The Silver Dream (InterWorld 2)

If your principal and your sternest grandparent had a child born on the last day of summer before school starts, and that child grows up in the moment you realize you’ve been caught filching a cookie from the jar. In other words, he exists simply to remind you of all the bad things you’ve ever done, all the things you’ve ever failed at, and all the mistakes you will ever make.

At least, that’s what it feels like. Especially when you’ve failed a mission.

Which we had. We all stood there in his office, hardly daring to breathe as he looked at each of us in turn. Even the new girl was silent.

“I don’t think I have to tell you again how important this mission was, or how miserably you botched it.”

His bionic eye glittered accusingly as he talked. No one’s ever figured out what that eye is made of—some say it’s a Binary construct, some say it’s a regular glass eye magicked by HEX—but we all pretty much agree it could see into our souls.

Part of the reason I find it so unnerving to be run through the ringer by the Old Man is that, out of everyone at Base Camp (including J/O), the Old Man looks the most like me. Except he looks like me in a few decades, a few wars, a handful of personal tragedies, and a couple of reconstructive surgeries. He’s like your conscience personified; he knows you could have done better, because he pretty much is you.

He also has room in his cranium for amounts of data that seem to be bigger than the combined memory clouds of all the computers on any thousand different Earths.

“I sent you to Earth F?986 for a very specific reason, and you returned in less than an hour, empty-handed save an unauthorized visitor.”

I opened my mouth—why, I wasn’t sure. I still didn’t even know her name, so it’s not like I could introduce her.

Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about it.

“Acacia Jones,” she said confidently, though she didn’t offer her hand to the Old Man. “And don’t,” she said, before I or anyone could do any more than blink. “Ever.”

She was looking at me, so I don’t think my response was overly paranoid. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t call me ‘Casey,’” she said, although her devil-may-care attitude was a mite tempered in the presence of the Old Man. He could ruffle the smoothest of feathers, and his look of tolerant amusement caused her to amend her statement with “Uh, sir. Please.”

He assured her, in the most acidic way possible (to my ears, anyway), that he never would, and then ignored her while we gave our report. Though he didn’t move, and in fact hardly seemed to even be breathing, his glare grew more and more intense as we told our story.

The silence hung heavy in the air for a few moments after we finished, and we knew enough not to break it. At least, most of us.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it would have wound up the same way, regardless.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut, young lady, and your nose where it belongs.” The Old Man turned his glare on our stowaway, who straightened up slightly under the force of it.

“I am sorry, sir. But—”

Sitting there quietly, not moving or raising his voice, the Old Man nevertheless managed to give the impression that a bomb had gone off ins

ide his cramped and cluttered office. Out of the corner of my eye I actually saw several of my colleagues flinch, as if seeking shelter from the incoming shrapnel. “Sorry about what, Ms. Acacia ‘don’t-call-me-Casey-on-pain-of-retribution-too-horrible-to-be-contemplated’ Jones?”

Acacia drew herself up slightly under the Old Man’s eye, taking a breath. I expected her to start talking, but she didn’t. She just looked at him, visibly keeping hold of her nerves. After a moment the Old Man said, “Walker, you and your team are dismissed to showers and mess.” He sounded bored. He shuffled some papers on his desk, pretending not to notice as we exchanged a glance and stood there for a moment before we headed for the door, including Acacia.

She didn’t get far. “You are not on his team, Ms. Jones. Sit.”

I caught a glimpse of her face, full of equal parts surprise and trepidation, as she started to sit. Then the door closed behind Jai, who was the last to leave the office.

“Did you see that?” J/O whispered once we were safely down the corridor. “She stood up to him. And won.”

“I believe that may be an exaggeration of the events that transpired,” murmured Jai. “Though it was certainly disconcerting and unprecedented.”

“And weird,” Josef added.

Jai nodded. “Oh, yeah. Definitely weird.”

There’s nothing like a shower and food after going out on a mission. The In-Between somehow makes you feel grimy, like all those sights and sounds and sensations and smells have stuck to you, like you’ve been rolling around in a preschool art class’s trash can. And plane travel is always disorienting on the stomach, so it’s usually better if you haven’t eaten a lot beforehand. Yep, there’s nothing better than a hot shower followed by some hot food, especially if you’re able to revel in the congratulations of a job well done.

Which we weren’t, this time. But the shower and food were still good, and we were also the most popular table in the mess, since word had gotten around to everyone that we’d brought someone back from a mission.

Someone who wasn’t one of us.