A Cage of Butterflies (5 page)

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.”

I noticed Mikki looked really nervous. Greg must have noticed too, because he addressed his next words to her.

“Look, Michele” – he never used her full name unless he wanted to win control of an argument or a situation. “We're going to tell them everything eventually, so we may as well get the worst over with. We can't do anything without them, so we're better off finding out from the beginning if they're going to help us, or put us in to Larsen.”

This was obviously the end of an on-going argument. Mikki shrugged. “Okay, do it your way. You're probably right.”

The look in Greg's eye suggested that he knew he was, but his words were to Susan and me. “We need your help to protect Myriam and the others against Bert and Ernie.”

“Who?” Sue beat me to the question.

Mikki answered her. “Larsen and MacIntyre. Those are Greg's pet names for them.”

“If I had pets like them, I'd have them put down. They're more dangerous than a pair of pit-bull terriers.” Greg's light words hid a powerful feeling.

Sue's forehead was wrinkling. “How did you know about Myriam and the others? That complex is supposed to be top-secret.”

“The same way we know about the password.”

Susan hadn't sat when Greg suggested it earlier. She did now. “The … password?” She looked stumped. We'd only known the password for a few days ourselves, and we hadn't told a soul. Now Greg spoke about it as if it was common knowledge. Then she recovered slightly. “Has Chris been planting bugs again?”

As well as being an encyclopaedia of everything scientific, Chris also had an incredible talent for electronics and computers, and a few months earlier, not long after Susan had arrived, he'd had a great time planting listening devices around the complex and “bugging” the research staff by revealing snippets of what he'd overheard. It was all good clean fun, until a few of the staff decided their privacy was more important than his entertainment. Everyone has a few skeletons they like to keep hidden. As far as we knew, he'd never bugged either of us. But that explained the angry tone in Sue's voice.

Mikki sat down next to her. “Chris had nothing to do with it. Myriam told us.” She paused, knowing the reaction the statement was likely to bring. Susan didn't actually say anything. Her mouth opened and closed, as if she was trying to work out what to say, but no words came. So I stepped in.

“Myriam spoke to you? How? She can't speak. She doesn't even know what planet she's on! None of the Babies do.”

“Do you really believe that?” Mikki looked straight up at me as she spoke, with an expression that demanded absolute truth. I had to answer.

“No, I guess not. There's … something. I don't know. A feeling … But
talk
?”

“I didn't say she could talk. I said she told us.”

Now, it was my turn to do an imitation of a goldfish.

Susan found her voice. “Would you like to explain what you mean?”

It was the opening Greg had been waiting for. He smiled at each of us in turn, then: “I
said
you should sit down.”

And with a quick glance at Mikki, he told us …