* * *
Taylor was somewhere else. Dizzy, he tried to adjust to his new surroundings. His eyes were wide, his jaw unhinged. This change wasn’t like what happened in the psychedrome. This one was… real. Everything here was different. Everything except the boy.
Taylor had guessed wrong. While the shadow demons had been imaginary, Messias had been quite real. He lay in front of the astronaut, a great red stain expanding on his gray-white tunic. Dropping to his knees, Taylor cradled the boy’s head in one arm, and grasped tightly the stave that had run him through. He was slick with the hybrid’s blood.
“Taylor…” Messias breathed. His last words.
“No.” Taylor grimaced. Slowly he stood, letting Messias’s corpse slip to the floor. His vision crossed, and then cleared. He was in a dark, musty, and vaulted room. It was a library of some sort, and appeared to have been abandoned for millennia.
“No,” Taylor said again. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Messias.
There was motion, and he prepared for another assault—but the shadow monster was gone. In its stead stood a different, blurry figure. A gorilla, though this ape wasn’t a soldier. He was dressed more like Julius from the animal research center. He also seemed worse for wear. Bruised and scuffed, his clothing torn, this snaggletoothed simian maintained a defensive stance, a makeshift satchel swung over his arm.
Anger welled up in Taylor.
“You did this,” he seethed. “You did this. You made me kill him!” A look of astonishment appeared on the gorilla’s face.
“Human, how can you talk?” The simian scratched his head. “Did you come from a jar?” He stared down at Messias’s corpse. “Is that your child? Why did you kill him?”
“My—” Taylor started.
That was the tipping point.
Stake in hand, he lunged.
* * *
Mungwortt didn’t understand. The talking man had murdered the child. The boy looked like some kind of half-breed—like himself, but different.
The man reminded him of the one he had seen in Dr. Galen’s office. The one called Lan-Don. That one got him thrown into a pit. This one was thrusting a pointed stick at him. Mungwortt ducked, and the human tripped right over him, tumbling to the creaking, rotted boards at their feet.
Why does this animal hate me so much?
“What did I do, human?” he cried. “What did I do?”
* * *
Taylor turned his fall into a sweeping kick, knocking the gorilla to the floor and stabbing at its arms.
“Drugs, right?” Taylor snarled, kicking out. “Zaius has had me doped up this whole time. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” The child was an innocent, he was sure. Someone had been pulling strings, and it had to be Dr. Zaius. The orangutan probably saw the boy as an abomination.
As he attacked, however, Taylor realized something was wrong. While the gorilla was defending himself, he wasn’t fighting back. He’d curled into a ball, shielding his face with his forearms. Stopping with the stake at the ape’s throat, the astronaut shook his head and scanned the room.
Where’s the goon squad? he wondered. No gorilla soldiers had run in to subdue him. And where is Zaius? Then he heard it—and anger welled up again. Sharp footsteps echoed on concrete, morphing into the dull thud of tramping on soft wood. Taylor whirled.
“Zaius,” he growled. “You son of a—”
Only, it wasn’t Zaius.
They were human—almost. Wearing white, gray, and beige, their heads hooded tightly and hands sheathed in pale gloves, they were dressed like the man he had seen talking to Messias. They rushed into the room, then paused and looked confused. Their leader was a heavyset man with a long red collar, much as a priest might wear. He nodded, and thoughts erupted in Taylor’s brain.
What have you done to the heterogen? Taylor’s eyes darted to Messias’s corpse, then he locked eyes with the newcomer. Somehow he knew the man’s name was Adiposo. Who is this gorilla? the fat man demanded. Did you lead it here?
Telepathy, Taylor thought. Like Messias.
You are a spy, Mr. Taylor. The voice shouted in his head again. You and this beast will not report to your ape masters.
“Are you from the Fellows?” the ape asked the fat man. He was just as clueless as Taylor.
The stupid gorilla isn’t to blame, Taylor thought. They are. The enemy of my enemy…
Come with us, the fat man demanded. Now.
The gorilla put his fingers in his ears and shook his head. Taylor looked at him.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
The ape just nodded. So Taylor rose slowly, tossed aside the bloody stake, and offered a hand to the gorilla. Looking surprised, the ape smiled and began to pull himself up. Leverage achieved, Taylor put his plan in motion.
“Batter up!” he shouted. Swinging the gorilla around, he gained momentum and let go, hurling his impromptu partner bodily toward the whitewashed guards—a fuzzy bowling bowl taking down four pins. Safely out of range, however, their obese leader nodded and closed his eyes, preparing to “think” something at them.
Taylor didn’t give a damn what it was. He rushed Adiposo and clocked him across the jaw.
Made of glass, the astronaut thought smugly.
* * *
Now, Mungwortt got it. Now, he understood the human’s plan. It was rash and it was stupid.
Mungwortt liked it.
Flailing wildly, he struck the pale humanoids in the face and gut. When all four had gone down, he gained his feet and looked to the human for instructions.
“Come on!” the beast beckoned.
“Wait!” Mungwortt’s eyes swept the floor. After a beat he found his sack in a corner. He snatched it up and nodded. The human ran, and Mungwortt followed on his heels. After a short while they barreled through a door.
“What in the hell?” the human said.
* * *
They were at the top of a tall flight of steps, flanked on both sides by a pair of very iconic stone lions. At that moment, Taylor understood.
The New York Public Library—42nd and Park.
He was in the underbelly of Manhattan—or rather, Manhattan was the underbelly. On their approach he and Nova had seen the tops of the buildings. This was the part that rested beneath the surface.
Most of their surroundings were slagged and gray, flash-frozen in a lava flow that appeared to have cooled and hardened in an instant. Far above, that ceiling was bathed in a soft warm glow. Diffused light filtered in through the tallest buildings, reflected off of glass and steel, giving the underground city’s day a semblance of perpetual twilight.
Then something drew his attention.
Deet.
A dull beat that resonated in his skull.
Deet.
Just like the sound he had heard when he caught Messias “praying” with the stranger. Picking up speed, it came again and again.
Deet. Deet. Deet.
There were more human figures on the street, and finally he knew why he thought it had been talking. It was telepathic communication he had been listening to, and he was beginning to understand the language.
As with Adiposo and his companions, these people were all garbed in white, gray, and beige outfits, though they looked to be civilians. Women, children—here a couple, there a family out for a walk. They were communicating with each other via nods and bursts of thoughts. Because these others weren’t “talking” to him, however, it took him a minute to register what they were saying. He calmed his mind and their transmissions became clear.
They’re calling for the guard.
The gorilla tapped him on the shoulder. “This way,” he said. “I know where we can hide!” The two hurried down the steps, slipped around the corner, and made for Grand Army Plaza.
* * *
Ursus and Zaius had ridden through Ape City proper, followed by the gorilla general’s troops. They readied themselves to leave civilization behind and head off into the unknown. First, however, they had
to deal with one minor problem.
“Love, yes!” the chimpanzees wailed. “War, no!”
Led by Tian, Liet’s activists had assembled in protest. Picket signs in hand, they stopped their march, sat down, and blocked the road that led through the city’s gates. If Ursus’s army wanted to leave, they were going to have to trample them.
“No more lies! No more crying!” they chanted. “No more guns! No more blood!”
“Stop! Stop! Stop the war! Freedom! Freedom!”
“Whoa.” Ursus pulled on his reins.
“Freedom! Peace!” the protesters yelled. “Peace and freedom!”
Ursus drew his pistol, and he looked angry enough to use it. Zaius trotted up beside him, and addressed the crowd.
“Get off the road, young people,” he pleaded.
“Freedom! Peace!” they responded.
A seething Ursus nodded to Major Dangral. “Get them out of the way.”
“Wait.” Zaius put his hand on the general’s shoulder. This was going to escalate fast. There would be bloodshed, and the only way to stop it was to appeal to the general’s logic. “We don’t want martyrs,” the doctor said, “do we?”
Fit to be tied, Ursus looked around. The army’s parade had attracted an audience, most of them apes gawking from the windows of their homes. Zaius could read the look on his face.
Witnesses.
“We want peace!” the protesters demanded. “We want freedom!”
“Major,” Ursus whispered, “do it quietly.”
Dangral motioned to the troops. Weapons holstered, they dismounted and moved into the protesters, gathering them up bodily. Police wagons arrived, and the gorillas quickly filled them with chimpanzees. Soon only the protestors’ signs remained, lying discarded in the dust.
“Gorilla brutality!” Tian shouted. Despite his cries, however, there was no violence. As the last of them were locked away, Ursus looked satisfied. They would be Cerek’s problem now. The road ahead was clear.
Ursus gave the order. “Battalion.”
The advance began.
* * *
“There they go,” Zira said, and she sighed as the army moved toward the gate. “Dr. Zaius trotting along beside them.” Cornelius joined her at the window.
“Don’t be too hard on the old boy, Zira,” he suggested. His opinion on the doctor seemed to have shifted significantly since their return from the cave. “His motives are honest.”
Zira wasn’t having any of it. “He has only one motive—to keep things exactly as they have always been.” She grew bold—even bolder than usual. “I say that it’s time for a change.”
Out in the streets, Ursus and Zaius came to a stop when they encountered a group of protesters. The chimpanzees were led by Tian, and Zira hoped fervently that there would be no violence. The death of Lucius was still vivid in her memory, and she didn’t know if she could stand to see any more of her friends injured or killed.
“Gorilla brutality!” Tian shouted loudly enough that they could hear him, despite the distance. As if her prayers had been answered, it wasn’t long before Ursus’s troops had removed them, without harm.
So much for conscientious objection, she observed.
“We chimpanzees are too few,” Cornelius commented. “How can we take the initiative when they’re in control?” Zira thought about Maximus, about how the Commissioner’s tight leash on her was preventing her from producing the research she would need to prove all humans were intelligent.
With our hands tied, she realized, there can be no progress. Then she thought about the anti-vivisection league—about what Liet had said.
“All we need is a leader,” Liet had insisted.
“Cornelius,” Zira said, breaking the silence. “Has it occurred to you that by tomorrow… they won’t be around?” Her husband looked at her and, as understanding dawned, his eyes widened until they were like saucers. In them, Zira divined his thoughts.
Ursus.
The gorilla army.
Zaius.
Without Zaius, the administrative orangutans would have to rely on the president, who was useless. He would acquiesce to the will of the public. There would never be a better time for the chimpanzees to take action.
As she watched the advancing army trample the protesters’ signs, Zira knew there was much to do. Liet hadn’t been among the protesters who had been arrested, so hopefully she was still free—because she already had in motion the beginnings of what they needed.
It wouldn’t be that simple, however.
There would be one voice that could stand in their way. One ape who could turn the president’s ear and rally the remaining gorilla police force—and he would have the entire church behind him. The newlyweds looked long and hard into each other’s eyes. They both said his name at the same time.
“Sabian.”
* * *
The General of the Defense was dead, and he lay in repose. Having lingered for weeks since his consciousness was psychically destroyed, the vegetative state of his mind had at last claimed him. His name had been Ygil VII.
In life, his responsibility had been to train the population in the use of mental deterrents. The purpose of the deterrents was to prevent any injury whatsoever to their society. They were mental disciplines which could affect all of the five senses. When this was done in unison, they could create near-perfect apparitions and cripple an enemy—as long as that enemy’s mind could hold the illusions.
This training meant everything to them. It had been passed down long ago that if followers of the holy bomb neglected the deterrents, then the process of AD—Assured Destruction—would begin.
Ygil VII passed without an heir. There would be no Ygil VIII. Thus, before long there would be no training of the mental disciplines. No more deterrents.
AD would come. Destruction was guaranteed, and so the assembled congregation mourned not only the general’s passing, but the end of their civilization as well.
The wake was held in what was once called Rockefeller Center. Now enclosed and coated in long-cooled lava, it was a molten sea of gray paused in time. On a stone slab in front of the slagged remains of the Prometheus statue, the general’s body lay in state for those who wished to mourn him. Children surrounded the pedestal, singing the mutants’ version of a song whose origins were lost to time.
“Ring a ring o’ neutrons.
A pocketful of positrons.
A fission, a fission!
We all fall down!”
With that the children fell, lying in a circle around him. Two pale yellow-garbed men stepped over them, lifting the deceased general onto a stretcher and covering his head with a sheet. They were the Cleaners, and would convey him through the streets to the charnel house in old Times Square.
The holy furnace there had for centuries been used to dispose of the irradiated and infected. Ever since the first bombs fell. After the cleansing fire, his bones and ashes would be piled in its cavernous open basement—a mass grave for the countless mutants who had died in God’s name over the past two millennia. It was their way.
The will of their god.
Four of the five mutant masters bore witness to his passing. Then Adiposo joined them in the viewing box, looking disheveled. He was out of breath, his face askew, his manner unbecoming of a guild leader.
“Your Holiness,” he said. “The heterogen,” he panted. “Mr. Taylor—”
Mendez blinked at him. Think it.
Composing himself, Adiposo slowed, and adjusted his face.
Deet.
The assembled masters understood.
Mendez took action.
Deet.
He glanced at Caspay. The glasses-wearing man nodded, and signaled his own guards. They would find this so-called astronaut and his gorilla.
As they left, Mendez XXVI returned his attention to the funeral procession. The General of the Defense’s body disappeared from sight, soon to arrive at the furnace. Soon, there would be nothing left of him but bon
e and ash. Just as God decreed.
Unable to take solace in the ceremony, Mendez’s brow furled.
Their gambit foiled, they were out of options.
Now, save for the love of their god, they were defenseless.
* * *
“God Almighty,” Brent sputtered. “This used to be my home.” Having escaped the prison wagon, he and Nova had been chased by the Security Police to the edge of the Forbidden Zone. Desperate, they found shelter in a crack in the crust.
Within the hole, they found steps that led to a tunnel, long rather than wide, with branches extending on either side. There were pillars set on a raised area with walls made of tile. It was those tiles, the shell of a phone booth, and an old poster advertising the zoo, that revealed what he had stumbled upon—the remnants of a long-extinct civilization.
The civilization in question had been his own.
It was a subway station.
QUEENSBORO PLAZA
“I… I lived here, worked here.”
His parents dead when he was a child, Brent’s grandmother had raised him in Queens. Growing up, he had come through this station many times a week.
“What—what happened?” he said, panic clawing at him. “What—what could’ve happened?” But then he knew.
“My God, did we finally do it?” he asked himself.
“Did we finally really do it?”
CHAPTER 21
PRIDE, POMP, AND CAESAROPAPISM
Sabian was a tyrant. Cornelius hated him.
Carrying a bundle of scrolls, the former apostate rapped on the door to the tyrant’s domain.
“Come!”
It was just temporary. As soon as the clergy finished their deliberations and chose a new High Patriarch, he would be asked to step down. However, Cornelius had seen Sabian encourage infighting and backstabbing among the other ministers. As long as the elder could keep their wheels spinning, he would remain head of the Church.
Sabian’s position afforded him a private sanctuary. Instead, he chose to bring all his work to his office in the Ministry of Science. Apparently, the Pontifex Rex took great pleasure in using Zaius’s former refuge.
No, Cornelius realized, he takes great pleasure in using Zao’s. The chamber had belonged to Zao long before Zaius had succeeded him. No doubt sitting behind the desk of his former rival gave Sabian some perverse pleasure. As well, the office had been transformed into a library. Legal and religious scrolls of every kind were stacked on the desks and floor. The elder’s days were spent poring over arcane texts and applying their knowledge to reinterpret the law.
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