Free World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine by Ian W. Sainsbury

“I really don’t know.”
    The memory of what had just happened seemed indistinguishable in its quality, its heft, from any other part of the last few days. But the content of the memory was so bizarre, so surreal, that Seb automatically questioned its reality.
    “You weren’t dreaming, I’m sure of that,” said Seb2. “Fully conscious throughout.”  
    “Where was I? How did it happen? Could it happen again?”
    “Don’t know, don’t know, probably,” said Seb2.
    “Big help, thanks.”
    “I’m working on it,” said Seb2. “When I find something, you’ll be the first to know.”
    Seb thought back to the moment he’d lost consciousness. It had felt as if he’d suddenly been engulfed by a violent storm—as if a raging wind was tearing at him, pushing, pulling, unstoppable. That feeling had lasted a split second as he fell, then suddenly—
    ***
    -he was sitting on a blue plastic chair. He was hunched over, staring at an old, dirty tiled floor, the surface an indiscriminate beige color. For a moment, he didn’t register the sudden change of location. It seemed entirely natural that he was on this chair, looking at this floor, instead of standing, holding a beer and talking to Mee.  
    Seb sat up and looked around. His chair was third in a line of twelve exact replicas fastened together. Behind him was another row of twelve chairs. There were six windows above a waist-high counter ten feet in front of him. Through five of the windows, Seb could see a computer, an empty chair and little else. On the other side of the glass, details seemed to be blurred—literally impossible to bring into focus. The last window, furthest away, was harder to see through as the fluorescent tube above it flickered weakly, providing little useful light. There was a background hum. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.
    Getting to his feet, Seb checked the rest of the room. It was virtually featureless. It looked almost exactly like the Social Security office where Seb had picked up a replacement card in New York. There was only one difference, as far as he could tell. Not a feature so much as a lack of one. There was no door.
    A bell rang and Seb looked up. A digital board above the window was displaying a flashing message in red:  
    387—window 6
    Seb became aware that there was a piece of paper in his left hand. He looked down. It was a ticket. 387.
    Window 6 was the one under the flickering light.  
    “Well, I’m here, might as well find out what this is all about,” thought Seb.
    “Wherever ‘here’ is,” said Seb2.  
    Seb felt no fear despite the situation. One of the consequences of his encounter with Billy Joe had been a diminishing of the more extreme emotions. His instincts were of little use now that his senses had been upgraded. During the three hundred milliseconds it might have once taken his brain to react to a threat, his enhanced consciousness had already explored actual, possible and perceived threats, considered different ways of dealing with them and instantly implemented the most effective strategy. Fear still featured in his emotional range, but it only applied to others—specifically, Meera, and his fear that she could still be hurt despite his powers. So when Seb got to window 6 and found an alien sitting on the other side of the glass, he felt many things, but fear wasn’t one of them.
    At first, Seb thought it was Billy Joe. Even as the thought entered his mind, Seb2 dismissed it.
    “Nope,” he said, “not him. Old-style Manna, for a start.”
    Seb could be forgiven for his mistake, since the figure before him—sitting in a cheap-looking office chair—was Billy Joe’s double. Gray, glowing slightly, large expressionless black eyes, long fingers. The only difference in appearance seemed to be that this alien was wearing clothes. Specifically, he had black polyester pants and a white short-sleeved shirt with a name badge on the chest. The shirt pocket held two pens—one blue, one