A Cage of Butterflies (4 page)

VII

GREG'S STORY

Mikki had never actually said it before. I suppose if I'd thought about it I might have guessed, but it could have been just wishful thinking. I mean, no one – no girl – had ever been remotely interested in me. Not in that way. So, I suppose I never let myself consider it as a real possibility.

Once, when I was thirteen, I developed the hots for Tammy McKenzie. She was thirteen too. Blonde, blue-eyed, soft – exactly the stuff that hormone dreams are made of.

Trouble was, I made the mistake of telling her.

It wasn't her fault. She was a nice kid. Sweet. Wouldn't hurt a cane-toad.

She just didn't know what to say. She stammered for a second or two, but by then she didn't need to say anything. I'd already seen the answer in her eyes: a combination of fear, pity and revulsion.

Like I said, she was a nice girl, she would never have said anything hurtful, and I even think she liked me. But that look spoke volumes. Before she could get words together, try to let me down gently, I turned around and dragged myself away. It was one of the few times I truly hated my useless legs.

But I got over it. Mostly.

Still, it came as a surprise when Mikki came out with it. After Tammy, I'd built a hard shell around that portion of my emotions, so I wasn't ready for it.

We were sitting alone on the beach. Erik had dropped the two of us off on his way into town and we had an hour to ourselves. He wasn't supposed to, but then, he did a lot of things – little things – for us kids that Larsen probably wouldn't have approved of.

Erik was cool. He trusted us. He understood us; I guess he remembered what it meant to be a kid. To most of the others we were like experimental white mice, running around in their wheels, following their mazes, performing meaningless party tricks of their design. I guess all teenagers feel that way sometimes. But with us it was just more … intense.

So Erik did what he could to loosen the leash. And Mikki and I found ourselves together on the beach.

It was too cold for swimming – not that I was up to the Iron Man event, anyway – in fact, the wind was almost wintry, and we were sitting on the lee-side of a rocky outcrop at the south end of the beach, talking about nothing in particular. Suddenly, she moved a little closer, put her arm around me and asked, quite casually, “Would you say you love me?”

She might have been asking if I thought it would rain.

“What?” I said. Not my most incisive piece of oratory, but like I said, she'd taken me by surprise.

She smiled. “Look, I'm pretty sure I love you. At times, I'm certain of it. I'd just like to know if I'm wasting my time.” With her free hand, she scratched her nose. “Well?”

I returned her smile. “Of course I do. I have since the first day. You mean you couldn't tell?”

“Well, you might try showing it occasionally. Like kissing me or something. It doesn't do a girl's self-esteem much good to sit here on a secluded beach with a boy who doesn't even try to take advantage of her. And don't panic. If you try to go too far, I can still outrun you.”

So I kissed her.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Mills and Boon or
Women's Weekly
romances, or any of their high-school clones, but they just don't get it right. The Earth doesn't move, and you're not transported on waves of uncontrollable passion, during those first magic moments. You're far too busy worrying about getting it right.

We were both inexperienced and tentative. On a universal scale, as kisses go, it might very well have scored two or three from an impartial judge for technique, style and duration. But that kiss still rates as one of the high-points of my life so far, so what does the world – or Mills and Boon – know?

Besides, we've got a whole lot better at it since.

Looking back, I guess that was what my grandmother would have called a “red-letter day” – in more ways than one – and judging by the way events snowballed in the next few months, I'm glad we got the chance to talk about “us” before we got so tied up in the Babies and their problems. Problems that were waiting for us when we got back to the farm that afternoon …

Eric dropped us just inside the gate, and drove the bus off around the back to the garage, while we made our way across to the main complex. I suppose we were about halfway there when Katie came running out to meet us. She must have been watching for us to get back.

“About time!” She was breathing heavily from the short run. For a ten-year-old, she was pretty unfit. She was also agitated.

“What's up, Kate?” Mikki, the big sister. I watched her automatically stroking Katie's hair, calming her. The kid relaxed a little, then spoke.

“We have to talk.” There was a desperate conviction in her voice.

Mikki just nodded. “About Myriam?”

“Myriam?” I began, but Katie cut in as if I wasn't there.

“And the others. Myriam says it's time.”

I was confused – not an unusual experience for me where girls are concerned – and when I'm confused, I ask questions. “Time for what? What others? What the hell are you two —”

But Mikki placed a finger gently on my lips. “Not now. We'll talk about it soon enough.” She put one arm around each of us. “Let's get inside before we freeze to death.”

What could I say? As we moved a little awkwardly off towards the main building, Mikki squeezed my shoulder. I looked at her, but she was staring straight ahead, a thoughtful look on her face.

Did I tell you she has a beautiful profile?

* *

Mikki shut the door, and Katie moved across and sat down on the bed. I eased myself into Mikki's favourite rocking chair (it used to be her mother's favourite rocking chair, but she'd commandeered it) and dropped my crutches on the floor on either side of me.

No one spoke for a moment, and I got impatient. “Well? Is someone going to fill me in? Who is Myriam, and who are ‘the others'?” I guess it's a personality fault. I hate secrets – other people's that is.

Mikki just smiled. “Do you want to tell him, Katie, or will I?”

“You can.” The poor kid still looked worked up. I think she wanted a moment to get herself under control. Mikki moved across and looked out of the window, towards the other complex down in the gully. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Myriam and the others” – she turned to face me, a concerned look ghosting across her features – “are your ‘butterflies'. And from the way Katie is reacting, I think Larsen must be getting ready to test the strength of their wings …”

VIII

Breakthrough

May 2, 1990

Larsen switched on the back-lighting of the X-ray screen and reached for the first set of films. The fluorescent tubes flickered into life, bleeding his features of what little colour they normally possessed. He clipped the first two X-rays into position, and stared in disbelief.

“Why the hell didn't we think of this before?” He was alone in the viewing room, but he spoke the thought aloud. In front of him, illuminated by the light from the screen, was the evidence they had been searching for. The proof that something was radically different; that the Babies were … something different.

A CAT scan. Computer-generated X-ray pictures of the human brain, exposing the secrets that lay hidden within the skull. It was so obvious. And now that they finally had them, Larsen was angry. With himself. With MacIntyre. Here was the evidence they had searched for, and they had spent the best part of a year messing around with observations, behavioural analysis, blood tests, when all the time the answer, or part of it, lay in the very structure of the Babies' brains.

He was no radiologist, but he had seen enough scans to know what a normal brain section should look like. And you didn't need to be a specialist to see that these pictures were … wrong.

Suddenly, he remembered. High school. The teacher – Miss Phipson, it was, the plain, gangly one who always wore the stained lab-coat – holding up a cut-away model of the human brain. It looked like a huge cauliflower.

“You will notice,” she had droned, in that reedy voice of hers, “that the top section of the brain, the
cerebrum
…” she stressed the word, scribbled it on the board, then paused for effect, “is divided into two distinct parts or
hemispheres
…” Another pause, while the students in the front desks dutifully wrote down the word. “The right and left hemispheres control different functions and different types of thinking. This gap, this valley between the two hemispheres, is called a
fissure .
. .”

The memory faded. He was still staring at the grey and white images in front of him.

There was no fissure. No separate hemispheres.

He reached for another set of pictures and replaced the ones on the screen. The same. No fissure. One single … no, wait. The next image showed it more clearly …

Each X-ray told the same story. Extra tissue; a growth which ran up from the base of the skull across the top of the brain, filling the fissure and linking the two hemispheres. This was the thing which made the Babies different. Some kind of major mutation.

He smiled. They would name the discovery after the discoverer. Larsen's Syndrome. It had a nice ring to it.

Susan watched the Babies. It was hard to put a finger on it, but something was different. A subtle change in the atmosphere on the other side of the window. The five children just sat there around the table, unmoving, unblinking; their eyes staring without apparent focus, as if they were watching for something in the far distance, beyond the walls of the complex.

They made no sound, as usual, but there was an odd look of … concentration, on each tiny face.

Then Myriam turned her gaze towards the glass, and Susan had that disturbing sensation again. It was as if the child could see straight through. As if Myriam were the observer, and she …

The feeling began as a warm, internal glow, which slowly spread until its power filled her whole body. A feeling of joy and well-being. And love. It was overwhelming. Susan settled back into the chair with her eyes closed and let it wash over her.

And with it came the memories …

Four years old, on a trip to Taronga. Following the yellow skirt. The giraffes are so tall. “Mummy, look at the baby, see …” Tugging for attention on the yellow skirt, then looking up. Into a stranger's face. The moment of panic, casting about through the sudden blur of frightened tears. Aimlessly running. The gentle touch of strangers' hands, confusing adult questions. The screech of a colourful parrot.

And then the warm, accustomed voice, crooning security, the touch, the clean soap-smell, fear buried in the comfort of familiar yellow folds. Panic fading to love …

Ten years old. The house; cold, empty. Mum, sitting staring, paralysed by disbelief; holding his picture tightly to her chest, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Dad's gone, Suse.”

The gentle touch of Richard's arm around her, comforting, sharing the pain of their loss …

Eighteen. The comforter. Her arms around her brother's grief. “It's us now, Rich. You and me …” The faint half-smile to hide the pain. And the glow …

Memories, life-deep feelings. Forgotten emotions.

Susan opened her eyes. The other Babies were still staring, lost in their own world.

But Myriam …

Through the one-way glass, Susan could swear she saw the faintest trace of a smile.

“Telepathy?” Greg shifted his weight slightly, and the chair rocked gently back and forth.

“Or something like that. They've been … sending messages to Katie for weeks. Sometimes, I can almost pick them up myself.” As she spoke, Mikki recalled those flashes, the pictures and the “almost voices” that buzzed inside her mind and kept her from sleep, annoyingly close to making some kind of sense.

“Why didn't you tell me?” There was a trace of disappointment in Greg's voice.

Mikki reached across and touched his hand. “I couldn't …”

“I promised.” Katie cut in. “Myriam and the others. When they first … contacted me. I shouldn't even have told Mikki, but it sort of slipped out. They didn't mind though. They knew they could trust her. But I had to make her promise not to tell anyone. Not even you.”

“Why now, then? What's changed all of a sudden?”

“It's Larsen.” Katie continued speaking with a little more confidence. Now that the secret was out, it seemed as if a weight had been lifted from her. “He's close to a breakthrough, and they're scared of what it will mean. I think they're ready for our help.”

“To do what? I think you'd better fill me in a whole lot more. Precisely who are
they,
and what kind of danger are they in?”

“It's not exactly danger. Not yet … It's more a matter of helping them … prepare.”

There was a moment's silence, broken only by the slight creaking of the rocking chair.

Then Katie began to explain …

IX

MIKKI'S STORY

Katie was right. They were ready. The question was, were we?

It was as if everything had begun to accelerate, and we were drawn in before we had time to think too much about it. Not that we would have kept out of it anyway. It's just that at that stage, we didn't know what it was we were getting into.

I tried to read Greg's face, but he registered no emotion as Katie explained about “the dreams” – how the voices had started coming to her in the night and she'd thought she was cracking up. Why Myriam chose her to contact first was never clear. She was the youngest kid in the tank, and perhaps that made her the one most likely to accept the impossible. Perhaps it was just that she was the most receptive.

“Can they communicate like that with anyone, or is it just you?” You could taste the envy in Greg's voice, at the thought of experiencing such a thing.

“Just me so far.” Katie smiled at me, then continued, “But Mikki's been getting some … feedback, so she might be receptive. To tell the truth, I don't know. All I know is that they're getting scared, and they think they can trust us.”

It struck me, listening to her, that I'd only really considered one side of the question. Of course, they could “send” their thoughts (or images, or whatever) to Katie, and maybe to me or some of the others – that, in itself, was pretty mind-blowing – but it was a two-way street.

…
they think they can trust us
…

That was what Kate said. Why would they think that, unless they had some way of knowing what we were really like? I remembered Katie, mumbling away in her sleep. They must have known what she was thinking – so why not the rest of us? I spoke my thoughts aloud.

“Well, suddenly it makes sense why Larsen would be so interested in them. Why he would keep them locked away in the complex. If he can be the first to bring proof of telepathy to —”

“Oh, Larsen doesn't know about the mind-speech. But he is getting close. That's part of the problem.” Katie spoke with an authority I hadn't heard from her before, and I got the strange feeling that it wasn't really
her
speaking to us.

Greg had been very quiet. Now he interrupted. “If he doesn't know, then what
is
he interested in? He's gone to a lot of trouble and expense setting up that complex. He must have had some good reason. I mean, he's a jerk, but he's not stupid.”

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”.