Ross Cuthross's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Ross knelt in the cold desert sand and leveled the tripod for the eleventh time. His telescope rig clicked into place, lenses aimed at the same patch of sky. Out past the brush, his tall measurement board stood like a lonely road sign, white surface marked with grids he used to track size and speed. He had come here to take the first real photo of a craft. Tonight he wanted proof no one could wave away. The lights came at 2:14 a.m., fast and low. Ross fired the shutter. The craft crossed the grid board in under a second. He checked the screen and his stomach dropped. Smears. Just bright smears against the dark. At this range and speed, his rig was blind. Any journal would call it a blur and toss it in the trash. He sat back on his heels and stared at the ruined frames. The signature was real. The lens was not enough. Ross unscrewed the camera from the mount and set it in the dirt. He needed a faster sensor, a longer reach, and money he did not have. To get any of that, he would have to break his own rule. He would have to let someone in.