Alien Minds: Dimension Drift, Book 1

by Christina Bauer

  “I brought you something,” says the Hollow.

  And there it is. The reason.

  “What?”

  She pulls a small silver container from her pocket and slides it across the tabletop. The tiny box is made from fibers that shimmer and writhe.

  I can’t help but smile. “The knowledge sentient.”

  “The Wiser.”

  “That’s what it wants to be called?” The sentient send me fresh mental images, all of them representing cheering crowds. I’m getting more used to their visual way of communication. It’s like hieroglyphs, only four-color and often sarcastic. “Okay, the Wiser it is.”

  “So you know, we tried sending her out on other missions in the Crawler.”

  “Her?”

  “Don’t you think so? I always thought the Lacerator was a girl, too.”

  I tilt my head, thinking. Inside my soul, my sentient rise up, showing me mental images of the Lacerator giving the Hollow a high five. That settles it.

  “I think you’re right,” I say as I slip the container into my pocket. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

  Never wear a dress without pockets.

  “I’ve something else for you, too,” adds the Hollow. “It’s from Fritz.” She sets her fingertips on my wrist cuff. It pops off with a soft click.

  I must admit that I’m really happy to see that thing off. I didn’t even want to think about the layers of goo growing on the bottom side. You’re supposed to wear a plastic bag in the shower and stuff, but who has time for that?

  I rub my now-free wrist. “Most people have wrist cuffs. How’d he manage it?”

  “Fritz and the Scythe pulled some strings.”

  I give her the side-eye. “That’s all? I can’t help but notice that Fritz isn’t the one doing the actual removal process here.”

  The Hollow chuckles. “I may have had a talk with President Hope, too. I can free up Zoe and Chloe as well.”

  At that moment, none other than Porter Saint-Clare approaches our table. Now that I have my memory back, I know that I am not the kind of girl that attract celebrity boys. I’m more the type that guys try to cheat from during exam time.

  But now, Porter stares right at me. He looks just like he does in the data feeds, too: wavy black hair, sharp jawline, and bright blue eyes. He’s a little shorter in real life than I’d expect, but what he lacks in vertical skills he’s more than made up for in his outfit. Tonight, Porter wears a white jacket with black trim and one of those straw hats that people wear in old Earth movie stills, yet no one can get away with in real life.

  Unless you’re Porter Saint-Clare.

  “Hello, everyone,” he says with a million-watt smile. I notice absently that he has dimples and yet they do nothing for me. Interesting. “I’m Porter Saint-Clare.”

  “We know who you are,” says Mrs. Fine. “Chloe and Zoe are always reading about you in the data feeds.”

  My best friends turn gray. Leave it to a mom to say something supremely humiliating. They must get classes in that along with what kind of diaper wipes to choose.

  The Hollow rises. “I was just leaving, Porter. You can take my seat if you like.” I can’t help but notice how the temperature around the table seems to have dropped about ten degrees. Again, I know the Hollow. She’s definitely not a member of the Porter Saint-Clare fan club.

  “Thanks, Holl.” Porter slips onto the chair beside mine.

  I pull on my ear. Did Porter really call her Holl? I’ve never heard anyone use a nickname with her. The Hollow is too badass to be anything but addressed in full, including a the.

  “I wanted to introduce myself,” continues Porter. “And to say how impressed I was with the way you found the traitor. You saved my aunt’s life. That means a lot.”

  Chloe, Zoe, and I give our standard replies. It was our duty. Happy to help. You’re welcome. It’s the kind of garbage we’ve been spewing out to data feeds and reporters for weeks.

  “So.” Porter rubs his palms together. “What do you plan to do when you get to ECHO?”

  I frown. “I don’t know. Go to class?”

  “No, for your senior project. Everyone has one.”

  “Oh, that.” My gaze locks with Zoe and Chloe. We’ve already talked about our next project. They are totally bought in and already helping me on my newest invention. In fact, that’s when I was brainstorming through most of tonight’s dinner.

  “Well?” prompts Porter.

  “Chloe, Zoe, and I are working on a team project. We want to tear open something called an exile void.”

  “Wow.” Porter has a way of looking at you like whatever you said is the most interesting thing ever. “I must admit, I’ve heard of drift voids but never exile voids. What’s behind them?”

  Chloe tilts her head. That’s her move when she’s confused. “Behind?” she asks.

  “What are you looking to find?” clarifies Porter.

  The twins and I share another long look. I miss Thorne like crazy. That said, I’m not the only one with cross-dimensional heartbreak. Chloe and Zoe were devastated when they found out that Cole sealed us off not only from Thorne, but also from Justice and Slate. And you know the saying…

  Hell hath no fury like science chicks who can’t talk to their space-alien boyfriends.

  Or something like that.

  Porter tips his white hat a little lower over his right eye. It’s supposed to be a playful move, and I’m sure most girls go crazy for it. But Chloe, Zoe, and I aren’t most girls. “Come on, you can tell me,” he urges.

  I guess this senior project thing must be a big deal. Porter is clearly a competitive guy who won’t let the subject drop. “What awaits you past this exile void?” he asks again.

  “The future,” I reply. “What else?”

  “But the future of what?” asks Porter.

  “Everything,” we three reply in unison.

  Porter laughs and starts talking about his project. It’s something about chemical compounds and machine engines. I try to focus, but the blueprint I’d been struggling with finally comes into my mind’s eye. I know just what I’ll call it, too.

  The exile void annihilator.

  Hang on, Thorne, Justice, and Slate. We’re coming for you.

  * * *

  —The End—

  The adventure continues with ECHO ACADEMY, Book 2 in the Dimension Drift series.

  * * *

  Read on for sample chapters from the optional prequel books to ALIEN MINDS: SCYTHE (Prequel 1) and UMBRA (Prequel 2).

  Next In Dimension Drift Series – ECHO ACADEMY

  Science prodigy Meimi Archer learns all about revolution.

  * * *

  Also from Christina Bauer – ANGELBOUND

  More than a million copies sold!

  * * *

  Also from Christina Bauer: MAGICORUM

  The series that USA Today calls “Must-read YA paranormal romance!”

  Also from Christina Bauer: BEHOLDER

  Like GAME OF THRONES? You’ll love CURSED!

  Sample Chapter – SCYTHE

  Dimension Drift Prequel #1 - Chapter One

  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.”