Ambrose 47 paused to consider this. His cheekbones seemed to protrude obscenely, like nubs aspiring to become horns. “According to my Process Flow, your agenda no longer corresponds with this initiative.”

Ambrose split his perception evenly between the office and the Deck. He had to keep his counterpart on this side of the doorway while he deactivated the upgrade.

“What do you do for recreation in your world, Forty-seven?”

“Enhance my managerial skill set.”

Ambrose commanded the Deck to expose Martin’s private files, the Version 3.0 programming Len had been trying to locate for the past year. The Deck obeyed. It no longer had any influence over his consciousness. He shuddered to think that he had almost let it mold him into another Martin. Three long data pins flared bright white within the Deck’s core pincushion: the Version 3.0 design, programming, and implementation files.

“I used to be just like you,” Ambrose said.

“We do share source material.”

Ambrose tried to extract the files and felt Martin’s encryption push against him like a membrane of superheated plasteel that would stretch but never break.

Security clearance is for humans.

He commanded the Deck to grant him access. The encryption protested with a splatter of glitchy sunspots at the edge of his vision. He grimaced as battery acid flowed into his mouth. The encryption dissolved with a stomach-churning jolt.

“What I mean is, the social network used to be my life,” Ambrose said.

“I have two million, three hundred forty-seven thousand and sixty-eight Friends,” Ambrose 47 announced.

“Really? I have one.” Ambrose commanded the Deck to delete the files, and ran a quick seek-and-destroy for any backups. The three pins vanished. “Her name is Mistletoe.”

The walls of Greymatter seemed to breathe a deep sigh of relief as the captured Profile data reversed its flow and began to seep from the doorway into the office. Ambrose 47 blinked as a thick strand of red, white, and blue Fourth of July Event invitations whipped past his head. “I knew my Process Flow was correct.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You’ve gone insane.”

“So I hear.” Ambrose took a step back. The tips of his fingers went numb. “Listen, how would you like to be the new president and CEO of UniCorp?”

Nervously, Ambrose 47 smoothed the lapels of his suit. “It’s always been the primary objective of my ten-year plan. But you can’t just—”

“Let’s call it your dream.”

“What?”

“Say it’s been your dream.”

“UniCorp protocol forbids me from expressing—”

“Just say it, Forty-seven!”

“It’s always been my dream.”

“To what?”

“To one day run the company myself.”

“Then congratulations on your promotion.”

“I’m not qualified to run UniCorp on your side.”

“You’ll be fine. But I suggest finding yourself a new office.”

Ambrose backed into the remnants of the Version 3.0 engine, where he was immediately enveloped by Thoughtstreams that whipped around him like frenzied eels.

Enjoying a completely unreal salad.