Here and there a member of the Farm Patrol watched from the back of a Real Horse. He would tell them when to rest, when to drink water, and when to start work again. For the eejits were just as mindless as Safe Horses. They, too, had microchips in their brains that made them content to do such grueling work. At evening the Farm Patrol would herd them to long buildings with small, dark windows. The ceilings were so low a person couldn’t stand upright, but this scarcely mattered. The eejits had no social life.
They were given food pellets from a large bin, and when they had finished eating, the Farm Patrolmen ordered them into the buildings to sleep. Matt didn’t know whether they slept on straw or merely stretched out in the dirt. He had never been inside an eejit pen.
In the fields of half-grown opium Matt saw lines of children removing weeds and bugs. Their small hands were much better at tending the delicate plants than adult hands were. These workers ranged in age from six to about ten, although some were so malnourished they might have been older.
Matt was horrified. Before he had seen anything of the outside world, child eejits raised no more pity in him than adults. But now that he’d met normal youngsters, it was unendurable to see them so brutalized. He pictured Fidelito—bright, cheerful, mischievous Fidelito—in a tan uniform with a little floppy hat on his head.
“Stop,” Matt told the Safe Horse. He watched the small workers, trying to figure out how to help them. He could take them to the hacienda, feed them well, and give them proper beds. But what then? Could you say “play” and expect them to obey? Could you order them to laugh? The problem was in their brains, and Matt had no idea how to fix that.
He told the Safe Horse to go on. When they arrived at the stables, a young man came out to take the reins. He had dark brown eyes and black hair like most of the Illegals the Farm Patrol caught. Matt had never seen him before. “Where’s Rosa?” he asked.
Rosa had been Matt’s keeper when he was small. She had been bitter and cruel, tormenting the boy because he was a clone. When El Patrón discovered what she was doing, he turned her into an eejit and made her work in the stables. Dull-eyed and slow-moving, she brought out Safe Horses whenever Matt asked for them.
At first he was pleased with the punishment, but gradually he became uncomfortable. She had been terrible, but it was far worse to see her reduced to a soulless shadow. He spoke to her often, hoping to awaken something buried inside, but she never answered. “Where’s Rosa?” he repeated.
“Do you wish another horse, Master?” the new stable keeper said.
“No. Where is the woman who used to be here?”
“Do you wish another horse, Master?” the man replied. He was only an eejit and unable to say anything else. Matt turned away and headed for the hacienda.
* * *
El Patrón’s hacienda spread out like a green jewel in the desert. It was surrounded by vast gardens and fountains that sparkled in the sun. Peacocks strayed across its walkways, and wide marble steps led up to a veranda framed by orange trees. A few of the gardeners were Real People, and they bowed respectfully to Matt. Under their supervision a line of silent eejits clipped the lawns with scissors.
Matt was startled. Never before had the gardeners bowed to him. They obeyed him, of course, out of fear of El Patrón, but he knew they secretly despised him. What had changed? He hadn’t told anyone about his new status, not even Celia, who loved him and didn’t care a bent centavo whether he was human or not.
He walked along echoing halls on floors polished so brilliantly it was like walking on water. But he didn’t go to the magnificent apartments reserved for the Alacrán family. He had never belonged there and had only bitter memories of the people. Instead he turned toward the servants’ quarters and the huge kitchen where Celia ruled.
She was sitting at a scuffed wooden table along with Mr. Ortega, the music teacher; Daft Donald, the only surviving bodyguard; and the pilot who had flown Matt back to Opium. What was his name? Major Beltrán. They were drinking coffee, and Celia had put out a platter of corn chips and guacamole dip. When she saw Matt, she stood up so abruptly her cup tipped over.
“Oh, my. Oh, my,” she said, automatically wiping up the spill with her apron. “Just look at you, mi vida. Only I can’t call you that anymore. Oh, my.” The others had stood up as well.
“You can call me anything you like,” said Matt.
“No, I can’t. You’re too important. But I can’t bring myself to call you El Patrón.”
“Of course not! What a crazy idea! What’s wrong with all of you?” Matt, more than anything, wanted to hug her, but she seemed afraid of him. Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega were standing at attention. Only Major Beltrán looked comfortable.
“You told them, didn’t you?” Matt accused the pilot.
“It was not a secret.” Major Beltrán seemed amused. “Doña Esperanza said I was to find the highest-ranking Alacrán and make a deal with him. Only, there is no such person. They’re all dead.”
“What do you mean, deal?” said Matt.
The pilot shrugged. He was a handsome man with glossy black hair and a film star’s face. His spotless appearance made Matt aware that his own clothes smelled of horse and that his face was covered with acne. “We have to open the border,” Major Beltrán said. “This place is in lockdown, as you saw when we flew in. Only El Patrón’s successor has the power to cancel it, and until I got here, I didn’t know who that person was.”
“That person is me. Esperanza said that I was his successor.”
The pilot shrugged again. “You’re a child, and your claim is open to question. El Patrón’s great-grandson should have taken over. Or one of his great-great-grandsons. Now, of course, you’re all we have left.”
Matt realized—how had he missed it before?—that Major Beltrán didn’t like him. The ingratiating smile meant nothing. The mocking eyes said, Three months ago you were a filthy clone, and in my opinion you still are. Never mind. I’ll make do until I can find something better.
That alone made Matt determined not to cooperate. “I am the Lord of Opium,” he said quietly. He heard Celia gasp behind him. “I will deal directly with Esperanza. The servants can find you an apartment, Major Beltrán, if they have not done so already, and when I open the border, you can fly home.” Matt was trembling and desperately trying not to show it. He wasn’t used to giving orders to adults.
Major Beltrán swallowed, and his eyes became cold and distant. “We’ll see,” he said, and left the room.
Matt collapsed into a chair. He was afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed how nervous he was, but there was only admiration in the eyes of Celia, Mr. Ortega, and Daft Donald.
“¡Caramba! ¡Le bajó su copete! You sure put him in his place,” exclaimed Mr. Ortega with the slightly flat tone of the deaf. Daft Donald clasped his hands over his head in victory.
“He’s been swanking around ever since he got here,” Celia said, “giving us orders like he owns the place. He said that international law made you a human the minute El Patrón died—not that I ever doubted it. He said that in the eyes of the law you were El Patrón, but you were too stupid to know what to do. ¡Chale! I don’t think so!” She enveloped Matt in a bear hug, but very quickly let him go. “I can’t do that anymore.”