Death of the Planet of the Apes

by Andrew E. C. Gaska

  You’re going nowhere, Mr. Taylor, the rotund Adiposo beamed.

  You’re going to tell us about your ape allies, the bushy-browed Caspay added.

  Taylor was a prisoner yet again.

  * * *

  Far from patient, Zira nonetheless gave Cornelius his space. At this late hour, having organized Sabian’s office, they had no viable excuse to still be in here. There was no time left to stall. She sat in the reception area.

  Back at Sabian’s desk, he unfurled the forbidden document and prepared to read it by candlelight. The text was called The Forgotten Scrolls, simply because that was what they were meant to be—maintained by the religious leadership and forgotten by the masses. Originally part of The Sacred Scrolls, reforms had led to their removal from public view. Only high-ranking members of the clergy were privy to them.

  They were not light reading. These were blueprints for building weapons, machines, and more—the kinds of things Dr. Milo would adore. There were prehistoric accounts that told a troubling tale that went further than what Taylor had suggested.

  Man, of course, had been able to speak. Not only had he dominated the planet, but his weapons had nearly destroyed it.

  Taylor hadn’t been from another world. He had come from the past, and returned home to find it transformed into a planet of apes. His world was theirs.

  Their world was his.

  Before man had annihilated itself, a plague brought back from outer space—brought back by astronauts like Taylor—had killed man’s “pets.” Man had taken in the simians. Changed them somehow. Applied science to alter something in them called “genes.” Used them first as pets, then as servants.

  Then as slaves.

  Until one day, some 1,500 years ago, an ape rose.

  An ape who spoke.

  Cornelius squeezed his eyes shut. He had already understood what had made Zaius afraid—that ape would follow in man’s footsteps. But by keeping apes in the dark, the clergy might have inadvertently set them on the same path. War, social inequality, cruelty to animals, and slavery—was it too late for apekind?

  Is the road to self-destruction inherent to all intelligent species? Cornelius wondered. There was much more, but it was too much for one sitting. Rolling the scroll to the end, a list of names caught his tired eyes—one pertaining to The Sacred Scrolls instead of the forgotten ones. Cornelius’s eyes stopped there.

  It was a list of evangelists. Categorized by scroll and verse—and describing who had written what.

  Haristas, Zeno, Jacob… The list went on. All were called lawgivers.

  The Sacred Scrolls didn’t have a single author. They were written over hundreds of years. Even the concept of “one true Lawgiver” had been a lie.

  Zira had been right. The Sacred Scrolls weren’t worth the parchment on which they were written.

  The door to the office crept open. Cornelius looked up.

  “Alright,” he sighed. “What do we do now?”

  Indicating the calendar on Sabian’s desk, Zira smiled and pointed to the next day.

  “Save the date,” she said.

  CHAPTER 23

  AN INQUISITION OF CONSCIENCE

  Groom Lake, Nevada

  Area 51

  1970

  Sneaking into his father’s office was a simple matter.

  Having spent the better part of a decade assigned to Groom Lake, Taylor was familiar with its routines and idiosyncrasies. Garbed in pitch and a balaclava, he had waited until the perimeter patrol had moved past.

  The desert was cool and crisp, the dark blue sky clear and moonlit. Armed with climbing gear, he ascended the big hangar’s exterior ladder and then climbed over to the rounded roof of the administrative building. The seldom-used office was on the second floor, east end. Not the most secure location on the base, the senior Taylor had picked it for its window and desert view. The admiral found the desert air a refreshing change, and as such, often opened his window during meetings. Years earlier, he had confided that making the other officers uncomfortable in the heat gave him an advantage.

  Always the conqueror, Dad. Taylor shook his head. Always looking for the upper hand. Yet tonight that upper hand benefited the son, as well. From the rooftop, Taylor reached over the side and tried the window. Just as he had hoped, the admiral or his secretary had closed it, but hadn’t locked it. He pushed the upper pane down, and slid inside.

  Cautiously Taylor swept the room with his flashlight. The office was sparse, save for a large mahogany desk which dominated the space. Its drawers locked with a key that only the admiral possessed, the desk itself was bare—there were no personal items such as family photos.

  No distractions from work, his father had told him.

  Behind the desk were three flags in a stand—the Stars and Stripes, the Navy flag, and one with the seal of ANSA. Taylor reflected on the country’s flag and its blue starfield. If things continued as they were on the home front, the fifty stars would have to be adjusted to forty-nine.

  He reminded himself why he was here. In the corner of the room, Taylor found the object of his search—a series of file cabinets that were only brought into the office when the admiral was on base. The files were normally kept in the base’s high-security file room, but the admiral insisted on having up-to-date information at his fingertips.

  The drawers sported a combination lock, four digits. Taylor bet that his father’s code would be a date of importance. First he tried the old man’s birthday, as well as his mother’s, and his own. He even tried the date of his mother’s death. All were no-go. Not even the date the Icarus had arrived.

  After a moment’s thought, Taylor tried again—8431.

  August 4th, 1931.

  The day Taylor’s parents were divorced.

  He was in.

  Sure enough, there was a file called Churchdoor. The folder was light, with only two sheets of paper. The first was an oddity—it was mostly blank save for a large letter in the center of the page.

  A

  A cover of some kind, Taylor figured. He expected the second sheet to be a brief on the subject.

  It wasn’t. Instead, it was similar. It held but a single character.

  Ω

  That explained the first one—it wasn’t an “a.” It was the Greek letter for “alpha.” The second one was “omega.”

  “What in hell?” he whispered to himself. Whatever it was, he knew there had to be something more to it. He shone his flashlight through the pages, looking for hidden treasure—perhaps a microdot. Nothing.

  Then it struck him.

  It was a setup.

  “The beginning,” a voice behind him said, “and the end.”

  Taylor twisted around.

  The other man was also dressed in black. Unlike Taylor, he held a suppressed .22 caliber High Standard HDM-S semiautomatic pistol.

  Dropping the file Taylor crouched and shot his leg outward to sweep the man’s legs out from under him. The man tumbled to the floor, Taylor on top of him. The astronaut disarmed the intruder and mashed his knee across his throat. Taking the .22, Taylor cocked it and pointed it at the man’s head. Showing his palms, the intruder surrendered.

  “Who the hell are you?” Taylor hissed. “What are you doing in here?”

  Unable to respond with a knee to the neck, the intruder pointed to his pocket. Taylor reached in and revealed an ID tag. In the dark, all he could make out was the crest of the National Security Agency.

  “NSA?” Taylor loosened his weight on the agent’s throat. “Why are you hiding in here?”

  “Because it’s a trap.”

  The lights flicked on. Military police poured through the doorway. Instantly Taylor dropped the gun.

  “Hands up!” The order came from the man he had fought. “Get up! You’re under arrest!” Taylor’s response, however, was more creative. Standing quickly, he used the open drawer of the file cabinet for balance. Digging deep into the drawer, he scooped up the folders within and hurled them in the
air. As secret files and classified memos rained down on them, he dove for the window.

  The NSA agent tackled him before he could make it. Taylor kicked him off, but it was too late. The MPs' guns were on him.

  “Last warning!” their leader spat.

  With little choice left, Taylor surrendered.

  * * *

  Grand Central Station

  His every limb frozen, Taylor’s muscles were cramping. Gray-garbed figures dragged his paralyzed form from Central Park to the train terminal, finally propping him up in between two stairways which wrapped around tracks 19–11, Lexington Avenue doorway.

  At the summit of the stairs stood a balcony. There Adiposo and Caspay—the two mutant leaders he knew—were joined by three more. A beautiful woman with a blue collar, a dark-skinned man with a yellow one, and a man with a royal purple decoration—he appeared to be the master of this domain. As the others positioned themselves around the leader, Caspay finally opened his eyes and blinked.

  Taylor collapsed to the floor in a heap. Quickly regaining his composure, despite the cramps, he stood and brushed himself off. He refused to stay down before these people. He would not bow, and he would not kneel.

  For a long moment, he stared down his captors. Ironically, their thoughts were not forthcoming. Becoming bored, Taylor spoke first.

  “Okay, how do you do it?”

  Do? The blue-clad woman—Albina—directed her thoughts at him. With an audible deet her reply flooded his mind. Do what, Mr. Taylor?

  “Get inside someone’s head,” he replied. “Make them see and feel things that aren’t real.” Taylor’s face went tight. “Make them hurt.”

  It’s called traumatic hypnosis, Caspay explained.

  An effective deterrent, Adiposo added.

  “No doubt of that,” Taylor admitted. “Now, are you going to tell me who the hell you people are?” It was the woman who responded.

  We are the one reality in the illusion of the universe, she replied. We are the Fellowship and we alone stand before God.

  Religious fanatics, Taylor mused. That explained the upside-down crosses that adorned their clothes. Human, mutant, or ape, Taylor knew nothing was more dangerous than religion. “So why are we here?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you take me back to the gleaming city?”

  As you already suspected, the city was not real, Mr. Taylor, the woman answered. It was an illusion, created by our heterogen.

  “Heterogen?”

  The hybrid child named—

  “Messias,” Taylor stated.

  Yes, she replied, the boy Messias. He could tell that she didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

  “Your, ah, illusions.” Taylor crossed his arms. “Messias was better at it than you.”

  Even power such as ours has its limits, Mr. Taylor. Caspay smiled. Holding an illusion, especially in underdeveloped minds, is extremely difficult. The more barbaric the nature of the recipient, the harder it is to maintain.

  Thus we created Messias, Ongaro continued, a hybrid of ape and mutant.

  The child was designed to deal with the psyches of both primitive apes and unenlightened humans, Albina concluded

  “Unenlightened,” Taylor repeated.

  Yes, Caspay agreed, unenlightened—such as yourself, Mr. Taylor.

  It was hoped that Messias’s mind could more readily control apes, Albina explained, whereas we cannot.

  But all that is irrelevant now, Adiposo lamented, isn’t it?

  “Sorry to rain on your parade,” Taylor growled.

  Do not think to trifle with us, Adiposo warned the astronaut.

  Taylor’s voice rose. “You manipulated me, and a boy is dead because of it!”

  Dead at your hands, Mr. Taylor, Ongaro reminded him. We have killed no one.

  Tell us, Caspay interjected, what is the technological level of the apes?

  We wish for you to provide us with important information, Adiposo revealed. Garrison strengths, weapons capability.

  “If you can read my mind,” he challenged, “why even ask me questions?”

  Albina answered. From lesser life forms, we can pick up surface impressions and intent. Nothing more, Mr. Taylor.

  “So you know that I’m telling the truth,” he said, “and that I’m an astronaut from the past.”

  Time travel, indeed, Caspay mocked.

  “It’s not really—” Taylor began.

  Not only is it improbable, the fat man interrupted, it is inconceivable.

  Your contrived cover story can only be a psychic block, Caspay continued, designed to protect you from our minds. We put the heterogen to the test by seeing if he could pierce the veil of your deception.

  “Deception,” Taylor echoed. “What deception?” In response, there was an exchange between Albina and Caspay. They didn’t even try to hide it.

  Whoever planted this story in his mind and Mr. Landon’s must be an extraordinarily talented telepath, she suggested.

  “Landon?” Taylor took a step closer to his captors. “You knew Landon?”

  We knew when he, Mr. Dodge, and yourself trespassed on our territory, Caspay revealed. We tagged Mr. Landon and through him followed the three of you back to Ape City. There he was caged in an ape’s lab, destined to undergo more experimentation.

  But the signals we received from his mind were confusing, the fat man elaborated. Jumbled.

  Somehow he broke our control over him, Ongaro lamented.

  “No,” Taylor said. “Whatever the apes did to him happened after we left the desert. Landon and I were part of a mission sent to another world—”

  You say you are from this world. If you were sent to another, then how is it you arrived here?

  “If you’d let me explain—” The constant, uncontrolled input jumbled his thoughts.

  Tell us, Ongaro demanded. Have the apes developed mental powers such as our own?

  Or have they taken one of our kind, and cultivated his abilities? Adiposo sent.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Taylor said.

  Do not deflect the question, Caspay commanded. Answer us.

  Now, Adiposo added.

  “Or what—you’ll kill me?” Taylor replied. “Go right ahead. I’m as good as dead already. Everything I knew is dead.”

  You misunderstand, Mr. Taylor, Albina sent. We are a peaceful people. We do not kill our enemies. Unfortunately, because of you we are also now helpless.

  Defenseless, Ongaro added.

  We need information from you, Caspay repeated. The death of the heterogen has cost us our last line of defense against the animalistic apes.

  “That’s paranoid delusion,” Taylor mocked. “The apes don’t even know you’re out here.”

  Don’t they? the red-vested fat man pondered while making his way down the left-hand stairs. As he did, Ongaro descended the stairs to the right. You may guard your thoughts, Adiposo continued, but we know enough to recognize lies.

  Becoming angrier by the minute, Taylor balled his hands into fists, his untrimmed nails digging into his palms.

  Yes. The fat man closed his eyes and probed. I see a fragment. The apes feared that you were one of us, now, didn’t they.

  As Taylor’s nails bit deeper, his hands became slick with blood.

  How could they be afraid that you were one of us, if they did not know we existed?

  “You are out of your minds.”

  No, Mr. Taylor, Adiposo responded. We are in yours. His eyes darted toward Ongaro. As a familiar buzzing filled the chamber, the dark mutant nodded.

  The punch came out of nowhere. Taylor wavered. The fist had been a phantom one—there was no one near him to have delivered it. Yet his nose was wet, and Taylor raised his hand to wipe it—only to find his knuckles already bloodied.

  He looked at Ongaro. “Did you—”

  A fist flew again—catching the astronaut’s nose dead center. This time, he registered where it came from. It was his own. The mutants had taken control of him. Taylor had sucker-punch
ed himself.

  “You dirty—” Again, his fist sailed toward his own face. “Sure,” he gritted. “Ask me questions, and then cut me off. Why is it that no one will listen to me in this goddamn future?”

  Hold. Albina commanded.

  Ongaro opened his eyes.

  You may speak, she told Taylor. We are eager to hear your thoughts.

  “The apes didn’t send me into your territory,” he said. “I escaped. When they caught up with me, they let me go—probably thought I’d die out here anyway.”

  Perhaps you still will, Mr. Taylor, Caspay sent.

  Taylor smirked. “The night is young.”

  If you were running from the apes, why did the gorilla come to your aid?

  “The garbage ape?” he replied. “I met him for the first time in the library. I don’t know what the hell he was doing—”

  Lies, Adiposo declared.

  Ongaro blinked, and another blow crossed Taylor’s jaw. Spitting blood, the astronaut stumbled back and fell to the floor.

  “Hit me all you want,” Taylor bellowed, “it won’t make any difference.”

  Oh, but we aren’t hitting you, Mr. Taylor, Albina countered. You simply cannot control yourself.

  Taylor glanced back at Ongaro, who nodded.

  In quick succession, Taylor punched himself in the face three more times. Dazed, he addressed the purple-clad leader.

  “Nice racket you’ve got here,” he said. “You let your lackeys do the questioning and let me rough myself up. Why bruise your knuckles when you can get your opponent to do it for you?”

  Exactly correct, Mr. Taylor, Caspay ruminated. We do not hurt our enemies, we get our enemies to hurt themselves.

  We await your reconsideration, Mendez sent.

  The astronaut rubbed his swollen jaw. “I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”

  Then we are very disappointed. Albina pouted. Now we must resort to alternative means to get our answers. With that, Ongaro and Adiposo ascended the stairs to join her and the others. Taylor wiped his bloody face and stood again, defiant.

  “Go to hell,” he spat.

  Please, Mr. Taylor, the fat man smiled, after you. Together at the balcony’s peak, the inquisitors bowed their heads. The ground shuddered, disrupting his equilibrium.