Nichols smiled. “As you know, receiving a tap from an unknown source, you can’t. But you’ll know I’m the real thing when you hear what I have to say.” He signaled the waiter. “Do you like scotch?” he asked me.

“Did you order the attack on me?”

He whispered something to the waiter, then turned back to me. “No, I did not.”

“Did you have my father murdered?”

He looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware that your father was murdered. I thought it was a suicide.”

“It wasn’t.”

The news seemed to perturb him. He sat silently for a moment. The waiter arrived with two drinks. I sipped mine. Fortunately, VR liquor would have no effect on what mental capacity I did retain.

“So why did you invite me here, Mr. Nichols?”

“You’ve been wronged, Professor. Someone has stolen part of your brain from you. I would like to give it back—no, give you an even better brain.”

I considered that statement for a moment. “You’re offering me one of your transplants.”

“Precisely.”

I eyed him, examining his face for hints as to why he had brought me here. “I couldn’t possibly afford a brain transplant. Unless you’ve already managed to get them covered by the government.”

He smiled. “In due time. In your case, the expense will be on me. The least I can offer, I believe.”

“By whom have I been wronged?”

Nichols lifted his glass, smiled unnaturally, and took a sip. He placed the glass back down on the table. “I can’t tell you that. But—”

“Why not?”

“I’m being honest with you, Professor Daniels. I’m just trying to make up for a malicious wrongdoing.”

“Did they intend to kill Abby Caldwell too?”

“She is safe, is she not? For that we can both be grateful. Regarding your condition, I assume you’ve seen the news concerning the success of the transplants NTI has been performing?”

I leaned back and took a drink. “I have no interest in having an artificial brain, Mr. Nichols. I prefer the real thing.”

“You may prefer the biological brain you once had. But what about the one that has now been eaten away?”

“What can you tell me about that?”

“You were attacked by neural nanites.”

“I thought nanites were benign.”

“These were not. They were programmed to travel to the victim’s brain and eat, so to speak, any neurons they encountered. You were fortunate. They planted in your frontal lobe. They could have attacked any number of brain regions that would have killed you by the time I intervened.”

I paused to process that statement. “You intervened? How?”

“Shortly after you entered the hospital, I was informed of your condition.”

“By whom?”

“I can’t reveal that.”

“Those who attacked me?”

“I can’t say. Please—bear with me, Professor. I invited you here because I’m on your side.”

“My side of what?”