A Cage of Butterflies

by Brian Caswell

  For a moment, Katie didn’t reply. You could almost sense her attention turning inwards.

  Then she walked across to the desk and started writing on a sheet of paper. I felt the familiar scrabbling at the back of my mind.

  “It’s because of this,” she said, and handed the page to him. He studied, frowned, then passed it across to me.

  Scrawled across the paper were lines of meaningless algebraic symbols.

  I had to ask: “What is it?”

  “It looks like some kind of mathematical proof. Maybe it’ll mean something to Gretel.”

  “But what does it mean?” I was talking to Katie, but Greg answered.

  “I think I know,” he said. Then he stopped.

  “Well?” I prompted him impatiently.

  “It means that they’re here for the same reason we are.”

  And that was all he said. I do love him, but he can be damned infuriating at times.

  Did you ever see Rainman? Gretel watched the video eight times; but that was only to gape at Tom Cruise. Dustin Hoffman was the key to the whole film. Or rather his character was: Raymond.

  An “autistic savant”, they called him – Greg says that in the old days the term was “idiot savant”: an individual who cannot function at all in society, unable, apparently, even to think, yet is able to perform almost magical feats of counting and arithmetic, much faster than any calculator, without really understanding what he’s doing.

  No one knows what causes it. The autism or the fantastic ability. And some people believe that if we ever learn, we’ll know a whole lot more about how our brain works than we do now.

  Did you know we only use about ten per cent of our brain’s capacity? No, that’s not strictly true. They just haven’t worked out yet what the other ninety per cent is used for. It’s all theory and guesswork. No one really knows.

  So, I guess it made perfect sense for Larsen to be interested in the Babies. If you want to find what makes the “normal” normal, study the abnormal, and find what makes them different. He was trying to solve the problem by working backwards. And it wasn’t just the Babies – what about the seven of us?

  The tank. Chris, the electronics whiz and science nut, contriver of amazing theories – some of which actually worked; Gretel, with her maths, a fourteen-year-old with a uni professor’s grasp of abstract/symbolic logic; Katie, who at ten spoke twelve languages and could break the most complex of codes before breakfast; Lesley and Gordon, whose just-about-perfect memories annoyed Greg so much … mainly because they loved to catch him out and correct him, especially when he contradicted himself, which he’s been known to do in order to win an argument.

  All quite specialised, all performing Larsen’s “party tricks”. How much did he learn from them?

  Of course, Greg and I weren’t quite so specialised. In fact, our talent lay in not being limited. In knowing a little bit, or more than a little bit about just about anything. Looked at like that, it was no accident that our little group of resident misfit geniuses had such diverse talents. Larsen planned it that way. I wonder, sometimes, how he went about selecting us; what theories, if any, we were supposed to help him prove.

  I realised, finally, what Greg was getting at.

  Holding up the scrap of paper, he continued: “None of us knows what this means. Gretel might – but that’s Gretel. Myriam and the others are just another group like ours. Maybe he’s comparing us. Are they all telepathic, or just Myriam?” He addressed the question to Katie.

  She smiled slightly. “All of them. And they’re not ‘just like us’. They’re not like us at all.”

  I knew what was coming, but Greg didn’t.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because —” Katie looked at me before continuing – “they’re only seven years old and they never talk to anyone. Except me. And because Larsen is holding them prisoner.”

  Perhaps “prisoner” was a little strong. I mean, the records show that Larsen had obtained the parents’ permission to keep the Babies at the Institute. But he’d conned them into it. He hadn’t told them how special their kids were (perhaps he hadn’t known it himself) and he certainly hadn’t told them how experimental his treatment – his study – of them would be. They thought he was simply running some sort of advanced autistic centre, where their problem children could be properly cared for. I wonder if they’d have signed the papers so readily if they’d known half of what we found out later.

  I could see Greg’s mind working. If there was one thing he hated worse than losing an argument – or a game of “Trivial Pursuit” – it was not understanding. It was his competitive nature. He had to be on top of the situation. But this situation was completely new and Katie wasn’t being too informative.

  It wasn’t her fault, of course. She had only the Babies’ messages to work with, and they were new at the communication game, too. What came so easily between the five of them came so terribly hard to us.

  Maybe Katie’s natural flair with languages made her an easier subject; maybe the language centres of her brain were more “attuned”, but with Greg and myself, and the others, it would be a slow and laborious process.

  “It’s like learning sign-language,” Greg once protested, “in the dark, with your hands tied behind your back.”

  But from the start, he wanted it. That day, in my room, there was a determination in his eyes. A glow. Here was a new challenge to be met, an experience to be savoured. I suppose I felt the same – hell, I know I did – but looking back, I can’t help but feel a little selfish. Here were these poor kids, desperate, reaching out for some kind of help, and all we could think of was what a terrific buzz it would be to learn the “mind-speech”.

  In the end, we were lucky that it took Larsen and MacIntyre so long to realise what two and two added up to. By that time, we were able, in a limited way, to “speak our minds” (Chris’s phrase, not mine!) and we’d also recruited, at Myriam’s request, some “outside help”.

  X

  Password

  July 14, 1990

  “Did you get it?” Susan asked the question nervously, almost before the door was fully open.

  “Hello to you, too. Yes, I’m fine, thanks.” Erik smiled as he closed the door behind him. Susan smiled an apology back, and brushed her lips across his cheek.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been … anxious.” She took his hand and they walked into the sitting-room. “Well … did you?”

  With a small flourish, he produced a miniature video-cassette from the pocket of his jacket and held it out to her. “Did you ever doubt me?”

  “Never!” This time, her kiss was more spontaneous. She moved across to the wall-unit and placed the cassette into a portable camcorder, which was already hooked up to the TV. As she turned on the set and pressed the play-back button, she noticed that her hands were trembling.

  The screen buzzed with static, then the picture appeared. Erik’s face staring up into the camera. He poked out his tongue then moved out of camera range, leaving an unobstructed view onto the computer-screen and keyboard.

  “You’d better cue it forward.” Erik’s voice drifted in from the kitchenette, where he was filling the kettle. “Larsen was late. There’s about fifteen minutes of nothing on the tape before he arrives. You want a cuppa?”

  “Please.” Susan’s reply was murmured. She was staring at the TV, mesmerised. Even at search speed, it looked like a still photo on the screen. Suddenly Larsen appeared. She cancelled the search, and the tape slowed to normal speed. At first, all she could see was Larsen’s back and the top of his head, blocking out the camera’s view of the computer, and for a moment she feared the whole exercise was going to prove a waste of time. Then the balding scientist moved around and sat at the desk. He pressed a few keys and the machine began its set-up sequence, flashing through a series of screens, finally stopping at a blue screen with a single word flashing red in the middle of it.

  PASSWORD?

  Larsen had
placed an access code on some of the hard-disc files. Without the password, there was no getting at the information stored inside.

  The camera had been Erik’s idea.

  A few days earlier, they had been sitting on the lawn, out of earshot, discussing the problem.

  “Look.” Erik had been studying the sun through closed lids, and now rolled over to face her. “All we have to do is find out the password, and we’ll be set.”

  “Oh yeah. We just rock on up to Larsen and ask him. I can just imagine it. ‘Look, we don’t trust you, we think you’re being obsessive and unethical. Could you just give us the password so we can check up on what the hell it is you’re doing?’ How could he refuse?” Erik had just smiled as Susan continued. “When I came here, they told me I’d have access to all the research data. But I don’t. Larsen knows a whole lot that he isn’t telling anyone – except maybe MacIntyre.”

  “Who said anything about asking him for the password?”

  “Well, he’s the only one who knows it. How do you suggest we get it?”

  Erik’s smile had expanded to a grin. “Larsen’s already shown you how. Think about it. How does he gain half his information on the Babies? He’s got his little toys situated around the complex, recording all their movements. There was a new delivery of equipment last week – I had to unload it. All we have to do is borrow one of the cameras …”

  On the screen, Larsen began to type, but his fingers covered the keys.

  “I couldn’t see the letters he typed.” Erik spoke from behind her shoulder. The computer screen was no help. It just showed an asterisk for each character typed.

  “You don’t need to see them.” Susan took the mug of tea which he was holding out to her. “One of the first things I learned in high-school was touch-typing.” She pressed the review button, then played the typing sequence again. “Just watch the position of his fingers. M,E,Y … no, T, A, M, I, D and W … no, make that E.” As she spoke, Susan jotted the letters on a notepad with her free hand: “METAMIDE.”

  “That’s a weird password.”

  “What did you think he’d use? The name of his dog? That’s the idea of a password. It’s something unique, that no one else would think of.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Besides, ‘Metamide’ rings a bell. I’ve seen it somewhere.” Susan’s nose wrinkled slightly, in a way that Erik recognised. She was concentrating. “It sounds like a chemical …”

  “Or a medicine,” Eric cut in.

  Her eyes lit up, and without another word, she placed her mug on the table and moved over towards the desk. Opening one of the files which lay scattered around the desktop, she scanned a few pages, then stabbed her index finger at one of the entries. “There … it is a drug. Mrs Matheson was treated with it early in her pregnancy.” She read more carefully. “It’s used for high blood-pressure. I wonder …”

  A quick examination of the other folders revealed more. Metamide was the only drug which appeared on every one of the files.

  “Maybe we’ve hit on something.” Erik had joined her at the desk.

  “Maybe.” She sounded doubtful. “But it can’t be that simple. There has to be more. Richard would have noticed. And besides, Larsen already knows about it.” She turned to face him. “Why else would he use it as a password?”

  “Good point.”

  “And it doesn’t explain why all the Babies seem to have been born in the same hospital. If it were just Metamide, surely we’d see examples world-wide.”

  “You’d think so.” Erik watched her as she retrieved her drink. “So, is it just a coincidence?”

  “It may be. But I doubt it.” Susan sat down on the lounge, and Erik joined her. “I keep remembering two things Richard said. Once when he was talking to me, early on in the research. He said: ‘It has to be something local’; but later, when he was arguing with Larsen on the phone, I overheard him saying: ‘some drug company’s going to be ducking for cover before this is all over’. It doesn’t make sense. How can it be both?”

  “Why not? Look, if whatever happened to the Babies was caused by their mothers taking the drug, it wouldn’t be so localised – but all the Babies did come into contact with it, so it is a common factor. I may not be a whiz-bang researcher” – he smiled before continuing – “but if neither explanation makes sense, it seems pretty logical that the answer might be a combination of both.”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean, Metamide’s a pretty safe drug, or they wouldn’t use it on pregnant women, right?” Susan nodded. “And all the Babies were born in the same hospital, right?” Another affirmation. “But no kid born in that hospital whose mother wasn’t treated with Metamide was affected?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “Well, add all that together, and it seems to me that you have a drug that’s safe on its own, and a hospital – or something in it – that’s safe on its own, but if you combine them, put them together, you end up with what we have here.”

  “A mutation?”

  “Well, it isn’t the common cold.”

  “And all we have to do is isolate the mystery factor. From eight years ago.”

  “Eight years?”

  Susan pushed her hair back from her face. “The Babies are seven years old. We have no evidence – at least none that I’ve seen – of any other babies older or younger than them. So the factor we’re looking for, or the combination, occurred eight years ago, and only at that hospital. No wonder Larsen’s going bald. It could have been something in the food, or in the air … anything.” She paused. “Well anyway, now at least we can find out just how much Larsen does know. And maybe what he intends to do …”

  XI

  ERIK’S STORY

  I guess you’d say I was the odd man out.

  Don’t misunderstand me. They never made me feel anything but “one of the team”, but facts are facts. Apart from Susan, there wasn’t one of them over sixteen, and they were just so damned clever. Even Susan leaves me for dead, but those kids …

  It’s funny when you think about it. Here they were: seven kids, whose main reason for being at the farm was the fact that they were so different, that they had so much trouble fitting in anywhere. Yet together they were a unit; they had their differences in common and it gave them an identity.

  We’d join them sometimes in the evening. My shift usually finished around six, and Suse could basically please herself, so after tea, we’d often drop down to the rec area. We slotted in pretty easily, and to be honest, we both preferred the company of the kids in the tank to that of the research staff.

  Some nights, or weekends, we’d pack them all into the Institute bus and break out. They appreciated the change of scenery. In summer, it might be the beach or inland into the hills, but at night or during winter it was likely to be a trip to town, to take in a movie or go bowling.

  We had videos at the farm, and a large-screen TV, but it’s the action of going to the movies that’s important – it’s far more than just the film. It’s fun to get out. Especially if you’re tied down as much as those kids were.

  But I preferred bowling. I’ve always been quite good at it, and Susan always gave me a good match, but the one who surprised me was Greg. Okay, so his style was unorthodox. But it was effective just the same.

  The first time we went, he just sat there watching, really concentrating. I was going to ask him to keep score, but there was no need: Gordon and Lesley kept track of the scores for the nine of us in their heads, including the strikes and spares. (I have enough trouble calculating them for myself, even with everything written down.)

  Anyway, Greg … The next time we went, he said he wanted to play. I looked down at his legs. I couldn’t help it. Before I had the chance to say anything and put my foot in it, he answered my unasked question.

  “I can handle it. I’ve got it all worked out.”

  And he had. He “borrowed” one of the chairs from the cafeteria, and when it was his turn
Mikki would place it in the centre of the lane, behind the release line. He’d sit on it to bowl, while one of us got the return ball for him. It worked brilliantly. After the first couple of games, he got the hang of it, then he just kept improving.

  When you think about it, he had some natural advantages. While his delivery lacked the flow you get from a run-up, he was deceptively strong. Fifteen years of using his arms as a leg substitute meant that his arm muscles were abnormally well developed, and that gave him great control over the heavy ball. In the end, he was the one more likely to beat me than Susan.

  And when he did, didn’t he rub it in! I’ve never handled losing very well, and he picked it very early. That was one of his talents. He knew how to push all the right buttons. It was just fun to him, but it took me a while to learn to handle it. Sue noticed, and I think she had a word with him, but it made little difference – he was having too much fun watching my reactions. There was nothing malicious in it, that’s just the way he was. In the end, I had come to terms with that. When I stopped reacting, he stopped pushing the buttons.

  Anyway, the point is Susan and I were accepted, and they trusted us. I guess that’s why they approached us for help. They needed someone with access to the other complex. We were the obvious choice.

  At the time, I suppose they could have chosen Susan and left me out of it, but they knew we were seeing each other – we were, according to Gretel, “a hot item” – so they probably figured she’d tell me anyway, and as two heads are better than one, they included me.

  (It was only later that we found out the Babies – or Myriam, at least – had made the suggestion. But we found out quite a lot “later on”.)

  I suppose it would have been about the end of July when Mikki and Greg fronted us. Greg was his usual subtle self.

  “We’d like you both to sit down. We’re about to tell you the most important thing you’re ever likely to hear. And we’re only telling you now because pretty soon we’re going to need your help.”