Designated Probe Seven, she was one of the smaller models of spacecraft Taylor had seen in the big hangar at Groom Lake. Sitting abreast in her cramped cockpit were three astronauts—Majors George Taylor, Edward Rowark, and Alan Virdon. Farm-raised in Jackson County, Texas, Virdon had lived in Florida for most of his adult life. A fair and caring man who believed in equality, he found himself torn between his family and his country. Virdon avoided the topic of secession, and for that Taylor respected him.
Excited as they were, the three men tried to ignore the fact that the large booster to which they were strapped was actually a modified intercontinental ballistic missile. The Minuteman ICBM was a cost-cutting measure that Stanton had cooked up.
If there’s one thing we have plenty of, Taylor scoffed, it’s missiles.
* * *
A few months after NASA had suffered the loss of Apollo 1, the civilian space program continued with the unmanned Apollo 4. What the public didn’t know was that there still was an Apollo 2 and 3, and they had fallen under the umbrella of ANSA. One of the two agencies was going to land on the moon, and Capitol Hill hadn’t yet decided which one.
The space race was in-house, as well.
Apollo 2 had gone off without a hitch. Probe Six had orbited the planet for three days while testing various sensors and tracking devices. She had quietly deployed a spy satellite over communist airspace before gliding home and being snatched out of the air by the Stratofortress. She had been crewed by Commander William Hudson and Lieutenants Maryann Stewart and Judy Franklin—all three transfers from NASA. That flight had made Stewart and Franklin the first American women in space—though the public records didn’t acknowledge it.
The ANSA Apollo missions were top secret—the masses didn’t know, and they didn’t need to know.
At her flight ceiling now, the massive B-52 leveled off. Aboard Apollo 3, Taylor, Virdon, and Rowark made final preparations. Their mission was simply to orbit the planet, but at speeds man had yet to achieve. While Taylor and the others prepped in Probe Seven, Maddox and Hasslein ran mission control from the Stratofortress.
“Major Taylor,” Hasslein sent as a typed message, “switch to a private channel, please.” A frustrated Taylor punched it in.
Don’t tell me we’re going to have to abort, he thought.
“Go ahead, Doctor.”
“Allow me to be the bearer of good news,” Hasslein said. “As of one hour, fifteen minutes ago you are the father of a baby girl. Congratulations.”
Taylor beamed. While Gillian’s time was near, he’d had no idea she had gone into labor.
“My wife?” he asked.
“Recovering well.” Hasslein continued, “Colonel Lazenbe wanted me to extend his well wishes and tell you that upon completion of this mission you are officially on family leave.”
A daughter. Gillian had gotten pregnant almost immediately after they were married. Taylor had wanted to name the child after Joe Tagliante, Rowark’s wingman from the war. He had been so certain it was going to be a boy they hadn’t even considered girl names.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Taylor switched channels.
Rowark and Virdon looked at him expectantly. Taylor simply looked to the blue skies ahead. Virdon broke first.
“Well?” he asked.
Taylor’s crooked smile crept in. “How does a girl named Jo grab you?”
Congratulations all around, the men smiled and laughed. On the radio, Maddox chimed in.
“Just don’t ask me to babysit.”
“As soon as we land,” Rowark asserted, “cigars and drinks are on me.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Taylor could use a good stogie about now.
Next time, he decided, I’ll stash one aboard. He was certain the brass would love that.
“My board is green, George,” Maddox signaled from the plane’s command cabin. “You are good for launch.”
“Copy that, Motherbird,” Taylor responded. He nodded to Rowark.
“Launch sequence primed. Booster function nominal,” Rowark announced. “Stand by for the burn.”
Three seconds later Apollo 3 disengaged from the Stratofortress. Taylor, Virdon, and Rowark were thrown back in their seats. Falling some twenty feet before her ICBM booster kicked in, Probe Seven soared toward outer space.
* * *
As the third stage rocket fell away, Probe Seven and her experimental payload fell into a lazy circle around the planet.
“Orbit achieved,” Virdon said, and he smiled. Loose items in the cockpit drifted past. Weightless, the astronauts were held in their seats by their harness belts.
“You are a little out of sync, Apollo 3,” Mission Control said. “Sending you new coordinates.”
“Four plus oh-seven-niner. Course corrections input,” Virdon said.
“Thrusters firing,” Rowark reported.
As Probe Seven spun on her axis, Taylor drank it in. The black void stretched above them, the teal of the Earth below. On the curved horizon lay a band of azure, the sky itself. Up above the world so high, George felt peace. Serenity—but he wasn’t here to sightsee. He was here to break some speed records.
And then home to my wife and daughter, he mused. Family hadn’t meant that much to him until he had one of his own. Maybe there’s something here worth living for, after all, he reflected.
“Ready to engage the GDM drive, Motherbird.”
“Acknowledged, Apollo 3,” Maddox replied.
With the pull of a lever, the “warhead” housing of the ICBM broke away to reveal her secret cargo. A sleek cylindrical tube attached to her stern, the Gas Dynamic Mirror fusion drive system was a first step toward achieving Hasslein’s ultimate goal—photon propulsion. If the GDM worked, ANSA would leave the moon to NASA. They would instead use the GDM drive to go to Mars and Jupiter—and Hasslein would have the data he needed to make interstellar travel a reality.
“Plasma is primed,” Virdon reported. As the energies inside the reactor heated up, the exhaust nozzle at the end of the GDM opened. Magnetic tapes whirled in the cockpit as the computer made its final calculations.
“Temperature nominal,” Rowark reported. “GDM is go.”
“Begin ignition countdown,” Taylor ordered. “Visors down.” The three men closed the faceplates on their helmets. Each of them activated his own independent air supply.
“Motherbird, we are go.” The Roman god Apollo lifted his bow and shot an arrow across the stars. That arrow was Probe Seven. Sizzling between two mirrors, ionized gas spewed from her exhaust. Her fusion reactor blazed.
The ship shook as gravity grappled with them. Strapped to their command chairs, the three astronauts spun around the world. The Earth lay far beneath their feet.
“That’s .00037 speed of light!” Virdon announced enthusiastically. While the number was only a fraction of Hasslein’s goal, it was still thirteen times faster than anything man had ever flown—in space or otherwise. Previous missions had orbited the planet once every hour and a half. At this rate, Probe Seven was doing it every seven minutes.
“Well done, Apollo 3,” Hasslein radioed. “That’s enough for today. You may disengage GDM drive.”
“Roger that, Motherbird,” Taylor complied.
“George,” Rowark said. “We have a drive malfunction.”
“What is it?”
“The baffle plates—they’re stuck in the open position.”
Taylor turned to Virdon. “Can we shut the reactor down?”
“Stand by.” Virdon punched the shutdown sequence into the computer. “Program is not responding.” The drive wouldn’t disengage.
“Motherbird,” Taylor said, “we have a problem.”
* * *
Long moments passed while back on the Stratofortress Hasslein and Maddox conferred with their brain trust. When they finally came back on, all three pilots jumped.
“Listen carefully, George,” Maddox said. “You need to eject the GDM.”
“You want us to throw away
our engine,” Taylor said. “While we are at speed?”
“Apollo 3,” Dr. Hasslein again. “There is a considerable risk. However, if you do not—”
Taylor cut him off. “Understood, Motherbird.”
As Maddox and Hasslein fed them the computer codes, and they prepared to act, Taylor looked to both Virdon and Rowark.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “if you have any last words, now’s the time.” After a wordless pause, they nodded, and all three men braced themselves.
“Alright. Running drive ejection sequence.” Taylor punched the command into the controls and counted down. “Three… two… one…” All three astronauts closed their eyes.
“Eject!”
Nothing happened. Probe Seven continued to spiral around the world. Taylor entered the code again, but still there was no change.
“Negative response, Motherbird.”
“We are checking it, Apollo 3,” Maddox said. “Stand by.”
* * *
When the radio squawked to life again, this time it was Dr. Hasslein.
“Apollo 3,” he said, “you are going to have to open the secondary bypass and pull the release manually.” As Hasslein talked him through it, Rowark unbuckled himself and climbed behind the command chairs. He soon had the access panel open.
“I can’t see inside,” he said. “Stand by.” No matter how he tried, his helmet got in the way. “The hell with this.” Rowark removed his helmet and stuck his head inside.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, “I see it.” As instructed, he reached behind the bulkhead and tried to turn the mechanism clockwise. It wouldn’t budge. “I need some help here.”
“Take command,” Taylor told Virdon. Turning over the controls, he unbuckled himself, removed his own helmet, and slid in next to his friend. Rowark’s helmet floated past. Taylor dug his arm in deep. “I got it.” Together they rotated the device until it locked into place. Then they cranked the release lever into position.
“Brace yourselves!” Taylor ordered. Low to the cabin floor, he looked at Rowark and nodded. Taking hold, Rowark pulled.
No effect.
“Let me do it,” Taylor demanded.
There was still nothing. The two men managed to grab the lever together, but at the angle of the access port they had no leverage.
“No good, Motherbird,” Virdon said. “She’s still stuck.”
“Disengage the clamp at junction C,” Hasslein suggested. “That should release the pressure.”
Why the hell did all this have to be so damned complicated? Taylor wondered with growing anger. “Alan,” he ordered. “It’s going to take all three of us.”
Pulling his harness off, Virdon began to float out of his seat. As he did, a frustrated Rowark yanked hard one last time.
The lever clicked.
Outside, explosive bolts blew. Traveling at fantastic speeds, the command capsule was thrown clear. While the GDM barreled on its course, Probe Seven somersaulted across the sky.
Unbuckled, gravity crushed the men within. Taylor, Alan, and Eddie were hurled against the controls. Bashed against one another. Probe Seven plummeted to Earth, her pilots an angry tangle of limbs.
His forehead slick with blood, red lights danced on Taylor’s eyelids.
An angry god, Apollo plucked his arrow from the sky and hurled it into the sea.
* * *
Taylor awoke to banging. At least, it sounded that way to him.
It was a tapping, really. A space-suited man loomed over him, tapping on his faceplate. Seeing Taylor’s eyes flutter, the man pressed their faceplates together and glared at him. With their helmets touching, the glass would carry voices.
“George!” the man shouted. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”
Taylor blinked. His shoulder was sore—that damn World War II injury—and his head was fuzzy. Made it hard to think. There was dried blood on the side of his face, and he was nauseous—it felt to him as if the whole room was bobbing up and down.
Virdon, he realized. I’m talking to Alan Virdon.
“I may have a concussion,” he confessed.
“Hang on,” Virdon assured him, “help is coming.”
The men sat in a dark cloud, punctuated only by the lights on their suits. Taylor heard a clanking sound, and realized that Virdon was trying to release the hatch.
“Still jammed,” he said loudly.
“Where are we?” Taylor muttered. He was strapped to a chair and his helmet was back on.
“Probe Seven, Apollo 3 mission,” Virdon said. “Capsule’s in the water, we’re waiting for pickup.”
Waves. Taylor realized why he felt like they were swaying to and fro—they were. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake.
“Why is it so murky in here—?” Taylor began to ask, but answered himself.
Smoke. There must have been a fire, something behind the walls. The entire cabin was filled with smoke. If we hadn’t had our space suits on…
Taylor’s eyes grew wide. “Eddie?”
Alan just replied, “No.”
Then the thumping of helicopter blades shook the wounded ship. Something clanged hard on the hull, and the hatch cranked open. As light filled the cockpit, the smoke raced for the egress, leaving only a gray haze behind. Someone was shouting at him. He thought it might be Alan again.
It was something important.
It was about staying awake.
As darkness claimed him, Taylor saw his friend, helmetless and slumped in his seat beside him.
“Goddamn it, Eddie.”
* * *
Taylor was a prisoner of the psychedrome. Located deep in the bowels of the gleaming city, the spheroid auditorium was cavernous. As large as it was, the chamber was spartan. Only a small rail-less catwalk extended to the center of the sphere. At its terminus sat an angled table.
Strapped to the table was ANSA astronaut and Air Force Colonel George Taylor.
Psychedelic lights strobed and sublime voices crashed against the room’s mirrored walls. Voices chanted—
“A good person always says yes.
A good person never stops anything.
A good person likes everything that happens.
It is good to be a good person.”
—and then started over again.
He had been under restraint for hours. Now a cloaked figure made his way down the catwalk toward him, his cloak sweeping the floor as he walked. Abruptly, the chanting ceased.
“Messias,” Taylor spoke softly but firmly. “Get me off of this—”
“I am not Messias,” the visitor said.
The voice was definitely wrong. It was throaty, earthen. Taylor strained to get a look at the hooded stranger. He was much taller than the boy. Taller than Taylor, even. His robes were highlighted by a scarlet vest, his features buried in the deep shadows of his cloak.
The man I saw Messias talking to?
“Who the hell are you?”
“I am the Keeper of the Light.” The cloaked man glided around the table. “You will answer my questions.”
Taylor signed and settled in. “Taylor, George. Colonel. American National Space Administration. Service number 0109047818—”
The keeper leaned in, eyes peeking out from behind the heavy hood. Those eyes, however, were on prehensile stalks. There were many of them. Too many. Whatever he was, this thing was no human, ape, or hybrid. It was hideous.
“You will comply.” The Keeper ground his words at him. “This Nova person. She means a lot to you.”
“Nova?” Taylor looked away. He didn’t want to see what else lay beneath those robes.
“Is she your superior?”
“My what?” That made Taylor look again, and the Keeper had his back to the table.
“Do you report to her?”
The line of questioning was ludicrous. An eyestalk slithered out from the hood and peered over the Keeper’s shoulder.
“What the hell are you?” Taylor demanded.
�
��Forgive me,” it said. The Keeper nodded once. Taylor’s body hair stood on end. Then electricity arced through his bones. His nerves simmered and singed.
“Where are you really from?” the Keeper demanded. “Another city? Another continent?” The thing was all eyes, writhing and twisting underneath its cloak. It leaned closer. “Another planet?”
The voices began to chant anew.
A good person always says yes.
The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. It was his own. Lightning leapt through Taylor’s teeth and into his spine. It felt as if his brain was beginning to bake in his skull.
A good person never stops anything.
“Go to hell!” Taylor bellowed. It turned into a shriek. Endorphins flowed and adrenaline pumped. He hadn’t survived the Forbidden Zone just to be electrocuted here.
A good person likes everything that happens.
He jerked his shackles, hard. With a yank and a twist, Taylor ground bone against metal, and he howled. Then his wrist snapped with the wet crunch of fresh celery. That enabled him to slip free of the shackle.
“Stop!” the Keeper commanded. “What are you doing?”
It is good to be a good person.
Ignoring his limp wrist, the astronaut tore at the Keeper’s cloak. The robes flowed past him and fluttered to the bottom of the sphere. As the cloth crossed Taylor’s face, the world changed.
Beneath the cloak was no alien monstrosity.
Beneath it was Messias.
The walls of the psychedrome were no longer mirrored, but rather were smooth and opaque. There were no restraints, and the table that had held him was now a bed.
Before Taylor could react, Messias spoke.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Messias!” Taylor was woozy. Disoriented. “What in the hell—”
“You got real sick,” the boy interjected. “Radiation poisoning. Probably wandered into a radioactive storm in the Forbidden Zone. I had to bring you here for treatment. The psychedrome cleared the radiation from your system. You had a high fever, but I think it broke.”
“I feel fine,” Taylor admitted. He groped his own face and found no burns. Then he grabbed at his wrist. There was no break. Not even strained. In fact, he felt healthier than he had since he crashed in this upside-down future.
Death of the Planet of the Apes Page 20
