Made Men (4 page)

C.
rhombifer
is the second-most
predominant component in this complicated amalgam, and there are many unknowns.
Oh, for the foreknowledge of triplet behaviors, or even twins—in
utero—to compare. I am amazed and humbled by the progress we have seen in
this program and wish to give credit where it is due: those masterful eyes and
minds within the men who isolated the genes and traits of our target species.
They, having excelled in a sprint, (myself a more long-distance participant)
were absolutely crucial to this endeavor.

Josef:
you are both despised and missed.

A
simplified review of each component, its reason for inclusion, goal-driven
traits hoped to achieve via inclusion, standard gestation/incubation periods
etc. below:

1. Animalia, Chordata,
Mammalia, Primates, Haplorhini, Hominidae,
Homo,
H. sapiens
:
“Human.”
Earth’s top (current) apex predator.
Able
to blend in with like-primates.
Moderate longevity. Gestation: 268-days.
Viviparous omnivore.

2. Animalia,
Chordata, Reptilia, Crododylia, Crocodylidae,
Crocodylus, C. rhombifer
:
“Cuban
Crocodile.”
Most intelligent, aggressive, territorial,
defensive crocodilian.
Extended submersion time. Exhibits fearless
pack-hunting behaviors. 64-day incubation. Oviparous carnivore.

3. Animalia, Chordata,
Amphibia, Anura, Ranidae,
Rana, R.
sylvatica
:
“Wood Frog.” Superior
cryoprotectants.
Able to freeze/thaw/thrive.
Extended
submersion time. Two larval stages depend on environmental conditions.
Insectivore.

4. Animalia,
Chordata, Mammalia, Chiroptera, Pteropodidae,
Acerodon, A. jubatus
:
“Giant golden-crowned
flying fox.” Enhanced nocturnal vision.
Superior disease
vector.
Gestation: unknown. Viviparous frugivore.

5. Animalia,
Chordata, Mammalia, Marsupialia, Didelphimorphia, Didelphidae, Didelphinae,
Chironectes,
C
.
minimus
:
“Yapok (or) water
opossum.” Enhanced nocturnal vision. Protective pouch houses genitalia.
Extended submersion time. Gestation: 14-days. Viviparous piscivore.

6. Animalia,
Tardigrada, Heterotardigrada, Echiniscoidea,
Echiniscis, E. testudo
:
“Water Bear.”
Extreme tolerance to radiation, long-term desiccation, atmospheric
pressure, temperature and pH extremes, metabolic standstill.
Generation
time: 14-days. Parthenogenetic omnivore.

March 17, 1956, early
AM:

The
birthing process was … unprecedented. I have, in this program and in my
previous training, witnessed a total of 231 births, yet none prepared me for
this morning. I believed there were only two gestational sacs; I witnessed one.
Two placentas were present on autopsy. One twin entered the birth canal
first—ideal in its position—left occiput anterior. I report this to
stall myself. Indeed, I still shake as I document these happenings. I recognize
the future ridicule this report may
receive,
yet I
write what I saw. In short, the twins seemed to be holding hands. There
occurred between them, obvious and coordinated efforts. After the first
presented his head, then shoulder, body, and slithered into my grasp, all
except for one arm, which was a very solid structure unlike a human neonate, I
could not free the limb. It seemed, somehow, to be stuck? I was not sure. The
surrogate began to hemorrhage massively: the violent gush of blood indicating
assured mortal outcome. Blinking, wiping his eyes with his exposed, webbed fist,
the
first born
focused on mine. Then writhed, I
thought, like a thin-headed fish-form adult just up from a long nap. Already,
it had the proportions of a lanky man—not the softened, rounded features
I expected. I fine-tuned my position in the room: my dominant hand on a rolling
cart spread with items that were, I would soon realize, superfluous. An eerie
economy of movement became apparent. Bracing, the neonate pulled, feet lodged
like a man hauling hard on a rope—upon what structure I was uncertain—within
the birth canal. The bleeding worsened. A second gush (amniotic fluids, I
assumed) presented from the birth canal. The external neonate released its
steely hold, dropping free. Inside the womb something rolled. I could only
picture what a crocodilian does, having clamped down upon its prey, winding
violently in the water, rending and twisting, until broken bones and earned
tissues are free to gulp or tuck beneath a log to rot. I hesitated—as any
man of learning would in my place—to slide my hand within. Ridiculous
thoughts seized me. My perspiration was blinding. I stepped away for a moment
to clear my vision with a cloth. To my astonishment, (I had looked away for
just a few moments) when I looked back, the second birth was well underway.
This was not the slim, dense head of the second twin: it was the huge, slick,
unmolded head of the human neonate. I recognized structures, although my brain
worked hard to correct the sights to some more expected. Thus, initially, I
neglected to identify the intact
caul which
enveloped
the neonate. The child appeared an opaque grub: a pupa—a chrysalis. The
sac had been passed, handed out,
intact:
the child within. Never had I seen such an alien-like being. The child’s grim
face shone through, tinted a grayish-red beneath the amniotic membrane. The sac
and fluids distorted his perfect features to the grotesque. He squirmed, a
shoulder-less grub encased in film. I took a step closer. It was evident that I
must break the bag. However, I didn’t …
From
the much
larger hole that had yawned open, things evolved quickly. My hyperopia required
a sudden back-peddling to appreciate the event. The third neonate, second twin,
arrived the most easily. It dove from the shredded pelvis like a salmon, but
landed as easily as a mantis, limbs put immediately and deftly to work. It is
futile to deny the coordinated efforts of the first and
last
born
: the twins. They twisted to view their companion. One knelt. They
pulled the bag from their
ward,
slicing it with their
needle-sharp … dare I say claws? …
then
peeled the bag
off, rolling the wet boy to a dry area. They rubbed and stimulated him. The
human child pinked up, responding to the treatments I myself hesitated to
provide. Sans signs of life, the gestational surrogate no longer had needs, nor
could provide for any, so I lit a cigarette and circled the carnage to wait for
my steadier hands to return. Soon enough, after milk was on to warm from the
freezer, I returned to the trio, only to find my hands trembling in a way that
fatigue alone could not explain. The human neonate bawled for a short moment,
then covered his eyes with one arm. The twins remained soundless. They had torn
apart the amniotic sac of the human child and—with puffed-out
throats—were swallowing it. They were born with teeth, yet seemed
inclined to swallow their bounty whole. The serpentine movements of their necks
aided their efforts to consume the tissues, yet they paused, fearlessly, to
regard me as one might an intruder. I approached the third with the milk. They,
the twins, have two sets of eyelids. Nictitating membranes. With muscular
upper-GI peristalsis, each pulled the jelly-like curtain down his throat,
then
yawned—resting his unblinking gaze upon me. They
watched my movements as I encouraged the fully human appearing (I’d been unable
to examine him) neonate to latch onto the bottle I had brought. He would not.
The room filled with a melancholy croaking, as if small ducks were able to roar
with the rhythm of a meadow full of locusts.

I
pine for an assistant. These early days are always the worst.

Fresh
from the autopsy, I’ve realized that indeed, the woman had suffered uterine
hemorrhage; even with extra lighting and time, I was unable to identify oddly
missing landmark tissues.

Now
I turn to the neonates—bundled in a row in the bassinet—and witness
two tiny sets of open eyes; the twins’ pupils are a most subtle oblong shape.
They watch me like sentinels. Each twin has his mouth open under the heating
lamp as if basking. They breathe in unison—more slowly by far than the
third—their bellies swelling with their efforts at deep, coordinated
breaths.

They
are, it would appear, hissing.

R
yker watched as The
One Who Was Different closed the journal.

For
a moment he studied his hands.

“So
we did have webs. Wolfgang lied.”

“About
everything?” Rickard asked, running a finger between his own toes.

“Not
everything” Their pale companion said, studying the shelves. “He isn’t that
creative. He had to use the truth sometimes.”

The
open cabinet was full of jars. Each receptacle neatly organized and labeled.
Five huge jars sat heavily on the bottom shelf, which was obviously reinforced
to make direct contact with the concrete floor. Each vat was capable of
accommodating a large breed of dog, or perhaps a baboon. Smells oozed past each
rubber seal.

Rickard,
too, flared his nostrils and stood open mouthed, bulging skin beneath his jaws
to create a bilge. His brother had found a technique to taste each scent.
Identifying and isolating the chemical smells of the preservative fluid, the
common odors were ignored. The first-born twin concentrated on the deeper
smells—those from the hairs on preserved arms and sweat glands. The musk
from a primate’s neck, folded at an odd but serene angle. Medium sized, sodden
specimens inhabited the second shelf, two jars deep. Urea wafted from that row;
each occupant was covered in fur. A few were sleek and held the tangy smell of
yeast. Some had patches of scales. One smelled like cold metal and salt. Ryker
mimicked his brother and found that the throat technique made it easier to
isolate the various odors.

They looked … smelled … familiar.

The
smallest vessels—sized to hold mammals as large as Norway rats or as
small as fledgling sparrows—were perched above eye level, even for The
One Who Was Different, on the third shelf. The fourth shelf contained books.

With
a hand over his nose, the taller boy appeared to struggle with the smells.
Ryker wondered if the pale child could smell what they did. The reasons he and
his twin could smell so acutely floated inside the jars.
Inside
the cells of the lifeless things.
Their pickled
nuclei—chromosomes—DNA contained the reason. When their creator had
meddled, he’d done so with blind ineptitude: a day-old puppy attempting to
facet a diamond with his scrambling dewclaws. Both the incidental accidents
floating, unblinking—and those peering into the jars—were an
unlikely result.

Life found a way.

Fleetingly,
Ryker thought,
Horses?

No—not
horses. The question flickered by, one of many unlikely thoughts. Ryker panned
the preserved menagerie, categorizing, focusing on visible differences,
then
watched The One Who Was Different. He’d found their
bag. Opening the buckles without pause, he sorted through its contents. He told
them not to touch the trigger of the pistol … then he told them why. He added
the geneticist’s other journals to the first two,
then
removed the oily rag from the Luger, smoothing the cloth flat on the floor with
his palms. Deftly, as though preparing for a feast, he placed an obsidian
scalpel to one side of his surgical field. Then he slid a medium-sized jar from
the second shelf. Twisting the lid loose, he winced at the noxious
preservative. He didn’t, however, hesitate to pull out the animal inside.
Rickard, who’d been leafing through textbooks, stooped to watch as The One Who
Was Different placed the carcass on its back and patted the unknown fluid
preservative—the not-water—from the skin of the corpse, then
massaged its tissues until it looked less fetal and more flat.

He
slit the creature open with the sharp, black knife. All three of them peered
inside. With nimble movements, the warm, white boy continued. Ryker watched the
face of their companion.

His eyes moved so fast
.

He
learned with such speed that before he had seen the entire inside of the
animal, Ryker was sure the boy knew what he would discover next. The pallid
genius made eye contact with him, and Rickard also, frequently.

He’d finished the dissection for them so
they could understand it.

It
was a dissection that would take a team of top surgeons with specialized
equipment days to accomplish. The volcanic glass blade ran along a skull
suture, then another. In the hands of the child, the shard danced around a
foramen and the sinus turbinates were bared … the cribriform plate set aside.
The sphenoids came next—arranged neatly—like pale Rorschach
bone-wings.

T
he anemic young
Aryan’s hands felt frozen. He could see his breath, but not theirs. He worked
the blade. Slowly, as he removed more bone, the pain of his brief existence
became … quiet. He eased a fingertip inside the brain and closed his eyes.

For the first time since his birth, he
felt no pain
.