Melt in Her Mouth. You think you’re Saint Francis’s baby sister.”
“Don’t you make fun of Saint Francis!” María’s nostrils flared like an angry pony’s.
“I will if I like. He’s only a myth, anyway,” said Matt. He knew he’d gone too far, but he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. That’s the stuff, an old, old voice whispered in his mind. Make your women toe the line.
María gasped and fled the room. He couldn’t pursue her. He couldn’t do a thing.
Esperanza rose. “Well, that was entertaining.”
“It’s your fault! You put the idea into her head,” accused Matt.
“Did I? Oh, fie! Bad girl!” Esperanza playfully slapped herself on the wrist.
“You won’t win this battle. I know María. She’ll forgive me, even though there’s nothing to forgive.”
“We’ll see,” said the woman. “Just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll let Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito visit. They’re trashing the convent anyway.”
Matt was surprised at her gesture of goodwill, but she had achieved her goal, to drive a wedge between him and María. As for Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito, Esperanza could easily let go of them. They were expendable. She didn’t care what happened to them.
17
THE FOUNTAIN OF CHILDREN
Matt avoided Dr. Rivas and Cienfuegos and went into the garden to think. He didn’t even want to see Mirasol. The rage that had threatened to overwhelm him faded, but it still frightened him. Why can’t I control myself? he thought. Why can’t I be good by merely saying, “Be good”? But it didn’t work that way.
Maybe he should make a list of rules on a card to refer to: Rule 1: Don’t lose your temper. Rule 2: Be courageous. Rule 3: Send Mirasol away.
She would be miserable if he sent her away. It wasn’t her fault that she was programmed to serve him. Besides, he really wanted to help her, only not when María was around. Rule 4: Don’t tell lies. That was a toughie. Drug lords prospered by telling lies. Even Esperanza thought it was okay.
Matt wandered deeper into the garden. A path led beneath a series of arbors, each one different and each one with its own hummingbird feeder. Vines were hung with clusters of purple and green grapes. A giant squash dangled yellow fruit, and a third arbor was dotted with red roses. Then—most wonderful of all—Matt saw a mass of deep-blue morning glories. Nothing at the Ajo hacienda equaled this waterfall of flowers.
There was a sound coming from the far end of the arbor, a bird or a kitten. Matt listened more closely. Could it be the child he’d seen? It couldn’t be an eejit. They were unable to cry. He edged forward, not wanting to startle whoever it was. He saw the vines tremble. The person was inside the leaves, hiding in a burrow like a rabbit.
Matt quietly approached and pulled back the vines.
It was a little girl, an African girl. She was about Fidelito’s age, but much thinner. Her arms were like matchsticks clasped around her skinny chest, and just above one elbow was a vicious-looking wound as though she’d been bitten by a dog.
“Don’t be afraid,” Matt said. The girl looked up and screamed. She bounded out of the leaves and zigzagged through the garden. “Stop! Stop! I won’t hurt you!” shouted Matt. He tried to catch up, but she knew the garden and he didn’t. He followed what he thought was her trail and ended up in front of a wall.
By now he was exhausted, what with the aftereffects of scarlet fever and opening the holoport. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Few children came across the border and none, as far as he could remember, had been black.
This girl was no eejit. She had to be someone’s daughter, and if so, the person should have protected her from animals. A dull rage kindled in Matt’s head. How dare someone neglect such a frail child? Matt would find out who it was and punish him.
For now, though, he was lost. He had chased the girl through gardens and between buildings until he’d lost his sense of direction. It didn’t matter. It was pleasant to be left alone in such a beautiful place. A fountain cast up a spray of water that flashed in the sun before raining back on the upturned faces of statues of children. They held out their hands like real children, and the sculptor had given them expressions of joy so lifelike that Matt smiled in sympathy. What a wonderful work of art!
And how strange. Opium was no place for children. Matt wandered on, and presently he came to a sliding door. Inside he found a room full of large glass enclosures with no clear purpose. It might have been a zoo, except that the animals were missing. Long tables were covered with gleaming, stainless-steel pans and microscopes, and along one wall were giant freezers. Idly, he opened a heavy iron door, and a dense cloud of fog swirled out. He saw racks of bottles with tiny writing: MACGREGOR #1 to MACGREGOR #13 in one rack, DABENGWA #1 to DABENGWA #19 in another. The bottles were dated. In a third rack he found MATTEO ALACRÁN with one of the bottles—#27—dated more than fourteen years before.
Matt slammed the door.
He fled to one of the enclosures and pressed his face against the glass to calm his nerves. Those bottles were tissue samples. This was where he had been created. That date, fourteen and a half years earlier, was his birthday, the day he was harvested from a cow.
After a while Matt’s heartbeat slowed to normal, and he forced himself to look inside. Mechanical arms reached across the enclosure, the floor of which was a treadmill. Wisps of hay were trapped between the joints. Once, a cow had stood here and her legs had been flexed by the mechanical arms while the treadmill slowly ground forward. Someone had placed hay in her mouth, which she chewed mindlessly, dreaming of flowery meadows.