The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  His eyes twinkle. “I doubt you can eat that much, but you’re welcome to give it a shot.”

  When he’s gone, I’m suddenly nervous. A brown sedan pulls into the lot, completely dark with tint. Before the door opens, a second vehicle whips into the space beside me, a black SUV that grinds to a halt a few feet away. My heart starts to pound. I should have closed the windows. What was I thinking?

  I sink down low, my eyes darting up as the SUV door is thrown open.

  It’s just a woman in a dress. She gives my worried face an odd look as I let out a huge breath. Then she retrieves two kids out of the back.

  I don’t care if I’m being silly, if it’s ridiculous to think King could find us so fast. I’ve never been so relieved to see Hunter’s wide, muscular frame as he saunters across the lot with two giant takeout bags in his arms.

  “What did I miss?” he asks, worried as he scans my pale face.

  “Rush hour.”

  “Take a whiff of Lila May’s fried chicken and you’ll be surprised the whole state isn’t trying to get through that door.”

  We pull down the road a little ways to eat.

  “Why are you so strong?” I ask him.

  He shrugs and keeps eating.

  “I want to know why. You must have an idea. And what about this whole empathic thing? What causes it? I’ve heard of side effects—headaches, stomach upset, okay, those I understand. But an emotional link? That just happened? By accident? Without trying to create it? How?”

  “That’s a lot of questions.”

  “I have a lot of questions.”

  “Why don’t we leave it for now.” He reaches for a biscuit.

  “I don’t see why we should. I need to know these things.”

  “Actually, you really don’t.”

  “What?” I’m mildly floored. “A little while back, you were telling me everything, teaching me to help myself, and now it’s on a need-to-know basis?”

  “Those things you did need to know. About how to protect yourself, and what my relationship is with King. The rest is different.”

  Carefully, I wipe my fingers one by one and then ball the napkin in my fist. “It’s no different, Hunter.”

  Before, he was angled toward my seat. Now he turns so that one hand’s on the steering wheel and his foot is pressed hard up against his door.

  “What are you afraid of?” I ask.

  “A day’s going to come when you’ve moved on, and people might track you down, searching for information. And the less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

  “For who? You or me?”

  “Both of us. If it were only me—I’d tell you everything. It’s not, though. I’m responsible for a dozen other people. They’re relying on me. I can’t just break a decades-long rule of silence—”

  “I’m relying on you, Hunter. Right now. What if I don’t get better? Did you ever think of that?”

  And just like that, we’re at loggerheads again. The smell of leftover chicken turns my stomach. I wish I hadn’t eaten so much. But I’m not backing down. Now that I’ve asked the questions, I can’t unask them. I won’t.

  Hunter’s jaw is tight. Finally, he rubs his face. “I know, dammit. I know. All right. Ask. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  And so I’m peppering him with questions.

  “I want to know about the pain. And how does it all work? Why does it work? Who came up with it?”

  “A scientist many years ago asked himself this question: If a living creature like the butterfly can tear down to its basic components and completely regenerate, could it be possible to stimulate human organs and limbs to do the same thing? In a controlled, localized effect?”

  “Okay.”

  “First he studied the scarlet jellyfish. What’s interesting is that when it gets old, it doesn’t die. It latches onto a piece of seaweed, morphs back to its original birth state, and grows into full adulthood again.”

  “Are you serious? What do you mean? They live forever?”

  “They can.”

  “So you’re telling me this scientist crossed jellyfish genes with human genes?”

  “Not exactly. First, he and his partner identified the code that forces the jellyfish to regenerate. Second, they copied it. Then they tested their theory out on butterflies. Butterflies seemed like a good fit because they go through a chrysalis phase. They inserted the relevant code from the jellyfish into the butterfly’s DNA. And a new type of butterfly was born. From there, they started working with human tissue.”

  “Wait. But why are you so strong? Neither of those things are.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong. Butterflies are extremely strong. Their muscles are highly developed so they can flap those large wings—up to twelve times a second. And unlike human skin, after death a butterfly’s wings can remain perfectly intact in a museum or behind glass. We also think it has to do with the number of times we’ve gone through—what I mean is, the way we heal after each stress or injury. Our bones and muscles are honed and ultimately we grow sturdier. Tougher. Faster.”

  “And what about the empathic thing?”

  He nods. “Okay. Butterflies and jellyfish have flocking habits. They travel in units, moving and communicating. But, of course, they don’t speak. They converse in other ways. For butterflies, use of ultraviolet light is the most talked about in scientific circles. We have a slightly different perspective. We think they also employ emotive transference. At least, if what’s happened to us is any indication.”

  “Emotional transference?”

  “Like fear. It can drive the whole colony at once. Make them flee. By uniting their emotional state, we think they can induce a shared ‘motor mind.’”

  “What, like the Borg?” I laugh.

  “Exactly. Of course, when their genetic material was introduced into humans … well, let’s just say we’re a lot more complex than a butterfly. We don’t want to flock. The end result—”

  “Is that you sense what’s going on with each other, except instead of being helpful, it’s overshare?”

  “You got it.”

  “Wow.” I shake my head. “That’s madness.” Genetically modified people? And here I’ve been worried about genetically modified foods.

  I flash on Mom’s journal. What would she think if she could see me now? I lean back and try to digest it all. Hunter starts up the Cayenne and merges onto the road. Switching on the radio, I’m surprised to find reception. Some old Memphis blues jug band. I turn it down low.

  “This might sound odd,” I tell him, “but I have a strange feeling my mom could’ve been involved with the PRL twenty years ago.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Partly because of what I told you she wrote.”

  “I’d like to see that journal.”

  “It isn’t much. Only a few paragraphs. There’s another reason, though.” I slide my fingers along the armrest. “When I was five, my mom and I went to Switzerland. I think she was trying to bring some people her research. We were chased down.” I glance at him.

  His eyes are on the road.

  “She was killed.”

  “I’m sorry.” His hand takes mine and closes completely around it. He feels for me; I sense it loud and clear.

  “The people searched her car and took all her files. We never found out who they were. Americans, that much I know. They must have followed her there. Your company is originally from Switzerland, isn’t it? Victoria told me. When this is over, I want you to help me look into it. Maybe it’s a long shot, but I just can’t shake the feeling it’s connected.”

  “Instincts are pretty powerful.”

  For a moment, I get an overwhelming urge to ask him if he met her. That wouldn’t make sense, though. How could he have? He would’ve been a child.

  The road grows busier and wider, and eventually we turn onto a broad freeway. Rushing cars pack every lane. An interstate sign reads, new haven, 27
miles. We’re almost there.

  “I hope Dad’s not too worried,” I say out loud, the words escaping before I realize how large they’ve been looming in my mind.

  “He knows this is the best way to keep you safe.”

  “But what about him and Sammy? Are they safe?”

  “He knows how to protect himself.”

  “I hope so.”

  As we drive, I think of both Dad and Gage. I dragged them into this. Guilt presses down, so heavy it colors the world black. The shadows of the approaching city are like the shadows in my heart—ominous and dark.

  Shifting in my seat, I pull my knees up and turn to study Hunter.

  “Gage thinks you’re like King, that you’re trying to make supersoldiers.”

  “Gage said that?” He laughs. “No wonder the guy hates me.”

  “Why did you ever get involved in this research?”

  “It’s a long story.” There’s that tense, closed-down look again.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say.

  At this, he lets out a short laugh. “All right.” He forcibly relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “The condensed version. Ian and I were soldiers stationed in a remote location. Victoria, Edward, Lucy, and the rest of our people were there, too, some working as civilians, others as part of the research team. There was an accident. We shouldn’t have survived. We did, but had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. And ever since, we’ve been trying to get ourselves out of it. Looking for a way to undo the effects. That’s why we do what we do.”

  It’s the last thing I expect him to say. I’m stunned.

  “An accident?” I ask when I find my voice.

  “The lab was attacked. We escaped, and this was our only way to survive. We were in a snowbound location; we were injured; we had no food, no radios; we were going to have to walk out. It was live or die. The drugs had been salvaged. We took them. And here we are.”

  “How long has King been after you?”

  “Years.” Hunter shakes his head. “Last time he tried, I blew up a billion-dollar research facility of his, and he laid off for a while. Now you come along. You’re newly changed. You’re not strong like we are. You’re an easy mark. And you’re outside the rules.”

  “And if he gets me? Then what?”

  He pauses, and suddenly his feelings flow to me unchecked. They’re so awful I nearly retch. “It would be a nightmare. If he gives his men an infusion of your blood the way I did to you with mine, you’d be linked to his men. Linked to them just the way you and I are. Just as strong. Just as close. Living with their violence. Sensing it. And you’d have no skills to keep them out.”

  My heart starts slamming.

  “As for Victoria, Ian, Edward, all of us, we’ll experience it, too. You’ll be like the funnel that channels them through. Everything will pour into us as well. They won’t have the skills to put up blocks. There would be no way any of us could withstand the force. All of our carefully constructed walls would crumble in the face of such an assault.”

  Ian’s words in the garden outside the lab come to me then. I remember the fierce way he begged me to take my medications. Now I understand. I finally understand. That’s the fear I felt from Victoria, from all of them.

  When they look at me, they see their downfall.

  If the force didn’t kill them, it would drive them insane. Then there are the soldiers—being so many, it would tear them apart. Who knows what terrible acts such a group of ruthless, violent men would commit?

  Victoria, Edward, and Lucy treated me with compassion. Even Ian in his own way. It’s amazing they were ever kind to me.

  It’s hopeless to want to stay linked to Hunter. Even though our power shimmers with the promise of a shared, uncharted territory.

  I have to get better.

  If King gets my blood, not only will he invade me, but he’ll invade us all.

  Thirty-One

  The dim hands of dusk press down upon the earth while flares of manmade light struggle to keep darkness at bay. Cars rush through the twilight gloom. Fast-food signs promise temporary solace. Most people appear homeward-bound, to the safety of locked doors and blaring televisions. Driving alongside them, I feel as if I’ve been cast out and may never find my way home.

  An approaching sign reads Welcome To New Haven. More signs point to Yale University and various landmarks. Parallel to the highway, a freight train approaches, whizzing and clacking.

  “This is our turnoff,” Hunter says, taking an exit that curves over the tracks.

  The railway cars continue on below us, a giant, segmented, high-speed snake, so long I can’t see its tail.

  Then we’re winding through a residential neighborhood. Houses grow larger and grander the deeper we go. Lawns spread themselves wider, homes farther apart.

  “What’s your relative’s name?” I ask, realizing he hasn’t said if it’s a man or a woman.

  “Charlie. Charlie Quinn.”

  “What does he do?” I ask, surveying the lavish mansions.

  “Art dealer. And collector. A successful one.”

  “Looks like it,” I say as we pull into a wide driveway.

  “Does he know about you? Me?”

  “Yes.”

  The central focus of the front lawn is a fountain lit with twinkly lights. In the middle stands a sculpture of Venus from Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, one hand covering her naked breasts, the other barely covering her thighs with her long, flowing hair. Hunter cuts the engine, and the sound of dancing water fills the humid night.

  “He should be expecting us,” Hunter says.

  At that moment, the front door opens and a man steps out. In the porch light, I catch sight of his face and a shock of washed-out reddish hair, and guess him to be in his late-sixties. He has an upturned nose and a wide mouth, and as he approaches, his lean face wrinkles into a broad smile. With his rangy arms and legs, I’m reminded of a life-size marionette I once saw in a theater.

  “Hunter!” he cries. “And who’s this beauty you’ve brought me?”

  “Charlie,” Hunter warns.

  “What’s this? Do I hear a note of jealousy? Don’t tell me you’ve found love at last.”

  “What I’ve found is your driveway, and I was hoping you’d let us in.”

  Charlie looks amused. “No, you can’t come in. You still haven’t introduced me.”

  “I’m Aeris,” I say, stepping forward.

  “There you go, very civilized.” He offers me his hand. It’s warm and bony. His eyes crinkle, and he says, “I’m Charlie. You’ll have to excuse my cousin’s churlish manners.”

  “You’re cousins?”

  “Yes,” they say in unison.

  I’m slightly surprised, given their age difference.

  “As you can see,” Charlie adds, “I’m the more attractive one. No bags? Well, come inside. No point donating blood to a bunch of thirsty mosquitoes.” He heads back toward his front door.

  “I just have one thing.” I go to the car for my satchel and lift it from the foot well. It’s grown a lot lighter now that the pill supplies are dwindling.

  “I’ll get that.” Hunter drapes it over one shoulder. “Charlie can be a bit much, but he really is a good friend.”

  “He seems nice. I like him.”

  “Good,” Hunter replies, sounding relieved.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Charlie calls. “Better be about me.”

  “It is,” Hunter tells him, and laughs. Then he opens the back door and grabs a black duffel. “Clothes for you and me. Speaking of which, we’ll have to get you something else for your interview.”

  “You don’t think these will do?” I say, and make a little twirl on the lawn, holding out his shirt.

  “Oh, they do just fine for me.”

  The front hall is surprisingly narrow given the expansiveness outside. A suit of armor stands guard in a niche at the foot of a steep set of stairs. Oil paintings ascend upward, disappearing out of
view. A small table near the door holds a brass bowl with a ring of keys. Next to it is a statuette of a water nymph.

  Charlie is already halfway down the hall. “Come to the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink; you must be thirsty.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything edible?” Hunter asks.

  “You’re in luck. There’s beef bourguignon bubbling on the stove and a couple of frozen baguettes waiting to be thrown into the oven.”

  “I was wondering what smelled so delicious,” I say.

  Charlie glances at Hunter. “I see you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with my accomplishments.”

  Hunter’s mouth tips up in a grin. “No need to swell your head. You do a much better job of it than me.”

  “Well put, well put. What he’s trying to say is that I dabble in gourmet cooking, and I’m damn good at it.”

  The corridor gives way to a spacious, well-equipped kitchen. Gleaming pots hang from a rack on the ceiling. The gas stove is huge with six burners, and the stainless-steel fridge is enormous. I don’t know how he stays so thin with a fridge so large. He practically scampers to the stove, his bony arms working as he lifts the lid from a pot and gives it a stir.

  I pad across the rustic tile floor to the counter. Even in here there’s art. Pottery urns that appear to be Greek or Roman line the tops of the cabinets.

  Charlie gestures at my baggy outfit. “Tell me about this. Is it all the rage? I’ll never understand modern fashion.”

  I let out a laugh. “No! These are Hunter’s. I didn’t have anything else.”

  “Oh my. Were you naked and shoeless when he found you?”

  Hunter clears his throat. “Where are those baguettes you were talking about?”

  “All right, all right, I’ve got them.” Charlie digs in the freezer and pulls out two long loaves.

  “I can unwrap those for you,” I say.

  “Excellent. Drinks, that’s what I was going to get.”

  The clink of ice into three tumblers is followed by the fizz of sparkling San Pellegrino.

  “I’m sure I’ve got a few limes in here somewhere.”

  As he digs around, I feel Hunter’s eyes on me, and when I turn to look at him, he smiles. His smile sends a warm glow all the way to my toes. In this enclosed space, Hunter looks huge and muscular, his windblown black hair tumbling over his forehead.