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

red. One pen was leaking and a dark blue stain was slowly spreading from a corner of the pocket.
    “It might be rude to laugh,” said Seb2, as Seb choked off the urge to do just that.
    The alien took the blue pen out of its pocket, seemingly oblivious to the leak. He opened a folder on the desk, turned a page, tapped the pen on it, then looked up at Seb.
    “Communication begins now.” The voice, when it came, was disconcerting for two reasons. First, the sound came not from the creature’s mouth—just like Billy Joe, it didn’t have one—but from a speaker mounted halfway up the window on Seb’s left. Second, it was a very familiar voice. At first, he couldn’t place it, it was so incongruous. Then he had it.
    “The guy from the male incontinence commercials!” Seb and Seb2 got there at the same moment. It was a voiceover that had always amused Seb—a voice that projected the suave professional reassurance of an airline pilot, combined with the unctuous formality of a funeral director. Seb had been so amused by the voice, he’d sampled it and used it for a track on Clockwatcher’s first album.
    “Someone’s been doing their research,” said Seb2. “Who else knew you were slightly obsessed with that guy’s voice? Mee, the guys in the band—,”
    “-The twenty-seven people who bought the album,” thought Seb.
    “Whoa, hang on a second,” said Seb2. “We have an attempt at communication.”
    “That’s what he just said,” thought Seb.
    “No, not the clumsy, human moving-airwaves-about-and-hoping-your-message-gets-through kind,” said Seb2, “this guy’s using his Manna and he’s hailing us on all frequencies.”
    “What do we do?” thought Seb.
    “Well, we’re here. In his office. Or her office. Or its office. I guess we talk to it.”
    Seb suddenly became aware that the alien had spoken again in that disconcerting voice. He looked up into its unblinking eyes.
    “I’m sorry?” he said. “What was that?”
    “Name?” repeated the alien, a long finger extending and pointing toward a box at the top of the form he was holding.
    “You go ahead,” said Seb2. “I’ll keep you updated with my progress.”
    Seb cleared his throat. “Seb,” he said. “Seb Varden.”
    The creature scribbled on the paper. Seb looked closer. Even upside-down through the glass, he could see that the alien had drawn a meaningless squiggle on the paper, the sort of doodle a four-year-old might make if they were playing the ‘I work in a government office’ game. Which no four-year-old had played, ever.
    “Um, what’s your name?” said Seb. If he was in some kind of dream, or alternate reality, or extremely sophisticated hidden-camera show, he decided he may as well play along for a while.  
    The alien seemed to consider the question. It actually steepled its fingers and put its head slightly on one side. The sight was completely bizarre and a little unnerving.
    “Names are not given, or taken,” it said. “We are and we know others, the symmetry is maintained.”  
    After a brief silence, it seemed to decide its previous statement might need a little clarification.
    “Societal analogy ill-defined, yet individuality preserved, brought forward generationally, the circle cannot be the center, yes?”
    “Yes,” said Seb, instinctively, without thinking. “Er, what?”
    “Social identifiers, history and current purview?” said the alien.
    “Look,” said Seb. “This is all very well, but I have to call you something.” He looked closer at the name badge. It said ‘Vice President’ and had a smiley face next to it. “Vice President of what?” he said.
    “Research reveals close analogy. Vice President of corporate identity. They are many, each different but none permitted to make decisions, the melding will do that for them.”
    “I think he’s starting to make sense,” thought Seb.
    “Busy,” said Seb2. “Leave a message. You’re on your own.”
    Seb thought for a moment.
    “Are you