Michael Vey: Prisoner of Cell 25

Chapter 40: A Talk

The Elgen guards all looked the same to me. They were all nearly the same height and build and wore the same uniform: a black beret, dark glasses, and black jumpsuits that appeared to have been made from a rubberized material. They all had communication radios hanging from their ears and jaws, and they carried an array of weapons on a utility belt—a knife, a canister of Mace, two different types of revolvers, resin handcuffs, a smoke grenade, a concussion grenade, and a long wooden truncheon.

I was sitting on the floor looking through a shelf of books when I heard the lock on my door slide. I looked up to see the door open.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Vey," a guard said. "But Dr. Hatch is ready to meet with you."

I thought he sounded unusually polite for a prison guard. Of course prisoners aren't usually given a room with a plasma TV, surround-sound audio, and Monet prints on the wall. My room seemed more like a luxury suite than a prison cell, but if there's no doorknob on the inside, you're still a prisoner.

"All right." I stood as the door opened fully. There was a second guard standing a few feet behind him in the hall. The second guard didn't say a word. I noticed that they both had their hands on their Mace. I guessed they had been ordered to be pleasant.

"This way, sir," the guard said. We took the elevator down one level to the second floor.

They led me down a marble-floored corridor to the end of the hall and into a large reception area, where a secretary sat at a large wooden desk with several monitors. Directly behind her was a glass wall, partially obstructing another door. In front of the receptionist's desk was another guard sitting behind a tall, circular podium with a Plexiglas shield.

The receptionist, a thin woman about my mother's age and wear- ing narrow reading glasses, looked up as we entered.

"We have Michael Vey," the first guard said, though it was evident she was expecting us.

"I'll inform Dr. Hatch," she said. She pushed a button, then spoke into her phone. She nodded, then pushed a button beneath her desk. There was a loud buzz and the door slid open. "Dr. Hatch would like you to go on in."

The second guard motioned for me to go first, so I walked ahead of them through the open door. I stepped inside while they stopped at the door's threshold. I was ticking like crazy.

Hatch's office reminded me of the ones I had seen on the TV lawyer shows, with bronze statues and busts and cases of books I wondered if anyone ever read. Television screens took up an entire wall. Hatch was sitting at his desk. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses. Nichelle sat in a chair at the side of the room. I didn't look at her. I couldn't stand her.

Hatch motioned to a leather chair in front of his desk. "Hello, Michael," he said. "Please, take a seat."

I walked up to the chair and sat down, looking around the office. On the wall behind Hatch was a picture of Dr. Hatch shaking hands with the president of the United States. He noticed that I was looking at the picture.

"It's not hard to get to the president," Hatch said. "If you have money."

"Where's my mother?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed into thin slits. "To the point. I like that. After all, that's why you made this futile little trip, isn't it?"

"Where are you keeping my mother?"

"We'll get to that. But first, there's something you need to understand. More important than where she is, is where you are. And who you are." His voice dropped. "Do you even know?"

"Of course I know who I am."

"Yes, I know you think you do. But you don't really know." His gaze softened. "Who are you? You're a victim, Michael. A victim of your environment. You have been brainwashed, your thoughts contaminated by the human Petri dish your mind has been cultured in.