FOUR YEARS AGO
Movie Theatre. Shelby, Montana City.
7:30 p.m.
ZACK
I stroll toward the Roxy Theater, its glowing marquee and wooden façade evoking an era long past. ROXY gleams in golden letters, a beacon for the stories awaiting inside. Two guards stand by the entrance. I flash my invitation, and they step aside, allowing me through.
Inside, the theater feels timeless. Ruby-red curtains frame the screen, and rows of plush seats stretch out like an audience to history. Soft golden lights above cast a warm glow, and the quiet buzz of anticipation fills the packed room. I take a seat at the front, on the right side, just as the countdown begins on the screen. The audience collectively holds its breath.
Minutes later, the screen comes alive. A countdown starts, and the audience holds its breath. The movie begins, unfolding a tale of honor and betrayal in 17th-century Japan. Shadows move through cherry blossoms, and I'm drawn into the story.
But a flicker of movement catches my eye. A woman sits ahead, to the left. Her presence, even in the dim light, commands notice. Her hair falls in soft waves, catching the flicker of the screen. She glances back, her eyes brushing mine, and the faintest smile touches her lips—brief, yet magnetic. It feels like a moment stolen from the film itself. By 9:00 p.m., the credits roll, and people begin filing out. She remains, her focus shifting to a notebook she's scribbling in, her pen moving with intent.
I hesitate, watching her for a moment, the quiet confidence I summon feeling fragile. Then I take a breath, step forward, and slip into the seat beside her.
"Hello. Good evening," I say, keeping my voice gentle.
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. "Evening. Do I know you?"
"No, but I saw you enjoying the movie. I'm Zack Hughson. Did you like it?"
She smiles, a hint of curiosity in her gaze. "I did. I'm Helen Garrison." We shake hands, her touch light but firm.
"Beautiful name," I say, and she laughs softly, her smile widening.
"Thank you, Zack." Her voice is calm, her presence easy.
I glance at her notebook. "What are you working on?"
"Just some calculations," she replies, her tone casual but focused.
"Can I see?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She hesitates, then nods, sliding the notebook toward me. "Sure."
I scan the page, the symbols and numbers foreign yet mesmerizing. My brow furrows as I try to make sense of them.
"These… they're fascinating. What are they for?" I glance at her, my curiosity growing.
She smiles faintly, her eyes gleaming with quiet mystery. "That's a story for another time."
PRESENT DAY
In the confined quarters of our shuttle, my wife Helen and I, joined by six fellow members of the Cosmic Craftsmen, embark on an ambitious experiment to unravel the mysteries of radioactivity.
"This is it—a chance to unlock the secrets of the cosmos right here in our shuttle!" Helen exclaims, her voice brimming with excitement.
Armed with a sample of uranium and a trusty Geiger-Muller counter, our scientific journey unfolds within the metallic embrace of the spacecraft.
"Let's make history, folks!" one of the Craftsmen chimes in, his enthusiasm infectious.
The team watches in anticipation as we position the uranium sample near the detector. The Geiger-Muller counter responds with a sharp symphony of clicks, a sound that exceeds the expected background radiation levels. Each click seems to echo our growing excitement.
"Looks like we've got something extraordinary here," I say, my voice steady with a mix of wonder and caution. "Get ready to document everything."
As we meticulously record the radioactive emissions, decoding the language of particles within the uranium, the shuttle's interior becomes a theater of scientific revelation. The Cosmic Craftsmen, united in our quest for knowledge, marvel at the unfolding spectacle.
"This is beyond anything we imagined," one of the Craftsmen murmurs, his eyes fixed on the counter.
But amidst the thrill of discovery, an unsettling shift occurs. The Geiger-Muller counter's rhythm, once reliable and steady, falters. Clicks morph into erratic stutters, each irregular burst breaking the spell of our excitement.
"Wait," Helen says, her voice tinged with concern. "What's happening? Is everything alright?"
I lean closer, frowning at the display. "It might be a glitch. Let's not panic—check the connections."
The team exchanges uneasy glances as tension thickens in the confined space. The once-exhilarating experiment now carries an undercurrent of unease.
"Is it just the counter, or is something else going on?" one of the Craftsmen asks, his voice breaking the silence.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," I say, though I can feel my own nerves fraying. "Double-check the readings and recalibrate the equipment."
The minutes stretch as we work together, each of us acutely aware of the counter's erratic stutters. The low hum of the shuttle's systems feels louder now, an unwelcome reminder of our isolation in the void.
Then, one of the Craftsmen gasps. "Guys… look at them."
Two of our team members, who have been standing closest to the sample, are pale and visibly trembling. Beads of sweat line their faces, and one clutches his stomach with a grimace.
"Oh no," Helen whispers, stepping forward. "They're showing signs of acute radiation exposure."
A chill settles over the room as the reality of the situation sinks in. The air, once filled with excitement, now carries a weight that is suffocating.
"We have to get them to the medbay," I say urgently. "And we need to isolate that sample."
As we scramble to act, alarms blare throughout the shuttle, their shrill cries slicing through the rising panic. The control panels flash ominously, and the steady vibration of the shuttle shifts into a jarring turbulence.
"Mayday! We're losing control!" one of the Craftsmen shouts over the chaos.
The shuttle lurches violently, throwing us against the walls. Sparks fly from a nearby console, and the lights flicker, plunging the cabin into alternating moments of light and shadow.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Helen says, her voice trembling as she grips a support beam. "What have we done?"
I reach for her hand as the shuttle spirals, the dreams of discovery we once shared slipping away into a nightmare of destruction.
---
Aftermath
In this cosmic theater, where the beauty of discovery and the harsh reality of consequence intertwine, the Cosmic Craftsmen grapple not only with the secrets of radioactivity but also with the profound impact it can wield on the fragile fabric of human existence.
To be continued....