“Better life in Unison,” Ambrose said, watching the back of Danielson’s head get smaller and eventually disappear as he melted back into the crowd.

Ambrose entered the plush cylinder and sat in the temper-foam armchair. He bobbed his head to the fractured beat of smooth techno. The elevator sped silently upward. He checked his face in the mirror and flashed his white teeth. He was about to be the youngest person ever to receive a Level Seven modification procedure. What made it a Level Seven, Ambrose knew, was that all subjects before him—hotshot businessmen, military personnel, civilian thrill seekers—had gone irreversibly insane within two weeks of the modification. Recorded results of this procedure included verbal and written incoherency, paranoia, self-mutilation, homicidal rage, vivid hallucinations, general dementia, and suicide.

What Ambrose also knew was that, as long as he obeyed the strict calibration regimen flowed out and finalized by his father and brother—a luxury not extended to the earlier recipients—he would maintain his present psychological state. A small amount of deviation was acceptable, as a lifetime without sleep was bound to have its unpredictable consequences. But the calibrations had a 99 percent success rate on the A.I. brain sims. And besides, innovation without risk defied the principles of UniCorp.

The elevator eased up at floor 350 and halted comfortably at 375. He took a deep breath and stood as the doors slid open to reveal a bare room the size of his closet. The walls were silver and seemed to swirl and drip like poured mercury. Occasionally, their color faded to a half transparency. He caught a glimpse of the hallway beyond and of the lab where the scan-tube awaited his arrival.

His older brother’s disembodied voice said, “State your business.”

Ambrose rolled his eyes. “It’s me, Len. Who else could it be?”

“Observe protocol. State your business.”

Ambrose sighed. His brother’s smart-ass professionalism had become even more obnoxious in the weeks leading up to the procedure. He wondered if Len was jealous.

“Ambrose Truax, UniCorp Process Flow Team Leader. Here for scheduled Level Seven hypothalamus brain modification.”

“Please enter the door at the other end of the hall.”

“I know where I’m going, Len.”

The flowing silver walls vapored into nonexistence. The white, windowless hallway glowed with filtered, reconstituted sunlight. Ambrose blinked and strode purposefully past a series of closed doors, which reminded him eerily of his recurring dream. Your waking life is not your own … He pushed the thought away and palmed open the door.

Inside the dim room, his brother stood before a monstrous externalized UniCorp data stream, a floating array of movable text and charts. Ambrose recognized part of it as the Process Flow he’d created with his father: the likelihood of every conceivable result of this operation. Success: 92 percent. Insanity: 1 percent. Suicide: 1 percent. And so on. Len flipped his palm and a detailed model of a human brain appeared in the air. Ambrose stepped inside, and the door slid closed behind him.