The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  ‘You OK, boss?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Just a bit dozy this morning, eh?’ He did not see the members of the team hanging round the mesh make small hand signals to one another. Mack’s reply had convinced no one. They would be watching him closely.

  Mack was a man of hunches. Usually they came to him like sudden certainties and he would hear himself say things like, ‘Everyone check your shackles – now,’ or, ‘We’re going to back off from this one.’ And, sure enough, moments later some problem would be revealed. The feeling he had now was less specific, just a deep unease. It was the uncertainty that was undoing him. Later that shift he welded shut a case that had just been opened for checking.

  ‘Hell, boss. You’re getting to be a liability.’ It was Cole Barata, the man who had just spent twenty minutes cutting the case open.

  ‘I am too,’ said Mack. And he switched his welding torch off and went on open transmission. ‘OK. Private talk. Barge 7. Everyone secure your work and then come on over.’ One by one the members of the team assembled. Some came down, walking the mesh on magnetic soles; others came gliding in using the skim lines. When they joined they linked magnetically to whoever was nearest and then plugged in for private radio connection.

  ‘Fire away, boss.’

  ‘All on closed circuit? Transmitters off?’

  A chorus of voices said, ‘Yes,’ all sounding very loud and without the space echo that sometimes made conversation on open frequency difficult.

  ‘You’ve all noticed that I’m, er . . . not quite myself this shift?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well, those of you who have worked with me for a while will know that I sometimes act on instinct. Like I sometimes get a feeling that something is wrong and I stop work and get us out. Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with this job. This job is just a pain in the arse, and if we weren’t getting paid double we wouldn’t be out here cos we’ve got contracts waiting on Proxima Celeste and the Moon Dump and—’

  ‘Get to the point, Mack.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a bad feeling now, but it’s not to do with us. It’s . . . er . . . it’s to do with . . . er . . .’

  ‘Not that pretty little professor woman who threw us out of her place on Paradise when that tree shed its seeds? What was her name now – Sheila Belich?’

  ‘Hera Melhuish. Thank you, Dickinson. Yes, it is her. She’s on her own down there. Don’t ask me why. Some people are plain dumb when it comes to looking after themselves. But I keep getting this feeling that something really bad is happening down there. And I want to do something to help, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘Did Polka and me ever meet this woman?’ This from Annette Descartes.

  ‘No, you weren’t on that trip. Just me and a few of the fellas.’

  ‘I get the picture. And a few bottles of wine. And I bet you wish you’d had that Abwhoradin woman there too.’

  ‘She was, actually.’

  ‘This gets better. So what does this little professor woman have that Polka and I don’t?’

  ‘Can I answer that, Mack?’

  ‘Quiet, Dickinson.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘So . . . er . . . that’s why I’m not quite myself,’ finished Mack lamely. ‘Sorry.’

  There was a pause. No one was sure what to say. They were looking at a side of Mack they had hardly ever seen before. They had seen him thoughtful, but rarely shy. The idea that he might have fallen for a woman – especially a high-powered scientific one – surprised, pleased and amused them. But Mack was obviously unhappy. He was not love sick, he was worried sick, and his mind was not on his work. This needed sorting out, for all their sakes.

  Finally, Polka lifted her hand to show she wanted to speak. This itself was unusual, as Polka was the quieter of the two women. ‘So tell us, Mack. What would you like to do? You’re no good up here while your mind’s down there.’ Several voices murmured assent. ‘Do you want us to get Captain Headdown to give this Hera woman a call? Make sure she is OK and everything? Annette and I can arrange that, can’t we, sweetheart?’

  ‘Not a problem. She and me are like that!’ replied Annette with a gesture.

  ‘Excuse me. Can I offer a suggestion?’

  ‘What is it, Dickinson?’

  ‘Polka’s idea’s good. But it has one problem. You can’t trust the radio cos clever people can lie, you know, and that lady is clever and determined and if she thought you were on your way down or were worried about her, then she’d lie through her teeth just to keep you out because she’s proud, man. She’s proud. I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, but here’s what I think we should do. I suggest we break into the control room down below and steal a shuttle. Cole and Annette stand guard up here. No fucker gets past them, right? Everyone else acts as normal. I guide the shuttle down to the surface; you fire up the old Demo Bus we left down there – it’ll still fly – and then you get your arse over to Monkey Tree whatsit and see what the fuck is going on. Then when she kicks you out, we do everything in reverse and no one is any the wiser. And the best time to do this is in about an hour when this freighter is docking and everyone is up top watching the fireworks. See, Mack. I only mention this because I know you’d never think of such a brilliant idea for yourself. But I’ve been in your team for, what, eight years now, and I would have been fried twice, crushed once and jetted out into deep space if it hadn’t been for you and your hunches. If you think something is wrong down there, then I reckon there is. Carpe diem, Mack. Take the chance while it’s on offer, because we can cope up here. Right, everyone?’

  Everyone, despite their space helmets, was clearly astonished at what Dickinson had suggested, but they gave their support. They looked at Mack.

  ‘Thank you, Dickinson. The thought had crossed my mind. But I don’t want word about this to leak out. I mean it is a bit . . . it’s not as if I was a young . . .’

  ‘Amor vincit omnia, Mack,’ said Dickinson. ‘Do it.’

  The rest of the team chimed in, agreeing. As Dickinson had said, they were all busting for a spell off planet, and if they couldn’t take leave, well, a bit of quiet adventure, intrigue and thumbing your nose at authority would fit the bill. Finally Mack agreed.

  Brilliant red lights began to blink on beacons stationed all round the shuttle port. Only fifteen minutes before the photon beam came on. Everyone working outside would have to move inside the platform or enter a security pod. Mack’s team moved inside the platform.

  As they were waiting to go through the airlock. Annette Descartes touched her helmet to that of Dickinson. ‘Listen blue-eyes. What did that Amor vincit omnia stuff mean? Is it French?’

  ‘No, a bit of Latin I picked up when I was cleaning windows in the convent. It means love conquers all – and if you meet me in the shuttle bay after we’ve got the old man down below, I’ll give you a practical demo, OK?’

  At some time during the journey home to Monkey Tree Terrace, Hera must have woken up sufficiently to crawl into bed before again passing out. She does not recall this. Nor does she recall the announcement from Alan that they had landed safely.

  Some ten minutes after landing Alan began to play music which gradually got louder. He warmed the inside of the SAS and made sure there was boiling water available.

  Finally Hera shifted and opened her eyes. She had trouble orientating herself for a moment. She felt sore all over. ‘Turn the music off,’ she said huskily.

  The music faded. ‘Hera. You are not well. I can detect blood.’

  ‘So? I can cope. I don’t need help. Women’s business. Not yours.’ Then she thought to herself, Why the hell do I have to lie to a bloody machine?

  ‘You did not drink the tea I made.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. I fell asleep. I’ll drink it now.’

  ‘I have disposed of it.’

  ‘Then why— Aaah.’ Hera had put her foot on the floor, and the pain in her knee made her wince. Despite that, she was determined. ‘I am turning you down, Alan. You’re s
tarting to Hal me.’

  ‘Sorry. I was—’

  ‘Shut up. I’m in a shitty mood. All right? It happens! Now, when

  I have disembarked, put yourself away and check all your circuits and make sure you are fully charged. I may need you. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Among the medical supplies aboard the SAS was a pair of crutches. With these Hera was able to climb out of the flyer and make her way over to the shilo. Behind her the SAS closed its door, folded its rotor blades and trundled towards the maintenance hangar.

  Inside the shilo Hera managed to strip off her pants and top, cutting them from her where they were stiff with dried blood. Examining herself with the help of a mirror, she saw that the wounds needed serious attention. She washed each cut with a damp antiseptic towel, pressed the skin gently to see if there was pus forming or any discharge, and then dressed the wound.

  Her arms and legs were puffy and bruised, and the skin was yellow and tight – but there was nothing that wouldn’t mend. The wound in her abdomen needed attention. She applied anaesthetic pads to reduce sensation, then she made sure the cut was clean and clipped the lips of the wound together. Primitive but effective. Finally, she covered the area with an adhesive pad of synthetic skin.

  Her face . . . She did not remember being hit in the face, but her left eye was swollen and partly closed, though it did not hurt. At least she could see. The cheekbone below was puffy too, and bruised. The other side of her face was completely unharmed, giving her countenance a Quasimodo look. ‘No beauty prizes this trip,’ she murmured.

  Worst, by far, was the knee. It was dark and swollen with internal bleeding. Clearly there was something still in there. An anaesthetic pad would kill the feeling in the surface of the skin, but to dig deeper she would need an injection. This was tricky, not least because to sit up and lean forward to reach the knee put stress on all her other wounds. But what were the alternatives? Contact the shuttle platform? No.

  Hera made careful preparations. She placed a mirror so that she could see the front of her knee. She made sure all the instruments she would need were sterilized and laid out with a beaker of disinfectant to put them in when used. She chose to sit on the floor with her back to her bed, and she placed pillows and absorbent towels so that her knee would be lifted at as easy an angle as possible. Finally she prepared a hypodermic needle. It was a low dosage – she preferred to cope with pain rather than risk unconsciousness. Her idea was simple: to open the wound, reach in with tweezers, remove whatever was causing the problem, close the wound and reseal it with a synthetic skin pad. As long as the local anaesthetic held, she knew she could do it.

  And she would have too, but she had miscalculated just how weak she was. She was unaware that the thorn from the weed was still alive and reactive with her flesh. Nor did she understand that her mind was awash with the strangeness of Paradise. So . . .

  She injected herself, and felt the needle go in. She pressed the plunger. Withdrew the needle. Felt a warm numbness spread, and then, just when she was reaching for the scalpel, the room spun once, her one good eye fluttered, and she slumped back, mouth open, her wrist knocking over the tumbler of antiseptic.

  Strange dreams began.

  It took Mack just two minutes to neutralize and disarm the lock to the shuttle control. Dickinson slipped into the control seat and began tapping out resonance coordinates. The automatic station, still active underground at New Syracuse, came alive and flashed a signal back. It would only take a few minutes for the ground plate to warm and then they would be in business.

  Mack, meanwhile, keyed in the access code to the airlock in front of one of the shuttle pods. The small cubicle came to full pressure and seconds later the first door opened.

  ‘OK. Here goes,’ he said to Polka, who was standing by.

  She handed him a demolition satchel containing concentrated food capsules, a small laser gun, a fixed-frequency radio transmitter, quartz light and universal batteries, a navigation map, medical supplies and a change of clothes. ‘Now remember. Be in contact. When you want to come up, let us know. We’ll be ready. Good luck.’

  Mack slipped through, and the door closed and locked behind him. Seconds later the door to the fast transit shuttle opened and he was in. He placed the satchel and his tool belt in a locker and closed it. Then he eased his bulk onto one of the couches and lowered the cushioned body plates until they fitted snugly but not tightly over his torso. Behind him he heard the door slide closed and the magnetic locks seal. Fans came on and the lights dimmed. A soft female voice said, ‘Welcome to the—’ but Dickinson overrode it. He heard Dickinson’s voice counting: ‘Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . . . Get yourself strapped in, Mack. Tight is better than slack. When she drops she drops. Keep your eyes and your mouth shut. Breathe through your nose and don’t gulp or you might swallow your tongue. You’re going to make the fastest descent on record. Don’t worry, I’ll bring you out smooth but you’ll feel up to five Gs. You’ll feel it but don’t fight it. I’ll pace it. You’ll have ten minutes to get out at the other end. Do you read me?’

  ‘Loud and clear. I’m all strapped in.’

  ‘OK. Hold on tight. And it’s five, four, three, good luck, one . . .’

  The shuttle pod dropped from the station and began to accelerate. It was following a thin line of light which coiled and twisted but stayed coherent. Mack was pressed up against the restraining pads and his nose and mouth were both forced into the soft fabric. He managed to breathe by turning his head slightly.

  After about three minutes he felt the acceleration stop and he could breathe more easily. He was now falling fast. He opened his eyes and could see a bright cherry glow spreading out as entered the outer atmosphere of Paradise. A few minutes later and he felt a slight checking of his speed and could imagine Dickinson bowed over his control desk, studying the tolerances, giving Mack as much speed as he dared and figuring when to start to slow him down.

  Mack suddenly felt heavy and was pressed into his bunk. Deceleration. He sensed his face pulled out of shape and his hair drawn back from his scalp. He could not have lifted his arm to save his life. He thought his nose would break and his eyes be crushed – it had happened – and he could no longer tell up from down or left from right. Then suddenly things were easier.

  A voice spoke: ‘Three minutes and you’re there, Mack. You OK? Have you blacked out?’ The shuttle descent eased more.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just hard to talk . . . when you’re fighting . . . for every breath. I’m fine now.’

  ‘Slowing now. She’s a lovely machine you’re riding there, Mack. What’s the weather like?’

  ‘Can’t see. I’m in cloud.’

  ‘We’ll soon have you under that. You’ve got half an hour more of daylight and then it’ll be black, Mack. Black. No moons for hours. So make good use of the light.’

  Moments later Mack was under the cloud. He was falling faster than the rain.

  He could see the hills, dark and misty.

  ‘Six hundred metres.’ After a few seconds he felt the deceleration ease. ‘And two hundred. Bang on line. Mouth shut. Breathe through your nose. One hundred. And . . . sixty, forty, twenty-five, fifteen, easy, five . . . .’ There was a bump. ‘You’re there, boss. Careful when you get out. She might still be a bit hot and you’ll stagger a bit too.’

  Mack saw steam rising around the shuttle. He released all catches, fastened on his tool belt, slung the demolition satchel over his shoulders, put his helmet on and strapped it under his chin. ‘Ready when you are, Dickinson.’

  He heard the door locks slam back and then the hiss as pressures were equalized. ‘Good luck, boss. That’s from all of us. Now move.’ The door hissed open.

  Mack jumped down onto the concrete of the landing pad and ran out from under the shuttle and into the rain. He didn’t stop running, either. He ran with that easy almost slow-motion lope of big men which does not look hurried but covers the ground quickly. One thing a
bout his line of work, it kept him fit. He stamped over the gate he had flattened with the half-track, turned right and headed down the main road leading to New Syracuse. The road was already breaking up as green shoots from below pushed their way through the cracks. The gutters were clogged with rubbish and water spilled out over the road. Mack splashed through. The road-side was thick with weed and long branches sprawled across the road. Mack jumped them and ran on.

  Ten minutes later, starting to feel the strain but now in sight of New Syracuse, Mack glanced back and was in time to see the shuttle rising just before it entered the clouds.

  The light was fading fast as he entered New Syracuse. Keeping to the road, he turned the corner where the courthouse had once stood. In front he could see the marina and the sea. There was the bunker where he had left the wine for Hera. Not far now.

  He ran along the seafront, past the hole in the ground which marked the site of the former Settlers’ Club, and there he came to a stop. Something lolling in the tide at the water’s edge had caught his attention. Some shapes are unmistakable. Mack jumped down off the road and crunched through the shingle to the water’s edge. Lying face down in the water, arms stretched above his head and with his hands half buried in the sand, was the naked body of a man. Mack gripped the cold hands and dragged the body up onto the shore. It was surprisingly light and Mack fell back on the shore, having pulled too hard. He fumbled for his torch and shone the beam down on the face. It was an old man with two days’ growth of stubble on his chin. A wide gash was open in his chest and one arm lay at an angle that told that the bones were broken. On one shoulder there was a tattoo of a dragon, which curled around the name of a woman. Mack turned the hand over and there on the back was the letter M and a number. The same letter and number was present on the right leg. No doubt whatsoever. This was a MINADEC worker, and yet the company had stopped operations on the planet over a hundred years earlier. Mack did not know what to make of it. If he’d had misgivings about Paradise before, they were now a certainty. He dragged the corpse further up the shore and there he had to leave it. Back up on the road, he turned inland and ran towards a metal fence which had once enclosed a repair shop for SAS flyers. It was here that he had parked the old Demo Bus.