His skin tingled as his suit adjusted to the cold and he paused to look around the mostly deserted space. It had been designed as a showcase for public art and was currently displaying massive plasteel sculptures of Mexican cuisine. He trudged through the ankle-deep snow and ducked behind a hulking enchilada, where he externalized his message transfer log. A simple white inbox floated above his upturned palm. One new message, an audio file with the subject line DREAMS = TRUTH.

He cupped his palm over his right ear and listened. Female voice. Slight Eastern European accent.

“Carpe somnium, Ambrose Truax. First thing: I cloaked this file, but you know how UniCorp skims snag traces. So listen carefully because it plays only once. Sorry about the ambush. I wanted to get acquainted long before today, but my colleagues disagreed.” She sniffled, paused, and sneezed violently. Ambrose blinked. She continued. “I wish I had more time, but we all wish that. So here’s what you must do. Get out of the building right now. Hitch a ride, steal a car, whatever you need to get away. Your waking life is not your own—don’t let him take away your dreams, too. He wants to destroy the only piece of you that knows the truth. And then he’ll own you completely. Don’t let this happen, Ambrose. I can help you. Get to Little Saigon, and go to the—”

Ambrose yanked his palm away from his ear, deleted the transmission, and wiped the transfer log history. Nice try, he thought. These so-called terrorists were more pathetic than dangerous. It was like his father always said, when you’re on top, everybody wants a piece of you. And if they can’t have a piece of you, they want to drag you down to their level. Steal a car? Who did they think he was?

The message actually reinforced the necessity of today’s procedure, he told himself. Running UniCorp required constant vigilance. Once he became accustomed to a life without sleep, he’d be able to keep a round-the-clock eye on Unison, working constantly to ensure the continued growth and profitability of the empire that would one day belong to him and his brother.

He hunched over to avoid a swirling mass of snow and wondered idly how the terrorists had managed to plant the fake guard. That was slightly more impressive than the normal anti-Unison disruptions, which mostly consisted of small-time ID hijacks and Account deletions. And how did they know about the procedure?

Well, whatever. There were dozens of ways for classified information to become unclassified within such a massive corporation. He’d figure it out eventually.

But first, his father was expecting him.

3

DON’T LOOK BACK

“HOLD IT,” Mistletoe said.

Until now, she’d let Ambrose tell the story of his day without interrupting, his words echoing around the inside of the lift. They’d stalled at the top of a shanty-stack a few blocks from her own, but the boy hadn’t seemed to notice. He was trying to make sense of the past few hours. Mistletoe knew how he felt. One minute she had been daydreaming on the balcony; the next minute she was watching Jiri die.