Michael Vey 2 Read online

  “Where did you get so many rats?” Tara asked.

  “The old-fashioned way,” Hatch said. “We bred them. Rats are one of the most efficient breeders of all the mammals on the planet. They are capable of producing offspring within six weeks of birth—compared to twelve to thirteen years for humans. It’s been speculated that two rats in an ideal breeding environment could produce more than a million offspring in their lifetime.

  “Of course, until now, that has just been speculation. But we’ve proven it. We are able to create thousands of rats a day, far more than we need.” Hatch pointed to the far edge of the bowl. “See that small door there? You can just make out the outline. That is where new rats are delivered to the grid. We introduce about seventy new rats every hour, twenty-four/seven. In addition, we keep a twenty percent surplus of rats at all times, in case of disease.”

  “What if they escaped?” Bryan said. “That would be awesome.”

  “No,” Hatch said coldly. “That would not be awesome. In fact, it’s one of our greatest concerns. They would spread throughout the world like an epidemic. Rats are already the world’s leading cause of extinction. Electric rats like ours could destroy entire ecosystems.

  “It would also allow anyone to breed our rats and create their own power source, something that would forever end our monopoly. So, as I said, it would not be awesome. And it will never happen. Our rats have been bioengineered to die outside of captivity. However, accidents happen. We had a few dozen rats escape before we reengineered them. It might have been an utter disaster, but fortunately the rats have a weakness. Water applied directly to their bodies kills them.”

  “Like Zeus,” Kylee said.

  Hatch spun around, his face twisted in fury. “What did you say?”

  Kylee flushed as she realized what she had done—they were not allowed to speak Zeus’s name. The other youths looked at her with anger and sympathy.

  “I—I didn’t mean to. . . . It just came out. I’m sorry. . . .”

  “To your room,” Hatch said.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. It will never happen again.”

  “Indeed it won’t,” Hatch said. He turned to the guard. “Take her back. Punishment B.”

  Kylee grimaced but dared not complain. Punishment B consisted of a full week of room confinement on a bread-and-water diet. During that time she would be required to write I will not disobey Dr. Hatch’s rules ten thousand times.

  Bryan grinned. “Have fun.”

  Kylee shot him a look as she walked away with the guard.

  Quentin slowly shook his head. “That was dumb.”

  “It was just a mistake,” Tara said softly. “Anyone could have made it.”

  “I’m just glad it was her and not me,” Quentin said.

  Just then an alarm sounded from inside the bowl.

  “Hear that?” Hatch said. “We’re in luck. You’re going to get to watch the feeding.”

  “You’re going to love this,” Torstyn said to Tara. “The guards usually come up here on their breaks to watch.”

  Thirty yards to their right, a chute, about eight feet wide with metallic rollers, suddenly protruded from the wall. The feeding chute was connected to hydraulic lifts that extended it about twenty yards out from the bowl’s side, slowly lowering it until the end of the chute dangled less than ten feet above the rats, which had already begun congregating around it. A door opened from the wall.

  “Watch,” Torstyn said. “Here it comes.”

  Suddenly a massive, long-horned bull slid down the chute. The animal’s feet were tied together and it struggled against its bindings but was able to move only its head.

  “What is that?” Bryan asked.

  “It’s a bull,” Hatch said. “Raised on our own ranch. We passed many of them on our way in.”

  “It’s still alive?” Tara asked, slightly grimacing.

  “Always,” Hatch said. “Fresh meat produces more electricity. Or, more accurately, struggling meat.”

  A spiked-wheel mechanism caught the animal near the bottom of the slide, and the end of the chute snapped in the middle, slowly tilting farther down until the animal was about six feet above the grid. The animal was desperately trying to free itself.

  “The chute can’t touch the grid or it will damage it,” Torstyn explained. “The grid, as a whole, can hold more than a thousand tons, but square by square it’s actually pretty fragile.”

  In anticipation of their meal, the rats clambered to the chute, climbing on top of one another in a massive wave of fur that glowed a dull red like a hot plate. For the first time since they’d arrived, the glistening copper grid was partially visible, as the rodents were all gathered beneath the chute. When the bull was lowered within a yard of the grid, rats began jumping up onto the animal.

  “I didn’t know rats could jump that high,” Quentin said.

  “They look like spawning salmon,” Bryan said.

  “Rats can jump up to forty inches vertical,” Hatch replied. “That’s the equivalent of a human jumping three stories.”

  Within seconds the bull was completely covered by the rodents in a wild feeding frenzy. The rats increased in brightness like a filament. Blue, white, and yellow electricity arced around the carcass, and steam and smoke rose around the bull. The arcs and colors, highlighted by the steam, were, in a peculiar way, beautiful to look at—like the aurora borealis.

  “The vapor you see comes from the rats’ electricity against the bull. They’re actually cooking the meat with their bodies,” Hatch said. “That’s a rat barbecue.”

  “Look!” Bryan said excitedly. “They’ve already stripped its legs to the bone.”

  Within three minutes the bull was reduced to nothing but skeleton. Even its internal organs were eaten.

  “They’re like furry piranhas,” Quentin said. “I’d hate to be down there.”

  “Wait,” Tara said. “You mean, that’s what they’re going to do to that guard on our flight? Put him on that chute?”

  “Yep,” Torstyn said.

  Tara covered her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

  The chute began to retract and lift, dropping the animal to the floor of the grid as it moved. Then the door at the top of the chute opened again and another bull slid out.

  “How many bulls will they eat?” Tara asked.

  “Our rats are a little more voracious than your average house rat,” Hatch replied. “Still, they don’t eat that much. About an ounce to an ounce and a half a day. But with this many rats, that still equates to twenty-nine tons of food a day. They’re omnivorous, so they eat a combination of grains and meat. Every day we go through about ten tons in raw meat, about five bulls, and the rest are in Rabisk and grain. But they prefer the meat, especially since fresh food helps quench their thirst and drinking water can be a little tricky for them.”

  “How do they drink?” Quentin asked.

  Dr. Hatch smiled. “Very carefully.” He pointed to the vacant side of the bowl. “See those white ceramic disks? They’re drinking fountains for rats. They’re exactly one tenth of a millimeter beneath the grid—just close enough that the rats can lick water off them.”

  After the second bull had been devoured, Hatch ordered the teens back to the elevator. “There’s more to see,” he said.

  They made the rounds through the laboratory and corridors around the bowl. The MEI room and breeding labs were connected directly to the bowl for ease of operation. They toured the Rabisk plant, which smelled so bad they had to wear nose plugs. Men in white coats walked back and forth between different machines, measuring output, then sending the small biscuits to the oven, then back to the feeding rooms.

  “This side of the facility is our meat processing center and next to that is our ranch house, where our gauchos live.”

  Before they left the facility Hatch pointed out one last section of the building. “These are the cells where we inter our traitors and GPs who have outlived their usefulness. You might also call this a meat pro
cessing facility. Our guards call it death row. You’ll recognize our newest guest.” They looked in to see the guard from the plane.

  “You should show him the bowl,” Bryan said.

  Hatch replied, “If we were trying to get information from him or instill a behavioral change, the fear would be of some value. But, as it is, his course is set, so to show him the bowl would serve no useful purpose.”

  They walked from the cells back out to the lobby, where the cart was waiting. As they climbed aboard, an overhanging door rose ahead of them, and they drove out into the yard. The walks of the compound were all open but covered, as the weather on Puerto Maldonado was usually temperate, though subject to a heavy rainy season. The guard drove around the building to the south, the transmission substation.

  “Nothing here you haven’t seen before,” Hatch said. “This is where the power that comes from the plant is dispersed. It feeds from our transmission substation over high-voltage transmission lines to local power substations and then to homes and businesses as far away as Lima.

  “You can compare our system to the human body. Our power plant is the heart. The high-voltage lines are major arteries, which break down into veins, then capillaries, eventually feeding into individual homes and businesses. Electricity is truly the lifeblood of civilization.

  “Over the last two years we’ve helped the Peruvian government lay miles of high-voltage power lines. If we were to shut down, all of Puerto Maldonado, Cuzco, and the surrounding cities would also shut down. Even more impressive is that two of Peru’s largest cities would also be majorly impacted: Eighty percent of Arequipa and almost half of Lima would go dark. Within a year, we will be powering ninety-five percent of the country.” A smile crossed his thin lips. “At which point, we’ll own the country.” He looked out over the station with satisfaction.

  “They should have been more cautious. ‘Beware the stranger offering gifts, as true for man as it is for fish,’” Hatch said slowly. “So it is.”

  * * *

  The next building the cart stopped at was the Reeducation Center. The cart pulled up to a door made of thick steel and attended by two guards who, like the guards at the bowl, stood at attention and saluted Dr. Hatch.

  The doors opened, and the group walked into a holding area with a second set of doors.

  “This looks like a prison,” Tara said, her voice echoing.

  “It’s much more than that,” Hatch said. “This is our Reeducation Center. It’s here that we help our enemies change their minds.”

  “You brainwash them?” Quentin asked.

  Hatch gave him a disapproving glance. “This is where we teach these misguided souls the error of their thinking. Sometimes it takes a while, but you would be surprised at just how malleable the human brain can be. In the right environment the mind can be molded like clay. Men and women walk in here as enemies and come out as devotees, willing to lay down their lives for our cause.”

  After the first door had locked behind them, the second door clicked, then opened, and the teens walked into the main hall. The floors were smooth, resin-coated concrete, and the walls were dark red brick.

  Hatch spoke as they walked. “Pavlov taught us the rules of conditioning—but he also taught us that the human mind can be quickly converted from years of training to a new way of thinking by a single traumatic experience.

  “We can induce that kind of trauma through punishment—but we’ve also discovered that the mere threat of punishment can be just as effective. So, of course, we show them the rats.”

  Through Plexiglas windows the teens could see rows of men in pink, flowered jumpsuits sitting on long benches watching films.

  “Why are they wearing pink?” Bryan asked.

  “Everything you see has a reason. They are dressed in clothing that embarrasses and humiliates them. How strong can you be dressed as a little girl?”

  Tara and Bryan snickered.

  “You would be surprised at how powerful something as simple as changing someone’s clothing can be. Psychologists and fashion designers have long known that changing someone’s appearance can alter their self-perception. And when you change someone’s self-perception, you change their behavior.

  “Of course, we also change their names. In our case we give them numbers. When they no longer can identify with who they were, they begin to doubt their own thoughts and feelings. It is then that we can implant them with our truths.

  “We didn’t discover all this, of course—we had the Korean War and Vietnamese reeducation camps to learn from—but I’m proud to say we’ve significantly advanced the science. We have the benefit of using procedures they never dreamed of.” He put his hand on Tara’s shoulder. “Like emulating Tara’s gifts. We can make them doubt their own sanity within minutes. And, like their identity, once they doubt their sanity, we’re most of the way there.

  “What we discovered is that the more people think they can’t be controlled, the easier subjects they make. What the masses don’t realize is that they’re looking for a shepherd. Those who don’t think they can be influenced or call themselves ‘independent thinkers’ are usually the biggest conformists of all—and the easiest to turn. Why do you think cults prey on college students? Easy picking.”

  “You make it sound simple,” Quentin said.

  Hatch looked at him and smiled. “It is when you know what you’re doing.” He stopped near an open door to a theater room. Nearly two dozen inmates were seated quietly on the ground even though there were enough seats for everyone. “Take a seat, everyone,” Hatch said to the youths. “Everyone except Tara.” The group quickly found seats. Tara stood anxiously, unsure if she’d done something wrong. “While I speak to Tara, I’d like you to view one of the films we’ve produced so you understand how the newly reeducated think and act. In the meantime I have an errand. I’ll be back when the film is over. Tara, if you’ll come with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tara followed Hatch out of the room. In the hallway Hatch turned to her. “We have a little visit to make. I need your help.”

  “You need my powers?” she asked with relief.

  “No,” Hatch replied. “I need your face.”

  Thirty-four marks. Sharon Vey had counted the days of her captivity by scratching marks into the concrete floor of her cell. Her room was only ten by ten, two-thirds of it occupied by her metal cage.

  She was sitting back against the bars when Hatch walked into the room. “Hello, Sharon.” A buzzer went off and he typed in the required code. Mrs. Vey turned away from him.

  “Miss me?” Hatch asked.

  Still no answer.

  “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction.”

  “You can’t keep me here.”

  “Of course we can.”

  “You won’t get away with this. They’ll find me.”

  Hatch’s brow furrowed with mock concern. “Who will find you?”

  Mrs. Vey didn’t answer. She knew it was a stupid thing to say. No one would find her here. She wasn’t even sure where she was.

  “Surely you don’t mean that inept little police department in Meridian, Idaho. In the first place, we own them. Secondly, you, my dear, are a long, long way from Idaho. And the only way you’re ever going to get back there is if you no longer wish to return.”

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “Do you?” He sat down in the room’s lone chair, an amused grin blanketing his face. “Don’t make me wait, tell me.”

  “You’re Jim Hatch.”

  “I prefer Dr. Hatch, but yes, they used to call me that.”

  “My husband told me about you.”

  “And what, exactly, did your late husband have to say?”

  “He said you are an unstable, diabolical, delusional man with megalomaniac tendencies.”

  Hatch smiled. “Did he also tell you that I’m dangerous?”

  Mrs. Vey looked at him coldly. “Yes.”

  “That’s the thing about your husband, he alw
ays called a spade a spade.”

  “Where is my son?”

  “We have him safely locked away as we reeducate him.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “When we’re done, you’ll see him. When he’s broken and subservient, you’ll see him. You may not recognize him anymore, but you’ll definitely see him.”

  “You’ll never break him.”

  “On the contrary. If psychology has taught us anything, it’s that everyone has a breaking point. Everyone.”

  “I want to see my son!” she shouted.

  “Poignant. Really, I’m moved. A mother crying out for her son. But what you want is of no relevance. All that matters is what I want. Besides, he’s not ready. He’s a special boy. And when we’re done, he’ll be of great value to our cause.”

  “You have no cause except your own lust for power.”

  Hatch grinned darkly. “You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.” He leaned toward the bars. “The lust for power is the only way the world has ever changed. Of course we dress it up in noble intentions, but in the end politics and religion are like sausage—it may be good, but it’s best not to know what goes into it.

  “Trust me, the day will come when I will be honored as the visionary I am.”

  “You’re delusional,” Mrs. Vey said.

  Hatch smiled. “All great men are delusional. How else could they be crazy enough to think they could change the world?” He leaned back. “The day will come when I will be as celebrated as George Washington is today. And the electric children, including yours, will be held up and worshipped as the pioneers of a new world order. You should be pleased to know that your son will be held in such high esteem. You cling to the past only because you fear change. But nothing good comes without change. Nothing. Change is evolution, nothing more. And if it wasn’t for evolution you’d still be living in a tree eating bananas.”