Neil Gaiman: The Silver Dream

IT’S DIFFICULT, IN SITUATIONS like these, to determine which question will be the least stupid. I could go with the obvious “How did you get in here?” which would likely just make her laugh, or the equally obvious “What are you doing here?” to which she would probably, judging by past history, snap back a witty one-liner that would leave me with at least two omelets’ worth of egg on my face. So I chose to go for the unexpected. Instead of asking a question that would put me at a disadvantage, I could criticize her lack of cultural knowledge and, with luck, make myself feel more confident in the process.

“What, you’ve never heard of Lassie?”

They have all sorts of sayings about the best-laid plans. . . .

“Oh, yeah. The 1950’s Earth television series about the collie.”

So much for making myself feel more confident. All I’d known was that there’d been a show called Lassie about a smart dog. “You, um, obviously know about the show.”

She gave an amused smile and that little shrug. “Yes,” she said, in the tone of voice that meant obviously. “It ran as a TV series on Earths KΩ35 2through Ω76.”

“Right. Of course,” I mumbled. “I’ve just—”

“Not to mention TΔ12 through 18, where various episodes were reality and not—”

“I’ve just been living with a bunch of people who don’t know about anything from my world. And sometimes . . .”

“You wish you had someone who could talk about the things you like.”

The way she’d said it was like she knew it was true. Like she’d pulled it right out of my brain. Or out of my journal, which is where I’d written down that exact phrase a few months ago.

Which also happened to be the very same book she had open in her lap.

She saw me look at it, and made no attempt to pretend she hadn’t been reading it. I knew she was waiting for a response, but all I could say was “You’re reading my journal” in an “of course” tone of voice.

Her smile wasn’t quite so cocksure this time. “You’re not mad?”

“No.” I hoped I was managing to control the blush I felt roaring like a brush fire up my neck. “It’s not like it’s a diary. Everyone here is required to keep a log of their activities and their feelings.”

She looked relieved, tried to hide it. “I know that. That’s why I knew you wouldn’t be mad.”

Somewhat to my surprise, I realized I wasn’t mad, just resigned. “How do you know so much about . . . everything?”

She laughed and closed the journal, leaving it on the chair as she stood, folded her arms, and tossed her hair back. “I had a great education. Not to mention long-term memory holographic optimization. How about you? Wanna show me what they teach you here?”

“Not really,” I answered automatically, then fumbled as she raised both eyebrows. “Well, yes, sort of, but—”

“Don’t worry about clearance. They can’t keep me out anyway, and I’m no threat to you. Unless you give me reason to be,” she amended, smiling in a way that reminded me of Jakon at her most feral. Jai calls it her “Cheshire wolf” look.

“The Old Man said you could stay?” I hedged.

“Yep. As long as I’m escorted at all times.”

“You were in here alone,” I told her, then stumbled forward a bit as Hue bumped me from behind. I’d almost forgotten about him. I looked over my shoulder, noting the mudluff was a rather indignant shade of purple. “Sorry, Hue.”

He turned a more pleased shade of pink, and Acacia laughed. “He stayed between me and the door the whole time,” she informed me—and then linked her arm through mine. “So. Let’s have the tour.”

I knew that if I walked out there with Acacia on my arm, I would really never hear the end of it. Ever. For eternity, squared and cubed. I wasn’t remotely ready for that. So I walked her to the door, then used the pretense of opening it as a way to disentangle us. I gestured her through in what I hoped was a gentlemanly fashion.

She gave me a little curtsy before stepping out, her amusement as visible as if she could turn colors like Hue. Praying that everyone I knew—which was pretty much everyone, period—was in class or on assignment, I started down the corridor, mysterious girl on one side and mudluff on the other.

“So where are we now?” She was looking around like we were at a theme park, taking everything in. “Everything” being, at the moment, a corridor with occasional floor-to-ceiling pipes, stanchions, and wallcom panels.

“A corridor. Deck twelve, to be exact.”

“I can see that, thanks. In what sector?”

I wasn’t sure why I was giving her a tour in the first place, since she’d already known where my room was and knew that the different areas of the ship were specifically called “sectors” (and something about the way she’d said “sector” tugged at my memory in an odd way, like trying to remember a dream you’d had the day before), but it seemed to be making her happy.

“It’s the barracks. Sorry, we don’t have a fancy name for it or anything.”

“Yet,” she amended, but I got the feeling she was just saying it to mess with me. It was probably always called the barracks. Why would we want to call it anything else? It wasn’t even divided by gender; wasn’t much point, especially since there were a few para-incarnations of us who seemed to be both, or neither. As I’d observed before, Acacia was the first real, genuine girl who wasn’t an incarnation of us.

“So what are you going to show me first?”

“What do you want to see?” I asked, without much hope of a real answer. I didn’t get one.

“Whatever you want to show me.”

I gave up. I was stuck with her because she’d deemed it to be so, and there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. I wasn’t even sure I minded; she was a mystery, and she was interesting, and my complete inability to answer any questions about her had rankled a little. Earlier in the mess hall was probably the most popular I’d ever been in InterWorld, and I hadn’t even been able to enjoy it.

“Okay,” I said, turning the opposite direction down the hallway that led to the mess hall. That’s where pretty much everyone would be right now, and if I had to play tour guide, I’d prefer to do it without an audience. “Well, right next to the barracks are the lockers, where we suit up to go on missions. No one’s going out right now, so it should be empty.”

“A row of lockers,” she commented, looking like she might be making an effort to seem impressed. A considerable effort.

I moved her through the room to the wide double doors nestled between the security pillars. They lit up when we reached them, little red lines scanning over me, then Acacia. I realized I’d better identify her before it decided she was an unknown and therefore dangerous.

“Joe Harker, with—”

“Welcome, Joey.” It was the kind of voice that could drive you crazy over the phone, the voice of a maddeningly calm mature female whom you just knew was smirking at you, even though she was just a disembodied vocal pattern. “Welcome, Acacia. Proceed.”

I turned to glance at her as the doors slid open. Her smirk matched the one I was pretty sure the voice had sported. I had to ask, even though I didn’t think she’d give a straight answer. “How’d it know you?”

“I told you. I have clearance.” She stepped through the doors into the briefing room, leaving me to hurry after her.

That happened twice more as I showed her the briefing room and the receiving room. I realized as we were walking that, although Acacia had found both the base and my room by herself, she was honestly letting me lead her. I’d taken extensive classes on body language and facial expressions, and I was fairly confident that she truly didn’t know her way around. I was just as confident that she’d probably give me a run for my money in a sparring session. She had an economy of movement to her that suggested she was well schooled in some kind of martial art, a liquid grace that was just about as dangerous as it was fascinating.