Freed From Positronic Regression's Hold

With a growing sense of worry, Katherine Branson looked about the anti-universe again. There was something strange about the view. It was a smooth expanse of planets and stars pressing side by side. The objects were stacked vertically in the distance, but above them there was nothing but emptiness—no sky canopy. How could they stand on a surface when everything was compressed so tightly by the anti-universe? Isn't there something that ought to touch Erath? Here, how could interplanetary travel possibly work? She wrote down her worries about the others in a notebook she found hidden under her seat.

Why is nothing above us, Martin Wilkerson? Why can't Erath stack in three dimensions like everything else?

Martin Wilkerson hurried to respond. Yes, it is. The item above us contains us. Here, physics is irrelevant. Have you noticed how everything lines up perfectly? Here, each solar system follows a straight line rather than an orbit, in contrast to the chaos of our universe. These lines stack on top of and next to each other. Only we move. Since we are on the surface of Erath, you are unable to view the object above, which I believe is a planet. If we ascended, Erath would disappear below us and we would be standing on that planet. I believe. I'm not sure.

Jonathan Aston considered this. What about clouds of cosmic dust from broken stars? Are they present?

I'm not sure. Why?

How would we collect enough positrons to keep a ship here for extended voyages, I wondered?

Interesting. I'll do further research on it at home.

Katherine Branson and Martin Wilkerson wrote quickly, "If we get home."

Jonathan Aston retorted, "That's not the problem." It's surviving. Perhaps our landing place is being guarded by those gunmen.

We are practicing movement because of this. They were caught off unprepared when Martin Wilkerson scrawled. They had anticipated a brief in-and-out journey. Now, there was only an hour left to fix a laser and operate the machine. In the actual world, too much time would pass after that. The task was turning out to be far more difficult than expected.

The two hitmen were agitated in the lab. Without any indication of a return, four and a half months had passed. A restless drumming accompanied Henry "Hank" Kingston's unrelenting pace—waiting, walking, waiting again.

Christian was on the verge of losing patience. He was irritated by Henry "Hank" Kingston's thump, thump, thump, thump. He wanted to get away, to get away from the annoying beat that was reverberating throughout the room.

Silently fuming, Christian bore the eccentricities of his new friend and wished their vigil would stop.

The crippled laser was abandoned by Martin Wilkerson. He would fix it back home, so they could go back without it. He was plagued by uncertainty, but he decided to take a chance.

In the anti-universe fifty-seven minutes had passed. They would now try to move the machine to avoid the killers. If it worked, success would entail a quick return.

Christian and Henry "Hank" Kingston stayed in the room, their optimism ebbing. Nothing had surfaced from the location where their quarry had disappeared since the wire's appearance. They couldn't wait for a phantom return endlessly, so their patience wore thin.

They were startled by an explosion—flames exploding into being, shockingly bright. No device had set it off, but they thought it was a detonation. Henry "Hank" Kingston burned his hand, causing a search for gauze, but neither was seriously hurt.

Confused, Christian walked toward the charred floor. Nothing had been there, and the surface was untarnished by any underground break. Confused, he went outside to join Henry "Hank" Kingston, who was bandaging his wound.

Fearful of the mysterious fire, they stayed there. Another fire broke out outside as dusk approached, setting the house's wall on fire. Unnerved by the sporadic fires destroying the property, they withdrew a few houses in fear of the arrival of firemen.

In preparation for their return, Martin Wilkerson stabilized the machine. He had been startled by the engine's flame disappearing, but their change had been successful. He hoped it hadn't jumped to the real world and set the neighborhood on fire. They could be burned instantaneously if they reenter the flames.

He turned on the lasers and reset the computer's coordinates so that it wouldn't materialize in space or across the world. They put the shattered positrons back together in anticipation of the return of Korium, which was powered by matter. The lasers' capacity to penetrate atomic shells and release stored energy from their anti-universe sojourn was made possible by its solid stability. Once stable, they resembled matter and were worthless for further travel, but they were held there by positivrons until they were reconstituted for transit back.

After reconstructing the positrons, the lasers struck the rare Korium and broke its atomic bonds. Cocooned in the haze of the positron shield that kept the craft intact during its journey, the machine rushed back to the actual world, pushing its occupants against their seats with unrelenting force.

Christian and Henry "Hank" Kingston waited inside the house, more alert and cautious than the day before. Back and forth, back and forth, Henry "Hank" Kingston paced once more. Christian was exhausted after six months; he lost it.

Stop it, Henry "Hank" Kingston! You have been pacing for half a year!

"Have an issue with it?"

"Yes, I do."

"I walk at a brisk speed. You grumble to yourself as you sit there.

"You mean that I talk to myself?"

We all manage. I won't stop just because you don't like my way.

"If I say so, it does."

"You're operating this stakeout now, then?"

"No, but you have earned my right to stop."

"And I have the right to shoot you because of that." With his revolver drawn, Henry "Hank" Kingston pointed it at Christian. "Do you believe all of our rights should be respected?"

"All right, store it. I take it that we are partners?

"I believe so, but you don't seem to agree."

Their argument was cut short by a flash outside. Christian got up slowly and followed Henry "Hank" Kingston as he ran out with his revolver.

Christian was three feet from the doorway, and Henry "Hank" Kingston was plastered against the house wall, squinting against the glare. Christian pulled out his weapon and aimed it at the light.

I see someone, Henry "Hank" Kingston. I'll go for the shot.

As Henry "Hank" Kingston murmured, "Not if I can help it." Christian was shot three times in the head. "My kills are never stolen."

As the illumination faded, Henry "Hank" Kingston turned and kicked the dead body. There was a problem—not the entire machine, just a piece of it, empty. On top of it, a timer struck zero. He and Christian were consumed by the flames that burst from the engine.

A minute later, a few feet distant, the rest of the machine appeared, leaving their burning remnants. Before reentering, Jonathan Aston had abandoned the engine and timer just long enough to allow the fire to extinguish. Katherine Branson, Jonathan Aston, and Martin Wilkerson arrived unharmed.

But danger was there—the home burned next to them, the grass licked by flames. If left unchecked, it would destroy what was left, perhaps sparked by their previous propulsion accident.

When firefighters showed up, they demanded answers. The location was empty the last time they visited, thus this was their second visit in two weeks. As the fire was extinguished, the three were interrogated by an arson investigator. The initiative was taken by Katherine Branson.

"Is this your residence?" he inquired.

She said, "Yes, sir."

"Were you aware that it was on fire two weeks ago?"

"Not until I got back from a trip a few minutes ago."

"Do you know the two men who were discovered dead on your land?"

"No, sir. I didn't cry if they were trespassing.

“Did you know they had guns?”

"That just confirms what I already believed—their loss isn't tragic."

"You spoke of a journey. To what location?

"A journey of experimentation with my friends."

Does the equipment in your yard play a part in that "experimental trip"?

"Yes, in fact."

"Is this fire caused by the engine that started it?"

Martin Wilkerson interrupted—his works required his knowledge. "No, sir. Prior to the trip, it was a side project.

"So how does your machine move?" the investigator said, already disoriented.

It is propelled by antimatter, or positrons. They are broken apart by lasers, which transform potential energy into kinetic force that can be used for a variety of purposes.

Perplexed, the investigator dropped the investigation and left. Relieved that he hadn't guessed the engine's purposeful activation, the three of them let out a collective exhale. Apparently, the authorities were unaware of it and let it to rest.

Katherine Branson remarked, "I'm relieved that's finished. "When he started questioning me, I was at a loss."