A Cage of Butterflies by Brian Caswell

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.
    â€œWhy?” he asked.
    â€œBecause —” 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.
    â€œIt’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
    â€œDid you get it?” Susan asked the question nervously, almost before the door was fully open.
    â€œHello 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.
    â€œI’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