(still canned, still MIA, still don't care what you all think, friends who begged me to set this project aside on the grounds it was interferring with a job search (never mind I tossed out fifty job apps a week in November of 2013. Oh, that ain't trying hard enough....*sarcasm* for everyone else, here's the raw first draft tale, sorry for the snarkiness, but I'm still pounding home a point, from beyond the bounds of civilization.)
Two hours of sifting, observing, and gathering produces a lot of envelopes, Mike discovered. The arrival of the Graves Registration team, which he should have remembered did exist at Fort Douglas, gave him a short break as they took stock of the recovery ahead, and brought in some equipment, all under Angel escort. While Arvard understood the need for the team, having Confederal troops moving about town set nerves on edge for the Saints and Ain'ts, though some of the Gentiles in the neighborhood cheered at first, until they noted what they unloaded. The empty coffin stirred memories that the area lay on the edge of a battlefield, one known to lack clear limits for remains traveling due to the fault scarp and waterways cutting it.
Rumbles of thunder, amid the shaking the passing trolleys created aided in finishing the job the crowbar the owner used on the ceiling started, dropping more sections of the pipe, Twinkles from the unusual glaze kept grabbing his attention, stalling his efforts at collecting evidence. Someting about the silvery glass coating stirred an echo from a conversation with his wife a few years before. Each time, prompts from the Graves team drove that out of his grasp.
"It's best to stay focused, Agent Holzon." The lieutenant had no clue where Mike's mind wandered, or why.
"I am focused. On what this evidence is trying to tell me." Mike snapped, tired of the interference.
"Gently, Inspector." Arvard stood patiently outside. "The house was built before the war, but according to this note from your wife, the area did not get telesonds until after the mess in Europe." The Angel read from the Braille Texter card. "Also, she is just as puzzled as us about this pipe's composition as you are. And diameter. Nothing on record locally, so she sent a request to Washington, but it could be a few days for them to grind the gears to find an answer."
"Great." Reaching into the ceiling, he noted the deformation of the pipe. "How the hell... sorry Arvard... this is just so weird. Like he was in the pip when it was cast, but the wood back here on the joist is ruptured." Looking back to the door, he nodded at the Army corporal. "Okay, mister Army. Would a ladder be out of order here?"
"Graves, sir. You serious? This officer is inside that pipe?" The corporal shook his head. "That is passing strange. Never seen something like that. And I spent two tours in Europe at the camps and killing fields helping figure out which side did what."
"They actually make you answer to your job now?" Mike offered the straight line, as a peace offering.
The soldier recognized the line, and ran with it. "Well, not normally, sir, but the Army has a nasty sense of humor, when they saw my name, the just had to change my career from the cavalry to graves registration"
"Well, feel free to pipe up any ideas you have, Graves." Mike squatted down, trying to see better into the hole. "So, really? Nothing this strange?"
"Well, a few, but those were blast related. Closest crater from the Fourth was over two blocks, closer to the scarp." A ladder poked Mike in the back. "Sorry, bit tight here, sir."
"Mike, and you can call me that. Did my time in Union Blue as enlisted." Mike admitted.
"Well, may not sound it, si--Mike, but this Johnny won't hold it agin ya." Graves let his drawl show, just for a moment. "Home is South Calinky, but been overseas so much, lost my accent."
"The Yank don't bear a grudge, just grudging respect. Should have left you with the horses." Mike laughed.
Crawling up the rungs, a few choice cusswords ripped the air. "Okay. Was going to tell ya'll the story 'bout the skull melted into a church bell in France, but this beats that." Graves held a hand back, taking a lantern from a sergeant. "Dang. Sarge, you have to see this, a mind twisted enough to believe we can go to the moon just might have some inkling to how it happened."
Mike glanced at the sergeant, a wiry Native from one of the Native Republics. Lifting an eyebrow, he left the question silent.
"Reading Science Fiction does not make me a Sherlock Holmes. But, if you think it will take twisted thinking, I'll be glad to talk to Coyote and see if it's some joke of his." Hand slapped calf, but the older man met the Mike's eyes, with some humor. "Graves is the best, sir. And if he'd just not back talk the captain as much, he might keep his chevron and rocker more than a few weeks."
Graves jumped down, and the sergeant went up, a lone whistle his only comment as he lifted the lantern, using a special knob at the top, narrowing the beam, and adjusting the focus on the reflector. "Yeah, this is gonna take a twisty mind. " Drifted down after a few. "Graves, you note this discoloration to the pip in the part near the skull?"
"Yeah, and several spots the other side of the break." Graves answered. "We'll need some lab time from some other department to figure if that is related before or during, or it it's some latter corrosion from the incident. Could be just normal leakage from above." Lifting two peices he compared them, slowly.
"I can get my bottle noses to take a look." Mike said. "They'll do anything that is strange for free, and are extra careful when I promise them a plate or six of my wife's cookies."
"Lucky guys. Army has us all on a diet." Graves aimed a grin up at Mike. "Or at least the General's wife does."
Guffawing, Mike held his piece, knowing a General's wife ran the base kitchens to keep their husbands in shape, not the troops happy. No matter which army, republic or Confederal. "My sympathies. I'll pay for any ideas in that precious commodity."
Then his eyes landed on the discolored fragment. Graves nodded. "Want my opinions?"
"Yes. But in writing. We both look it over, then compare notes. That way we don't prejudice the other's thinking." Mike met sober eyes, nodding.
"Like your way of working, Agent... never caught the last name?" The Reb raised an eyebrow. "Sarge, get those cellophane.. no, better make that the glass containers. Got a feeling the less contamination, the better."
After the Sergeant left the room, Mike answered"Holzon. Yeah, from that Holzon." His Great Grandfather made some waves during the European Mess, then again in the Pacific War.
"Damn. Met that old cuss. Damned good man, for a Yank." Graves nodded. "Was those lectures on battles over in Europe up at West Point, just before he passed on."
Mike smiled. "Yeah. Guess if you were deploying, the got an enlisted in there for it."
"Still had my railroad tracks then. They pinched me over to Confed from the Grey Coats after I deployed. Seems they liked my thinking, and put me in as a sergeant, instead of private as most have to start." Graves refered to the way of the Federal Army, where all officers, even if officers in the republic forces, had to rise up through the ranks from the very bottom. "Got too much done to rise above Staff, get busted whenever they talk about time in grade promotions or out. Lucky they don't count demoted time..."
"We do. But when we get a soldier who's damned good..." Mike started.
"I'd keep you with chevrons myself. Officers are too prissy to get dirty back east, or out west." Arvard walked back to the door. "Inspector, got special permissions, given the case. My people are at your disposal, and you can bring any you need off post, provided we have escorts." He shrugged. "Some of the more hardcore still hold grudges from a war before they were born."
All the men shared a look, as the female tech from the constablry arrived back from her lab wagon.
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