“We truly are behind the times, Ivor.”

“Hence the exile. As for you, our signal radiates. If you don’t need to be hardcoded, all you need is proximity.”

Mistletoe looked from Magnus to Ivor, deeply relieved that she didn’t have to stab wires into her palms. “You’re leaving?”

Ivor mopped his brow with a ragged strip of cloth. “Like I said, it’s funny how things change.”

Magnus replaced his hat on his head. “This is no longer our fight—hasn’t been for years. It’s time for us to step aside and leave things to you and Ambrose.”

“My brother’s change of heart can be traced back to the instant I paralyzed him with a police weapon,” Ivor said. “Anyway, whatever happens, we’ll be so far underground that we won’t care.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Magnus said.

Ivor began leading the row of pack animals toward the door that led to the subway tunnels. “Yes I do,” he called back. “I’m officially retired.”

“Sorry about that kick,” Mistletoe yelled after him.

He replied with a piercing single-note whistle. The goat-dog bounded across the floor from some unseen place and slid to a stop in front of Mistletoe.

“Hi, Patricia,” Mistletoe said, receiving a gentle nuzzle from the animal’s curved horn. Ivor whistled a second time. Patricia looked at Mistletoe expectantly, then trotted to his side.

Magnus tipped the brim of his hat. “I’d give you a final word of advice, but I believe you’ll find a way to do the opposite. So for the last time, I’ll just say Carpe somnium.”

Magnus followed his brother toward the tunnels while Patricia herded the sluggish creatures through the door ahead of them. When Mistletoe was alone in the room, listening to their footsteps recede, she sat down and placed the capsule between her teeth. Then she closed her eyes and bit down hard.

14. Unison 3.0 (Beta Version)

14

UNISON 3.0 (BETA VERSION)

THE USER KNOWN to his Friends as Adam Trevor stood outside the wrought-iron gate, peering through the bars at the lush apple trees that lined the winding stone path to the door of the magnificent house. Enthralled, he watched as the house sprouted another gabled wing, three stories of immaculate brick with an adjacent tower. All around him, the scattered Profile data of his fellow users flowed in an endless stream through the gate, across the grounds and into the walls of the house. A river of joyful Thoughtstream chatter—disembodied words and floating phrases—joined a flickering mountain of images from a thousand different New Year’s parties, all pointy cardboard hats and champagne pellets. Brushing past his arm, a calendar unfolded, sending pages of Event invitations fluttering above the trees to be absorbed into the roof of the house.