A Cage of Butterflies

by Brian Caswell

  “Why don’t you judge for yourself?” There was an impatience in his voice, a reassertion of the old authority.

  Pull back, Susie. You don’t want to blow it now …

  “I’d like to. This whole situation is … intriguing.” She attempted a winning smile, but it felt dangerously false. Luckily, Larsen had already turned away.

  Once more she followed him out of the room, this time throwing a glance over her shoulder at the child on the bed. Ricky hadn’t moved.

  At first, he fled from her and she could sense his fear. One speck of emotion drifting away, always just a little out of reach. She stretched her consciousness towards him and he retreated. But she persisted, drawing desperately on her memories of love. Of the Sharing.

  Here, it was so hard to feel. It sucked out your emotions like a sponge and gave nothing back. A desert of ancient and unthinking drives, it had no use for thought or feeling, only hungers to be satisfied. How long before it drained your very soul?

  She called to him, but the mind-speech failed, stillborn in this alien world …

  No. Not alien.

  Behind the hungers and the drives, beyond the mindless need to satisfy, she sensed the beating of a heart, the rise and fall of lungs inside a chest, the red flood coursing down a million tiny channels.

  Life was not emotions, not the towering monuments of art and music. It was not even love. Stripped of all that gave it meaning, reduced to its essence, it was no more than this. The pulse of blood. The feeding of desires.

  Life was the unborn baby, struggling towards its first breath; the underwater swimmer aching towards the surface, lungs bursting for air. Life was the struggle to be.

  And suddenly she knew. How.

  The Noise had driven him here; down, beyond his humanity; beyond memory and the reach of words. Beyond love. Down to this place.

  Only one thing could force him back …

  They were still writing. Susan made her way into the room with Larsen following.

  Around the table, the floor was littered with sheets of paper. She bent down to pick one up, knowing already what it would contain. One word, written hundreds of times. A name. Her name. In capitals.

  SUSAN.

  We must learn to lead him on; throw him a little bait.

  Larsen had taken the hook. She was inside. The plan was under way.

  Behind her, Larsen moaned, and she turned to look at what was happening. None of the Babies had looked up since they had entered the room, but at precisely the same position on each page, the word they were writing changed.

  At the moment she had opened the door, though none of them had seen her enter, they had begun writing another name.

  ERIK.

  She felt him there, floating out of reach. He could burrow down no further; there was nowhere else to run. There was no other way.

  Slowly, fearfully, she opened her consciousness. And a channel to that part of her mind that remained outside. For a moment, her nerve failed her and she hesitated; but only for a moment.

  Nervously, she focused on the Shield. Carefully, she began to lower it. Then, as the first whispers found their way through, she tore it down. And opened herself to her worst nightmare. The soundless voices of a million minds, crashing in waves against the fibre of her soul. It tore at her sanity, but she could not give in to it.

  Every instinct screamed for the Shield. It would be so easy. Silence was hers to command. But she resisted. Instead, she forced herself to focus. On the Noise. And drawing on the deepest reserves of her will, she hurled it towards his Presence.

  She felt like a sparrow in a hurricane; like a small fish striving up a waterfall. But fly she did, against the howling mind-wind; she swam against its crashing power. Until she reached him.

  And as they touched, mind-to-mind in the eye of the storm, there was time for just one word.

  follow …

  Together they rose, scourged and buffeted, driven upwards by their instinct to survive. Upwards through the layers of mind, through the ages of humankind, from surviving, to feeling, to knowing. And there, with the Noise beyond bearing, together, at last, they raised the Shield …

  * * *

  Larsen had left the room, but the Babies continued their writing.

  forthecameras …

  Susan smiled as Rachael answered her unspoken question, but almost before the thought was completed, the three children dropped their pens and rushed for the door.

  Following close behind, she knew instinctively where they were heading, and her heart leapt. As she entered the room, a wave of happiness and relief washed through her from the five young minds reunited.

  For a moment she stood there, excluded from their silent celebration. Then the thought formed in her mind.

  susaniwe … camehome … youmissedus.

  Statement or question, it received the same response.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Moving towards the door, on her way to Ricky’s room, she kept her gaze fixed on the tiny girl, lying propped up on the bed’s oversized pillow. And as she watched, she saw the eyelids close, as for the first time in five long years, Myriam fell sound asleep.

  XXI

  GREG’S STORY

  I couldn’t talk to Mikki for most of the day. She doesn’t get mad often, but when she does, you’d better take lessons in selfdefence! I guess I never learned to duck; I walked straight into it.

  I figured she should have been happy. I mean, I was. Well, relieved, anyway. But not Michele.

  She was angry.

  Not punch-the-wall and kick-the-dog kind of angry; more a cold, silent rage that she carried around with her like a time-bomb. And I just happened to be the klutz who set it off.

  So, scratch “bomb-disposal expert” as a career option. My mother always reckoned I had a size ten foot and a size nine mouth – but that I still managed, somehow, to fit it in. Every time.

  The annoying thing is, I don’t even remember what I said to set her off. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. She was ready to blow, and I was just too dumb to keep my mouth shut. As usual.

  It’s funny, the closer you get to a person, the harder it is to do what you normally do best. They see through the “public image” and all the little tricks you use. I can jolly most people along, if I want to, by stirring them a little, committing the most atrocious puns and showing them the lighter side of any situation. But not Mikki. She knows me too well. She sees through me like a plate-glass window.

  So, when I finally made the mistake of pointing out that as Myriam and Ricky were safe and everything had turned out all right, she should be happy, she snapped.

  “This time they’re safe. They were lucky. But what about next time? If you think Larsen’s going to leave them alone now, you’re off your tree! He’s already convinced himself that the whole incident was just ‘another manifestation of the syndrome’.”

  She mimicked Larsen’s voice perfectly. And they were his exact words to MacIntyre. Erik had taken some of Chris’s little “toys” into the complex with him, and we had old chrome-dome’s office bugged.

  “He’s rationalised away any connection between what happened to Ricky … and Myriam … and the fact that he used the five of them for experimental pincushions. And he’s bound to be planning new tactics. You should be scared. Damned scared!”

  “Look, we’ve got it covered. Susan and Erik are back inside. We know what Larsen’s up to —”

  “And you think that’s enough!” she almost sneered. The whole thing had affected her far more deeply than I’d suspected. “If you weren’t so tied up in yourself, in how you feel, you wouldn’t be so damned … complacent!”

  And she stormed out. I was going to follow her, but something – an instinct for self-preservation, I think – told me to leave it for a while. Besides, I was hurt.

  … tied up in yourself …

  I mean, it was true – to a point – and we both knew it. But she’d never actually said it before.

  That’s
another thing about getting close to someone. It’s much easier to hurt them – or to be hurt by them.

  And I wasn’t feeling complacent.

  I was still planning; trying to work things out. I’ll admit, it hadn’t crossed my mind that they wouldn’t want to go home. I mean, everyone in the tank thought of the farm as “home”, because it was somewhere to fit in; somewhere you weren’t made to feel like a freak-show escapee; but there wasn’t one of us who didn’t look forward to family visits and holidays.

  I guess it made me realise just how different the Babies were. For them, a visit home would be a term in solitary confinement. Not a sharing of love and family.

  That was their tragedy. Since the age of three, since the Change, they had been cut off from the love which kept most of us sane. No matter how much – or how little – their families might have loved them, the Shield had deflected that love as effectively as it kept out the Noise. Until the Sharing, the love they’d had to give was locked away inside.

  For the Babies, the farm was home, and the five of them – and us, I guess – were family. The only one they’d ever really known.

  They Shared; they were a part of each other in a way none of us could ever hope to be. Between them, there could never be the sort of … misunderstanding that I’d just had with Mikki.

  And that was their triumph. More than mere love. Sharing.

  Against that, cruel as it may sound, the feelings of those strangers who loved them, their families, their flesh and blood, could never assume the same importance. The Babies didn’t know them. Not even as well as they knew the different members of the tank. Not even as well as they knew Larsen.

  All they needed was each other – and our help. And the plan was eventually worked out around that fact.

  There was so much to consider.

  What were we supposed to do? Front Larsen and tell him we were on to him? Threaten him?

  Assassinate the bastard?

  That was Lesley’ s contribution to the discussion; as well as having a phenomenal memory, she’s also one of our two resident lateral thinkers, and she’s sometimes far more interested in logical solutions than in ethics or moral practicalities.

  You have to admit, it was quite a logical solution. It removed the immediate problem, and it was quite feasible. But there’s more to life than logic, thank God, and even Lesley was ready to admit it. Besides, we needed a far more … permanent remedy.

  I kept thinking about it.

  All they needed was each other …

  They didn’t need the farm. Who needs to spend his – or her – life under the microscope? But they did need the positive things the farm had given them. They certainly didn’t need Larsen. But he wasn’t about to let them go. They couldn’t go home. They wouldn’t be separated. What was it they’d told Susan?

  We would rather be dead …

  It was all a bit like trying to keep track of one of Gordon and Lesley’s boardless chess matches. I’m not bad at the game myself, in fact I can usually beat either of them in a face-to-face contest, but I need to see the pieces, to touch them and move them.

  Hell, I’d never even seen the Babies.

  Though I felt I knew them, in some ways, better than I knew my own sister, I’d never actually laid eyes – or hands – on them. And here I was – here we were – trying to work out their future for them; considering all the variables, trying to outwit the demonic duo, dreaming up solutions to imaginary situations … Suddenly, Lesley’s idea didn’t seem so outrageous at all.

  Then it finally happened. And when it did, I wasn’t even around to help. You go away for a few days, and everything hits the fan. Typical!

  It was logical, I suppose, but none of us even considered it. Maybe MacIntyre even deserved it. Who can say? All I know is that it changed everything. Forced our hand.

  And from that moment on, there was no turning back.

  XXII

  Perfect Defence

  October 3, 1990

  “Hook, line and sinker!” Chris was smiling broadly as he tossed the photocopy back onto Susan’s desk. “He thinks he’s on his way to a Nobel Prize. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Hey, don’t go soft on us. We need to keep the competitive edge.” Mikki smiled and sipped on the obligatory can of Coke. “All it’ll take is one slip, and he’ll know he’s being had.”

  From the kitchenette, Susan’s voice drifted in. “What do you want on your sandwiches, peanut butter or peanut butter?”

  “Decisions, decisions …” Mikki placed the can on the desk beside the notes and moved across towards the kitchenette, smiling. “I wish Greg was here to help me decide.”

  “Look, I’m doing my best. I never did the shopping this week. You could always wait for dinner at the canteen.”

  “Oh, great option! Starvation, followed by salmonella poisoning. No, I’ll go with the peanut butter. Is it crunchy, at least?”

  “Is there any other kind?” Susan dipped the knife in the jar as she continued. “When’s he due back? Greg, I mean.”

  “Well, I figured you weren’t talking about Darth Vader. Next Tuesday … He was worried about going at all – especially in the current climate – but the holiday had been arranged months ago, and it might’ve looked a bit suspicious if he’d pulled out without a good reason. Any other time, he’d be bursting something to score a trip to Queensland. His parents aren’t too well-off and they’ve been saving for ages. I hope he can manage to enjoy himself, for their sakes.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll struggle through. Here’s your sandw —” The plate dropped from her hand and smashed on the floor as the mind-scream of fear washed over them.

  Later, none of them could say how long the whole thing lasted. Perhaps it was only moments, but the terror, the stomach-turning panic, relayed instinctively through Ricky’s mind, would live with each of them for the rest of their lives.

  MacIntyre screamed for release, clawing at the inside of the coffin, pressing with every ounce of his strength against the unyielding lid which closed him into his blackest nightmare. He could feel his eyes bulging, could taste the bile as it rose into his parched mouth. He could smell his own sweat, soaking the death shroud that he had ripped from around himself.

  He heard himself screaming, a distant cry of horror, which swelled to fill the confines of this wooden hell. And all the time, the air grew thicker.

  He felt his lungs constrict, striving for a breath to feed his fading will, but all the air was gone.

  His strength began to fail. A blackness closed in from the corners of thought, darker than the mere absence of light through which his eyes peered desperately. The blackness of death.

  Slowly, inevitably, it spread. And the walls of the coffin pressed in upon him; the ultimate claustrophobic horror, as he felt the squirming, wriggling sensation of unseen things on his skin.

  With a final effort of will, he braced his tortured lungs and screamed: one last, despairing venting of his fear …

  And suddenly, it was over.

  MacIntyre stood there, just inside the entrance to the room, staring stupidly at the empty syringe in his right hand. It was crushed almost beyond recognition, and he had driven the point of the needle deep into his palm with the intensity of the hallucination. The tiny bottle from which he had been about to draw the sedative lay smashed on the floor at his feet.

  He looked towards the young boy on the bed.

  For the first time in all the months of the project, he met the eyes of one of the Babies directly. And in them he saw, reflected, his own terror. The mirror of his darkest fears.

  Turning, he dropped the ruined syringe and fled the room, while behind him Ricardo lay back exhausted on the bed, and closed his eyes …

  idonotknow … howitjusthappened … hewasgoingto … usetheneedleandi … sawhisfeari … knewhismost … terrifyingnightmare … icouldnotlet … himdoit … againnotagain …

  “So you fed him his own phobia. What a blast!” Gretel voiced her sati
sfaction.

  Mikki looked thoughtful. “Ricardo, are you all right?”

  The unexpected note of concern in her voice drew the attention of the others. They had all gathered in Susan’s unit as soon as MacIntyre’s cry of terror had faded from their minds.

  “Of course he’s all right.” Lesley cut in. “He’s discovered the perfect defence. He’s …”

  “Les, shut up!” Suddenly, Susan glimpsed the cause of Mikki’s concern. “Ricky?”

  iam … betterbut …

  The thought trailed off, weakly.

  “It’s not as easy as all that, Les. Don’t you see?” Mikki spoke, not just to Lesley, but to all the others. “Sure, it drove MacIntyre away. He’d be Superman if he could stay in the same room as Ricky after that experience, but it’s not the ‘perfect defence’ – far from it.”

  “I don’t …” Lesley looked confused. “He won’t dare do anything to them now, for fear of —”

  “Of what? Getting another dose of the same? Look, you experienced it, just the same as I did. How did it feel?”

  “Do I need to tell you? It was just about the worst thing I’ve ever gone through in my life. But I —”

  “And we only got the aftershock. Just an echo of what MacIntyre went through – and Ricky. You explain to her, Ricky.”

  icouldnever … doittohim … oranybody … notever … thefearsthatliveso … deepmustremain … hidden … i … wecannotcontroltheir … powertheycandestroyus.

  “It’s not the same for the Babies as it is for us, Les.” Susan took over. “They feel everything. Exactly as it is. When MacIntyre’s nightmares came to life for him, they came to life for Ricky, too.

  “How hard do you think it would be to kill someone … Or more to the point, to torture them to death? Could you do it?”

  “I don’t —” Lesley began.

  “Maybe you could, maybe not. But could anyone, if it meant living through the pain, the fear … everything, with their victim? That’s what your ‘perfect defence’ means to Ricky.”