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

male or female?”
    “Closest analogy currently male cycle.”
    It was odd looking into those expressionless black eyes. The 90% or more of communication that was supposed to happen through body language and micro expressions was completely unavailable to him. It was unnerving. He wondered if it felt the same from the alien’s point of view.  
    Seb scanned the room, ending by focusing on the ink-stained pocket and decided, on balance, that he’d probably passed out, hit his head, and was now having a lucid dream.
    “Ok, then, I’m going to call you Mic,” said Seb. “That all right with you?” He thought it best not to add why: Male Incontinence Commercial. Seb2 snorted.
    “Thought you were busy?” thought Seb.
    “I am, kinda—back to it, back to it,” said Seb2.
    “I am Mic to this one contextually,” said Mic.
    “Great,” said Seb. “What do you want to know?”
    The alien stood up. It was—at about seven feet tall—slightly shorter than Billy Joe, but not much less imposing. It—he—had to stoop so that its face came back into view through the small window.
    “Initial contact complete,” said Mic. “Meetings made, details now and report evaluate. My beaver is as busy as I am.”
    Seb made a small high-pitched noise as he dealt with his reaction to that statement.
    “You mean, you’re as busy as a beaver?” he said, smiling.
    “Correction noted, syntax problem, language long disposed but assignment permits in this regard. Please another appointment on your way out.”
    Mic stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
    “The bad news is, my session made about as much sense as yours,” said Seb2. “Less sense, actually.”
    “The good news?” said Seb.
    “They-he-it—is sending us home now.”
    Even as he thought it, the ground suddenly tipped on one side and -
    ***

    -Seb reached up and touched the side of his head. Blood. Seb hadn’t seen his own blood for over a year. He pushed himself up from the floor, feeling the skin tightening around the wound. By the time he made it to the mirror, there was no trace of a cut, no blood in his hair. Nothing. Where the hell is Mee? Seb checked his watch, which confirmed he’d been unconscious for nearly ten minutes. Which tallied up perfectly with the experience he’d had while—apparently—lying on the kitchen floor. He remembered something suddenly, and walked back into the kitchen. He frowned. Cans of food and empty bottles surrounded the space where he’d been laying. Seb shook his head. She surrounded my unconscious body with that stuff, then went for a stroll?  
    He walked into the front room and sat at the piano. It was daytime outside. Seb frowned. When he’d felt his consciousness start to blur, his vision suddenly darkening, it had been nearly midnight. No doubt at all—he remembered the whistle of the tamale man, selling his pungent and fiery chicken tamales wrapped in corn husks from a cart outside their window. Meera had been about to grab her purse and go buy some when Seb’s body seemed suddenly to disconnect from his brain. He had fallen heavily, the tamale guy’s whistle the last thing he’d heard. Now, apparently, it was morning, the tamale man’s whistle replaced by the recorded shriek of a girl offering to buy mattresses: “ Se compran colchones, tambores, refrigeradores, estufas, lavadoras, microondas!” Mexico City was rarely quiet. But their apartment was still and Meera was nowhere to be seen.  
    He could find her, of course. Seb2 could pinpoint her position in milliseconds. But Mee had made it clear how she felt about her privacy. Seb respected that. Still, surely this qualified as an emergency? He hesitated, then decided he’d risk incurring her displeasure, which was not a choice he made lightly.  
    Just then the door opened and Meera walked in backward, the door key between her teeth, holding two bags of groceries. Unusually for her, she wasn’t singing. She turned and slammed the door in her customary