House Of The Scorpion by Nancy Farmer
“Make it stop,” sobbed Fidelito.
Matt pulled himself to his feet and dragged the little boy toward a building shimmering in the heat. All around, Matt saw blinding white hills and crusted pools stained with crimson. Chacho stumbled after them.
Matt pulled Fidelito through a doorway and slumped against a wall to recover. The air inside was cooler and slightly fresher. The room was full of bubbling tanks tended by boys who morosely fished the water with nets and who paid no attention to the newcomers.
After a few moments Matt felt strong enough to get up. His legs were rubbery and his stomach was in knots. “Who’s in charge?” he asked. A boy pointed at a door.
Matt knocked and went in. He saw a group of men dressed in the same black uniform as Raúl, with the emblem of a bee-hive on their sleeves. “There’s one of los bichos— the vermin—who stank up my hovercraft,” said the pilot.
“What’s your name?” said a Keeper.
“Matt Ortega,” Matt replied.
“Ah. The aristocrat.”
Uh oh, thought Matt. Raúl must have spread the word.
“Well, you won’t get away with your swanky ways here,” the man said. “We’ve got something called the boneyard, and any troublemaker who goes through it comes out as harmless as a little lamb.”
“The first thing he’s going to do is clean my ship,” said the pilot. And so Matt, along with Chacho, soon found himself scrubbing the floors and walls of the aircraft. Lastly—and most horribly—they had to wash each slimy strip of plastic in a bucket of hot, soapy water.
The air didn’t smell as evil as before. “It’s just as bad,” the pilot assured them from his seat under a plastic shade. “The longer you’re here, the less you notice it. There’s something in it that paralyzes your sense of smell.”
“We should make Fidelito drink this,” said Chacho, idly sloshing the contents of the bucket.
“He can’t help it,” Matt said. Poor Fidelito had curled up on the ground in a fit of misery. Neither boy had the heart to make him work.
After they finished, the head Keeper, who was called Carlos, gave them a tour of the factory. “These are the brine tanks,” he said. “You take the stink bugs out of the tanks with this”—he held up a net—“and when the plankton’s ripe, you harvest it.”
“What’s plankton?” Matt ventured to ask.
“Plankton!” exclaimed Carlos, as though he’d been waiting eagerly for that question. “It’s what a whale filters out of the sea to make a meal. It’s the microscopic plants and animals that drift in the top layer of the water. You wouldn’t think an enormous creature could live on something so tiny, but that’s the astonishing truth. Plankton is the eighth wonder of the world. It’s full of protein, vitamins, and roughage. It’s got everything a whale needs to be happy and everything people need too. The plankton we manufacture here is made into hamburgers, hotdogs, and burritos. Ground up fine, it takes the place of mother’s milk.”
Carlos went on and on. It appeared his life’s work was to make people love and appreciate plankton. He seemed blind to the bleak desert that surrounded them, now that they had gone outside.
Matt saw high security fences in the distance, and his heart sank. The air was foul, the temperature broiling, and the humidity so high that his jumpsuit clung to his body like a second skin. This was the place he was supposed to inhabit until he turned eighteen.
“Where’s San Luis?” he asked.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Carlos. “When we feel you need the information, that’s when you get to know it. Don’t get any ideas about going over the fence, either. The top wire has enough power to spit you back like a melon seed. Here are the salt mountains.” He indicated the white dunes Matt had noticed before. “After we harvest the plankton, the brine is evaporated and the salt is processed for sale. These are the highest salt mountains in the world. People come from all over to admire them.”
What people? thought Matt, looking at the depressing landscape.
A siren wailed. “Time for the first lunch setting!” Carlos said. He led them up a dune. It was more solid than it looked. At the top was a picnic area with tables. Plastic flowers were planted around the edge, and a weather vane topped by a spouting whale stood in the center. A slight breeze blew a fine dusting of salt over Matt’s skin. “The lunch area was my idea,” Carlos said, plopping himself onto a bench. “I think it’s raised everyone’s morale.”
The boys, trudging up the slope with pots and dishes, didn’t look especially happy. They set down their burdens and lined up between the tables like rows of soldiers. Carlos told Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito to stand at the end of a line. Everyone recited the Five Principles of Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-Mindfulness, and then a sullen, acne-scarred boy began dishing up.
“What is this stuff?” said Chacho, sniffing his bowl.
“Delicious, nutritious plankton,” the boy growled.
“Everything a whale needs to be happy,” said another, pretending to gag. They straightened up when Carlos gave them a sour look.
“I will not have you insulting food,” the Keeper said. “Food is a wonderful thing. Millions of people have died because they didn’t have enough, and you lucky boys get to eat your fill three times a day. In the old days aristocrats feasted on roast pheasant and suckling pig, while the peasants had to eat grass and tree bark. In the new Aztlán everything is shared equally. If only one person is deprived of roast pheasant and suckling pig, the rest of us should refuse to eat them. Plankton is the most delicious dish in the world when it is shared by all.”
No one said anything after that. Matt guessed he was the only one there who’d actually feasted on roast pheasant and suckling pig. For the life of him, he couldn’t see why plankton was supposed to taste better if everyone was stuck with it. It was sticky and crunchy at the same time, and it coated his mouth like rancid glue.
From the high plateau the guard fence was visible. Matt squinted his eyes into the blinding light, but he couldn’t see much beyond it. He thought he saw a glint of water far to the west.
“That’s the Gulf of California,” said Carlos, shading his eyes as he followed Matt’s gaze.
“Are there whales in it?” Matt asked.
“They’d have to bring their own bathtubs,” a boy said.
Carlos looked sorrowful. “There used to be whales. Once this whole area was covered by water.” He pointed at a ridge of hills to the east. “That was the coastline. Through the years the water flowing from the Colorado River got so polluted, the whales died.”
“What happened to the gulf?” asked Chacho.
“That’s one of the great engineering triumphs of Aztlán,” Carlos said proudly. “We diverted the Colorado River to an underground canal that runs into Dreamland. Once the pollutants were removed, we started harvesting the gulf for plankton. Fresh seawater comes in from the south, but what with harvesting and the loss of river water, the gulf has shrunk to a narrow channel.”
So that was where Opium’s water came from, Matt realized—a river so polluted that it could kill a whale. He wondered whether El Patrón had known about it. Yes, probably, Matt decided. The water was free, and El Patrón loved a bargain.
After lunch Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito were put to work tending the brine shrimp tanks. These stretched in a long line to the west of the central factory, with a pipeline for water running to one side. The shrimp filled up the tanks in a pulsing, squirming mass. They gobbled red algae until their bodies turned the color of blood. It was this that had stained the pools Matt had noticed when he first arrived.
He found the job interesting. He liked the busy little creatures and thought their tiny bodies, rippling with feathery gills, were every bit as nice as flowers. He and the others sieved out insects and added water as needed. There were, unfortunately, miles of tanks and thousands of suicidal bugs. After a few hours Matt’s arms ached, his back was stiff, and his eyes burned from salt. Fidelit
The desert stretched ahead of them without so much as a dead tree for shade. The tanks seemed to be heading for the distant channel Matt had seen during lunch. It was definitely blue now, not merely a flash of light on the horizon. The water looked cool and deep.
“Can you swim?” he asked Chacho.
“Where would I learn a swanky thing like that?” Chacho got mean when he was tired. Matt knew that swanky meant something only an evil, rotten, spoiled aristocrat would do.
“I know how to swim,” announced Fidelito.
“Where’d a puny loser like you pick it up? In a shrimp tank?” snarled Chacho.
Instead of getting angry, Fidelito treated the suggestion seriously. Matt had noticed that the little boy was amazingly good-natured. He might wet the bed and barf at the drop of a hat, but his goodwill more than made up for it. “I am puny, aren’t I? I could probably swim in these tanks.”
“Yeah, and the shrimp’d eat your weenie off.”
Fidelito cast a startled look at Chacho. “Ooh,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Where did you learn to swim?” Matt asked, to change the subject.
“Mi abuelita taught me in Yucatán. We lived on the seashore.”
“Was it nice?”
“ Was it?” cried Fidelito. “It was heaven! We had a little white house with a grass roof. My grandma sold fish at the market, and she took me out in a canoe on holidays. That’s why she taught me to swim, so I wouldn’t drown if I fell overboard.”
“If it was so great, why did she run for the border?” Chacho said.
“There was a storm,” the little boy said. “It was a hurry—a hurry—”
“A hurricane?” Matt guessed.
“Yes! And the sea came in and took everything away. We had to live in a refugee camp.”
“Oh,” said Chacho as though he instantly understood.
“We had to live in a big room with a lot of other people, and we had to do everything at the same time in the same way. There weren’t any trees, and it was so ugly that mi abuelita got sick. She wouldn’t eat, so they force-fed her.”
“It is the duty of every citizen to survive and contribute to the general good,” said Chacho. “I’ve had that yelled at me a couple million times.”
“Why wouldn’t they let your grandma go back to the seashore?” asked Matt.
“You don’t understand,” Chacho said. “They kept her locked up so they could help her. If they turned all the poor suckers loose, there’d be no one left to help, and then there wouldn’t be any point to a crotting Keeper’s life.”
Matt was astounded. It was the craziest thing he’d ever heard, and yet it made sense. Why else were the boys locked up? They’d run away if someone left the door open. “Is all of Aztlán like this?”
“Of course not,” said Chacho. “Most of it’s fine; but once you fall into the hands of the Keepers, you’re lost. See, we’re certified losers. We don’t have houses or jobs or money, so we have to be taken care of.”
“Did you grow up in a camp?” Fidelito asked Matt. It was an innocent question, but it opened the door to things Matt didn’t want to talk about. Fortunately, he was saved by the arrival of Carlos in a little electric cart. It purred up so silently, the boys didn’t notice it until it was almost upon them.
“I’ve been watching you for fifteen minutes,” said Carlos. “You’ve been loafing.”
“The heat was getting to Fidelito,” Chacho said quickly. “We thought he was going to faint.”
“Eat salt,” Carlos told the little boy. “Salt is good for everything. You should turn back now, or you won’t make it home before dark.” He started to go off.
“Wait! Can you take Fidelito?” Chacho said. “He’s really tired.”
Carlos stopped and backed up. “Boys, boys, boys! Hasn’t anyone told you labor is shared equally among equals? If one person has to walk, everyone has to.”
“You’re not walking,” Matt pointed out.
Carlos’s grin vanished instantly. “So the aristocrat presumes to lecture us about equality,” he said. “The aristocrat is only a snot-faced boy who thinks he’s too good for the rest of us. I am a true citizen. I’ve earned my privileges through hard work and obedience. No food for you tonight.”
“Crot that” said Chacho.
“No food for any of you! You’ll learn to obey the will of the people if it takes the next fifty years.” Carlos rode off in a plume of dust and salt.
“I’m sorry, Fidelito,” said Chacho. “You didn’t deserve to be lumped in with the two of us.”
“I’m proud to be with you,” the little boy cried. “You’re my compadres! Crot Carlos! Crot the Keepers!” Fidelito looked so fierce with his scrawny chest thrust out and revolution blazing from every pore that both Matt and Chacho broke down with hysterical laughter.
29
WASHING A DUSTY MIND
Why does everyone keep calling me ‘the aristocrat’?” asked Matt as they trudged back along the line of shrimp tanks.
Chacho wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “I don’t know. It’s how you talk, partly. And you’re always thinking.”
Matt thought about the education he’d received. He’d read a mountain of books. He’d listened to conversations between El Patrón and the most powerful people in the world.
“You’re like—I don’t know how to put it … my grandfather. Your manners, I mean. You don’t gobble your food or spit on the floor. I’ve never heard you swear. It’s okay, but it’s different.”
Matt felt cold. He’d always copied El Patrón, who was, of course, one hundred years behind the times.
“Él me cae bien. I think he’s cool,” said Fidelito.
“Of course he’s cool. It’s only …” Chacho turned to Matt. “Well, you seem used to better things. The rest of us were born in the dirt, and we know we’ll never get out of it.”
“We’re in this place together.” Matt pointed at the hot desert.
“Yeah. Welcome to hell’s baby brother,” Chacho said, scuffing puffs of salt with his feet.
Dinner that night was plankton patties and boiled seaweed. Matt didn’t mind fasting, but he felt sorry for Fidelito. The little boy was so skinny, it didn’t seem like he could survive a missed meal. Chacho solved the problem by staring at a nervous-looking kid until he managed to get half his food. Chacho could come on like a werewolf when he wanted to.
“Eat,” he told Fidelito.
“I don’t want food if you can’t have any,” the little boy protested.
“Test it for me. I want to know if it’s poison.”
So Fidelito choked the patty down.
As in the first camp, a Keeper arrived to give them an inspirational bedtime story. This one’s name was Jorge. They all melted together in Matt’s mind: Raúl, Carlos, and Jorge. They all wore black uniforms with beehives on the sleeves, and they were all idiots.
Jorge’s story was called “Why Minds Gather Dust Like Old Rooms.” “If we work all day in the hot sun,” said Jorge, “what happens to our bodies?” He waited expectantly, just like Raúl had.
“We get dirty,” a boy said.
“That’s right!” the Keeper said, beaming. “Our faces get dirty, our hands get dirty, our whole bodies get dirty. Then what do we do?”
“Take a bath,” the boy said. He seemed used to the drill.
“Yes! We clean off that old muck, and then we feel good again. It’s good to be clean.”
“It’s good to be clean,” said all the boys except for Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito. They’d been taken by surprise.
“Let’s back up so our new brothers can learn with the rest of us,” said Jorge. “It’s good to be clean.”
“It’s good to be clean,” said everyone, including Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito.
“Our minds and our work may also collect dust and need washing,” the Keeper went on. “For example, a door that’s always
Wait a minute, thought Matt. Celia’s kitchen door was in constant use, but it swelled up on damp days and then you had to force it open with your shoulder. Tam Lin got so irritated by it, he put his fist right through the wood. Then it had to be replaced, and the door worked a lot better afterward. Matt thought these things, but he didn’t say them. He didn’t want to miss another meal.
“So if we work steadily and don’t loaf,” said Jorge, “our work doesn’t have time to get dirty. But our minds can fill up with dust and germs too. Can anyone tell me how to keep our minds clean?”
Chacho snickered, and Matt poked him with his elbow. The last thing they needed now was a wisecrack.
Several boys raised their hands, but the Keeper ignored them. “I think one of our new brothers can answer that question. What about you, Matt?”
Instantly, everyone’s eyes turned to Matt. He felt like he’d been caught in the cross beams of El Patrón’s security lights. “M-Me?” he stammered. “I just got here.”
“But you have so many ideas,” Jorge purred. “Surely you wouldn’t mind sharing them with us.”
Matts thoughts raced through the arguments the Keeper had already presented. “Isn’t keeping your mind … clean … like keeping the rust off door hinges? If you use your brain all the time, it won’t have time to collect germs.” Matt thought it was a brilliant answer, considering the question had been thrown at him out of the blue.
But it was the wrong answer. He saw the other boys tense and Jorge’s mouth quiver on the edge of a smile. He’d been set up.
“Diseased opinions not suited to the good of the people have to be cleaned out with self-criticism,” Jorge said triumphantly. “Would anyone like to show Matt how this is done?”