The Disestablishment of Paradise (6 page)

‘I suppose you’re one of them.’

‘Yes. I am, actually. I plan to take early retirement in a few months and I can think of few places I’d rather live than here. It is the most beautiful place I have ever
known.’

‘Oh yes? Run a little hotel maybe? A little souvenir shop and café on the side?’

‘Take that sneer off your face. I’m getting married at the end of the year and hope to start a family.’

That stopped Hera. ‘You?’ Hera would have suspected many things of the attractive Inez Abhuradin but the thought of her settling down and pushing a pram! ‘You?’ She
repeated.

‘Me what?’

‘Getting married.’

‘It is not so extraordinary. I’m sure you learned something about human chemistry when you were at university. And yes, I do take a keen interest in the economic well-being of
Paradise, because I do not want to see it ruined. In my view this would have been a rather nice place to bring up children. Or do you not think of such things?’ Hera did not reply. ‘But
worst of all, Dr Melhuish, worst of all is to know that you haven’t a clue about what is really going on now. Have you?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘That meeting just now. What do you think it was about?’

Hera thought for a moment. ‘Well. They were trying to make a fool of me, thanks to you. And that van Terfel woman was clearly primed. But overall I think they were trying to calm us down
so that we wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. Buy us off with promises of redundancy payouts. It is an old trick.’

‘Wrong, Dr Melhuish. Zero out of ten, Dr Melhuish.’ Abhuradin was speaking more softly now and approached Hera until she was very close. ‘They had a number of agendas, one of
which was winding you up so that you would make a fuss and demand an appeal.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they want you out of the way. When the appeal comes, they’ll crush you. I don’t know how, but they will. They will have something over you, and their planning is
probably well advanced already. And then, when you are safely out of the way, they’ll close down Paradise, for a while.’

‘What do you mean “for a while”? Stop talking in riddles. If you know something that I don’t . . .’

‘I know no more than you. But I understand how these things are done. You watch. They’ll disestablish Paradise all right. But they’ll leave the space platform in place. This
platform on which we are standing. I stake my career on it.’

‘And why would they do that? You heard what that van Terfel woman said about it costing so much money to keep the platform open.’

Captain Abhuradin looked at her in disbelief, and then she spoke very slowly and distinctly. ‘After about five years, or ten maybe, depending on sensibilities, someone somewhere will come
up with the bright notion that a place is needed for recreation. And then someone from somewhere else will remember and say, “What about that derelict old planet Paradise?” Then
they’ll talk to someone in high places, who will tell them, “Sorry, there is an environmental restriction order placed on Paradise.” Shock! Horror! “But we won’t do
any harm. In fact we will enhance the environment. Take me to your leader.” And within a couple of years they’ll be in. And all your nightmares about kiddies’ rides and old
folks’ homes will come true . . . but it will be worse. It will be a hundred times worse. It will be more terrible than you can ever imagine because there will be no one here to stop it. Not
me. Not you. That is why they need to get rid of you and all your friends at ORBE – and me too, because I am not thought of as a friend. Come back in ten years and then we’ll see you
weep. Those lovely mountains. Those clear seas. No fish there at the moment, I understand. Is that right?’ Hera nodded. ‘Well there will be. Specially engineered game fish –
freshwater marlin and swordfish. I wouldn’t mind betting that Dr van Terfel has already taken out shares in her grandson’s name. She knows a bargain when she sees one. And she knows a
sucker too.’

‘What you are saying is nonsense.’ Hera tried to sound confident, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. ‘Secretary Isherwood signed the environmental decree. It is
ironclad. “No tourism on Paradise”.’

‘Did he? Is it? Well, perhaps you know more about men and politics than I do. But if I look at Secretary Isherwood, with his bright red robe and his smiling face, I see a man who is
political to the core. You don’t get to his position without being a bit corrupt. Nothing illegal, mind you – too smart for that. You can be corrupt without being illegal you know . . .
or perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you are all saints down there in your greenhouses. But at the end of the day, smiling Timothy Isherwood will come up smelling of roses. When the time is right
and the price is right he will find reasons to sell Paradise to the highest bidder. He will introduce a policy review or some such to overturn the environment order. Don’t look so shocked,
Hera. Use your brain for a change.’ She paused and then added, ‘Like a lot of clever people, the only thing you don’t ever seem to realize is that the enemy is at least as clever
as you are. The difference being that they have vastly more power than you and absolutely no hesitation about using it.’

Captain Abhuradin paused, saddened by the import of her own speech. When she next spoke her tone was more measured.

‘Your clever quotation earlier about a few good women doing nothing . . . Well in my view there
are
only a few good women and a few good men too – Tim Isherwood is probably
one of the better ones – and the good people have to sleep sometimes, and that is when the bad boys do their business. Goodbye, Hera. Go back down and join your own kind. Write your
report.’

Hera stood still. Abhuradin’s words had shocked her, and, as happened to her when in a state of shock, she had momentarily become a block of wood. The awful reality behind
Abhuradin’s words was dawning on her. Finally she spoke and her voice was small. ‘Will you be coming to the judicial review?’

‘Not unless I am ordered to attend. I shall not be putting in an official submission. No point. But in any case . . .’

‘In any case what?’

‘In any case, I do not want to be there and see you humiliated.’

There were no more words. Hera returned to the ORBE station, and when she reached the surface Hemi was waiting for her. He was anxious. ‘Hell, Hera, you’re never
going to forgive me for this. I missed this message for you. It got mixed with some routine stuff. It was from Captain Howavyabin. The secretary general, Timothy Isherwood, has asked her to set up
a fractal video link. She wanted to let you know. Sorry.’ He looked at her, his face in an exaggerated wince as though about to be hit by a flying brick. ‘Was it OK?’

Hera did not blow up at Hemi. She simply nodded tightly, and then excused herself and went home. She needed to be alone.

Sitting in her tidy apartment, staring out of the window, Hera could see, above the adjacent buildings, the flapping pennants on the masts of the small flotilla of yachts in
the marina. If even half of the things that Abhuradin had mentioned came true, those yachts would soon be counted in their millions. Even so, how she wished she could just climb aboard one, cast
off and sail away. But running away was out of the question.

What a fool she had been not to see it all sooner! The plans had been carefully laid by the Space Council. Smarmy bloody Timothy Isherwood and that crone van Terfel! Ugh! Abhuradin had been
right all along: she had, from her limited perspective, seen what was happening. And Hera, who prided herself on having a dirty mind when it came to politics, had not seen the danger. God, would
she butcher them if she had them in front of her right now? But they were probably smiling over cocktails at this very minute, grinning and clinking glasses.

Hera stood up. She needed to do something, something different, to commit an outrage of some kind. But what?
What?
And a sudden thought came to her.

She found her keys where she had thrown them and went back to ORBE HQ. She did not enter the main office but went to the building next door, close to the small Shapiro Library, and entered the
cryogenics lab. All the researchers had their own facilities here, and Hera’s containers were in a small side room. She tapped in the access code and opened the fridge door. This was a
special fridge where she kept historic samples of fruits and leaves and seeds. She removed a stainless-steel container on the top of which glowed a panel showing that the contents were held at a
constant 34.7°F. Methodically she switched off all lights, closed and locked all doors and then carried the container to her shilo. There was a grim determination about her movements.

Back in her kitchen, she set the container down and turned off its refrigeration controls. This released a magnetic lock. Carefully she unscrewed the lid and set it aside. Then she tipped the
container into a clean white bowl. Out rolled an object slightly smaller than her fist. It was a Paradise plum, a vintage one, well over a hundred years old, picked in its prime, long before the
plums became toxic. As she watched, the plum responded to the warmth of the room. Slowly it changed colour, a bloom came to its skin and its perfume reached her – one of the quintessential
smells of Paradise. She touched it and could feel that special tightness that one can detect on the skin of fruit when it is just coming to ripeness and can be bruised so easily.

The plum was a gift to Hera, and a note was tied to its stem on which was written in a wavering hand, ‘
For my dear H. In memory. Issy
’.
¹

Strange to relate, but Hera, who knew so much about the plants of Paradise, had never tasted a Paradise plum, although Shapiro had on occasion invited her to join him. He had always claimed that
the plum brought wisdom and relief from pain. Well, Hera had never followed Shapiro’s recommendation, for he was a renowned addict, but now . . . now she was in need of something that would
dull the ache inside her. Perhaps the bonus would be sweet oblivion. At least it would be one in the eye for the greedy plum-hungry Hilder van Terfel.

Quite conscious that what she held in her hand was worth many thousands of solas, Hera placed the plum on the cutting board, selected a sharp knife and slit it open. The knife cut through the
flesh easily and the two halves fell apart, spilling clear seeds that leaked a blue juice with the texture of fine oil. The veined red flesh was firm. Hera scooped out the seeds and set them aside.
She was no Estelle Richter and had no impetuous desire to crunch and swallow. Instead she took the two halves and squeezed them above a glass. The juice ran red, and within that redness were
threads of deep blue, which, like oil with water, never mixed with the juice, but rather coiled on its surface.

When the run of juice reduced to a trickle, she set the cut halves aside. Their colour was changing again, darkening.

Hera raised her glass. It was half full. ‘Here’s to you, old man. May you rest in peace. And to you, Estelle – wherever you found rest for your adventurous spirit. And to you,
Hilder van Terfel. May you live to regret the day you chose to disestablish Paradise.’

She put the beaker to her lips and sipped. Then she opened her lips wide and drank.

It was the smell of the plum that smote her first, like sweet incense curling in her mind. Then, as the juice found its way down her throat and to her stomach, she tasted all its colours and it
made her legs feel weak so she had to lean back against the counter. She was aware as her eyes gradually lost focus and everything seemed to shine and seethe with light. For a moment she felt every
hair on her body stir, and the sound of her breathing was loud. She felt the juice spread along her arms and out to the tips of her fingers; it coursed down the inside of her legs and into her
toes. She felt it swirl in her heart and in her womb and it made her sigh.

And then, just as she was raising the beaker to her lips to drink what remained, she felt her stomach contract and heave beyond any control. She twisted round, managing to get her head over the
kitchen sink just in time.

She had to grip the taps to keep herself from falling as her body convulsed. It was as though she was being beaten, as though someone was standing behind her and hitting her. But she could not
cry out. It was as much as she could do to hang on, to catch breath and hope that her body would survive and purge itself.

How long she stayed like this Hera did not know, but finally she contained nothing more. She drank water and vomited it. But she persisted in drinking and eventually she was able to keep the
water down and began to feel better. Gradually her vision cleared. She became aware that her skin was puffy at wrists and ankles, that she was wet with sweat, that she had peed herself, and her
hair felt lank and clammy. The final, residual effect, however, was on her sense of smell. Everything smelled foul – especially her own body and the mess in the sink. This last was so strong
that all she could do was turn away from it to stumble to the window and gulp the clean air. That was better. Not far away was a Tattersall weed; its blue flowers were open and the sweetness of its
perfume reached her. Finally, when she could breathe more normally, she made her way through to the shower cubicle, holding on to the walls all the way. There she stripped as quickly as she could,
pulling off her damp clothes and kicking them aside. The shower began to flow and she washed and shampooed and soaped until she was pink.

Hera experienced two more attacks of nausea while she showered, and after the second she felt distinctly better. Something had finally left her and she was able to towel herself dry without
shaking.

She found clean clothes, bundled up her old things and sealed them in a plastic bag and threw them into the garbage container.

When she came back into the kitchen, there were the remains of the plum. The seeds had lost their clear lustre and turned to slush. The squeezed halves of the plum had dribbled juice all over
the counter and it had dried in sticky veins. The juice in the beaker had thickened and was now unmistakably like congealing blood.