Well, almost anything.
He thought about Nova. She’d proven that she was a survivor—he had little doubt she could make it out of the Forbidden Zone. It was the gorillas that worried him. No telling what would happen if they got ahold of her. He had to get out of this place, and find her.
Watch yourself, Colonel Taylor, he warned himself, looking in the mirror. You’re beginning to act like you’re in love with this girl.
He wondered if a primitive like Nova could love—if her mind and heart had the capacity for it. He frowned, and realized he could ask the same thing about himself.
After the failed marriages and broken relationships, he mused, I don’t have much room to criticize.
Still peering into the bedroom mirror, suddenly he saw darkness. After a moment the lights flickered back on. A power outage? Perhaps the city wasn’t as secure as it seemed. Standing, he turned and discovered that clothing had been laid out on the bed.
Must have come in while I was showering. It was a simple gray-white pair of pants and slip-on shoes, along with a same-toned undershirt and tunic. The tunic had a thick mustard stripe down its front, and closed using a pull tie located at the collar. The material was light, but warm.
After wearing a loincloth for so long, it was a welcome change.
* * *
Manhattan, New York
1965
The lights glimmered and car horns blared. Taylor stood on the steps that led down to The Up & Up. He and Donny had a three-day leave and Taylor intended to regret it. Having spent four hours playing pool in a dive in Chelsea, Maddox had already tapped out and headed back to the hotel for the night.
His tie tight, shirt smoothed, and uniform jacket pressed, Taylor was looking for a date. The Up & Up was a demure cocktail bar, a small place tucked away in a storefront cellar in the West Village. It felt more like it belonged in Prohibition times, and that was just fine with him.
Elegance and charm. He smiled. Owned by a veteran, it was a known officers’ hangout in the city. On the weekends, it was a raucous place of laughing, singing, and dancing.
This was 4am on a Tuesday, and The Up & Up was dead and out. While a few civilians played poker at a table in the corner, there was only a single Air Force officer in the bar. He sat in the dimly lit corner and kept to himself. Like Taylor, he wore his uniform and enjoyed his whiskey.
As far as women went, there was only one in the whole joint. A redhead, her chiffon skin was peppered with light flecks of pink lemonade. She wore a hunter-green dress and sipped a sidecar. A silver cross pendant glistened at her neckline. The bar lights low, the only thing the pilot couldn’t make out was her eyes. Sidling up next to her, Taylor took a shot.
“Please, save it, sailor,” the rose-haired woman said. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all, but with what’s going on tonight, I just came here to get drunk.”
“Well then,” he said, “we both came here for the same reason.” Taylor pulled out a stogie. Patting his uniform jacket for matches, he was surprised to find her holding a lit one.
“So,” he said, inhaling deeply, “what’s so terrible?”
Waving the match out, she blinked at him. “You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“It’s coming on again now.” She nodded over the bar. Following her gaze, Taylor regarded the black and white television sitting on a shelf. It was a news report. Taylor could barely make out what the anchorman was saying.
“Amidst news of political assassinations and civil rights riots, the United States now faces its biggest internal conflict since the Civil War.”
The bartender approached.
“Crow, neat,” Taylor ordered. He nodded toward the television. “Turn that up, will you?”
The bartender complied.
“As of midnight, Mountain Time, Texas has seceded from the Union,” the rattled news anchor said. “The state no longer considers itself a part of the United States of America. Nothing of this sort has happened in more than a century. Evoking the spirit of the Civil War, Texas Governor Beauford Trotter Senior read a statement—”
As the picture shifted to the governor’s press conference, the bartender handed over a glass. Taylor downed it in one gulp and motioned for another.
“The United States has lost its way,” Governor Trotter declared in a Texas drawl. “This secession will protect the ideas and beliefs of our founding fathers, which we feel are no longer represented by the federal government. In no way do we urge—”
There was a commotion behind him. Taylor stretched across the bar and cranked the volume himself. Tinny speakers blared. By this time the anchorman had returned.
“—while some Justices of the Supreme Court claim secession has precedence under constitutional law, others have deemed the move illegal. Upon being made aware of the declaration, the president immediately issued a warning to Governor Trotter, instructing him to back down or face the consequences of military action.” He paused and read from a sheet of paper. “This morning, national guard troops mobilized in Louisiana, and faced open opposition on the Texas border—”
First the mess in Vietnam, Taylor thought angrily. And now this? What a load of—
“—assassination of President Kennedy in Dallas may be related to—”
What the hell is wrong with people?
“Stop it,” Taylor heard. “Leave me alone.”
It was the redhead. Taylor turned. While he’d been watching the news, the Air Force officer in the shadows had moved in on the girl. A small man, his face was stubbly and his dark hair was parted to the left. Other than that, in this light all Taylor could see was a jerk.
“Come on.” The guy fell all over her. “One date,” he rasped. She recoiled and he yanked her arm, dragging her off her stool. “You ever see the Statue of Liberty at night?” he slurred. “You’ll love it.”
“Okay,” Taylor growled. Slapping his palm on the gentleman’s shoulder, he whirled him around. “The lady said—”
He blinked.
It was Eddie Rowark.
“Eddie!”
After Japan, there had been a few letters between them, then life had gotten in the way. Taylor had heard Eddie was a captain in the Air Force, but never bothered to follow up. He grinned.
“How the hell are—”
He didn’t see the fist coming. The next thing he knew, he was lying across the broken remains of a bar stool. Taylor had one thought.
Are you goddamn kidding me?
Rowark didn’t give him time to ask it aloud. The captain grabbed his bottle of whiskey and came at him swinging.
“My girl, my booze,” he slurred. “Go get your own!” While the civilians in the corner watched dispassionately, not even bothering to move, the bartender reached around the bar and tugged the woman behind it. Taylor chopped Rowark’s shoulder and swept his leg. As the short man went down, he pulled Taylor on top of him. An embarrassing mess of limbs, the two men rolled across the floor.
As Taylor fought for dominance, Eddie sucker-punched him in the ribs.
Twice.
Three times.
Taylor wheezed. As Rowark went for a fourth, Taylor smashed his fist across his friend’s face. Rowark’s head snapped back and hit the floorboards.
He blinked.
“George?” he asked. “George Taylor?”
His fist drawn for a second wallop, Taylor hesitated.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His eyes glazed, Rowark looked around the bar. “We ain’t still in Japan, are we?” But before Taylor could answer, he was out. As Taylor untangled himself from his sprawling friend, the bartender reached for the phone.
“No!” Taylor scrabbled for his wallet. “No police, please.” His cash spilled over the bar. “Can you let him sleep it off?”
The bartender regarded the money, and the uniforms. He nodded and replaced the receiver. The civilians went back to their card game.
Propped against the bar, Taylor slid to the floo
r. Spotting his mangled stogie, he snatched it up and planted it firmly between clenched teeth. It had gone out. Again, he patted himself for matches that he didn’t have.
Glass of whiskey in one hand and an already lit match in the other, the rose-haired woman joined him. Taylor puffed at her light to limited results—the harried Havana had seen better days.
Just like Eddie, he mused.
“Friend of yours?”
“Long time.” Taylor dragged.
The woman scoffed. “I’d hate to see you with people who don’t like you.”
He laughed. It hurt. He grinned through gritted teeth.
“With them it usually involves bullets.”
“Gillian,” she said.
“George,” he replied, “and that’s Eddie.”
Ignoring Eddie, she looked him over. His ribs were definitely bruised and he had a nasty cut on his forehead, but otherwise he’d live.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Eddie’s got a drinking problem.”
“I can see that.”
“Otherwise, he’s a good guy.” The Solomons flashed across his mind. “We went through hell together.”
“War?” she asked.
Taylor exhaled. “Second one.”
Gillian plucked the cigar from his mouth and dipped her handkerchief in whiskey.
“Hey, what the hell are you—”
“Shut up,” she said. “I’m a nurse.” She dabbed the booze-soaked cloth on his cut face.
“That stings, dammit!”
“Of course it does,” she argued. “You want it to get infected?”
Their eyes met. So did their lips.
Gray, Taylor realized. Her eyes are gray.
“You want to get out of here?” he asked.
Gillian smiled. “What about him?”
Rowark snored loudly on the bar floor.
“He’s a big boy,” Taylor replied. Gillian helped him to his feet. Grabbing a napkin, he jotted down a note.
How’d you like to
be an astronaut, Eddie?
He added a number and stuffed the scribbled napkin into Rowark’s jacket pocket. Then he turned to the redhead.
“He can make his own way home,” Taylor said, and together they moved toward the door. As he shuffled along beside her, he reflected on the evening. He’d had a knock-down, drag-out fight with an old friend, and the country was shot to hell.
But I did get the girl.
* * *
Unlike Manhattan, this gleaming city was automated. From plumbing to sanitation, defense to power, everything was handled by machines.
A technological wonder with no one to enjoy it.
From their vantage point high in the center tower, Taylor and Messias had an amazing view of the city below, and of the Forbidden Zone beyond—with only the occasional low-hanging cloud to partially obscure their view. All mirrors and polish, the city beamed in the midday sun.
“What happened?” Taylor asked.
“There was a great war,” Messias said. “Long ago. Most people died, and the earth was left scorched. Burned.”
Nuclear war. Just as Taylor had known in his heart.
“My ancestors never discovered for sure who started it,” the boy continued, “but they managed to survive the holocaust under the protection of technology.” He gestured to the desert. “Outside the city walls, apes grew more intelligent while humans grew less so. Both, however, were just warmongering primitives.”
He looked up at Taylor. “In the city, things were different. Originally, there were human and ape castes here. Each blamed the other for the destruction outside. Being civilized, their leaders instituted gladiatorial games. Their champions fought to keep the population’s anger in check.”
Civilized? To Taylor, that seemed far from the truth.
“Eventually, the key to survival was determined to be a synthesis of the two races, and our scientists genetically bonded them as one.”
Taylor had read articles about genetic engineering, some of which were written by Dr. Hasslein’s own father. There had been communist experiments back in the twenties that never bore any fruit.
Thank God.
He remembered stories about crude attempts to inseminate Russian women with chimpanzee and orangutan genetic material. Luckily, man of the past failed. Future man, it would seem, succeeded.
“We were safe,” Messias continued, “until the monsters that live beyond the desert laid siege on the gleaming city. The creatures were relentless. They killed everyone.”
“These… creatures.” Taylor trod carefully. He didn’t want to upset the boy, but he needed to know what he was up against. “What are they?”
“I do not know.” Messias shook his head. “Neither ape nor man, that much is certain. When they first attacked, I hid. Whenever they came back, the sentinels would lock me in the grand hall for my protection. As a result, I am the sole survivor of the last attack—the city’s entire population was wiped out. All that remains are me and the drones.”
Messias was repeating himself.
Nervous, Taylor pondered, or something else?
The boy smiled at him. “And you, of course.”
“What direction did the assault come from?” Taylor scanned the city below, looking for evidence of an attack. “I don’t see any damage to the buildings.”
“That is because of the sentinels,” the boy replied. “They repair everything and bury the dead. They take care of everything.”
The sentinels. They buzzed about to and fro, on errands that Taylor couldn’t even begin to guess at. They were deadly, they were efficient, and they were, well, robots.
“Back in the seventies, something like this—all this—was science fiction.” He marveled at the robots. “Who made them?”
“I did.” The boy was serious. “When the city was attacked, I designed the sentinels to protect us.” Messias hung his head low. “I was too late.”
Taylor had to change the subject. “How many people used to live here?”
“I do not know… thousands?” Messias waved his hand. “No. Millions.” It was impossible to tell if the answer was the product of a child’s exaggeration, or if there was some truth to it. He had to remind himself that Messias was only a twelve-year-old boy—no matter how much of a genius he might be, he was still only a child.
“Are you sure there are no other survivors?”
“Yes.” Messias looked annoyed. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
Taylor cracked a grin. “It’s a big city. Maybe in one of the smaller buildings, or—”
Without preamble, a warning klaxon blared.
“Perimeter breach!” Messias warned. The boy took off toward the main hall. Taylor and two of the sentinels with them followed. The stone doors of the grand hall ground shut just as they scrambled into the room. The two bots stopped at the doorway, swiveled, and dropped into defensive mode. The exterior windows closed, as well—giant stone slabs slid down from the balcony above to seal the room.
Then, they were in darkness. The throne light throbbed dully, the only illumination in the entire chamber. Messias rushed to it and cowered behind the great seat. Taylor stood over him.
“Messias—” the astronaut started.
“Listen!” the boy commanded.
Then Taylor heard it. Faint at first, but slowly growing in volume. Muffled explosions. The sizzle of a sentinel’s electric beam. The rending of metal… and a howl.
A strange haunting echo of a howl.
It was inhuman.
It wasn’t even simian.
Taylor sat next to Messias and put his hand on the hybrid’s shoulder. Messias clung to him, his eyes filled with tears, and the two waited. The sounds grew closer. Louder.
Then, they were gone.
The doors to the hall slid open. Outside, sentinels hovered about, cleaning up the remains of their busted brethren. No longer frightened, Messias smiled.
&nb
sp; “Repelled.”
He took Taylor by the hand and led him back into the hall. There the windows were opening again, revealing a pleasant late afternoon sky.
Have we been locked up that long? Taylor wondered. What had seemed like less than an hour had apparently been all afternoon.
“Now,” Messias said, and he swung Taylor’s arm as they walked, “I have answered enough questions—it is your turn.”
“Oh.” Dazed, Taylor focused on the boy’s words. “What do you want to know?”
“I have never been outside the city,” the boy said. “I was always taught the world was only a desolate wasteland. What lies beyond the Forbidden Zone?” he asked. “I want to know everything about your world.”
Taylor shook his head. Be careful what you wish for, he lamented.
“Okay, Messias, I’ll tell you, as incredible as it may seem. I’ll tell you because…” Taylor swallowed his pride. “Because I need your help.”
The boy smiled.
CHAPTER 15
BABOONS AND BRINKMANSHIP
Cornelius groomed himself yet again. He sat in the antechamber of the Ape City municipal administrative complex, adjacent to the great hall of the Zaius Museum. It was his first day as deputy to the Office of the Minister of Science, and he faced the biggest challenge of his career—an interview with High Patriarch Sabian.
The job, of course, was already his, sanctioned by Dr. Zaius and ratified by the High Council. Still, as there would be no official Minister of Science in place during Zaius’s hiatus, he would report to Sabian, and that was who he had to impress.
The doctor was counting on him to keep things in check while he was gone. To remind the council that science should not be secondary to faith—that they go hand in hand. To remind them of the progress they had made as a society, while maintaining their innocence. Not to take too many steps back, or too many steps forward.
Strange how quickly a common threat can turn an enemy into a friend, he thought. Just a short week ago, Zaius had wanted him and Zira hung for heresy.
“Deputy Cornelius!”
His name called by the minister’s secretary, Cornelius pulled the hem of his tunic straight one last time and trotted into what had formerly been Zaius’s sanctum. Though the doctor had not yet departed, he had taken some well-earned time to spend with his family, and so had allowed Sabian to utilize the office. This did not sit well with Cornelius.
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