Death of the Planet of the Apes

by Andrew E. C. Gaska

  “Then the High Council framed Galen,” Liet frowned. “Because I was his wife, I was made a pariah. No more parties. No more high society. My life was ruined.” Her eyes were wet, yet Zira found it difficult to be sympathetic. Still, she spurred Liet on.

  “Galen was a terrible ape, and a worthless husband,” Liet admitted, “but he couldn’t make a human talk.”

  There was a clatter of wheels, and the wagon approached.

  “After it was over I started to think,” Liet continued, “what would I do if I was forced to sleep in a cage? To live in my own filth? What would any of us do? That caused me to realize, Landon was only trying to survive. It was mistreated—as are all our humans, and if one or two can talk, then any of them might. They have minds of their own, and they must be allowed to survive. To live.”

  That surprised Zira, and she looked at Liet. Perhaps she had changed. Taking her hand, Zira wrinkled her eyes and nose in a smile.

  “We agree, then.”

  Liet wasn’t finished, however.

  “There are more of us, Doctor,” she whispered. “We are not alone in wanting things to be changed—in wanting more rights, both for chimpanzees and humans.” She pulled Zira close. “We only need a leader.”

  * * *

  Korea

  1953

  The Boxer was new. Commissioned shortly before the Korean War, the aircraft carrier still had that fresh paint smell about her.

  Taylor and Maddox had sat in darkness for forty-eight hours, smelling her. An orderly brought them three squares a day, but that was their only contact with the outside world. Maddox had been a chatterbox for the first six hours. Taylor had put an end to that. Patient, he knew the admiral’s game.

  They would be summoned soon enough.

  Guards came to collect them. As they emerged, the bright corridors of the carrier disoriented them. Taylor and Maddox were ushered from the bowels of the ship to a secure wardroom that boasted a large war table and chairs. There, the admiral awaited them.

  As did Lazenbe.

  The guards quickly left the compartment, sealing the hatch behind them. Both Taylor and Maddox saluted the senior officers. The admiral addressed Maddox first.

  “At ease, Airman,” he said. “No need for ceremony here.” Looking to Taylor, he frowned. “Have a seat, son.”

  Taylor plopped into the nearest chair, crossed his legs, and perched his feet up on the table. Maddox turned a peculiar shade of red.

  “Dad.” Taylor nodded, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “You gonna tell me what that thing out there is?”

  Admiral Eugene Taylor quickly lost his temper.

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell you were doing at that site?” he roared. “God dammit, George! Why do you always get yourself caught up in a shitstorm?”

  The younger Taylor’s crooked smile dominated his face. “It’s not my fault,” he offered. “This time, the storm found me.”

  Lazenbe agreed. “The, um, meteor wiped out the remaining MiGs and two of our own, Admiral. Major Taylor was lucky to pull up in time.”

  The admiral continued to glare at his son for a long, silent moment. Letting out a loud breath, he dropped his shoulders.

  “Alright,” he relented. “I’m sure you all know that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” He peered intently from one airman to the other.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir,” Maddox said.

  The admiral grumbled. “Yes, Maddox, damn it, spit it out.”

  Maddox gulped before venturing his next words. “Why tell us anything?”

  “Because you saw it,” Admiral Taylor growled. “Because of what it is, we’re going to need test pilots, and you’ve got the skills, so it might as well be you.” He gestured to the three men in the room. “I’m giving all of you top clearance, and assigning you to this project.”

  Taylor dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight, interested for the first time since entering the wardroom.

  “And what project is that?”

  “We’re calling it Project Liberty.” The men clustered around the table. “This is what we know…”

  * * *

  The desert whinnied. Brent was sure of it.

  Colonel Maddox hadn’t lasted the night—a night filled with strange red lightning and no rain. The sky had exhibited a faint, strange luminosity—most likely caused by solar reflection off the diffuse dust cloud that was collapsing into a ring around this world.

  This alien world.

  When the sun had risen, Brent had taken up the task of digging his skipper’s grave. After two hours the burial was complete, and Maddox was at rest. That’s when the sound, shrill and familiar, echoed in the distance.

  Was that a horse? It was then he knew he was losing his mind. How could there be a horse on this godforsaken planet?

  But of course, there it was—and on its back was…

  …a woman.

  Gorgeous.

  Swathed in only a tattering of hides, her jet hair was straight, her form athletic and trim. Her skin was tanned from constant exposure to the desert sun, yet she was neither cracked nor weathered. Her softness revealed an inner strength that could only have been born of this hellish world. Staring at the wreck of Liberty 2, she seemed at least as confused as Brent was.

  He began to wonder if he had survived the crash after all. Glancing back at the ship, he questioned if anyone could walk away from that wreck.

  If I’m dead, he thought, then let her be my guardian angel.

  * * *

  Mungwortt walked. He had insisted. His eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  The battle had been short. The white things had tackled him and Zao, but only to subdue them and take them prisoner. They had tried to lift him up—to lift both of them—but the half-breed wouldn’t have it. Zao was his responsibility, and he was going to carry him to whatever fate they would share. The white ones bared their fangs, but relented when Mungwortt proved too stupid to back down. Instead, they carried their fallen friend—the one that Mungwortt had accidentally killed.

  Zao was slung over his shoulder, his head dangling down behind. Mungwortt was careful not to touch the elder orangutan’s hips—they were both pretty certain that at least one had broken in the fall. The creatures flanked him on both sides, their matted manes dirty with grease and subterranean waste.

  “Careful, you dimwit,” Zao groaned. “I am an elder ape, not a sack of garbage for you to dump in a bin!”

  Mungwortt cast his eyes down. “Sorry.”

  “This is Sabian’s fault,” Zao said, slurring his words. “When I was Minister of Science, he was Chief Defender of the Faith—did you know that? No, of course you don’t. You would have been a child then, and I doubt you keep up on such things.”

  The old ape was abusive and cranky. Mungwortt didn’t mind. He wasn’t the first ape to treat him that way. Luckily, his abrasive manner was centered less on the now and more on how they got here.

  “He betrayed me to the Security Police—probably because I always beat him at chess.” Mungwortt was sure the orangutan needed some sleep. Still, the elder pressed on. “We fought even when we were in office together. Sabian thought scientific advancement was an affront to God—wanted nothing to change. Nothing! The caste system, irrigation, public housing, surgical techniques—so many reforms hindered by his adherence to outdated dogma.” Zao’s voice grew angry. “The Lawgiver wanted us to live in innocence, not squalor!”

  Not really understanding, Mungwortt nevertheless nodded.

  “Defender of the Faith, Minister of Science. Two opposing viewpoints. Constantly had me at an impasse. That’s why when I retired, I made sure Zaius was appointed to both positions.” Mungwortt could feel him nod. “Put it all in one ape’s hands. No bickering, keep everything in one place.” He sounded proud of his decision. “The faith was designed to protect us from man’s science, not choke us to death.”

  The old orangutan certainly loved to talk. Still, Mungwortt had
begun to find the elder’s voice soothing, in all of its crotchetiness.

  They were joined by a burly creature, a large beast with long yellow-white hair. Hairier and dirtier than the others, it somehow commanded more authority. It, too, had a shiny spot on one ear, which Mungwortt realized was a piece of metal, almost like a decoration.

  That must be their leader, Mungwortt mused.

  He studied the creature’s fur. It reminded him of growing up on the farm on the far side of Simia, with his aunt Arteus. Rather than raise a half-breed, his mother had given him up and he was sent away from Ape City to grow up in seclusion. What little reading he could do, she had taught him. Arteus would always collect his linens after he had let them go too long without washing. She would describe his dull and stained garments in disgust, using but a single word.

  “Dingy,” he said.

  “Yes, yes,” Zao agreed, and he chuckled. It quickly became a wet cough. When his chest settled, he continued. “That’s what we’ll call him, you see?” Zao reached up to pat Mungwortt on the arm. “Dinge.”

  “Dinge,” Mungwortt repeated. He watched the creature interact with the other white ones. After they had communicated in a series of grunts and growls, they changed direction. Dinge led them down a dark rocky side tunnel. Up ahead the passageway lightened. Soon the natural caves gave way to a collapsed stone barrier. On the other side, the walls were smooth. They emerged into an enormous round tunnel, clearly engineered by someone. Mungwortt simply stared, his mouth agape.

  High up on the tunnel wall, near the ceiling, they could barely make out some words that had been printed there.

  Water Tunnel No. 3

  The passage was indeed wet—their feet sloshed through about a foot of slow-running liquid.

  “Fresh, from the looks of it,” Zao commented.

  Upon entering the tunnel the white beasts turned to the left, herding their prisoners down the immense waterway. Judging from the damage to the walls, it looked as if the passage had been sealed at one point, but any debris had been cleared long ago.

  “What direction are they taking us?” Zao demanded.

  Mungwortt didn’t know how to reply. After a moment of thought, he stopped, licked his finger and stabbed the air with it. Zao poked at him.

  “We are underground, you idiot!” he hissed.

  The white ones became agitated and pressed them to start moving again. Mungwortt did so, peering warily into the shadows that crept along in his peripheral vision. They seemed to be going deeper beneath the earth, and closer to whatever monsters lay ahead.

  ACT II

  A TALE OF TWO CITIES

  CHAPTER 10

  THE PATH OF MOST RESISTANCE

  “Clear!” Milo bellowed.

  The reply was swift. “All clear!”

  The chimpanzee engineer pulled hard, forcing the emergency lever in his hands. With an audible click it ratcheted back, slamming into its new position.

  Silence.

  Then the desert was filled with muffled reports. Explosive bolts blew one by one on the crumpled hull. The command shuttle shuddered, slid forward, and began to tip. The landing gear dropped from the bottom of the ship as she fell—a reflex measure built into her by engineers that had been dead some two thousand years. Rubber wheels and stabilizers absorbed most of the shock, but Milo still found himself thrown and bounced around the cabin.

  When his head stopped ringing, he scrambled out the vessel’s nose hatch. Carefully he and his engineers examined the ship in its new configuration. The large, damaged cylindrical hull was no longer attached. What lay before them was streamlined and beautiful. She had wings like a seabird. Once hidden in a shroud of metal, they were now outstretched to catch the winds.

  Aerodynamics.

  This Milo understood. Shaped like this, the thing could fly. The bird-form had large bell-shaped arrays at its rear—most likely its own set of thrust-makers. Milo imagined flames erupting from them, and the starbird ship soaring into the sky.

  His reverie was broken by the sound of a horse galloping through the rocky canyon. It was Seraph, and she was excited. She paused to look at the ship in its new form, and shook her head.

  “Dr. Milo,” she offered.

  “Dr. Seraph,” Milo replied.

  “This unique technology is not so unique after all,” she said breathlessly. Seeing his confusion, she continued. “The meteors—one was a loss, nothing but a crater and scattered remnants. The other one…” Seraph trailed off, nodding toward the space plane before them.

  Milo’s eyes went wide. “Intact?”

  She shook her head. “No, no. In many ways more damaged than this one. Its rear quarters appear to have exploded above the desert. There was this, however.” She reached into her bag and produced the missing manual. Waterlogged and pulped, it was the book he needed. Milo beamed as he greedily flipped through it.

  Then he noted her silent excitement.

  “Dr. Milo,” she said, “there were… pilots. Two of them.”

  “Did you—are they?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “One was dead, buried by his companion. The other met with a horseback rider—a female human—and headed off toward Ape City. We could go after them,” she suggested eagerly.

  “What about the control cabin?”

  Seraph blinked.

  “There was no power, but…” She was cautious with her response. “It otherwise looked to be unharmed.”

  Milo’s mind exploded with the possibilities. If luck was on his side, the parts from the newly arrived flying machine might be used to repair the damaged systems on this one. The answer to his dreams might have been, quite literally, dropped into his lap!

  “Get the wagon and the tools.”

  * * *

  Zao had stopped snoring.

  Finally.

  The constant sound in Mungwortt’s ear had become an irritant, more so than the numbness of his arms. He had been carrying the orangutan elder for too many hours to count. While there was no way to tell night from day, Mungwortt was sure it was long past his own bedtime. The white ones had the benefit of being able to hand their dead companion off to one another so that none of them became too fatigued. They had forgone any sleep, as well, instead entering some kind of trance while they walked.

  Mungwortt didn’t understand it, and didn’t want to. He just knew he had to rest soon or he might bite the ear off of one of them. As the thought crossed his mind, a glint of metal caught his eye. It was one of the metal tags, attached to the nearest creature’s left ear. Now that he looked, he saw that each of them had one. He gave it a closer look. It wasn’t ornate, but it was flat, smooth, and shiny. Nothing like the earrings his lover Liet used to make him buy for her.

  And not very stylish, either, Mungwortt thought.

  Curious what else he had missed, Mungwortt studied his captors more carefully. The shape of their noses gave them somewhat human appearance, but their shoulders and arms made them look simian. They weren’t quite as hairless as he had first thought, though aside from their manes, the thick fur appeared only in certain places.

  As with a human.

  Half-breeds? He gasped. Like me?

  Still, Mungwortt was all ape, twice over.

  Can humans and simians even mate?

  While these thoughts tumbled through his mind, the tunnel spilled them into a massive cavernous tomb. He could hardly comprehend what he saw there. Columns of metal and stone towered overhead, stretching to the cavern’s softly glowing ceiling some 500 feet above. Those columns sat at strange angles, honeycombed with what appeared to be living spaces.

  Buildings, he thought with sudden realization. They are buildings. They were bigger than anything he had ever seen. The giant structures seemed to not only go up to the ceiling, but pass through it, as well. Dumbfounded, he tilted his head. What does it look like above ground?

  The white ones’ demeanor changed as soon as they entered the vast chamber. They became timid, cautious, crouching low
and looking from side to side. Walking along hard roadways littered with rubble, they appeared to be hiding from something.

  What that was, he was afraid to find out. With the slumbering orangutan still on his back, he did as the albino beasts did, crouching as low as he could. As they slunk down the streets between the towers, they passed several printed signs. While reading could be a struggle, he knew his numbers.

  First he saw 8 Avenue. That was relatively easy.

  Bonds. That one was huge.

  Broadware? No, it was Broadway. Excited, he looked for more. As they walked the streets, the buildings grew closer together, walls pitted with irregular holes and piled with rubble. At a marker indicating 5th Avenue they turned and walked in a new direction, framed on all sides by steel and concrete edifices composed of right angles, a place of twisted organic darkness.

  Another easy one—58 Street. Then another sign.

  Grand Army Plaza. His eyes widened.

  An army! Were these not-apes planning to invade Ape City?

  Abruptly the towering walls ended and they entered a black stain of forest. Dead trees supported a canopy of lichen and fungi. Pushing past thorny brush, they made their way beneath the hooded growth. Once among the moss, Mungwortt’s eyes began to adjust. Here, everything had a pale blue glow to it—similar to the warm glow on the cavern ceiling way above, but cool—more subdued. A perpetual twilight.

  The light blended with the white ones’ own luminescent skins.

  A good place to hide.

  “Zao,” Mungwortt prodded the slumbering orangutan perched on his back. “You should wake up. You should see this.”

  Silence answered him.

  Their captors dissolved into the soft glowing gloom.

  Mungwortt and Zao melted with them.

  * * *

  Groom Lake, Nevada

  Area 51

  1963

  Major George Taylor was right where he wanted to be.