She fell to her knees, took his hand in hers, felt the skin and muscle move beneath her fingers.

She raised it to her lips.

And ate.

Interlude In the funnelled darkness of Deep Time, gravity will outlast matter; no mutual destruction here, for in the realm of the shadow stars matter is not linked to ma.s.s. If gravity is wedded to anything it is darkness. For not even light can escape when gravity determines to possess it. Gravity drives the universe -creating and destroying everything, including life and sentience and consciousness.

In the universe of Einstein and Newton, Gravity is G.o.d. One simple rule and all matter follows it.

Belannia XII moves on its endless...o...b..t, trapped in a loop about its distant primary. No, not endless - nothing lasts for ever. But old. Already old beyond its time. Old, tired - a plodding senescent orbit, undulating slowly in its fixed loop, the ferocity of youth gone, drained by age and the endless putt of its ma.s.s-derived G.o.d. Old, tired, summoned by an inevitable future.

Within the marbled shadow of its atmosphere, there is movement. Life. Sentience. Consciousness.

Others too, are searching for G.o.d.

Born during the first lifetime of the Bel system, the Hoth were old - vast, ancient intelligences drifting languidly within the atmospheric oceans of Belannia Xn, ancient almost beyond recollection when the star that gave them life grew old and died and was, impossibly, reborn.

They had colonised the outer gas giants of the system when their race was less than two million years old. They had looked out to the waiting stars with eager eyes - and then, for some reason, had looked inward instead. Perhaps they had been frightened by the immensity of the distances they must travel to reach the stars they could see, perhaps by the aching void in which little beyond the endless dance of hydrogen molecules took place.Whatever the reason, inward they looked, towards the bright centre of interest that was themselves.

It seemed such a small thing, this lure of self; the stars would remain. For a species as long-lived as the Hoth, later - much later - was time enough for the stars. A small thing, true, the glance inward, but no small thing the curiosity that captivated their hearts and minds. And what if curiosity turned to fascination over the millennia? Was there not still time to look outward? And, if fascination became obsession, what of it? The stars were endless in their courses.

And so the Hoth turned inward, away from the stars that were their future, and did not even notice when those stars faded, one by one, from the skies of their worlds.

By the time their own sun showed signs of senility, the energy of their own youth was millennia dead and with it their tempestuous drive to expand - at least, physically. Drifting languidly within their cloud oceans the Hoth had amalgamated, experimenting with various states of existence. They tried peace, warfare; love, hatred; they tried single-body existence, they tried gestalt existence. Games of all descriptions intrigued them. Games were the province of Mind. They played Touch Me and Be Me and Isolation. They played with storms and moons and tiny bubble universes carved by the pa.s.sage of a white hole through their solar system. These were curiosities, distractions - pleasant enough baubles but ultimately unfulfllling. The attainment of pure Mind had intrigued them for a billion years or so - but in the end had proved equally boring. The consensus seemed very much that nothing they experienced during their long, eventful lives seemed able to replace good old-fashioned sensation derived from sensory input to a physical body.

So they continued, experiencing their geologic lives in slow, ponderous ways, surprised, almost, to find they could be sated by the endless iteration of cloud which formed their dwelling places. Comfort and stimulation, both came easily, in the patterns of simple things. And so slowly, perhaps too slowly to measure, certainly too slowly to be interested by the phenomenon, they began to die.

Their numbers endured a brief revival during the second lifetime of their sun - its impossible rejuvenation sparking a renewed interest in themselves - and for a few years the Hoth looked once again towards each other for stimulation. But this didn't last: decay was inevitable and their numbers dwindled again over the long aeons that followed the sun's rebirth. The birth of two new intelligent species and their emergence into local s.p.a.ce was but a minor distraction on the long road to racial dissolution. The conception of a third and its delivery into the most destructive of cradles was but a flickering candle of interest; then, even that was forgotten.

Where once there were billions, now the Hoth numbered only five. Five individuals, their dirigible bodies as large as small continents, each resident in the atmosphere of one of the five outer gas giants which could support their isolated lives.

They were alone because they wanted to be. Alone because they were dying.

To ones as old as these, death was all that remained to experience.

Until now.

They had roamed the universe when the universe was young. Or maybe they had emerged into our universe from an errant minor carved from its parent. Perhaps they were travelling backward in time, seeking their own G.o.ds in the birth of the universe, any universe.

The truth was, no one knew. And no one knew the seekers, either, for they were secretive and shy. Shunning intelligence, they drifted quietly and un.o.btrusively among the solar systems and galaxies; seeds the size of planets; minds shielded by continents of rock and ice; coc.o.o.ns of densely interlaced biological matter; seeking cradles of cold fire from which life had already departed in which to conceive their future.

That they lived at all might be considered doubtful. They existed in the dark places where little sunlight shone, and stayed there for a time spanning the birth and death of stars.What minds could live in ignorance of time? What bodies could support consciousness for so long without going insane?

No one knew.

For themselves all the seekers knew was life. Endless life. Once during the span of a galaxy they might conceive. One in a hundred of these might survive the birth trauma. One in a thousand might survive the hostile darkness of shadow stars, the damaging incursion of other life and intelligence. One in a million might grow to maturity. A million times the life of a galaxy - that was the scale on which they lived, these seekers. The geologic vastness of Deep Time in which the life of all the stars that would ever be was but the brief flutter of candle flames, quickly extinguished. This they called home. They could remember the universe being born and they could remember the universe dying even as its own self-awareness was born. No one knew when they might die. And still, as yet, they were little more than infants.

Where in time to come there might be billions of them, orbiting in social dances light years across, now there were only three. Three individuals, bodies like planets captured by mutual gravity and desire, their lives bound together to shape a future for the product of their union.

They were together because they wanted to be. Together because they had only just begun to live.

To ones as young as this, death itself was inconceivable.

Until now.

They did not breathe, they did not conceive, they did not have art, they did not have morality. But they processed fuel, they perpetuated themselves; they possessed memory and ident.i.ty; they knew life and they coveted it.

They questioned everything - everything they experienced. They invented questions to describe experiences for which there were no defining symbols.

Where once there was but a single unity of existence, now there were billions. A billion individuals, yet a single gestalt consciousness which, observing the pa.s.sage of time, questioned its own place within that framework and began to derive an answer.

They were separate and together. Not because they willed it, but because they knew no other way.

To ones such as this, deathwas life.

They had found G.o.d.

Part Two

Chapter Seven.

The rescue consisted of three medical ships and three fighter escorts. The six vessels blasted clear of the carrier and twenty minutes later entered high orbit. From the nervesphere of the lead ship, the Doctor studied the lie of the land. Where the pilot was using radar, dopplerscopes, and other sophisticated instruments, the Doctor studied the new world through the direct vision ports with a pair of Victorian opera-gla.s.ses.

He smiled as the ships dropped out of high orbit,'Ohh!'-ing and 'Ahh!'-ing almost as if an opera were unfolding on a stage before him and he were caught up in the twists and turns of the story. Every few moments he began to hum distractedly. Then he would stop, as his thoughts turned inevitably to Sam, then, putting aside the pain of loss, he would start again. The pilot occasionally spared him a glance - very occasionally, for his hands were kept full simply navigating through the atmosphere, thickening now as the planet moved on its remorseless course towards the sun.

The six ships entered a cloud bank and dropped through. The ships rocked, gently at first and then harder as the chop increased.

With the flight computer calmly voicing the specifics of their journey and the Doctor humming "The Ride of the Valkyries', the six ships dropped out of the cloud, remaining in tight formation, and screamed over the horizon, flaps open, shedding speed all the time.

'Atmospheric density up fifteen per cent. Precipitation high. Electrical activity high,' offered the computer.

'Gonna be a little shaky,' translated the pilot.

'I love summer storms,' said the Doctor without taking his eyes from the opera gla.s.ses.'So dramatic and yet almost cosy. The rain is warm, you get such a feeling oflife '.

Lightning flickered nearby and thunder grumbled. The sky shed the depthless black of s.p.a.ce for the towering black anvils of storm clouds.

They flew lower.

'Beginning scan. Target human life signs and known metallic/ceramic compounds.'

The Doctor slipped a few coloured filters over the end of the opera gla.s.ses. He was humming more loudly now, his voice rising in dramatic accompaniment to the storm.

The ships moved lower, the fighters dropping back and remaining higher to offer cover should there be an attack.

The Doctor's eyes were locked on the ground below, glimpsed intermittently through the rain.

'Visibility's all to h.e.l.l,' offered the pilot. 'Sure you don't want to use our instruments?'

The Doctor shook his head. 'With the greatest of respect -' he swung the gla.s.ses around and pointed them momentarily at the pilot's name tag - 'Mr Aellini, the equipment you're working with is a tad old-fashioned for me. Besides, these gla.s.ses have a sentimental value. Watched Puccini's Madame b.u.t.terfly through them once. That was in... oh... was it Paris? Maybe it was Chandrasekhar City on Alpha Leonis Seven. I always get them confused. Did you know that Puccini's Madame b.u.t.terfly is such a perfect musical statement that it was simultaneously written on at least seven different worlds that I know of? The furthest from Earth was Larksup's World in the lesser Magellanic cloud. I took a great interest for a while. Collected a few of the different editions. Tremendous fun, you know, though of course it does tend to play havoc with any coherent theory of divergent evolution.'

Aellini just said, 'Right. Sure. Madame b.u.t.terfly . Lesser Magellanic cloud. OK.' And he got on with flying the ship.

Three arias and half an orbit later, the Doctor pointed out of the window.'There!' he shouted excitedly, bouncing up and down in his seat."There they are!'

The pilot stared uncomprehendingly at the dense wall of storm-lit rain as the computer said, 'Metallic compound identified. Molecular registration is Belannian Navy designation.' A string of coordinates followed.

The Doctor grinned, patted the opera gla.s.ses, dismantled the filter a.s.sembly, folded the gla.s.ses flat and slipped them back into his pocket.

'Can't beat the cheap seats,' he muttered happily, as the snips changed course, arced down low over the surface and began to check for possible landing sites.

Fifty minutes later the medical ships were tethered in a clearing in the alien landscape. While the three fighters held station overhead, tracking them by radar and infrared, the Doctor and Aellini led the medical team out on to the surface.

Aellini slipped his helmet visor into place. The air was breathable but the wind tended to s.n.a.t.c.h it away greedily before he could actually inhale any of it. What he'd smelled of the atmosphere was dank and wet - rotting food, a vegetable stink. They must be in some kind of jungle, though it was hard to tell. The hand-lights of the medical team were swallowed up within metres by the darkness and wet. Shapes that might be trees on any normal planet whipped dangerously in and out of the beams of torchlight. The ground was uneven rock smothered in moss and lowlying vegetation; a thick carpet in which balance was difficult and pa.s.sage next to impossible. Only in the area immediately surrounding the three grounded ships was the land bare, scorched clean by the landing jets.

Aellini took a few readings on his suit instruments and collated them. 'Wind at storm velocity. Aerial precipitation almost off the scale. Heat rising. Geothennal activity increasing...' He shook his head inside the helmet. 'This wind could strip the teeth from a buzz-saw!' He had no need to shout, his voice being amplified by the suit speakers.

'Bracing, isn't it?' shouted the Doctor above the boom of thunder. Of them all he was the only one who seemed to feel no need of the protection of a s.p.a.cesuit. His hair was splashed by the wind, his sodden collar and the end of his frock coat flapping like mad velvet bats around his face and chest. He was grinning. His eyes and teeth were white smears in the torchlit, lightning-strobed darkness. "The surface is in flux. Travelling between solar systems is a chilly hobby. Now we're getting nearer the sun the heat is freeing up the frozen air, the moisture... wanning up the rocks... Have you ever seen what happens to a Wall's Dalek Death Ray lolly when you put it in a microwave?'

Aellini shook his head, awestruck at the Doctor's ability to combine the essential with the absurdly frivolous. 'Not really, no.'

'Thought so,' the Doctor shot back, miming a splattered explosion with his face and hands. 'Didn't notice that many icecream vendors on Belannia VIII.'

Aellini shook his head, gathered the medical team and began to issue instructions. 'Stay in touch. Monitor each other at all times. We'll rope up if we need to. I don't want anyone taking any chances. We've lost enough people here already today and I don't want to add to their...'

The Doctor waited, leaning into the wind and tapping his feet impatiently for a few moments, then simply turned away and began to walk.

'Doctor! Where do you think you're going?'

Without turning the Doctor called back, 'If this is what the conditions are like at night, think what the force will be like when the sun comes up.' He consulted a pocket watch. 'Sunrise is in forty minutes.' He put away the watch. 'Life's a big adventure Mr Aellini. If you talk about what you're going to do for too long you miss the chance to do it!'

Somehow, despite the wind and the lack of radio, his words carried clearly to everyone. Aellini frowned. Smoot had told him the Doctor would be trouble. Well. No one could be more trouble than the side arm holstered at his waist.

Aellini at the head of the column, the medical team began to plod after the Doctor, now bounding goat-like across the rocks and intermittently vanishing among the rain-lashed darkness.

Following his nose, the Doctor found the first crash site less than thirty minutes later. It was Conaway's ship. Wreckage was strewn over a large area. The bulk of the vessel was wedged in a gully, its impact clearly cushioned by the burned and broken remains of storm-swept trees. There were no bodies.

There was one survivor.

They found her huddled in the tool locker in the remains of the payload bay, almost delirious with shock but otherwise mercifully uninjured.

The Doctor waited for the medical team to finish, made a cursory examination himself and then crouched beside the woman. Outside, the storm boomed. Flaps of hull creaked and squealed as they were peeled away by the remorseless wind. The planet was flaying the ship alive. What might it do to any human out unprotected in it? What might it do to Conaway?

'You want to know where they are, right?' The woman tried to crawl away from the Doctor. She banged her shoulder on the metal door of the locker and fell over. She began to cry. 'It took them. The planet came and the planet came and it took them it took them all away! '

Pain.

Sam was beginning to think it was the only real thing in her life any more.

What amazed her most - beyond the feet that she could stand it at all - was the idea that there were so many different types of it. And that all these different types could be felt at once.

The deep ache of radiation sickness, just as on Ja.n.u.s Prime, the sharp stabbing pains of decompression, the freezing numbness of ice burn - her body was a carnival freak show of capering agony.

And her skin: motile, healing, decaying, healing, decaying...

And, if her body waxed and waned more dramatically than the tides, what of her mind? What corner of her consciousness was there that remained protected from the pain? None, for the human body is a wonderful machine which takes every opportunity to warn itself when things are not right.

Things were not right with Sam Jones. Oh no. Not by a long chalk.

Things might not ever be right again.

She had died. She knew that. The lack of air had caused her to suffocate. The wind-chill factor alone would have reduced her to a frozen corpse in moments, the radiation lashing the surface a slower but infinitely more horrible death.

All these deaths she had suffered many times since her conversion. Her mind shied from the terror of cancer exploding through her body only to be itself destroyed; of skin frozen to the point of peeling away only to be made whole again; molecules brought under control, a flux of life, the pain burning away death and life together until there was nothing left but the pain. And it was she and she was it, a living thing made of pain; it crept in her blood, it moved tirelessly through her muscles, her lymphatic system, her lungs and other organs. Her heart and mind were filled with it. Her nervous system sang hymns to it.

Her voice rose as her sanity began slowly to leach away, rose to join the chorus of others in an unconscious and uncontrollable prayer of pain to their G.o.d, the priest who sat humbly at their head, contemplating his own Endless State.

Sam waited to faint.

She didn't.

She waited to die.

She didn't.

She waited to go mad.

She didn't.