A Cage of Butterflies (12 page)

XXV

SUSAN'S STORY

I don't think I'll ever forget it. The atmosphere in the room was like an electric charge. But even that seems inadequate. There are no words that come close to describing it.

I think I might have cried. At least, I felt the tears start. Luckily, I was standing with my back directly to the main spy-video, out of range of the fixed cameras. Having inside knowledge of the complex had its advantages.

We all knew the danger of showing emotion in that room. Every movement, every sound had to have a purpose. We couldn't afford any stray expressions or loose words which might reveal the true nature of our relationship with the Babies. Erik and I had been at it for months, but I was worried about some of the kids. Geniuses they might be, but they were still kids, and Katie, Gretel and Gordon in particular showed their emotions readily; Chris not quite as much.

Mikki and Greg were no problem, and Lesley was a pretty cool customer. Too cold at times – but I loved her in spite of it. I think it was a defence she developed early. She grew up in a particularly rough neighbourhood, where school was just a place you went as part of your good-behaviour bond. You got tough quickly, or life was hell.

Anyway, I was so busy watching them, waiting for the emotional giveaway, that at first I didn't notice what the Babies were doing.

For a while they just stared, in their usual manner – for Larsen's benefit, of course. But on the mental plane, the emotion was deafening.

I guess, if I'd thought about it, it was obvious. These kids had never met each other, but they knew each other's minds better than any group of people in the history of the world – with none of the pretence, none of the social power-games we all play. This wasn't a meeting of strangers, or even friends: it was a reunion of family. It was East and West Berlin, after the Wall came down.

And the act was perfect. Not a sound, not an expression out of place. The wave of emotion which was washing over me was soundless, invisible, completely undetectable to an outsider. I thought of Larsen watching through the mirror at my back. How frustrated he must be, waiting for a reaction. If only he knew.

It was then that I realised what the Babies were doing.

Simultaneously, each of them had leaned over and begun to write. And draw. In a matter of seconds, they were finished. And Larsen had another mystery to ponder.

WELCOME! was the word on each sheet, with a picture underneath. A detailed and quite sophisticated picture of what appeared to be a birthday cake.

It was then that Greg smiled. But he never told me why. When I asked him later, he just said it was a private joke.

The kids spent an hour or so in the room, going through the motions. Looking at everything, trying to talk with the Babies, who, of course, responded not a bit. And all the while, we were having a great time, matching the mental closeness for the first time with a physical presence. All together.

I think I said, it's one experience I'll never forget. But it set me thinking. Of what Myriam had said that afternoon in Ricky's room …

We would rather be dead.

For the first time, I really understood. Though I had explained it to Erik, at the time it had been an intellectual understanding. I hadn't comprehended exactly what it meant. What a breaking of the Sharing would represent.

Being there, feeling the power of the emotion in that room – the love, I knew why. Why they could never be separated. Why we had to find a solution. If we couldn't, the alternative for the Babies was unthinkable. A living death. A nightmare existence. A loneliness beyond bearing.

We would rather be dead …

The words echoed in my mind. And suddenly, I knew what had to be done. If there was no other way, if they could no longer be protected, another, more permanent solution would have to be found.

XXVI

Ultimatum

November 1, 1990

Brady was a short man, and his character bore the scars of a long climb up the corporate ladder. He didn't pace around the office, he strutted like a fighting-cock, exuding a self-confidence that left Larsen feeling the outsider in his own domain.

“They certainly don't look like a world-shattering discovery, John.” His tone was patronising, leaving the scientist almost powerless to refute the statement.

He tried anyway. “I don't think you understand —”

“No, I don't think
you
do. Do you have any idea how much the Company has ploughed into your little project?” The memory of the disastrous meeting with the Managing-Director still rankled, and he was determined to take out his embarrassment on this balding, weak-kneed excuse for a research scientist, whose conspicuous lack of hard results had earned William Brady the career-threatening displeasure of his superiors. “Actually, I hope you do. I'd hate to think that your book-keeping was as sloppy as your research appears to have been.”

Now, Larsen reacted. “There has been nothing sloppy about the research. We are breaking new ground … I'll admit it has been slower than I predicted, but we
are
making progress. There are definite signs that they are beginning to respond to outsiders. Even to the children in the other research project. If it continues, we should be able, very soon, to unravel many of the mysteries —”

Brady exploded.

“Listen to yourself, man! ‘If', ‘we should' – do you think that a multinational corporation plans its strategies on maybes and ‘mysteries'? I've got news for you. At the end of the day, it's only the bottom line that amounts to anything. The beancounters are the ones in control. It's the way of the world. What's
your
bottom line? Where's the profit in your little venture?”

Suddenly, his tone softened, and he was patronising once more. Vaguely, Larsen resented the annoying pseudo-friendliness more than the man's previous bullying tone.

“If we make the breakthrough, you won't need to ask that question. The bean-counters will have their work cut out even calculating the bottom line.”

“There you go again with your ‘ifs'. We want outcomes, not unproductive, useless bloody promises. If you don't have any concrete results to show us by the end of December – and I mean
results
– then we're going to move our own people in here. And you can bet
they
won't pussyfoot around.

“And don't try to threaten me with the Metamide link. We've done our own research on that. Even if it came to court, the evidence is pretty inconclusive. Our legal advice is that we could beat it, or at least tie it up in the court-system for years – supposing the families could afford to mount a case in the first place. Money talks, or hadn't you heard? And even if we lost, the small number of payouts involved wouldn't make the slightest dent.

“The bottom line is,
Doctor
Larsen” – he stressed the title ironically – “no results, no job.”

“But it's my project. I —”

“Correction. It
was
your project. We own you, John. Lock, stock and stethoscope. And don't you forget it. Read the fine print of your agreement. You don't get nothing for nothing, as they say. Ask any accountant.

“And don't feel too bad. It's not the end of the world – you've still got two months. But I wouldn't plan anything major for the New Year, unless you have something for me to show my superiors by the end of December.

“No, stay there, I'll find my own way out. I'm sure you have work to do.”

And Larsen was left staring at the door as Brady closed it be-hind him.

XXVII

ERIK'S STORY

Brady was an ugly piece of work.

And I don't mean the fact that he was small and not too good-looking, and had a face that looked like it would crack if he ever tried to smile. That, I could handle.

No, he was just plain ugly inside.

When Ian offered to “show” him to me, I'll admit, I didn't really have a clue what it meant. So, of course, I said “yes”. In the end, I wished I hadn't.

Of all the Babies, Ian and his sister, Rachael, were always the ones we had the most trouble getting close to. Not because they weren't just as loving. Anything but! It was just that they found it so much harder coming “down” to our level. It wasn't an ego thing – one thing none of the Babies had was an overdeveloped ego – it was simply that, having been so close to each other for so long, without any other real human contact, their abilities were more highly developed, and they found our limited “conversation” incredibly difficult. Like driving a Lamborghini in first gear all the time – with the handbrake on.

So for Ian to offer like that was something of a breakthrough – for me at least – and I said “yes” before I really considered what it would mean for him to “show” Brady to me.

In hindsight, I'd rather have had a wisdom-tooth pulled.

We'd all heard the tape of the exchange between Brady and Larsen, so I wasn't exactly prepared to like the guy, but actually going inside his mind …

I don't imagine any of us would like people to “listen in” on a lot of the things that pass through our minds at times, but I'm sure there wouldn't be too many people as self-centred and basically evil as that character. God, it was like a day-trip around a sewer. The Company owned him – and his morals.

If money ever came to mean that much to me, I think I'd slit my wrists. Then again, if it did come to mean that much, I'd probably already be like him, so I wouldn't feel guilty in the first place … if you know what I mean.

The guy was obsessed. Not just tied up in his job or worried about his future, but totally possessed by it. Ian gave me just a glimpse – maybe a minute – of what had been going through Brady's brain while he was in Larsen's office. The petty jealousies, the resentments. The calculations. The cold, corporate morality …

I remember reading a story once, where this terrorist was discussing how you could plant a bomb and kill innocent people who had never done anything to you personally. The secret, or so he said, was to avoid thinking of them as people. As long as they remained just objects, as long as you didn't allow them personalities, individual existence, you could do anything you wanted to them.

Kill, torture, enslave. Anything. Hitler had proved that.

Looking into Brady's mind, I realised that in fifty years nothing much had changed. The Cause was different; business suits had replaced black uniforms and swastika armbands, but the psychology was the same. To Brady, the Babies didn't exist. Not as human beings. They had no rights, no feelings; only a role in the wider plan. Their only purpose was to create profit, to aid his rise to power. To serve the Corporation.

It made my blood run cold. I'd seen
Jaws
four times, every
Nightmare on Elm Street
and half the horror movies ever made, but until that day, I'd never really experienced a monster. I know Freddy Kreuger had razor-sharp knives on his fingers and a problem with his complexion, but Brady was the real monster. More so because he basically looked so normal. And because deep inside where it really counts, he could see absolutely nothing wrong with what he was doing, or what he planned to do.

hecannothelp … itheiswhatheis.

I knew what Ian was doing, but I couldn't accept his calm … acceptance.

“Look Ian, let's get one thing straight.” The poor kid must have felt the full force of my anger. “This isn't some intellectual exercise. This guy wants to dissect you. To pull you all apart and see what makes you tick. And when his mates are finished, there isn't going to be a whole lot left to put back together. Don't you understand?”

I knew he understood. Stupid, he wasn't. But I had to get my frustrations – my gut-fears – out somehow.

iweunderstand … hemustdowhathe … feelshemustand … iwemuststophim … ifwecan.

For a moment, there was a sort of mind-silence, as if he was trying to find the right words.

whymustyouhate … himhecannot … helpithe … is whathe … is.

There was nothing I could say. For the first time in my life, I felt like a Stone Age savage.

Ian was eight years old. And like some medieval martyr or a Buddhist monk, he was asking me to try to understand my enemy – his enemy – and to turn the other cheek. I couldn't do it. I wanted to take a semi-automatic,
Rambo
-style, and turn it on Brady and Larsen and MacIntyre. And the whole of bloody Raecorp.

At that moment, I knew why the Babies could never do, intentionally, what Ricky had accidentally done to MacIntyre. Susan was only half-correct. Sure, they had to experience the fear, the terror, along with their victim, but that's not what would stop them. It was much simpler than that.

They could never use Lesley' s “perfect defence” because it would mean hurting another thinking, feeling human being – even a slime like Brady. To them, nobody was just an object. Perhaps they could stand the pain themselves, but they were totally incapable of intentionally inflicting it on
anyone
else. They understood. They accepted. In a way I could barely comprehend.

At eight years old, the Babies were pacifists. They would –
could —
hurt no one. Not even to save themselves.

Well, I was no pacifist. And I knew at that moment that even if
they
couldn't, I would kill to protect them if I had to. And somehow, the realisation didn't even shock me.

XXVIII

Ears and Eyes

November 4, 1990

DON'T SAY A WORD!

Chris held up the piece of paper, so that Greg couldn't miss the instruction he had printed on it in huge, untidy letters. Rather unnecessarily, he placed the index finger of his free hand against his lips in a particularly unsubtle mime.

Greg got the message.

“Why?” He mouthed the word soundlessly, a look of confusion ghosting across his face.

Chris motioned him over to the desk-lamp, and pointed under the green glass shade. Nestled in one corner, almost invisible, was a tiny and disturbingly familiar black disc. Greg looked back at him, and raised his eyebrows. With the slightest movement of his head, Chris motioned him outside.

“How long have they been bugging us?” It was a pointless question, but Chris answered anyway.

“If I knew the answer to that, I'd've known the damned thing was there before I passed on a few choice comments on chrome-dome's parentage to Gordon this morning. Mind you, I don't regret it; people who listen in on private conversations deserve to hear the truth. About themselves, at least …”

“That's a fine one, coming from the electronic eavesdropper of the decade.” Greg's attempt at humour was forced. Sitting on the ground under the gum-tree, they were assured of privacy, but the discovery had unnerved him a little. “How'd you find it?”

“By accident. I blew a bulb, and I noticed it when I was screwing in the new one. Even then I almost missed seeing it. It's not a bad hiding-place. I must remember it for future reference. D'you think it means they're on to us?”

“Who knows? It's my guess they put it in to try and find out what effect the visits with the Babies are having – if any. We must be frustrating the hell out of them, with just enough meaningless tidbits to keep the visits going, but no real sign of a breakthrough. I don't know what Larsen expected to get from a bug … I just hope he didn't end up getting too much.”

“Who knows? But I'd be willing to bet that there's a whole lot more than one of them scattered around the complex – and that doesn't include the ones
I
planted.”

“Well, what do we do now? I suppose it means that we do most of our talking out here.”

“Maybe. But I think I can work out a way to find the rest of them. If I can, we'll still be able to use them to our advantage.”

“How …” Greg began the question, but trailed off as Chris stood up.

“Later … right now, I've got to think.” They were all used to it. Chris was thinking. Planning. It was no use talking to him now. He wouldn't hear you.

Greg watched him walk away towards the complex, then he stood and followed, murmuring to himself as he went. “I suppose we'd better warn the others.”

Silently, he prayed that it was not too late.

November 5, 1990

“It just means we've got to be more careful about what we say. At least indoors. I don't think he suspects anything involving the tank. Like Greg said, it probably only means he wants to find out how the visits are affecting us. It's just his way of saying he cares.” Mikki's wry smile matched the tone in her voice.

“But isn't he going to get a bit suspicious if we keep going outside to talk? I mean, he's not as dumb as he looks …”

“He couldn't be!” Gordon cut in on Lesley's query, as he often did, but she didn't seem to mind. She didn't mind much that Gordon did. In fact, she smiled at his comment.

Chris looked a little too pleased with himself. He liked to bide his time, to wait for the right moment, and he had obviously decided that this was it.

“It's not a problem. Especially as we will be able to pinpoint exactly where all the bugs are. Actually, he's probably helped us. We can feed him any crap we want to, and provided we can make it sound convincing, he'll never even guess he's being had.”

Mikki frowned. “What did you mean, ‘pin-point exactly where the bugs are?' Have you been holding out on us?”

Chris just shook his head, smiled, and with a theatrical flourish produced from his pocket a small black box, that looked for all the world like a TV remote-control.

“What is it?” Katie obligingly supplied the inevitable question.

“It's a bug-detector. I designed it last night.”

“A bug-detector?” Lesley was less patient than the others with Chris's theatrics, but he didn't seem to notice her tone. He was in exposition mode.

“Actually, it's a multi-band radio frequency detector. Most listening devices operate on a reasonably narrow frequency band – especially the type Larsen put in my room. I just jury-rigged a simple multiband receiver with a reasonably sensitive range-control adjustment, and wired it up to activate a simple LED – that red light in the centre of the box.” He pointed to the gadget in his hand.

Lesley cut in impatiently. “The end result of which is?”

“The end result of which is thatwhen I point this thing in the direction of an operational listening device – a ‘bug' – it detects it. Simple as that. The aerial is mono-directional, and has a very limited range, about three metres, so if I do a sweep from the centre of any room, it should only take a few seconds to pin-point the location of any unwanted ears.”

“Very impressive, but can we be sure it will pick up every one of them? It'd only take missing one to stuff us completely.” Mikki tried not to sound sceptical, but the situation was affecting her normally optimistic outlook.

Chris just smiled. “Trust me.”

And the way he said it, she found that she did.

November 7, 1990

…And lost inside the Emptiness

Of crying out in Silence to myself,

I dreamed of Sharing …

Being part of Someone-part-of-Me,

And on that hope I leaned

And waited for the Waiting-time to end.

…And lost inside the Emptiness

Of measuring Emotions by the Tears

That never wet the Eye,

I dreamed of Touching …

Mind-on-mind with Someone-touching Me,

And on that hope I dwelt

And waited for the Waiting-time to end.

… And then inside the Emptiness

I Touched, and Shared with Someone-like-Myself,

And in the Sharing …

Being, Living, learned to Love,

And in that Moment, smiled

And bade the endless Waiting-time goodbye.

“Oh Katie, it's beautiful.” Susan held the page gently, running her fingers slowly over the words of the poem.

“Yes, I thought so.” Katie smiled softly as she turned her face and their eyes met for a moment.

“When did you …?”

“Me?” As understanding dawned, the young girl's smile widened to a grin. “Oh, I didn't write it. I'm just the secretary. Pep wanted us to have it. ‘To understand', she said. I guess she didn't feel right asking Larsen for a typewriter. Not in his present state of mind. The punctuation's mine, though. None of the Babies is very good at that.”

“I see …” Susan murmured the words distractedly, but her eyes were scanning the lines again.

And her heart was breaking.

November 10, 1990. 11.30pm

Katie screamed.

“What is it?” By the time Mikki had thrown off the covers and the shock of awakening, turned on the reading-light and made her way across to the young girl's bed, Katie was sitting up and pointing at the window. “Kate, what's the matter?”

“He was watching us. Through the window. Staring at us like …” She trailed off, leaving an unspoken threat hanging in the air.

“Who? Who was watching us?” Mikki's voice was nervous now.

“The man. He …”

“Which man? Come on, Kate, try to calm down. What did you see?”

“I've never seen him before. He doesn't live here. He was dark and he was staring in through the window. Then I screamed and he disappeared.”

“Are you sure you weren't just dreaming?” Greg's question came from the doorway. Awakened by the disturbance, he had arrived to investigate “in true hero style”, as Lesley was heard to remark later in the day.

“I wasn't dreaming. He was really there. I saw him in the light of the moon. Staring.”

By now, the others had arrived, yawning and wiping the sleep from their eyes. Gordon, practical as ever, made the obvious suggestion.

“Well, we'd better check things out, hadn't we? We can't have strangers spying on our girls, can we?” He didn't sound very convinced about the whole thing, but they took him up on his suggestion and moved outside.

At the door, they ran into Larsen with MacIntyre in tow.

“What's going on here?”

In a few seconds, the whole situation had been outlined to him; though his swift appearance on the scene of the disturbance suggested to the more cynical among them that he already knew, via his “secret” ears, as much about what had happened as they did.

A quick search revealed no skulking peeping-Toms; nothing more sinister than a few moon shadows. Then Chris, kneeling detective-style outside the window of the girls' room, discovered something which made him whistle slightly.

The others gathered around, and in the light of four or five torch beams, they examined, pressed into the soft soil of the narrow garden-bed, a perfect pair of large and distinctive boot-prints.