"Sorry. No exit into Deseret until nine." Some days, Mike wished for a different posting. Say back home in the Union of New England and the Lakes. Places where that clause in the revised Constitution, that split the nation from one whole into affiliated republics, with the rights of the republics and component states being greater than the central government, save in times of war. And even then, only with external combatants.
"Look, Your city's police asked for my help on a case. They'd like me to look at a crime scene." He held out the two braile imprinted cards with the relayed message, and all important formal request per information on them. Deseret, though open to most, kept all those stationed at the Confederal Offices under strict watch at all times, and confined to the grounds of Fort Douglas. The memories of past interference with the affairs of their church kept the Mormon majority against central governance, if not guided by their leadership.
Skeptical, the border guard took the braile cards, holding them with care against damaging the records presented. "Oh. Sorry. Just a minute." Taking the cards with him, back into the Ring of Moroni, the wall and series of small gun posts aimed inwards at the Fort's buildings, returning the long favor of their guns all aimed at the Temple.
Moments later, Mike was moving on down the trail, which was all there was between the city and the fort. A narrow trail. Supplies came in over Confederal Route Four, and the spur off that road, running along the wide upper Bonneville Bench, by the treaty ending the Fourth Mormon War, back in 1933, when the other republics vote to repeal the Prohibition Amendment, banning tobacco and alcohol passed, over their own determination to leave it in place. The attempts by companies to export by force their decriminalized products in a suprising alliance of Union and Confederate solidarity.
The trail followed a mustly dry creekbed down the hill, nearly two long miles of open space, much desired, and even once used, but abandoned after the last war. In some places, the remains of toundations mixed with the craters and headstones of those left to rest where they fell. Somewhere, Mike figured, his own great grandfather's grave lay, unless he was one of the unkonwn or never found souls.
Near the valley floor, the trail reached a small neighborhood called Ninth and Ninth for the cross streets at the main part of the cluster of businesses it surrounded. Made up mostly of those Saints and Gentiles, and those from Deseret divided themselves along the issue of the local founding religion, lived. One of the few areas both lived together, peacefully at least.
Down here, the few remaining vacant lots not used as gardens still bore the marks of the Third War, or Polygamy War, when the Saints pushed back against the attempts at ending plural marriage. Craters, and a few filled in basements dotted the area. That and the great bronze statue of the Danites who won the final battle here against overwhelming odds.
Looking at the statue, Mike shook his head. And then most of them walked away from the practice in the end anyway, he thought.
remembering staying stong during the fight to take Fort Douglas, and Camp Floyd never was taken back from the battle the Confed lost there. While some of the desert regions, mainly those near Las Vegas, and on the west edge of the Bonneville Salt Flats, were leased to the Confederation military.
They still ran armored cars on the Ninth East trolley line, though,noisy things whose arrival at the small boarding platform. There, he received another reminder of the unpopularity of the Washington Government and those working for it.
"Your kind ain't welcome, Yank." Southern drawl, mixed with Utah's flair for inflection gave him a strange, personal accent.
Looking at the leather jacket, large Danite badge on left breat, and five sets of golden wings on the right, Mike bit his upper lip. "Confederal Investigation Bureau, Agent Holzon. Guess you were the escort Deseret Patrol were sending?"
The man snorted, a smile creasing his face. "Heck. Here I was hoping to get me a Federal." He started to turn away, the glanced back. "Patrol called you not us?"
"Dead body in a telesond tube."
That turned it all to laughter. "Son, I think I might ride with you. Seems someone's sence of humor is a mite bit outta control."
Raising his left hand, still somber, Mike found himself actually liking the member of the Avenging Angels, the local Vigilance Committees set up to enforce Mormon beliefs and squash heresies. "My wife works in the CNA, that was the word they had from the local Deseret Telesond." He took a gamble, based on his feelings about the man. "I never knew a sense of humor lay on the list of heresies."
The old man jerked, turning quick in anger, which faded almost immediately into a grin. "Only when it makes me miss having breakfast at home."
"Now that is a sentiment I could support amending to the Constituion. Along with waking unnecessarily on cold nights." Both men laughed.
The Angel held out his hand. "Arvard Higgins, Inspector."
"MIke, never Michael. The old man gets to keep that moniker." Mike felt a tingle of fear, mixed with relief. This was no ordinary Avenging Angel, but the head of all the Vigilance committees.
"Train's comin' along. We better hustle aboard. Where we headed, exactly, anyway?" Arvard motioned to a gas lantern moving steadily their way.
"Sugarhouse." Pulling the Braille cards, he read off the address again. "859 East 2970 South. No description, guess we look for the herd of horses."
Arvard chuckled. "Heck, the boys in blue ride bicycles down that part of town, enough streets been paved lately."
The trolley car, a thing of rusted iron plates, fancy new aluminum patches over wheel covers for safety, and the huge main traction cog-wheel turning with only a few jerks from damage to the center 'rail', a double rail joined together with long plates pierced with holes for the teeth the gear held. That both traction units failed often did not matter as much along this stretch, where Ninth lay relatively level. But on the hills down White City way, those failures left many folks stranded during storms.
The car rolled in slow, the grinding drive wheel preventing any meaningful conversation until one reached their destination. To get around the noise, Mike offered the cards, please Candace punched a copy of the report she'd gotten called in on for him as well.
One more reason, he thought, I love my wife.
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