She spit a mouthful of blood. Ivor watched it splatter on the ground between them. The black dog trotted to the red stain, lowered its horned head, and sniffed. She glanced at Ambrose, whose glassy, unseeing eyes reminded her of the antique Cabbage Patch doll in the back of Jiri’s shop.

“What did you do to him?”

“It looks more dramatic than it actually is, Anna,” Magnus said, abruptly resurrecting his kindly-old-man smile.

Her right hand clenched involuntarily at her side.

“Wiped his old ID,” Ivor said. “New implants, new hardcoding. Basic new-user package. In Unison, he’s unrecognizable as Ambrose. Now, if you’ll be so kind, I need you to step over here.” Ivor gestured with the baton toward the row of keyboards.

“Give him back.”

Ivor shook his head. “I’m afraid he doesn’t belong to you.”

“I found him.”

“I was present during his initial design phase.”

“Ivor,” Magnus said, “this child’s just been through so much. For you to stand there and—”

Ivor’s raised hand silenced his brother. A thin-lipped smile flashed across his face. “My brother is concerned with our image,” he explained. “How we’re perceived is regrettably more important to him than the urgent business at hand: figuring out what you and your much-better-behaved friend were created for in the first place, before Martin Truax hunts us all down like dogs.”

“I’m not your creation,” she said. The idea of these old men putting their wrinkly hands all over her infant self made her sick.

Ivor shrugged. He didn’t seem to care what she believed. And he certainly didn’t care if this was difficult or painful for her. At least Magnus had tried to smooth the transition. But had he been kind so she’d be easier to steer into a trap?

“Your other half is waiting,” Ivor said.

“What my brother means to say,” Magnus offered, “is that without you and Ambrose together in Unison, we believe our little”—he glanced at Ivor—“your bit of self-discovery will be impossible.”

“Too bad,” Mistletoe said.

Ivor pointed the stunner at her face.

Magnus sighed. “My brother and I, we’re not…” He let out a dry, nervous chuckle. “This”—he indicated the bloody rags, the stunner—“is not how we are.”

“Yes,” Ivor said blandly. “This place is actually a soup kitchen.” He clenched his jaw and squinted his eyes—an amateur’s holo-dice bluff—and Mistletoe realized how unsuited to weaponry he was. Her street instincts screamed Dive!

The stunner extended in segments that flashed just above her head. Her right hand slid through her little puddle of bloody spit. The segments retracted back into the baton.

“Ivor!”

She glanced up in time to see Magnus throw himself in front of his brother as the stunner flashed a second time. Magnus crumpled instantly to his knees, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting the cold cuffs of an ESC riot cop. Ivor lowered the stunner and blinked in surprise.

“Magnus…”

He stared blankly at the baton as if there were a button to reverse the effects. Mistletoe knew he would just have to wait, maybe hours if the stunner was high-grade. She sprang from the floor and charged toward Ivor, who fumbled to point the baton.