Working for the High Patriarch had given Cornelius insight into the role Zaius had played in maintaining Ape City’s balance between science and religion. Under Sabian, that balance was askew, and war had been declared on the unknown.
Meanwhile, Cornelius was growing tired of his role as a glorified errand ape. Fumbling with the scrolls cradled in his arms, he pushed open the door.
“Newly arrived from the Ministry of Legislation,” he proclaimed.
“Good, good,” Sabian replied, quill to scroll.
“And, sir, just a reminder.” Cornelius set the scrolls down on Sabian’s desk. “You have a meeting with the Office of Animal Affairs in half an hour.”
“Thank you, Cornelius,” Sabian said as he scribbled. “You’ve maintained my schedule and carried out every task I’ve given you since I took office.” He examined his assistant with a rarely used appreciative eye. “Do you know how pleased I’ve been with your performance?”
“Oh,” Cornelius responded. “Thank you for that, sir.”
“The abolishment of the caste system was something I did not approve of, I assure you,” Sabian said. “But you aren’t like other chimpanzees. I can see that.” The High Patriarch’s eyes became slits. “Are you sure you don’t have any orangutan in your bloodline?”
The question was a trick, of course—being a hybrid would drop Cornelius much lower on the totem pole.
“Quite certain, sir,” he said confidently. Through studying family heirlooms and other artifacts, Cornelius had traced his chimpanzee lineage as far back as the turn of the millennium. Back then, his ancestor Augustus had governed the now-forgotten faraway province of Hathor. He knew better than to bother explaining, though.
“Well,” Sabian continued unabated, “other chimpanzees need to be more like you. It’s time they started contributing more to society.” Sweating, he finished scrawling on the scroll he held, and handed it off. “I intend to present this at the next High Council meeting.”
Cornelius’s eyes darted across the High Patriarch’s newest reform. By order of chapter 13 verse 8 of the Articles of Faith… against an ungodly enemy during a time of war… to protect and serve Ape City and all the governed provinces of Simia…
“You’re initiating a draft.” He was confused. Aside from those involved in city maintenance, most of the able-bodied gorillas had already committed themselves to the war effort. “I don’t understand, sir. The gorillas—” Cornelius stopped, realizing that Sabian was staring into the corner. He wasn’t paying attention, or wanted it to appear that way.
Cornelius clenched his jaw.
It wasn’t gorillas he was after.
He wants chimpanzees.
“You’re…” Sabian said, and he sputtered. “You’re… an example to which… the other chimps should aspire.” Staring strangely, Sabian looked confused. Something was wrong.
“Are you alright, sir?”
“I,” Sabian stammered, “I can’t feel—” Clutching his arm, Sabian stood. His breathing had become erratic. The minister stumbled back and fumbled forward before doubling over. Scroll cases were struck from the desk like bowling pins. Others on the floor fell like dominos. An awkward Cornelius caught the patriarch and lowered him gently.
“Minister?”
Sprawled over the discarded scrolls, the old orangutan passed out, Minister Sabian was having a heart attack.
Cornelius’s mind raced.
If Sabian died, Zira’s plan to rally for social change might stand a chance. Hestia was gone for the day. The offices were empty. Other than the museum guards in the adjacent hall, there was no one around.
All I have to do is let him die.
He called for the guards. “The minister is ill,” he shouted. “Get a doctor, fast!” Two gorillas nearly ran into each other as they scrambled for the door. He lay on the floor with the minister’s head propped in his lap. Sabian’s breaths were short and shallow.
“Hold on, Minister,” Cornelius said. “Help is on the way.”
* * *
Groom Lake, Nevada
Area 51
1968
The hermetically sealed sleep chamber hummed with power. Inside lay its sole occupant, a chimpanzee wearing a space suit. Light changed and colors strobed as the ape’s face morphed from icy blue to earth tones. Its soft rhythmic breath became deep and fast. Warmth returning to its extremities, its eyes fluttered wide. Quietly, the glass wall slid open.
Unbuckling its harness, the ape called “Jerry” sat up, swung its legs over the side, and leapt to the floor. It raised its arms over its head in victory. These actions were met with muted applause.
Dubbed “crystal coffins” by the astronaut corps, the hibernation pods were in their final trials. There had been some problems—including instances where the test subject never woke up. Hasslein and Stanton had brought in Kriegstein from NASA to assist, and they had finally worked out the kinks.
Kriegstein had suggested testing the devices on chimps, instead of people. “We’ve been sending test apes into space for years,” he had noted, “so why not test the pods on them, as well? An astronaut is far too valuable a financial investment to risk on unproven machinery.”
Financial investment, Taylor had mused. It’s good to know how much the big brains care.
Under the new program, there had been four chimpanzee fatalities, two cases of coma, and one ape that had been driven insane, but their sacrifice had paved the way for ANSA to take the pods into space.
In the room with Jerry, Dr. Stanton awarded the chimp a banana. The scientist took the ape by the hand and led him to the examining table where medical doctors would scrutinize him. There were five witnesses behind a mirrored glass wall—Dr. Hasslein, Commander Robert Marx and Majors George Taylor, Donovan Maddox, and Alan Virdon. It was a room of the elite.
Hasslein’s expensive yet ill-fitting suit contrasted with the other men’s fatigues. Standing by the window, he spoke.
“As you can see, gentlemen, the earlier issues have been addressed.” He smiled. “The hibernation pods are ready for final human trials.”
“Who goes first?” Alan asked.
“Testing them in a lab is one thing, Doctor,” Marx commented. “What we really need is to know how they work up there.” He pointed, and Taylor and the other astronauts agreed. It had been a year since ANSA’s last test flight. Rowark’s death put the program on pause as they sought to find out why the GDM drive had failed to shut down. The pilots were all champing at the bit.
“Funny you should say that, Commander.” The voice came from behind them as Colonel Theodore Lazenbe left the door open when he entered. Hasslein cleared his throat and straightened his jacket.
“That would be my cue to leave.” He slid past the colonel.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Lazenbe said. As the door shut, he said one word: “Assignments.” At that the men gathered around him, eager to move to the next phase. “Juno mission is a go,” he continued. “Officially we are taking the direct route to Mars, but if successful there, it’s a straight shot to Jupiter to plant the flag before the Reds do.”
While the Secession War at home grew more intense, the global Cold War had devolved into a game of tag. It was a space race to see who could claim what in the solar system. NASA would plant a flag on the moon next year, and ANSA was apparently already gunning for the other planets.
What’s next, Taylor wondered, the sun?
One of the men assembled there would lead Juno, and Lazenbe was taking his time saying who. Taylor spoke up.
“Well? We’re waiting.”
Lazenbe scowled. “Marx,” he growled. “You’ve got Juno.”
Robert Marx smiled. Not only would he be the first black man in space, he would be the first to skipper an interplanetary expedition. The others congratulated him warmly.
“Virdon,” the colonel continued, “top brass wants you for the Accelerated Future Corps.”
“I’m sorry,” Maddox responded. “The what?”
“Accelerated Future Corps. Enrolled astronauts will undergo extensive training in the fields of agriculture, engineering, medicine, and technology. They’ll be primed for everything they might need to start life on a new planet. AFC is a five-year program and we’re only taking six applicants.”
“Five years?” Virdon looked unsure.
Lazenbe responded. “We want you to play lead on this, Alan. Bill Hudson and Jeff Allen are being asked in, as well, but with your farming experience, you’re our top candidate. It’s five years, but then it’s a whole new world. Literally,” he added.
Alan nodded. “I’m in.”
Marx patted him on the back.
“Okay,” Lazenbe said. “That’s all I’ve got for now. Dismissed.”
Virdon and Marx saluted. Taylor and Maddox eyed each other before doing the same. The colonel reciprocated. As three of the astronauts filed out of the room, Taylor confronted his long-time commander.
“Theo,” he muttered quietly, “is this some kind of joke? You’re putting Alan in training? He deserves his own mission.”
Lazenbe avoided Taylor’s gaze. “His wife’s expecting.”
“So?” Gillian had given birth to Taylor’s second daughter, Tammy, nearly a year after Jo had been born. “Plenty of us have kids. That’s no reason to—”
“He’s Texan, George.”
Politics. An angry Taylor swatted the idea away. “There isn’t a better man here—”
Lazenbe silenced him. “I know him, and you know him, but NSA isn’t comfortable sending him anywhere out there until this secession mess is straightened out.”
The Secession War continued to divide the country. When Texas announced they were going to start their own space program, the U.S. launched a blitzkrieg on Houston. A combined advance of the Coast and National Guards took back the city and surrounding area with minimum casualties, which was a relief to National Security.
Other campaigns weren’t so successful. As the death toll began to rise on both sides, the U.S. withdrew from all territories except for Houston. As far as the president was concerned, Texans were still Americans, and they didn’t need to be spilling their own blood. Taylor couldn’t argue with that, but the civil rights issue had to be addressed.
Virdon would be relieved his family was safe—likely one of the reasons he agreed to stay Earthside for the next five years. As far as Juno, Marx was the right man for the job.
“Alright,” he accepted. “And what about me? Why the hell am I grounded?”
“You’re not, George,” Lazenbe assured him. “AFC is planning for the future. Juno is the test bed for Hasslein’s new toys.” He smiled. “Juno succeeds, Project Liberty is a go.”
“Then—?” Taylor said.
“First interstellar flight,” the colonel confirmed, “and I want you on it.” Taylor’s crooked mouth grew into a smile of his own. Lazenbe was excited. “Hasslein’s done it, George.” That meant they had a working photon propulsion prototype.
Travel near the speed of light, Taylor thought, then Lazenbe interrupted his musings.
“You just need to help me convince the old man you’re right for the job.”
“Hold on,” Taylor said. “What about Donny?” Maddox had been part of the program since the beginning.
“Donny’s scores are high, but his psych eval is in.” Lazenbe looked disappointed. “He’s lost his edge.”
Maddox had gotten soft, Taylor had seen it.
“Out of respect, I’m recommending him as your second,” Lazenbe said. “Anything happens to you, he’s up.”
That should give him some incentive to come around, Taylor thought. The colonel was looking out for the both of them, and he appreciated that. Maybe their time in Korea still meant something.
“We won’t go into mission prep until Juno gets back, so we’re looking at a two-year window before mission training. For now, I need you to sit tight and look good—and I want you to start by taking some down time.”
Taylor hadn’t left the base since Eddie’s funeral.
Lazenbe gathered his notes.
“See your wife and kids,” he recommended. “Take them to New York. Go sightseeing. See a Broadway play, take a stroll in Central Park. Then come back and impress the hell out of the brass.”
* * *
Central Park wasn’t like the last time he’d visited. There were no cherry blossoms or hot dog stands. Under its dark foliage, the park was lit by glowing lichen. Ghostlike, it had a surreal quality to it that was unlike the Forbidden Zone.
Central Park is broken, Taylor thought.
The gorilla led them into the forest to seek refuge, and they stumbled upon a small abandoned amusement park. Rusted and mostly fused solid, the attractions included a merry-go-round and a swing carousel, a whack-a-mole booth, and a teacup ride—all perched alarmingly close to a fissure and a waterfall that disappeared into ruptured subway and sewer tunnels. Mists obscured the churning waters at the base of the falls, while blue-green fireflies flitted about. It was like being in a storybook.
It’s wonderland—Taylor paused and frowned—and I’m Alice.
Thick, glowing grubs munched on the mulch underfoot. Betting they would be high in protein, Taylor plucked a few of the cucumber-sized larvae and carried them for later. He examined the waterfalls, and noticed a tingling in the air. His arm hairs stood up on their own, and there was a smell on the air—the crisp shock of electricity. Walkways and lattices crisscrossed the torrent of water. From the looks of it, and the gentle hum of generators at work, Taylor guessed that the underground city had to be powered by this cascade. There was some kind of automated hydroelectric plant at play here, unmanned and forgotten.
The inhabitants have reaped the benefits for millennia, he realized. What would happen if it all stopped? With Taylor leading the way, they climbed the teacup ride, hoisting themselves up into one of the elevated saucers. It glowed green in the bluish light, a chip missing and a crack running down its side.
The fungal canopy around the waterfall was also broken. The cavern ceiling above had darkened since their arrival, and Taylor guessed that night must be approaching. With the twilight gone, the cavern ceiling produced a soft glow of its own—remnants of radiation that twinkled and ebbed like the moon and the stars. Peering through the scant branches that surrounded the teacup, he assessed what he saw.
It looked as if someone had picked Manhattan up by its ends and twisted it around like an old rag. Fissures had swallowed much of Midtown and the Lower East Side before slamming shut to pull the Financial District up around and flush with 46th Street.
Is this reality, he wondered, or another illusion? As surreal as it was, he felt certain it was true. This existence fit with what he had encountered from the moment he had arrived in this godforsaken future. The decimated remnants of mankind and the heirs apparent—the apes.
The people who survived this have survived hell on earth, he reflected, looking down at the descendants of those survivors. There appeared to be some kind of funeral procession happening, pale-gray-garbed citizens milling about the streets, following the solemn parade.
Citizens only.
No guards.
None of them came near the forest, as if frightened by it. For the time being at least, he and the ape were safe. Turning to face his unlikely ally, Taylor found himself at a loss for words. The snaggletoothed gorilla spoke first.
“Mungwortt.”
“Excuse me?” Taylor squinted an eye.
“Mungwortt,” the ape repeated, stabbing a thumb at his own chest. “That’s me.” To the astronaut, it sounded like a plant or root. Nevertheless, he reciprocated.
“I’m Taylor.” Mungwortt smiled and waved. The colonel raised his hand halfheartedly and grimaced.
“Who were those other humans?” Mungwortt asked.
“I don’t know,” Taylor pondered. He remembered what Zaius had called him after his trial—a mutant. “How can the appearance of one mutant send you into a
panic?” Taylor had asked. Here was the answer. Just like the flower that he, Dodge, and Landon had found on their trek through the Forbidden Zone.
Where there is one, Dodge had said, there’s another. And another, and another. He was right—there was a whole colony of them, living in the Forbidden Zone. Beneath it.
“They’re some kind of mutation, I suppose,” Taylor offered. “Probably changed by living in this irradiated hellhole.” Taylor considered. “Telepathic mutants.”
“Do they work with the giant brains?”
Taylor furled his brow. “The what?”
Mungwortt spread his arms wide. “The brains. The ones who can make you hurt in the head.” Grasping to try to understand, Taylor decided they must be talking about the same thing. But why would he call them brains…? Then he thought about Messias and the illusory megalopolis, and pointed to his own head.
“They can make you see things that aren’t there, too,” he said. “God knows what else they can do. If we’re lucky, though, we won’t get a chance to find out.”
Mungwortt blinked.
Twice.
Not the brightest bulb in the pack, Taylor guessed.
“Here.” Changing the topic, Taylor passed him one of the eight-inch grubs. “You should eat something.” Mungwortt accepted the bug, but ogled it, looking confused.
“Apes eat vegetables,” he said.
“And I want a hamburger,” Taylor growled, biting into the grub like it was corn on the cob. He waved at the forest around them. “But there are no cows here, the trees are barren, and we’ve got to survive.”
Still Mungwortt stared at Taylor as bug juice dripped off his face. The gorilla looked down at the grub in his own lap. Lifting it, he sniffed it, and took a tentative bite. After a moment of assessment Mungwortt smiled at Taylor and dug in his fangs.
“So, Mungwortt,” Taylor said, “what’s your story?”
Death of the Planet of the Apes Page 24
