“Does it fly?” she added.
Seraph smiled again. “That remains to be seen,” she replied, “but if anyone can get it flying, it will be Milo.” Her smile lingered on his name. “He wants to go to outer space.”
Another realization struck Zira. Milo, Seraph called him, she observed, not Dr. Milo. There was no honorific—something the scientist would have required.
“Oh, Seraph,” she exclaimed, “you love him, don’t you?”
Seraph frowned. “It’s not as if he notices.”
“That’s the way it is with males,” Zira said. “I dropped hints for three months before Cornelius even began to suspect I was interested.” Her eyes danced at the memory. “In the end, I had to take the initiative and begin the courtship. Even then…” She let her words trail off, and to her surprise, Seraph giggled. Zira joined her.
“If the machine works,” Zira asked, “will you go to space with him?”
“No.” Seraph was firm. “The craft’s very existence will change apekind forever, but risk for risk’s sake is unwarranted. Flight is Milo’s dream, not mine.” She added, “When he takes off, I’ll be content to watch.” Ahead of them, tiger and marigold hues began to creep across the horizon—morning was approaching the Forbidden Zone. Behind them, deep blues retreated.
“Maybe once he’s in the sky, he’ll finally get his head out of the clouds,” Zira suggested, “and notice what’s been waiting on the ground for him all along.”
That elicited a laugh as they raced toward the dawn.
* * *
“The apes are marching on your city.”
With Nova collapsed on the floor beside him, Mr. Brent looked to the mutant council, gathered in the Grand Central Terminal audience chamber. He had neither the training nor the discipline needed to disguise a lie, so his interrogation had yielded the results they sought. The final push had come when he had been compelled to force himself upon her.
Repulsed by the idea, he stopped lying.
He was broken.
Their worst fears confirmed, Adiposo, Caspay, Ongaro, and Albina all turned to their leader. Mendez XXVI hid His thoughts, but His eyes betrayed His innermost emotion—He was afraid. As the guards led the astronaut and the savage away, the mutants joined their minds to search the deserts for their foes.
Knowing now what to look for, they soon found it. The swarm of ants that was the gorilla army blacked out the bright desert sands on which they trampled. To the mutants, they were little more than annoying insects, yet as with any troublesome pest, in great numbers they posed a greater threat.
They were closer than they should be, as well. It would be a short time before the apes would discover the uppermost spires of Manhattan. Together, the mutants scanned the ape leaders for surface impressions. Muddling through brutish aggression, they found a mixture of doubt, worry, brinkmanship, and conviction.
They have their own god! Caspay observed. Pagans.
Then let this be a test of their faith, His Holiness ordained.
* * *
Ahead of the army, naked gorillas appeared as if from nowhere. They had been crucified upside down and set ablaze. Within moments the desert around them became an inferno, yet the general forced his soldiers to hold their positions.
The enemy will pay for this cruelty. Zaius begged him to shoot the crucified gorillas and put them out of their misery—something that Ursus refused to do. Ape shall never kill ape.
Zaius was weak.
Then a gigantic figure appeared, and Ursus froze with terror. Towering above them was a vision of the Lawgiver—the Greatest Ape of Them All. The prophet of God, the Lawgiver had appeared before in their time of need, but this was different in a profound and chilling way.
“He bleeds,” Ursus cried out. “The Lawgiver bleeds!” From his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, crimson death flowed.
Ursus was an ape of God. A once-rebellious youth raised by an insistent preacher, he had been reborn in the Lawgiver’s Light, and his god was now telling him that his army was riding to its doom.
Zaius was right, Ursus quailed, the unknown is not meant for apes. There was a reason that the Forbidden Zone was forbidden by scripture, and the general had overstepped his bounds in entering it. Forgive me, Lawgiver, he pleaded inwardly. I did it to serve you best.
* * *
Furious, Zaius refused to accept it as truth. “The spirit of the Lawgiver lives,” he called out. “We are still God’s chosen. This is a vision—and it is a lie!”
The doctor snapped his reins and galloped his horse into the blaze, preparing for the very real chance that he would die. But…
There is no heat.
He continued without stopping. If he could reach the tortured figures on the crosses, he could cut them down. Suddenly, a gargantuan figure loomed closer. He looked up as the image of the Lawgiver toppled over upon him.
Zaius threw up an arm to shield himself.
The desert exploded.
* * *
In Grand Central Terminal, the mutants faltered. Without the General of the Defense to guide them, the amplification network provided by the Overseers had grown weak. Their projected deception collapsed.
“Stupid animals,” Caspay said aloud. “They don’t have the brains to hold our illusions.”
“We have no defense,” Albina replied.
“Except our Bomb,” His Holiness replied. “Call our people to the High Sanctuary.”
Caspay turned to Adiposo. “Do you know the range of their city?”
The fat man had a gift for geographical divination. Sifting through Mr. Brent’s impressions, he found what he needed.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Set in the mechanism and wait for me,” Caspay instructed. Adiposo nodded and was gone. “I want a public thought projection at adult and infant levels,” Caspay continued, addressing Albina. “Adults to the cathedral, infants indoors.”
Yet His Holiness radiated doubt.
Albina hesitated as well, but when Mendez did not countermand Caspay’s order, she complied. With their own thoughts shielded from one another, the masters moved off to their assigned tasks. Before the wolves arrived at their door, they would celebrate one last Mass with their god.
* * *
“The vision was false!” Zaius declared. Also, it was gone. Where there had been fire and bodies and blood, there was now empty desert. The Forbidden Zone was barren yet again.
The confused soldiers began to organize themselves. Some had turned and run from the carnage they had witnessed, and they would be disciplined for it, but their general faced a greater problem. Zaius had caused Ursus to lose face. While the general’s faith in the Lawgiver had been challenged and found wanting, Zaius had combated it head on.
The doctor was a hero—the troops would remember that. If Ursus didn’t do something to reassert his dominance, his bid to control all of Simia would fail.
Once again, Doctor, he admitted with a degree of hidden anger, well played.
Be it natural or supernatural, the evil they faced had most certainly produced these visions. This meant the apes had to be nearing their nest. Combat would occur soon enough, and he would prove himself on the battlefield. It would be his exploits future generations recalled from this day, not the doctor’s.
Otherwise, he admitted, I don’t deserve to lead.
“Bugler,” the general commanded, “sound the advance.”
* * *
Dinge’s fangs were at Mungwortt’s neck. For all his strength, the half-breed just wasn’t powerful enough to resist. The White One would tear out his throat, and that would be it.
I almost got us out of here, Zao.
Shut up, Zao replied sharply. The yellow behemoth pressed closer.
Tink.
Something clanked against Mungwortt’s teeth. It was smooth, cold, and tangy. It tasted like metal. Mungwortt’s snaggletooth had become hooked in Dinge’s metal tag—the tag each White One wore on its ear.
Bite, you
idiot!
With nothing to lose, Mungwortt bit down and twisted his head. His own fang snapped, but the tag tore free—and took with it a meaty part of the ear. Instead of the howl of pain Mungwortt had expected, however, Dinge rolled away and clutched his wounded head.
The ape spit his chipped tooth, the bloody lobe, and the metal tag out onto the floor. Dinge stared at it, and understanding dawned in Mungwortt’s mind.
The tags, he thought. The brains use the tags to control them! Picking up a rock, he smashed down on the metal tag, hard. It cracked with a shower of sparks, and this time the leader of the White Ones doubled over and howled.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
Then Dinge straightened and looked at his fellow creatures. Nervously they backed up, and with good reason. Without warning the White One leader leapt at the nearest albino and bit down, tearing its ear off, crunching the metal tag within its fangs. The White One howled, then blinked and stared at his attacker. Then it joined its leader, repeating the process with the others. Mungwortt watched as spatters of blood flew everywhere. With each White One that was released, it launched itself at another, joining a melee of primitive bodies.
The fight was brief, but intense. When it ended, Mungwortt faced a panting sea of bloody fur and white bodies. Dinge approached him and the half-breed put his hands to his own ears, ready to run.
“Don’t eat my ear!” he begged. The words echoed throughout the cavern. Dinge stared, then bellowed something Mungwortt couldn’t make out.
“Dun reet myerr!” Dinge howled.
The other creatures did the same.
“Dun reet myerr!”
One, then another. “Dun reet myerr!” The cry reverberated through the tunnels, and finally Mungwortt understood what they were saying.
Don’t eat my ear!
They were pack animals, and like any pack they followed the example of their leader. Mungwortt had challenged their leader—and won. Not only that, but in the process he had freed them from the Overseers’ control. It hadn’t been his intention—he had only wanted to survive—but it had been the result, just the same.
As he processed this idea, Dinge did something even more unexpected, more bizarre. He bowed in supplication.
What is he doing? Mungwortt wondered, his thoughts whirling. Not knowing how to react, he reached out and patted the White One on the head. The others roared, the sound bouncing off the cavern walls, and they all bowed to him now.
“DUN REET MYERR!”
What should I do? the half-breed wondered. Is this what it feels like to be a god?
You’re not their god, dimwit. Zao’s retort echoed in his head. You’re their leader now—do something, anything, before they figure out you don’t know what the hell you are doing.
Mungwortt agreed. He put his hands on his hips, his stance wide, and told himself that he was… examining his troops. Proud of his new army, he pointed toward the forest outside. In the distance he could see the pale glow of what he knew must be the sea lion tank, and the White Ones’ brainy masters. He remembered when Dinge had scooped out Zao’s brains, and how the others had jealously watched him gobble up the tasty morsels.
He gave his orders.
“Eat!” he shouted. “Eat now. Eat the brains!”
His army roared their approval, and repeated their new battle cry.
“DUN REET MYERR!”
Then in a wave of white bodies and fur, they tore through the underbrush toward the Overseers’ compound.
* * *
He yawned. The morning was dim, the clouds just beginning to glow. The wagon ground to a stop and Seraph dismounted as Zira sat there and stared into the void ahead.
“Cornelius,” she whispered.
Popping his head over the side of the cart, he looked to see what had caught her eye. Nestled by the shore was an encampment. Tents littered the site, as did various ape apparatus and equipment. A few sleepy chimpanzees stood watch. What looked like an exactingly straight road had been cleared to the camp. All in all, a typical scientific worksite. What loomed over it was another story.
Perched on three small but bulbous feet, a gigantic bird roosted there. Its eyes aglow with the rising sun, the metallic avian’s wings were wide, its beak sharp and narrow. A dewy mist clung to its skin, giving it a soft sheen in the early twilight. It was bigger than any wagon or boat Cornelius had ever seen—bigger even than their house.
It was not of their world.
When the chimpanzee archeologist tried to stand, his knees would not work. As Seraph walked toward a lean-to at the base of the beast, there was a flash of movement.
“Say, what is that?”
“I don’t know,” Zira said, still whispering.
An alien figure emerged from the structure, shrouded in white. Its head an enormous unblinking eye, the stout creature’s stilted gait betrayed an unfamiliarity with the surrounding environment. It was repellant and, like the metal bird, it did not belong.
Zira cried out involuntarily, and the eye-thing looked up. It noticed Seraph, and hastened toward her. Before it could reach her, however, it stopped, lifted its arms above its head, and with a quick twist decapitated itself.
Cornelius gasped.
The giant eye lifted away to reveal the head of an ape.
“Dr. Milo,” Zira said, “I presume.”
With a nod, Milo presented the giant eye to Seraph. As she accepted it, Cornelius shook away the last remnants of sleep. His chest tight, he realized he had forgotten to breathe. He inhaled with haste.
As Milo rushed to greet them, Cornelius turned his attention back to the enormous bird-shaped machine. He remembered the piece of paper Taylor had folded into a triangle and thrown in his office. It had sailed overhead, only to take a sharp nosedive at his feet. At the time they had all thought the human was mad.
It would appear we were wrong.
He searched for words, yet found only one.
“Flight.”
* * *
Albina was not happy. Despite his station, Caspay had dominated them again—and once again, Mendez had allowed it.
If His Holiness isn’t careful, she thought darkly, Caspay will take control. She kept her thoughts private, though. If Mendez isn’t strong enough to act, do we need a new leader? Her musings surprised her. Is Caspay right? Should there be a new Holy of Holies?
She shook the thought away. For millennia the Mendez family had ruled them. Others had tried to usurp them, but always failed.
The strength of the Fellowship lies in the Mendez dynasty, but if someone else was to take over let it be anyone but Caspay. She considered for a moment. Let it be me.
Ongaro wanted her, and would follow her lead. Spineless, Adiposo would side with whoever appeared strongest. With the two of them on her side, Albina could wait. She would monitor His Holiness, watching for weakness, and eye Caspay for signs of betrayal. If the bespectacled mutant attempted a coup, she would seize the moment.
She would preserve the mutant race. And if Albina failed, she would kill herself.
* * *
The Verger granted Adiposo access to the Bomb. The caretaker of the cathedral maintained both the High Sanctuary and the Holy Sanctum that lay beneath it. A tireless servitor of God, the Verger’s eyes were always probing, his mind ever vigilant. His duty was to ensure that God’s will took precedence over that of the Fellowship—and that the Holy Power of the Bomb was not abused.
Upon learning that the fat man’s orders came from His Holiness Himself, the Verger escorted Adiposo to the green copper shelter doors located under the altar. Leading him down the spiral staircase, he excused himself to attend to other duties.
Beneath St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the fat man stood alone within the glassed-in pulpit of the Holy Sanctum. Moved there in the early days of the Mendez dynasty, the transplanted computer booth had become an integral part of the sanctum, and from there the clergy could deliver unto heathens the glory of God.
Adjacent to t
he pulpit lay the Holy Cradle—the missile silo built by Mendez’s ancestors. Here, sheathed in darkness, the Holy Weapon of Peace awaited the inevitable day of reckoning. By piecing together what he had gleaned from the astronauts’ minds, Adiposo determined the exact coordinates of Ape City, and keyed them into the device. The machines stopped their hum and whir, and produced an affirmative ping.
God’s massive brass bullet hull was dark in the shadowed silo, His fins sharp and deadly. Standing this close to holiness, Adiposo wanted all the more to be one with God. He craved Communion. Making certain he was alone, he reached into his robes and produced a compact metal box.
The snuff box was small and round, with the symbol of the Bomb embossed on its brass cover. Inside lay a bed of iridescent cilia. Cultivated from the radioactive fungi that illuminated the fungal canopy of Central Park’s dead forest, the mold undulated. The mutant master leaned forward and caressed it with a gloved finger.
Spores ejected, and a cloud of fungus bloomed in his face. As he inhaled greedily, Adiposo’s eyes rolled back in his head. Once this had been considered the only way to converse with God, but repeated practice had caused cancers of the brain, and even induced insanity. Over the centuries the act was banned, then became apocryphal.
Today it remained taboo.
Some mutants still sought it, however—risks be damned. Mutants like Adiposo.
Basidiospores invaded his sinuses, and for a moment, he was euphoric. For a moment, he could see the glory of God, so close he could almost touch it. Adiposo reached forward—but then paranoia seized him. Someone was watching him.
Who is it?
The chamber connected to a catacomb of ancient tombs, and there were cracks and crevices throughout that led to the sewers and subways.
Adiposo panicked. If the apes have somehow—
“Is the mechanism set?” The voice came from behind him. It was Caspay. Adiposo slipped the snuff box back into his robes, and turned to face his bespectacled colleague.
“It is done,” he affirmed. Caspay regarded him for a moment, frowning, searching his eyes. In return, Adiposo shielded his own thoughts.
He knows!
After a moment Caspay moved past to examine the machine.
Death of the Planet of the Apes Page 31
