Nevada, USA, October 2024
The indifferent wind howled as it swept through the withered stalks of the abandoned cornfield; the static electricity carried within the wind lightly pricked the skin, emitting a whisper-like crackling sound at the very moment it made contact.
Twenty-four-year-old Thomson Hayes sported a neat head of golden curls as he adjusted his tripod under the star-packed night sky. The white mist he exhaled condensed in the biting wind—this was hardly the norm for October in Nevada, where in past years the temperature had lingered around 50°F (10°C) at this time. Yet tonight, the temperature had suddenly plunged to the freezing point, the air pressure had dropped sharply, and even wild dogs several miles away had begun to howl.
But none of this was enough to capture Thomson’s attention at the moment. His entire focus was fixed on the modified, scientific-grade CCD camera he had borrowed from Destin—that insufferable Caltech grad who had spent two hours boasting about the camera’s specs.
“What you’re holding is a marvel, Thomson,” Destin had drawled, caressing the matte-black chassis like a sacred relic. “Back-illuminated sensor, over 95% quantum efficiency at 557 nanometers—perfect for capturing auroral oxygen emission lines. Oh, and I swapped the stock cooler for a Peltier module. Gets the sensor down to -60°C. Sounds like a jet engine, but dark current? Zero! I’m not exaggerating—you could photograph neutrinos with this thing.” Leaning closer, his eyes gleaming, Destin added gravely, “But you absolutely must not push the gain beyond 16 bits! The firmware’ll crash. Fry the sensor, and I’ll feed you to the coyotes. Honestly, I’d never lend this to anyone else. None of them are as meticulous as you.”
Recalling Destin’s theatrics, Thomson still found it laughable, yet he keenly understood the camera’s value. Its sensor—a silicon wafer etched with microscopic charge wells—trapped photons like jars capturing fireflies. DSLRs, with their pathetic 40% quantum efficiency, were blind by comparison.
”Scientific-grade CCD—the perfect tool to capture the aurora’s ghostly dance… if it deigns to appear…”
Thomson wiped the lens, silently pleading for the lights to manifest.
1:47 AM. The first green tendril ignited the northern horizon.
Thomson froze, knuckles whitening around the tripod. The sky was cracking—as if the firmament were glass, now splintered by the aurora’s assault. Emerald-green cascades poured through the fissure, their edges tinged with eerie violet, as though unknown elements burned in the ionosphere.
It was Thomson’s first encounter with such majesty. An invisible vise gripped his throat, yet awe still clawed its way out: “Gorgeous… perfect… oxygen atoms transitioning from 1S to 1D states… 557.7 nanometers exactly…”
Suddenly, the words jolted him.
“God!” He’d forgotten to turn the camera on!
Fumbling the shutter button, he accidentally activated video mode. His trembling hands worsened as the distant emergency light died. Frantic swipes across the touchscreen sent the ISO skyrocketing from 800 to 12,800!
The camera emitted a shrill whine. Overloaded circuits triggered the built-in flash. A searing bolt of light erupted—a silver dragon lunging at the sky. The aurora responded as if provoked: its gentle green curtains coalesced into three helical beams, jade serpents colliding mid-air.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
CRACK.
The clash detonated diamond-sharp shards of light, bleaching the cornfield daylight-white. Withered stalks thrashed in the gale, ice crystals frosting their sheaths like death-scattered salt.
Before Thomson could react, the shockwave hurled him and the camera to the frozen ground.
Thomson’s back slammed into the permafrost, sharp pain radiating through his body. None of that mattered now. He crawled on hands and knees toward the tripod. The CCD camera—worth three years’ tuition—lay half-buried in frozen soil. He lifted it gingerly, examined every inch. A low hum still vibrated from its core. The titanium alloy shell bore a savage scar where it had gouged the earth.
Thomson scrubbed the viewfinder with his sleeve, his breath condensing into white plumes in the frigid air—relief! Destin’s pride and joy, the back-illuminated sensor, showed no damage. Save for the gash marring its shell, every component functioned flawlessly.
Thomson slumped onto the permafrost, exhaling sharply through clenched teeth as he finally steadied himself to review the aurora footage. He never noticed the crackling whispers deep within the cornfield—sounds that lay buried beneath layers of desiccated stalks, like millennia-old ice shearing apart molecule by molecule.
Thomson jabbed the playback button with trembling fingers. The screen snapped into existence, revealing the aurora in its captured glory. Luminous flux sculpted forms of geometric perfection—emerald and crimson bands not of random diffusion, but of crystalline lattices that obeyed strict Euclidean ratios. It was ionized plasma choreographed with algorithmic precision, as if the heavens had solved an equation in real time.
The further he scrolled, the more breathtaking the images became. One moment, all light bands resembled endless emerald ribbons weaving an exitless labyrinth in the sky; just as Thomson leaned in to study their mystery, they shattered into rotating gears of starlight, each tooth erupting with molten-gold orange-red brilliance.
The interplay of luminosity and form before his eyes defied every aurora Thomson had ever documented.
Tremors of awe still coursing through him, he dispatched the images to his circle in a flurry of keystrokes.
His phone began vibrating wildly within moments. A tidal wave of replies from friends threatened to drown him—all equally awestruck.
'Wow! You genius! You've discovered structures never before seen in real auroras!'
'No, this isn't just new for auroras—this is beauty never before manifested in any phenomenon!'
'My God! This is too beautiful!'
'These aren't auroras—they're prime numbers dancing across coordinate axes!'
'Thomson—get this online now. Show the world what we're seeing.'
'Heavens, this is a night that demands screaming!'
......
Notifications pinged in relentless succession, the screen a deluge of unread messages that drowned Thomson’s ability to process them. He slid the phone into his parka’s inner pocket.
Time to pack and depart.
This night—this night—had seared itself into history with its impossible light.
Thomson crouched on the frost-rimed ground, wool-gloved hands cradling the camera body as visions of a dozen aurora forum posts already crystallized in his mind. Enthusiasts across continents would be stunned into ecstasy by these unprecedented, awe-striking captures. His lips curved upward unbidden once more.
Thomson methodically packed his gear, the motions threaded through with lingering euphoria. Even as he loaded the final case into his truck and pulled onto the desolate road, joy still thrummed beneath his ribs.
He never noticed the crackling whispers from the distant cornfield—The crackling not only persisted but swelled in unrelenting crescendo.
Surely something—an ancient silkworm chrysalis has cracked its glacial chrysalis—has emerged.
At the field's edge, three scarecrows stood sentinel. Their heads, perpetually bowed for decades untold, now tilted skyward. Their eyes remained unwaveringly fixed on the distant stars.
They had awakened.
