Free Made Men by Bradley Ernst Page B

four
hours the books were committed to memory; he already knew much of the material.
They felt for the first time in their lives—a yearning. They—the
not-quite-boys but not-quite-wood-frogs nor golden-crowned-fruit-bats;
not-quite-Cuban-crocodiles and not-quite-but-a-little-of-several-other pieces
and parts of marsupials and tardigrades and bacterial proteins; super-soldiers
who wouldn’t suffer from exposure or need daily food, who never would require
normal amounts of oxygen or REM sleep and who could learn at inhuman rates of
speed yet blend in with humans just the same—waited, yearning. To press their faces to the crack of light. To watch a
person’s feet click past—in shoes—from behind the panel. Listening
to the foreign voices, they dreamed of more squares of chocolate. They returned
to their cots for the clothes, which each practiced wearing while they waited
on the grate, the top stair before the panel.
    It was a thing humans did.

~West Berlin

 
 
    April 1, 1962, 5:08 PM :

 
    G one.
    Ryker
heard none of the movements the pure people made—the natural humans,
unadulterated with amphibians or reptiles or marsupials.
    Those with normal IQs .
    Both
the people who worked there in the library and the visitors returning books or
carting a few home , who had paused to loiter or dream,
had left.
    The
three of them listened a few moments more. Ryker glanced at his twin, who
clicked agreeably. The taller boy shrugged, his arms across his chest in the
cold, chin tucked against his bony chest. He slid the panel fully open. Clammy
but deft, the twins pulled the books on the low shelf into the tunnel, tired
covers stacked at their feet on the stairs. Today they all wore clothes, which
softened their bodies. Ryker felt like a purposeful moth, craving heat and
light.
    The ill-fitting fabric flapped too much.
    The
One Who Was Different squinted, his pain obvious. Each novel stimulus, for him,
was a necessary evil.
    Ryker
slunk low, headed for the librarian’s desk, Rickard at his heels. No chocolate
lay hidden, but there were cough drops. Each twin took one. Closing the small
tin, Rickard presented the remainder of the hard, red lozenges to their pale,
warm-blooded companion. He popped one into his mouth, starving; his
practicality trumped his disdain.
    The best feature of
the pants were the pockets.
    The
useful, utilitarian flaps reminded Ryker of the pouches he and his brother
guarded their genitalia within. A physical trait they had inherited from a
South American opossum that fished, by feel, at night in the jungle.
    They
re-shelved the books they had taken that morning—all but the Bible … the
violent stories (the star of most was also a fisherman) had been repurposed.
The stiff pebbled leather and the stout red thread they had teased from the
binding would accompany them everywhere. The book now served as shoes.
    It was the best leather at hand .
    Today
they each wished to appear, just boys. Shoeless boys were interesting.
    They couldn’t afford to be interesting .
    Sliding
open one of the many hundred small drawers, the thinnest boy appeared nearly
opaque. Ryker could see the bulge of red lozenges through the human boy’s cheek
and his heartbeat in his neck. With skin so pale in the bright light that his
soft fingers appeared translucent, he tugged a card free from the tightly
packed bin then glanced around as though his neck were stiff, perhaps to note
how the nearest aisles were marked. He replaced the card.
    He understood the system already.
    They
led him to a window. Now three faces peered outside into the vastness beyond.
    With
a fragile voice, their human boy spoke. “It is time.”

 
    T he service door led to
a tight alleyway in a large shadow. Ryker eased the door closed, placing an
index card folded in quarters to keep the latch from engaging. Creeping
forward, Ryker led. Rickard took up the rear, glancing left, right, up, back.
The ground seemed the only predictable constant. At the