Free Made Men by Bradley Ernst Page A

binding. Eyelids fully open, he pulled Rickard by the hand
to the appropriate drawer, quickly locating the small card. The cards showed
where in the room—using the aisles and shelves as landmarks—the
books were kept. Muffled by the thing he’d popped in his mouth a moment
earlier, Rickard’s click of approval revealed his secret. Ryker searched his
face, moaning a low warning. He handed his brother one of the small brown
squares. In consistency, the substance was similar to the bitter white block,
but had a much superior taste. For a moment, they only chewed—eyes reflecting
pleasure—then Rickard returned the remainder of the substance neatly
inside the foil-backed paper he’d discovered it in. The chocolate bar was added
to the pile on the counter next to the odd shoe and the broken eyeglasses.
    The One Who Was Different needed it.
    Next,
they pulled two small white cards from the drawers at random:
    Hoffman, ETA. The Devil’s Elixirs (1815)
    Holderlin, F. Hyperion (1797)
    The
desk was central to many aisles. Each aisle, they now knew, had the key to its contents
inscribed on the end-plaque. They stayed together. In four minutes they had
their books, moving steadily, mentally and physically warming up, learning
silently from each other. Up a central staircase were more aisles. After a
cursory search through the upstairs books, they climbed a shelf on an outside
wall to push their faces against a clear rectangle of light.
    People milled outside.
    Hundreds
of persons streamed by on foot and inside cars and trucks. Others rode
bicycles. Rickard sucked at the sweet chocolate that had stuck to his teeth,
watching for something he recognized: a horse or Medusa.
    Was Persephone in Hades now?
    Rickard
felt doubtful about an Icarus sighting, yet searched anyway for the sea through
the glass. Ryker’s hand flicked out. He’d captured a spider on the metal
windowsill. He didn’t share his find, but when a fly bumped against the glass,
Rickard snatched it quickly. Leaping from the fruitful ledge, they continued to
explore and found a bathroom with many sinks. Eerily, none of them dripped.
    “They
are white,” Ryker muttered, amazed, dangling his hand in the water inside one
bowl.
    None were the austenite/chromium/nickel
composite they were familiar with—their own toilet—down the stairs,
through the panel, the right, the left, through the open door to their cage,
second wall on the right. Books were
good; they held answers.
    There
were reflective surfaces too, which initially made them both hiss, but it was
not small, dark-haired trespassers come to fight or claim their food.
    It was them .
    They
studied their own faces for a while, noting slight
differences from each other that only they could.
    As
hours passed, they carried stacks of books to a heavy metal coil along a
wall—one of many. The devices emitted a glorious wealth of heat, but no
light. Outside, the light faded, then slowly returned as they wondered, their
chins on a windowsill. Pinks and tones of red rising, reflecting—a visual
loudness they could never have imagined. As the sun broke the horizon, they
gasped, purring. Tears ran down their cheeks.
    “Oh,”
Ryker offered. No other word would do.
      A sudden noise echoed through the canyons
of books, reflecting from the surfaces. Bouncing from wood and metals and
plaster and Bakelite and glass and plastic and leather and paper. Then another noise.
    A voice.
    They
skittered down the stairs to the desk, retrieved the shoe, the squares of
sweetened cocoa solids, the broken eyeglasses. Then galloped down the aisles,
leaping and snatching the book on metals, the Holy Bible , Hyperion , The Devil’s Elixirs , Siddhartha , and The Metamorphosis . Ryker dove into the tunnel. Rickard shoved their
books into his brother then slid, headfirst, after him.
    They
offered the pile to The One Who Was Different. He less read than glanced at
each page as he let the sweet squares of chocolate melt on his tongue. In