Planet of the Apes 02 - Escape to Tomorrow

by George Alec Effinger

  Galen made a wry face. “I was,” he said. “But if, as you say, the area is overrun with humans,” here Galen’s voice took on a strong overlay of disgust, so noticeable that Sestus turned to glance at him with eyebrows raised, “I will definitely have to reconsider.”

  “Oh, the community has its good points, too,” said Sestus.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” said Galen. “I’m not trying to say anything negative about this area. After all, I haven’t yet seen the village or met your fellow residents. But just the smell of so many humans about must be overwhelming!”

  Sestus laughed at the vehemence of Galen’s words. But after a moment he grunted his agreement. “What can you expect?” he said, shaking his head. “They’re nothing but animals.”

  “That’s what I mean, precisely,” said Galen. “I take it that you have no liking for humans, either, Sestus?”

  “I would rather keep company with a rattlesnake!” said the graying Sestus. “They’re not half as treacherous and at least the snakes rattle before they strike.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Galen, amused.

  “Perhaps you don’t know how far my feelings go,” said Sestus. “Only a short time ago, my own brother was murdered by humans.”

  Galen acted stunned by the news. “Murdered!” he said. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear that. I can safely assume that the humans responsible were dealt with unmercifully.”

  Sestus laughed derisively. “They haven’t even been caught yet,” he said. “I doubt that they ever will be.”

  There was something in Sestus’ tone, more than in his words themselves, which indicated to Galen that now was as good a time as any to take a chance. Perhaps Sestus was only a mourning, angry, and helpless adult ape; but, perhaps, he was something more. If he were, then things might begin to happen on schedule; if not, he might give Galen a clue about what had to be done to meet a representative of the Dragoons.

  “What an amazing and unhappy coincidence,” said Galen sadly. “You know, where I just came from we had a similar killing. I can tell you, none of us apes was at all prepared for such savagery. We had been lulled into a kind of false sense of security, because in our generous and foolish hearts, we had assumed that humans might possess our own feelings of revulsion toward murder. But, mark my words, once the horrible deed was done, we got together. Our eyes had been opened concerning the true nature of humans. And the only way we could deal with the problem was by—no. No, I’m sorry. I swore secrecy never to reveal—”

  Sestus’ interest was aroused more and more during Galen’s bit of play-acting. Of course, Galen had invented a situation that closely paralleled what had happened here with the Dragoons; that way, Sestus would quickly discover that this Phoebus was an ape with interests similar to his own. Or else, Sestus would be outraged, and Galen, with some careful probing, would learn who the ringleaders of the Dragoons were. “Go on,” said Sestus. “You can trust me.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Galen, showing the initial reluctance that Sestus would expect to see. “Still, I’m not sure . . .”

  Galen waited a moment, letting Sestus become more curious. “A group of us apes banded together,” said Galen at last. “We ran about fifty humans off and burned their homes. We even killed a few. It did wonders as far as keeping the rest in line.”

  “Ah, fine, fine!” cried Sestus, elated. “You know, the entire ape world would be much better off if it were without humans altogether.”

  “My sentiments, exactly,” said Galen. “In fact, if I had my way, we’d drive them all out and ship them back to the Forbidden Zone where they all came from.”

  Both apes laughed at the thought. Galen realized that with a few well-placed lies and exaggerations, he had completely won over Sestus’ confidence and admiration. Galen felt a glow of pride; he wished that Virdon and Burke could see him now.

  “You know, Phoebus,” said the elder chimpanzee, “I think you will enjoy meeting some special friends of mine.”

  “Special friends?” asked Galen innocently.

  Sestus nodded. He lowered his voice, although they still drove through a green and tangled forest. “Have you ever heard of the Dragoons?” he asked.

  Galen pretended to think for a moment. “Dragoons?” he said musingly. “Why, no, I don’t believe I have. Tell me about them.” He turned toward Sestus with his sincerest look of interest . . .

  Krono the gorilla, one of the three young militant apes who had caused such a scene during Lucian’s funeral, prodded his horse on, moving at a walk up a steep trail. His thoughts were elsewhere, and he didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings; the horse was familiar enough with the path. Behind Krono, Virdon followed stealthily, half-running, at a distance that prevented Krono from hearing the sounds of his pursuer. For some reason, when Krono topped the small hill, he halted the horse and turned in the saddle, surveying the path behind him. Virdon ducked into the underbrush on one side of the trail, out of sight. Krono, confident that he wasn’t being followed, continued on. A short time later, so did Virdon.

  While Galen rode with Sestus and Virdon trailed Krono, Pete Burke had climbed down to the cave. He made a snack out of the remnants of the food Fauna had given them. Then he idly explored the cave again, feeling yet another shiver of strange emotion when he saw the carved initials. He forced himself to forget the past, at least for the moment; he set about cleaning the wooden and rock furniture in the cave, for want of anything better to do. Who had made the furniture? Ape or human? Burke would never know. He wished only that Virdon would forget the gorilla on horseback and return to the cave. He started to go toward the entrance of the cave, with a vague notion of climbing up and looking for his friend, when he heard something. “Alar?” he called.

  It was Fauna. She stepped into the cave toward Burke. He reacted in surprise when he saw her, retreating a little to avoid contact, disturbed at being alone with her, without Galen to help him out in case of a crisis. Fauna didn’t seem to be at all concerned; she was still unaware of the larger situation in which she was playing such an important part. She carried another basket of food for Burke and his friends. “It’s Fauna, Pago,” she said. “Isn’t Alar here? I’ve brought food. I suppose it isn’t much for three healthy chimpanzees, but I have to be careful with my uncle’s supplies.”

  “Thank you, Fauna,” said Burke. “Alar and, uh, Phoebus went to get some fresh water from the stream.”

  Fauna brushed on past him. “I’m glad,” she said. “I like talking with you.”

  “Same here,” said Burke worriedly.

  “I’m glad that we can talk now, just the two of us.” Burke did not reply. Fauna settled to the ground and uncovered the basket. She put out some fruit on a cloth napkin. There was a strained silence; finally Fauna said, “Pago?”

  Burke sighed and closed his eyes. Here it comes again, Pete thought, Fauna’s lonely and dangerous prying. He couldn’t help being fond of her, even though she was an ape; but his own feelings had to be repressed, even his natural tendency toward kindness. There were lives at stake, the lives of the humans in the area, like Jasko. And, Burke reminded himself, also the lives of Virdon and Galen. And Pete Burke’s, as well.

  “Pago?”

  “Yeah?” said Burke. “I’m sorry, Fauna. I was just thinking about the homes we left behind. My family. My friends.” There, thought Burke. That ought to cement the old identity a little better.

  “Can you tell me about the books you’ve read?” she asked. Burke sighed again; he was glad the question wasn’t more personal. Everything would be all right if he could keep things on an intellectual level until help arrived. But Fauna would have to cooperate. “Could you tell me some of the stories?” she said.

  “I suppose that I could,” he said. “You know that those books were what got us into trouble. And if I tell you about them, they may get you into trouble, too. I’m not sure that I ought to do that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Fauna. “I can
say that my father showed the books to me.”

  “Well, I just wanted to be certain that you understood. In case some of the gorilla police came and started asking questions. Then you wouldn’t think less of me.”

  “I’d never do that, Pago,” said Fauna breathlessly. “I understand.”

  Burke rubbed his eyes. It hurt him to keep adding to the deception, but it was all for the best he kept telling himself. How often had people done things, all for the best, and had them turn out just the opposite?

  “All right, then,” he said. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.” Fauna found a chair and Burke sat down across from her. “Well,” he said hesitantly, “there was one I always liked. It was about a ma—I mean, an ape. An ape who became stranded on an island in the middle of a great ocean. His name was ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ ”

  “Robinson Crusoe?” asked Fauna. “What a strange name.”

  “It was long ago,” said Burke. “When apes had two names.”

  “What kind of an ape was he? Was he a gorilla?”

  “No,” said Burke. “He was a chimpanzee. I think that he might have been very much like your father.” Fauna said nothing to this, but her expression wavered for a moment, on the brink of tears. Burke saw this and hurried on. “One day he was walking on the beach of this island, and he saw a footprint in the sand. It was the footprint of a human.”

  Fauna listened, fascinated despite the cold shudder that passed through her at the mention of the human. “What happened to the poor chimpanzee?” she asked.

  Sestus and Galen arrived in the village of the apes while Burke was entertaining Fauna with the story. The citizens of the village were going about their day’s business, shopping, visiting, and delivering mail and business orders. The activity was mild compared to what Galen had become accustomed to in Central City, but he was growing fond of the slow pace and the friendly atmosphere of the rural towns. One difference between this village and others Galen had visited during his forced exile was the complete absence of humans on the streets. It was a rare thing; even in the humblest ape communities, there were a number of humans used for slave labor. But, considering the mood of the apes in this town, it wasn’t difficult to understand.

  As they drove down the main street of the village, they saw two uniformed mounted gorillas riding slowly toward them. When the gorillas saw Sestus, they reined up close by the wagon. Sestus pulled his horse to a halt and greeted the apes. Galen took a deep breath; here was the first test of their improvised scheme.

  “Good morning, Perdix,” said Sestus. “Good day, Zon.” Perdix, whom Galen had already tentatively identified from his police uniform, nodded.

  “Sestus,” he said by way of a curt greeting. Zon did not say anything. “We were about to begin our afternoon rounds,” said Perdix. “Have you heard of anything out of the ordinary in the area today?”

  “Strange that we should meet you like this,” said Sestus. He nodded toward Galen. “This is my friend Phoebus. I met him on the road, perhaps a mile or two from the village, shortly after I left my house. He was attacked by two humans. He was left alone, helpless. They took his horse. He was lucky that I happened by. Another outrage, Perdix. I hope it hasn’t dissuaded Phoebus from settling in our community.”

  Perdix looked at Phoebus with narrowed eyes. “Two humans, you say.”

  “Yes,” said Galen, warming to the task of being Phoebus, the traveling chimpanzee. “It happened just as my benefactor, Sestus, told it. Do you think that you can get my horse back? It was given to me by my father, and it would hurt the poor old ape to hear that it was stolen. It isn’t worth much, but—”

  Galen was interrupted by a curt gesture from Perdix. The young chimpanzee was happy; he had learned that a style of run-on embroidery of facts and outright lies often made a false story seem more real. It was much more fun than studying had been, back when he was a promising scholar in Central City.

  Perdix turned to his deputy, nodding absently to Galen. “Perhaps the two humans are the very same killers we are looking for already.”

  Zon nodded in agreement and looked at Galen. “Rest assured, Phoebus,” he said. “These human criminals will be hunted down.”

  “They will be found, captured, and disposed of, within the law,” said Perdix. “We will bring them in.”

  “That’s very reasssuring,” said Galen. Perdix and Zon each gave a kind of half-salute to Sestus, nodded to Galen, and turned their horses in the direction Sestus’ wagon had come from. They rode out at a brisk gallop. Sestus jerked on his reins, and the wagon continued on down the street, to the first of the old ape’s stops for that day.

  In the secret cave, Burke was still elaborating on the story of Robinson Crusoe; it had never occurred to him before how much his own situation was like that of Defoe’s hero. But, in a way, in a much more complete and hopeless way, Burke and Virdon were shipwrecked, too. The astronauts would gladly have traded places with Crusoe, just to have the knowledge that they were somewhere—anywhere, in their old, human world again. But, like Crusoe, they were learning to make the best of what happened to be handy. And, like Crusoe, they had to do it without much in the way of help from other people.

  Fauna had sat through the entire tale without saying a word. Burke had done his best to salt the narrative with what he hoped were subtle but pointed comments about brotherhood and the need for apes and humans to learn to live together in peace. He wondered if Fauna had understood. “And so,” concluded Burke, “after thirty-five years, Crusoe and his human friend, Friday, were rescued and taken to Crusoe’s home to live.” There was a pause after he finished; Burke looked anxiously toward the cave entrance.

  “Alar and Phoebus haven’t come back,” he said, getting up and pacing across the cave’s dim interior. “I’m getting a little concerned.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be all right,” said Fauna, dismissing the subject. “I love the story of Robinson Crusoe, even though the human frightened me. I don’t trust him.” Burke grimaced but said nothing. “I wish that I could read those books,” said the young ape girl. “Are you sure this story came from one of the old books?”

  “I’m sure,” said Burke. “Does it sound like anything we apes write? That’s why I was so interested. But the Ministry of Knowledge says that it knows what is best for apes to read and know and think.”

  “That can’t be right,” said Fauna. “You must have misunderstood what they said. Or they must have misunderstood what you did. Our governing council wouldn’t be so silly.”

  “I’ve heard stories that those old books, the ones that are so different than ours, were written by humans, a long time ago,” said Burke.

  Fauna was silent for a moment. “Now,” she said, “that was worse than silly. I’ll pretend you didn’t say it at all.” She got up from where she was sitting and moved toward a shelf where some loose rocks covered a small opening. “I want to show you something, Pago,” she said. She put her hand into the opening, reaching inside and trying to locate something purely by touch. She moved the rocks to make the opening larger and took a dusty journal from the hiding place. She wiped it off and handed it to Burke. He looked at it curiously. It was roughly made and bound together, the kind of heavy, inefficient construction that marked the apes’ published works.

  “What is it?” asked Burke.

  “It is something I would like you to read to me,” said Fauna, her voice a little choked with emotion. “It’s something my father left me, something he wrote himself. He told me that I should never show it to Sestus, that my uncle would not understand.”

  Burke opened the journal carefully and began to read on the first page. “ ‘I came into the woods because I wanted to live only with the essential facts of life,’ ” he recited.

  Fauna listened to the words in rapt attention. Burke could not decide whether this was the first time that she had heard what Lucian had written in his journal, or if the words were ones that Fauna had listened to often, read by her beloved father.
Burke was impressed by what he was reading, too; unlike almost everything he had ever read by ape authors, the contents of the journal had a sensitivity that was almost—human was the only word that Burke could come up with.

  He knew it wasn’t fair, that saying apes weren’t human only perpetuated the kind of thinking that had caused so much trouble in his own time and in this time. But Burke knew that he was a product of his environment, for good and for bad. And, as far as the bad was concerned, it would take a great effort to overcome its influence. Burke almost thought superhuman effort instead of great; but he caught himself. No sense in making the same mistake twice in one thought.

  “ ‘You see, nearest the bone is where life is sweetest . . . ,’ ” he read. The words had a familiar ring to them.

  The room was dark, made darker by heavy, coarse curtains which had been drawn across the two windows in the back wall. The small storeroom was crowded and hot; chimpanzees and gorillas, even a couple of orangutans, stood about the back room of one of the village’s buildings. Ceramic mugs filled with fermented apple juice clattered together, as the apes raised them in a ceremonial toast.

  The talking and joking stopped with the knocking together of the mugs. This was no mere joyful celebration; it was a cold and serious initiation. The solemn voice of Sestus broke through the gloom. “A toast to our Dragoon-to-be,” he called. “To Phoebus!”

  Around the room, small points of candlelight, symbolic of the wicked torches the Dragoons wielded, picked off points in the bright eyes and perspiring brows of the assembled apes. In the crowd, besides Sestus and Galen, were Macor, Chilot, and others to whom Galen had been introduced, but whose names he had already forgotten.

  Galen pretended to be surprised and pleased at the meaning of the ceremony and the acceptance he had won. The truth was that the young chimpanzee was almost ready to collapse from fear. The apes drank a gulp of their liquor. Then two torches were lit and placed on either side of a broad banner that symbolized the might and unity of all apes.