Death of the Planet of the Apes

by Andrew E. C. Gaska

“Very good,” he said. Satisfied, Caspay entered his own verification code. No one guildmaster could set the Bomb by himself—it always required two. While the missile would not launch unless so ordered by His Holiness, when it did so it would descend on the city of the apes. Caspay looked up reverently at their god, then addressed Adiposo again.

  Come, he thought, we have one final service to attend.

  CHAPTER 28

  SI VIS PACEM, PARA BELLUM

  Teeth and claws rent the gray and white matter that comprised the giant brains of the Overseers, undoing centuries of genetic engineering in a swath of mindless violence.

  Stop! Be-One commanded. Cease your actions!

  The sending was his last, and none of the other living computers mustered even that much conscious thought. The zoo that had been their compound was a field of carnage. Everywhere he looked, Mungwortt saw the remains of the once-magnificent creations. There were brains on the ground, in the trees—even impaled on a fence post. The White Ones had tipped the huge tanks, sending their contents sloshing onto stone before scooping them up and gorging on them.

  The few servitors that were still tagged attempted to save them, but the freed albinos quickly bit into their ears, and ended the defense.

  While savage, the White Ones were thorough. Their masters destroyed, they followed the tunnel down into the science labs. There they destroyed all of the grotesque experiments and their victims. The deed done, the nomadic White Ones dispersed—some disappearing down subway tunnels while others dissolved into the woods. Grateful to Mungwortt for their freedom, however, Dinge and six others remained.

  Can we leave now? Zao asked.

  Mungwortt shook his head. The human Tay-Lor had saved him from the mutants. He had even wrapped his wounds and shown him what to eat. Where apes were cruel, the man had been kind. He wasn’t about to leave him behind.

  “Tay-Lor is my friend, Zao,” Mungwortt said aloud. He didn’t have many back home. “A real friend, like you.”

  And how do you propose to find this man?

  It was a good question. Then he had an idea—at least he thought it was.

  “Here,” Mungwortt said. Motioning to Dinge, he unraveled the bandage that still clung tight on his arm. He held it to his own nose and inhaled, then held it up to Dinge. Made from Tay-Lor’s shirt, he hoped it would have some of the human’s scent on it. “You will help me find my friend?” he asked the dirty albino.

  Is there no end to your cognitions? Zao mocked. Mungwortt didn’t know what that meant, so he just shushed him.

  Dinge breathed deeply. Taking the scrap of fabric, he passed it to the other beasts. Each in turn draped it over their noses and inhaled. After a moment the White Ones slid through the blue forest. Mungwortt followed close behind.

  After a time the sound of running water grew thunderous. They emerged at the cup-like vehicles where Taylor had first bandaged him.

  “That’s right!” Mungwortt pointed to the waterfall. “We separated here!” Feeling new confidence, he looked over the side at the swift-moving river below.

  You also smashed me on the rocks—there, Zao scolded him.

  “I’m sorry,” Mungwortt murmured, and he was. As he did, Dinge sniffed the catwalk where Taylor had been captured.

  “Four-eyes and the fat man were here, too,” Mungwortt said. “They took my friend.” Dinge growled. The other White Ones converged and grunted in agreement.

  “Dun reet myerr!” Dinge exclaimed, and the White Ones were off. Breaking into a run, they spilled out of the dead forest and into another wide square. The hunt was on.

  * * *

  The emerald crystal dropped first. The amber one followed as Mendez activated the control rods in the prie-dieu at the center of the chancel. Mutant Mass had begun, and the offertory was about to begin.

  The entire mutant population had gathered in the nave of the High Sanctuary, what was formerly St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and was now and forevermore the House of the Holies, the dwelling of the Almighty Bomb. While the church’s pews were original to the building and filled with the congregation, the seats occupied by the four guildmasters had been salvaged from long-disused subway cars. Off to the side, under heavy guard and dressed in worshipers’ robes, sat Brent and Nova.

  At the rear of the chancel, silo doors in the floor irised open. Slowly, inexorably, the monolithic missile rose from its lair beneath the cathedral to tower over the faithful. Its gleaming glory shone bright, reflecting the salvation that would come with its detonation.

  “Almighty and everlasting Bomb,” His Holiness intoned, “who came down among us to make heaven under earth, lighten our darkness. Oh, Instrument of God,” he beseeched, “grant us thy peace.”

  Voices, not thoughts, rose in song.

  “Almighty Bomb, who destroyed all heavens,” the chorus rang, “and created angels.”

  “Behold,” they cried, “His glory!”

  “Behold the truth that abides in us,” Mendez commanded. “Reveal that truth unto that Maker.”

  Everyone in the cathedral rose.

  “I reveal my inmost self unto my god,” the guildmasters responded together. Then, making an offering of themselves, the congregation moved as one. They reached beneath their necklines and pulled on their own flesh, peeling it back and over their heads. This wasn’t skin—these were the masks they wore to resemble their ancestors. Bared muscles glistened under gray dermis, royal blue and crimson lines etched across their features. This was who they were, this was how the Bomb had blessed them.

  How they were meant to be.

  * * *

  God, Albina thought fiercely, forgive me. Distracted by the presence of barbarians, she was unable to enjoy the ceremony. The mutant masters had determined that the broken Mr. Brent and the nitwitted Nova were both harmless, and thus they had been permitted to bear witness to God. Caspay had insisted upon it.

  Caspay insists upon a lot of things, she reflected, yet His Holiness had allowed it. Because of Mr. Taylor’s desecration of the Corridor of Busts, she had lost face. Now, she removed her face for her god. As she did so, Albina couldn’t help but watch the humans. She felt utter contempt. Savages like Mr. Brent and Mr. Taylor could not truly reveal themselves to God. They were deceivers, hidden from His Truth under the trappings of the flesh.

  As the congregation sang, Albina discreetly scanned for their reactions to the true appearance of the mutants. Being but an animal, Nova radiated fear. From Mr. Brent, there was revulsion.

  Stupid heathens.

  She had been wrong to think that the likes of these creatures could become converts. Yet it no longer mattered. Ongaro would dispose of the males. Nova would be thrown to the White Ones, and they would be done with the humans.

  And then, she thought, steeling herself, the apes…

  His Holiness addressed his congregation one last time.

  “Let everyone go to his private shelter,” he commanded aloud. “Empty the streets—they’re to find the city of the dead.”

  * * *

  As the ape army neared the enormous effigies of stone and steel, the heat grew unbearable. Zaius knew enough to warn Ursus not to enter the ghost city proper, lest the invisible death of radiation wither them. Instead, he had suggested a less direct route. Reluctantly, Ursus had agreed.

  Under Zaius’s guidance, they had followed it for hours, until finally they rode a steep rise. Cresting the summit, what they found sent murmurs of surprise among the troops. They discovered knolls and mountains covered in rolling green.

  Simia? Ursus thought. How could we be this close to home?

  “Is this some kind of ploy, Doctor?” he demanded. “This army will not return to Ape City without a victory to its name.”

  “Hold,” Zaius ordered. The soldiers came to a stop behind him.

  Now they accept his orders? Ursus noted angrily.

  “That is not Simia, General.” The doctor dismounted and addressed the troops. “This is another vision!” he declared. “It
is not our home. Turn away from it, do not look. It is a lie.” Zaius walked ahead, shuffling between two rocky crags. “We must be close,” he muttered.

  Remaining cautious, Ursus stayed his confused officers and continued after the wandering orangutan. As Zaius paused at the foot of a crevice, he waved Ursus to join him. Below, something had caught the ape’s eye. There was an opening there, a triangular cave of some kind—but it was something more. The cave was not natural—it was hewn from the rock, and inside it was smooth and round and covered in ceramic tile.

  “This must be what your scout reported,” Zaius concluded. “A subterranean passage. I think it’s worth exploring.” Ursus had no choice but to concede. With Dangral in the lead, he ordered his troops through. As the soldiers marched past, Zaius recognized one.

  “Jaffe!” The doctor pulled Marcus’s son out of the line. “Just a moment, Private.”

  Singled out, the young gorilla was embarrassed.

  “Sir?”

  “I have a special assignment for you.” Zaius turned to his personal squad. “Lieutenant?” Mesmerized by the green hills in the distance, Aurelios came to and rushed to the minister’s side.

  “This is Private Jaffe,” Zaius said. “I believe you knew his father.” Recognition caused Aurelios’s eyes to go wide. He had served under Marcus for many years.

  “Yes, Minister!”

  “I am assigning the private as your personal bodyguard, Lieutenant.”

  “My—” Aurelios stopped as he understood. “Yes, Minister.”

  Zaius turned to Jaffe. “Stick close to Aurelios,” he told the boy. “He is an important ape in the Secret Police, and I need someone I can trust watching over him.”

  Jaffe beamed. “Yes, sir, Minister!”

  Zaius patted him on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you.” As the last of the ape army entered the passage, Ursus, Zaius, and their personal squads prepared to join them.

  Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision evaporated. Green turned to sand, bushes turned to rock. The beckoning beauty of the vegetation was dispelled, and they were once again in the desert. Only the crags and crevice were real, as was the underground passage.

  Everything else had been a lie. Their enemies had tried to distract them at the entrance to their domain, but Zaius had seen through it.

  The minister had done it again, Ursus knew.

  * * *

  Groom Lake, Nevada

  Area 51

  1971

  Project Liberty was in final preparations. Despite knowing the truths that had been revealed to him—or perhaps because of them—Taylor threw himself entirely into the effort. Juno’s equipment tests checked out, and Colonels Taylor and Maddox, along with Lieutenants Dodge and Stewart, spent their days in simulated training.

  Stewart also struggled with her own demons—from the initial Juno mission—but kept it together. Taylor heard that a new astronaut, Major John Christopher Brent, was being chosen as a standby for Maddox. All they needed now was a new navigator, and someone was being rushed through the officer training program to prepare him for the job.

  Fresh from weightless environment practice in the ANSA dive tank, Taylor and Maddox hit the showers. This time they had been testing experimental protective outerwear—one size fits all, the new flexible space suit adjusted its leg and sleeve length to accommodate its occupant.

  It was also very hot. The astronauts had been sweating in them for five hours straight, and they had flight simulator training next.

  Finishing with the shower, they toweled off in the locker room. Taylor lit a cigar, opened his laundry bag, and pulled out his flight suit. Something was wrong—its dingy yellow collar was sparkling white.

  “This isn’t mine,” he growled. “It’s new.”

  Curious, Maddox examined his bag. “Same here.”

  “What gives?”

  “New flight suits and patches all around, sirs,” the laundry officer explained. “The colonels might want to check the flag,” he added as he left the locker room. Cigar planted firmly in his teeth, Taylor unfolded the new suit until the red, white and blue shoulder patch was exposed.

  The blue field was one star short.

  Goddamn Secession War.

  “Wyndham caved,” Maddox muttered, “and now we have to display it.”

  “He’s a peacetime president in a time without peace,” Taylor replied. He could understand the president’s conundrum. If the United States put all its efforts into taking back Texas, hundreds of thousands of Americans could be killed. Having succeeded Goldwater, President Willard Wyndham had inherited a shitstorm. Determined to get U.S. troops back home from Vietnam, the last thing he felt the people needed was a prolonged bloodbath back home. His decision to let Texas go made sense—from a certain point of view—but it also showed weakness.

  There were all sorts of rumors coming out of Texas now, from the Klan’s involvement to minorities being held in detainment camps. Nothing was confirmed, but the possibilities were frightening.

  We’re preaching equality while acknowledging a state of intolerance, Taylor thought darkly. We’re a bunch of goddamn hypocrites. At this point, he didn’t care if the entire country went up in flames. Let them all burn, he mused. I won’t be around to see it.

  With that he disrobed, took a last drag on his cigar, and climbed into the new suit. It fit well. Once he was finished, he snuffed out the tip of the cigar and placed it in the pocket of his upper sleeve. Then he noticed that Maddox was transfixed, staring at the new flag patch, as if doing so hard enough would make another star blink into existence.

  “Don’t sweat it, Donny,” Taylor assured his friend. “You’ve had less than fifty states before. You’ll have fifty again. Wyndham did what he thought was best,” he continued. “It’s up to the next administration to decide if it’s going to stick.”

  Maddox begrudgingly agreed.

  * * *

  “Taylor!”

  What now? He heard the mutants coming, deep in a conversation about which he didn’t give a damn.

  What he saw when he turned, however, was far from what he expected. Ongaro and a guard approached the cell, but leading the way was a man dressed in the trappings of a savage. Even though he was dressed as a primitive, though, the man was unlike any of the humans Taylor had encountered in this dismal future. His beard was groomed, his posture straight. His eyes intelligent.

  Then it struck him. Taylor knew this man—from ANSA, back home. He was an astronaut.

  Captain? he thought. No, Major.

  Major John Christopher—

  “You’re… Brent!”

  The newcomer was overjoyed. “My God, Taylor!”

  “Brent!” Taylor repeated. As the cell door closed again, the two men rushed to each other. This was no illusion—he’d learned to see past the mutants’ lies. As improbable as it was, this was real.

  “How in the hell did you get here?” Taylor asked.

  “Same as you,” Brent replied. “Spaceship, Ape City, subway—”

  Taylor cut him off. “By yourself?”

  “No,” Brent shook his head. “Nova found me.”

  “Nova?” Taylor lit up. “Is she with you?” Hopeful, he looked past Brent. “Where?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly Brent looked defeated. “They separated us. They tried to make me kill her…”

  They turned to face their captor and his guard, standing on the other side of the cell’s spiked door.

  “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Brent, we’re a peaceful people.” Ongaro was adamant. “We don’t kill our enemies. We get our enemies to kill each other.”

  He showed no contrition as he said it, and as one, Taylor and Brent both knew what this had to mean. They had both felt the pull in their brains before. Both knew what they would be forced to do. They backed away from Ongaro, and each other, and they steadied themselves.

  Ongaro closed his eyes.

  A high-pitched whine washed over their minds.

  “I’m
fighting it.” Brent pushed the words. “I’m fighting it off.”

  A manic glee in his eyes, Brent lunged for the colonel.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE CITY OF THE DEAD

  The undercity was desolate. All of the mutants and their families had secluded themselves in their private shelters. Ongaro was tying up the loose ends that were Misters Taylor and Brent, and the other masters had retired to their personal shelters, as well.

  The last of the guildmasters to leave, Caspay suddenly found himself relieved he was not their leader. From the amphitheater over tracks 19–11, Mendez continued to follow the progress of the gorilla army. Whatever He did next would decide the fate of their kind—and His choices were narrowing. The apes were in the tunnels.

  “What will you do, Holiness?” Caspay asked of Mendez.

  “Everything necessary,” Mendez replied.

  That was exactly what Caspay had feared.

  * * *

  Elsewhere in the terminal, straining against Ongaro’s control, somehow Brent forced himself to reason. He reminded himself why he had come to this place. His mission.

  To rescue Taylor.

  “Taylor…”

  The name became Brent’s mantra. It gave him something on which to focus. With it, they might break Ongaro’s control. It was a desperate gambit, and one likely to fail. Both men had strong wills, but Ongaro’s mind was stronger.

  “Taylor.” Brent’s voice echoed through the underground. “Taylor.”

  * * *

  “Taylor…”

  Nova was being led to the animal pens. She heard Brent’s voice, heard him speak the familiar name. Then the name came again.

  “Taylor.”

  She pulled away from her guard, and he grabbed her arm. Nova bit his hand—hard—and the guard yelped, letting go. That was all the chance she needed.

  Nova ran.

  * * *

  Locked in their cell, the astronauts threw punches. They were too evenly matched, however.

  As they fought, Ongaro heard the guard’s cry from some distance away. The mutant master ordered his sentry to investigate, and as the man raced away, Ongaro’s concentration wavered.