The Disestablishment of Paradise (29 page)

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 starting 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 about 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.

It was still there, its blunt crab-like shape dark against a wall and half buried in sand and rubbish. That was OK. These Demo Buses, old and lumbering though they were, could lift concrete
beams and land in fire if need be.

Mack climbed the fence, jumped down into the compound and ran over to the craft. He cleared a way through the tangled rubbish to the door. Before opening the door, however, he climbed onto the
roof. Lengths of red plastic space tie had been wrapped around the rotor blades. Quickly he cut the tape away, throwing the pieces downwind, where they caught on the fence and fluttered. Satisfied,
he climbed back down and tapped in the lock code.

The door opened without delay and he threw his satchel in and climbed after it. Inside in the cargo bay he removed the heavy tool belt and stripped out of his wet overalls. Feeling lighter in
every way, Mack climbed up to the control room, settled himself in the pilot seat and inserted the key. The moment of truth was upon him.

He switched on.

Nothing. Not even a flicker on the dials. This was ridiculous. Even if he’d left the lights on there’d still be reserve power. What had he forgotten? Ah! The main breaker. That
turned off when the door locks were engaged. Mack climbed back through until he reached the racks of batteries. The master switch was down. He reconnected it and heard the systems come alive.

Back in the control room the dials were dancing as the Demo Bus performed a self-check of all circuits. The most important reading for Mack was the power reserve, and that slowly increased until
it settled at just under half charge. That should be enough to get him to Hera’s retreat. If not, he would have to put down somewhere and wait for the batteries to recharge in the sun. At
most he would lose a day. So why wait any longer?

Mack pressed the start button. There was no sudden roar of engines, but he heard the torque regulator hum and the pumps begin to cycle. It would take a while for everything to warm up, then the
sparks would fly. Meanwhile, Mack tapped the destination coordinates into the memory bank, then he switched on the fixed-band radio.

Cole’s voice came on line. ‘Hey, boss. Reading you. OK?’

‘Just about to take off. Did they find out?’

‘No worries. Nobody knew a thing. Just for the record, we’ve signed you on for cabin rest. Overwork syndrome. Nurse Polka has taken responsibility. No visitors allowed. She reckons
you’ll be back on your feet in a few days as long as you behave and get lots of sleep. I’ve taken charge of the team. We’ll be back on the job in an hour or so.’

‘Might be a bit longer than a few days.’

‘Well, we’ll worry about that when we come to it. You do what you have to. OK?’

‘OK. I’m on my way.’ He touched the engine relay. The overhead rotors began to turn slowly and then faster as the engine came alive with a deep and hungry growl. ‘See
ya.’

‘Ciao, man. Ciao.’

Mack increased the power; the rotors became a blur; the big machine stirred on its wheels and then lifted steadily. It rose above the remains of the buildings and into the full force of the wind
and rain. Then it swung round as the autopilot took charge and set a steady course south-west, hammering into the darkness. The journey would take all night.