The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  I could feel a tremendous energy in the air – a bit like in a greenhouse – but an energy that was, as it were, latent or held in perfect balance. Have you noticed how a pan of water goes still just before it boils? Have you stood and watched the golden light of dawn spread through the sky as the sun rises – a sight which should be greeted with trumpets and cymbals, but there is only silence or the ring of a lonely cow bell? O Olivia, it took me a great effort to move out from under the tree and stand upright. My fear, if fear it was, was that my presence might just tip the balance and I would trigger the boiling, or be crushed by . . . what? A shower of gold?

  In front of Hera, in the middle of the clearing, a small plant was growing. It stood alone in the bare soil. Though she had never seen one live, Hera knew what it was from early descriptions. She was seeing the thing called a Michelangelo, or a Reaper – a young one, one that would now in the fullness of time, become a giant.

  Dark tapering leaves, no more than a metre tall, rose from the ground and then spread open like cupped hands. Growing up from its heart I saw many stems, and each ended in a cluster of small black berries. They moved slightly, bumping one another, and occasionally entwining their stalks like snakes. All of them had clustered on the side facing me. They were interested in me. And I saw a dark liquid began to drip down from the small beads, and I became aware of the smell of the plant – a sharp astringent odour, like bitter lemons. It made my lips feel dry.

  Hera realized she could feel the ‘aura’ of the plant touching her. It made her scalp tickle and caused a slight feeling of nausea in her stomach. She crawled forward but stopped when she was a metre or so away. Kneeling up as tall as she could, Hera was able to peer down into the cup of the plant. She could see the start of its bulb – a red and black mo led ball which at this early stage of development was akin to the head of a mushroom just pushing up through the soil.

  Hera wanted to touch it. It was a tender feeling. Later she thought of it as the woman in her responding to the infant before her. She knew too that the small plant wanted in some way to touch her as well, to feed from her. She felt her own will responding, and watched with a smile as her right hand begin to reach out, while her left hand took her weight on the ground.

  At that same moment a shadow moved over her. Her legs and body were gripped from behind. She cried out as thorns pierced her meshlite suit, pricking into her skin. The giant weed had moved. One of its branches from above had coiled round her in one convulsive move, lifting and turning her so that she found herself staring into a mass of its prickles. These, still contracting, scratched the hard plastic of her visor and were deflected past her ears and throat. Right in front of her eyes was the bud of a flower, and, as she stared, it began slowly to open. The bud casing tore and fell away and the blue petals unfurled. The flower angled round and stared into her.

  Hera could neither move nor scarcely breathe for fear that the branches would tighten their grip, pushing the spines deep into her body – but how long could she stay like this? One leg still touched the ground and this gave her some balance, but soon that would ache and then the weight of her body would press her onto the thorns. In front of her she saw two more flowers open, and then more, until she seemed to be surrounded by a fierce blue gaze which never wavered. The perfume of the flowers was so intense that it made her want to cough, and that too was the last thing she wanted to do.

  Hera could feel the sticky wetness of blood inside her overall. The pain in her legs and arms was becoming unbearable. She had to move. As slowly as she could she tried to straighten and then lower her arms. The plant did not resist but the blue flowers shifted, angling round. Finally she was standing more or less upright on the one leg that was free. Even so, she could not escape as the tree was coiled around and above her. One twist from the plant and she would be crushed. One darting blow and she would be impaled.

  Trees have a different timescale to humans, and for all Hera knew the weed which now held her might remain in this position for a long time, perhaps years. She would die from loss of blood within hours. She would hang there in the tree, in her meshlite suit, as the seasons passed and her blood would form little brown discs, like coins, scattered about her. She felt her mind weaken as the perfume of the brilliant flowers dulled the pain somewhat. She still hurt, but it did not seem to matter so much.

  In this befuddled state a thought was struggling to be born in her. She seemed, for a moment, to hear a distant whispering voice. It came to her like a wind blowing over a desert. She turned her head slightly as though to hear better. And as she did so she recognized the voice. It was the one she had identified as the thread of pain.

  It called her name: ‘Hera.’

  Once heard, it became stronger.

  14

  Mack the Dreamer

  At the same moment as the impaled Hera heard her name being called, several other things happened on and about Paradise. Most immediately, Mack, who had been asleep on the shuttle platform high above the planet, woke with a start having himself called out her name.

  He had been dreaming uneasily, for the Disestablishment was not going well. The problems were not of his making, but he and his team of demolition workers had become unofficial troubleshooters. That very day they had had to unpack and then repack some of the barges tethered in orbit round the platform, and that meant suiting up and going outside into the cold vacuum of space, and this Mack hated. His feelings were released in his dreams, which this time had seen him tumbling uncontrollably in space, his safety cord adrift, stars spinning round him and the certain knowledge that he would end his days a forgo en human satellite – one of many – turning round some cold world. But the fierce quality of this dream changed at the moment Hera was attacked. He saw her face in pain, called her name and woke up.

  He sat up suddenly in the small cabin, aware of the echoes of his own voice. He was sharing with three of his team, and the other men were all sprawled on their beds in various positions of rest. Some had fallen asleep before they could get undressed, having completed a double shift just three hours earlier. They moved in their sleep and mumbled, but did not wake.

  The memory of Hera’s face was vividly before him. He sat in the semi-dark of the shuttle, breathing deeply, and felt the dream loosen its grip on him. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up on the warm plastic floor. He needed a drink, something cold and fresh – fresh lemon, crushed ice and a spike – then a bit of a walk round the platform to calm him down.

  He was mixing his drink when Dickinson appeared at the door of the small galley.

  ‘You OK, boss?’

  ‘Yeah. Just a bad dream.’

  ‘Just, I heard you shout out and—’

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine. Going to go for a wander. You get some more sleep.’

  Dickinson nodded, and then grinned. ‘Hey, boss. Gutsy lady, eh?’

  ‘Dickinson . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m on my way. But you get some sleep too, eh?’

  The shuttle platform never slept. When one team finished, another took its place, but still the work dragged on. A shortage of fractal transporters, botched packing of the barges, a food-poisoning scare in the kitchens, communications breakdowns in the fractal link, inexperienced administrative staff sent out by the Space Council for on-the-job training – all these were taking their toll. Everyone was tired.

  Mack headed away from the bright glaring lights of the deep-space depot. He took a glide path down to the lower levels of the platform; past the steamy, noisy kitchens; past the bright, noisy repair shops; past the old cargo bays and the cool stores; and on down to the silence and emptiness of the big hangar from where the shuttles had once departed on their regular service to the planet. The hangar, of course, was deserted, though emergency lights were on and stared down bleakly. It was like the hold of a ship and the air smelled faintly of oil and disinfectant.

  Standing alone in the vast chamber Mack felt some relief. He breathed in deeply and blew out lustily sever
al times. It helped. Feeling more himself, he looked about. Everything was neatly stowed away, just as he had left it. The hangar was ready for use, ready for the last trip down to the surface, the one that would bring Hera back if . . . He did not finish that thought but walked on.

  Here was stored old P56, the workhorse of the station. This veteran would probably be used for the last trip, he guessed. They would need its vast reserves of power to lift Hera’s SAS and probably the demolition bus he had left at New Syracuse. Mac intended to be part of the crew for that journey and had presented a fanciful but official-looking inventory of all the important stuff they had been forced to leave behind. But if power on the shuttle platform was low, then Abhuradin would send one of the four small personnel shuttles. These neat sleek machines, little more than vacuum-proofed pods really, could reach the surface in little over twenty minutes. Each was parked in its own gantry from which it could be launched. They were all fully charged, he observed, but one had developed a minor malfunction in its auxiliary vacuum pump, so it would not be making the journey. He made a mental note to tell Maintenance.

  Mack wandered on round the hangar, just checking, sipping his cold drink casually, making himself busy while he calmed down. Eventually he made his way to an alcove with curved window-walls, and made himself comfortable at the table. This place had been a small cafeteria when the shuttle was in regular service and it gave splendid views of the planet beneath and the stars above. From here you could watch the brilliant particle beam which powered the shuttles’ ascent and descent.

  He felt much calmer now. While walking idly he had been thinking hard. He had realized that the dream might have been fuelled by something that had happened that day while he and his boys had been floating in space. A door seal on one of the barges had malfunctioned. This itself was a consequence of an earlier failure to equalize the internal pressure of the barge with the near vacuum of space. The result was that as soon as Mack activated the lock to open, the door simply peeled back on its hinges. As it did so, objects such as a garbage bag, some spare rivets, transit cages and a broken box of pressure pens – things that had obviously just been tossed into the barge by whoever had closed it – came hurtling out. Luckily, most of Mack’s team were on the underside, but Mack himself had been outside the door and it was only because he saw it shift slightly before it broke that he had been able to jet away to safety. The rubbish went tumbling out into space. Had he been hit, the rubbish bag alone could have broken his safety lanyard.

  Luckily the magnetic clamps which held the barge steady in space did not release when the barge bucked. Otherwise they would have had a real problem with a rogue barge tumbling about near the shuttle platform.

  As far as Mack was concerned, it had been a near miss but he was still alive to talk about it. However, for the rest of the two shifts, he had found himself checking and then double-checking all connections and links. This slowed the work down and his men got jumpy, for few of them liked working outside.

  Sitting now with his back to the solid wall and his arms spread and resting on the portal frames, Mack had the chance to reassess his dream. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had simply grafted his memory of the near accident onto his fears for Hera and had come up with a nightmare. It was a theory, though Mack was not entirely convinced. He tended to trust his dreams, especially those that came like commands, but they were never quite what they seemed and he was cautious.

  He could imagine the expression on Hera’s face if he raised the alarm based on a dream . . . and what she might say when awoken from her honest sleep on Paradise. No, on balance it was best to keep quiet for the time being, but he promised himself that he would find time during the next shift to ask Captain Curvaceous if she had received any news from Hera. He also knew that Hera could look after herself. She was serious and resourceful and not the type to panic. Tough too, and determined. He remembered her at Monkey Tree Terrace standing up to him, hands on hips, getting angry. He laughed at the memory and then at himself, at his balled fists and his worrying mind. Truth is, you’ve got it bad this time, Mack m’boy . . . and you just might make a fool of yourself. He rubbed his jaw, a bit embarrassed. This was the first time he had really acknowledged to himself that there was something about this clever woman called Hera that both challenged and attracted him. Hell, I might just be making the whole thing up, he thought, just so I can go busting in like Fractal Man to the rescue. Getting sterner, he spoke to himself: ‘You’re over fifty, Mack, and you’re behaving like a kid of twenty, and she’s so high class and intellectual that she probably won’t even remember your name. Get a grip.’ He felt a bit better after this dressing-down. More earthed.

  Below him the planet turned. There was a lot of cloud and Mac could only identify a few features. This side of the planet and the shuttle platform were both moving into twilight. Leo’s Eye still gleamed on the horizon. And the two moons? Mack could see they were more or less coming into alignment and he could imagine a great wave rushing round the planet, scouring and cleaning it. Bet she’s loving it down there, he thought.

  He heaved himself out of his chair and continued his patrol.

  Mack was a man who always took an interest in his environment. He was the kind of man who could not help tapping a barometer as he walked past, tightening a screw if it needed it or checking if security doors were locked and keys in place. He was in all things watchful. And if this seems a bit fiddly and interfering, he was also a man who would walk the long way round a desk to avoid seeing letters that were not his and who was overly generous when it came to paying his way. So Mack, when strolling past the control cabin, could not help but notice that the red operations light was still on at the control desk for the shuttle. This meant that the shuttle had not been closed down completely but merely put on standby. Thus the circuits that fed the master beacon which generated the beam down to the surface were alive and warm just as they should be. Being the man he was, he could not help but try the door to the shuttle control room . . . a door which he found locked . . . but he also noted the type of lock and the door construction and the security wiring. All standard. He’d dismantled a hundred like that. He knew three ways of opening and disarming a door like that within five minutes.

  He whistled to himself as he returned to his seat in the canteen.

  ‘Hey, Mack. You down there?’ It was Dickinson. He was at the top of the glideway holding a tray in one hand and a bottle and two glasses in the other.

  ‘Yeah. I’m in what’s left of the café.’

  ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.’

  Dickinson stepped onto the glideway and descended holding up the bottle like a trophy. ‘Hope you don’t mind, boss, but you didn’t look your normal shitty self up there, so I thought maybes you needed a spot to eat and a drink.’

  Mack didn’t reply, but he nodded in the direction of the chair opposite him.

  On the tray was a plate piled with whatever Dickinson had been able to filch from the kitchen and some fresh bread, still warm. Dickinson had struck up a relationship with one of the women who worked in the kitchen and everyone was happy.

  He filled two glasses and pushed one over to Mack.

  ‘So what do you reckon, Mack?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How long we’ll be on this job. I think we all need a break. You included. A week off at Cleopatra’s and we’ll be new men. What do you say?’

  Mack nodded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘I mean, we started on this job, when? Months ago, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining – it’s better than a monastery – but a man needs a change now and then.’

  ‘I thought you were well provided for in that department.’

  ‘I am. I am. But it’s the others I’m thinking of. Even Polka and Annette are getting a bit stroppy.’

  ‘Very considerate of you. Well, OK. I’ll have a word with Captain Abhuradin.’

  ‘She can come too. She’s got her eye on you. Now that wo
uld be a straddle you wouldn’t forg—’

  ‘Dickinson, will you just—’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. Here, have something to eat. Take your mind off it.’

  The two men shared the wine and ate in silence. Finally Mack spoke.

  ‘You used to work at a shuttle port, didn’t you, Dickinson?’

  ‘Yep. On-board mechanic when I was eighteen. Got my ticket as a controller when I was twenty-one. Made for life. But I fancied something more glamorous, so I became a demolition grunt instead. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Did you ever work one of them?’ Mack nodded in the direction of the shuttle.

  Dickinson stood up and wandered over to the control room window and squinted through. ‘Yep. These big crystal mothers were state of the art when I was training. I helped install one at the shuttle over at Gerard’s Barn. You ever seen that place?’ Mack shook his head. ‘The shuttles are all shaped like hearts and they’re done out with black leather and crimson velvet. They’ve got little golden cupids spraying perfume from their cocks. It’s supposed to be erotic but it smells like a monkey’s armpit. When a shuttle’s docking they have this big knob-shaped lever that comes up and . . .’ He stopped and looked at Mack, and then came and sat down. ‘Listen, boss,’ he said slowly, ‘you wouldn’t be thinking of doing what I’m thinking you’re thinking of doing, would you?’

  ‘You know your trouble, Dickinson?’ said Mack, standing up and draining his glass. ‘You think too much.’

  15

  Ordeal in the Labyrinth

  People who have survived torture sometimes recall that, at the moment of greatest torment, they became distanced from their broken bodies. In this state they heard the voices of loved ones or sometimes saw luminous images of a deity. Such encounters enabled them to survive. At the summit of anguish our state of being may change and we become both the sufferer and the observer of our own suffering. Such I believe was Hera’s case.