Free Engineman by Eric Brown Page A

underpinned reality. As simple as that - even though scientists were still theorising over the precise cause of the effect. There was no evidence of an afterlife, Mirren maintained, no souls departed or those awaiting birth, just the wondrous mind-trip produced by the excitation of one's pineal gland, and the subsequent craving was the effect of denial.
    For a timeless duration, Mirren fluxed.
    Then, one by one, his senses returned. The hatch was cracked and the slide-bed withdrawn, and Mirren emerged into the dazzling, though muted, light of the engine-room. He sat up, dazed, knowing that anything from six to twelve hours had elapsed but unable to believe the fact. Dan unjacked him, and as he did so it came to Mirren in a rush that that had been the very last time he would ever mind-push a starship.
    "Ten light years," he thought, "in almost an instant."
    Before the tank, Olafson was holding Elliott, who was clearly agitated. She was sobbing in the arms of the taller woman, shaking her head and trying to say something. Mirren looked at Dan, who shrugged. "She can't bear the thought..." he began.
    "Elliott!" Mirren snapped. "If you're in no condition to flux, We'll en-tank Olafson and you can go without, understood? We're all in the same situation, so don't think you're a special case. Pull yourself together. Fekete, set the tank. Leferve, jack her. Elliott..." The tone of his voice held a warning.
    Sniffing, Elliott nodded. Olafson assisted her to the tank.
    Mirren climbed from the slide-bed and made his way unsteadily towards the viewscreen. He collapsed into a lounger and stared out at the cobalt depths of the nada -continuum, and as he did so he heard Dan intoning, " Grant her smooth union/ With the majesty of the Sublime, the Infinite ."
    Mirren closed his eyes, let the residuum of the wonder he'd experienced percolate through his whole being. Enjoy it, he told himself, because it won't happen again.
    He sensed someone beside him and opened his eyes. Dan was sitting on the edge of a lounger, staring at his clasped hands.
    "What is it, Dan?"
    "Weren't you rather hard on her?"
    Mirren looked at the Breton, the bearded giant, the peasant - as he sometimes called him - who should be ploughing the earth rather than ploughing the continuum.
    Mirren sighed. "I know I was, Dan." He shook his head. "She isn't the only one who's going through this."
    "But it's affecting her more-"
    "Is it? How the hell do you know how it's affecting me? At least fucking Elliott here can shoot herself when she gets back to Earth, achieve union that way."
    Dan said, "Knowing Elliott, she might just do that."
    Mirren waved. "I'm sorry. You know how it is... I can't take three months without the flux. How will I cope after three years...?"
    Dan said, "Or thirty."
    Both men looked out at the white light marbling the blue of the continuum, and fell silent-
    And the vision that Mirren was reliving became diffuse, distant, and he knew the flashback was drawing to a close. He was back in his apartment, the sudden translocation disconcerting.
    He blinked, and watched Hunter's photograph complete its pendulum drift to the carpet. He returned his arm from its outstretched position, feeling within him the vivid recollection of the union.
    In reality, the flashback had lasted for a fraction of a second, while subjectively Mirren had experienced the events aboard the 'ship for what seemed like hours. What the hell was happening to him?
    He looked up at the screen. Dan Leferve could wait. He'd contact him later. It was all he could do to drag himself to his room, swallow two sleeping tablets with a mouthful of water and fall into bed.

Chapter Five
     
    Ella Fernandez sat in the 'port transit lounge on the colony world of A-Long-Way-From-Home, staring at her fingers and reliving again the explosion that had taken Eddie from her. She shifted position in the uncomfortable bucket seat, her silversuit squeaking against the padded mock-leather. Around her, a hundred