Fall of Hades (8 page)

Torstyn just blinked.

“So the only question that remains, really, is not
if
it will end for you, but
how
it will end for you. Will you fade off into oblivion peacefully?” He paused. “I mean, of course,
comparatively
peacefully? Or in prolonged, horrifying agony?”

Hatch leaned forward, his hair falling over his dark eyes. “I've come to make you a deal. For old times' sake. If you cooperate with me, I will see that you are anesthetized before going into the bowl. You will not feel those little mouths, bite by bite, eat away your life.” He took a deep breath. “I can also promise you that if you don't cooperate, I will make sure that your vitals are well protected so that the furry little creatures will have to gnaw their way up your body cavity to end your life. Could you imagine what that would feel like? Rodents under your flesh? What could be more terrible?”

Torstyn tried not to show his fear but shuddered anyway.

“It was a medieval torture, you know. During the Inquisition, the torturer would place rats in a cage on top of a prisoner's body, then put hot coals on top of the cage. The rats would burrow through the body to escape the heat. I can't imagine how terrifying that would be. I've wondered what would be more painful, the rats or the horror itself. What do you think?”

Torstyn didn't answer.

“No, I don't suppose you'd care to conjecture. So I'll continue with my offer. If you fail to help me, you will be terrifyingly aware of every rat's bite. Your head and eyes will be caged, so you can see your own skeleton as the rodents strip the flesh from your legs and arms to the bones. You will witness your own slow consumption.” He leaned back. “So, traitor, what will it be? Cooperation or untold agony?”

“What do you want?” Torstyn asked.

Hatch leaned in. “What I want is Welch. Where is he?”

Torstyn just looked at him. “I don't know.”

Hatch gazed at him for a moment, then, with an audible sigh, stood. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

“I'm telling the truth,” Torstyn said frantically. “We helped him off the boat. He got into a taxi with two guards. That's all I know. I'm telling the truth.”

Hatch looked at him sadly. “That's unfortunate for both of us, but especially for you.” As he walked to the door, the guards opened it for him. Hatch turned back. “Tara was more creative. She made up a story. I knew she was lying, of course, but I don't fault her for trying. Fear is a powerful motivator.” The guards stepped to Hatch's sides.

“If it makes you feel any better, in the words of Röhm, all revolutions devour their own children.” A strange, infantile smile crossed his face. He sang sweetly:

“Red of the morning, red of the morning,

Thou lightest us to early death.

Yesterday mounted on a proud street,

Today a bullet through the breast.”

Hatch stared into Torstyn's eyes. “You will be the first to go. You have fifteen days left to live. I suggest you use that time figuring out where Welch is.” He walked out the door. The door hissed as the pneumatic lock sealed the cell after him. Torstyn fell over on the bed and sobbed.

*  *  *

After his visit to Tara and Torstyn, Hatch walked to the D corridor to visit Quentin, who had been released from Cell 25 just three days earlier.

Quentin was still in pain and was curled up in a fetal position on his cell's hard cot. His room was bare. He had no sheets, nothing he could hang himself with, not even his clothing, which, like Torstyn's and Tara's garb, was a pink, paper-fabric jumpsuit.

He had woken confused. He couldn't remember if it was the day he would be moved into the monkey cage. He thought he remembered a guard telling him that, but he couldn't remember or even be sure whether the guards were toying with him or not.

Ever since his stay in Cell 25 he had trouble keeping his thoughts together. Even with all the terror and humiliation of the monkey cage, he would still choose it over Cell 25.
How had Vey survived it?
Vey was a lot stronger than Quentin had given him credit for.

There was a loud burst of air, and Quentin looked up to see his door open. Hatch walked into Quentin's cell, leaving his guards outside.

“I came to see if you were ready to tell me about Welch.”

Quentin looked away from him.

“I've been visiting with your partners in crime—the ones you've murdered by involving them in your plot. Not surprisingly, they are not doing well. It seems that they are afraid to die. Where you, on the other hand, would gladly die, wouldn't you?”

Quentin tightly closed his eyes.

“Cell 25 has that effect,” Hatch said softly. “I went to see if they would tell me where Welch is. But they don't know, do they? Not that that would have spared them anything. Either way they will die a horrible and ignominious death.” He walked closer to Quentin's cot. “I would ask if you knew where he was, but I know you don't—otherwise you would have told us in Cell 25. You have nothing to give me.”

“Then what do you want?” Quentin asked.

“I just wanted to see you.” Hatch sat down on the edge of Quentin's cot. “And enlighten you.

“You might be wondering, why the monkey cage? I did not invent this torture, you know. I wish I had, but someone beat me to it. There is precedence for this. You'll be glad to know you're in good company.

“At the end of World War II, the Americans established an army disciplinary camp in Pisa, Italy. Right next to the famous leaning tower. At that time, the greatest attraction in Pisa was not the tower. It was an American traitor named Ezra Loomis Pound. Pound wasn't just any American; he was one of the most famous poets in the world. He was a friend to Yeats. He collaborated with T. S. Eliot on his masterpiece ‘The Waste Land'—in fact, the book is dedicated to Pound. He even hung around with Ernest Hemingway. He learned boxing from him.

“He was an absurd little man, the pride of the world's intelligentsia and the social elite. He was invited to all their fancy soirees. He once attended a London society party dressed in an all-green suit made from the felt of a billiard table.

“But none of that mattered after the war. He had betrayed his country. He, like you, was a traitor. To punish Pound for collaborating with the enemy, the Americans put him in a monkey cage. It didn't take long for it to crack his beautiful mind.

“The uncultured American soldiers would stand next to the cage and listen to the madman rant in English, Italian, Chinese, French, and even some languages he made up. They didn't realize that what he was ranting was the brilliant mental vomit of a genius, and what he said became some of the greatest poetry of his time:

“The enormous tragedy of the dream in the peasant's bent shoulders

Manes! Manes was tanned and stuffed,

Thus Ben and la Clara a Milano

by the heels at Milano

. . .

yet say this to the Possum: a bang, not a whimper,

with a bang not with a whimper, . . .

“Ben and Clara were Benito Mussolini and his mistress, Clara, who were hung by their feet in Milano. The Possum was Pound's nickname for his old friend T. S. Eliot. He was mocking Eliot's poem ‘The Hollow Men.'” Hatch sighed. “This is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

“Imagine the sight of it, this brilliant cracked mind throwing his pearls to the swine. It was Pound who later declared, ‘All America is an insane asylum.'” Hatch looked at Quentin. “He was right, you know. Except he was too limited in his scope. The whole
world
is an asylum. And it needs a new director.

“Tomorrow you go to the cage. Perhaps there you too will find the insanity of genius.” A cruel smile crossed his face. “Or, then again, maybe just insanity.” Hatch walked to the door. “Eliot was right, not Pound. This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.”

“There will be a bang,” Quentin said. “The sound of your fall after you're brought down and made to pay for your crimes.”

“You're delusional,” Hatch said. “Who can challenge me? Who can't I buy off?”

“Michael Vey,” Quentin said. “He's the good guy. I can see that now. And in the end he's going to win.”

For just a moment Hatch's arrogance flickered. Then his eyes narrowed. “Michael Vey is nothing. And in the end I will feed you his flesh.” He turned and walked out of the cell.

Quentin curled back up into a fetal position.

E
arly the next morning the lights turned on in Quentin's cell, signaling the start of a new day. Actually, a new life. A terrible life. Quentin wondered how long he would survive it.

He forced himself from his bed and walked over to the sink. For reasons he didn't understand he desperately wanted to brush his teeth—a strange desire, considering what was to come. He was shaking so hard, he had trouble holding the brush.

His heart froze when he heard the sharp, synchronized clicks of heavy boot steps coming down the hall, followed by the hiss of his cell door's pneumatic lock.

The door swung open. Quentin turned to see a guard step inside his cell. He wore the scarlet armband of a Zone Captain, just one level down from an EGG. Behind him was a lower-ranked Squad Captain in the purple Elgen uniform. The men were followed by twelve guards.

Hatch was noticeably absent. Quentin guessed that he was making a point by not being there. He was also making a point by sending a dozen guards when two would have been sufficient. In Quentin's present, weakened condition, one would have been enough. The guards were wearing dress uniforms, which meant that his internment would be a ceremony of sorts. There would be an audience at his encagement.

The Zone Captain spoke. “Quentin, face me.”

Quentin slowly turned around. Since Cell 25, all his movements seemed slow. He looked the captain in the eyes.

“For acts of treason against Admiral-General Hatch and the Elgen politic, you have been sentenced to life internment in the eastern primate cage of the Hatch Center Square. Guards, take the prisoner.”

Six of the guards rushed past the captain and surrounded Quentin. The Squad Captain stepped forward. “You are commanded to disrobe.”

Quentin crossed his arms. There was usually humiliation involved in Hatch's punishment, but he wasn't going to allow it if possible.

The man looked him over, then smiled darkly. “Defiant? You can undress yourself, or my men will undress you. One way will be painful for you, one won't, but the end result is the same. I don't care which you choose.”

Quentin took another deep breath, then took off his bright pink jumpsuit. “I never liked pink, anyway,” he said, throwing the garment to the floor.

“. . . And your underwear.”

Quentin bristled. “He's keeping me naked like the prime minister?”

“The Prime
Monkey
,” the Squad Captain corrected. “No, the general is being more merciful to you. He's sent you this.” He lifted a loincloth—a simple square of thin brown fabric just slightly smaller than a washcloth. It had two leather straps to hold it to his waist. “Now undress.”

Quentin pulled down his underwear. The Squad Captain tossed him the loincloth. Quentin caught it and tied it around his waist. Then he looked back up, his gaze meeting his enemy's. “Someday I will punish you. You
and
Hatch.”

The Squad Captain laughed. “
General
Hatch,” he said. “And insanity usually sets in after you've been in the monkey cage, not before.”

“You're the insane ones. And you're following a madman.”

The Squad Captain's eyes narrowed. “If you don't think your general is merciful, consider that, unlike Prime Monkey Saluni, you still have your tongue. If you can't be more judicious with it, I will happily relieve you of its burden.”

Quentin glared at him but kept his tongue. Literally. The Squad Captain nodded to the guards, who grabbed Quentin by the arms and cuffed his hands behind his back.

“Elgen guard, deliver the traitor to the square.”

*  *  *

The Funafuti Central Square was a half mile from the prison, and Quentin walked it barefoot and mostly naked. He was glad of just one thing: it was still early morning and there were few out to view his march.

The plaza, now renamed Hatch Center Square, was five acres of smooth, round cobblestone. In the very center, next to a flagpole, workers were erecting a fifty-foot marble column, which would eventually hold a bronze heroic-size statue of General Hatch. The project was behind schedule, and the original project manager had been sent to the rat bowl for incompetence.

On each side of the column was a large metal cage. The first cage Quentin was well aware of, as he'd passed it many times before. In addition to its primate inhabitants, it held the former prime minister Saluni. Attached to the bars of the cage was a metal sign that read: