Michael Vey 3 ~ Battle of the Ampere (15 page)

“When our troops are in position, power will be shut off throughout the island so there will be no communication on the island or to those outside of it. Only our facility will be powered. The government will be put under arrest and imprisoned while our troops move in and capture the whole of their puny police force. They will be locked in their own jail with the men they have arrested, which should make for some entertaining moments.

“One of our advance groups will seize the country’s sole radio station, from which I will, the next morning, address the people and introduce them to their new state of affairs. Every citizen will be required to register with our internal police board. Those who resist will be locked into our prison and sent through our reeducation process.

“In the meantime, the
Ohm
and the
Volta
, with a contingent of two hundred guards, will dock on the island of Nanumanga, which will be cleared out of all inhabitants. This is where we will build our new laboratories and weapons-production facilities.” Hatch looked around the room. “Are there any questions?”

No one spoke.

“All right then. Quentin and Torstyn with me. The rest of you may retire for the evening. It’s been a long day. Get some rest. We have much to do over the next five weeks.”

While the rest of the youth and board retired to their rooms, Hatch, accompanied by two guards, led Quentin and Torstyn to the chairman’s suite. The guards opened the door, and once inside, Hatch picked up the room phone. “Send housekeeping to the admiral’s suite immediately.” Pause. “Yes, the chairman’s suite. Thank you.”

He set down the phone, then lifted a crystal decanter of Scotch, poured three glasses, then brought them over to the table on a silver platter. He offered the glasses to the teens, and they each took one. Quentin started to raise it to his lips, but Hatch stopped him.

“Just a moment, Quentin. Have I taught you nothing? Never
imbibe before you know what you are about to imbibe. This pretentious little draught is the Balvenie Fifty, a rare fifty-year-old specimen of one of the finest single-malt Scotches ever distilled. A single bottle retails at more than thirty thousand dollars. So what I poured you there is a three-thousand-dollar taste. Therefore, it behooves us, out of decency and respect for the beverage, that we should thank former Chairman Schema for his fine taste in Scotch.” Hatch lifted his glass. “To Schema. A buffoon who knew his drink.”

They all raised their shots. Hatch closed his eyes as he drank, then set the glass down. “Worth every penny.”

Quentin choked a little on the drink, which made Torstyn smile.

Hatch looked at the teens. “I invited you here to mark this occasion,” he said. “A day which will live in infamy. Today marks the beginning of a new world order. The world is changing, my friends. The autonomy of nations is already slipping from their citizens’ grasps and they don’t even know it.

“It is self-evident that the supranational sovereignty of an intellectual elite is preferable to the archaic and outdated design of democracy. The belief that the average human, steeped in superstition and religious conditioning, has the ability to make rational decisions for society’s governance is beyond ridiculous, it is unabashed stupidity.

“Today we have taken the conclusive step toward world government. I don’t mean in the pantomime, impotent sense of a league of nations, rather an elite overclass prepared to rescue the dumb masses from themselves.

“You, my two apprentices, will someday take this gauntlet from me. You shall rule the world and the world will be better for it. So let us mark this momentous occasion with a toast.” Hatch again filled their glasses. “To the Elgen elite.”

“To the Elgen elite,” they echoed.

All three downed their drinks.

J
ust minutes after the toast, there was a knock on the door. “Housekeeping.”

“Come in,” Hatch said.

The door slowly opened and a portly, middle-aged Italian woman in a white-and-turquoise housekeeping smock looked in timidly. “Chairman Schema?”

“Mr. Schema doesn’t live here anymore,” Hatch said. “I’m your new boss. Is it just you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“My name is Patrizia.”

“Okay, Patrizia, you’d better call for help. This room reeks of Schema. I want you to disinfect it—I want it scrubbed from top to bottom. I want you to change my linens, rugs, and towels—in short I want you to sterilize or replace every piece of fabric, including the
drapes. You may begin by removing Mr. Schema’s personal belongings from the closets and drawers.”

The maid looked confused. “Where shall I take the chairman’s things?”

“He is no longer the chairman and you are not to refer to him by that title anymore. Do you understand?”

She swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t care what you do with his personal artifacts.” He rubbed his chin, then said, “No, actually, I do. Throw them overboard. I don’t like clutter, and he won’t be needing them anymore.”

She looked around at the beautiful art. “Everything, sir?”

“Everything. Now call your colleagues and get to work. I want you done and out of my room in two hours. A minute longer and you’ll spend the night with the former chairman in the brig. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Get to it.” Hatch turned back. He took another drink. “Quentin, I want you to make sure everyone’s accommodations are acceptable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to it. When you’re done, report to me on the forward deck.”

He stood. “Yes, sir.”

“Go along with him, Torstyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

The maid had already called the rest of the housekeeping crew and was working frantically, piling the linens in the center of the room. Hatch smiled to see her so motivated. He grabbed the bottle of Scotch and walked to the door. He turned back to the frantic woman. “One hour, fifty-eight minutes, Patrizia. I’ve set a timer. I will be back then. Hopefully, you won’t be escorted out by one of my guards.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, too frantic even to look at him.

Hatch walked out of the room.

*

Hatch took the elevator to the bridge level and walked out onto the deck, the pungent smell of sea spray filling his nostrils. He sat down
near the bow, kicking his feet up on the chair next to him. He lifted the Scotch and took a swig, then set the bottle down next to the chair. He had been there for about thirty minutes when Quentin walked out to him. “Everyone is happy with their room, sir.”

“Where is Torstyn?”

“He’s in his room.”

“Very well,” Hatch said. He was still looking out over the water. “Q?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever read the Bible?”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “No, sir. It wasn’t allowed at the academy.”

“That’s a shame.” He turned to Quentin. “It’s fabulous fiction, really. Hogwash, of course, rubbish and drivel. But, every now and then, the writers got it right. Did you know that it prophesizes of us?”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“Two millennium ago they wrote of our day.” Hatch looked back out over the water. “And I saw a beast rising up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and on his heads a blasphemous name. Now the beast, which I saw, was like a leopard, his feet were like the feet of a bear, and his mouth like the mouth of a lion.

“The dragon gave the beast his power, his throne, and great authority. And all the world marveled and followed the beast.

“So they worshiped the dragon who gave authority to the beast; and they worshiped the beast, saying, ‘Who is like the beast? Who is able to make war with him?’ And authority was given him over every tribe, tongue, and nation.

“And all who dwell on the earth will worship him. . . .” He took another drink from the bottle, then turned back toward Quentin. “The seven heads and ten horns, the number seventeen, represents the seventeen electric children. And the dragon gave them their power, as I have given you yours. Just as I will give you thrones and great authority. And the people of this world shall fear you and they shall worship me.” He smiled. “By the time they know who we are,
it will be too late.” He laughed. “I’m rather prosaic tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, sir,” Quentin said.

“Or maybe I’m just drunk.”

Quentin looked down. “About the seventeen. What of the others?”

“The other Glows? They’ll come around,” he said. “Eventually. Even Michael Vey. If I have learned one thing from life, it is that you can’t fight destiny.”

Quentin bit down on his cheek. “Yes, sir. Do you need anything else, sir?”

“To be left alone,” Hatch said.

“Yes, sir. Requesting permission to retire to my room.”

“Get out of here,” Hatch said.

Quentin turned and went back inside. Hatch looked out over the setting sun. He held up his thumb, covering the halved red-orange orb. Then he lifted the bottle again. “To the dragon,” he said. “And his fearsome young beasts.”

*

It was after dark when Hatch carried what was left of the Scotch down to the brig. The engines were being serviced, so the bottom-level corridor was quiet for a change. The guards outside the cells saluted and stood at attention at Hatch’s approach. “Admiral, sir.”

“At ease, sailors,” Hatch said. He handed out his bottle. “Have a drink.”

“We’re on duty, sir,” they both said.

“Right answer,” he said. “Here,” he said to the closest guard, “hold my bottle.”

At Hatch’s appearance the crowded board members all stood, their hands still tied behind their backs—everyone except for Schema, who had been tied upside down by his feet to the outer bars, his back toward Hatch. He had been hanging for more than three hours and was unconscious. There was a pool of vomit on the floor beneath him.

Two pressed against the bars. “Cut him down, Hatch,” she said. “I demand it.”

Hatch looked at her incredulously. “Did I hear you right? You
demand
it?” His eyes narrowed on her. “Is that really what you said?”

Two swallowed, her look of indignation quickly evaporating.

Hatch smiled. “You, Numero Dos, are in no position to
demand
anything.” He moved his face next to the bars. “And the next time you make such an imperious statement, you will join Ten bobbing for kelp in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Do you understand me?”

She began trembling. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir . . .”

“Yes,
Admiral
,” Hatch corrected. He looked at the rest of the prisoners, who were cowed against the back wall of the cell. “If any of you get that wrong again, you will regret it for the rest of your greatly diminished life. From this moment on you will only address me as Admiral Hatch.”

He started to turn.

“Admiral,” Two said.

Hatch turned back. She knelt down and bowed her head until it touched the floor of the cell. “Please, Admiral. Please release the former chairman. He won’t live much longer like this.”

Hatch looked at her with intrigue. “So I wasn’t wrong. You do care about him.”

She looked up. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Yes, Admiral.”

“You have feelings for him?”

She swallowed. “Yes, Admiral.”

“Do you love him?”

She hesitated, caught up by her emotion. “Yes, Admiral.”

Hatch started to laugh. “Oh my.” After a moment he said, “How much?”

“What?”

“How
much
do you love him?”

She looked at Hatch fearfully, certain that his question was a trap. “With all my heart.”

“With all your heart.” Hatch laughed. “I’ve seen your heart, lady, and there’s not much there.”

She didn’t answer, but bowed her head.

Hatch exhaled. “Okay, you say you love him, I’ll have him cut down.” He flourished his hand. “For
love’s
sake.”

She looked up in surprise. “Thank you, Admiral. Thank you.”

“As long as you agree to take his place.”

Her expression turned from relief to horror.

“For
love’s
sake,” Hatch said. His eyes narrowed. “Or doesn’t your
love
go that far?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, Admiral. It does. Thank you for your kindness.”

Hatch looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Hmm. Surprising.” He turned to the guard. “Make it so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hatch shook his head as he reclaimed his bottle. Then he said, “All you need is love.” He turned and walked back down the corridor, humming.