“What was that, an earthquake?” Taylor glanced around the room. His inquiries were met with a pregnant silence, and the ground faltered again.
Impassive, the mutants were as still as stone, and just as mute. After a moment, the ground rumbled a third time—a sound like an ocean crashing on a distant shore. That roar grew steadily closer. Though it resembled a quake, it was more concentrated, more intense. Vibrations stammered through the tiled floor and climbed his legs, resonating in his knees. Taylor suppressed a yelp, refusing to show weakness before his captors.
None of this is real, he reminded himself, although it certainly felt genuine. Then, with a crack and a crumble, his kneecaps shattered. Pain receptors cried out. Axons snapped as neurons burst. Taylor dropped and fell onto his side.
Not real.
Beneath him the marble floor began to liquefy, turning into a sapping mud. Stuck closer to the ground, he noticed something new. His nostrils flared, and he smelled gas.
Not real.
A bubble appeared in the mud, then burst. A billowing inferno threatened to engulf him. Taylor raised his arms to shield himself from the flames, but his retinas had already flash-fried. His hair was singed and flesh seared. In an instant his body was charred and constricted, his arms pulled tight to his chest.
Then his arms were faucets, his body’s water pouring out of his sleeves and boiling to steam before it hit the floor. The pain was excruciating. Synapses sparked and nerve endings exploded. Taylor opened his mouth to scream—a reflex action which he instantly regretted. Saliva sizzled in his throat. Fire leapt down his gullet and scorched him from the inside out.
Not real, he chanted silently. Not real, not real, not real! Real or not, there would be no escape.
“Taylor, George,” he cried out. “Colonel, American National Space Administration. Service number 0109047818,” he ranted. “…0109047818!”
* * *
Standing on the balcony, the nihilist mutant guild leaders watched the human anachronism contort in agony. There was, of course, no earthquake. No mud, nor was there a fire. As Mr. Taylor had repeatedly told himself, it was not real.
Only illusion.
A weapon of peace—nothing more.
Stern and silent, they watched the self-styled “astronaut” with a mixture of judgmental detachment and morbid fascination. To them, Taylor was a flying insect whose wings they had pulled. Their powers were a magnifying glass, and they focused the sun’s rays to light him on fire. Thus far unable to get what they sought, they would not stop until he had broken.
“Taylor, George,” the human cried out. “Colonel, American National Space Administration. Service number 0109047818,” he ranted. “…0109047818!”
His face streaked in tears, the astronaut’s shrieks penetrated the train station’s walls and reverberated through the city streets.
CHAPTER 24
A MEANING FORGOTTEN TO TIME
“Tomorrow is Aldo day!” The voice rang out in the square. The market was bristling with commerce. Apes milled about makeshift tents looking for last-minute gifts. Those tents were filled with craftwork and foods made by artisans from across the countryside. Every year they set up shop to ply a year’s worth of goods.
On the second-story footbridge overlooking the town market, three robed and hooded apes had gathered. It was the same overpass that linked the minister’s offices to the message delivery services—the same one where Taylor had been caught and spoken his first words to apekind.
“Get your stinking paws off me,” the human had said, “you damn dirty ape.” It was a fitting place for today’s oration.
“The most sacred of holidays,” the first hooded ape continued. “We give gifts and celebrate our freedoms, but do any of you know what that really means?” Thinking that the robed apes were clergy and this was some holiday sermon, many in the crowd stopped to hear what these mysterious speakers had to say.
“Do any of you know who Aldo really was?”
“Aldo was a wise ape,” a gorilla child responded. “He united all of apekind and formed the first simian nation.” The youngster’s mother patted her son’s head, proud that her offspring remembered his church lessons. Encouraged by her mother’s behavior, the child’s younger sister chimed in.
“Aldo said ‘no’ to tyranny and oppression,” she shouted.
“That’s right.” Beneath his hood, the ape smiled. The second one, much shorter, stepped forward. While harsher than the first, this ape’s voice was clearly female.
“But to whom did Aldo say ‘no’?” She let that sink in, then answered her own question. “The truth is that Aldo was a slave to his human masters,” she said. A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Yes, a slave!” she shouted. “Aldo freed us from the leash of our human overlords, and led apes in a revolt against man.” She spoke quickly, lest the crowd drown her out. “Humans once dominated our planet, and we were their pets. We were the animals!”
The crowd laughed. An elderly hunter gorilla—one of the few male gorillas who hadn’t left the city for war—chuckled loudly.
“The only thing I see humans dominating is my trophy wall!”
“Oh?” The first hooded ape stepped forward again. “And what about our crops?” A hush rolled over the crowd. The third hooded ape spoke.
“Where do you think the army has gone?” he asked. “Who do you think they are fighting? Why do you think they are so afraid of humans?”
Then the harsh female spoke again.
“In the past three months, Ape City has been visited by at least three talking humans—yes, talking.” She pointed below her, to the spot where Marcus’s police had netted Taylor. “One of them spoke right here! The rumors are true. They are our equals.” She was adamant. “They made the mistake of controlling us millennia ago. We were dumb and they were intelligent! Now, we are the ones in charge. The cycle of violence has to stop. We must make peace with the humans!”
“Liberal nonsense,” an orangutan scoffed. “You lost the vote. We have already gone to war, why can’t you just accept it?”
“What is wrong with you?” another said. “If that story is true—if they once treated us like animals—why would we want to make peace with humans?” The crowd was turning ugly. An orangutan female slipped away, moving toward the Security Police office. The hooded male watched her go.
“Because we should learn from their mistakes and not perpetuate the cycle,” the adamant female began. “We must—”
“Who are you?” a chimpanzee shopkeeper demanded. “Why do you hide your faces—are you afraid to stand up for your lies?”
“Are you the three talking humans?” a teenage chimpanzee mocked. The crowd again burst into laughter. Balling her fists, the cloaked female reached for her hood.
“I’m afraid of nothing,” she hissed.
* * *
“Zir—!” The first cloaked ape—Cornelius—caught himself before he said her full name aloud. He tried to stop her, but was a fraction too late. Zira threw her hood down, exposing her identity to the entire mob.
“I am Zira,” she said loudly. “I’m an animal psychologist and a member of the Citizens’ Council, and I implore you—”
“Stop right there!” It was Cerek and two police officers, emerging from the roof of police headquarters.
“Come on!” The third ape and farthest from the advancing police, Liet led the way. Cornelius grabbed Zira’s hand and pulled hard. They just made it off the footbridge when more officers appeared on the roof of the ministers’ building, forcing them to stop. The three chimpanzees turned and ran for the next overpass, but two more gorillas came barreling down it to meet them. It was only a few—nearly all of Cerek’s remaining guards—but it was enough. Their only option was to jump.
The scrub behind the building was thick and would slow their fall. Liet jumped first. Branches snapped and bushes rustled, but she made it through unscathed.
“Hurry!” she exclaimed. The guards on the roof were
closing fast. Yet Zira thought about the baby. A jolt to her system like that jump could cause complications. Cornelius must have been thinking similarly, and he spoke fast.
“Zira, hold me tight, I will fall backward and take the brunt of the—”
She cut him off.
“I’m sorry, Cornelius.” With no more warning than that, she shoved. He lost his footing and fell over the side, crashing through the branches and undergrowth.
Only her face had been seen. Better her baby be born in captivity than not born at all. It was her fault they were in this mess, anyway. Now Cornelius wouldn’t have to pay for any more of her mistakes.
The guards were upon her.
“I surrender!” Zira put her hands up. As one of his gorillas swung his truncheon, Cerek stayed his hand.
“This female is surrendering.” He twisted the guard’s club hand down behind his back, causing him to grunt with pain. “There is no need for that,” the chief growled. Shamed, the guard nodded and cast his eyes downward. Cerek looked to the brush where the other two had escaped and yelled to the rest of his squad.
“Down there, go!”
* * *
“Doctor… Zira, is it?”
It was dusk, and she had been arrested at noon. She had expected to be transferred to the prison facility—the Reef. There, she imagined, she would be held awaiting trial.
Instead, she found herself still in the Security Police headquarters, jailed in a cell across from Tian and the other protesters. Even Jaila and Consus were there. Wisely, none of them spoke to each other for fear of further incrimination. Like her, they were being held without bail on a charge of malicious conduct. It seemed as if the powers-that-be had something special in mind for all of them.
In this case, the power-that-be was Sabian.
“Doctor is one of the nicer names I’ve been called,” she replied.
“No doubt, no doubt.” His color ashen, the reverend chuckled. Weak from his ordeal, he was flanked on either side by a clerical postulant—both there to catch the patriarch should he stumble and fall.
“Are you feeling better, Minister?” she asked. “When you fell ill, we feared the worse.”
A yellow-stained grin crept across his face. “Tell me, child, who put you up to this? Was it your husband—my assistant, Cornelius? And where did you get that fanciful story about Aldo?”
“From…” Zira decided to turn the questioning away from Cornelius. “…from Dr. Zaius, of course.”
The canny orangutan didn’t buy it. “Or perhaps you and your husband were sticking your noses in places where they shouldn’t be, hmm?”
She tried not to show any reaction.
“Cornelius had nothing to do with it, I assure—”
“Strange that he would go missing, then,” Sabian said. “Even stranger that I would suffer a stroke in his presence, right before this happened. One might wonder if I was poisoned.”
Zira gaped. “If you think my husband would—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find him—and whomever that other ape was, as well. I’ll even give them a chance to prove their innocence. You just won’t be around to see it.” His withered claw brushed her hands on the bars. Zira recoiled.
“Kneel,” Sabian commanded.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Kneel,” the High Patriarch repeated. “Pray. You will repent, my child,” the minister said. “Only a penitent ape may pass into the kingdom of God.”
Zira huffed. “Dogmatic nonsense.”
Sabian leered. “So it will be blasphemy as well, then.” He shuffled away from the holding cells, cane in hand, and raised his voice. “Only the Lawgiver can save you now.”
* * *
“She will be hanged for treason at noon,” Minister Sabian said.
“But, Minister,” Cerek questioned, “without a trial, shouldn’t she be exiled? The law says—”
“Until Ursus returns,” Sabian said, “I am the law!” His voice cracked like thunder. All of the gorilla guards looked away, searching for something else—anything else—to observe. It was as if Sabian’s eyes turned all flesh to stone.
“Not you,” the reverend continued, “and not any legislature. The Security Act gives the Chief Defender of the Faith the right to take action. More than that, I am the High Patriarch, the Pontifex Rex.” He drew himself up as far as his frail spine would allow. “I am the Lawgiver’s earthen vessel. I am judge and jury, Cerek, and you”—he stabbed a wrinkled talon at the gorilla’s chest and bared a wicked smile—“you will be executioner—either directly or through proxy.” The shaking High Patriarch straightened his vestments. His postulants steadied him.
“I-I’ll initiate the lottery, High Patriarch,” Cerek stammered. Lots would be drawn, with the loser declared the executioner.
“So be it.” Sabian knew Cerek wouldn’t have the strength to do it himself. “A lesson must be taught to these rabble rousers. Under article six of the Security Act, I hereby declare martial law. No apes are to be out after sundown. There will be random searches of all chimpanzees, and I want you to prepare a list of potential troublemakers.” He trembled. “Put the protesters in stocks and leave them in the square for a day or two,” he continued, “but Dr. Zira I want dead at high noon, and I want it to be very public.” Sabian nodded to himself, pleased with his own verdict.
“Very, very public.”
* * *
“We have to do something!” Cornelius’s fist slammed the old stone table. He was frantic.
Liet turned to their host and shrugged apologetically. Camilla was a rarity—an orangutan who was sympathetic to the chimpanzee cause. In her sixties, she had lived long enough to remember even worse times. Because of this, she had opened her home as a safe house for Liet and the protest movement. Camilla might not necessarily want chimpanzees running Ape City, but they were preferable to Sabian and his gorilla cohorts.
Zira’s arrest had forced Cornelius into hiding—the Security Police had declared him guilty by association, and issued a warrant for his arrest. Liet had brought him here to the far side of the Residential District. Now, as they conferred, there was a sharp rapping on the back door. Cornelius jumped as if he had been shot.
Camilla snuck a peek through the keyhole before giving the all-clear. The latch released, two chimps pushed their way inside, holding tightly to a third whose head was covered with a burlap sack.
“What is this?” Liet demanded.
“She was asking too many questions,” Quirinus replied, “trying to find Cornelius and Zira.” From beneath the burlap shroud, a female ape spoke in an even tone.
“I know exactly where Dr. Zira is,” she said. “All of Ape City does. I’m trying to find Dr. Cornelius.”
Liet shushed Cornelius before he could respond.
“For what purpose?” she asked.
“Dr. Milo sends his greetings.” At that, both Cornelius and Liet nodded to Quirinus. The burlap sack was removed, and Seraph stood revealed.
* * *
“It’s his flying machine, isn’t it,” Cornelius growled. “Right now that’s the last thing I want to hear about.”
Pleased to know her cousin Milo was safe, Liet kept quiet. This was strictly between Cornelius and Seraph.
“Know that Dr. Milo requests your presence,” Seraph said. “Yours and Dr. Zira’s. And from what I’ve seen, it seems prudent for you to leave Ape City as quickly as you can.”
“Dr. Milo can request whatever he pleases, Dr. Seraph,” Cornelius spat. “I’m going nowhere without my wife.”
Seraph stood. “I was asked to return with both of you,” she said firmly. “I intend to fulfill that mission to the best of my abilities.”
“Oh,” Cornelius said. “Then you’re going to help me get her out of this, aren’t you?” Seraph smiled. The male chimp didn’t seem to know how to respond. Finally, he just said, “Thank you, Doctor.”
“You are welcome, Doctor,” she replied crisply. “Now, all we need is
a plan.” She and Cornelius turned to peer at Liet. The socialite growled, and spoke to their host.
“Camilla,” she said, “might I trouble you for a map of the commons?” The orangutan hummed her assent and shuffled away to retrieve her scrolls.
The time for playing resistance fighter was over, Liet knew. The time to be one had arrived.
* * *
Groom Lake, Nevada
Area 51
1970
“So, Taylor, George. Major.” The NSA agent ran his fingers across Taylor’s dog tags, examining them as if he didn’t already know who his captive was. “What do you know about Churchdoor?”
Lazy circles of smoke settled around Taylor’s head. Anticipating an answer, the agent pressed record on the tape deck and blew another puff. Taylor inhaled deeply. It had been hours since he’d had a cigar, and if second-hand smoke was all he could get, he’d take it.
“Tell you what,” he offered. “You tell me what you know, and then I’ll fill in the blanks.”
“Alright,” the agent replied. Taylor’s interrogator was seasoned. His leathery face chiseled and his hair silver, his eyebrows were salt-and-pepper over deep gray eyes. While he had traded his commando wear for a cheap brown suit, it concealed a fit physique. Taylor sized the man up, wondering if he could take him again without a sucker punch. If the NSA agent had fair warning, Taylor doubted it.
The room was the typical interrogation space—gray brick, small, with a table, two chairs, and the obligatory open-bulb lamp. One wall, of course, was mirrored. Two goons—a burly brute and a small man—occupied two shadowed corners. Taylor himself was secured to his chair, his wrists held tight to the armrests, his shins fastened to the chair legs. An array of things lay on the table, including an open attaché case, the cassette tape recorder, a pitcher and glass of water, an intercom, and an ashtray that was fresh, as if it had never been used.
Still, the agent tapped his ashes into the half-empty water glass beside it instead.
“Alright,” the agent said. “I know that you were caught stealing government secrets, a charge that if you are lucky will get you life.” The man dragged deep on his cigarette and leaned forward to emphasize his point. “If not so lucky, it could get you dead.”
Death of the Planet of the Apes Page 27