A Voyage in the Near Distance 1: From Here to Nearly There Read online

  From Here to Nearly There

  Book One of “A Voyage in the Near Distance”

  Alec Merta

  www.alecmerta.com

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Alec Merta

  All rights reserved.

  Space imagery courtesy NASA/JPL-Caltech

  To Elaine and David

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  I ask you to consider two planets.

  Both progress through countless orbits around stars that could be twins. Yet those stars, like the planets I am setting-out to describe, lie many light years from each other. They are separated by a gulf of space so vast that whole civilizations would expire before a spacecraft of our day could complete even a fraction of the crossing between. They are as separate as any two objects in the universe can be. Yet, they are very much alike.

  Such is the distance that any similarities shared between the two worlds should be limited to physical superficialities. Indeed, they do share certain superficial qualities. The radius of both planets is just under four thousand miles. They both amass to something like 5.9 × 1024 kilograms, give or take. The gravity of both measures around 9.78 meters per second2. Statistic after statistic mentioned in regard to one planet is nearly the same for the other.

  These are qualities that seem important, and indeed they would be like bolts of lightning to cosmologists and astronomers. Yet, they are qualities that devolve into mere trivia when compared to the more essential ways the two worlds are twinned. For you see, reader, the planets I write about are in the most salient and critical ways identical. It is less important that a year on one world lasts as long as a year on the other. It is much more important that the word ‘year’ has the same meaning on both planets.

  That is but one of an endless catalogue of words, concepts, idioms, and objects that are common to the two planets these books concern. Instead of laboring the point, however, it is more prudent to encourage you to read on. I trust you will find the two worlds and their mysterious interconnection as fascinating as I did when I traveled from one to the other.

  The first planet is a beguiling blue sphere marking a stately progression around a yellow, G-type main-sequence star. Where the planet is not blue, it is dappled with a terrestrial palette of greens and browns. It is capped at both poles by the featureless white of endless ice. It is obviously alive, this planet; obviously inhabited by a well-established ecosystem.

  The second planet is Earth.

  These chronicles are by me, Nicholas Carver. I am the first resident of Earth to visit the planet Rhedel. I am not an author, scientist, or astronaut. I am a surveyor and mapmaker. Thus, I am a member of a profession that makes me only marginally suited to observing an alien world and making a useful report back to the people of Earth. You understand, of course, that my professional background does not particularly suit me to analyzing and reporting on the history and people Rhedel.

  In light of my meager qualifications, I ask you to indulge the shortcomings of a simple man trying to fulfill a duty that has been ordained to him. For the sake of clarity and exposition, much of what I originally set down has been re-written under the guidance of more learned people of Earth and, more frequently, of the great city of Newmarch, largest of all cities on the Rhedelian continent of Talis.

  As we travel together, I will attempt to explore the mystery of Rhedel’s similarity to Earth. I will also make you familiar with a second, more unnerving mystery.

  That mystery, known to some as the Myth of the Wanderer, was not immediately revealed to me by either my hosts or my employers. I believe this was concealed in order to allow ample time to process what has been known to them for many years: humanity is not a species unique to a single planet. That alone is profound and unsettling. But to also learn that concepts like the automobile, ballet, and the English language exist, along with countless others, on two planets separated by hundreds of light years? That can unravel a mind. Trust me, I know what I am talking about.

  Regardless of the reason for keeping me in the dark, I bear no ill will toward anyone for keeping the Myth of the Wanderer from me. It is a mystery that consumed the lives of brilliant people long before I ever voyaged aboard the Near Distance. I am grateful that I was there in the end, when the answer was finally found.

  One or two final topics must be addressed before we begin.

  Due to the extreme sensitivity of the on-going negotiations between the Unified Nations Bloc (the “UNB”) and the Avertine Empire, I have agreed to allow representatives of both governments to review and approve this text. The glacier-like pace of bureaucracy being another thing common to the human worlds, such review is time-consuming. In an effort to speed things along, my editor and I have agreed to receive approved text in a piecemeal fashion.

  What you are about to read is the first portion of my chronicles to be vetted and approved by all concerned parties. Further accounts of my time aboard the Near Distance will be published as each new section is approved. I ask your patience in this, especially in light of the awesome opportunities these negotiations may hold for humans on Rhedel, Earth, and elsewhere in the cosmos. We are living in truly remarkable times, and humanity’s penchant for self-damage must be accorded its share of caution and vigilance.

  Now, in this first book, I will tell you how I became a passenger aboard the interstellar pleasure craft Near Distance.

  1

  Various rules of drama dictate that a tale of adventure set on an alien world should begin in an appropriately dramatic location. Novels of mystery and suspense often introduce characters slinking through fogbound Victorian side streets or clambering across the dunes of Egyptian deserts. All the better to set the tone, you see.

  This tale, I regret to say, is true. Veracity is a far stricter taskmaster than drama, and it requires that I begin this tale where the first notable events took place. That locale is dramatic in its own quiet way, but the dramatic quality is probably lost on anyone without an interest in geology or Paleolithic earthworks. For you, reader, it is very likely that our first scene takes place in a location you have never thought to visit. I fear that you will still not likely do so after reading what is produced below.

  Apologies made, let us now turn to the North York Moors.

  I am a surveyor and cartographer by trade and training. During the days I write about, I was employed by the Ordinance Survey, one of the last truly great English establishments. I was an employee of the Government, and my home was located in the village of Albury.

  Being a surveyor, I am blessed to find myself on many work days far from home and wandering through the comely English landscape. My colleagues and I spend our fair share of time confined to more urban surroundings, but more commonly we are let loose to record the data that lays strewn about in various wolds and dales.

  On what would become my final assignment for Her Majesty’s Government, I had been tasked with conducting a routine re-surveying of a portion of the shire county in North Yorkshire that is located on the Moors. I had spent
a few days checking and re-checking various pieces of data and updating the status of points of interest that appeared on OS maps of the region.

  For those of you who are not English (and those of you who are but who view information presented in non-electronic formats with a degree of skepticism), the Ordinance Survey maps of England are some of the most beautiful and exacting works of human craft ever produced. They are a passing glory that will no doubt be lost to the ages in a few short years. This, it seems to me, is a sad inevitability in the age of online maps and sat-navs. No matter their beauty and quality, few people ever bother to employ OS maps these days. That is a tragedy.

  Even as I write this description of the rolling and seductive grace of Northern England, I have on my desk a faded and crumpled 1:50,000 OS map of the region. At a glance, I can see symbols littered across the page. There are glyphs for pillars (triangular), windmills (with and without sails), antiquities (Roman and non-Roman), and many other cartographical oddities. These combine with markings for things like gardens, pumps, and disused lighthouses to paint an exquisitely detailed picture of the countryside.

  My point is that the OS does a really good job, and I was both happy and proud to be a part of its functioning. My motivation was even sufficient to propel me over the endless rises and down the many dips one must traverse in order to really document the North York Moors.

  As I said, I had been dispatched to the Moors for the rather simple task of verifying some data and logging places that may need future re-evaluation. That was my professional mandate for the week, but personally I was just looking forward to the walk.

  I had driven up from Albury on a late September night and stayed over at a little guest house in the North Yorkshire village of Rosebury Abbey. The village is blessedly tiny and quaint; a relic of Yorkshire’s now defunct coal mining days.

  It is also rather timeless. The village sports architecture from many periods. One may easily locate examples of works produced during every period from Georgian through that of the post-war era. These are commingled with modern elements like television aerials and advertisements for mobile phone services. The result is a place out-of-time. Such is the anachronistic feel of Rosebury that one might expect it to become the setting for an ITV or BBC period drama. Trust me, they could do worse.

  On an especially busy day, you will not run into much of a crowd as you perambulate down the well-kept streets and past stone buildings with charming orange roofs. On the early evening of my arrival, I counted only a handful of locals milling about.

  I should clarify that, when I say ‘local’ I do not necessarily mean people who were born in the village. Perhaps as a result of Rosebury’s location in a land buffeted by the rise and fall of industry, it is a town populated largely by, as it were, foreigners. Even Mr. Wendell, the kindly proprietor of my hotel, was only recently moved to the place, having spent the first forty years of his life learning the hotelier trade in the Lake District.

  This characteristic gives the people of Rosebury a rather interesting linguistic quality. Despite its small population, a visitor such as myself inevitably encounters far more dialectic variety than would normally be expected. I counted four or five accents being deployed throughout the place. I started to get the impression that a bunch of people from all across England had stumbled upon an abandoned village and set about lovingly refurbishing it. I liked it a lot.

  The week’s work passed smoothly and, blessedly, the weather had held. On my last night in Rosebury before wrapping up and heading back to Albury, I decided to treat myself to as unhealthy and baselessly satisfying a meal as I could find. Being a farming community, it was relatively easy to locate and subsequently spoil myself with ample helpings of sausage, mash, and peas. I added several pints of local beer as a sort of internal emulsifier and achieved the desired effect. Namely, I ended up sated and, after trundling up the stairs at my hotel, slumbering soundly in my bed; warm and content. Given the adventure that was to begin soon after I awoke, it was a good thing I had a hearty meal and got lots of sleep.

  I arose early the next day and donned my very finest nylon pants, plaid shirt, and high visibility jacket. After settling my account, I loaded my car with my belongings, leaving out only my rucksack and a light orange bump cap. Putting these on, I was prepared to get to work.

  The first path I would take that morning lay a short distance to the south. I walked away from my car and down the lane that ran in that direction. The temperature had dropped to about six or seven degrees, cold but not out of line for that time of year. The forecast for the next several days included a steep drop in temperature and a good chance of rain. As it was, I was happy that my time on the Moors would be over by early afternoon. Fetching or not, I had no desire to traipse through the countryside in freezing rain.

  The stroll through the village gave my legs a chance to warm-up to the idea of walking several miles. My mind also benefited as I took in the sights. There were small shops along the street, and I was happy to notice a distinctively local flavor to these. While the usual blight of corporate branding was present, as it is in every English village, it was restrained and co-equal with local businesses.

  Near the center of the village, I passed a large commons. This was too small to be called a park, but it was clearly large enough to provide villagers with a gathering place for picnics. Its diminutive size was made all the more pronounced by a looming tower that lay on its northern edge.

  The tower had, I later learned, once been connected to a municipal building constructed during the late Victorian period. That building, which was destroyed by a fire sometime after the turn of the century, must have been somewhat avant garde when it was built, for it had a distinctly Edwardian look to it. The brickwork had been arranged so as to give it a striped appearance. Horizontal lines of red brick alternated with bricks of a tan color for the first two-thirds of the tower. The top portion was clad in stone and contained the clock itself. It also sported a platform that must have offered delightful views of the surrounding landscape.

  In my eagerness to complete the day’s work, I spent very little time sightseeing. I ambled on and soon reached the path toward the Moors. I headed down it and saw a party of amblers ahead of me. There were five of them, and two seemed to be inexperienced. These were fumbling with their packs and engaging in a lively question and answer period with the other three. I could tell at once that the idea of walking up and down modest climbs and dips had sounded a lot better back in Fulham or Putney or wherever they lived than it did on the Moors themselves. I bid them good morning and made my way past.

  National parks in England are becoming unfortunately crowded places. That is not a complaint exactly, but neither is it something I am entirely happy about. I mean, it is very rewarding to see people savoring the splendid beauty that England tucks away in such places, but there is certainly a downside. Namely, it is very difficult to truly “get away from it all” because “it all” tends to be pretty much everywhere you go. Worse, now it seems as though everyone you run into, despite the remoteness of the location, has enough mobile phone signal to justify pausing every ten feet to update their legions of social media followers or friends or what-have-you.

  So it was a rare treat, for slightly twisted reasons that will become clear, that I was heading into a portion of the North York Moors National Park that normally teemed with people but that, today, would be entirely devoid of human occupation. No fellow amblers, experienced or novice, would be there to share the land with me.

  Until I got there, however, I did run into a few others. More ‘good mornings’ were uttered and pleasant waves exchanged. Again, it is not that I dislike people. I simply value solitude.

  I hefted the modest load of my pack for a mile or so before reaching a fork in the path. The reason for my anticipated solitude lay just down the route I intended to take.

  This took the form of a bright orange warning sign that was affixed to a portable pedestrian barrier. On it were the
words “Entry Forbidden.” Another, smaller sign gave some details as to the reason the path was blocked. This was written in dense bureaucrat-speak and made official by the inclusion of the British Environment Agency’s daft little logo.

  Just an aside here, but have you ever really looked at the logo of the Environment Agency? It’s one of those new, minimalist designs we are all choking to death on in this era of social media-friendly marketing. In other words, a real-world logo slavishly designed to look good on a web page, and the very type of emblem every politician raced to adopt around, say, 2008.

  You know the kind of thing I am talking about, of course, even if you don’t know that you do. These are logos in primary colors that are nearly devoid of detail. When humans are included, they are reduced to partially rendered curve figures, and they are usually suspended next to some dull text written in an equally minimalist sans serif font. I hate them. If it were up to me, we’d go back to the graphic design vernacular of the 1970’s. At least then when people tried to be minimalist, they ended up with something funky. No, I am not a fan.

  Also, I have always thought the little man in the new EA logo looks like a tiny magician displaying a flourished finale with lots of fire. Or maybe it is a little ninja whose smoke bomb exit was all smoke and no exit.

  Maybe you should just go look it up for yourself.

  So, now you understand why I said my enjoyment of unexpected pastoral solitude was somewhat twisted. I hope you don’t hate me for telling you that I had a big grin on my face as I walked by the “Warning - Keep Out” sign.

  I was heading to a place that had recently been cordoned off by the EA due to some pressing ecological concerns on the land. The report delivered to my office had been scant on details, but the Agency had indicated that a temporary cautionary measure would be taken while they came to grips with the imminent collapse of all life as we know it, or something to that effect. Oddly, the text did not imply that harm would come to a person intruding on the bounded area. No leaking gasses, unexpected sources of radiation, or slumbering kaiju awaited trespassers. Rather the Agency simply made it clear that a sensitive environmental location was in peril, and any person selfish and evil enough to amble through would, not to overstate too much, put at risk the lives of every man, woman, and child on Earth.