Ambrose was stunned. “You’re lying.”

“Just listen. Partly it was his own behavior. You’d barely started working before his permanent insertion, so the man isolated in Greymatter is all you really know of his corporate persona. But I remember when he was still fleshbound, and it was a lot different. He’s not himself anymore.

“The transmission inspired me to do some digging of my own. His private files don’t exist, strictly speaking, so it was a challenge. And it was what I didn’t gain access to that made me suspicious. Greymatter used to be transparent, or at least accessible to the highest-level Associates. We used to be allowed inside. Remember, we had Friday product meetings there for a while? Now it’s a fortress. There’s something there, something off-the-charts huge, and whatever it is, he’s operating it outside the bounds of UniCorp. These guys”—he nodded at Ivor, who was giving his full attention to his shin—“at least offered the beginning of an explanation.”

Ambrose considered the nineteen-year-old he’d always thought of as his obnoxious older brother. A world in which Len was his secret ally was hard to accept.

“So,” Ambrose said. “You’ve known the truth about my…”

“Creation.”

“… for an entire year, and you never thought to mention it to me?”

The goat-dog barked happily.

Ivor said, “We realize now that it may have been a mistake to keep you in the dark.”

Ambrose was incredulous. “Apology not accepted.”

“We believed you were most effective as a deep-cover operative,” Len said. “As soon as Dad revealed your purpose, we were going to have you extracted. Unfortunately, this meant cutting you out of the loop. And waiting.”

“Come on, Len, deep-cover operative? You were using me, just like Dad.” He shook his head. “Just like Martin. You stood there and let me go through with the procedure.”

“The one that you begged to undergo? We thought it would make you a more effective operative.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“These people”—Len gestured toward Ivor—“are not unlike UniCorp in that they’re willing to take risks in the short term with the expectation of greater payoff. It was Dita who disagreed and slipped you the transmission without telling anyone. We were all taken by surprise. I had to send someone to intercept you.”

“Jiri,” Ambrose said, his mind racing alongside Len’s explanation. He sent Dita a silent thank-you for being the one person who felt he deserved to know the truth.

“Which brings me to the fundamental problem with your frantic escape,” Len said. “The calibration.”

The word hit Ambrose like the shudder of anxiety that tightened his chest whenever he left a responsibility dangling for too long at work. In the rapid-fire chaos of the past two days (had it only been two days?), he’d forgotten about the second part of the procedure. The hypothalamus modification had been successful—he hadn’t slept, wasn’t tired—but the follow-up calibrations were necessary to prevent side effects. Without the release valve of dreaming, he would begin to process events like an insomniac. His subconscious would assert itself in his waking life. Eventually, it would fragment beyond repair and he’d be just like the early test subjects: a drooling, paranoid mess adrift in a world of hallucination.