“... so buzz off.”
“... No comment.”
“... and stick it in your favorite orifice.”
“... Shall I reiterate?””

“Er...No. Thank you.” I reply, a little nonplussed,
as the tall Masquerader turns away. I hadn’t really
expected him...her?...to give an unguarded response
to my question, but I figured it was worth a shot.
Only one person so far had stopped to talk about his
experiences working in the Patent Office. Wait, here
comes another person. I step forward, my recording
unit at my shoulder. “Excuse me ma’am. Could I...”
She hugs the far wall of the corridor, eyes averted to
some “paper”-work, pretending not to notice me.

Did I step in something today? So much for the
vaunted openness the Patent Office promised me.
Maybe it’s time for a break. I’ve been standing in this
hallway of this Office Branch for several hours, and
hardly anyone passes down it. Are they avoiding me?
No one trusts the Cognitive Union out here. I’m a
reporter, damnit! Impartial presentation of the truth is
my job, and I enjoy it. Why don’t they trust me?

I hear someone coming. I smooth my suit,
straighten my tie, and stop short as a large Mechanican
turns the corner. It’s huge! It nearly brushes the ceiling,
and that’s a little over three meters from the floor,
here; and it’s almost half the width of the corridor. It
walks bipedally, on legs ending in four-toed, birdlike
claws, carrying a torso like a smooth, elongated,
rounded lozenge. On the upper torso, between two
arms identical to the legs, is a large yellow smiley
face on a black background. It pauses momentarily
in its gait, (Did it just notice me?) and a large red
circle-and-slash fades in over the smiley face. The
Mechanican alters its course slightly, to head straight
for me.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the little Cogwheel everybody’s
been talking about,” he says, as he closes the
distance between us. I’m pretty sure it’s a “he”, now.
His voice seems masculine, resounding, sonorous.
Like pipe organs in ancient temples, layered under
a mellower, lighter, incongruous countertenor. It’s
evocative, disturbing, like the voice of......lost that
train of thought.

“I’d more than half expected you to be gone by
now. I’m Seeker,” he says, proffering his hand/claw,
his voice seeming to come from his whole being,
now that he stands before me. I notice the sigil on
his chest is now a yellow face with a horizontal slash
for the mouth. I guess he hasn’t made up his mind
about me, yet.

I take his hand and reply, “I’m Keshan Dafar, an
investigative journalist, from the Cognitive Union.
Could I ask you some questions? I’m doing a piece
on...”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, “Doc Howard filled
me in. Besides, everybody’s talking about you, remember.
You want to know what it’s like to work for
the Patent Office. Sure. They all figure you’re just going
to spin it like we’re a bunch of dangerous zealots
to please your overlords, but what the hell? If no one
talks to you, you’ll do that anyway, right?”
“Well, actually, we don’t have overlords. And I
report the truth, not...”

“Uh, huh,” he interrupts, again, crossing his
arms and leaning against the wall. Through his arms,
I see a flicker of the red circle-slash appear again.
“The truth the way you see it. Or the way your mesh
interprets it, really. But let’s not quibble. Fact is, I’ve
explored Union space several times, and rarely had
any trouble from y’all. I, too, wear a mesh, and I don’t
consider myself a slave to it. I don’t hold anything
against you, really.”

“Okay,” I reply, “Then why don’t you tell me a
little about your experience here? How is the work
environment?”

“What’s it like working for the Ts, you mean?
You’re really digging for dirt on them, right?”
“I...well...Of course, our readers will be quite
interested in any insights you can offer.”
“Uh, huh.” He pauses for a moment, and the
visible parts of his sigil fluctuate, as though he’s
considering things with mixed emotion. Perhaps he
holds something against the Union, after all. “Alright.
I admit, working here can be a little disconcerting.
For instance, right now, I’m late for a briefing. But
that’s okay. When I get there, they won’t mind, and
I won’t have to apologize. They already pretty much
know I’m going to be late, and why. But, other than
the little oddities that come from dealing with transtemporal
intelligences, it’s a pretty good gig. We
get to travel a lot — I was an explorer before getting
hired here, so that’s pretty cool for me — and work
with lots of people from different cultures. We get a
lot of autonomy in how we handle situations, which
is great. I’ve even had assignments like ‘Go to this
place at this time and wait a little while for something
interesting to happen. You’ll know what to do.’” He
chuckles, an incongruous sound when the laugher’s
chest doesn’t move. I notice that his voice has slowly
changed, too. He’s lost much of the crashing-wave,
booming undertones, and sounds much more human
now.

“Don’t you find that kind of management, er,
demoralizing?”

“Demoralizing?! Hell, no. It’s great for morale.”
He steps away from the wall, now, pacing, talking
with his arms and hands, his yellow smiley beaming.
“Look, we’re out there, looking out for the best interests
of an entire network of societies, making sure
the wheels stay greased, not the palms, if you know
what I mean. Maybe we need to slap some whiz-kid
on the wrist who figures out how to bypass replicator
interlocks, or maybe we need to put the smack-down
on some mastermind who’s training an army of these
whiz-kids. Who knows what? But we’ve got to be the
ones who make the decisions. Sure, we get ample
guidance, but in the end, it’s our call. And that’s just
so liberating, so humane.”

“Anyway,” he says, becoming less agitated, “I
really should get to that briefing, you know. But this
has been fun.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “You’ve been quite illuminating.
I really appreciate your time.”

“No problem,” he says. “Tell you what. If you’re
up to it, I’ll find you later. I’ll buy you a latte and we
can talk some more.” He heads off, walking briskly
down the hallway.

I watch him round the corner at the end of the
hall and shake my head. Will I ever understand the
people outside the Union? Maybe, but I don’t think
I’ll ever suss out the Mechanicans.