The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  She pulled the boat’s knife from its holder and simply cut the rope that held the craft in place. It lurched forward; she fell back. In this she was lucky, for otherwise she would have banged her head on the top of the door frame as the boat rolled out. It tilted at the top of the ramp and then began to run down the skids, gathering speed. It hit the first weed just as it was heaving itself up, and sent it tumbling down over the side of the slipway. There it landed on the now branch-less Tattersall that had cast its seeds. The cutter struck the second Tattersall weed, and the effect this time was more like a knife, as the running bar sliced through its branches. It too fell, but its root ball caught in the frame of the slipway, and it ended up hanging upside down, waving its branches aimlessly.

  Hera, meanwhile, was crouched in the bottom of the boat and holding on to the carved seat, her legs wrapped round its supports. The boat hit the water at speed and sent up a great plume of spray. The water slowed the cutter quickly and its backwash slopped over the side and struck Hera just as she was standing up. She sat down again in the water. ‘Enough,’ she shouted, having noticed another oval cloud, innocent in the sky.

  In no more than a minute the engine had warmed and Hera was steering slowly across the still water of Dead Tree Bay, watchful for anything submerged. Carefully she picked her way out through the hulks of long-dead Dendron, and then, when she was in deeper water, she pushed the cutter to maximum and locked the tiller.

  Hera removed the small radio from the backpack. She extended its aerial and spread the small solar panels in the sun. She switched it on and, with relief, heard the familiar tracking sound and the crackle as it made contact.

  ‘Hi. Dickinson here. You receiving me, Mack?’

  ‘Not Mack. It’s Hera. Your signal is very weak. Can you boost?’

  ‘Hera! Hold it there.’ She heard him call off mike. Then he was back. ‘Sorry. I’m on emergency now. We’re in the shit up to our haircut. Is Mack—’

  ‘Mack met with an accident. I have to tell you he’s dead. I buried him myself this morning. I’m on my way home alone. Things are bad down here. I’ll give you all the details when I see you. Is Inez . . . is Captain Abhuradin there?’

  ‘Yeah. Eiderdown’s just coming. Tania’s getting her. Well, that’s bad news to go with everything else. There’s going to be a big empty space at our table now.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  Abhuradin’s voice cut in on remote. ‘Inez here. Can you hear me, Hera? Are you all right?

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just rounding the point at Dead Tree Bay. I’m in one of the lifeboat cutters. I’m on a direct course for New Syracuse.’

  ‘Got you. We’ve been trying to contact you for a day and half. All hell has broken loose up here. We have orders to evacuate. I’m getting the women and children out now. We’re breaking up, Hera. Do you have an ETA for New Syracuse shuttle port?’

  ‘I’ll have to call you when I’m closer. Say twelve hours, give or take a bit.’

  ‘Fast as you can, Hera. I’ve no leeway. Is Mack OK?’

  ‘Dead, Inez.’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘I’m losing you, Hera. Did you say dead? Was it an accident?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t shoot him.’

  ‘No. Of course. You tell me about it when we get you off planet and we’re all out of here. Out now.’

  Night was falling. Hera sat at the tiller and rode the swell. The good humour that she had felt at the antics of the Tattersall weeds had deserted her. Now she felt tired and cold and just wanted to get across the sea as quickly as she could. She pulled the Crispin cloak about her.

  Later she would go hunting for blankets in the first-aid locker, but for the moment memories were starting to crowd in and she couldn’t keep them out. She turned the gold ring on her finger. Once she felt the cutter move as though someone big had just sat down, and she turned in surprise but, of course, there was no one. She heard her voice say, ‘I’m missing you, Mack. God I wish you were here.’

  With night the sea began to glow. She was entering the place where the seabed rose at the Jericho Rise. It was here that the yellow lip kelp fed, and when they were on the surface they emitted a pale green glow. Soon the wake of the cutter could be seen for miles, stretching out behind her.

  Hera suddenly felt anxious that there might be something floating ahead, and she cut her speed just in time. One of the great bellows of the kelp had just broken surface and now lay heaving. She steered round the giant orifice and it blew at her wetly as she passed. Perhaps I’ve caught Mack’s hunches, she thought, and again nudged to full speed.

  By dawn Hera was running due west along the coast. And how different it was now! In some of the river valleys she could see the red of the Valentines, but most of the hills were covered with the blue of the Tattersall weeds. Evidence of Reapers was everywhere, and the hills were criss-crossed with the power lines of their labyrinths. In one place three Reapers seemed to be locked in some kind of competition, and even as she watched she saw ripples of energy roll over the hills. She imagined the glittering battle that would be taking place, if only she had eyes to see. She hoped that it was a rogue Michelangelo being subdued. If not it might be bad for her, as she was now close to New Syracuse. Even the sea was agitated, and the surface was broken into small choppy waves. She went further out to sea to avoid any possibility of being caught. Sometimes she saw patterns in the sky, flickering shapes of light and shadow, but they were meaningless to her. God, what a mess!

  At long last she came in sight of the concrete blocks of the sea wall of New Syracuse, and there she contacted the shuttle platform. It was a long time before anyone answered, and then it was Polka.

  ‘Hey, where in God’s bollocks are you, lady? Don’t you know the bus leaves in three hours?’

  ‘I’m turning in to New Syracuse now. Tell Abhuradin I’ll be at the shuttle port in just a bit over an hour from now. OK, Polka?’

  ‘Will do. We’ll get you out, lady. But be there, eh?’

  The communication went dead.

  New Syracuse was unrecognisable.

  The concrete foundations of buildings had been torn open and toppled. Plants of all kinds sprang from any crack or cranny they could find.

  Hybla, trifile wanderer and hyssop flag filled every space. Towering above all were giant Tattersall weeds. These trees, which now seemed more claw than tree, dominated everything and crowded right down to the water. They had, it seemed, torn anything down that could be torn down. There was nothing comic about these creatures. Everything about them was menacing.

  How logical that these monsters should make their appearance at the very place where the greatest concentrations of humans had lived. The root would indeed be black near here.

  Soon Hera was steering through rubbish and bodies, bringing the boat in to the shore. She was very aware of the subtle way the Tattersall weeds were adjusting their branches so that as many of their flowers as possible could follow her. Then, just as she was approaching the shore, several of the giants lunged towards her, their branches striking the water and sending up waves. Hera threw the tiller over and the cutter turned and headed out into the middle of the old marina. She cut the motor and stared at the solid wall of trees. There was no way through. As far as she could tell they had occupied the whole of the New Syracuse area, and probably right down the coast too. If she put ashore they would surely rip her to pieces.

  She felt the raw hostility of the Tattersall weeds in their implacable blue stare. How stupid this was. She had come so far. There had to be a way. In a sudden rage she picked up old Pietr’s stick of Dendron wishbone and brandished it. The smooth fibre was strong in her hands. At that moment she remembered Mack’s words, uttered so clearly. Remembered too the magnificent towering Dendron that had come to her over the sea in her dream time and the moment when Mack had delivered the butcher’s cut and the two young trees sprang apart. Those memories turned something on inside her, some deep energy. What had Mack said about this planet
being so reactive? Well, where was the Dendron now that she needed it?

  ‘Help me,’ shouted Hera, and she waved the wishbone stick. ‘Help me . . . now.’

  And that was all it took.

  For a moment her vision went to black and white. Familiar territory for Hera. She braced herself and was ready for the moment when the Tattersall weeds shook, their roots gripped by the presence of the Dendron. She heard the ringing of the Venus tears and smelled the green presence of the Dendron. Then, as though from a distance, but distinctly, she heard her name called: ‘Hera.’ And then stronger: ‘Hera.’

  She knew the voice, knew the caller. The Dendron that she and Mack had saved, the Dendron which now lived on in the two trees and which contained in itself the entire history of Paradise, was answering her need. It was resonance, of course. A simple response to a cry for help cast in the dark.

  Hera didn’t even know she had done it. But in that moment something of the bright spirit of the Dendron found its way to her mind, and she turned and faced the trembling Tattersall trees without fear.

  Everything became clear and shining. She stood up in the cutter and directed the small boat towards the shore. As she approached, the Tattersall weeds directly in front of her were pushed back. The boat crunched into the shingle, and it was a sound like thunder. She stepped out and raised Old Pietr Z’s wishbone stick. In front of her a pathway opened, not by the magic of her wand, but in response to the exuberant spirit of the Dendron, which was in her and moved ahead of her, pushing all resistance aside. She felt the boisterous get-out-of-the-way-I’m-coming-through delight of the Dendron. A delight in strength. The brilliance of its being cracked in the hills round New Syracuse and the stamp of its stool shook the roots of the Tattersalls.

  The Tattersall weeds bent out of shape. Perhaps a Michelangelo was giving a hand too, she thought. Some branches twisted and broke. Some weeds simply tottered and fell away, rooted out and cast aside. All of them were stripped of their flowers. Hera was unstoppable as she stepped into the lane that had opened between the trees, which fell away before her.

  Hera headed for the shuttle port, following as well as she could the path of the former highway. As she walked along, the thought came to her that the Dendron was the purest manifestation of the planet’s wild energy. It was anarchic and free – like her, now. She could feel the Dendron’s mighty spirit surge in her. And if a Tattersall weed was slow to move, then it was slam as Hera hammered the earth with her stick and the Tattersall jumped.

  She knew she was safe while the spirit of the Dendron was with her. But she also knew that behind her the Tattersall weeds had closed ranks, clustering close, and those that still had flowers blinked open their blue eyes.

  Once, between the high branches, she saw a curling worm of light in the dark sky. It was the shuttle descending. Not far now.

  She walked on. At some point she took her boots off and threw them away. Later she tossed the radio aside and the small first-aid box. All she retained of Paradise were her stick, her cloak of Crispin and her small bag of treasures.

  The shuttle landed. It was the old P64. All the small rapid-transit machines had buckled under the massive fluctuations of energy that had shaken the platform. It alone still burned with a constant flame. Captain Abhuradin, in full battle gear, ordered the shuttle to open its bays. The locks slammed open. The seals hissed and dribbled. The cargo doors opened a fraction, jerked, and then slid open steadily. The gangway pushed out and lowered its tip to the ground. Within the cargo bay and in other parts of the P64 a few men, all volunteers, stood at readiness.

  The doors were open. They heard the creak and click of cooling metal. There was no Hera waiting.

  Abhuradin consulted her watch. The time frame was very exact. She had just ten minutes. Then she would order emergency ascent, and the P64 would close and lift whether Hera was there or not.

  No one moved. Everyone watched. All they could see beyond the small compound was the dense forest of Tattersalls. Some had been crushed under the P64 when it landed. All the weeds had their blue flowers straining to fully open, and their perfume was heady in the morning air. But then they heard something. It was like the rush of wind that comes before a storm.

  ‘Five minutes, Captain, and counting.’

  Abhuradin nodded but did not reply. She stared into the ruined shuttle port and along the broken lines of rusty wire that marked the perimeter. She was remembering.

  A sudden silence. And then a ripple of movement passed through some of the Tattersall weeds near the perimeter. Their top branches waved as though they had been shaken. Trees toppled and fell. As they watched, space opened up under the weeds. The calm voice of the captain was heard throughout the ship: ‘No one is to move or fire until I give the order.’

  ‘Three minutes, Captain, and counting.’

  Silence. Stillness. A holding of breath.

  And then a small figure, looking lost and waif-like, with tufts for hair and wearing nothing but a torn Crispin cape, walked out from under the trees. She stepped carefully over the flattened perimeter gate and approached the waiting gangway. Abhuradin, her heart pounding and with a sudden dryness in her throat, advanced to meet her, but Hera stopped her with a gesture.

  Hera stepped up onto the lip of the gangway, turned and stared at the millions of Tattersall weeds that thronged the hills and valleys. She raised the hand wearing the ring and clenched it like a fist. Then she opened it like a star and closed it again. Some of the Tattersall weeds answered her gesture with a blink of their flowers, but the majority stared back blankly.

  Hera removed her cape and threw it down to the ground. Then she raised Old Pietr Z’s wishbone stick as high as she could and threw it into the midst of the Tattersall weeds. Some of those present thought they heard a faint tinkle of bells when the stick landed. All of them felt the shock wave that moved away and flowed up the hills, gathering speed.

  Freed from their restraint, the Tattersall weeds close to the P64 shook and some began to twist, as though preparing to cast their large clawed limbs forward. Flowers which had closed when Hera emerged from the forest now blazed open.

  Hera turned and, with a sad wistful smile, entered the shuttle.

  The cargo doors began to close. Abhuradin’s voice was crisp. ‘You men avert your gaze. Someone get the woman a blanket.’ Then, more gently, ‘Hera, you’re all bruised. What did he do to you?’

  ‘Just love bites,’ said Hera. ‘Well, I promised I’d be here. And here I am. Sort of.’

  The cargo doors met, cutting off the view of Paradise. Immediately the old P64 lifted, climbing up its strong thread of light. As it did so, the Tattersall weeds moved in, joining ranks, filling the place where the shuttle had stood and scratching its squat legs with their thorns. Others spun violently, scattering their seeds. From all the hills and from the nearby plateau millions of blue flowers stared up as the shuttle dwindled until it was finally lost in the clouds.

  Thus was completed the Disestablishment of Paradise.

  DOCUMENTS

  DOCUMENT 1

  ‘Concerning the Fractal Moment’, from the Daybooks of Mayday and Marie Newton

  The daybooks kept by Mayday and Marie Newton are the most valuable documents we have concerning the early days of agricultural exploration on Paradise. The Newton family were among the first pioneer farmers. They, along with the Tattersall family, came to Paradise aboard the first domestic fractal carrier. It had a cheerful name: Figaro.

  Mayday Newton had a degree in mathematics and took a special interest in all scientific developments. The following extract is from the daybook which he began to keep while he was a passenger on the Figaro. This was his first passage through the fractal, and the scientific and philosophical implications of it fascinated him. Fractal studies became his hobby and he authored some studies on this topic in News of Paradise, published by Tom and Wendy Tattersall.

  All such articles ceased when the two families fell out over treatment of a Michelang
elo-Reaper.

  •

  Over dinner I had a good conversation with one of the navigation officers. He has the wonderful name Lorenzo de Lucia. I asked him about fractal technology.

  According to Lorenzo, a fractal point is a point of symmetry in space, one where energies match and achieve a kind of balance. There are a lot of these points, evidently. What the first experimenters discovered was that they could send messages via these points and that the transmission was instantaneous between points. No speed-of-light delay. It avoided the Einstein limit. The next thing they did was to send out messages blindly via a fractal point, but equipped with a special programme that sent them back when they struck another fractal point anywhere. The returned messages were then analysed to see where they had been. Thus it became possible for fractal addresses to be mapped. Charts were prepared. Patterns emerged. Things were getting organized.

  In the early days, when this technology was being developed, quite a number of live researchers were lost. Corrigan and Ortez are two names. They vanished into . . . well, that’s anyone’s guess. They volunteered, and vanished. The fractal point opens to an infinite number of dimensions, so the omniscient one is the only person who might have a clue where they are . . . and he or she ‘ain’t saying nuttin’.

  Lorenzo asked me if I knew anything about maths and I said, ‘A little.’ And then he asked me if I knew anything about quantum mechanics and I said, ‘Not a lot.’ And he said, ‘Good,’ because, in his experience, people who knew a bit were harder to talk to than those who just had to take things on faith.