Surface of Any Kind.

Martin Wilkerson and Carlton Scythe worked together to build the spaceships. It was crucial for the mission's systems operator to comprehend their mechanics. He was fascinated by the idea of positronic regression—a ground-breaking technology that was unmatched in its inventiveness.

Outside of the original three members of the team—Katherine Branson, Jonathan Aston, and Martin Wilkerson—Carlton Scythe was the first to enter the anti-universe. He was mesmerized by the desolate gray scenery, its grim tones oddly energizing. He understood its nature better than Martin Wilkerson, who was still perplexed by how it operated.

Reality in this case was shaped by perception. If it were solid, it would remain solid; if it were liquid, it would flow; if it were illusory, it would allow you to pass through without any problems.

This was revealed by Carlton Scythe on his expedition. He had developed a personal positron suit and was tasked by Martin Wilkerson to tackle the problem of unintentional returns to the actual universe. Lost in his thoughts, he inadvertently strolled into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Real-world physics took hold of him as he looked down—panic swept through him, and he fell into the watery depths. But he was able to swim quickly to shore thanks to the anti-universe's compressed scale. There was a flash of insight.

He had made it through the majority of the Atlantic without sinking. He stepped onto the water, hoping it would be solid, to test his suspicion. He was successful, walking across its surface with intense concentration. He visualized Earth as liquid, extending the hypothesis, and immediately splattered into it.

His focus was broken by the shock; the earth immediately became hard. He sighed in relief as he sprawled on top of it, not buried inside.

He willed Earth gaseous after that. The surface disappeared, exposing the gray, seething expanse of a star below, its subdued tint contrasted sharply with flames scorching his ankles.

Carlton Scythe remembered Martin Wilkerson's propulsion theories when he realized Earth had dimmed above. He leaped for the invisible planet and landed where he had fallen. He decided to go back before the colony left, shaken.

Martin Wilkerson worked on the colony ships while Carlton Scythe investigated. He had mastered the lasers and positronic field generators for regression, but he was frustrated by the Corium engine. Its enormous diamond chamber was difficult to scale; perfect construction required constant attention to detail and multiple tries.

Sixty souls were recruited for the voyage, twenty per ship, if finished in time, the scientific team decided. They formed friendships and trained together, while outside their facility, the world was crashing into destruction.

The victim of the phone booth was quickly identified by Mitchell Conway. Felix McCarten's death was notable since pay phones were uncommon and unpredictable due to radiation interference. He was a bankrupt businessman who had lost his wife and friends. It should have been easy to identify the attackers, particularly after the second strike, which was a major public demand.

Reality, however, eluded ease. There were no phone numbers, addresses, or physical signs of McCarten's associates throughout the shields. Credit cards and bills had been cleaned, and their existence had been erased.

However, Mitchell Conway discovered a hint in McCarten's coat pocket: two names written hurriedly on a piece that could be deciphered with effort—Gideon Danvers and Leonard Hollis, two other unsuccessful businessmen McCarten had sought out before passing away.

Near a building site, Gideon Danvers was killed when he was crushed by falling walling; the police claimed it was a "accident," but Mitchell Conway had his doubts.

After suffering severe injuries in the Alpha Shield III subway explosion, Leonard Hollis fought for his life in Bravo Shield II Hospital. His train was pinned by debris, killing many. He had just escaped when the side of his automobile crumpled, throwing him through a window, but he had returned to his seat after recognizing an acquaintance. His face was torn by glass, but he lived.

Three men connected—one mute, one dead, and one almost so. A trend surfaced, connected to the terrorist attacks Mitchell Conway promised to stop. He would persistently chase the call of heroism.

For months, Martin Wilkerson had been so focused on his business that he had forgotten about his courtroom confrontation with Georgia Philmore until a rare day off startled him. Her behavior suggested a conspiracy against his brother, the president, whom he had never met. Martin Wilkerson, exonerated of his parents' actions, felt obliged to discover the danger and stop suicide attempts.

Determined, he barged inside the courthouse. Nobody was going to stop him. He saw the sign: Georgia Philmore, and charged down the hall etched in memory to her office. He advanced cautiously since he was afraid of ambush or gunshots.

He braced as footsteps approached and knocked. Georgia Philmore appeared momentarily surprised, her jaw slack and her eyes wide, when the door flung open. She attempted to close it after regaining her composure, but Martin Wilkerson's foot blocked the opening.

He said, "Georgia Philmore, I have some questions."

"I apologize, but I have a lot on my plate right now—no time," she dodged.

"I believe you'll find time. I'm freeing up your time. Don't worry, it won't take long. He pushed the door open and walked in, casually asserting his claim to a seat.

"I don't know you, sir. "Please go," she demanded.

"You are familiar with me. First, why would you target my brother?

"I don't understand what you're saying. You and your brother are strangers to me. Simply leave. His composure was broken by her denial. He seized her by the throat and lunged against the wall.

“Why my brother?” he said, his fingers tightening.

He eased off to hear her raspy response, which she choked. "Because I want to rule this country," she said, coughing.

"So I'm a barrier? Why would you try to kill me, I know?

"No one is pursuing you; you're paranoid."

"I'm not suspicious!" His face flushed with rage, he yelled.

Calmly, "It's your condition," she said. "You can't avoid it."

"I'm not just paranoid," he shot back, balancing. At least five people have attempted to kill me in the last few years. The truth is that I killed my father, and assassins were sent to find me. I've earned my paranoia, if I have one.

Georgia Philmore thought about it. He used his father's death as leverage. "Maybe, but we don't intend to murder you."

She gasped, pinned once more, and said, "All right—you threaten our plan to oust the president."

"You're planning to kill him?"

"Not exactly—our goal is to discredit and get rid of him." A mid-term president cannot be overthrown by discrediting him alone, so he had better not understand politics.

"What if I disagree with that?"

"You can't stop it because someone else will start it and you don't know who they are."

The gray-haired man entered through the creaking door. “How is the president doing, Georgia Philmore—” He saw Martin Wilkerson and froze. "I apologize; I didn't mean to interrupt."

"What is the president, sir?" "Press," said Martin Wilkerson.

"Nothin'. Was "presidential" what I said?

Martin Wilkerson moved forward, meeting his gaze. "I want an answer to the question I asked."

The man stumbled, "The, uh, presidential court statement."

"I know your game; don't waste your time creating it." A look of surprise crossed the man's face as he looked at Georgia Philmore, who mouthed, "He doesn't know everything," and shook her head discreetly.

The man steadied his breathing with relief. "All right, you've got us. I am among the others.

"Others? Are there any more?

"Do you believe that two people could overthrow a president?" Then Georgia Philmore spoke up.

It's true that I misjudged the extent. But those I know are participating, I will stop them.

"What do you mean?" she inquired cautiously.

"Just that." Martin Wilkerson pulled out a dart gun and fired quickly. They both fell, unconscious. He looked for their plan on the computer.

He was startled by the beep of the intercom. "Philmore, Georgia? Are you present?

There wasn't much time—someone would shortly look into it. He quickly overruled after skimming a file. He quickly left the courthouse before the fallen duo was found, tucking the dart pistol into his jeans.