Battle For The Planet Of The Apes

by David Gerrold

  Caesar was a lot like Lincoln, too. He wanted apes and humans to be equal, but if there had to be slaves and masters, he would much prefer to be among the masters. The sentiment was universal, and because of it there were times when MacDonold’s longing for the old days was especially fierce.

  Like now, for instance.

  The table was set for three. A single candle glowed in its center. There were rusty knives and forks and chipped enamel plates.

  Teacher was putting two blankets over the window. “Apes have such an acute sense of smell,” he was muttering.

  MacDonald smiled and cautiously shut the outer door. He tested it and put a chair under the handle so no one could enter abruptly. Then he moved to the window and double-checked Teacher’s precautions.

  Satisfied, he opened the door to the other room and called, “Okay, Doctor, we’re ready. Bring it in.”

  “I’m on my way,” she answered. A moment later, she entered, carrying in one hand a flat black leather case and in the other a dish on which reposed “One roast bootleg rabbit!”

  “Shhhh! Not so loud,” said teacher.

  Cautiously, she set down the dish and opened the leather case. She began extracting surgical instruments to carve the rabbit. The two men watched each cut intently.

  She stopped and looked at both of them, amused. Her scalpel was poised in mid-stroke. “I’m being as fair as I can.” She began filling their plates.

  “I’m salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.” Teacher began stuffing his face.

  MacDonald ate hungrily too. “Mmmf,” he said around a mouthful. “I just hope there’s enough to go around. I’m famished.”

  She smiled at him as she sat down to eat. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty more.” She cut herself a bite and ate it. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

  Both MacDonald and Teacher nodded but kept eating. These meals of meat were rare and always very secretive. It wasn’t that rabbits were hard to catch—they weren’t, they were very plentiful—it was just that the apes didn’t allow the killing of any animal for any reason whatever. Not even for food. But rabbit tasted so good . . . Doctor had outdone herself; the rabbit had been seasoned just right. If MacDonald closed his eyes and pretended very hard, it almost tasted like chicken. Almost . . .

  He snapped back to reality and reached for another forkful. The plate was almost empty. He sighed in disappointment and tried to make the last mouthful last. He hadn’t remembered eating all that meat. But he had, he must have. The others’ plates were empty, too. That was the trouble with rabbit—there was always enough to taste but never enough to fill. He laid the fork down regretfully. “I had hoped not to be marching on an empty stomach tomorrow, but that’s an awful lot to demand of just one rabbit.”

  “Marching?” Teacher looked up. “Where?”

  MacDonald lowered his voice. “Tomorrow, Virgil and I are taking Caesar to the city.”

  “The city? It must still be crawling with radioactivity.”

  “I know, but Caesar wants to go. Has to go.”

  “But there’s nothing there! The city is dead.”

  “And so will you be,” Doctor cut in sharply. “Unless you take a Geiger counter. Why are you going?”

  “I told Caesar that there are tapes of his parents. He wants to see them.”

  Teacher dropped his fork on the plate with a clatter. “That’s a stupid reason to risk your life.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” said MacDonald. “Something that I didn’t tell Caesar, but something that I must find out. We must find out,” he corrected.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s something that my brother told me, something that Caesar’s parents said about the future. About . . . the end of the world. We have to know what that is. I have to hear the tapes myself.”

  He thought back, to when he had been a boy, to a time when men had gone to the moon. And beyond . . .

  It had been an exciting time. The greatest mission of all had been when three men and a woman were launched into space to try to reach a nearby star. They had never returned, but the ship had come back, crashing off the California coast.

  There had been three chimpanzees in it.

  That had been the beginning of the end for the human race.

  One of the chimpanzees had been killed, but two had survived, a male and a female named Cornelius and Zira. They had startled the world by their ability to speak, and they had revealed what had happened to Captain Taylor and the others, who had vanished on that fateful mission.

  The ship had traveled not to another star but to the Earth’s own future. Taylor had survived and discovered that the roles of apes and men were reversed. Apes were intelligent, and men were speechless animals, kept in cages. Discovering this, Taylor had fled into the wilderness to seek other men—civilized men.

  Another spaceman had come after Taylor, and he too had vanished into the wilderness. Cornelius and Zira had discovered Taylor’s spaceship, repaired it, and used it to travel back to Taylor’s time.

  They told what they knew, but the information was dangerous. Something they had said about the future, the immediate future, had frightened the government, and they had been sequestered. Zira had become pregnant, and to save the life of their baby, the two apes had escaped. But they had been discovered and killed, the baby chimpanzee with them.

  Or, had the baby chimp been killed? A young chimp had been killed, but was it Cornelius’ and Zira’s? It would be years before the truth became known.

  Half a generation later, the world was a different place. Cornelius and Zira had been forgotten—almost. One of their predictions had already come true: a plague had wiped out almost all of the dogs and cats in the world, and human beings had turned to apes and monkeys to take their place.

  The government had become monolithic and totalitarian, fearful of its own future; it was a repressive and all-controlling state, and as such, it needed slaves. As the intelligence of chimpanzees and orangutans and the strength of gorillas became recognized, apes were given more and more work to do. Scientists worked to raise their intelligence level, and apes began to approach human levels of understanding. They became the slaves the government needed to keep its real slaves—the people—content.

  And then the second prediction had come true: an ape had said “No” to his human masters. The ape was Caesar. He had been raised in secret by Armando, the owner of a traveling circus, who had brought him to the city to see and to fulfill his destiny. Armando had been killed, but Caesar had stayed free long enough to lead the apes in revolt against their human masters. He had been captured by Governor Breck and almost killed. But he had been rescued by MacDonald’s brother. Caesar had led his people to freedom, and the world had plunged into war, and the cities had been flattened.

  The few survivors, men and apes alike, returned to a simpler life. They lived in the forests, and the apes were the masters.

  Now, today, nine years later, Caesar was going to go in search of his parents’ image. And MacDonald, with him, was going to search for the truth—just what was it that Cornelius and Zira had said that had frightened the government so badly and turned it into a dictatorship? Was it really the end of the world? Two of their predictions had already come true . . .

  Just as Caesar had to know, so did MacDonald.

  He came out of his reverie, realized that Doctor was looking at him, “Is this journey really necessary?” she asked.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  She accepted that. She got up out of her chair and came around to him. “Be careful, Mac,” she said. “Please.” She kissed him long and hard. “Come back.”

  He looked at her. “I have to know the truth.”

  She lowered herself to his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Mac,” she whispered. “Life is more important than truth. If it costs you your life to find out the answer, what good will that do any of us?”

  He couldn’t answer her question, not
the way she had phrased it. Instead, he kissed her and said, “I’ll come back. And I’ll come back with the answers.”

  And on the other side of Ape City, in a different house, an ape house, the same scene was being played between two apes.

  “Caesar,” Lisa was saying. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

  “Lisa, you remember your parents. I was too young when they died to remember mine.”

  Lisa stiffened. “I don’t want to have to remember my husband. I want to love you now.”

  He took her outstretched hand against his cheek, then he took her into his arms and rubbed his muzzle against hers. “Lisa, Lisa, dear. My parents left me knowledge, I must go find it. Perhaps they left me the knowledge that I need to lead our people. Apes must be better than humans ever were. Apes must build a world of peace and justice, freedom and equality. My parents came from the future; they came from such a world. They came from a world of apes—it must have been a time of graciousness and plenty. I need to know how such a world was built; perhaps they brought me the answer. I must take the chance. I must be the kind of leader that my people need, and to do that, I must have the knowledge that a leader needs. Lisa, my love, my wife, you are important to me—you are the most important thing in my life. But I have a mission with our people. I cannot shirk that responsibility.”

  Lisa did not answer; she just lowered her eyes in sorrow.

  Caesar kissed her. “I will take care, Lisa. I will.”

  Lisa looked up at her husband. Her eyes were moist. “Say good morning to Cornelius, then, but not good-bye. I don’t want him to know that I’m afraid.”

  Caesar smiled and nodded and rubbed her muzzle again in an affectionate chimpanzee kiss. Then he went into his son’s bedroom. Cornelius slept on a raised pallet beside a table; on the table was his favorite pet, a caged squirrel.

  Caesar laid an index finger lightly on Cornelius’ forehead, Cornelius opened his eyes.

  “Cornelius, I’m going on a journey.”

  Drowsily, the little chimp asked, “What will you bring me back?”

  “What would you like?”

  Cornelius pointed at his squirrel, “Some special nuts for Ricky. He’s getting bigger.”

  Caesar smiled affectionately. “So are you.” He touched his son’s face. “One day you’ll be as tall as a king.”

  THREE

  The door was impressively stout. Caesar pounded on it loudly. MacDonald and Virgil stood beside him. Caesar pounded again.

  “He’s asleep,” commented MacDonald.

  “Not eternally, I hope,” said Virgil.

  Caesar pounded a third time. Impatiently.

  From behind the door came an ancient voice. “Who knocks?”

  “Caesar.”

  A tiny grille in the center of the door slid back, revealing the wizened face of a very old orangutan with red, rheumy eyes. His voice quavered as he asked, “And what does Caesar want?”

  “Weapons.”

  The old orangutan peered harshly at the three of them. His name was Mandemus. “For what purpose?” he demanded.

  Caesar nudged Virgil at that. Virgil stepped forward. “For self-protection in the pursuit of knowledge.”

  “Self-protection? Self-protection? Against whom or what?”

  “We don’t know,” said Virgil.

  “Hmp,” said Mandemus. “Then what is the point of protecting yourself against a danger of which you have no knowledge while you pursue a knowledge you do not possess?”

  At this, MacDonald rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, no!”

  Mandemus continued implacably. “Is this knowledge for good or evil?”

  Virgil answered without hesitation, “All knowledge is for good. Only the use to which you put it can be evil.”

  “The sun is rising,” said Caesar. “I should like to settle this matter before it sets.” He fidgeted impatiently.

  Mandemus protested vehemently. “Caesar, you appointed me not only as the keeper of this armory but as the keeper of your own conscience. That is why I have asked six boring questions. And now I will ask a seventh before I decide whether to issue the weapons you think you require. What is the nature of the knowledge you cannot seek without weapons?”

  MacDonald spoke then. “The knowledge of Earth’s ultimate fate, recorded on tapes in the archives of the Forbidden City . . .”

  Caesar added, “. . . which is contaminated, but may still be inhabited by humans.”

  Mandemus considered this. He chewed it over thoughtfully, pursing his lips and creasing his forehead in concentration. At last he decided. “Come in,” he said. He released the bolt and pushed the heavy door aside for them to enter.

  Inside, there were boxes of weapons and ammunition—all kinds, all sizes, salvaged from the great uprising. They were piled high in crates stacked against the walls—a mountain of madness and savagery that belied the peacefulness of Ape City. The room was lit by flickering lamps; they were upright wicks burning in small bowls of oil. MacDonald flinched when he realized. This armory was an explosion looking for a time to happen. But the apes would rather risk the destruction of their whole city than ever allow electricity to be wired into their homes. Electricity was too much a human thing; the apes identified it too much with the human cities and the time of their oppression. Worse, they associated it with the electrical cattle prods that had been used to condition them. But still . . . MacDonald shuddered, there must be a safer way to light the armory.

  Caesar was moving around the cases, inspecting and frowning. Mandemus followed, waving his keys and gesturing. “Well, what is it Caesar needs?”

  Caesar said without looking up, “Three machine guns.”

  Mandemus dropped his keys. “Three machine guns?”

  “And ammunition,” added MacDonald.

  “For the removal of obstacles,” put in Virgil.

  Mandemus picked up his keys, muttering to himself. “Three machine guns. And ammunition. For the removal of obstacles.” He looked from case to case, from pile to pile, from wall to wall, from dump to dump. “I don’t really hold with this. Searching for knowledge. Learning the future. I don’t even want to know my own, which will be brief.”

  “And a Geiger counter,” said Virgil.

  Mandemus didn’t hear him. He muttered on as he led them to the appropriate cases. “I mean if we knew for a fact that there was an afterlife and that the afterlife was bliss eternal, we’d all commit suicide in order to be able to enjoy it. But if there were an afterlife, what would be the purpose of this life? Except maybe to provide a place for us to earn the afterlife? But why must we earn an afterlife? Shouldn’t we live this life for its own sake?”

  Caesar, Virgil, and MacDonald ignored him. They had heard his incessant philosophizing before and had learned to ignore it. Mandemus babbled like a brook without saying anything. He was out of his time.

  As Caesar and Virgil began unpacking the machine guns and ammunition, MacDonald thought of something else. “Pistols,” he said.

  Mandemus turned to him, eyeing him sharply. “For the removal of smaller obstacles?”

  “This is a three-day journey,” said Virgil. “With Caesar’s permission, MacDonald may want to shoot, cook, and eat a rabbit.”

  MacDonald looked up sharply at this. Did Virgil know about his secret meals with Doctor and Teacher? Did Caesar know?

  Mandemus snorted. “Who needs three pistols to shoot one rabbit?” He took a single Smith & Wesson out of a box and tossed it to MacDonald. A pack of ammunition followed. “Here. Enjoy your meal.”

  The old orangutan bowed to Caesar then and ceremoniously ushered the trio out the great door, slamming it behind them. Mandemus didn’t disapprove of weapons. He only disapproved of their use.

  MacDonald commented wryly, “He may be old, but he has a mind like a razor.”

  Virgil agreed. “When I was a child, he was my teacher.”

  Caesar rumbled in his throat. “Enough. Let’s get going.” And the three moved off into the
predawn darkness, not noticing that behind them the old orangutan was watching through the grille in his door. His face was skeptical, and his simian features were pursed in disappointment. Shaking his head sadly, he clanged the peephole shut and turned back to his armory.

  The gorillas were the guardians of Ape City. It was the closest they could come to playing war. They built and manned their outposts and pretended they were important.

  They didn’t really care about Ape City, but they did care about being strong and fierce. And if the only way that they could be strong and fierce was to become the protectors of Ape City, then they would protect Ape City with all the fervor they could muster.

  But for nine years there hadn’t been a single threat against Ape City. None at all, aside from a few natural disasters. There had been an earthquake once, but it had been a little one; nothing had been broken. There had been a couple of floods, and once a landslide, which had ruined half an orchard. But there had never been the threat against Ape City that had required the gorillas to stand up and fight.

  No armies of men had ever come rolling across the desert from the Forbidden City, threatening with guns and fire and electric cattle prods. No hordes of hungry savages had ever attacked, not even a pack of marauding rebel apes. The gorillas were ready for a fight, but there was nothing to fight. The nine years would probably stretch into ninety. Or nine hundred.

  The result was boredom. The gorillas had long since forgotten their original vigilance. They sat around the fires of their outpost, grumbling and picking at their fur, looking for fleas. They snorted and grumbled and cursed, pretending that they hated being out there in the cold night. But not one of them wanted to go back to Ape City, where the skinny little chimpanzees and the pale and effete orangutans were in charge. Out here, at least, gorillas could be gorillas. Out here they didn’t have to bathe every week, as Caesar commanded the other apes. Out here they didn’t have to practice their reading and writing. Out here they could play at war.