Aradia’s Paradise Lost

This short science fiction story was published in the October 1940 issue of "The Worker’s Voice", an English-language publication funded by the Communist Internationale and distributed throughout the United States, as well as within Internationale-aligned nations. Despite efforts to hinder or outright ban its distribution, it remains popular within the United States underground political communities.

While fictitious in nature, an investigation of international news media from the months prior to publication shows that a private enterprise vessel matching the name of the ship in this story did in fact go missing, though the circumstances remain unknown. The ‘author’ behind this story seems to have taken this passing fascination and posited a political motivation for the disappearance. Their speculations are obviously backed by no evidence, and should not result in any political blowback, aside from further agitation of our workforce with false promises. Any connections between the Moongazer Consortium and the lost ship are additionally fabricated, likely a choice by the author to capitalize on recent tensions and give the workers a more identifiable enemy. It is the advice of the Internal Affairs Office that the President use this connection to “overreaching” multinational conglomerates to pass off any concerns about perceived Siamese mismanagement. These subversives may not have intended it, but we can still use their words for some gain.

-From the Desk of Media Oversight,

The Black Chamber

November 1st, 1940

Aradia’s Paradise Lost

Hutton’s Storm:

15 Light-minutes Beyond Concord Major

Date: Unknown

Yevgeny’s fingers dug deeper into the cushioned armrests of his seat as the Icarus Dividend shuddered again through the non-Euclidean nightmare of the aether. His green eyes shifted around, sweeping over the nearby bulkheads as they rattled. The instruments displayed the heat moving into critical condition.

"I didn’t defect to die in this steel coffin, I am here to make money," he shouted over the roar.

"Cut the non-essential chatter!" Captain Silas Vance barked. "Keep the comms clear!" 

He was almost the caricature of an American, a square-jawed GI who couldn't quite cut it in uniform and found the private sector to be the answer. He made his living beating up on union reps and strikers as an enforcer for the Carnegie Complex, right up until he was handed a telegram from someone claiming to represent the Moongazer Consortium. The ink binding the aether-corporation together had barely dried, but the fat check attached was enough to let him retire or gamble it all away.

The aether-navigator mumbled, clutching his rosary as he kept his eyes on the instruments. "Almost," Kaelen Rost’s voice was barely above a whisper, "I can feel the light of our Lord and savior. Soon the firmament will open for us." His brain had clearly started to be tempted by the psychosis that came with the gig. He was at the end of his career, but Vance only needed him for one more job anyway.

The ship rattled more fiercely as the retroboosters’ concussive shock brought space to a disquieting halt. The Icarus returned to the sensibility of general relativity as Rost pulled the primary drop-lever. A deafening crack of displaced atmosphere and a flash of blinding white light followed, as the gravity of the new world slammed into the crew with tremendous force.

Vance yanked on the controls. "Yevgeny, hold us together!"

Yevgeny mopped sweat from his brow, wrestling himself to his feet with a large wrench in hand. He tightened a series of bolts. "We will hold," he said, pausing to whisper to himself, "I hope." He grabbed a nearby rag, wiping grease from his hands as the ship shuddered again, forcing him to steady himself.

The ship moved comparatively almost gracefully as it drifted through heavy clouds. The local turbulence shook the hull, but it was a pale comparison to the kinetic violence of their just-completed trip to this new world.

Vance steadied the controls. "Alright, all our reports say this is a resource-rich but highly unfriendly world for us bags of meat. We will need to get the hazard suits ready. And someone needs to wake Lucien and Tin-Man."

Kaelen raised a hand. "I’ll check in on Lucien, and I am sure our Chief Engineer can handle getting an Automaton up and kicking." He placed his rosary back into an overall pocket and worked his way back toward the crew quarters.

The aether-navigator could manage his console, but simply walking through the ship proved challenging. He went room by room, section by section. "Lucien! Captain Vance wants you ready for planetfall. You and your science are up!" He moved cautiously through the vessel. Besides the ambient noise of the pumps, the valves, and the occasional hiss of steam, it was quiet.

"Lucien!- Oh, there you are," Kaelen’s lips quirked, not quite looking at the young xenobiologist and life-support specialist, but acknowledging his presence in the makeshift lab.

Lucien Morel stood over a table, looking through his notes. Exiled from his home for revisionary perspectives on the role of state and revolution, he offered a cool grin. "Oh, Mr. Rost. Good to see you are, how do we say, with us. I have the suits cleaned and ready. Sample kits are checked and double-checked."

Kaelen smiled sheepishly. "Captain Vance will be pleased, I am sure. I need to go get some rest."

Lucien nodded. "I will take care of it." He pushed off the table and headed to the exit, placing a reaffirming hand on Kaelen’s shoulder and offered a polite squeeze. His mental fortitude was failing him, and the conditions he found himself in were not helping. The poor navigator was the pure definition of worker exploitation. Well past retirement, if he wanted to maintain any sanity and yet forced on past his breaking point. There is no true justice in this world, Lucien thought, as he headed to speak with Vance.

Vance was watching the viewports, navigating the ship through the clouds as Lucien entered. "Captain Vance, everything is ready."

The American gestured to a nearby seat. "Good work. I am going to need your eyes on the surface once we break through these clouds."

"Aye aye," Lucien said with a hint of French sarcasm as he settled quietly into the seat. "Rost has gone to rest. He is at his wit's end."

Vance smirked. "Who gives a shit. Another ship will pick us up when we are done anyway. We can leave him here. Means the split for all of us will be better. Why even waste the money getting him back to Earth?"

Lucien let the coldness of Vance’s valuation of Rost disappear into the aether fading behind them. Capitalist greed poisons all these fools, he thought.

Then the clouds broke, and there was utter silence. Even Vance, a man of many words, was stunned speechless. Lucien’s eyes widened looking down at the world before them. The probes were completely wrong. Aradia, designated as a volcanic world with a sulfur and carbon dioxide atmosphere at a crushing pressure, was revealed to be something quite different.

Clear skies, clean water, lush grass and trees, all untouched by man. 

It was paradise.

About an hour later, the vessel sat firmly on the ground, and the crew gathered around a small table in the mess.

Yevgeny hissed, "Those British hunks of trash, Captain. Not worth the metal. The filters are fucked, I can barely keep it running." He was talking about the Tin-Man. The salvaged, repurposed Infantry Automaton was supposed to be their muscle. No one knew how their benefactors had gotten their hands on one, but it was strictly for security in case the local fauna decided to make a meal out of the crew.

Vance waved the complaint away, pouring four glasses of clear liquid. It was Yevgeny’s contraband turned celebratory drink, a little homemade hooch. He raised his cup. "Here is to Aradia. A new paradise. We are going to be so fucking rich." The four clinked glasses and drank.

Lucien drank a bit slower than the others. He recalled the Captain’s words about leaving Rost behind, yet here Vance was, celebrating at the table with the old navigator like they were brothers. What a piece of shit, the Frenchman mused, screaming inside his own head. He rose from the table. "I need to make adjustments for the equipment. We will need to sample the atmosphere."

Vance, well into pouring another round of drinks to Yevgeny’s chagrin, simply waved him off. "Go do what you need to do. Let me know when we are ready to start our survey."

The xenobiologist nodded politely, pulled himself away from the crew, and moved back toward his laboratory. His hand drifted into his pocket, clenching a small medallion hidden there, a stamped brass effigy of Karl Marx. He mumbled quietly in French as he moved through the loud corridors, "Camarade Marx, que dois-je faire?"

Lucien entered the lab. He remembered his first view of the unspoiled world below. It was pristine, untouched by the machinations of capitalist exploitation, safe from the destruction and alienation of man from nature. He knew exactly what those companies would do here. This world would be ruined, strip-mined and choked with smog, just like how the rich were ruining Earth.

"Personne ne peut savoir. Je sais ce que j'ai à faire," he said to himself now, steeling his nerves and hatching a plan.

Why Yevgeny was being sent into the shield vault this early into the mission was unknown to him, but everything was starting to feel rushed. The revelation about the world had put Vance into a sort of mania, and all the Captain could see was the potential cash and payout coming their way. It was deeply concerning to Yevgeny, especially as Lucien helped him into the heavy containment suit. He had just heard that Rost had taken a turn for the worse and was sedated and locked in his quarters; Aether Psychosis was a hell of a condition.

Lucien carefully inspected each part of the heavy suit, ensuring the air lines, buckles, and seals were tight before hoisting the helmet up against Yevgeny's chest. "All of this has been rattled pretty hard. I told Vance that we needed more time to verify the integrity of the equipment. Are you okay with this?" he asked.

Yevgeny shrugged. "Life has risks, and it is passing the eye test. Let’s just hurry up and get this over with. Inspect, verify, label, and prepare. Why so soon, though? We haven’t even gotten air samples yet. Worse, the fucking Tin-Man we brought along is out there lumbering around, probably stomping up enough noise for some apex predator to come eat the ship." The Russian was at his absolute limit.

Before he could say anything else, the helmet connected and twisted, muffling his voice behind the heavy cast-iron and steel contraption that looked more like a deep-sea rig than a shipboard safety suit.

Lucien verified his own suit. He would shadow the Russian as he did the checks. He was in charge of safety, and they were supposed to fail-safe to ensure the security of the ship and the crew.

They moved forward with their mission carefully and with trepidation.

The cargo hold was a cavern of rattling iron and freezing exhaust—a massive apparatus dedicated entirely to keeping what should be solid, solid. Yevgeny stepped forward with his heavy boots, descending into the bowels of the ship. A lamp on his helmet shone around the dark hold as his heavy gloves reached out, navigating the frost-covered ironwork.

He was waist-deep in the primary shield containment vault now, his heavy vulcanized canvas suit tethered to the ship by a thick, braided pneumatic umbilical cord. His breaths were slow and measured, the sound of the air from the tether rushing by filling his ears and partially disorienting him.

He waved a signal backward toward Lucien, stepping back into the Frenchman's reach. Lucien stepped behind the engineer and tapped on the heavy brass shoulder pauldron, confirming his presence. Yevgeny turned, his face barely visible behind the thick glass of his diving-bell helmet.

Lucien tapped his own chest to pantomime a routine pressure check, safety first down here.

Yevgeny’s eyes drifted past the Frenchman, however, toward a series of freezing pipes. He was worried that something might be wrong with the cooling. Tin-Man’s maintenance had 

distracted him, and he was now seeing the imperfections of this ship everywhere. Lucien could see him wondering through the haze of their helmets; the Russian was indeed not fully focused on what he was doing.

The Frenchman placed his hands on the heavy brass manifold covering Yevgeny’s chest under the guise of adjusting a dial. As he did, a crescent wrench flashed from under his left wrist, and he gave the retaining nut on the coolant bypass valve a practiced twist. Lucien carefully waited for the feeling, just enough to break the internal seal, but not enough to blow immediately. The wrench vanished behind his suit into a utility satchel. He took a step back, waving a hand to get the Russian’s attention and gave a thumbs up.

Yevgeny returned the gesture with a half-salute and took a few steps backward toward the gantry ladder. Lucien passed through containment to get clear of the vault. He carefully worked off his environment suit and stood near the radio to communicate with Yevgeny. The Russian moved forward to verify the cargo and ensure it was secure before inventory and prepared for deployment. His eyes spied a frost-covered copper circulation pipe rattling slightly. It must have loosened during their jump. He sighed, grunted heavily over the comms, and reached to tighten it.

Reaching up, Yevgeny began twisting the retaining bolt. The physical strain and motion suddenly unsealed the valve and his suit’s internal pressure spiked. Lucien heard a sharp crack echo over the comms, and suddenly Yevgeny experienced the violent hiss of a pressure breach. The Russian quickly began patting his suit, looking for where he was compromised as super-chilled liquid coolant blew past the compromised O-ring and shot directly up the corrugated rubber airline, directly into his helmet.

Yevgeny thrashed wildly for several moments before fatalism kicked in. The fight suddenly stopped as he simply crumpled to the ground, trapped and frozen, having essentially drowned in the coolant.

Lucien watched the violent struggle with cold detachment. It served the Russian right to die like a dog in the dim, green-gold light of the vault’s Cavorite circuits. Once he was certain, he sarcastically whispered, "Repose en paix," before moving to the wall intercom to call Captain Vance.

It took them about an hour to remove the body, wrap it, and utilize Yevgeny’s quarters as a makeshift morgue.

Captain Vance stood beside Lucien and shrugged. "Typical, sub-par equipment." He couldn’t see past his share of the wealth incrementally increasing. He could argue for more hazard pay as well, now that there was a body count on the mission.

Vance did not miss a beat. "What is the status outside?"

Lucien turned to him. "Testing is slow. My job details have doubled, but Tin-Man has delivered a sample of the air, which has been transported to the lab for testing. Once I check it, we will verify if we can get outside or not."

"Hurry up. I am keeping radio silence, no communication out of here until we are one hundred percent certain this is paydirt. I don’t trust anyone on the switches back home with this until we have a stack of papers staking what we find," Vance stated.

Lucien nodded solemnly, but inside he was grinning. The cold hand of greed was lending itself to his plans. "Of course, Captain. I will recall Tin-Man for maintenance and some tweaks as well. I have reviewed Yevgeny’s notes and have a grasp of the maintenance necessary to keep him covering our asses."

"Good. I will be in my quarters. Notify me the second we can touch dirt," Vance ordered.

Lucien agreed. The greedy fucker wasn't even the type to help out now that they were shorthanded, just delegated more responsibilities to Lucien. And poor Kaelen was worse for wear after their little celebration, locked in a delirium in his own quarters.

What Lucien didn’t tell Vance was that Tin-Man had brought back more than just a few air samples. His laboratory was filled with local flora, soil samples, air canisters, and even water from a nearby river. A ding from a nearby analyzer went off. Lucien pulled the small glass vials from the machine and held them to the light as it furiously printed out chemical data on a strip of ticker tape. The Frenchman smiled to himself. What a revelation. This was going to make his job much easier.

Then he stalled, working on the next steps to ensure his plan went off without a hitch. Over the next few hours, he methodically worked in the quiet of his lab. Tin-Man’s administrative controls had been reset to his own command. It was almost comically easy to re-punch the brass logic cards. Now, he was free to focus on distilling a gift for Captain Vance.

Lucien knocked politely on the doorframe of Vance’s quarters. The American was hunched over a brass counting machine, going through a ledger and calculating his potential earnings. He absently waved Lucien in. "Good news, I hope."

Lucien entered, placing a glass down on the desk beside the Captain and taking one for himself. "Better than good, Captain. The air is pristine. Perhaps a little more oxygen than expected, so try not to get too excited or you might get a little high. The water and flora are sequenced and safe for drinking." He pointed toward the glass on the table and raised his own.

Vance smiled, grabbing his own glass and raising it in a cheer with Lucien before thirstily drinking it down. "I think we will call this Vance’s World instead of the designation Aradia. What do you think? Captain’s prerogative."

Lucien shrugged and nodded. "Captain’s prerogative."

"This water is quite sweet, with a bit of a bitterness to it," Vance said. "Can we go outside now?" He smiled, trying to rise to his feet, but simply fell forward onto the deck with a heavy thud.

His smile evaporated into panic as his limbs went numb and his breath became labored. He could not even reach for his sidearm. His eyes boiled with rage, fixing on Lucien as he managed to choke out a strangled, "Traitor," before he lost his ability to speak entirely. He writhed weakly on the floor.

Lucien frowned, looking down at him. "No traitor here, Captain. I have always been loyal. I have always been loyal to the cause."

He stepped around the desk, his boots heavy on the iron deck, and crouched beside the paralyzed man. Vance’s eyes tracked him, wide with suffocating panic.

"You wanted to call it Vance's World," Lucien whispered, his voice devoid of pity. "But you would not keep it. You would sell it to the highest bidder, to your masters at the Moongazer Consortium. Or perhaps your old masters in America. I know exactly what they do to new worlds."

Lucien gestured slowly toward the viewport, where the pristine violet canopies swayed gently in the alien breeze. He grabbed Vance’s head and shoved it toward the glass. "Look out there, Captain. It is perfect. It is untainted by the sickness of our empires. If I let you send that message back to Earth, within a decade this sky will be choked with coal smoke and glittering green Cavorine gas. They will strip-mine the soil, build their foundries, and ship millions of desperate, starving workers through the Gate to die in the dark just so men like you can count your ledgers."

The Frenchman stood back up and dropped the American to the ground, looking down as Vance’s breathing grew even more shallow.

"I cannot allow the sickness of capitalist exploitation to spread to another world. I am not a traitor, Silas. I am a quarantine. You, me, Yevgeny, the Consortium, we are all the disease. And this world deserves better than us."

His mind drifted to Kaelen, the last soul on board. Poor Kaelen, who deserved none of this.

Lucien left the Captain's quarters without a backward glance. He made his way down the narrow, iron corridors to the communications relay. The small room hummed with the heat of glowing glass vacuum tubes and the crackle of static. Sitting at the heavy brass telegraph station, he powered up the long-range transmitter.

He punched in the encryption sequence for the Moongazer Consortium and began to tap the heavy iron key.

----Probes accurate regarding hostile environment. Atmosphere highly toxic, corrosive compounds detected. Hull breached. Yevgeny dead. Vance dead. Engine failing. System is a total loss. Do not follow.----

He waited for the green indicator light confirming the transmission had bounced back through the aether. Once it flashed, he slid the crescent wrench from his satchel, the one he used in the cargo hold. With cold precision, Lucien swung it down on the vacuum tubes. Glass shattered. Copper wires sparked and died. He smashed the brass dials, the transmitter key, and the primary receiver until the console was nothing but ruined scrap.

Now for my finale, he thought, now for the last two men here to meet a civil end. 

Lucien walked into the maintenance bay. Tin-Man stood exactly where he left it. The hulking mass of brass, steel, and clockwork hissed steam waiting for an input. Lucien approached the workbench where Yevgeny’s notes were meticulously laid out and reached into a drawer pulling out a blank brass punch-card. 

He carefully examined the card and then took a heavy iron stamper, punching a new logic sequence. After a few minutes and checks, he slotted the card into the automaton's chest drive and pressed a heavy iron spade into the machine’s hand. The automaton’s red optical lenses glowed in the dim light. It gave a slow, mechanical salute, the spade clanking against its armored leg.

Now, for the final task. Lucien returned to his lab, pulling two clean glasses and mixing the alien river water with a heavy dose of a painless, sleep-inducing toxin he extracted from the local flora. With the two cups in hand, he moved down the hall to Kaelen’s quarters.

He pushed open the heavy door. The aether-navigator was huddled in the corner, sweating through his uniform, clutching his rosary tightly. He was whispering frantically about the currents, the singing void, and the light.

"Kaelen," Lucien said softly.

The much-diminished man looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "The light, Lucien. It is so loud. It burns."

"I know, my friend. It is time to rest now. Drink this." Lucien kneeled and offered him one of the glasses. "It will help quiet your mind, and then we will go outside. You deserve to go outside."

Kaelen took the glass with trembling hands. He drank it down, sighing as the sweet liquid coated his throat. Lucien raised his own glass, offering a silent toast to the untouched world of Aradia, and drank the rest.

"Come," Lucien said, helping the navigator to his feet.

Together, the two men walked slowly down the corridor and stepped into the main airlock. Lucien cycled the heavy iron door. It hissed open, revealing the breathtaking expanse of Aradia. The violet canopies swayed in the gentle breeze. The air was perfectly sweet and clean, a stark contrast to the oil and sulphur of the ship behind them.

They strolled a short distance from the soot-stained hull of the Icarus Dividend, stopping at a soft patch of alien grass overlooking the crystal river. They sat down side-by-side. Kaelen's breathing was already slowing, a peaceful smile finally spreading across his weathered face.

"Is this heaven?" Kaelen whispered, turning toward Lucien.

Lucien smiled weakly. "Yes, Kaelen. You made it. Rest now."

Kaelen slowly slumped, leaning into Lucien, his own limbs growing heavy as a warm numbness crept up his spine. He looked up at the perfect, cloudless sky, breathing in the unpolluted air one last time.

Behind them, the rhythmic, heavy thud of brass footsteps echoed across the pristine grass. Tin-Man approached, venting a slow hiss of steam, the iron spade resting in its grip, waiting patiently for the men to close their eyes.

The last guardian of a lost world, Tin-Man was left to stand vigil in the violet fields.