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

by Alec Merta

The new lights denoted conventional aircraft. I knew they were most likely military in nature. These roared overhead in the direction of the fleeing triangle. I could see great gouts of flame trailing behind them as the pilots drove their planes hard. In the flicker of time it took for them to cross us, I turned to see the object. It was no more than a bright star. No jet aircraft would lay a glove on the mysterious visitor.

  I was so thunderstruck that I nearly failed to notice the engine re-starting and the lights re-lighting all around me. Allie was more keen, however (as she nearly always is, I must add), and she wasted no time launching the vehicle toward the farm complex. There was a clearly marked gap in the structure, and she drove headlong for it.

  Men and machines stood everywhere. The men darted out of the way, and Allie gave way to the machines as she raced through. Soon enough, we had made it to the delightfully tarmacked roadway. She turned east. The sat-nav, now working perfectly, confirmed our route as the correct way to the A-road that would put us on course for York and then, ultimately, back to the Moors.

  7

  We followed a route that led indirectly from Wetherby to York. It would have been scenic and even pleasantly diverting under more placid circumstances. Not so for us that night. Generally speaking, the route was pastoral. Endless fields stretched before us as we drove. These lay primarily toward the north and ran deep to the green expanses of erstwhile coal country. I knew them to be gentle and pleasant to walk through. Never in my life had I expected to be slinking through them in an attempt at avoiding police and God-knows-what-else.

  In the dark, I caught sight of lights sprinkled here and there. These, I knew, were the soft beacons that indicated the presence of homes and the odd commercial building open so late. Seeing them made me long to be in such cozy confines. I would have traded so much to be in a seat that was not moving at fifty miles per hour; exulting in the warmth of a fire instead of the dry heat of our stolen vehicle’s equally stolen air conditioner.

  You know, as I sit in relative safety to write this narrative, I find myself wondering if I really would have swapped places with the occupant of a snug little farmhouse. I recognize that only a lunatic would have had to consider the proposition for longer than a nanosecond. Yet, I confess to you that I am not entirely certain if I would have leapt at the chance to free myself from the most unusual circumstances of that evening. Certainly I would not do so given the information I now possess. That, as you will come to understand if you stick with me, is almost a given. It is, therefore, a little odd that even ignorant, I might well have chosen to remain with the mysterious Allie; she who had stolen from me and plunged me into a world where police were my adversaries and impossible flying objects stalked my very life.

  So it was that I sat silently and in a contemplative mood; watching the English countryside slide by my window. I found myself becoming drawn into a reverie. I was hypnotized by the unending sameness of it all.

  Once, I started in my seat with a frightened jerk. A brilliant flash of light off to the north illuminated the countryside. For a long fraction of a second, the land beneath was lit up in brilliant blue light that cast sharp and jagged shadows.

  “It’s going to get bad tonight,” I said a moment later. Allie said nothing in response. She had been silent ever since the service station those eons ago in Wetherby. I did not press her for a response. She had clearly seen it also.

  The lightning was followed a few seconds later by a low and insistent thunderclap. It was not raining, but I knew that would not be very far off. I took to examining the countryside each time it was briefly illuminated by a bolt. In an oddly contended way, I started counting the time between bolts and booms just as my father had taught me to do when I was a boy. The storm, according to my crude calculations, was fast approaching.

  Fog began to coalesce out of nothingness. Instead of rolling upon us in the way of a Boris Karloff movie, it seemed to materialize into existence. First it was a faint mist, but within minutes it had built to a thick cloud that clung to the ground and occulted the world. Allie did not slow down even though our headlights barely penetrated the murk.

  Periodically, we would see a dark shape looming out in the distance. I leaned forward to watch some brick building or modern wall slide up and past us. As the fog and the weather built, I started to wonder if we would even notice a large, black triangle silently stalking our course. We would not, I decided, and let the thought drop. We had no choice but to press on.

  But did we? Could we not call for help? This thought set me to wondering just how mad my story would sound if I uttered it in the presence of, say, a provincial Detective Inspector. How would Morse or Frost react? Not well, I decided. That given, I considered that we may have overlooked other options.

  By this time the military must have concluded that England’s skies had been invaded by a vehicle that, in comparison to their own feeble flying machines, was almost godly in nature. Wouldn’t they have a desire to learn what I could tell them?

  That, however, would only come with the inescapable collateral effect of betraying Allie. I should have had no sense of loyalty to the woman. Only a day before, I had not even known she existed. So why should I care about her when the very course of my life lay in the balance?

  I hope you will not conclude that my reason for caring was in any way brought about by a sense of fear as to Allie. Believe me when I say that I was not afraid of her. In the first place, despite her earlier threats on my life, she had exhibited far more confidence than ability. I could barely accept that she truly was some type of secret commando, but only just. If she was one, her performance that night indicated that she earned the title by attending a weekend cloak-and-dagger adventure camp. I knew no spies nor SAS types, but I have seen enough television to recognize a lack of ability. So I felt pretty secure in the belief that Allie would not be able to kill me with a twitch of her ring finger or via concealed dart gun.

  Truth be told, her performance was not precisely the cause of my lack of fear. Allie, as you will get to understand, has a way about her. She is obviously an attractive woman, but that immediately apparent quality belies something. After considering her for some moments, and especially after watching her mannerisms, Allie reveals herself as a girl frozen in time and then simply expanded, as it were, into adulthood. She is like an awkward teenager who bares the trappings of being a grown-up with some difficulty. The result is that she comes off as innocent and gangly while simultaneously womanly and fetching.

  Okay, none of that really gets the point across. I’m sorry, you will just have to spend some time with her. You will not regret it, I promise.

  The scenery began to change as we approached York. Small and distantly separated buildings began to coalesce until, through the fog, I detected a glow of lights denoting our approach to the city.

  Traffic had been light for our journey. So I was surprised to see red lights glow before us like the eyes of a fairytale beast blocking our path. Of course these were just the taillights of stopped cars.

  This occurred as we were approaching the roundabout that would take us from the A59 onto the A1237. Slowdowns in such places are not uncommon, obviously, but I was mildly put off by the sudden standstill. The halted cars and looming fog put me in mind of a Cold War movie. We could have been Richard Burton or Michael Caine trying to sneak across the boarder between East and West Germany. I half expected to see men in gray Stasi uniforms halting cars to inspect papers. Thankfully, this was just a typical English tailback.

  The road that led to the roundabout was bordered on both sides by modest hedgerows. Such was our position in line that we could not see anything of the other roads leading into the roundabout, and we were too far back to see why all movement had stopped.

  Allie tensed up ever so slightly. I rather sensed her growing stiff and turning her head in my direction. I mouthed, “What?” She raised her chin half an inch and replied.

  “Look over there.”

  I turned to my le
ft and gazed out of the window. Through it, I saw a soft glow above the hedgerow. It illuminated the fog with pulsing blue light. You know the sort of light I am talking about. It is the kind made by oncoming police cars.

  A few cars must have made it onto the roundabout ahead of the authorities, for brake lights ahead of us went dark for a few seconds. The traffic crept ahead, and we went with it. As we inched closer to the roundabout, the blue lights grew in intensity. Soon, the height of our vehicle afforded us a decent view of the intersection.

  Before I could make a comment, a dazzling array of blue and white lights erupted before us. Police car after police car assaulted the roundabout in an all out sprint.

  I held my breath as the first of them reached the exit nearest to us. Had we been detected? Was this an on-coming firearms unit being sent to detain and question us?

  The first car reached our exit and turned. I tried to hide under my seat.

  “Don’t panic,” Allie said. She saw me crouching. “Stop that,” she said. “It’s unnecessary, and you look ridiculous.”

  I returned to a normal posture as the first car stormed past us. As it and each of at least twenty others passed us, disturbed air brutally shoved against our vehicle. It rocked from side to side like a slowly moving locomotive. The cars came so close that I could make out individual faces in each one. Police officer after police officer. None looked our way, which was just as well because my constitution was very near to collapse.

  “Well,” she said as the final police car swung off the roundabout and made its way by us, “That’s probably not for us.”

  “Are they…are they chasing that thing?” I asked.

  She shrugged. Her eyes, wide and inquisitive, scanned the world around us. I did also, but saw nothing in the sky that was out of place. More lightning flashed.

  “Maybe.”

  I was about to ask out loud why the tailback hadn’t begun to lighten when a row of darkly-painted vehicles moved more cautiously through the roundabout and down the lane at my right. These were obviously military or MI5.

  “Probably,” she said as the last of these vanished into the fog, “But they’re wasting their time. They won’t catch them.”

  “And the jets? I presume they’re more suited for this sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, technically,” she said as the traffic in front of us began to move. She turned onto the road. “But they still don’t have a prayer. It’s all been tried before. Same result nearly every time. They can chase them away, but they can’t catch them.”

  I considered her.

  “How do you know?”

  She laughed a crooked little laugh. It was cute, but not enough to put me off my topic. I stared at her, psychically willing her to answer.

  Her eyes cut toward me. They went back to the road, and she sighed. “Read the internet, Carver.” It was noteworthy how Allie often drew out the first word of her sentences.

  She finally continued, “It’s all there. Truth and lies and delusions, yeah, but also the stuff that we know has really happened.”

  “And am I to believe that is how you came by this knowledge? Online research?”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Exceedingly.”

  She yawned again before she replied, “Hand to God, Carver, most of what I know about those things is in the public domain. The trick is separating the quality info from the crap.” She yawned yet again. “That’s the trick,” she said.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you. For one thing, you keep saying plural words like ‘them’ and ‘they.’ I saw an ‘it.’”

  “Someone had to build it. Someone has to drive it. That takes more than a lone operator.”

  “Again, you’ll forgive me, but you are avoiding a key word when you talk.”

  “Yep.”

  “So you admit it?” I said with perhaps more accusation in my voice than was intended.

  “Aliens,” she said.

  I stared at her. She went on.

  “That’s the word you’re thinking of, right? ‘Aliens?’”

  “It was on my mind. But now that I hear it, it sounds-”

  “Crazy. Welcome to my life.”

  “And what do these, what-have-you’s want?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody does.” A beat passed, “But they take people.”

  “They what now?” This seemed relevant.

  “Among other things. At least we think they do. It’s all a little hazy.”

  I tried to formulate a response. Images of implausible movies and television programs masquerading as documentaries filled my mind. I failed to get a word out.

  “Carver,” Allie said softly, “how complicated is all of this?”

  “I have no clue.” This was more true than usual.

  She shook her head. “No, not what happened tonight. I mean all of this.” She gestured expansively with her right hand. I nearly took her meaning.

  “Life? The world? What?” I said.

  “Yeah, all of that. How complicated do you think it is? I mean, you’re a surveyor, so you go out and you see things in concrete terms. You take measurements. You collect data, and you turn that data into information. Really nice information, by the way.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Best maps I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of maps.”

  “Thank you.” I meant it.

  “But you get that this,” she wagged her chin to indicate the world outside, “is not all a bunch of static objects. No cairn just got there. It had to be put there. Ridges and valleys and mountains; they’re all products of processes so vast and timeless that, for all we care, they may as well not exist. But they do. Most people live in the now. You do too, but you also go out and poke around in the big picture; the complex.”

  “I’m not sure I take your point.”

  She yawned again. Seeing her do so reminded me of just how exhausted I was.

  “You get that, in a sense, the word ‘mountain’ is meaningless. A mountain isn’t a single, static thing. It’s the product of a system of things and it is either being born or dying right in front of your eyes. It’s rising or its crumbling. To most other people, the people in the now, the difference is academic. Who cares if the Rockies are crumbling or if the Himalayas are growing?

  “But you can break out of the now and start seeing everything as a big story that’s going on all around you. When you do that, suddenly mountains aren’t mountains anymore. They’re actors. No, they’re living, breathing set pieces.”

  I absorbed that for a while.

  “So,” I finally said, “what happened tonight, it’s complex. Like the rising of mountains or the movement of continents, is that it?”

  “Yeah. And the word you picked, well, it’s too simple. It might not be inaccurate, but it doesn’t tell enough of the story. That’s my point. It’s just a whole lot bigger than ‘aliens.’”

  “And you won’t tell me the rest of the story?”

  “I would, Carver, but I don’t know it. That’s why I’m here. And partly why you’re going to be with me for a while.”

  “Can you fix all of this? I mean, for me. Can you or whoever you work for make the charges go away.”

  She laughed again.

  “This is funny to you?” I said, surprising myself by how angry I became. “I didn’t ask to be part of this. I was just doing my job when…when you claim I saw something. I didn’t see a damn thing, but you dragged me out here and got me mixed up in this!”

  “Calm down, Carver. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just that criminal charges don’t seem so big when you’re playing for high stakes-”

  I cut her off; I had to. “Oh, just stop that. Stop with this talk about your work. I don’t give a damn about your work, and I bloody well don’t think it’s worth ruining my life.”

  We returned to silence after that. I pouted for longer than I am proud to admit, and she focused on the road. I think about a quarter of an hou
r passed in this way. Finally, there was contrition.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to me. “You’re right, of course. You never asked to meet me or to break the law or the rest of it. And you’re right, I sometimes appear to put this job a little too far ahead of everything.”

  “A little?” I replied churlishly. If I am honest, I regretted my tone as soon as I spoke.

  “Maybe more than a little. But from where I’m sitting, this job actually is everything.”

  She saw that this made only a mild dent in my resolve.

  “Carver,” she said, “I promise you that all of this really is more important than any one of us. And, frankly, when you consider that we could find ourselves dead in the next few hours, a police record is almost a consolation prize.”

  She turned to look at me, slowing the vehicle a bit as she did.

  “I am sorry.”

  I felt myself giving in and did not really try to fight it. Had we not encountered the object back in Wetherby, I might not have been so quick to capitulate. That said, it was something menacing and, I must use the word, alien that hovered silently and swiftly pursued us. If that was any indication as to the gravity of Allie’s task, then I probably should think a little less of myself.

  “Can you promise me something?” I asked.

  “Maybe. What is?”

  “When we get,” I looked down the road, “there. When we get there, will you tell me what all of this is about?”

  She smiled her crooked smile. “Carver, I promise to show you what this is all about.”

  “And the impossible thing I saw?”

  “You won’t be disappointed. I give you my word.”

  With that, the matter was dropped. She turned to give her full attention to the road, which was now severely obscured by weather. She gave the SUV a bit of gas, and we began the final leg back to the Moors.

  I did my best to ignore the well-timed and vaguely portentous thunderclap.

  8

  From York, we followed the A64 as it snaked east. That part of the journey was uneventful, and we soon found ourselves turning onto another A-road that would take us farther north and into the Moors proper.