The Silver Dream
By Neil Gaiman, Michael Reaves and Mallory Reaves
4/5
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About this ebook
Written by New York Times bestselling authors Neil Gaiman and Michael Reaves with Mallory Reaves, The Silver Dream is a riveting sequel to InterWorld, full of bravery, loyalty, time and space travel, and the future of a young man who is more powerful than he realizes.
Dangerous times lie ahead, and if Joey Harker has any hope of saving InterWorld and the Altiverse, he's going to have to rely on his wits—and, just possibly, on the mysterious Time Agent Acacia Jones.
Neil Gaiman
Neil Gaiman is the New York Times bestselling and multi-award winning author and creator of many beloved books, graphic novels, short stories, film, television and theatre for all ages. He is the recipient of the Newbery and Carnegie Medals, and many Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, and Will Eisner Awards. Neil has adapted many of his works to television series, including Good Omens (co-written with Terry Pratchett) and The Sandman. He is a Goodwill Ambassador for the UN Refugee Agency UNHCR and Professor in the Arts at Bard College. For a lot more about his work, please visit: https://www.neilgaiman.com/
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Reviews for The Silver Dream
33 ratings5 reviews
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Meh. I didn't read the first book, which according to other reviewers might have made me give this book one-less star out of frustrated high hopes. I found it rather dull and I just didn't connect with the world. It wasn't terrible, just OK.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I bought The Silver Dream and InterWorld as part of a set, so I was extremely disappointed to find that while Interworld is a complete story, The Silver Dream is basically 1/2 of a story that stops mid-way through. And not because it was already too long. I can only assume that the authors (not Neil Gaiman, by the way) decided to follow the trend of Hollywood making the last book of every YA series into 2 movies, and went ahead and made 2 books. Who knows, maybe that will lead to 4 movies?My frustration with the abrupt truncation of the story aside, it's not a bad YA novel, it's just not a great one either. On the copy I have Michael and Mallory Reaves have "written by" credit, while Neil Gaiman and Michael Reaves have "Story by" credit. Presumably because they did co-author the first book in the series. The only reason Neil Gaiman is first-billed as an author is to sell copies, so I hope he was well compensated. If you're looking for something from Neil Gaiman, this isn't it. If you enjoyed IntraWorld and want more, I strongly advise waiting for the rest of the story to be published. If they hadn't quit mid-way I'd probably have given it 3 stars instead of 2.(spoilers ahead)If anything The Silver Dream has even more plot holes than IntraWorld did. Joey Harker regularly muses on the fact that everyone sort-of looks the same, red hair, freckles, even with different sexes, builds, and even presumably species (cat-like, wolf like, bird like). Except when they aren't, because shortly after noting that everyone has red hair, there will be a blonde or brunette version. And then Joey Harker meets a girl who can also travel between the worlds, and who isn't a version of him. It turns out, she's part of a different organization made up entirely of versions of her. A more powerful, sort of rival organization that polices time. Somehow. An organization which has to be kept secret from the Walkers of the IntraWorld for reasons that are never explained. And despite the fact that she seems to be the daughter of a Joey, is also attracted to Joey. So some serious Oedipal issues there. The discovery of who and what Acacia is, and what her mission is, unfolds against a backdrop of failures and infiltration of the IntraWorld so banal and obvious it is hard to believe that they have ever been successful at anything. Let alone that they were ready to throw Joey out of the organization for one mistake in the first book. All while the two diametrically opposed forces of magic and technology have apparently joined forced to remake the multiverse (or maybe only the "altiverse" part containing planet Earths) into their own image (ignoring the fact that their images and mutually incompatible).
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The first volume in this series, InterWorld, set up a fascinating concept, and one in which it would be possible to tell a very large number of fascinating stories. Sadly, none of those stories are told in The Silver Dream. Instead, the universe is expanded to introduce several new players, before we really had a chance to get to know the previous dynamics.The result is a headlong rush of a novel, which cannot seem to get is pace under control. Nowhere is this more apparent than the ending, which make The Empire Strikes Back look like a model of closure and tied-up loose ends. It's a hard stop, which will no doubt (eventually) be moderated by the inevitable sequel.I say eventually, because the first and second novels were published six years apart. I'll be interested to read the next volume when it arrives, if only to gain the resolution that this one was lacking.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Okay, so the first thing I have to say has absolutely nothing to do with the content of the book, okay? I have to say it, though. I hate when books are ascribed to the content creator over the authors. I mean, ideas are important, but the heavy lifting on this book was done by Michael and Mallory Reaves, not Neil Gaiman, but they want his name to sell the book, because, let's be honest, tons of people will not notice he didn't actually write it. I just think that's ridiculous. Rant over.As much as I respect Neil Gaiman as a person and an author, I actually liked The Silver Dream a bit more than InterWorld. The addition of Mallory seems to have made everything just a bit more lively and approachable. The Silver Dream is faster-paced and slightly less philosophical. That said, I do think it's a really solid sequel, and it doesn't feel like a completely different book, not like the series was picked up by someone completely different.The plot has plenty of action this time, with more deaths and betrayal and excitement. Joey Harker, who now wants to be taken seriously and called Joe, finds himself at the center of huge plots once again, and both InterWorld and the Altiverse are at risk. All of this comes at a pretty good time for him, though, because he was suffering some serious insecurities with the arrival of a new Walker more powerful than himself, one immediately liked by everyone, unlike him. Joey does get a little bit angsty, but that was also nice, because he showed a bit more emotional depth in this installment than in InterWorld.Another exciting edition to the series is a character that is neither evil, a multi-dimensional lifeform, or an alternate universe version of Joey Harker (sorry, dude, even I'm not going to call you Joe). Acacia pops into Joey's life and immediately makes things difficult for him, which pretty much is the sign of an awesome girl, right? There's obviously going to be a romance here eventually, but it's totally not schmoopy, and mostly just Joey being embarrassed and blushing, which is fabulous because male characters almost never blush. Take that, gender roles!Still, though I'm enjoying this series, I still would love for their to be more character development. As a reader, that's what I look for first and foremost. The world building and action here are very fun, but I'm left wanting. The other thing that's getting to me a little bit is the name of one of the big bads: Lord Dogknife. Seriously, if a bad guy of that name killed me, at least I would die laughing at his stupid name.Readers who enjoyed InterWorld will likely want to continue with this series, despite the loss of Neil Gaiman. If InterWorld was a bit slow for you, you still might want to try this one, because the Reaves made this volume a bit more lively. At this point, I'm not sure if I want to continue with this series (the ending makes it clear more is coming), but I might be ready by the time book three comes out.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Just too short ... it's so promising, but falls down just when a reader expects fuller development and a much longer story.
Book preview
The Silver Dream - Neil Gaiman
CHAPTER ONE
CALL ME JOE.
Please.
It’s not that I have anything against Joey
—it’s a perfectly good name, and it’s worked fine for the first sixteen years of my life. But that’s the point. I’m sixteen now, almost seventeen, and the name Joey
just doesn’t feel like me anymore. Which maybe isn’t surprising, given that I’ve met more versions of myself than Star Wars has clones. When you stop to think about it, I’ve probably got the biggest identity crisis of all time going, so if I want to drop one lousy letter from my name, I think I’m entitled.
I was trying to explain this to Jai, which wasn’t easy, considering that we and the rest of the team were pinned down by Binary scouts shooting what looked like elongated blobs of mercury at us, and Jai’s not the easiest person to talk to unless you happen to have a dictionary chip installed between your ears. Which I don’t.
He listened, returning fire with more mercury blobs (which are called plasma pods
in case you’re wondering), and then asked, Are you unambiguously certain?
Behind him, Jakon leaped on top of a power condenser, crouching all sleek and furry, snarling as she looked for more prey. The wolf girl version of me looked like she might be enjoying this a little. She always did, but I suppose there was nothing wrong with loving your job….
Excuse me,
Jai said crisply, aiming over my shoulder down the length of the big chamber in the abandoned power plant. He fired the emitter, which made a sort of thwip! sound. I caught a crazy, distorted glimpse of movement from behind me, reflected off the chest area of Jai’s encounter suit: a Binary scout on a grav-board, trying for a sneak attack. Then the plasma pod hit him and negated the binding force in his atomic nuclei, which is how Jai would’ve described it. Me, I’d just say he disappeared in a puff of smoke and a sound like zzzapht!!
This caused a momentary lull in the fighting on both sides, which I took advantage of to ask what he meant. Huh?
I said. (I get a lot more mileage out of words than Jai does.)
Are you unambiguously certain?
he repeated patiently. He pointed the emitter in various directions. Thwip. Thwip.
Next to me, J/O fired his laser-cannon arm at a group of attacking scouts. "That means are you sure," he offered helpfully, and I rolled my eyes. J/O did have a dictionary chip installed between his ears, and took every opportunity to make me aware of it. I ignored him.
That I want to change my nickname? Yes.
No, that your chronological age is in fact sixteen.
I started to tell him that his brain had finally grown too big for his head, but stopped. He had a point.
Though we don’t time travel in the classic sense in the InterWorld organization, we all know that time itself isn’t independent, aloof, and serene from all the myriad worlds that make up the various versions of Earth. Though I’d never encountered any Earths on which time itself seemed subjectively altered—Earths on which everyone seemed to ta-a-a-l-lk-k…r-e-e-a-l…s-l-o-o-w…or Earths where everyoneranaroundliketheywereinanoldsilentmovieandtheyalltalkedlikethis!—still, most people knew that time passed quicker or slower in some planes as opposed to others. Just as it was also known that after some time spent in those worlds, your own time sense, not to mention your body, adjusted to the new temporal reality.
I’d been in quite a few such parallel planes in the time I’d been a member of InterWorld. Which meant that Jai had a valid reason for asking, but only up to a point. I might be, as far as I knew, older than my birthday said I was. Or younger. Problem was, there was no way to measure the rate that time passed outside
the plane we were in. And even if there were, what about time spent in the In-Between, that crazy-quilt collision of various realities and worlds that a Walker used as a shortcut from one reality to the next? Besides, it was all subjective, tied in with consciousness, so really, you only were as old as you felt.
I said as much to Jai, who looked at me as if I’d just pointed out to him that the sky was blue. (Usually. On this world it was more greenish.) Indubitably,
he said, and then he lost me again. And are you unquestionably certain your haecceity is defined by your moniker?
"My what?"
Your moniker. Your name.
I know that one. My…hi-ex-it…?
"Haecceity. Your youness. The qualities that make you you, rather than me."
Even I didn’t know that one,
J/O admitted, looking like he was filing it away somewhere—which he likely was.
That’s an ironic thing to ask,
I said, "considering that you are me. Or I’m you, whichever."
"Yet we all possess qualities which render us unique. Haecceity is the particular characteristics of those qualities that make you you."
Thwip. Thwip. Zzzapht!!
I pondered that as another rutabaga bit the dust. I was getting used to seeing it, which was both a relief and a disturbance, if you know what I mean. The emitter dissolved the atomic bonding, which meant no muss, no fuss. They just went poof—or zzapht. And they weren’t people in the same sense that we were. They looked human until you got up close; then their skin had a waxy, unfinished look, which made sense, since they were actually clones made primarily from cellulose and plant matter. The Binary was big on cookie-cutter assembly-line cannon fodder, just like HEX’s armies of choice were usually zombies. There wasn’t much point in feeling bad about killing something that was nine-tenths dead to begin with. But it still bothered me that it was bothering me less, if that makes any sense.
I was about to say something else to Jai, when I heard Josef approaching. Josef came from a world much denser than most of ours, so it wasn’t hard to recognize his heavy tread. What’s up, Josef?
I asked, without turning my head. I was tracking another rutabaga.
He didn’t reply immediately, so I squeezed off my shot (thwip!) and glanced over my shoulder at him. They’ve sent in reinforcements,
he rumbled, looking troubled.
How many?
Jai asked, and I knew then it was bad, because Jai usually can’t ask anything in less than ten syllables. Josef shook his head.
Too many to count quickly.
J/O turned and looked at the nearest blank wall. Tapping into an exterior security cam,
he said. J/O’s a cyborg version of me, from an Earth that is currently recovering from the Machine Wars. He’s got more hydraulic fluid circulating in him than blood, so when I watched the color drain from his face I knew something was very wrong. He was younger than me by a few years, and while he always handled himself well on missions—and made sure to point it out when he did—it was moments like this that I was reminded of his youth.
Let’s see,
I said.
One of his eyes was cybernetic; it usually looked almost identical to his natural eye, save the circuitry going through it. That eye grew brighter, and on the wall there appeared a black-and-white projection of the outside. At first there was little to see: just more blasted masonry, exposed rebar, and the like. But then—
There was movement.
Lots of movement.
Rutabagas swarmed down the blasted, torn-up streets; over, around, and through walls; and even up from manholes and huge cracks in the pavement. There must’ve been a hundred in the first couple of minutes. And they just kept coming.
J/O had only tapped into the visual, not the audio, if there even was one. It really was eerie, seeing them coming, wave after wave, in utter silence.
And I realized that the silence also meant the hostilities had stopped inside the power plant. The veggie clones already in here with us had ceased their attack. Of course: No point in wasting more of their numbers when they can just sit back and wait. Six of us against five hundred or so of them…
Suddenly my deep and abiding concern over what I wanted to be called didn’t seem very important.
The walls and floor began to tremble. They were right outside.
What now, fearless leader?
This was from Jo, another version of me—a girl with angelic white wings.
Now I think we die,
Josef rumbled. Big guys are usually phlegmatic, and they didn’t get much bigger than Josef.
I gripped my emitter hard. "Not on my watch," I said.
Jakon looked at me. Her eyes glittered in her furry face. And what are you gonna do?
Think of something,
I said, with far more confidence than I felt.
A shot fired by a rutabaga outside demolished the camera J/O was tapped into. The feed dissolved in a burst of static. At the far end of the big chamber I could see what remained of the initial Binary attack force gathering. Behind us a window shattered, and rutabagas began climbing in.
I looked around wildly. Left, right, down, up—there was an air vent above us, the kind that might have led to vent shafts, but I wasn’t sure how much help that would be. Certainly Josef couldn’t fit up there; he was almost twice my size and about four times as dense. Jo had her wings, but she couldn’t do more than glide unless there was enough magic in the air to support flight; this world was completely taken over by Binary, much closer to the technological end of the spectrum than the magical—and she couldn’t carry more than one of us anyway.
I raised my arm to give the order to attack. There was no time left and no other choice. I couldn’t sense a portal anywhere near us, so we couldn’t escape through the In-Between. If Hue had come along on this assignment, things might’ve been different, but the little pan-dimensional critter’s a lot like a cat: Sometimes he just disappears for weeks at a time.
We needed a miracle, but I wasn’t going to put a lot of faith in the term deus ex machina
when we were surrounded by Binary.
We’d have to fight. Before I could give the order, however, the air in front of us began to glow. It was warm, the kind of cozy heat that radiated from a fireplace on a cold night. The glow formed an oval shape, and through it stepped a girl.
My age, no more—if that. She had shaggy black hair and wore a strange outfit that seemed cobbled together out of various locales and times: Moorish pantaloons, a mantle from the Renaissance, a blouse that looked Victorian. I noticed all those later, though. At the moment all I noticed were her hands.
Actually her fingernails, to be exact. Each nail looked like a tiny circuit board. She pointed her right index finger at the Binary scouts. The nail glowed green, the rutabagas were surrounded by a green light, and…froze. Not in terms of temperature but in terms of movement. Then she pointed her left pinkie at us; it glowed, and we were all enveloped in a purple light.
Just before the room disappeared, she looked at me. I had a brief impression of long lashes surrounding violet eyes. Hey, cutie,
she said. And winked.
I saw Jakon give me a big grin, full of fangs. And I knew, as the chamber vanished from around us, that I’d turned crimson clear to the tips of my ears.
img.jpgCHAPTER TWO
THE IRONY IS THAT I’ve been known to get lost just going from my bunk to the bathroom.
I used to think it was simply that I had no sense of direction. And it’s true—I didn’t. But one thing I’ve learned over the last two years is that things are never simple. It turns out that my lousy sense of direction is limited to the first three spatial dimensions: longitude, latitude, and altitude. But there are other directions, lots of them. Eight at least, and probably a whole bunch more.
If you’re like I was at first, just trying to visualize eight or more ways that proceed at right angles on top of the three we already have gives you a massive ice cream headache. Where are these other dimensions? Why can’t we interact with them the way we do with the three we already have?
Well, according to the brain trust at Base Town, they were compactified
(one of the fun things about being a scientist is being able to make up new words) the instant this universe began; somehow they were shrunk down to distances less than the diameter of an atom. If you pick any one of the big three
—let’s say up
—you can use it as an infinite vector and head away from the Earth—past the moon, past Mars…out of the solar system and into the dark. You’ll never run out of up.
That’s because we live—most of us, anyway—in a three-space world (or four, if you want to get technical). In a three-space world there’s just enough room for three vectors to proceed at ninety degrees from a point; they’re mutually perpendicular. (Time is a constant until we get fairly far up the asymptotic curve, so we can ignore it for now.) But there are also universes where the rules are looser,
where there’s more room
for new directions to exist.
I know—it’s hard to conceive of such things. But remember: All we really know of the universe is what filters in through our senses, and that isn’t a whole lot. Take the electromagnetic spectrum. It includes virtually every ripple of energy that powers the cosmos, from the long, lazy radio waves we communicate with through microwaves that we cook with all the way up to X-rays and gamma rays, which pack enough punch into their wavelengths to outshine an entire galaxy. All that majesty, all that infinite variety of energy, and all we see is a narrow little slice of it: seven measly colors. It’s like being invited to a royal banquet and then only being allowed to pick the crumbs off one plate.
So, take everything I just told you, and then try to imagine it all at once. Things moving at angles you didn’t even know existed, inverting and reverting and transforming, all painted with colors and textures and noises, and mash it all together. Then picture it reflected in two cracked mirrors, facing each other. That’s kind of what the In-Between is like.
That’s where the girl took us, though it was by far the most wrenching transition I’d ever experienced. I’d traveled to the In-Between more times than I could count by now, and the jump had never once made me feel as queasy as it did when she brought us there.
That’s where we were, though; I could tell before I even opened my eyes. All my senses, both internal and external, were verifying it. I could tell by the incredible and ever-changing sounds: mostly wind chimes but occasionally faraway noises like car horns, rumblings, birdsongs, water flowing, and every now and then the strains of an old instrumental from the 1930s that my dad was fond of, Powerhouse,
by Raymond Scott. If you’ve ever watched an old Warner Bros. Looney Tunes cartoon, you’ve probably heard it. I could smell paprika; chocolate; and an astringent, medicinal smell that I couldn’t identify. The breeze felt now like feathers, now like fine-grain sandpaper. All this before I even opened my eyes.
So I opened my eyes.
I was standing on what looked like a Rand McNally globe of a terrestrial planet. It was maybe twenty feet in diameter and I was sticking out from it at a forty-five-degree angle, halfway between the equator and the South Pole, just like the Little Prince on his asteroid (assuming the South Pole was on the bottom
relative to me and the rest of my team, who were standing or floating upon or nearby a whole slew of various other improbabilities).
And something wasn’t right.
That probably seems like a pretty ridiculous statement; after all, when is anything ever right about the In-Between? It’s the essence of wrongness, entropy’s landfill. Saying there was something not right about it was like saying there was something a little scary about Lord Dogknife.
But the feeling was unmistakable. Furthermore, it wasn’t going away.
Jo opened her eyes then, and by the look on her face, I could tell she felt the same way.
J/O looked accusingly at me. Where did you take us?
"Hey, I didn’t take us anywhere! It was that girl," I said. Technically, Jai was our senior officer, but after a training mission had gone awry and I’d rescued them from the clutches of HEX, most of them tended to look to me in a pinch. There are drawbacks to being even an