The Lord of Opium

In spite of Cienfuegos’s warning, Matt couldn’t help smiling. This was his home and his country. It wasn’t full of clanking machines and noxious air like Aztlán—except for the eejit pens, he quickly reminded himself. They were kept out of sight at the bottom of shallow valleys, and it was all too easy to forget about them.

Water from the Colorado River was purified for drinking. The residue, a toxic mix that smelled like rotten fish, excrement, and vomit, was pumped into sludge ponds next to the eejit pens. On still nights the air from the ponds overflowed and poisoned whatever it came in contact with. Then the Farm Patrol ordered the eejits to sleep out in the fields.

The gardeners waved and shouted, “¡Viva el patroncito!” as Hitler’s old car went by. Matt raised his hand to wave back.

“Don’t encourage them,” hissed Cienfuegos. “If they start calling you ‘the little boss,’ they’ll never show respect.”

Matt put his hand down.

They left the green lawns of the estate and came to the first poppy field. Lines of eejits bent and slashed in a mindless rhythm, and a Farm Patrolman monitored them from the back of a horse.

“¡Hola! Angus!” shouted Cienfuegos. “Come and see the new patrón!”

Daft Donald stopped the car and Angus rode up, tipping his hat. “It’s a fine day when we have a new drug lord,” he said. “Good fortune to you, sir.” He was a bluff, red-faced Scotsman with the same lilting accent as Tam Lin. The man bent down confidentially and said to Cienfuegos, “You might put a word in his ear about the eejit pellets. We’ve had to cut rations again.”

“I’m getting to it,” said the jefe.

Angus shot a quick look at Matt and bent down again. “Begging your pardon, sir, but doesn’t he look like—”

“It’s hardly surprising. El Patrón was the original model.”

“You don’t say! I’ll be burning an extra candle tonight.” Angus tipped his hat again and rode off.

“Eejit pellets?” Matt asked as Daft Donald started the car.

“We get their food from a plankton factory in Aztlán,” explained Cienfuegos. “With the border closed, we’ve had to depend on reserves.”

“Can’t you open it?” said Matt.

“The controls only recognize certain people. The Alacráns activated the lockdown before they went to El Patrón’s funeral, and now they’re all dead. The system is programmed to kill anyone who isn’t authorized. I’m hoping that doesn’t include you.”

Me too, thought Matt. The old man had booby traps planted all over to keep enemies from gaining control.

Cienfuegos leaned forward and told Daft Donald to take them to the armory.

5

THE DOPE CONFEDERACY

The poppy fields were beautifully maintained, thought Matt, who had learned much about opium farming. Every third year a field was allowed to rest, and eejits patiently massaged manure into it with their fingers to make the soil soft and fertile. The result looked like fine, Colombian coffee grounds. These resting patches of earth brimmed with life. Birds, bees, and butterflies were everywhere. Lizards sunned themselves on fence posts. A falcon hovered over wild grass, looking for the bow-wave of a mouse underneath. Aztlán to the south had been a wasteland compared to Opium.

After a while Matt saw a large building looming in the distance. It had a red tile roof and grilles over the windows after the fashion of old Mexican forts. Outside were picnic tables under ramadas. A few Farm Patrolmen, seated at these tables, snapped to attention when the car stopped.

“At ease,” said Cienfuegos. “This is your new leader, amigos. See that you treat him with respect, or he’ll have you cockroached. You’d do that, wouldn’t you, mi patrón?”

“In a heartbeat,” said Matt, who didn’t know what the word meant. From the alarmed expressions on the men’s faces, he guessed that it was a serious threat.

“Hugh, get the map of the Dope Confederacy,” the jefe told a man with cold, humorless eyes. Matt recognized him. Long ago the boy had passed out from bad air near an eejit pen. The man who rescued him had been Hugh, but it hadn’t been an act of charity. Hugh had thrown him into the back of a truck and almost crushed the life out of him with a boot. Now the man looked slightly stunned to see his new lord. He hurried to obey.

Cienfuegos ordered everyone away and spread out the map. Matt had seen it before in the Alacrán library. It was a detailed chart of the border between the United States and Aztlán, and over the top was a title printed in gold leaf: THE DOPE CONFEDERACY.