The Disestablishment of Paradise (16 page)

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.

At the end of the anthem, the rating who was wearing the sash advanced to the flagpole and lowered the flag. But the wind had made a meal of it and the once-bold banner which reached the ground
was little more than a frayed rag. And as though that were not bad enough, a sudden gust caught the flag just as it was being handed over to Captain Abhuradin, and whipped it out of her glove. It
sailed up high and away, tumbling like washing that has escaped from the line. Making the best of it, Captain Abhuradin saluted crisply and turned sharply.

The ceremony was over. Captain Abhuradin led the small party, now walking into the wind so their uniforms were plastered against them, across to the ramp and up into the cargo hold. As she
passed Mack, Hera saw her issue some instructions and Mack gave his equivalent of a salute. She could see him speaking but could not catch the words, though she did hear her name. Captain Abhuradin
paused, nodded and then came to the front of the cargo bay and, holding tightly to one of the side supports, looked out in the direction of Hera’s refuge. She raised her hand briefly. Hera
blinked her light in acknowledgement. That was all. The captain turned, staggered slightly against the wind and rejoined the small party, which was waiting for her in the depths of the cargo bay.
As a group they moved away to the lift which would carry them up to the control deck.

Mack watched them and then turned back to Hera.

‘Looks like we’re off straight away. No messing about. I thought for a minute she was going to send us out to go looking for that bloody flag.’ Mack pressed a switch at the
side of the cargo bay and the heavy access ramp began to withdraw into the shuttle. ‘Now listen, Doc.’ Mack’s voice had taken on a more urgent and serious tone. ‘If you ever
find yourself down in New Syracuse, I’ve left a few bottles of good stuff for you, courtesy of the Settlers’ Club. I know you enjoy a glass of wine. They’re in a case in the
concrete bunker just near where the marina used to be. You won’t miss them.’ The ramp ground to a halt. Mack pressed another switch and the magnetic bolts slammed home, locking it in
place. The tall cargo doors began to close. ‘And hey, listen, Doc. You be careful out there. Keep your emergency beacon with you at all times. I’m serious. And if you get in any
trouble, get stitched up by a Tattersall or anything, just hit the beacon switch and we’ll be down to get you quicker than a horse snickers. Remember. Ciao.’

He waved once and the cargo doors hid him from view as they began to close.

‘Goodbye, Mack,’ Hera called, ‘and thank you.’ But whether he heard these last words or not she did not know.

Now things moved quickly. Hera heard a loud
clang
as the ramp wheels locked. Then came a muffled
thump
as the magnetic bolts closed inside the doors. Moments later plumes of
dust were ejected from around the cargo door as the air was squeezed out from within, establishing a vacuum. A dribble of oil appeared round the rubber door-seals, and the wind-driven dust stuck to
it. Overhead the bright working lights went out one by one. The compound was suddenly dark save for the crystal on top of the shuttle, which now burned with a stronger intensity. The shuttle was
almost ready for departure. A lone siren above the perimeter gate began to wail – standard procedure before all departures – a mournful sound, made fitful by the wind.

In the old days, when the shuttle port was full of activity, the siren would have been a warning for all personnel to clear the compound. Faces would have been pressed to windows to watch, for
the departure of a large shuttle such as a P class was always a spectacular event. The siren reached its crescendo and then began to whine down. From high in the sky a blade of intense light spiked
down, appearing almost solid in the thick air and wheeling dust.

The beam was slightly out of alignment and struck the concrete floor of the compound, defining a sharp-edged oval of brilliance. The guidance engineer up on the platform adjusted the angle of
the beam by fractions of a degree, and gradually the pool of light moved across until it touched the side of the shuttle, where it created strange patterns of light and shadow. It moved on,
slipping up the rough metal, until it reached the crystal dome. Immediately the dome glowed more brilliantly as it absorbed and transformed the photon energy.

The crystal began to pulse, sending its own flashes of white light surging upward. Hera Melhuish adjusted the filter on her visor. The two beams flared for a moment as resonance was established
between them, and then they fused into a single scintillating column. The colour changed from white to a steely silver and finally to a clear violet at which it held steady. There came a crackling
sound and electricity danced around the legs of the shuttle. Slowly P51 lifted and accelerated steadily – the similarity to a giant spider dangling from a silver thread was uncanny –
and then it retracted its legs.

Hera stared up into the streaming clouds following the shuttle into the murky heavens. Soon it was above the clouds, no more than a speck in the sky, visible only because of the steady violet
beam of light blazing down from the space platform, with its glittering photon generators, some sixty-five kilometres above.