Cold Fusion - Lance Parkin [74]
He touched her memory, brought something calm out and focused on it. A hand rising, brushing a wave of blonde hair away from the forehead.
I know about today, they said together, we were there.
Let’s think of yesterday, before we met. What happened yesterday?
A woman dreaming of archways and glowing powerlines. Simple, comforting images. Around her, womb-warm blue fluid, bubbling. The Doctor smiled at a passing thought. She was doing the same, remembering the cloister room. A tranquil room of slate-grey stone and running water. Fingers stroking an ivy leaf. It was dry. A stone space, Loom-calm.
Before that? No need for thoughts or memories, no need for secrets. Just emotions, feelings and impressions. There was just a spark, a few ergs of energy in the brain. Nothing at all for so long. An exhilarating rush backwards through the years. Frozen solid, in a deep coma, but alive.
Experiencing the world as a redwood tree might, not moving, not seeing or hearing. The planet spins on its axis, day and night strobing, each season like a frame of an epic film. The planet circles its sun, the sun circles the galactic core, the galaxy moves ever outwards. Mountain ranges and rock strata come and go. I was there for it all, doing nothing more than being alive
Then a sea of memories and emotions. Mustering willpower as the ice started to bite into legs and arms.
Unable to move or feel toes and fingers, all the sense at the base of the spine freezing away as the body begins to shut down. Neurochemical messengers in retreat, fighting a rearguard action against the frost. Skin cells crystallizing, bloodbergs in the veins and arteries. The contents of the stomach and intestines solidifying, cracking the gut wall as they expand. The lungs are tight but they have already stopped. The heart is slowing.
I’m dying.
No, this is the past. These are just your memories of being on this planet. Cast your mind back to before then.
Memories of springtime sun on bare skin. A dark-haired woman straddles her husband, his unfamiliar hands beneath her shoulder blades. He rolls her over onto the grass, stroking her side and kissing her belly. As he kisses it again an owl flies through the amber sky. The sun is overhead, so it’s a little after noon.
‘I’m getting old.’ He pulls himself up to his knees, resting a hand on her thigh.
She sat up, laughing, tickling his beard. It was darker and coarser than the blond curls growing on his head. His new body was so much taller and hairier than the last.
‘You said that when we were expecting our firstborn,’
she replied.
‘And by this time tomorrow he will be a father himself.
Perhaps then he will start feeling his age.’
‘Perhaps he’ll start acting it.’ She kissed his cheek. He cradled her head, running his fingers through her short black hair and down her neck to her collarbone.
Power lines and shock-webbing. Something wrong.
That memory shouldn’t be there.
I know, the Doctor replied. It’s your memory, isn’t it?
Where does it fit?
Brainscream, something wrenching itself out of her mind. It hits her, the pain hits her again. Again No. Wouldn’t you rather be here?
Turning her over onto her front, kissing the back of her neck, his hand running down her body. His thoughts dipping into hers, tasting her emotions. She was propping herself up on her elbows. Her body was familiar, he’d known it for centuries, seen it age ever so slowly. The birthmark on her ankle, the pattern of freckles on her shoulderblades. Only he had ever had those thoughts.
I am intruding here.
He lay alongside her, examined her spine as though he’d never seen it before, ran a finger right down from her neck to the back of her knee.
I want to stay here.