The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  That was, of course, the intention, for many who came here tried to create their own vision of what Earth had once been like in happier times. As we now know, that was one of our first and one of our greatest mistakes: for Paradise, despite appearances, was never anything like Earth; not like Heaven either, I suppose.

  Now, abandoned, the shuttle port has become a windy place of grit and ghosts.

  Just a few months earlier it was from this very port that the teams of demolition workers, summoned for the Disestablishment, spread across the surface of Paradise. Soon their green and blue uniforms were everywhere. They flew out to the distant communities, to the isolated homesteads, to the processing stations, to the mines (for there were still a few) and to the research stations. They stood by while angry and grieving people made their last farewells to the planet which had been home to them for three generations. Some settlers preferred to burn their houses, tossing a blazing rag through a broken window and then watching as the flames licked and leaped up the walls. It did not take long before the framing timbers fell with a crash and sparks billowed into the sky. Then gradually the flames got smaller, until finally all that was left was a smouldering ring of ashes, which, within days, would be overgrown and obliterated by the ever pressing vegetation of Paradise.

  The green and blue demolition angels helped people pack. They shifted crates of personal possessions, and then, when the families had moved out, they began their real work – ripping down the public buildings, re-coiling the miles of irrigation tubing, disconnecting the pumps, scuttling and sinking barges that could no longer be serviced, greasing and vacuum-sealing any machinery that could be re-used, disassembling bridges, reclaiming buoys from the running tides and packing in hermetically closed crates the entire contents of the New Syracuse Library, the Distance Education Studios and the ORBE HQ. The temples, mosques and churches were picked apart and sent off world. So too the sheds, shops, restaurants, amateur theatre studio and the whorehouse on the waterfront. The Settlers’ Club had its roof, walls and floors plucked away, revealing its secret wine cellar. The Settlers’ Museum was pulled down and its contents, documenting the hundred and fifty years since Paradise was first occupied, were sold off to private collectors, dispersed to whichever universities expressed interest or burned.

  Snapped up immediately was the quarter-size statue of a Dendron peripatetica, extinct now for over a generation. The tall sculpture was carefully cut into pieces, each piece numbered and crated and the whole assembly shipped out to end its days as the sole inhabitant of a crater on the dark side of the moon: bizarre but appropriate.

  This demolition took only a few months, for Paradise, despite the aspirations of the first colonists, had never become more than an agricultural world. ‘We only scratched the surface,’ was the official assessment of the impact of Earth on the planet. Even so, those scratches went deep. The first fifty years during which Paradise was the exclusive territory of the Mineral and Natural Resource Development Company left their mark.

  The planet’s face was scarred by strip-mining for an aromatic gum which brought a fine price, and for a grey oily substance that burned dirty but hot and was used for local smelting. Some dams were built and rivers diverted in an attempt to make the deserts fertile. Many miles of forest were burned or defoliated to make room for the farms which were planned but never planted.

  There were other effects too, invisible ones that could not be remedied, such as the extinction of plant species, the pollution of waterways and radioactive contamination from a misplaced power station. Records were few and no one knew where refuse was buried, or how many drums of unwanted and unnamed chemicals had been weighted and dropped into the deep blue trenches of the sea. Without records showing time and place, such things did not officially exist – and memories fade. Perhaps most grievous, however, was the unknown and unsuspected impact of the human mind on the invisible, passive and slowly awakening sentience of Paradise.

  What the demolition workers could remove, they did. What they could not, they burned. And what they could not burn, they broke and left behind for time and the weather to dispose of. Official policy: nothing of use was to be left intact. Why? Well, no one was quite certain any longer. Originally, when the forces of Earth made their first moves into space, there were fears that an alien species might somehow be able to derive advantages from the refuse of earth. But in the time that Earth had been able to explore space beyond the solar system no evidence of a rival technological civilization had been found. Life? Yes. Diatoms in tepid pools, microbes in sulphur ponds, ferns. Just occasionally tantalizing evidence of civilizations long dead was detected under frozen seas or entombed in lava flows. But, of the hostile monstrosities that had peopled the popular imagination since Wells put pen to paper, there was no sign.

  Nevertheless, the demolition workers were very careful, for strict legislation had been passed by the Space Council that any spillages must be cleaned up, and any damage they caused to the environment put right. It was curious legislation, the legal equivalent of slamming the stable door when the horse was already a galloping speck on the horizon. As the various conservation agencies kept pointing out, most damage to a planet was done during the first years of its exploitation, when the adventurers from Earth, the commercial companies which sponsored the exploration, were gaining a foothold. That was when the legislation was needed. But it was never enforced. The war between those who wished to protect and conserve and those who wanted to expand and exploit never ended, and the no-man’s-land between them was littered with dead legislation.

  Now this work of demolition and cleansing was complete. Plants were already crawling over the concrete, reclaiming every damp corner and niche. The army of men and women shipped in to do the pulling down, packing and handling had gradually shrunk from thousands to less than fifty. Those that remained were small professional teams, specialists in the last phase of Disestablishment – razing, burning and burying.

  Today being the final scheduled work day, they had hoped to be finished by noon, off planet smartly, into the showers and then into the long boozy party which always followed the safe arrival of the historic last shuttle. And they might have done so too, except that one of the half-track Demo Mules out on a final scavenging run threw a track and the repairs caused a delay.

  From Hera’s point of view, the delay was fortunate, for she was late.

  The day wore on.

  The wind came.

  The sun, which had shone so brightly in the morning, gradually dimmed to a pale disc, which finally disappeared in the deepening haze.

  Steadily, the wind strengthened until it reached gale force. It became heavy and brown with sand and grit stripped from the high plateau. It howled and swirled round the remains of the lonely buildings. It shrieked in the broken gutters and tore at the roofs, lifting the few remaining corrugated panels and sending them wheeling across the compound like playing cards. It tore up the few straggly plants of Earth, all that remained of the kitchen gardens. It drove before it huge tumbling balls of Tattersall weed, that shallow-rooted ubiquitous plant of Paradise. It made sad music in the tall perimeter fence which surrounded the shuttle port with its rusting barbed wire and ceramic insulators.

  Standing alone in the middle of all this, solid and squat on its launch pad, was Supply Shuttle P51, the last demolition craft. It was the only source of light amid the gloom – a single yellow beacon at its apex blinked on, off, on, off. The shuttle was awaiting the return of the disposal team stranded in New Syracuse when its Mule broke down. The damage had been repaired and the Mule was on its way back. As soon as it was safely stored inside P51, a small ceremony of flag lowering would be performed, and then the last shuttle would lift.

  Meanwhile, the sand flowed round the squat shape like water round a rock. It teemed down its scarred and pitted sides. No human creature could live outside now. Only iron and stone and concrete could survive – and the omnipresent Tattersall weed.

  But yet there was
one human creature.

  8

  The Witness

  Upwind of the shuttle port, and moving unevenly, a light appeared out of the gloom. Gradually a human figure could be seen beneath the light. It was helmeted and enclosed in a survival suit. Occasionally it stopped, crouching to avoid being knocked over by the fierce wind. Finally, the figure reached the perimeter fence which it gripped tight. It was at a place which overlooked the soon-to-be-abandoned port.

  Secure now, with no danger that it could be sent cartwheeling by a sudden gust, the figure began to move along the fence working from handgrip to handgrip. It was heading towards a place where two lines of reinforced perimeter mesh met. Here an iron gate stood open, its frame twisted from a collision with a demolition truck. Just beyond the open gate stood the remains of a curved concrete wall, all that was left of a fuel depot. The wall deflected the wind and created a small haven. Cautiously the figure reached the twisted gate and was about to move through when suddenly it ducked. A massive ball of Tattersall weed came bounding out of the gloom behind, struck the perimeter fence so that it shook and sang, hung for a few moments and then tore loose and rolled on. It banged against the P51 shuttle, caught briefly against one of its stubby legs, and then barrelled away to be lost in the murk.

  Cautiously, the figure stood up, looked into the wind to make sure that no further dangers were bearing down, and then crossed quickly to the safety of the concrete wall.

  Dr Hera Melhuish pressed her back against the wall and breathed deeply. Much as she disliked concrete, on this occasion she was glad of its solidity. But even had the wall not been there, she would have coped. She would have found a place somewhere to hunker down out of the wind and flying debris, for she was not tall, could imitate the mouse if she had to, and was very determined.

  Hera Melhuish took a few moments to catch her breath and then reached up and raised the visor on her helmet. She felt the cold air touch her cheek and, for the first time since leaving her SAS craft, heard the full roar of the storm. She sniffed the wind, noting the bruised lavender smell of the plateau. With it came a whiff of burning rubber and the sweet tang of the Tattersall weed.

  Hera looked round at what remained of the rest of the shuttle station. She had not been here since collecting the Shapiro notebooks. The former administration block had been converted into an incinerator. A fire, presumably lit that morning, was consuming old tyres, machine oil and the plastic remains of restaurant trolleys and trays. It was sending out clouds of heavy black smoke, which billowed along the ground before being torn apart by the wind.

  With her single light and her face no more than a glimmer in the darkness, Dr Melhuish waited patiently. This was a private mission, one she had promised herself: to witness the very moment when the powers of Earth finally withdrew. The very fierceness of the wind gave her a kind of satisfaction. There was even a hint of a smile on her face. But it was a grim smile.

  After the shuttle had gone, she would be alone.

  Hera stared at rough old Shuttle P51. It had been in service since the last modification of the platform. It squatted on six absurdly short legs which looked like a child had made them. For the rest, it was shaped like a blunt-nosed bullet. At its very apex, where the small beacon flashed, there was a dome of sullen grey-white crystal, and even as Hera watched, the crystal flared and then began to glow with a soft milky light. The beacon stopped blinking. Moments later the door of the cargo bay lurched, and then began to crank open, like a mouth. An access ramp rolled out noisily on small iron wheels and lowered into place. Lights came on inside. The shuttle was coming alive. The glowing crystal meant it was initiating a link with the space platform in orbit above, and that meant it was preparing to depart. Hera had arrived just in time.

  Above the open cargo bay a line of quartz lights flickered into life and then grew steadily brighter as they warmed, bathing the concrete landing pad in a harsh white light. They revealed a single white-painted flagpole, above which flapped and snapped the blue and green insignia of the Space Council under whose aegis the planet had been established.

  Dr Melhuish watched and waited. Time was now on her side.

  The wind had moved round a few points and now whipped the fine sand into tight pirouettes, sending them into Hera’s small enclosure. She felt it pepper her skin, slammed the visor on her helmet down and adjusted the air flow.

  Suddenly there came a shriek of metal on metal and there were lights on the road.

  Not far from where Hera stood, the main entrance gate jerked and then crashed to the ground as the last of the Mules – the one which had broken down – demolished it and came grinding home. The Mule had obviously been out scavenging a mile or so down the valley. Its flatbed was piled high with oddments of furniture. Hera could see a roll-top desk and a wooden bookcase. Perks of the job, she guessed, but damaged now by the rasp of the sand.

  The vehicle clattered into the departure compound where the merchandise sheds had once stood. It slewed round on its half-tracks and steered directly towards the loading ramp. Slowing, it ground its way up the gentle incline. Hera saw sparks glitter briefly where the tracks slipped over the warn studs of the ramp. But then the squat vehicle revved its engine fiercely, pumped out dark smoke through twin nostrils in its rear, lurched forward and climbed steadily into the dark hold.

  Once inside, the tail lights blinked on, red and white, and then flickered and died as the engine was switched off. Immediately cargo engineers ran forward with magnetic clamps and secured the vehicle. One man, tall and strongly built, came to the cargo door and stared out. He was wearing a half-helmet and kept his hand raised to stop the sand getting into his mouth. His gaze followed the perimeter fence until it came to the place were Hera was standing. Seeing her light, he removed his own helmet light and waved it above his head.

  Dr Melhuish hesitated for a moment and then responded by flashing her light.

  The man then cupped his hand to his mouth and called something. But the wind blew his voice away. He pointed to the earpieces of his helmet, held up three fingers and then opened and closed his hand like a duck’s mouth.

  Understanding the sign language, Dr Melhuish switched on her radio and tuned to Band 3. Immediately she could hear the crackling of static and the sound of the man breathing.

  ‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ said Hera. ‘Thought you might have stayed up top and started the party already.’

  She heard him laugh. ‘Hi there, Doc. No, not me. I always like to be last off the job. First on, last off. That’s the rule.’

  ‘Very commendable. And was it you who knocked the perimeter gate down just now?’

  ‘Yep. I couldn’t see it for all the dust.’

  ‘Huh! Well, I see you got yourself some nice junk.’

  ‘That stuff? That’s for one of the fellas up top. Says he collects courthouse furniture. Had us keep it back.’ He laughed again. ‘Hey, your mate Captain Abhuradin’s on board. Came down for the send-off. You want to speak to her?’

  ‘No. Not now. We’ve said our goodbyes. I’ll just stay here and watch. But you can tell her I’m here, if you like.’

  ‘OK. Will do. So what did you do to the weather, Doc? We were promised a fine day. And look at it. Damn near blew the Mule over.’

  ‘It’s unpredictable, Mack. Anyway, I prefer it like this. It suits me. Suits my temperament.’

  ‘What? Stormy?’

  ‘Yes, and full of grit.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ Mack gestured round the deserted station. ‘We’ve left you with a bit of a mess to clean up, Doc.’

  ‘That’s all right. I never travel without my broomstick.’

  ‘I’d hoped we’d have got rid of all this crap but we’ve run out of time. I’ve had to leave one of our old Demo Buses down in the town. God knows when we’ll get to pick it up. I asked for another day or so. I wanted to at least get the perimeter fence down, but they couldn’t change the schedule.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mack. Honestly. I
like it like this. Surreal. It has a special kind of beauty all its own.’

  ‘You’ve got a funny taste in art, Doc.’

  ‘Who’s talking about art? Anyway, what’s new?’

  ‘There’s real logjam up top. About a hundred and fifty barges waiting to go fractal. Even if they can get them off two at a time, I reckon you’ll have three or four months minimum down here.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  At that moment a siren sounded aboard the shuttle. ‘Here we go. The brass is arriving.’

  Hera, suddenly shy, switched out her light and pressed her body back into the shadows.

  Moments later a small party came down out of the cargo bay. All were wearing survival suits which revealed their rank, but Hera did not need to see stripes or blue stars to distinguish the tall figure of Captain Abhuradin. Even wearing a survival suit and pummelled by the wind, she still managed to look elegant. Beside her was the short and earnest Disestablishment marshal sent by the Space Council whose name actually was Ernest de something-or-other – Hera had forgo en. There were several other officials and a couple of ratings, one of whom wore a diagonal red sash across his white survival suit. Mack and a few of the other demolition workers stood in the hold, looking out, their arms wrapped around themselves like patient gravediggers. Not being part of the military, they had no formal part in the ceremony, but a Disestablishment flag-lowering was always a sad occasion, being by its nature an admission of defeat, and many liked to show their respects.

  The small party braved the wind and its members marched as well as they were able. They came to attention in front of the flagpole. As they did so, the anthem of Earth began to play from loudspeakers set up in the hold. Its sound reached Hera’s ears fitfully through Mack’s microphone, which he had forgo en to switch off. When the music started, Mack gestured to his men and they too came to a respectable semblance of attention, many of them having already served time in the military or as members of the Rapid Intervention Security Corps. Hera heard them singing the anthem in their own variety of sharps and flats. Mack’s voice was loud and clear and surprisingly rich, and she realized that this little ceremony probably meant a lot to him. The end of a chapter. Another job done. Although he had smashed down the perimeter gate, she knew from working with him at the disassembling of the Shapiro Collection that he was the kind of man who would take pains to make sure that windows were not broken unnecessarily and that delicate things were packed properly. She admired that. And now, hearing him singing, she was moved – and more than a little saddened too, for she knew that she had become cynical about everything to do with the Earth.