Dimension Drift Box Set E-Book

Christina Bauer

• Herausgeber: Monster House Books
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 630

Beschreibung

Books one through three of the popular Dimension Drift series are now in a single collection!
Book One – Scythe
Meet Meimi Archer, girl geek for hire. Meimi’s tech creations protect her from the evil Authority until she mistakenly flips her home into two-dimensional space-time. That’s when a handsome alien named Thorne materializes and offers to help ...
Book Two – Umbra
I’m Thorne Oxblood. Most days, I’m the only barrier between unstable universes and instant annihilation. And that's ALL I cared about ... until Meimi Archer.
Book Three - Alien Minds
As a prince from the planet Umbra, I should never have fallen for a human like Meimi. Now the evil Authority has wiped her memory. Still, I won't give up on us…
“Pick this up and expect to get sucked in to the Dimension Drift.” - Smada’s Book Smack

Leseprobe

DIMENSION DRIFT BOX SET

BOOKS ONE THROUGH THREE OF THE DIMENSION DRIFT SERIES

CHRISTINA BAUER

COPYRIGHT

Monster House Books

Newton, MA 02135

ISBN 9781946677020

Second Edition

Copyright © 2020 by Monster House Books LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Dedication

SCYTHE

UMBRA

ALIEN MINDS

Also By Christina Bauer

Appendix

DEDICATION

For All Those Who Kick Ass, Take Names

And Read Books

SCYTHE

CHAPTER1

Not long now.

Up ahead, a tiny concrete tower rises from the darkened hilltop. Guardhouse #83. I scan the gravel road before me. Everything is deserted, quiet, and perfect. Despite the chilly night air, a rush of excitement warms my limbs. Most days, I’m a teenage she-hermit who lives for my basement laboratory. But in this moment, I’m my best self: a science prodigy-for-hire whose inventions secure my family’s safety. And if a little thievery is involved? Well, that just makes me a lot badass.

In other words, time to steal for Mom and science.

Marching to the guardhouse, I stop before the intake window. There’s no need to announce myself; motion detectors will activate the auto-guard. Seconds later, a mechanical buzz sounds as florescent lights click on, revealing an animatronic woman sitting at a fake desk. Like most auto-guards, this one is less than perfect, what with her chipped plastic skin, frayed blue uniform, frizzed-out hair, and single functioning eye. Raising her head, she addresses me through the Plexiglas.

“You have reached guardhouse #83 for Reclamation Center Massachusetts-1,” she says. “The manufacture of new goods is reserved for the military, so we sort, clean, and refurbish old items from landfills.”

To kill time, I adjust the loose straps on my backpack. This auto-guard won’t interact with me until her welcome spiel is over. Sadly, animatronic speeches at Reclamation Center Massachusetts-1—also called RCM1—always take a while.

With jerky movements, the auto-guard gestures to the monitor embedded in the outer concrete wall. Here comes the slide show. Images appear on the screen, showing endless rows of long metal buildings stretching off to the horizon. “Since our founding in 2107, RCM1 has processed more than three million objects across two thousand warehouses. It is now 11:43 pm. How may I be of service?”

That’s my cue. All the blah-blah-blah is done.

“I need to check in for my shift,” I say.

Which is a total lie.

In truth, I’m visiting RCM1 because I’m building a scientific tool called a magnetic enhancer for one of my customers. Why? To punch holes in time and space, you need massive amounts of magnetic energy. Once my enhancer’s complete, that process will be a ton easier. At this point, all my invention needs are some dark matter brackets and that’s it. Fortunately, when it comes to unusual supplies, RCM1 never fails.

“Initiating employee identification sequence,” states the auto-guard.

With those words, a long steel tube extends from the concrete wall. I lean in so my eye almost touches the metal. Almost is the key word here. I don’t even want to think about the quarter-inch of black goo that encircles the tube’s end. Who knows where THAT came from? A burst of light follows; my retina is scanned.

“Identification complete,” she announces. “You, Wisteria Roberts, are sixteen years old and a resident of Reformed New England. Five feet, five inches tall. Brown hair. Green eyes. You worked at RCM1 full-time between the ages of six and twelve.”

All of that’s true, except for my name. Wisteria Roberts is an alias; I’m really Meimi Archer. More fun facts about yours truly: I collect oddball alarm clocks, care for my mother, and have regular dreams where I gain superpowers and watch over a cute guy from another planet. I know, strange. I’m also a decent computer hacker. In fact, I broke into the RCM1 mainframe seven years ago. Since then, there’ve been five system upgrades. Yet all my back doors and secret subroutines have stayed 100% valid. Yay me.

The auto-guard tilts her head. “You worked here with your older sister, Regina Roberts. Is she checking in with you today?”

“No, Luci—I mean, Regina—isn’t here. She’s…” I stop myself before saying the word dead. “She’s just not here,” I finish quickly.

My heart sinks. My sister Luci moved to the Boston Dome ages ago. Once there, she became a casualty of the new plague. Four years have passed since Luci died. A weight of sorrow seeps into my bones. After so much time, I shouldn’t deeply mourn my older sister’s death. Even so, the pain stays as fresh and cutting as if it happened yesterday.

The auto-guard’s one good eye flashes with orange light. It’s a sign she’s still processing my identity profile. “You, Wisteria Roberts, are not a current RCM1 employee, even on a part-time basis. Please step away from the guardhouse.”

Now that I’m logged in, I have pre-coded passphrases for such occasions. “Launch super-awesome chick subroutine.” As backdoor phrases go, it’s not the best. But in my defense, I wrote this code when I was nine.

As the subroutine begins, the auto-guard gives me a somewhat creepy smile. “How’s it hanging, girlfriend?”

I grin right back. That’s what I’m talking out. Now I have full access to any system within RCM1.

“The usual,” I reply. “I’m working on a science project for a grouchy customer.” He’s also a stone-cold killer, but I don’t add that part in. “Got any dark matter brackets in stock?”

Once again, the auto-guard’s eye flashes orange. “Dark matter brackets may be found in warehouse 942, row 63, bin 13. There are 37 in stock at cost of 100 credits each.”

“Temporarily reduce that price to zero and get me four brackets.”

The auto-guard’s head ticks from side to side. “One moment.”

For the record, I’d rather buy these parts officially. Unfortunately, that’s not an option. My mother isn’t mentally stable, so the government—what we call the Authority—wants to cleanse her. That’s government-speak for an early death, either from a gun blast or by being fed to a genetically enhanced attack animal. Not on my watch. To keep Mom safe, she and I live far outside the government’s tracking systems. That’s crazy expensive. Projects like my magnetic enhancer help pay the bills. Trouble is, doing any scientific work without government approval is a crime, and RCM1 reports every official purchase to the Authority. All of which brings me back to the auto-guard, illegal hacks, magnetic enhancers, and thievery.

Mitigating factor: I do make anonymous donations to RCM1 in the value of whatever I take, so there’s that.

“Price temporarily reduced for one transaction only,” says the auto-guard. “Setting aside four brackets now.” The automaton’s head keeps clicking at odd angles while it performs this function. Somewhere over in warehouse 942, a spider bot—essentially a foot-tall mechanical minion—places my brackets onto a pick-up table by the front door.

After a few seconds, the auto-guard speaks again. “Four functional brackets are now on reserve.”

“Display other items in 942.” Might as well see what else I can grab.

The monitor scrolls through names of various scientific devices.

Atomic stabilizers? Already have too many.

Quantum chasers? Forget it. Quark trackers work so much better.

Refurbished monolith? That would be awesome, but it’s also the size of a refrigerator. Not exactly backpack friendly. And I don’t have forever to fart around here.

I’m about to tell the auto-guard to stop when I see it.

1982 era SW AC with DV action.

My pulse speeds with all kinds of happy. I collect specialty alarm clocks, and this is one I’ve stalked for ages. “Pause, please.”

“Listing stopped.”

“Does warehouse 942 actually have a circa 1982 Star Wars alarm clock with vocal Darth Vader action?”

“Correct. One such item in stock. Row eleven, bin 507. Ten credits.”

I smile my face off. This is like finding a picture of Einstein in a tankini; I never thought it was possible. What a great day.

“Reduce price to zero,” I command. “Then add to my order.”

“Acknowledged. Do you require a transport platform to warehouse 942?”

“No, it’s faster if I walk.” Like everything else here, transport platforms at RCM1 are rickety at best. Plus, 942 isn’t too far away.

On the outer wall, the computer monitor stops listing items. Instead, the screen fuzzes over with unreadable text.

I frown. That’s strange.

Leaning in, I scan for details. The only legible word is alert. When I worked here, those mostly concerned new landfill shipments.

“Is something wrong with tonight’s delivery?” I ask.

“The next shipment is right on schedule. Precisely at midnight, no fewer than 84 hovercraft will arrive to dump fresh landfill. Contents will then be cleaned, sorted, and any usable items refurbished or recycled as soon as possible. It is now 11:51 pm. Every worker has reported for duty at the unloading towers.”

“So tonight’s delivery is fine.” I’m still stuck on that alert message.

“Fine as sunshine,” replies the auto-guard. I loaded about a hundred sayings into this subroutine. What can I say? I was nine and bored.

I nibble on my thumbnail and think through this news.Hovercraft deliveries always take place at midnight. That’s why it’s my favorite time to steal: all the RCM1 workers are miles away from the warehouses. And while the human workers are busy, RCM1 security relies on drones called Tetras. Imagine a shoebox with four helicopter-style rotors slapped on top of it and that’s a Tetra. Pretty useless. My dark outfit—including boots, jeans, and hoodie—will easily hide me from their video scanners.

Even so, a chill of unease moves up my back. Although everything seems fine, something nags me, like a wire isn’t screwed down tightly enough.

Best to double-check.

I tap the computer monitor. “I’m still seeing an alert. What is that?”

“The Authority released a general warning regarding the Lacerator.”

I lift my brows. “The Lacerator, as in their new genetically enhanced attack animal?” I’ve seen the newsfeed articles. The Lacerator is the latest addition to what the Authority calls its Horde, which are killer monsters that get rid of undesirables. Meanwhile, the threat of those same creatures keeps everyone else in line.

“Affirmative. That’s the same Lacerator,” replies the auto-guard.

This is such bad news. No one knows what the Lacerator looks like, mostly because victims don’t live to share details. The bodies always have puncture holes and claw marks. Hence the name Lacerator. Nasty.

Only one thing to do next.

“Launch amazing subroutine for providing detailed info. Area of interest: Lacerator and RCM1.”

Moments later, pictures of hacked-up bodies fill the outer monitor. I wince. Well, that’s never leaving my head.

“Additional information located,” states the auto-guard. “Over the past twelve days, the Lacerator has routinely escaped confinement. Each time, it visits RCM1. During the last invasion, worker casualties resulted.”

My insides twist with anxiety. The Lacerator at RCM1? That’s seriously not-good, and for three key reasons. First, those poor employees. Working here is bad enough without getting minced to death. Second, RCM1 isn’t too far away from the abandoned factory where Mom and I live. Yikes. And third, the Lacerator hitting RCM1 means the Authority could get interested in my favorite spot for hard-to-get parts.

Which leads to my next question. “How does the Authority plan to deal with this, if at all?”

Let’s be honest. This is western Massachusetts. Everyone who lives or works out here is considered undesirable. We don’t get plumbing or electricity, let alone police to fight off killer monsters.

“The Authority wishes to study the Lacerator’s habits,” explains the auto-guard. “A scientific expedition has been dispatched to RCM1 to investigate.”

I bob my head and think this through. One expedition. That’snot too terrible.

“When are they due?” I ask.

“Since most attacks happen after midnight, the expedition arrives within the next two hours.”

I take it back. That’s totally horrible.

Tension knots up my limbs, but I force myself to stay calm.Two hours is more than enough time. Plus, what do I care about some scientific expedition? It’s not like they can cause me trouble. What will they do? Beaker me to death?

“Who’s in this expedition?”

“One scientist,” replies the auto-guard.

My shoulders slump with relief. “That’s great.”

“And to protect the scientist, Mercenaries of Righteous Enforcement will also be present. You may know these warriors as the Merciless. Displaying supplemental video.”

I stifle a groan. Everyone knows the Merciless.

Fresh video appears on the screen. Merciless warriors march down Newbury Street, their gash guns gleaming in the false sun of the Boston dome. Skull-like helmets top their black body armor, all of it fashioned to resemble charred bones. A sick taste fills my mouth. The Merciless are screened to be tall, handsome, and card-carrying sociopaths.

Merciless Captains also have an extra pal along: an attack beast trotting at their side. Most of these monsters are pony-sized mixtures of wolf, crocodile, and bat. The Horde.

At this point, things aren’t looking good here. Even so, there still may be a chance to salvage this. I need more information.

“Where will the expedition go?” After all, RCM1 is huge. Chances are, the Merciless will end up miles away from warehouse 942.

“The expedition plans to inspect warehouses 127, 559, and 935.”

My breath catches. I’ve hit every one of those warehouses for parts ... and all within the last three months. Even worse, warehouse 935 is not too far from 942, my destination for this trip. And the Lacerator shows up after midnight, which is my favorite time to stop by.

The temperature around me seems to spike about twenty degrees. It’s an effort to keep focused.

Stay calm, Meimi. Keep asking questions.

“What can you tell me about those warehouses? Are there any similarities tracked in the system?”

As a scientist, I’m not a superstitious person. Even so, I cross my fingers.

Please, don’t let the similarity be me.

The auto-guard stares into empty space for what feels like a millennium. “Similarity detected,” she states at last.

And then, nothing.

A long pause follows while the automaton blinks and that’s it. I make a mental note to tweak the code in this subroutine. Asking so many questions is giving me a headache.

“And?” I prompt. “What’s the similarity?”

“Recently, these warehouses were all visited by the same person, Regina Roberts.”

Shock reverberates through my system. “Regina Roberts? Did you say Regina Roberts?”

“That is correct. Is there a malfunction in my voice output?”

“No, it’s just that Luci Archer—I mean, Regina Roberts—is my sister. She worked here with me at RCM1, remember?” I don’t add in the part about her dying. For some reason, saying it out loud makes the loss too real.

“Providing supplemental surveillance per subroutine. Here you go, honey.”

Fresh video flashes onto the monitor before me, showing an aerial view from a Tetra drone. Although the scene takes place at night, I make out someone tall and slim with long white-blonde hair. Her orange cloak flaps behind her as she steps into a warehouse. The woman’s face isn’t visible, though.

Could that really be Luci?

For a long moment, I can only stare at the auto-guard. Luci is alive? No way that’s correct. At the same time, part of me wants my sister back so badly, I could scream.

“Update coming in.” The automaton’s head ticks more quickly than ever before. “Merciless warriors will arrive at RCM1 in twenty minutes.”

A knot of panic tightens my throat. Twenty minutes?

Okay, I’m enough of a scientist to accept facts here. This caper is toast. I should run for it. NOW. Problem is, my customer’s a maniac, as in a seriously psychotic killer who murders anyone that misses a shipment. Even worse, my deadline for this magnetic enhancer is just hours away.

Sweet mother of science.

Mom isn’t super-mobile. That said, maybe I could boost a transport for us to escape. But to where? My customer is none other than the Scythe, the most powerful crime lord around. He’ll find us no matter what.

Yet he might not discover us right away …

Taking a half-step backward, I get ready to bolt. Then I stop. What am I doing? Screw the Scythe. No way am I pulling up roots; I still have twenty minutes left. Grabbing stuff from RCM1 warehouses is my specialty.

I lift my chin and steel my nerves. This is totally do-able. Refocusing on the auto-guard, I give another command. “Make sure my stuff is ready for immediate pick up.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Shut off the super-cool girl hacker subroutine.” The auto-guard slumps forward as my passphrase erases all traces of this conversation. I glance at my watch. Midnight on the nose.

No time to lose.

Hoisting my backpack higher, I run toward warehouse 942.

Between the Lacerator, Merciless, and my killer customer, I have plenty to obsess about. Even so, I can only seem to focus on one thought.

My sister Luci may be alive.

And somehow, she and I are mixed up with the Lacerator.

Sweet mother of science indeed.

CHAPTER2

Pumping my arms, I race down the gravel path toward the RCM1 main campus. Minutes fly by. The stench of bleach and rot grows strong. A thin moon hangs in the cloudless sky, casting a blue glow over the landscape. In every direction, lines of metal warehouses hug the earth. As I speed along, there are no signs of Tetra drones or people. Perfect. I glance at my smart watch.

12:07 am.

Pushing myself, I run even faster. By the time I reach warehouse 942, I’m a sweaty mess. Approaching the metal door, I activate the data panel and enter my skeleton key code. The entrance unlocks with a soft click.

I’m in.

As soon I cross the threshold, jolts of excitement move though my limbs. The warehouse interior is dark, which is fine with me. No point attracting attention with extra light. The place is also huge, empty, echo-y, and creepy as hell. My blood warms with excitement.

Is it terrible that I love stealing stuff in the dark? Maybe, but I’ll enjoy it anyway.

Slipping a small flashlight from my backpack, I click the device on. A thin beam of brightness cuts across the warehouse, showing long rows of wall-like shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, creating a labyrinth that fades off into the darkness.

The scene holds a surreal quality that reminds me of my strange dreams. Only unlike my night visions, I’m awake and acting in the world. In this moment, anything feels possible. I could even believe in my power to visit another planet so I can watch over some hot alien guy.

But I digress.

Angling my beam, I find a silver table by the front wall. Dozens of spider bots crawl across the surface, positioning different cardboard boxes. I scan the names atop each package, stopping when I read one in particular.

Delivery for: Coolest Chick Ever.

That’s me, all right. Or at least, that’s how I saw myself when I was nine and wrote this subroutine. Scooping the container from the table, I open the top. Four Y-shaped wires sit inside. These may look simple, but a lot of tech is crammed in them.

Dark matter brackets. Yes.

A larger box sits beside the first. I grin. That’s my new alarm clock. No way will I open this now; that’s something Mom and I always share. Holding my flashlight in my teeth, I slip both containers into my bag. While I’m there, I search the backpack for different options that might help my escape … just in case.

Insect drones? No, those are better over miles of distance.

Acid grenades? Good for breaking through walls; not okay for people.

Chem darts? Hmm. Those could help.

I lift two darts from my pack. The thin vials contain clouds of liquid tranquilizer. Toss them to the ground and—WHOOSH—a blue haze appears that makes everyone fall asleep (not me; I’ve been immunized.) I grip a dart in each hand. From a distance, they’ll look like pens or something. Perfect.

Ready to go.

Stowing away my flashlight, I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders once more. With silent steps, I follow the front wall until my fingertips brush the door handle. Fresh adrenaline streams through me. Pulling my hoodie low, I grip the handle, open the door, and step outside.

Oh, no.

Blinding light sears into my retinas, blocking the scene before me. The exterior world appears as a single sheet of brightness. Blinking quickly, I clear my vision. My surroundings slowly come into focus.

What I see isn’t good.

Maybe I should have run when I had the chance.

CHAPTER3

A dozen Merciless guards stand in a semicircle before me, all aiming their gash guns in my direction. Ouch. Those things are worse than regular firearms since the bullets explode grenade-style on impact. My body numbs with shock. Even if I toss the chem darts now, the Merciless are known for their reflexes. With so many warriors, the chances one will hit me are about 100%.

Not liking those odds.

In the center of the group, there stands a wispy man who’s about five feet tall. His white lab coat hangs loosely around him. Tufts of gray hair encircle what’s an otherwise-bald head. Small round glasses sit atop his thin nose. I’ve seen pictures of this guy before. Doctor Godwin. He runs the Authority’s program for genetically enhanced animals. In other words, this dude runs the Horde.

Huh. So Godwin is the solo scientist for this expedition? He’s a total muckity-muck. Higher ups like him never leave the Boston Dome.

My stomach sinks. There’s only one reason why Godwin would hike out to the sticks for research. Hell, there’s only one reason Godwin does anything: he’s planning another citizen’s cleansing.

Every fact from past cleansings runs through my mind. A foul taste creeps into my mouth. If my guess is right, the next cleansing will feature both the Lacerator and western Massachusetts. Why else would Godwin visit here in person?

That’s bad news for everyone I know. That said, most people practice how to conceal themselves from cleansings. I’m talking slipping behind fake walls, disappearing into hidden crawl spaces, that kind of thing. But my mother has her fav spot by the window and pitches a fit if she can’t sit there. Not exactly helpful when you want her to hide.

I lock my back teeth in frustration. Normally, cleansings only hit the Boston Dome and its suburbs. This far away, we’ve always been safe.

“Keep holding your fire, soldiers,” Godwin says in a sinister whisper. “My pet appears interested in our dark-clad guest.”

For the first time, I notice how Godwin clasps a small black container against his chest. I’d think he holds a jewelry box, except it’s made from subtly shifting fibers. I draw my brows together in contemplation. Containers made from moving threads? I’ve never heard of tech like that before.

Even so, something about those fibers seems oddly familiar. I’ve witnessed that kind of tech before, but I can’t place where. Could it be from one of my dreams? It’s possible. I get some of my best invention ideas from those visions.

The dark box shimmies in Godwin’s hands, interrupting my thoughts. “Quiet, my beastie.” He keeps pawing at the container, which issuper creepy. “My pet has nothing to fear from you, does he?”

I give the doctor a little nod. Best not to antagonize the evil guy with twelve killer-helpers who’s toting around a questionable container.

The box shimmies again. Godwin makes a tsk-tsk noise. “Ah, my poor Lacerator. You don’t like your cage, do you?”

Despite the horror of this situation, the scientist in me becomes intrigued. Rumor is, the Lacerator is huge. How would you fit a massive attack beast inside something that small? The non-scientist in me screams, run for your life! Only I can’t. The Merciless are still focused on me. If I move, they’ll blast my brains out.

That’s when it hits me. The next few seconds could be my last. A chain reaction of not-so-happy thoughts erupts through my mind.

What have I done with my life? I hide out in a basement, take care of my mother, and invent techie stuff. I’ve never been kissed (I don’t count the incident in second grade.) I rarely see my friends, since that involves leaving my inventions and lab. Sure, I’ve kept me and Mom alive, but there’s surviving and there’s living.

I haven’t really lived.

And now I’m about to die.

That realization hits me, hard. The knowledge seeps through my soul in ways I hadn’t expected. A single thought overtakes my mind.

To live, I need to change.

Within my deepest being, some sleeping part of me kicks to life. The sensation is both familiar and peculiar. It’s familiar because of my dreams where I use special powers. Not that I remember the details of those when I awaken, mind you.

Problem is, I’m not asleep.

I’m very much awake, and things are all too real.

Something about me is actively changing. I can only hope it doesn’t get me killed.

CHAPTER4

An odd, high-pitched ringing fills my ears. I scan Godwin and the Merciless. This is loud stuff, but no one else reacts. Whatever this sound is, it’s a noise only I can detect.

That’s weird.

Once more, I contemplate my dreams of superpowers and cute aliens. I don’t remember specifics of those night visions, but I do know that in them, I wield some kind of special ability. And in this moment? The sensation that those dreams are becoming reality turns even stronger. Deep inside me, pieces of my soul snap and shift.

Panic jolts through my nervous system. My soul is snapping? Shifting? What the WHAT?

Scientist-Me seems to hover outside my body for a moment, watching Regular-Me stand rigid before the Merciless. The noise disappears while some black particles materialize around my body. Like with the noise, no one except me seems to notice them.

And they’re particles.

Seriously?

Now my soul is shifting AND there’s flying grit that only I see? GAH.

Even more particles appear. Now the haze becomes so thick, no one should miss it. I check Godwin and the Merciless once more. Do they notice any of this particle action?

Not at all.

Like with the noise, this is something only I can perceive.

And it’s a bunch of flying particles.

Time to reassess my situation.

At this point, I see two options. One, I’m totally insane. Based on my mother’s history, that’s quite possible. Two, my inventions often poke around in other dimensions and universes. Maybe I picked up something along the way and—whatever that something may be—it’s been manifesting in my dreams. Now that same thing’s trying to help me escape. With option one, I’m pretty much doomed no matter what I do. But option two? If I play along, I might just live.

Option two it is.

More things alter within my soul. Synapses connect. Energies sync. Abilities focus. Great mental cogs whir for the very first time. All the particles around me vanish. Images flash in my head.

Darkness.

Shifting threads of black filament.

A cascade of dark particles.

No question about it. These mental pictures are coming from inside that black box. This is the Lacerator’s view. I take in a shaky breath. Somehow, I’m looking through the Lacerator’s eyes, assuming he has them. How would that work, exactly? Before I can contemplate the answer, new emotions flood through me. They aren’t mine.

The burn of fury.

An ache of hunger.

A longing so sharp, it’s painful.

And finally, the soft chill of calmness.

Once more, I’m certain these emotions come from the Lacerator.

A plan forms. No, forms isn’t the right word. The scheme appears in my head as a series of images sent to me from the creature.

Image one. The golden container opens.

Two. I speak a command.

Three. The Merciless run away.

Four. I escape.

The creature is using pictures to communicate a plan. In this scheme, the Lacerator wants to get loose, scare the warriors, and enable me my escape.

Nice work, Lacerator!

Now you’d think in this situation, I’d just agree to the creature’s plan and get started.

Nope.

One of the great benefit-slash-curses of being me is that I always have an opinion. Always. Even with Merciless guards pointing guns at my face and a genetically enhanced attack animal talking to me telepathically.

In this case, I want to perfect the Lacerator’s plan, so I send my new buddy a mental image of my chem darts, hoping the creature understands.

Let’s include these in my escape.

After all, some Merciless may hold their ground, no matter how scary the Lacerator looks. With my monster acting as a distraction, I’ll have a few precious seconds of surprise that I can use to my advantage. There should be enough time to chuck a chem dart or two. A fresh picture appears in my head. Again, this isn’t my creation.

Flash. An image of me tossing chem darts like a pro.

The meaning is clear. My new friend agrees with my suggestion. Great.

The Lacerator communicates again, but not with pictures this time. Instead, an electric charge of joy courses through my limbs. I’m taking that as: let’s get started.

I totally agree.

Still keeping my hoodie low, I gesture to Godwin. “Why don’t you set the Lacerator free? I’d love to meet him.”

Godwin’s thin nostrils flare. “What an interesting test for our little beastie. Do you want to come out?” The box rattles more fiercely than ever. “I can see that you do. Let’s try an experiment.”

Little by little, Godwin opens the small container. My breath catches as a single dark claw peeps over the box’s edge. Then another. Both talons are shrouded in mist, like the creature itself isn’t solid. Then I remember my vision from when I was looking inside the box.

Particles. That’s what the Lacerator is made from.

And just a few moments ago, I was surrounded in particles as well.

That settles it. The Lacerator uses these particles to connect with my mind. Part of me screams how this isn’t normal. These are particles, for crying out loud. Run, Meimi! I try to move; my feet stay rooted to the spot. My body feels like part of something else.

Or rather, part of someone else.

Strangely enough, that realization only brings a fresh wave of comfort. This time, I’m not sure if it’s coming from the Lacerator or me. Even so, I’m all in.

The creature and I are connected. It wants me to escape.

More particles rise from the container, forming a dark cloud before Godwin. This time, it’s something he can clearly see, considering how he’s staring right at the particle cluster while a small smile rounds his thin lips. Based on how a few of the Merciless tremble with fear, they see the beginnings of the monster, too. Interesting. Maybe the Lacerator can control when particles are visible.

The specks shift, taking the shape of a great beast, one that’s seven feet tall with dinosaur-style plates down its back. The creature’s thick arms end in clawed hands that scrape the earth. Its skull-like face is long, with hollow eyes and a wide jaw lined with rows of knife-sharp teeth. Everything about the beast is solid and yet semi-transparent, reminding me of grit trapped in amber.

The Lacerator.

Quick as a whip, the creature rounds on Godwin, trying to slash the doctor through with its talons. Nothing connects. Every time the Lacerator gets within inches of Godwin’s body, the container flashes with purple light. A force field then appears around the doctor—a haze of violet brightness that hovers just above Godwin’s skin. Each attack follows the same pattern: an attempted slash from the Lacerator, a flash of purple light from the box, and a violet-colored force field that protects Godwin.

Fresh emotions pour through me. Again, none of them are my own.

White-hot rage.

Bone deep humiliation.

A craving for revenge.

Whatever the Lacerator may be, I know one thing: it loathes Godwin.

“Now, now,” coos Godwin. “Be a good little Lacerator. We both know you can’t attack me while I hold this.” The doctor raises the box in his hands.

The Lacerator pauses, his semi-transparent body quivering with fury. Tilting his head back, the creature lets out the mother of all roars. The howl is so strong, objects in nearby warehouses crash to the ground. Even the black armor of the Merciless rattles.

The doctor doesn’t so much as flinch. “Why don’t you say hello to our new friend, my pet?”

At this point, it strikes me that my escape plan could be one big con. After all, don’t some creatures lure their prey right before attacking? Maybe the Lacerator is the Venus fly trap of bloodthirsty monsters. Bands of worry tighten around my chest.

Inch by inch, the Lacerator rounds on me. Every cell in my body freezes. Fresh feelings stream through my soul.

The magnetic pull of interest.

An ache of longing.

The electric thrill of joy.

The beast towers above me, arms raised, and claws extended.

Although its pose is menacing, I sense no threat from the Lacerator. Without question, I move forward with our plan. As the image instructed me, I give a command.

“Go after the Merciless,” I order.

The Lacerator’s body explodes into a cloud of particles. Thousands of tiny projectiles tear through the Merciless. Armor, helmets, bodies, and gash guns—nothing stops the onslaught. The particles rip through the warriors in a thousand places at once. Moving in unison, all twelve soldiers crumple to ground, dead.

I blink hard, not believing what I’m seeing.

This can’t be right.

But the Merciless really aren’t moving. Blooms of red blood seep out over their armor.

Oh, yeah. These dudes are totally dead.

Some corner of my mind—the part that’s a normal human being—screams in horror. I just asked the Lacerator to go after the Merciless. The vision had them running away, not transformed into Swiss cheese.

There isn’t time to worry about that, though. Godwin’s still alive. Plus, the doctor controls the Lacerator with that black container. Maybe he can order the creature to come after me, too.

I need to escape and fast.

Launching into the next part of the escape plan, I chuck the chem darts into the ground. As each vial hits the earth, a plume of blue smoke rises into the air, creating a wall of haze that’s impossible to see through. Even better, it contains a sedative that works almost instantly, smells like lilac, and doesn’t affect me. My friend Zoe made these. She’s a genius with chemicals.

A moment later, the smoke vanishes. Doctor Godwin lies on the ground, snoring up a storm. He grips the container tightly against his chest.

I quickly scan the scene. There are warehouses, dead bodies, a sleeping doctor, and a gravel walkway.

No sign of the Lacerator.

Then I notice it.

The doctor’s dark container rattles furiously. New emotions tear through me. Like before, they aren’t mine.

A chill of fear.

The zing of panic.

A heavy weight of grief.

That’s the Lacerator, I know it.

I step toward the doctor, my arms outstretched. A single thought echoes through my head.

Grab that container.

Deep voices sound in the distance, breaking up my thoughts.

“Backup needed, warehouse 942!”

“Bring more gash guns!”

“Hurry! Hurry!”

I’d know those particular tones anywhere. Only the Merciless have their speech electronically enhanced to sound extra low and evil. More are coming and fast.

Their cries snap me back to reality. Am I out of my mind? Hanging around here is suicide. And what would I do with a pet Lacerator anyway? The plan was always for me to escape solo. I shake my head and refocus.

It’s beyond time to leave.

So I run like hell.

CHAPTER5

My hell-running continues until I’ve left RCM1 far behind. Soon I reach Old Williamstown, or what’s left of it. Time was, thousands of people lived here. Then came the so-called War of Liberation—where the Authority defeated the United Americas government—and this place got leveled, along with most of the continent. Now it’s nothing but rubble.

Keeping up my frantic speed, I rush to the outskirts of town until—yes!—I reach the ruins of an old gas station. Like everything else these days, the building is totally crushed. Red bricks lay in heaps all around. A smashed-up gas pump slumps sideways on the gravel. Good thing there’s a metal hatch around back; it leads to a secure basement. Much as I’d love to race home, I need to stop there.

And worse, I must call the Scythe.

Why am I pausing in my run-a-thon to chat with a crime lord, or to be accurate, with his minion Fritz? I can’t risk the Authority finding out about me and the massacre at RCM1. Right now, I’m a girl in a hoodie. But if they ID me? Mom and I are toast. But to hide us requires hacking that’s beyond my skills, mostly because it involves more than computers. You need to know people in low places.

That means the Scythe and Fritz.

Fortunately, this hidden basement is a great spot for calls. Yanking up the metal hatch, I find a familiar set of stairs leading into the ground. A minute later, I’m in the basement itself, pacing around a dusty room while typing an emergency access code into my smart watch. This lets Fritz know I need to talk.

Seconds tick by as I wait for Fritz to reply. My mind whirls through the events at RCM1. What happened to me? There’s been research about people who become so panicked, they lift up freight cars or get visions of the future. But I’ve never heard about anyone creating a mental link with a monster made from particles before.

My watch plays a few bars of Another One Bites The Dust, breaking up my thoughts. That specific ringtone means Fritz is taking my call. I exhale. Soon a thin beam of light pours out from the side of my watch, casting a hologram image on the opposite wall of the concrete room.

It’s video of Fritz, and he’s beating someone up.

My stomach twists. Damn, I want to help Fritz’s latest victim. From experience, I know my best option here is to distract Fritz himself.

“Hey, there.” I clear my throat. Twice.

Fritz is a mountain of a man, what with his stocky build, square face, and white spiked-up hair. He always wears overalls and speaks with a German accent. That is, the accent shows up when other people are around. It’s totally fake; Fritz thinks it makes him seem more ominous.

Like the guy needs help. Sheesh.

The hologram shows a prone body curling up on the floor before Fritz. Since the victim’s facing away from me, all I can tell is that the man’s wearing a suit. Fritz boots the dude once more in the stomach. I wince.

“This better be good,” says Fritz. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Will you stop kicking that guy while we talk? He’s unconscious.”

“Who says that?”

“You’re not using your fake German accent, and you only do that when we’re alone. Which means the guy is out. Enough already. Please. We need to chat.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come to my office? You know the Scythe doesn’t like electronic comms.”

“Come on. It’s an emergency.”

Fritz gives the guy one last kick and then turns to me. “What do you need this time?”

For a big bad killer, Fritz can be a total baby. If I let him start whining, he’ll never stop.

“Hey,” I counter. “Don’t give me attitude. I make you and the Scythe a ton of credits.” In fact, I started building their illegal science gizmos when I was eleven. That was the same year Fritz became my handler. Dad died right after I was born, so Fritz is actually the closest thing I have to a father. Not a comforting thought.

“So?” asks Fritz. “Deliver that magnetic enhancer by 6 am. That gives you around five hours. Make it happen.”

“I will. Only one part left.”

“Then don’t bother me.” Fritz steps nearer to the holo-camera in his office, the device that’s projecting his image. Walking closer means Fritz plans to shut off our link.

“Hold up there. I just ran into the Merciless, Doctor Godwin, and the Lacerator at RCM1.”

Fritz pauses. Even in projected form, his ice-blue eyes bore into mine. “Define ran into.”

“The Merciless are dead, I left Godwin unconscious, and the Lacerator is back in its container cage. Can you fix this?”

Fritz’s voice lowers. “Define fix.”

“Erase any traces of my presence. I wore my hoodie but you could still see the bottom half of my chin. That might identify me.”

“Did you speak?”

“A sentence or two.”

“That’s more than enough for an ID and you know it.” Fritz folds his massive arms over his barrel chest. “This’ll be tricky.”

No question what Fritz’s arm-folding routine is about. He wants to know what’s in it for him.

“I can pay you,” I offer. “The Scythe promised me 3,000 credits for my magnetic enhancer. Clean up this mess, and you can keep 1,500.”

Fritz glares for a long minute. As the moments tick by, my palms turn slick with sweat. Sure, I have other customers who could clean this up, but I’d have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life. When it comes to erasing messes, no one’s more connected than the Scythe.

Finally Fritz speaks. “Should I know how you walked away from a bunch of dead Merciless guards and one passed-out Godwin?”

“It’s like this.” My mind races, trying to think how to slowly introduce what’s easily the craziest experience of my life. “I think Godwin’s planning a citizen’s cleansing in this area.”

“Not a chance. The Scythe pays big bucks to keep the Authority out of our backyard.”

I lift my brows, impressed. I had no idea the Scythe did that, but it makes sense.

“Try again,” says Fritz.

On second thought, there’s no point lying or beating around the bush. Fritz can sniff out untruths easily, especially from me. And the man has zero patience. “I developed a telepathic connection with the Lacerator and it helped me escape.”

Fritz stares at me for a long second. Then, he bursts out in laughter. “So you had a psychotic break and don’t remember how you got free.”

I shrug. “That’s possible, too.”

“You think?” asks Fritz. “Oh, that story is just too good. Now I have to help you.”

I grin. “Thanks.”

“But there’s a condition.” He jabs his hefty finger in my direction. “You move into one of our safe houses.”

I set my fist on my hip. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why? The Scythe’s condos tricked out with the latest tech. Plus they’re totally off-grid.”

“But Mom can’t join me there.”

Fritz sniffs. “Your mother’s been catatonic for years.”

A jolt of protective energy moves up my torso. “That’s not true. She home-schooled me for ages. Even now, Mom still has plenty of good days. She’s all the family I’ve got.”

I actively ignore the thought that Luci may be alive. That’s just too much.

“No one watches over undesirables anymore, family or otherwise. Let the Authority take care of your mother.”

“You know what that means. They’ll kill her.”

“So what? They terminate everyone who doesn’t meet their standards. Why should she be any different? Deal’s off.”

I ball my hands into fists. There’s no explaining family to Fritz. The guy believes in the Authority’s motto, empathy is weakness. Time to appeal to his sense of greed instead of duty.

“What if you keep all 3,000 credits? That’s a good offer. My magnetic enhancer is unique. Nothing else on the market even comes close. And I can’t finish it when I’m dead.”

Fritz slowly rubs his square chin. “And you’ll still deliver the enhancer by 6 am?”

“Absolutely.”

“And I keep every credit?”

“That’s what the science girl said.”

“Then I’m in.” He lets out another dramatic sigh. “Although, I really wish you’d go into a safe house, Meims. You worry me sick.”

I shake my head. You worry me sick. For Fritz, that’s a tsunami of fatherly sentiment.

“Oh, and too bad about the 3,000 credits,” he adds with a chuckle. “Sucker.” This time, Fritz marches forward and shuts off the comm link entirely. The basement around me goes dark.

Despite the inky blackness surrounding me, I can’t help but smile. Too bad, my butt. I always build back-up copies of my inventions. If the Scythe won’t pay me 3,000 credits, I’ll find another buyer who will.

Next stop: my home and magnetic enhancer.

CHAPTER6

A half-hour later, I march up to the derelict factory where Mom and I live. Old plastic signs hang on cockeyed angles on the brick buildings, all of them reading: Ozymandias Chemical. A gentle breeze cools the sweat on my face. The adrenaline rush from my encounters with the Lacerator and Fritz are all long gone. Now I just feel bone tired.

The main factory is a long, two-story affair nested in a labyrinth of smaller structures. If you look carefully enough, you can still see stuff painted on the bricks.

Remember your eye protection.

Caution! Dangerous chemical storage!

All overtime must be pre-approved.

Our entrance sits at the far end of the main building. I approach the rusted door, enter my key code into the alarm system, and step inside. What happens next is more of a reflex than a thought.

Check on Mom.

Right off our entrance, there’s a small storage-room-turned-kitchen. It’s Mom’s favorite spot, so I go there first. Sure enough, she’s in her chair by the window, watching bits of trash roll down the cracked sidewalk. Mom’s already in her pajamas with a robe tied tightly at her waist. The woman I pay to look after my mother during the day—an older lady named Miss Edith—did her job getting Mom ready for bed.

Speaking of Miss Edith, she sits at her favorite spot at the kitchen table. Miss Edith is a thin stick of a woman with short gray hair and a laser-sharp mind. She sets down her chipped teacup as I approach. “Hello, Meimi. How was basketball practice?”

“Fine.”

Miss Edith smacks her lips. “I thought you were attending a late night study session with your friends, Chloe and Zoe.”

I pause just inside the kitchen door. Damn. I’d forgotten that I asked Miss Edith to stay late so I could supposedly study.

Think fast, Meimi.

“Here’s the thing,” I begin. “Zoe, Chloe, and I played basketball for a while. Then, we studied so hard. So, so, so hard. Whew!”

Miss Edith drums her wrinkled fingers on the tabletop. “Really? May I see the books inside that backpack of yours?”

I bite back the urge to groan. Miss Edith will not give up until I answer her honestly. “Okay, I didn’t really play basketball or join in a study session. I’m working on another science project for a customer.”

“Meimi …”

I huff out a breath. “We need the money.”

“I understand that.” Miss Edith rises and puts her teacup in the sink. “You should be in school.”

“Technically, the computer systems say I am in school. Every day.” I figured out that hack ages ago.

“You know what I mean. The schools here may not impart anything useful. Honestly, you could teach them a thing or two. Even so, there’s the social aspect to consider. It’s not healthy for a young girl to spend hours working in a basement.”

“Hey, I tinker in my bedroom too.”

Miss Edith sighs. The sound reminds me of how Fritz did the same not so long ago. “Have it your way,” says Miss Edith. “But don’t expect me to sit here and say nothing.”

“I would never.” Stepping up, I give Miss Edith a quick kiss on the cheek. She pretends not to smile.

“You’re the best,” I say softly.

“See you tomorrow, Meimi.” Miss Edith waves to Mom. “And you too, Rose.”

Mom doesn’t reply, but that’s typical. My mother needs a few minutes to adjust to change, that’s all. Once Miss Edith is gone, I drag a chair beside Mom’s.

“Hey, Mom. It’s me, Meimi.” Scooching closer, I pull out a box from my backpack. “Guess what? I got something new for my collection.”

Mom blinks hard. That’s her way of trying to focus. For years, we consulted doctors about her condition. No one could figure out what’s wrong. In the end, the only thing we know is that Mom becomes catatonic for longer periods every day. Her forehead crumples as she scans the cardboard container in my hands. “Wha … wha …”

I finish the sentence for her. “What is this?” I tear the box open. “A Star Wars alarm clock.” I gingerly pull out the plastic device, revealing a small plastic Darth Vader statue. A digital clock lies embedded in his chest. So awesome.

Raising her shaking hand, Mom taps Darth’s head. “Good.” Her eyes crinkle as she gifts me a smile.

My heart warms. This moment, right here. It’s what I love for.

“R…” Mom strains to form the word. “R…”

“RCM1? Yes, that’s where I went to get it. Things got a little crazy there tonight.” The auto-guard’s report comes back to me in a flash. Luci may be alive.

Memories flood my mind.

I’m six and Luci’s eighteen. We stand in my old bedroom at our government house in Malden, a suburb of the Boston Dome. The furniture’s a mishmash of rickety tables and chairs the government painted yellow. Luci kneels before me. She’s all things lovely and elegant as she explains why I won’t go to school today. “Mom’s having another episode,” says Luci. “You’ll work with me now, Pumpkin. We’ll use pretend names and play clean up.” Without question, I follow her out the door. It’s my first day at RCM1.

In my next memory, I’m twelve and Luci’s twenty-four. This time, we’re in the kitchen of our house in Malden. Luci’s new fiancée, Josiah, waits outside. Mom sits at the chipped yellow table, looking like an older version of Luci: white blonde hair and aristocratic features. Mother silently stares at the floor while Luci explains that she and Josiah are moving to the Boston Dome. Luci turns to me. “Don’t worry, Pumpkin. I’ll send you plenty of updates and money.” We never hear from her again.

Then I recall a scene from five months later. I’m tossing out old boxes from the Ozymandias Chemical factory. Soon after Luci left, the Authority announced another citizen’s cleansing for Malden. Mom definitely would’ve gotten scooped up, so we moved in here. As I work away, a scream sounds from the storage room we’re using as a kitchen. Rushing in, I find Mom sitting by a window, a tablet in her hand. I scoop the device from her palm and read aloud. “Casualties Announced In Latest Wave Of Boston Plague.” Scanning the list, I find the names Josiah and Luci DeBurgh.

My world shatters.

Luci is gone.

I grip the plastic clock more tightly in my hands. The question tumbles from my lips. “Do you ever think Luci might still be alive?”

A wild look enters Mom’s blue eyes. “Yes.”

I lean in closer. This kind of clarity is rare from my mother. “What makes you say that?”

“Convergence.”

“That’s right, there’s a magnetic convergence coming up.” With so much excitement, I almost forgot. This particular variety of inter-dimensional storm happens every year around my birthday. Sadly, that’s also the day my father died. Needless to say, it’s never been a big holiday in our house.

“Convergence,” repeats Mom. “Luci.”

I frown. “Not understanding you.”

“Important!” Mom grips my wrists. “Luci!”

“Okay.” In reality, I have no idea what Mom is talking about, but it’s pointless to push her for more information. That only makes her more upset.

Instead, I gently pry her hands from my wrists and reset my new Vader clock in its box. I can’t sit here with Mom forever; I must focus on other stuff. Like finishing that magnetic enhancer. Standing, I gently rest my hand on Mom’s shoulder.

“You need some sleep,” I say softly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Mom follows my guidance and takes to her feet. Leaving our small kitchen, we step out onto the main factory floor. It’s an open space that’s two stories tall and a quarter-mile long. Every inch is covered in a jungle of vats and pipes. Along the second story, the walls are lined with small offices that overlook the floor, all connected by an open catwalk.

Together, Mom and I step up the spiral staircase to the second floor. We converted two of the chambers up there into bedrooms. The rest are all mini libraries with books I’ve reclaimed from RCM1. There’s a room for computer programming, chemistry, mechanical engineering, you name it. Mom used to love reading new books and quizzing me on stuff. She’d also spend hours inventing in the old chem lab across the factory floor.

Sadly, those days are long over.

Setting my hand on Mom’s elbow, I guide her to her bedroom door. My mother’s steps are shaky and her eyes unfocused, so it’s slow going. Eventually, I help her into bed as well. A tiny window casts a square of light across her frail frame and thin blanket. Mom’s shoulders rise and fall in a slow cadence.

A shiver rolls up my spine. What if Mom gets worse?

Images flash in my mind. I picture the Merciless guards again, only now they’re leading Mom away. A rope of worry tightens around my torso. With a force of will, I shake off the thought.

If Mom gets worse, I’ll deal with it then. For now, I have other concerns, like that magnetic enhancer. Turning around, I head out the door and cross the catwalk to my bedroom.

I have a deadline to meet.

CHAPTER7

Less than an hour later, I’m seated on my bedroom floor. Shelves of specialty alarm clocks line the walls, along with one small cot. I lift my magnetic enhancer from my lap, giving it one last scan. What a mess. This thing could be abstract art sculpture called Wire Octopus Drinks Too Much Coffee.

I shrug. Chaotic is the typical look for my inventions. My stuff is never pretty; it simply works. And this magnetic enhancer just passed all my diagnostics with ease, including the new dark matter brackets. A warm sense of pride seeps through my heart.

It’s done.

Tapping my smart watch, I summon Fritz again. Music sounds before his holographic image appears. This time, he isn’t kicking anyone to death. Bonus.

“What did I say about electronic comms?” asks Fritz. “Come down to my office.”

“I am not hauling my butt around in the middle of the night. Just send a drone. Besides, if you really wanted me in the office, you’d never have taken my call.”

Fritz’s beady eyes glare at me through the hologram. “Show some respect. I just spent hours paying off government officials for you. Even Godwin doesn’t remember you now. Can you imagine what that took? And still, you won’t follow basic protocol and see me face to face.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. That little revelation from Fritz raises a good question.

Which I probably shouldn’t ask.

Actually, considering how cranky Fritz is, I definitely shouldn’t ask this question.

In fact, a younger version of Mom’s voice echoes through my memories, saying: “Meimi Archer, stop asking questions.”

But I can’t help it; I ask the question.

“How’d you fix Godwin’s memory?”

Fritz’s voice lowers. “Never telling you that.”

“Did you bribe him to say he doesn’t remember, or did you use that new memory wipe technology?” I’ve been dying to learn how that stuff works.

“Meimi, I swear on my grave, the next words out of your mouth better be thanking me for cleaning up your crap. Because if you keep pushing, I’ll tell the Scythe you missed your deadline. I’ve had it.”

And although I like asking questions, even I know when to stop. Besides, there are other ways to find out how Fritz fixed Godwin. Something for later.

“Thank you,” I say solemnly. “Now, can you please send a drone for this thing? If I go out this time of night, I’ll hit thieves or worse. Then you’ll have even more trouble to deal with.”

Fritz exhales another of his long, put-upon sighs. “Fine.”

Seconds later, a tapping sounds. No question what that is. Rising, I cross the room and open my bedroom window. Sure enough, one of Fritz’s drones waits outside. A massive silver hawk. Swooping inside, the fake bird lands atop my dresser. Once settled, the hawk’s belly snaps open to reveal a hidden transport compartment. It’s a bit of a squeeze, yet I’m able to get my magnetic enhancer inside.

“All done,” I announce. The bird takes off.

The hologram version of Fritz stares at me for moment too long. Genuine regret seems to flash across his face, but it’s gone too quickly to be certain. Besides, I’m not convinced Fritz is capable of feeling guilt.

“Bye, Meims.” His hologram disappears.

With Fritz gone, I should collapse onto my cot for some well-needed sleep. Plus, I often get those superpower dreams with my mystery guy, so you’d think I’d want to snooze right away. Not happening. Instead nervous energy hums through my body. I pace a line on the concrete floor, my thoughts racing. This is how I feel when I leave a Bunsen burner on or a power line ungrounded.

Something isn’t right; I just don’t know what.

Pulling out my data pad, I quickly scan the news feeds. There’s nothing about RCM1. That’s good. Still, I don’t allow government spider bots or drones in the factory, so I’m not dialed into the main Authority information line. It’s just too risky to break in when there are safer ways to access the same data feed directly. That means one thing.

I’ll have to go to school tomorrow. That place is crawling with government tech that I can tap without leaving any incriminating electronic signatures. But that means my hermit-self must come up from her basement lair to interact with other people her age.

Ugh.

My uneasy feeling deepens as my thoughts return to the Lacerator. Maybe that’s what has me so cranked up. Did I truly mind-meld with that thing? My scientific brain quickly comes to an answer.

Fritz was right. It was all an illusion.

My brain probably short-circuited due to adrenaline overload. Somehow I escaped that situation and my mind wants the reality of it all to remain a mystery. Got it. When people are pushed to extremes, odd things happen.

With that thought, warm waves of comfort move through my limbs. The more I think about it, the more I know I’m right. There’s nothing to worry about between me and the Lacerator.