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Catching the bug, I can’t help but yawn too. “What’s this pod business?” I stretch to banish the sleepiness.
Rattie stands up. “Game development is a crazy business. We often work so much there isn’t time to go home and sleep.”
“Which is why we installed sleeping pods here at the New York offices,” Bernie says, rising to his feet as well.
I look at each man in turn. “You sleep on the job?”
Rattie shrugs. “When it’s needed. Usually during crunch times.”
I nod, then yawn again.
“We have a pod not assigned to anyone,” Bernie says. “It’s yours if you want a power nap.” Seeing me cringe in disgust, he adds, “It’s brand new. You’d be the first person to use it.”
Curiosity getting the better of me, I agree.
Rattie leads the way until we reach a room filled with the aforementioned pods—which look like a hybrid between a rocket and a coffin.
Rattie opens the clear plastic lid of one of them. With a wave, he lies down, shuts the lid, and closes his eyes.
“This is the pod I mentioned.” Bernie points at one that does indeed look brand new.
“Thanks,” I say. “I just might use it.”
Bernie smiles and heads over to a pod that has a picture of a child glued on the inside. I recognize the image as that of his daughter—I’ve seen her in his dreams. Climbing in, he mumbles something about sweet dreams and closes the lid.
Huh. I never realized game development was such hectic work that you don’t even get to go home to sleep. I think I might stick to dreamwalking as my primary career, after all—at least once I save Mom.
Setting my alarm on “vibrate” so I don’t wake up others, I climb into my own pod and close my eyes.
Chapter Eight
The vibration of the alarm wakes me.
I feel groggy, like I could sleep for many more hours. Oh, well. Maybe I’ll sleep after I help Valerian with the Erato business.
Climbing out of my pod, I notice Bernie and Rattie are still slumbering in theirs. I approach Rattie and check his eyelids. Yep. He’s dreaming right now. That means I could establish a dream link with him if I wanted to.
It doesn’t take me long to decide. I do want to. I could then inspire him when it comes to levels of my game, for starters.
Stealthily lifting the lid, I touch Rattie’s forehead.
I appear in my dream palace and come face to face with Pom.
“Bailey,” he exclaims, turning a deep purple. “I’ve missed your face.”
I fluff his fur. “Can’t you just make yourself a dream version of my face and stare at it in a pinch?”
To demonstrate, I create a disembodied replica of my grinning mug and leave it floating in the air next to me.
He gives a small shudder. “That looks kind of disturbing.”
I roll my eyes. “Good to know. I didn’t realize my face has that effect on you.”
“When not attached to the rest of you, it gets creepy,” he says seriously. “I guess your arms and legs keep your face from being that way.”
Shaking my head, I teleport to the tower of sleepers and look for Rattie.
He’s indeed in a nook, not far from Bernie, who’s also showed up in his bed.
“Trauma loop,” Pom says, the tips of his ears darkening as he eyes the clouds above Rattie’s head.
He’s right. And not just any clouds, but turbulent ones. I rub the tip of my nose. “I don’t get it. Does Valerian seek out software engineers with deep psychological trauma, or is it just bad luck on everyone’s part?”
Pom’s fur darkens further. “I’m not going in there with you.”
“I don’t think I’m going in either. I have to meet Valerian and do a job for him in the waking world. I’ve set up a link with this guy so I can inspire him in the future, not deal with that.” I wave at the clouds.
“Inspire him?” Pom turns light orange. “Are you talking about the private things you do with Valerian that you asked me not to witness?”
I put my hands on my hips. “First of all, I never got further than first base with Dream Valerian. Secondly—”
“What’s first base?”
“Secondly, that is not the kind of inspiration I’m talking about. Besides, Rattie might be pleasant to look at, but doing stuff like that with him would feel like cheating on Valerian, even in dreams.”
Wait, what am I saying? How can you cheat on someone when you’re not in a relationship?
Pom takes on the colors of root vegetables—first a carrot, then a beet. “Did I upset you?”
“It’s fine.” I sigh. “The private stuff you mention is a sensitive subject, that’s all.”
He waggles his ears. “Like the P word for me?”
The P-word stands for “parasite”—which Pom contends he’s not, preferring “symbiont” instead. Of course, considering that he uses me as his food source, feels my emotions, possibly excretes his metabolic byproducts into my blood stream, and is attached to my wrist to the end of our days, the jury on parasite-versus-symbiont is still out.
