Storm of Lightning (23 page)

The people began shouting. “All hail King Quentin. All hail King Quentin. All hail King Quentin.”

When they had finished, Hatch said, “There is one more thing. The first fifty people in each line who swear allegiance will be given another five hundred Elgen Mark. You may line up now.”

The scene looked like the start of a marathon race as people sprinted for the lines. Some of the older people who were closer to the lines were knocked down or trampled by others rushing from the back. Quentin looked over at Hatch, who was nodding with approval.

“Just like you said it would be,” Quentin said.

“
Exactly
as I said it would be,” Hatch said without smiling.

O
ver the next week King Quentin and the other Glows moved from the
Faraday
into the royal palace, which, by Elgen standards, was modest and in need of renovation. Quentin, at Hatch's instruction, began building his cabinet—a group of counselors—to help him run the nation.

Early on the morning of the eighth day, Quentin was in his office looking over a résumé when Tara walked in. She sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk. “Are you growing a beard?”

Quentin looked up. “Yes. What do you think?”

Tara nodded. “It looks kingly,” she said. “So how does it feel to be a king?”

“It's not what I thought it would be,” he said, his voice dull. “You get these pictures in your head of what it's supposed to be like—probably from old King Arthur movies. But the truth is, it's mostly just interviewing people and paperwork. I mean, look at what I'm
sitting on. It's an office chair. What I need is a throne, one of those big, red velvet chairs with gold leafing and a tall back carved in the shape of a lion's head.”

“Yeah,” Tara said. “And a scepter.”

“I have no idea what a scepter is for,” Quentin said, grinning. “But you're right. I need one.”

Tara laughed. “And a court jester. You've got to have one of those.”

“I'd need a court first,” Quentin said. “And we've got Bryan, right?” They both laughed. “What I really need is a crown. It's iconic. Nothing says ‘king' like a crown.”

“Exactly,” Tara said. “Every king needs a crown. What kind would you get—one of the pointy ones, or the more roundish kind with red velvet on top?”

“I don't care. As long as it's made of pure gold and inset with a few million worth of jewels.”

Just then Dr. Hatch walked into the room. “So it's a crown you covet,” he said.

Quentin flushed. “Sorry, sir. We were just being . . . stupid.”

“If every fool wore a crown, everyone would be king,” Hatch said. He sat down, glancing over to Tara. “Would you excuse us, please?”

“Yes, sir,” Tara said, immediately standing.

“See you,” Quentin said.

After she was gone, Hatch said, “Quentin, have you wondered why I would make you king of a tiny nation when I could have just as easily turned all of the Tuvaluans into slaves?”

“Yes, sir. I have.”

“This is not a kingdom,” he said. “It is your classroom. These backward natives are not subjects; they are
practice
. If you are to rule millions, you must first learn to rule thousands. Kingship is an art to be mastered—like the foil or the chessboard—and the only certainty of kingship is that someone is always standing behind the throne, waiting to take your seat. If you wish to maintain a throne, there are certain rules that must be followed.”

“What are those, sir?”

“The greatest threat to a dictator is not from without but from within. The first rule is, you must keep your subjects divided. A united people is a smoldering revolution. A divided people is a conquered people.”

“How do I do that?” Quentin asked.

“You make them hate one another. Before World War Two, Hitler was amazed and disgusted by the hate the German people exercised toward one another. He harnessed their animosity and directed it to his own ends.”

Quentin took out a pad of paper. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“I would be disappointed if you didn't,” Hatch said.

Quentin set his pen to the paper. “How do I make them hate each other?”

“You begin by teaching them that they have been wronged by one another—that they are victims of a grave injustice—and encourage them to embrace their victimhood.”

“What if they haven't been wronged?”

“Everyone has been wronged,” Hatch said. “Everyone. And if you can't find a potent enough current injustice, then borrow someone else's. Find one that happened to someone else long ago and make your citizen a supposed crusader for justice. Imbue them with a sense of moral superiority as they trample the rights of others beneath their feet. Righteous indignation is the alibi of mobs and murderers.”

Hatch leaned back in his seat. “Unfortunately, the Tuvaluan people are of the same race and culture, as cultural disparity is the easiest way to divide a nation. But divisions in humanity can always be found. Turn men against women and women against men. Divide the young from the old, the rich from the poor, the educated from the uneducated, the religious from the nonreligious, the privileged from the underprivileged. Teach them to shame others and to use shame as a tool to their own ends.

“Make the ridiculous ideal of ‘equality' their rallying cry. Let them get so caught up in their supposed moral superiority that they'd
rather see all men grovel in poverty than rise in differing levels of prosperity.

“Do not let them see that there has never been nor ever will be true equality, in property or rights. Equality is not the nature of the world or even the universe. Even if you could guarantee everyone the same wealth, humans would reject the idea. They would simply find a different standard to create castes, as there will always be differences in intelligence, physical strength, and beauty.

“Don't worry if your propaganda is true or false. Truth is subjective. It's as easy to tell a big lie as it is a small one. And any lie told enough will be regarded as truth. In dividing the young from the old, do not teach the youths the error of their elders' ways, as they may see through your propaganda. Instead, mock their elders. Mocking requires neither proof nor truth, as it feeds the fool's ego. You will see that when it comes to the masses, the stupider the individual, the more they want to prove it to the world.

“The second rule is to keep the people distracted from the weightier and more complex matters of liberty and justice. Keep them obsessed by their amusements—just as the Roman emperor Commodus gave the Roman people games to distract them from his poor leadership. A championship soccer team may do more to ease a public's suffering than a dozen social programs. If your subjects can name a movie star's dog but not the president of their country, you have no need to fear.

“The third rule is to teach them not to trust one another. An ancient proverb says, ‘Kings have many ears and many eyes.' You must build a web of informants from within the population. Openly reward those who report on their neighbors. If your subjects don't know who is an informant and who isn't, they will never risk speaking their grievances.”

Quentin finished writing, then looked up. “Thank you, sir.”

“You will learn,” Hatch said, “that human nature is a game. Learn to control the few, and you will someday control the masses.” Hatch stood. “Give them hate. Give them games.”

“I will start this afternoon.”

“Very well.” He took a step toward the door, then turned back. “I like the beard. Work on it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As soon as Hatch walked out of his office, Quentin called his new minister of public planning. “I want to build a stadium.”

Ada County Jail Boise, Idaho

J
ulie Ridley stared back at her husband from behind the glass partition of the jail's visiting room. Her usual meticulously styled blond hair was disheveled and slightly matted, and instead of a carefully accessorized outfit, she was wearing an orangish-red jumpsuit that hung formlessly on her frail frame. In just three days she had already lost almost five pounds, and her face looked pale and gaunt. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. She didn't have to sleep to have nightmares. She was living one.

The Boise police had arrested her as she'd walked from her car to her home. They had searched her, handcuffed her, and then driven her to jail while detectives and a forensic team combed over her car and residence. Their search bore fruit—they found a large quantity of drugs, and traces of her daughter's blood.

It took two days for her arraignment and the judge to set bail. Because she was considered a flight risk, and in consideration of the
quantity of drugs they had found in her possession, the bail was set high, at a quarter million dollars—almost enough to guarantee that she wouldn't get out.

During her time in jail she had been kept mostly isolated and was interrogated repeatedly by detectives who asked the same three questions a thousand different ways:
Where did you get the drugs? Where is your daughter? Why did you go to Mexico
?

Today was the first visit she'd been allowed since her incarceration, and her husband, Charles, sat on the other side of the thick, bulletproof glass window of a visitation booth, holding a telephone. He also looked like he hadn't slept in days. Over his career he had put more people in this jail than he could remember, but he had never expected to be visiting his wife here.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm in jail, Chuck.”

“Dumb question,” he said. “Sorry.”

She didn't respond.

“Julie, you've got to tell me what's going on.”

“I wish I could.”

“What's stopping you? You're going to have to talk sometime. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in?”

“I know exactly what kind of trouble I'm in. More than you do.”

“What does that mean?”

She just breathed out slowly. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it matters!” Charles said. He leaned up to the glass. “Julie, you need to give me some answers, here. You owe me that.”

Julie looked at him angrily. “I owe you?”

“I'm sorry. Please. I want to help.”

“What do you want to know?”

“To begin with, why were you in Mexico?”

She slowly shook her head. “I can't tell you.”

Charles groaned with frustration. He looked into her eyes. “Were you there to buy drugs?”

Julie's eyes narrowed. “We've been married for twenty-six years and you ask me if I'm a drug dealer? Who do you think I am?”

“
Honestly, these days, I don't know, Julie. You tell me you're going to Scottsdale, and then you secretly fly off to some stronghold for drug cartels in Mexico and then won't tell me why. The police find a half million dollars of heroin in your car. . . .” His eyes welled up. “Then they find traces of Taylor's blood. . . .” He raked a hand back through his hair. “I don't know who you are anymore. I wish you would tell me.”