The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Dystopian; Genetic Engineering

Synopsis

Something has gone wrong on the planet of Paradise. The human settlers - farmers and scientists - are finding that their crops won't grow and their lives are becoming more and more dangerous. The indigenous plant life - never entirely safe - is changing in unpredictable ways, and the imported plantings wither and die. And so the order is given - Paradise will be abandoned. All personnel will be removed and reassigned. And all human presence on the planet will be disestablished. Not all agree with the decision. There are some who believe that Paradise has more to offer the human race. That the planet is not finished with the intruders, and that the risks of staying are outweighed by the possible rewards. And so the leader of the research team and one of the demolition workers set off on a journey across the planet. Along the way they will encounter the last of the near-mythical Dendron, the vicious Reapers and the deadly Tattersall Weeds as they embark on an adventure which will bring them closer to nature, to each other and, eventually, to Paradise.

Release date: February 21, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 527

Sample

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The book you are now reading reveals the experiences of Dr Hera Melhuish during her last few months on the planet Paradise. Dr Melhuish, let us recall, was the last human being
to escape from Paradise. None have returned since and none will ever do so, for that planet is now closed to us. Absolutely. Thus this biography, as much the biography of that world as of the
woman, while it does not end in death, has something equally final about it.

It will come as a surprise to some readers that a writer such as myself, better known (if known at all) as a writer of fiction for children, should now turn my hand to a work of non-fiction, a
biographical work no less. In explanation let me say that this was not an honour I sought. The invitation to collaborate with Dr Melhuish was completely unforeseen. However, it arrived on my desk
during one of the dark periods of my creative life – a time that all writers know well – when I was full of doubt and seeking a new direction. Thus the timing of her letter, as with so
much else concerning Paradise, had a certain appropriateness.

At that time my knowledge of Dr Hera Melhuish consisted only of what was available on the public record. She had been director of the Observation, Regeneration and Botanic Expansion (ORBE)
project on Paradise at the time of the planet’s Disestablishment. Dismissed from this position for alleged misconduct, she nevertheless contrived to return to the planet on a solo mission and
was, for a significant time, the only human being there. After a near-fatal accident, Dr Melhuish was joined by her ‘research assistant’ Mack – of whom more later. Together they
discovered, and saved, the last living example of the Dendron Peripatetica, hitherto believed extinct. Later Mack died after encountering a rogue Michelangelo-Reaper, and Hera continued
her journey alone across this now hostile planet. She was finally rescued just before the shuttle platform over Paradise began its final disintegration.

These are the bare bones of Dr Melhuish’s story. However, it was the live transmission of the programme called The Saving of the Dendron which most caught the attention of the
general public. Many of you will remember this programme, which was in continuous transmission for almost three days and did more to awaken public awareness of the deep issues behind our journeying
into space than the thousands of documents issued annually by the Space Council.

For me, this broadcast was a seminal moment in my life. For the first time I witnessed the kind of contact with an alien life form that I had dreamed about since being a child. Not only did the
Dendron fulfil the deepest needs of my imagination, but I was one of those many viewers who felt the impact of the creature’s psychic presence at the moment of its severance. We were
attending a birth, and while the delight of that moment has dimmed over time, its memory lingers in the most private parts of my being. It was a very pure and personal contact, and any doubts I may
have had concerning the cultural importance of alien contact were dispelled by what I saw and felt. In those few moments I became vividly aware of the possibilities offered by our venture into
space, and at the same time critical of what we had accomplished to date.

Before making a formal acceptance of Dr Melhuish’s offer, I reviewed the tri-vid The Saving of the Dendron. I also read most of Dr Melhuish’s published works, and this
almost undid the entire project for I discovered that Hera Melhuish is herself a fine writer. I could not understand why she could not undertake the task herself. For those who do not know her
work, Tales of Io and Me is a delightful collection of bedtime stories for children. They have as their heroine a certain little girl who, not unlike their author, travels widely, having
adventures in strange places. Of Canals and Caves is a personal memoir which gives a spirited account of Hera’s diving explorations in the deep subterranean lakes on Mars and her
discovery there of the luminous burrow worms. In Beyond Orion, written shortly after she joined the ORBE project on Paradise, Hera offers her vision of the possibilities for space travel
via fractal gates and our responsibilities concerning alien contact. In sum, the scathing prose of her political pamphlet ‘Saving Gaia’ is matched by the light-hearted humour of her
various stories for children. Stirring stuff! I found in these books a breadth of vision which I could share.

At the end of my reading I wrote to Hera. I had three main concerns. Firstly, I freely admitted that my scientific knowledge is superficial. What I do not know, I invent – a practice well
suited to fiction but hardly acceptable for a scientific inquiry. Secondly, I felt Dr Melhuish, on the evidence of her own works, was well qualified to handle her own story. And finally, why me? My
strengths, such as they are, are in the fanciful, the dark and the mysterious. When I come down to earth I become leaden. I prefer the storm to the rainbow. I have also been criticized because my
stories are pagan in background and savage in event. In sum, I could name ten or twenty writers whom I would regard as more qualified than me to tell her biography. But of course it was not really
a biography that she wanted; it was an evocation.

Her reply to me was characteristically direct.

To hell with the science. You can leave that to me, not that there will be much science in the story I want to tell. The nearest we will come to physics is pataphysics! If
we talk briefly about the ‘survival of the fittest’, we will talk longer about love and courage, reason and sacrifice.

The first thing to realize is that most of the things that happened on Paradise can not be explained in a rational way – which is not to say they don’t have a reason. Paradise
was never rational in our way, and the challenge is to understand it in its own terms. That in turn will tell us about the greater reality of the universe.

You wonder why I do not write my own story. The truth is I have tried many times – but am too close to it. When I try to write about those days, I find myself so close to the events
that I become like a log of wood in the fire, unable to help myself or stop the burning. There is so much I want to tell. I want to reveal why Paradise was disestablished in the first place
– that itself is a dirty story, and I to my shame was no saint. I want to convey the impact Earth had on that solitary world and how it learned to respond in self-defence. I want to tell
what it was like to stand inside the living body of a Dendron as its codds beat to survive. I want to tell why I am covered with the dark stains of the weeping Michelangelo, and to tell in
detail what happened to Mack, who is the unsung hero of all my adventures.

Let me confess something. At the inquiry after my rescue from Paradise I said that Mack was killed by a Michelangelo-Reaper. That is not strictly true. Mack, who was dearer to me than my own
shadow, chose to join with the Reaper, while I, who loved him and Paradise more than myself and would have stayed there willingly as a slave if need be, was, in effect, dismissed both by him
and the planet. My consolation has been my memories and my awareness that ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ It was the pain and privacy of that parting which kept me silent
for many years. Can you understand that? I think you can for it is women’s logic, as old as time. But I knew I would have to speak out one day. Well, now is the time. Now, like the
Ancient Mariner, I feel an irresistible urge to tell my tale. And you must help me. You must question me until, like the sea in Yvegeny’s poem, I begin to yield up my monsters.

Whatever else it does, the writing must convey the deeper, more imaginative order which underlies all those experiences. I have admired your books, enjoying the strange creatures you create
from your imagination, your sense of wonder, as well as your willingness to acknowledge the darkness that can hide in the heart of man. If your style is slightly old-fashioned, as some of your
critics maintain, that to me is an advantage, as is your gentle wit. In sum, I feel confident you are the best equipped person to tell this story. And if it is more understood by the children,
well so be it.

Receiving this letter, I felt as though a door into a secret garden had opened before me. I did not hesitate. I stepped through.

A few days later I set off to visit Hera. I wanted to arrange how we were to proceed. And, to be frank, I was more than a little curious to know what she would be like in the flesh.

I was, of course, familiar with the tri-vid images of her: short of stature even for a woman, fine features, a stubborn jaw, enviably slim and with her long hair drawn back and pinned so tightly
as to give her face an Asian cast. Even soused and gleaming with the sap of the Dendron, as I first saw her in the tri-vid, she nevertheless managed to convey a somewhat neat and prim
impression.

Much of all this remains. She has neither put on weight or dwindled, and her voice for the most part retains a deep cultured tone. But the marks of Paradise are on her – her ‘love
bites’ or ‘ tear-stains’, as she calls them. One is on the forehead and one on her right cheek. Her neck and arms are also marked, as is, she informs me, the rest of her body.
These marks have become darker with the passing of the years. Sometimes they become sore and angry – at which times strange things must be happening on Paradise, for it is reaching out and
afflicting her. If, when this resonance is really severe, she turns her gaze on you, she can, without meaning to, seem to stare coldly through you. It is the imperious look of a hawk or a basilisk.
And she will apologize for this when she sees you fidget. At those times, as I eventually came to understand, she is resonating – a very important word if you wish to understand Dr Hera
Melhuish – by which she means that she is both here and there, experiencing direct communion with distant Paradise while sitting in your workroom. It took me a long time to accept this, and
even now I do not really understand who or what she is communicating with. Lastly, as regards her primness, you will discover if you read on that there is nothing prim about Hera Melhuish –
far from it.

However, it is the raw energy of the woman which provides the most abiding memory and for which I was unprepared. It is there at all times, whether making a sketch with quick deft strokes or
cackling at some bawdy memory, gesticulating wildly for emphasis or pinning you with her bright eyes. That energy, she informs me, is the wild spirit of the Dendron, which she received into her
mind and body and is now lodged there, and which may, as she avers, keep her alive for many years or snuff her out without warning, perhaps by accident through an excess of love. Suffice to say
that it is the loving, spirited Dendron rather than the dread Michelangelo which is the true alien in her, and for that we should be glad.

We agreed upon a procedure. Hera would talk and I would record her words and ask questions to draw her out. The talk could ramble, following its own logic. No topic, no matter how intimate, was
off limits. And we would keep going until we had reached agreement or impasse. Arguing was also anticipated and proved unavoidable. We would meet as often as necessary.

In this way raw material was generated, which I could then edit and shape as I saw fit. The style of the writing was left up to me. Hera’s preference was for me to tell a story and to
treat her as I would a character in a novel. This proved remarkably easy.

However, as I discovered more about Paradise and Hera, my view of the narrative changed. Sometimes, when describing events, Hera attained a clarity that I could never have matched in
composition. I saw no need to improve upon what nature had supplied. Thus I have frequently used her words as spoken during our interviews. Also, to give a clearer image of Paradise, I have
included a short collection of documents selected from writers who had firsthand experience of that planet. These include stories written by young Sasha Malik, who was born on Paradise, as well as
passages from the daybooks of the agricultural pioneers Mayday and Marie Newton and some personal speculations by the late Professor Israel Shapiro. These documents, gathered at the end of the
book, will I hope add variety and background to the story.

Hera also wished me to avoid specialist scientific vocabulary. ‘We are not writing a textbook,’ she said on more than one occasion. ‘Keep it simple and sweet.’ Thus,
while I might have relished sounding erudite, you will find that I frequently refer to the creatures of Paradise as plants rather than bio-forms or some such equally neutral term. I do this simply
because that is how they were most often seen and spoken about, even by specialists. But this must not blind us to the fact that, while there are distinct parallels with the botanic life of Earth,
when we speak of the entities of Paradise we are dealing with life forms which derive from a wholly alien environment.

Initially we met at Hera’s small apartment on Anchor Hold-over-Europa. Later, as the project neared completion, we met at my studio on Albertini-over-Terra. During each visit Hera would
read and correct what I had written. I was glad to observe that, as we progressed in the project, her corrections became less – a sure sign that either I was becoming more accurate as I grew
to know my subject, or that she was forgetting and letting the imaginative world of fiction become the truth.

One difficulty we encountered from the outset was that, as a consequence of her calamitous departure from Paradise, Hera had lost all her notebooks, diaries, memos of meetings, personal records,
sketches, photographs and so forth. They are still down there no doubt, on Paradise, preserved in that lacquered state in which Paradise embalms all things of Earth. And so we talked. We talked
long and late. We talked until I began to see through her eyes. Sometimes we talked until there were no more words and we just stared out into space or fell asleep where we sat.

I am not the ‘Spirit Wild’ that Shelley speaks of in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’, the poem which Hera chose to open her story. But this book is. As Hera stated during one
of our meetings, ‘I hope the book will help us think about what we are and how we fit into the vast scheme of things. What we need now is not more knowledge, but to understand what we already
know.’

I wish to conclude this introduction with two quite different images.

The first is taken from a drawing which Hera made during her first visit to my studio on Albertini. She called the sketch The Horse and the Woodpecker, and I have it framed on the wall
before me even as I write.

The sketch depicts two women – they could be sisters separated by a decade – sitting together at a wooden table. The room in which they sit is my studio – a bit junk-strewn,
very cluttered, with books covering one wall and a transcriber tucked away in an alcove away from the window. There is an empty bottle of wine on the floor and a half-full bottle on the table
between the women. Their heads are almost touching as they study a sketch that the older woman is drawing. It is a Dendron in motion, its crest high and its flags waving. And yes, lest there be any
confusion, I am the somewhat horsy one in the picture, and Hera the quick woodpecker.

Behind the women, beyond the curved translucent wall, is the busy darkness of space, sparkling with stars and enlivened by the sudden flashes of the Manson screen as it randomizes particles that
could threaten our small haven. In the centre hangs the lapis lazuli disc of the Earth – blue and white and wholly beautiful in the full light of the sun.

But they are not looking at the Earth. They are many light years away in their minds, talking about Paradise. I hope you will think of this homely image when the going gets hard and we retreat
from the comfortable and human.

My second image is more abstract. It is that of a labyrinth.

A labyrinth is not a maze, it is a journey. You begin by facing your desire, whether it be to find yourself, or Jerusalem, or enlightenment, and you follow a path of knowledge. Once committed
you can not leave that path. Sometimes it is direct and your destination is clear before you. At other times it leads you to the side, and this is a time for reflection and the discovery of wider
perspectives. Sometimes it seems to lead you directly away from your heart’s desire, and that is a dark night of the soul, a time of severe testing when your closest companion is despair. But
always the path of the labyrinth turns again. It approaches the point from which you began, but it is a new point, a new departure. And eventually, by being persistent, you find your way to your
heart’s desire.

That, at day’s end, is how I have come to see this work, and how I invite you to understand it.

 

We begin with an introduction to Paradise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paradise was named by the captain of the prospect ship Scorpion, the first craft to make its way there from the fractal gate Proxima MINADEC-over-Phobos. The
captain’s name was Estelle Richter and she was just nineteen years old! We should remember that in the early days of fractal travel only the young could cope with the stress of passing
through the fractal threshold. Why? Opinions, as they say, differ, but what is certain is that the young are more fearless, more optimistic, more confident of their sexual power and less weighted
down by guilt than their jaded elders, and these qualities were important in the early days of fractal travel – and still are, for they diminish the risk of nightmare.

The Scorpion emerged from the temporary fractal gate established above the new world, and its crew found themselves staring out at a shining green and blue planet with twin moons.

Early indications of the planet were very positive. Measurements were made by means of an unmanned probe which touched down on the surface, first at a river delta and then at several other
locations including the mountain tops and mid-ocean. But it was obvious to anyone who cared to look that the planet contained life. It was there in the dynamic swirling clouds, in the shining lakes
reflecting the sun, in the deep blue wind-ruffled seas and the vivid green of the land.

Can we for a moment imagine the excitement of those young pioneers, as they gathered together to see the results of all the automatic diagnostic tests? Though the new planet was just a little
smaller than Mars, its gravity was only slightly less than Earth normal. Good for sport and Scorpion-cramped limbs. The air was – yes, astonishingly – breathable, according to
analysis. It was perhaps even tonic, being a bit richer in oxygen. And that was indeed H2O in the seas and rivers, not blue acid. And look at the tall trees, which reached up
with broad flat leaves. Look at the high waves crashing on the shore and the lime-green meadows where you could follow the footsteps of the wind as it swirled up into the hills . . . Look at the
red flowers bobbing like balloons in the valleys! All the colours could have been taken from a child’s palette. Strange only were the faint shimmering lines of energy, like the fading pattern
of a rainbow, in the misty valleys; that, and the total absence of animals. There were no insects either, or nibbling fish. Flowers without insects? Seas without fish? Why? Why? How? Captain
Estelle Richter did not delay but decided to investigate immediately.

As a name, Paradise was a happy choice. Unlike most worlds, this planet was not hostile to the kind of life that we represent. In ways beyond analysis, the air was sweet to breathe, the water
pure to the taste, the seas buoyant, and there was a springy dense grass (later called brevet) for a tumble – and perhaps most extraordinary of all, fruits which were found to be edible.

The popular story is that it was Captain Estelle who picked and nibbled the first Paradise plum. The plum tree was growing by the shore close to where they had landed. She stared up into its
branches and then in a single act of defiance, in contravention of all contact protocols and common sense, she reached up among the dark spade-shaped leaves and, as she reportedly said later, the
fruit seemed to ‘leap into’ her hand. She bit into its flesh before anyone could stop her. The juice in her mouth startled her and the perfume made her senses reel, and she ate the
entire fruit – licking her fingers – including the seeds, which she crunched and swallowed. Was woman ever so ‘giddy and bold’? Then, before the eyes of her astonished crew,
she confidently removed her survival suit and waded naked into the sea, trailing her fingers behind her in the water, saying – if we are to believe the story – ‘Look at me.
I’m Aphrodite. And I’m reclaiming Paradise.’ A symbolic act if ever there was one. Thus was the planet named, and a physical contact not too far removed from both baptism and the
act of lovemaking took place. I suspect that in making her remarks Captain Estelle was remembering a wonderful painting by Botticelli. It is doubtful that the name Paradise had any specific
biblical connotations for the young captain, or that in seeking out fruit she was consciously mirroring the actions of our mother Eve.

I am struck by the contrast between these young adventurers and the staunch early astronauts from Earth who left their flags and bootprints and cars on the Moon. What a contrast too between
new-found Paradise and the molten or freezing, harsh, dark and sterile worlds the crew visited most frequently. Her companions did not delay but stripped off and followed their leader into the sea.
There is an old saying, ‘Innocence begets innocence.’ If we believe this, then we can be confident that there was no damage done in this first meeting of species. But how interesting it
would have been to peer into the mind of Paradise at the moment when Estelle bit the fruit or breasted the sea, for I am sure those contacts were keenly felt in that psychically alive and innocent
world.

As Estelle later explained, ‘When we came to leave I had one last swim. I have never felt such well-being.’ And that evidently was what the crew of the Scorpion and most
subsequent visitors felt during their first contact. I say most because a small but significant number of people have always found Paradise an uncomfortable place to dwell.

I am saddened to report that the log of the Scorpion, as well as other early visual recordings of Paradise (including details of its subsequent commercial exploitation) were lost in the
catastrophic fire which destroyed the entire Proxima MINADEC-over-Phobos torus. The rumour, widely believed at the time, was that the fire was the result of arson, and though this was never proved
it is a fact that the directors of MINADEC (once the Mineral and Natural Resource Development Company) were under investigation for tax evasion and improper use of their prospect licence. The loss
of these early records is irredeemable, and one can only lament that, as with Hera’s own documentation, the records of Paradise have an awkward habit of vanishing.

Within months of the Scorpion’s visit, the planet was being opened up commercially. MINADEC had a fifty-year licence for all its activities.

The miners, prospectors and lumberjacks that MINADEC sent to Paradise, while we know they visited and left their mark on almost every part of that planet, left few written accounts –
graffiti apart. Their culture was essentially oral. It thrived at the well head and the pit face, round the campfires and in the mess huts. And, like so much else of value, it died with them. We
have some of their songs and drawings and letters – and of course there are the eye-witness accounts written by young Sasha Malik, whose works we will dip into later. Many of the names used
by the prospectors and miners became established. Thus the two moons which liven the night sky are called Gin and Tonic. The continents were named after certain distinguishing features. Chain, for
instance, when seen from the air, can be seen to be a long thin continent with many promontories and inland lakes. Hammer and neighbouring Anvil require more imaginative interpretations to see the
likeness. The continent called Horse has one large headland which does, somewhat, resemble the head of a horse, and Ball is, well, Ball is circular, and that is all that one can say. Some islands
are named after composers, some after the names of settlers, some after hometowns on Earth (such as New Syracuse), and some features, like Baby Cry Falls, record important events such as the birth
of the first child on Paradise.

Upon expiry of the commercial licence, Paradise was thrown open to agricultural colonists. Among these, one couple, Mayday and Marie Newton, wrote a daybook, in which they set down in homely
detail the day-to-day life of the pioneer farmers. These men and women, apart from being visionaries with an urge to build families and create a new world, and who shared a common love of Paradise,
were all trained in the basic arts of survival. They could both butcher and nurture. But by the time of their arrival I suspect that Paradise was already turning against invaders.

Despite their best efforts, agriculture on Paradise became harder as the years passed, and no one could explain why. During the first fifty years of colonization, the animals – initially
imported in embryo and raised with care – failed to prosper and eventually the last goats and horses died out.

Fresh seed stock was brought in from Earth but this too, after initial success, gradually failed. Fruit would not set and seeds would not germinate, or when they did were sickly. The formation
of the Observation, Regeneration and Botanic Expansion project was the result of efforts to bring scientific expertise to bear on this problem.

The failure of ORBE to make any significant difference to the agricultural situation was initially blamed on the lack of suitable equipment. Later it was claimed that its founder, Professor
Israel Shapiro, was only interested in his own research and had no real sympathy for the agricultural colonists’ dilemma. From my reading, I would say that that is putting the matter mildly.
He made it clear on numerous occasions that he found the presence of the ‘aggies’ on Paradise irksome.

On the death of Shapiro, Dr Hera Melhuish became head of the ORBE project. She held this position for eleven stormy years. But even she, despite many initiatives, could not halt the gradual
agricultural decline.

And so we come to the fatal year: the year of Disestablishment.

When we enter her story, Dr Hera Melhuish is feeling well pleased with herself. After months of debate she has managed to defeat proposals which would have opened Paradise to
tourism. Moreover the ORBE project research, if not spectacular, is stable and well funded. Her own programme of native out-planting is going well. Her delight in Paradise is as great as that of
Marie Newton or the young Estelle Richter, though her aims are vastly different.

And now she is doing what she most enjoys: ‘working in the garden’ as she called it. It is a fine sunny morning and she is outside, her sleeves rolled up, tending the plants of
Paradise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hera was working at the southern tip of Royal Straits, at the dangerous place where the island of Lennon comes closest to the steep cliffs of Horse. It is dangerous because of
the rip tide that comes roaring through the narrow strait when the two moons of Paradise are pulling together. This is, of course, also a time of extreme low tide, and that was why Hera and her
student assistant were there. They were trying to establish a new submarine seedbed for the spongy green pancake wrack which had once been common in that region but was now, like so much else, in
decline.

The work was going well on that fine sunny morning when the peaceful routine was broken by the shrill bleep-bleep of a high-priority call demanding attention. The student worker, on
shore and unpacking supplies at the time, took the message. It was from Hemi Katene, the administrator at ORBE HQ, and he was asking to speak to Hera urgently.

That lady was some fifty feet out from the shore, down on her knees, leaning over the side of one of the flat-bottomed barges used for marine work. She was reaching out, her arms brown in the
clear water, and trying to attach a cable to bolts bedded in a rock just under the surface. The boat bobbed under her, striking her uncomfortably under the arms and splashing water up into her
face. Reluctantly Hera was coming to the decision that she would have to don a wetsuit and plunge fully into the water.

‘Tell him I’m busy,’ she called through clenched teeth and without looking up. Time was short as this particular rock only became accessible at extreme low tide.

‘He says it’s urgent,’ called the student worker, raising the radio phone above her head and waving it.

The loop in