(so, I gave in, and this tale now lays broken, unfinished, before you. Sorry to those who liked it, but you have only a nasty minded society to blame. Still canned postings here, too bad, ain't it? )
Two hours, Mike thought, walking from the crime scene to the trolley station, lost just to getting the warrants and serving them to progress further. The Boyles balked at having the walls torn out for the investigation, and showed up with a lawyer to stop the recovery. Despite being in law enforcement, he found most lawyers annoying to deal with.
"At least the day turned out better." Mike commented to Arvard.
"Needed this snow. Been a dry year." Arvard gestured to the brown mountain sides. "Just lucky there were so few fires. Burn scars tend to tet loose when the rains and snows come along."
Loud clattering, humming rails and the toot of a whistle let them know the trolley was approaching. Mike hustled up to the stop on the side of the street. Arvard joined him.
"I'll escort you to the Fort's boundry. Best, where you have some very sensitive evidence in that box." Arvard stated.
"Thanks. Should have split it up into two boxes then." Mike joked.
"No guaruntee your folks would have a helper waiting at the gate to take it to your labs." Arvard shrugged as the trolley approached, narrowly missing a steamer car that ignoted the signal arm. "Fools think those trolleys can stop on a dime and hand back change. I might be along to help you get it all back in the box."
Shaking his head, Mike watched the trolley rolling closer. "Not a happy thought. At least it is all in sealed envelopes."
Clouds of steam filled the cool afternoon air as the trolley vented its drive pistons and steam lines to slow down, brakes screaching as metal ground on metal. Rusted iron plated sides of the vehicle eased by him, the faint glow of Saint Elmo's Fire flickering across the face, tracing faint arcs across rust and bullet holes from the last war.
"Why not repair the cars?" Mike asked.
"Money and Pride." Arvard said. "Cost too much money, and folks are proud that even under hails of bullets and shrapnel that drifted into town, the trolleys kept running. Guess we hold on to some things too long."
Mike nodded, remembering the fights in council meetings and courts over keeping the tram cars over the Charles running in Boston after the disaster. "Yeah. Guess so. Know it was the same back home."
"The static charges are bad today. I'll admit that." Arvard laughed as Mike jumped after a shcoker leader leapt off the trolley, jolting him.
"One more arguement for some other design." Mike snapped, good naturedly. "At least you only run these on this line."
"And a few others. Some folks trust these more, the older cars hodling up better than some newer designs." Arvard stepped onboard, catching Holzon's sleeve to aid him in balance as he jostled his way up the stairs.
Once they found a seat, easier on a trollye headed towards the center of Salt Lake in the evenings, Mike sighed. "This is one weird case."
Looking around, the angel nedded. "And a touchy one. This could stir back up war attitudes, on both sides."
Mike opened his notebook, scribbling in a few thoughts for his next stop, at the General's office. "Hope not. Hope this solves some things." He shook his head. "Why does Feinstien want that Tesla file from Chicago?" His mutter made Arvard nod.
"No telling. That jew has a pretty good instinct for cases, though." Removing his hat, Higgins ran a hand through his thick, greying mane. "Not to mention that degree in forensics, I know he works with Deseret Telesond when not working. Guess he never gave up on his dreams, despite his claims otherwise."
Mike added that as a question to ask Chicago as well. "We need to know where this line runs to. Think folks will cooperate, or will I need search warrants and threats the whole way?"
Looking out a narrow window, once used for firing guns from, the angel grimaced. "No telling. Despite the lockstep to what the Prophet and Quorum say others see, we are not as united and obedient as most think." He snorted. "Heck, three of my neighbors up here might even take shots at you just out of fear you are here to enforce the Polygamy Policy."
That thought jerked Holzon's head up, fast. "And that could be related, the limit of five wives?"
"Some still feel it should be as many as you want, others argue it should be as many as you can support the children from. A large numbers still fear folks back East might want to end it finally. Regardless, I'll work with you, just in case such issues come up. Good news, though, the laws provide after today you can carry a shooting iron to return fire with. If your Federated judge up there agrees the case might get heated."
They fell silent as others boarded the train, most seeing the Angel, and keeping their distance. Mike chuckled, wondering what crime they thought he'd been hauled in on, and how surprised they'd be at his actual rank.
"Guess I might want to wear my uniform next time?" He asked, as the trolley lurched into their stop.
Arvard shook his head. "Son, best investigators know how to do it without that kind of intimidation."
"I was figuring on telling any who give us statiic that only a fool would wear clothes like our uniforms in situations where gunplay might be involved. Those white stars on the breast are just embrodiiery these days, not something to stop bullets."
Arvard laughed as they jumped off, ths slush from the morning snow making them both stagger and slide a bit until they found their footing. "That's the honesst truty. Might even work, then again, some may not need to know that you don't were bullet stoppers any more. Don't want to give them any ideas." He motioned to the trail head, where the small stream turned into the street. "Let's get you back to the Fort, and your wife. Hopefully she has some information soon to help us. Or at least ideas about this mystery tube of ours."
Mike nodded, leading the way to the tight draw. Finding the trail in the fading light, with the setting sun's long shadows,
(That is where the messages hit, for the one try at getting work that created a phone interview... but still not a face to face or a job offer... Like I've said, I had to write my way out, people, not wait on your pathetic broken society to let me back in.)
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Monday, October 27, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
untitled steam punk chap 9 raw first draft
The whole walk to Dee's, Mike kept the conversation off the case, trying to learn more about the poeple he'd be working with for the next while. Each had a story, whether of heading west for adventure and mountains, as Feinstien had, or a long family history of being in Deseret, which Detective Smith held, being a descendant of the Latter Day Saints' first Prophet and founder.
Arvard turned the chat into a game of evasions, trying to avoid answering how a Johnny Reb turned to a Saint, and Graves joined it, telling tall tales of his journey from the Carolina mountains to Federated Army, none of it possibly true.
Luckily, the snow had the cafe a bit slow, so they took a corner booth and settled in over warm drinks, waiting for their sandwiches.
"Emma, we'll need all the records we can find about who owned that property in 1893." Mike said, once they'd thawed out a bit. "And neighboring ones. I'll see what Candace turns up in her records searches about after that for an assist in tracking it back." Scratching his chin, the stubble rasped. "I really should have shaved."
Only Graves was clean shaven. "I think you can claim extenuating circumstances, son." Arvard opined.
"Wife will veto that, trust me. Not to mention my daughters." Mike chuckled. "So, time to compare first impressions and things we noted."
"Very puzzling." Feinstien offered. "Besides the mystery telesond pipe, we have how the body managed to be placed there."
"I think we stumbled onto something that we might regret opening up again. Not just the who, but the why." Emma spoke softly. "Looking at the skull alone, no trauma, no other bones broken, save that collar bone, and it may have happened when it dropped. I'd want a doctor to confirm that."
"Your choice, Inspector." Arvard injected. "The First Presidency offered any help you wish. I can call up folks from Provo, or you can use the ones at Joseph Smith Medical Center over in the Avenues."
"Which is better?" Mike asked.
"Brigham Young docs are better at medical diagnostics, but the crew at Joe are much more versed in the forensic sciences of violence." Feinstien spoke up.
"Both, and I can call in folks from Dover, the main Graves Registration and Remains Identification teams, if my fellow Reb can swing visas for them." Graves offered.
"Touchy subject, but probably a good idea." The angel's forefinger and thumb stroked the tips of his mustache. "We'll need a place to keep evidence, have meetings, and the like. I can ask for a stake house."
Mike waved his right hand to fend that off. "Better yet, I bet we can use the Peace Hall. Unless..."
"I can ask the Quorum and Presidency to ask for a delay on the annual meeting with the Ambassador, and may even convince them to point our needing the space for the investigation."
"Hell, sir, better yet, we take the Soldier's Hollow Hall, over by the road. More space." Sergeant Littlefoot piped up, joining them. "And, it's what the General offered. Closer to the laboratory and you offices. Mount Olive is off limits, per the SarMajor." He motioned over a waitress. "Plate of eggs and potatoes, and cocoa if you please."
"It will do, unless I need easier access. I'd rather use the Olive Creek trail, for coming into town." Mike said. "Red Butte Creek drifts this way enough, but there is too much missing ordanance along it."
"Best Chapman could get, sir." The Lakota smiled as his drink arrived. "Best thing about out here, they have great chocolate."
Fingers drumming the table in frustration, Mike grimaced. "The Peace Hall would have been better, but I forgot it was that time again. Wanted something convenient for everyone."
Littlefoot handed Holzon a letter. "General's orders for the hall, and a note for you. He was not a happy two star, sir."
"Drop the honorary, I had chevrons, not a lobotomy." Mike gingerly accepted the paper, reading slowly, as their food arrived.
"Funny thing, that pipe. Runs north by north east. Almost headed to the prison, not Sugarhouse itself." Emma noted. "Deseret Telesond's switching room is over on Highland, by the Canal Mill and Steam Station."
Arvard kept quiet, but caught Mike's eyes as he looked up. Mike struggled a moment, then revealed their discovery. "There is something in the south east corner of the house that is walled off. I will see about getting search warrants to open it, just in case. But I need to know the full layout of that pipe, as best we can determine."
Feinstien started. "Wait. Something is ringing a bell here. Can you do me a favor, semaphore a message to Chicago for me?"
Looking up, Holzon noted the tech's face, shock mixed with curiousity. "Depends on the message."
"It is for the Communications Research Labs. Ask for Professor Kramer to open the Tesla files, copy them, and send them out here." He shrugged off the looks the others threw him. "Hey, once upon a time, I had higher ambitions. Before getting married and being cursed with kids."
"Kids do change things." Mike interjected, to stave off Emma's sudden fiery look. "Goals, needs, making us set aside our desires for their safety and security."
"Children are a blessing." Smith muttered, unfazed by Holzon's comment.
"You got yours one at a time, we had three dumped on us at one shot. Not enough hands to change diapers fast enough." Feinstien laughed, making Emma look shocked. "Yeah. Triplets. All girls, and now they want to date outside the faith. Not something I disagree with, just their choice of boys is a bit over the top."
"Tesla files?" The name sunk in finally. "What would that have to do with our case?" Mike asked.
"He and Edison ran a lab out here about this time, if I remember correctly." Feinstien shrugged. "Something to do with the telesonds being improved. That might explain the tube, at least, if it was related to it, and maybe more."
Holzon shuddered at that thought. Smearing the reputations of great inventors like those two might prove dangerous, and messy. "Great. Well, if you think it will help, I'll ask."
"And we need a good forensics doctor." Emma said. "Wilkinson is out. Her family suffered too much during the Third and Fourth Wars." When Mike glanced at her, she shrugged. "Their family had orchards and a field up on the bench. While no one really knows who fired those first shells each time, they know who died first out here. Her father was the only survivor of the clan. She was raised hating the Federal Government."
Mike nodded. "So, some neutral remains inspector is needed. No problem there. Custer being just as hated by the South, I think folks in Atlanta could send us a Reb doctor for that."
"Just as bad, son." Arvard shook his head. "Think you would do better asking for a League or Nation doctor. Seems there was a Cherokee one that came out to recover remains off the no man's land a few years back. She was very well respected for her impartiality and reverent treatment of the remains. Big things here in Deseret."
"Never quite understood that concept out here, of families being together even in death." Mike admitted.
"Come the Resurrection, they want to be together again." Arvard shrugged. "Me, I may forgive my family, but don't want to spend eternity with them."
Nodding, Mike dug into his meal. "Well, looks like I'll need to be back up the hill for a bit today. I take it you're the Deseret Agent in Charge?"
"For now." Higgins scratched his mustache. "I'll keep you from stepping on toes too much, and let you know if we are dealing with toes that need a good squashing."
They all laughed, then went back to their notes, between bites.
Arvard turned the chat into a game of evasions, trying to avoid answering how a Johnny Reb turned to a Saint, and Graves joined it, telling tall tales of his journey from the Carolina mountains to Federated Army, none of it possibly true.
Luckily, the snow had the cafe a bit slow, so they took a corner booth and settled in over warm drinks, waiting for their sandwiches.
"Emma, we'll need all the records we can find about who owned that property in 1893." Mike said, once they'd thawed out a bit. "And neighboring ones. I'll see what Candace turns up in her records searches about after that for an assist in tracking it back." Scratching his chin, the stubble rasped. "I really should have shaved."
Only Graves was clean shaven. "I think you can claim extenuating circumstances, son." Arvard opined.
"Wife will veto that, trust me. Not to mention my daughters." Mike chuckled. "So, time to compare first impressions and things we noted."
"Very puzzling." Feinstien offered. "Besides the mystery telesond pipe, we have how the body managed to be placed there."
"I think we stumbled onto something that we might regret opening up again. Not just the who, but the why." Emma spoke softly. "Looking at the skull alone, no trauma, no other bones broken, save that collar bone, and it may have happened when it dropped. I'd want a doctor to confirm that."
"Your choice, Inspector." Arvard injected. "The First Presidency offered any help you wish. I can call up folks from Provo, or you can use the ones at Joseph Smith Medical Center over in the Avenues."
"Which is better?" Mike asked.
"Brigham Young docs are better at medical diagnostics, but the crew at Joe are much more versed in the forensic sciences of violence." Feinstien spoke up.
"Both, and I can call in folks from Dover, the main Graves Registration and Remains Identification teams, if my fellow Reb can swing visas for them." Graves offered.
"Touchy subject, but probably a good idea." The angel's forefinger and thumb stroked the tips of his mustache. "We'll need a place to keep evidence, have meetings, and the like. I can ask for a stake house."
Mike waved his right hand to fend that off. "Better yet, I bet we can use the Peace Hall. Unless..."
"I can ask the Quorum and Presidency to ask for a delay on the annual meeting with the Ambassador, and may even convince them to point our needing the space for the investigation."
"Hell, sir, better yet, we take the Soldier's Hollow Hall, over by the road. More space." Sergeant Littlefoot piped up, joining them. "And, it's what the General offered. Closer to the laboratory and you offices. Mount Olive is off limits, per the SarMajor." He motioned over a waitress. "Plate of eggs and potatoes, and cocoa if you please."
"It will do, unless I need easier access. I'd rather use the Olive Creek trail, for coming into town." Mike said. "Red Butte Creek drifts this way enough, but there is too much missing ordanance along it."
"Best Chapman could get, sir." The Lakota smiled as his drink arrived. "Best thing about out here, they have great chocolate."
Fingers drumming the table in frustration, Mike grimaced. "The Peace Hall would have been better, but I forgot it was that time again. Wanted something convenient for everyone."
Littlefoot handed Holzon a letter. "General's orders for the hall, and a note for you. He was not a happy two star, sir."
"Drop the honorary, I had chevrons, not a lobotomy." Mike gingerly accepted the paper, reading slowly, as their food arrived.
"Funny thing, that pipe. Runs north by north east. Almost headed to the prison, not Sugarhouse itself." Emma noted. "Deseret Telesond's switching room is over on Highland, by the Canal Mill and Steam Station."
Arvard kept quiet, but caught Mike's eyes as he looked up. Mike struggled a moment, then revealed their discovery. "There is something in the south east corner of the house that is walled off. I will see about getting search warrants to open it, just in case. But I need to know the full layout of that pipe, as best we can determine."
Feinstien started. "Wait. Something is ringing a bell here. Can you do me a favor, semaphore a message to Chicago for me?"
Looking up, Holzon noted the tech's face, shock mixed with curiousity. "Depends on the message."
"It is for the Communications Research Labs. Ask for Professor Kramer to open the Tesla files, copy them, and send them out here." He shrugged off the looks the others threw him. "Hey, once upon a time, I had higher ambitions. Before getting married and being cursed with kids."
"Kids do change things." Mike interjected, to stave off Emma's sudden fiery look. "Goals, needs, making us set aside our desires for their safety and security."
"Children are a blessing." Smith muttered, unfazed by Holzon's comment.
"You got yours one at a time, we had three dumped on us at one shot. Not enough hands to change diapers fast enough." Feinstien laughed, making Emma look shocked. "Yeah. Triplets. All girls, and now they want to date outside the faith. Not something I disagree with, just their choice of boys is a bit over the top."
"Tesla files?" The name sunk in finally. "What would that have to do with our case?" Mike asked.
"He and Edison ran a lab out here about this time, if I remember correctly." Feinstien shrugged. "Something to do with the telesonds being improved. That might explain the tube, at least, if it was related to it, and maybe more."
Holzon shuddered at that thought. Smearing the reputations of great inventors like those two might prove dangerous, and messy. "Great. Well, if you think it will help, I'll ask."
"And we need a good forensics doctor." Emma said. "Wilkinson is out. Her family suffered too much during the Third and Fourth Wars." When Mike glanced at her, she shrugged. "Their family had orchards and a field up on the bench. While no one really knows who fired those first shells each time, they know who died first out here. Her father was the only survivor of the clan. She was raised hating the Federal Government."
Mike nodded. "So, some neutral remains inspector is needed. No problem there. Custer being just as hated by the South, I think folks in Atlanta could send us a Reb doctor for that."
"Just as bad, son." Arvard shook his head. "Think you would do better asking for a League or Nation doctor. Seems there was a Cherokee one that came out to recover remains off the no man's land a few years back. She was very well respected for her impartiality and reverent treatment of the remains. Big things here in Deseret."
"Never quite understood that concept out here, of families being together even in death." Mike admitted.
"Come the Resurrection, they want to be together again." Arvard shrugged. "Me, I may forgive my family, but don't want to spend eternity with them."
Nodding, Mike dug into his meal. "Well, looks like I'll need to be back up the hill for a bit today. I take it you're the Deseret Agent in Charge?"
"For now." Higgins scratched his mustache. "I'll keep you from stepping on toes too much, and let you know if we are dealing with toes that need a good squashing."
They all laughed, then went back to their notes, between bites.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
untitled steam punk chapter 8 (raw first drafts only on this story)
(yep, still canned messages. This boy is long gone, people)
Mike walked back up the stairs, thinking. Every clue led to something that made things look more sinister or strange on this case. Bad enough he was investigating the incident that started a war, he thought.
Once upstairs, he looked back down, where Arvard was taking what they'd found. He decided his wife could yell at him tonight all she wanted, but he needed a pipe to clear his head. She'd been on him to keep it to one smoke at night, after the girls went to sleep, lately. The twists so far had him realising there would be more than just a simple recovery involved. Out of courtesy, and from habit, he stepped back out into the back yard.
A cloud of thick silver smoke drifted about him when Arvard at last stepped out. The older man rolled cigarette, studying the sky above, where the clouds still roiled across the valley. Both men stayed silent, looking over the back wall of the house. Mike's eyes drifted back to that southeast corner every few moments.
"This is beyond passing strange." Arvard broke the silence after they both finished their smokes.
"Well, guess I'll need to decide if we can convince a judge to get a warrant to search behind those bricked off areas." Mike's voice rose a bit as he spoke, fighting to be heard over the rumble of thunder as a burst of snow fell down across the neighborhood.
Arvard nodded. "Be a tough sell to the local magistrate, given how most felt about Custer out here."
"There is no way this mess won't strain the Federation." Mike scowled at the suddenly white sky, as the snow increased. "You're wrong, Arvard. We found a can of rattlesnakes, and no reason for them to be there."
The Angel stayed quiet, noting the Chief Constable approaching. Mike shook a hand through his hair, irritated at leaving his hat back in the are near the closet. "Chief. It's going to be a mess."
"Knew that when I got my first glance." Burbank's right hand rubbed his bare scalp. "My techs are yours, got that approved by the folks downtown. Governor did say to help, so I guess if you need something, ask."
Mike nodded. "I will. Ask, not demand, that is." Looking back at the house, Mike had an idea. "Chief, take a gander at that root cellar. Look real close, and tell me what you think."
"That pipe does head back this way. Give me a minute. I need to relay a message to Fienstien. His wife is worried about him forgetting it's Friday." Burbank shrugged. "He gets wrapped up in some details and forgets about his Sabbath services. And she tends to blame me." The chief strode back to the house, his pace a bit quick.
"He hates the snow. Too many folks think these steamcars can still stop on a dime." Arvard said when Mike looked to him.
"I need to get Candace and her techs down here to see this pipe." Mike pressed.
"Visas are being cut. The First Presidency agrees, we need to get answers on this." Arvard field stripped his smoke, setting the butt into his pouch. Tobacco was expensive in this part of the Federated Republics, with the sin taxes Deseret added to it. "Best we head in."
"Not yet." Mike gestured at the house. "That cellar is only about one third the house's width. Why wall off an area, given your local drive for setting aside food for disasters."
"And when did it get walled off is a problem. Building permits for internal changes are only a fairly recent thing." Arvard answered. "Bit of a quandry, I agree."
"Warm summer, bad winter coming." Mike said, looking up at the intensifying snow. "Not a good way to start." Already, two inches lay on the ground.
"Nope. And this mess might not clear up until spring. Best get used to moving about in the slush." Arvard shrugged. "Folks don't shovel walks like they used to. We're all getting lazy, I guess."
Mike tussled the wet flakes from his hair. "Yeah. Well, I should at least get my hat. Then grab a bite to eat."
"I suggest we go to Dee's. Good food, and in this weather, they could use the business. they are a bit aways from the main part of Sugarhouse." The older man removed his hat, knocking off a good quarter inch of sticky snow from the wide brim. "Think we need to step back a bit, look it over from a short distance." He grinned at Holzon. "And we can walk there in just a few, not have to deal with the idiot drivers who trust these fancy automobiles."
Laughing, Mike shuffled through the snow. "Yeah. Good idea. Never have been able to try anywhere but Bill and Nada's on my few forays off the Fort. Heard of some good food other than there, though."
Inside, the men headed back through the house. In the main basement, the Chief had his people gathered up, talking softly about keeping things quiet, and saying it was something related to Federal investigations, not local. "Keep it from stirring up. What you know, stays with you, unless I or the inspector approves it. I need the neighborhood patrols back out on the streets, the bricks and cobbles are getting slick, so watch it, and keep folks from doing stupid things. Tremont, get back to Highland and Twenty-First. I have two accidents over there already, you will be busy, grab some rookie to help direct traffic, the signal arms look like they're jammed open again."
That provoked a groan from all the patrol officers. The arguements about right of way after an accident when the signals malfuncitioned tended to be heated, even in the very laid back and curteous society of Deseret.
"Can you leave us two to help the honor guard while I take the team to lunch, Chief?" Mike asked.
"Leaving four, permanent detatched duty, plus Detective Smith and Feinstien. Also, will toss you any bodies you need, if I can spare them, once the snow is cleared from the streets." Burbank grinned. "And the MP's up at the Fort told me to keep you away from cars in this. Guess you are one of my snow idiots?"
Laughing, Mike accepted a towel from someone. "Yeah. I need to get my wife and her team down here."
"I'm here. Go chat with your fellow law enforcement people." Mike grimaced, as his glasses were handed to him. "Not even seeing your own wife. We need to get you in for a new set of spectacles, honey."
Mike walked back up the stairs, thinking. Every clue led to something that made things look more sinister or strange on this case. Bad enough he was investigating the incident that started a war, he thought.
Once upstairs, he looked back down, where Arvard was taking what they'd found. He decided his wife could yell at him tonight all she wanted, but he needed a pipe to clear his head. She'd been on him to keep it to one smoke at night, after the girls went to sleep, lately. The twists so far had him realising there would be more than just a simple recovery involved. Out of courtesy, and from habit, he stepped back out into the back yard.
A cloud of thick silver smoke drifted about him when Arvard at last stepped out. The older man rolled cigarette, studying the sky above, where the clouds still roiled across the valley. Both men stayed silent, looking over the back wall of the house. Mike's eyes drifted back to that southeast corner every few moments.
"This is beyond passing strange." Arvard broke the silence after they both finished their smokes.
"Well, guess I'll need to decide if we can convince a judge to get a warrant to search behind those bricked off areas." Mike's voice rose a bit as he spoke, fighting to be heard over the rumble of thunder as a burst of snow fell down across the neighborhood.
Arvard nodded. "Be a tough sell to the local magistrate, given how most felt about Custer out here."
"There is no way this mess won't strain the Federation." Mike scowled at the suddenly white sky, as the snow increased. "You're wrong, Arvard. We found a can of rattlesnakes, and no reason for them to be there."
The Angel stayed quiet, noting the Chief Constable approaching. Mike shook a hand through his hair, irritated at leaving his hat back in the are near the closet. "Chief. It's going to be a mess."
"Knew that when I got my first glance." Burbank's right hand rubbed his bare scalp. "My techs are yours, got that approved by the folks downtown. Governor did say to help, so I guess if you need something, ask."
Mike nodded. "I will. Ask, not demand, that is." Looking back at the house, Mike had an idea. "Chief, take a gander at that root cellar. Look real close, and tell me what you think."
"That pipe does head back this way. Give me a minute. I need to relay a message to Fienstien. His wife is worried about him forgetting it's Friday." Burbank shrugged. "He gets wrapped up in some details and forgets about his Sabbath services. And she tends to blame me." The chief strode back to the house, his pace a bit quick.
"He hates the snow. Too many folks think these steamcars can still stop on a dime." Arvard said when Mike looked to him.
"I need to get Candace and her techs down here to see this pipe." Mike pressed.
"Visas are being cut. The First Presidency agrees, we need to get answers on this." Arvard field stripped his smoke, setting the butt into his pouch. Tobacco was expensive in this part of the Federated Republics, with the sin taxes Deseret added to it. "Best we head in."
"Not yet." Mike gestured at the house. "That cellar is only about one third the house's width. Why wall off an area, given your local drive for setting aside food for disasters."
"And when did it get walled off is a problem. Building permits for internal changes are only a fairly recent thing." Arvard answered. "Bit of a quandry, I agree."
"Warm summer, bad winter coming." Mike said, looking up at the intensifying snow. "Not a good way to start." Already, two inches lay on the ground.
"Nope. And this mess might not clear up until spring. Best get used to moving about in the slush." Arvard shrugged. "Folks don't shovel walks like they used to. We're all getting lazy, I guess."
Mike tussled the wet flakes from his hair. "Yeah. Well, I should at least get my hat. Then grab a bite to eat."
"I suggest we go to Dee's. Good food, and in this weather, they could use the business. they are a bit aways from the main part of Sugarhouse." The older man removed his hat, knocking off a good quarter inch of sticky snow from the wide brim. "Think we need to step back a bit, look it over from a short distance." He grinned at Holzon. "And we can walk there in just a few, not have to deal with the idiot drivers who trust these fancy automobiles."
Laughing, Mike shuffled through the snow. "Yeah. Good idea. Never have been able to try anywhere but Bill and Nada's on my few forays off the Fort. Heard of some good food other than there, though."
Inside, the men headed back through the house. In the main basement, the Chief had his people gathered up, talking softly about keeping things quiet, and saying it was something related to Federal investigations, not local. "Keep it from stirring up. What you know, stays with you, unless I or the inspector approves it. I need the neighborhood patrols back out on the streets, the bricks and cobbles are getting slick, so watch it, and keep folks from doing stupid things. Tremont, get back to Highland and Twenty-First. I have two accidents over there already, you will be busy, grab some rookie to help direct traffic, the signal arms look like they're jammed open again."
That provoked a groan from all the patrol officers. The arguements about right of way after an accident when the signals malfuncitioned tended to be heated, even in the very laid back and curteous society of Deseret.
"Can you leave us two to help the honor guard while I take the team to lunch, Chief?" Mike asked.
"Leaving four, permanent detatched duty, plus Detective Smith and Feinstien. Also, will toss you any bodies you need, if I can spare them, once the snow is cleared from the streets." Burbank grinned. "And the MP's up at the Fort told me to keep you away from cars in this. Guess you are one of my snow idiots?"
Laughing, Mike accepted a towel from someone. "Yeah. I need to get my wife and her team down here."
"I'm here. Go chat with your fellow law enforcement people." Mike grimaced, as his glasses were handed to him. "Not even seeing your own wife. We need to get you in for a new set of spectacles, honey."
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Untitled steam punk bit chap 7
(still canned drops)
By noon, stomach growling despite the rolls and illicit coffee and hot cocoa taken several times during the morning, Mike felt the crew assembled could do the job unsupervised for a short bit. Some time mid-morning, Angel Higgins and the Chief answered a summons to Temple Square, to answer questions the Saints leaders must have about the crime, and why the Confederal bureau took charge of the case. Looking around, Holzon nodded when Graves and Emma looked up from their work with the daugerrotype boxes, recording the steps Graves and Feinstien where taking in the rcovery of the remains.
"Anything yet?" Mike asked.
"Well, I ain't a bone expert, but most of the damage appears to be from being burnt or baked somehow." Feinstien spoke up first.
"The few broken spots correlate to the brackets and the joists, so I agree. Not saying it ain't weird, but does not look like any violence other than being shoved it caused." Graves shook his head. "Definitely something for the Sarge's mind to think over. Still have no clue how to get him inside this tube. Almost looks like he, well, grew into it, somehow."
"Speaking of the Sergeant, where is he?" Holzon gazed upwards, noting the careful way the three managed to remove part of the wall below, exposing more damaged joists.
Detective Smith gestured to the west wall. "This is actually under the back porch, which was a raised area. behind that brick area is their root cellar, which apparently was rearranged sometime either about the same time or just before, the event happened. Not sure folks ever knew what happened." Emma then looked at the bricks again. "Mike, this might be me being suspicious, but if the bricking was part of the event, or related, we will have to search local records for who owned the property, any guests at the time and such."
"Sarge asked two of the Vigilantes your Angel friend left here to watch over things to escort him up to meet the caisson." Graves chimed in.
Nodding to graves"Well, I will leave that to you, Emma/. Jst make serious notes. We'll be before the next session of Congress to explain what we know, I'm betting. At least that will not be until January." Running a hand over the bricks, fingers focusing alnog the edges afer a moment. "Two types of mortar?"
Feinstien laughed. "We told you, Detective. Two cups of coffee, but we'll let you admit you had a bet with us that you lost to any who look at you oddly."
Grmacing, Emma held up a hand. "The whole wager has yet to play out. Agent Holzon wants his answer, and we need his before I forfeit."
Graves laughed, adjusting the stand his special focusing lantern stood on for a clearer picture inside the underflooring parts. "Yeah, we might get another of those crullers if you learn some patience, Ari."
"Gambling. Great, just what I need, more paperwork." Mike laughed. "I take it you three have a theory?"
"Your way of having everyone make their own observations and ideas is working so far, Mike. Why don't you look it over some more, your way, then we can all compare notes, and settle the bet?"
The tone she used was one Mike knew well from his wife. She was sure of something, and convinced masculine prejudices would prevent him from seeing them. "Ah, one of those things. Gents versus the Lady. I see." Shaking his head, Mike headed to the stairs back up. "Where is this root cellar's current entrance?"
"Just off the mud room." Emma said.
Something hit the agent about then, turning him back His eyes roamed the exposed supports, and the areas above them. His eyes narrowed, lines around them forming as somethiing began to form in his thoughts. "I think I see. Keep working, I'll be back in a few, then I suggest, if my escort has returned, we compare notes and thoughts over lunch somewhere nearby."
Taking the steps two at a time, Mike felt the habit his wife despised rising. He puffed out his cheeks to keep teeth from pinching the right side of his face in a bit. Candace chided him for that, claiming it made him look like some toothless bum. In the hallway to the back, he almost ran into Arvard exiting the water closet.
"Sorry Arvard."
"Son, somethiing about this house...." He stopped, noting Mike's face. "Hmmm. I'll add it to my notes."
"And think about someplace quiet around here we can compare first impressions and notes over a good meal." Scrunching his face at another loud grumble from his belly, Mike "Tag along a minute, though. Might need to have your knowledge of the area."
"Remember, son. I'm a Johnny Reb, not a Saint, by birth." Arvard's grin faded after a moment. "You're on to something."
Mike bit his lower lip, gently. "Maybe. Want you to see this side first, then we'll head back downstairs." Then he chuckled. "And I might need you to close your ears from time to time, given the local ban on gambling."
"As long as it's only drinks, food items of small value and other such, the Quorum says to look away, most times." Arvard said, following Mike over to the mud room. Mike noted the step up, curiously eyeing the flooring.
When the door opened, both men noted the cement stairs, compared to the stone ones inside. Meeting the pale eyes of the Vigilance Committee commander, Mike noted the suddenly serious look on the older man's face. Mike's boots on the first few steps broke the sound of the water running again on the commode. The rasp of a lighter behind him reminded him he'd forgot a lantern. There was a bit longer pause than normal before light came from above, accompanied by the harsh smell of cigarette tobacco. That surprised Mike enough to look back.
"Bad habit." Arvard shrugged. "Keeps me from the Temples, but the Elders appointed me for a reason which piety and holding a Temple Recommend was not an issue."
Mike nodded. "Thanks for remembering the lantern. I should have thought about it, but up at the fort, every room has a gas light."
"Spoiled, you ask me." Arvard let a smile go with that taunt.
Mike looked around the cellar as the angel descended the stairs, lantern in hand. Shelves crossed the bricked up entry here, and most of the walls. Cobwebs and the musky smells of potatoes and other garden goods stored for winter wrinkled his nose. Behind the north and east wall, and to either side of the sealed off doorway of the south wall, native sandstone stood. The west wall, after moving jars of canned fruits and jellies, proved brick.
Both men shared a look in the dim light. Holzon puffed again as his cheek pinched between teeth. A hint of red glow joined the dim lantern light, pungent smoke saying Arvard's cigarette was burning fast on surprised intake of breath.
Holding a hand up, Mike looked around. The room felt close to him. Not just the narrowness he expected from the foundation. Foot steps above him got his eyes looking upwards. Here, there was no ceiling, and the raised floor's joists were exposed. The original floor and many of the joists in here were missing. Eyebrows drawn to the bridge of his nose, Mike motioned upwards to Arvard, who was studying the ground in the room.
Joiniing Arvard's gaze, Mike noted the holes in the stone floor, scrape marks and other indications of something heavy being mounted and moved about inside the room.
"Son, I have a bad feeling we just kicked over enough cans of worms to keep us fishing 'til Judgement Day." Arvard whispered.
By noon, stomach growling despite the rolls and illicit coffee and hot cocoa taken several times during the morning, Mike felt the crew assembled could do the job unsupervised for a short bit. Some time mid-morning, Angel Higgins and the Chief answered a summons to Temple Square, to answer questions the Saints leaders must have about the crime, and why the Confederal bureau took charge of the case. Looking around, Holzon nodded when Graves and Emma looked up from their work with the daugerrotype boxes, recording the steps Graves and Feinstien where taking in the rcovery of the remains.
"Anything yet?" Mike asked.
"Well, I ain't a bone expert, but most of the damage appears to be from being burnt or baked somehow." Feinstien spoke up first.
"The few broken spots correlate to the brackets and the joists, so I agree. Not saying it ain't weird, but does not look like any violence other than being shoved it caused." Graves shook his head. "Definitely something for the Sarge's mind to think over. Still have no clue how to get him inside this tube. Almost looks like he, well, grew into it, somehow."
"Speaking of the Sergeant, where is he?" Holzon gazed upwards, noting the careful way the three managed to remove part of the wall below, exposing more damaged joists.
Detective Smith gestured to the west wall. "This is actually under the back porch, which was a raised area. behind that brick area is their root cellar, which apparently was rearranged sometime either about the same time or just before, the event happened. Not sure folks ever knew what happened." Emma then looked at the bricks again. "Mike, this might be me being suspicious, but if the bricking was part of the event, or related, we will have to search local records for who owned the property, any guests at the time and such."
"Sarge asked two of the Vigilantes your Angel friend left here to watch over things to escort him up to meet the caisson." Graves chimed in.
Nodding to graves"Well, I will leave that to you, Emma/. Jst make serious notes. We'll be before the next session of Congress to explain what we know, I'm betting. At least that will not be until January." Running a hand over the bricks, fingers focusing alnog the edges afer a moment. "Two types of mortar?"
Feinstien laughed. "We told you, Detective. Two cups of coffee, but we'll let you admit you had a bet with us that you lost to any who look at you oddly."
Grmacing, Emma held up a hand. "The whole wager has yet to play out. Agent Holzon wants his answer, and we need his before I forfeit."
Graves laughed, adjusting the stand his special focusing lantern stood on for a clearer picture inside the underflooring parts. "Yeah, we might get another of those crullers if you learn some patience, Ari."
"Gambling. Great, just what I need, more paperwork." Mike laughed. "I take it you three have a theory?"
"Your way of having everyone make their own observations and ideas is working so far, Mike. Why don't you look it over some more, your way, then we can all compare notes, and settle the bet?"
The tone she used was one Mike knew well from his wife. She was sure of something, and convinced masculine prejudices would prevent him from seeing them. "Ah, one of those things. Gents versus the Lady. I see." Shaking his head, Mike headed to the stairs back up. "Where is this root cellar's current entrance?"
"Just off the mud room." Emma said.
Something hit the agent about then, turning him back His eyes roamed the exposed supports, and the areas above them. His eyes narrowed, lines around them forming as somethiing began to form in his thoughts. "I think I see. Keep working, I'll be back in a few, then I suggest, if my escort has returned, we compare notes and thoughts over lunch somewhere nearby."
Taking the steps two at a time, Mike felt the habit his wife despised rising. He puffed out his cheeks to keep teeth from pinching the right side of his face in a bit. Candace chided him for that, claiming it made him look like some toothless bum. In the hallway to the back, he almost ran into Arvard exiting the water closet.
"Sorry Arvard."
"Son, somethiing about this house...." He stopped, noting Mike's face. "Hmmm. I'll add it to my notes."
"And think about someplace quiet around here we can compare first impressions and notes over a good meal." Scrunching his face at another loud grumble from his belly, Mike "Tag along a minute, though. Might need to have your knowledge of the area."
"Remember, son. I'm a Johnny Reb, not a Saint, by birth." Arvard's grin faded after a moment. "You're on to something."
Mike bit his lower lip, gently. "Maybe. Want you to see this side first, then we'll head back downstairs." Then he chuckled. "And I might need you to close your ears from time to time, given the local ban on gambling."
"As long as it's only drinks, food items of small value and other such, the Quorum says to look away, most times." Arvard said, following Mike over to the mud room. Mike noted the step up, curiously eyeing the flooring.
When the door opened, both men noted the cement stairs, compared to the stone ones inside. Meeting the pale eyes of the Vigilance Committee commander, Mike noted the suddenly serious look on the older man's face. Mike's boots on the first few steps broke the sound of the water running again on the commode. The rasp of a lighter behind him reminded him he'd forgot a lantern. There was a bit longer pause than normal before light came from above, accompanied by the harsh smell of cigarette tobacco. That surprised Mike enough to look back.
"Bad habit." Arvard shrugged. "Keeps me from the Temples, but the Elders appointed me for a reason which piety and holding a Temple Recommend was not an issue."
Mike nodded. "Thanks for remembering the lantern. I should have thought about it, but up at the fort, every room has a gas light."
"Spoiled, you ask me." Arvard let a smile go with that taunt.
Mike looked around the cellar as the angel descended the stairs, lantern in hand. Shelves crossed the bricked up entry here, and most of the walls. Cobwebs and the musky smells of potatoes and other garden goods stored for winter wrinkled his nose. Behind the north and east wall, and to either side of the sealed off doorway of the south wall, native sandstone stood. The west wall, after moving jars of canned fruits and jellies, proved brick.
Both men shared a look in the dim light. Holzon puffed again as his cheek pinched between teeth. A hint of red glow joined the dim lantern light, pungent smoke saying Arvard's cigarette was burning fast on surprised intake of breath.
Holding a hand up, Mike looked around. The room felt close to him. Not just the narrowness he expected from the foundation. Foot steps above him got his eyes looking upwards. Here, there was no ceiling, and the raised floor's joists were exposed. The original floor and many of the joists in here were missing. Eyebrows drawn to the bridge of his nose, Mike motioned upwards to Arvard, who was studying the ground in the room.
Joiniing Arvard's gaze, Mike noted the holes in the stone floor, scrape marks and other indications of something heavy being mounted and moved about inside the room.
"Son, I have a bad feeling we just kicked over enough cans of worms to keep us fishing 'til Judgement Day." Arvard whispered.
Monday, October 13, 2014
untitled steam punk chapter 6
(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.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2014
untitled steampunk chapter 5
The rattle of manilla paper as he sealed the envelope was one of the few sounds in the basement, suddenly. Muscles in his face twisting, Mike realized something else. The first Agent on such a scene, unless his own connections to the event could taint the investigation and prosecution of the case, became Special Agent in Charge, not of the whole division, just the case. But he could give orders to anybody in the office. Even those back in Washington, to a point.
This case, even those back in the capital would jump, Mike thought. He'd never had this much power, responsibility, or risk, as a screwup here could cost him his career.
The Chief was moving all but his lead investigator and two tech officers out of the house, to cordon off the block. Out of respect, Mike held his peace about the investigation, save for one small bit.
"Arvard...."
"Might as well keep it informal, son." The Angel nodded grimly. "I'll inform the Quorum myself, but I don't like you being alone without protection outside that Fort. Or in it. I know that place can be snuck into."
Mike shook his head, his boss looking at him just a somberly. "Let's keep those kind of secrets from me. For now, at least. Boss?"
"Your show, Holzon. I'm second fiddle now." Chambers nodded to the Angel. "I will ask for a Secret Service agent to work with you on keeping our boy alive. Unless you think..."
"Accepted. I'll even work with some Yank, if need be." Arvard's jaw slid to the left, giving him a strangely humorous look, despite his deep thoughts. "Better tell General Thornton to get a caisson ready. We may have hated the man for the war, but he gave generous terms, before disappearing "
"And many locally prominent folks will be on the suspect list, good point." Agent in Charge Chambers sucked in his breath. "Damn. Not my best morning. Mike, anything you need, you know, will be yours. Here, at least. Can't say about outside the Fort."
"Relax, boss. I know it will be touchy back at headquarters." Mike looked around, pulling out his pocket notebook. "Well. Better do the important stuff first." He took the names of the crime scene technicians, the detective and his surprisingly, for Deseret, female partner, added his own, the Chiefs, Chambers and left room for two more pages, based on the crowd he'd seen earlier.
"Okay, so Detective Smith..."
The woman interrupted him. "Emma, please. I've worked with your wife on a couple of cases of telesond fraud this summer." Her smile proved warm, and the eyes held a hint of the wicked sense of humor he'd heard about.
"Mike. I agree with Arvard, let's keep this informal. Easier to talk things out." He started in a few pages more. "If I can, I'll need the name of the responding constable, and first detective on scene's impression."
"I was first on scene, sir." That admission made Mike jump a bit, as one of the techs spoke up. "Kind of hard not to be... I live two houses up from the bakery."
Right hand on jaw reminded Mike he'd forgot to shave before heading out. Something he'd need to remedy somehow soon. "Great. That could be a problem. You have any family with links to this property?"
"Doubt it, sir. I'm an emigrant, myself. Came out here to take the job from Chicago University." The man smiled. "And, no, I'm not a Saint, Ain't, and definitely not a Gentile. Not with a name like Fienstein."
"That I believe. Okay. If you won't mind making me a copy of your notes, ummm, Uri?" Mike suffered horribly with names at times.
"Ari, actually." The guy grinned. "I'm just worried me and that Avenging Angel will get confused back east by folks." He tossed over a few sheets torn out of his own pocket pad. "I always have to toss over copies to the Detectives, so I use carbon paper on my first arrival notes, and scene sketches."
The guffaw from Arvard settled that. "I'll be sure to note my input as being from the Rocky Mountain Jew, if you specify yourself as the Windy City one. Anybody smart enough to make copies without being asked is alright in my book. Unless they're forgerers."
"Great. I'll get this duplicated as fast as I can for everyone." He looked it over, surprised it was the originals. "You'll need this set back."
"That Supreme Court case last year was off his notes." Chief Burbank rejoined them, rubbing a hand over his bald head to remove moisture. "And hope you all brought hats, the Lake just sneezed some snow over us."
They all groaned a bit, the bands of snow kicked up by the Great Salt Lake tended to be near blizzard visibility, even if brief, and often laced with lightning that sought out just about anything moving about in the snow.
"Great. And I have to get back across the battlefield yet." Chapman said.
"Let Candace know I'll do lunch down here for me?" Mike asked.
His boss nodded. "What do you need me to take up to the lab?"
Mike gestured to Feinstien. "Like I said, the lab is yours to use."
The Chicago man grinned. "Use or just have them run samples? I'd love to see that new spectrograph machine. Worked with the guy who was still thinking it up on the design at one point back at CeeYuu."
A single look at Chambers told Mike it was his call. "Phil, can you get him a visa?"
Again, just a nod. Chambers believed in letting his people run their shows, backed their plays and took the heat for letting them, rather than passing the buck.
"Fine. Gather the samples you need, especially some pipe fragments. Phil, get the results and some of that sample over to the NCA folks when you talk to Candace for me." Scratching his head, he looked again at the exposed section of the telesond conduit . "That lining is strange. Never seen that myself, maybe it will help narrow down our source."
"And the body?" Arvard stood a bit back, now, eyes looking for other clues missed.
"Good point. I need a Graves Registration team, if we have one at the Fort." Mike ran a hand through his matted brown hair. "Guess we need to find out when Custer was last seen, too."
Reaching into the toolkit of Feinstien, Mike grabbed a dust mask and gloves. "Get me some more envelopes." Looking at the detective, he nodded. "Take it from the top for me. Everything we know so far, no speculcation." Trying his best to stay in the footprints Arvard's invasion of the scene left, Mike entered the closet.
This case, even those back in the capital would jump, Mike thought. He'd never had this much power, responsibility, or risk, as a screwup here could cost him his career.
The Chief was moving all but his lead investigator and two tech officers out of the house, to cordon off the block. Out of respect, Mike held his peace about the investigation, save for one small bit.
"Arvard...."
"Might as well keep it informal, son." The Angel nodded grimly. "I'll inform the Quorum myself, but I don't like you being alone without protection outside that Fort. Or in it. I know that place can be snuck into."
Mike shook his head, his boss looking at him just a somberly. "Let's keep those kind of secrets from me. For now, at least. Boss?"
"Your show, Holzon. I'm second fiddle now." Chambers nodded to the Angel. "I will ask for a Secret Service agent to work with you on keeping our boy alive. Unless you think..."
"Accepted. I'll even work with some Yank, if need be." Arvard's jaw slid to the left, giving him a strangely humorous look, despite his deep thoughts. "Better tell General Thornton to get a caisson ready. We may have hated the man for the war, but he gave generous terms, before disappearing "
"And many locally prominent folks will be on the suspect list, good point." Agent in Charge Chambers sucked in his breath. "Damn. Not my best morning. Mike, anything you need, you know, will be yours. Here, at least. Can't say about outside the Fort."
"Relax, boss. I know it will be touchy back at headquarters." Mike looked around, pulling out his pocket notebook. "Well. Better do the important stuff first." He took the names of the crime scene technicians, the detective and his surprisingly, for Deseret, female partner, added his own, the Chiefs, Chambers and left room for two more pages, based on the crowd he'd seen earlier.
"Okay, so Detective Smith..."
The woman interrupted him. "Emma, please. I've worked with your wife on a couple of cases of telesond fraud this summer." Her smile proved warm, and the eyes held a hint of the wicked sense of humor he'd heard about.
"Mike. I agree with Arvard, let's keep this informal. Easier to talk things out." He started in a few pages more. "If I can, I'll need the name of the responding constable, and first detective on scene's impression."
"I was first on scene, sir." That admission made Mike jump a bit, as one of the techs spoke up. "Kind of hard not to be... I live two houses up from the bakery."
Right hand on jaw reminded Mike he'd forgot to shave before heading out. Something he'd need to remedy somehow soon. "Great. That could be a problem. You have any family with links to this property?"
"Doubt it, sir. I'm an emigrant, myself. Came out here to take the job from Chicago University." The man smiled. "And, no, I'm not a Saint, Ain't, and definitely not a Gentile. Not with a name like Fienstein."
"That I believe. Okay. If you won't mind making me a copy of your notes, ummm, Uri?" Mike suffered horribly with names at times.
"Ari, actually." The guy grinned. "I'm just worried me and that Avenging Angel will get confused back east by folks." He tossed over a few sheets torn out of his own pocket pad. "I always have to toss over copies to the Detectives, so I use carbon paper on my first arrival notes, and scene sketches."
The guffaw from Arvard settled that. "I'll be sure to note my input as being from the Rocky Mountain Jew, if you specify yourself as the Windy City one. Anybody smart enough to make copies without being asked is alright in my book. Unless they're forgerers."
"Great. I'll get this duplicated as fast as I can for everyone." He looked it over, surprised it was the originals. "You'll need this set back."
"That Supreme Court case last year was off his notes." Chief Burbank rejoined them, rubbing a hand over his bald head to remove moisture. "And hope you all brought hats, the Lake just sneezed some snow over us."
They all groaned a bit, the bands of snow kicked up by the Great Salt Lake tended to be near blizzard visibility, even if brief, and often laced with lightning that sought out just about anything moving about in the snow.
"Great. And I have to get back across the battlefield yet." Chapman said.
"Let Candace know I'll do lunch down here for me?" Mike asked.
His boss nodded. "What do you need me to take up to the lab?"
Mike gestured to Feinstien. "Like I said, the lab is yours to use."
The Chicago man grinned. "Use or just have them run samples? I'd love to see that new spectrograph machine. Worked with the guy who was still thinking it up on the design at one point back at CeeYuu."
A single look at Chambers told Mike it was his call. "Phil, can you get him a visa?"
Again, just a nod. Chambers believed in letting his people run their shows, backed their plays and took the heat for letting them, rather than passing the buck.
"Fine. Gather the samples you need, especially some pipe fragments. Phil, get the results and some of that sample over to the NCA folks when you talk to Candace for me." Scratching his head, he looked again at the exposed section of the telesond conduit . "That lining is strange. Never seen that myself, maybe it will help narrow down our source."
"And the body?" Arvard stood a bit back, now, eyes looking for other clues missed.
"Good point. I need a Graves Registration team, if we have one at the Fort." Mike ran a hand through his matted brown hair. "Guess we need to find out when Custer was last seen, too."
Reaching into the toolkit of Feinstien, Mike grabbed a dust mask and gloves. "Get me some more envelopes." Looking at the detective, he nodded. "Take it from the top for me. Everything we know so far, no speculcation." Trying his best to stay in the footprints Arvard's invasion of the scene left, Mike entered the closet.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
untitled steampunk effort chapter 4
The Twenty Seventh South Station, actually at Twenty-Seven Hundred South, allowed them a few moments more to talk as they walked the near block length to the second street down.
"This weird grid, drives me nuts sometimes." Mike stated.
"Used to get to me. But, after a few decades, ya get used to it." Arvard admitted. "Dang. Inside an unlicensed telesond tube. And an older style one too."
"Yeah. She said she would see about sending what ever she can dig up on the line in Agency records. And by querying Deseret Telesond, Ma Bell and a few others on possible theft of service schemes in the past." Mike looked back to the bakery by the station. "What time that place open?"
"Six. But as the owner lives upstairs, I'd be willing to say we'll have hot chocolates and donuts at the crime scene shortly." That infectious grin creased his face again. "And if not, I'll be glad to intimidate them to starting a pot. Might even have some of that illicit coffee been smuggled in lately."
That admission startled the investigator. "Be a shame to have them shut down over it."
"Won't happen. Stupidest thing the Legislature ever did. Quorum's been on them about it too. Should have that little quirk fixed soon enough for you folks next supply train not to get stopped." The older man's head shook, long grey hair and white close cropped beard catching the orange tint from the gas fired street lights. "Damned fools want another war. We Angels told them to fight it themselves. Even threatened to step aside and let those Army boys at the Fort have a clear ride in, and throw them a parade for cleaning the shallow end of our geanalogical pool."
Mike chuckled. "Good thing your funding is not through them. Too bad mine is through elected fools. Nice idea, though if the Army hears you don't want to fight, they might tell Congress to get their own lazy bodies out here to fight."
"A war fought with fertilizer? Son, the farmers will love it, but your tree hugger agents might have a conipiton fit." Arvard laughed loudly, causing a young paperboy to jump as they rounded the corner.
The gathering of equipment impressed Mike. Two Fire Department Wagons, an ambulance, several other horse and buggy rigs. A neighbor's front yard already resembled the remuda of a large ranch. And an Allard '01 Road Steamer, gleaming with one of the fancy new rotating globes able to project light generated from auroral charges the vehicle would build up during the geomagnetic storms triggered by the increasingly frequent solar flares lately.
True to Arvard's prediction, the delivery steamlorry for the bakery held center stage, vapors moving into the empty branches of trees, wreathing the few pines set back from the street, mingling with the layer of fog building down into the valley as the inversion built.
"Quite a welcoming committee. I see Chief Burbank's car still runs. Amazing." Shaking his grizzled head, Arvard sighed. "Never trust these newer metal vehicles. Even the trolleys scare me. I remember the GeeStorm Surges of 89 all too well."
Mike shuddered. Deseret got off easy during the last high peak, in his opinion. "So do I. Lost two sisters and my father to one in Boston. One of those Sky Trams across the Charles had the suspension cable melt when the insulators failed."
Arvard stopped. Something in Mike's voice caught his attention. "You were there?"
Mike stepped onto the grass as he looked around, letting the paperboy pass them. "Yes. Managed to save two brothers, and my baby sister. Dad went back after mom and the girls. Mom was pulled free by some guy we never saw again already, but he never knew. The charge in the wire electrocuted him."
Arvard shook his head. "Small world. Should have known." Looking around, his voice dropped. "Southern accent like mine in Boston, back then with the Confederacy testing the waters for annexing Maryland from you Yanks, not a good thing. Being a mormon on top of that, could have looked bad. Terrorism bad. Even if I was there to out a few Johnny Reb saboteurs to settle some scores from something done out here."
Mike was shocked. It never occurred to him that the man who saved his mother might not have been a southerner. "Very small world. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."
Setting a hand on Mike's shoulder, the old man bowed his head. "It's irked me something fierce all these years, not being able to get them girls free from the tangled cable."
Mike nodded, quietly praying no repeats this solar cycle, but experts warned they were reaching another new peak in that activity. "Don't. They went quick. And that is what turned me to being an investigator. I wanted to ensure no one ever died because some company cut corners on materials again."
Arvard merely nodded. They stood a moment longer, then walked quietly to the house once Mike gestured that way.
At the door, a patrol officer stood checking credentials. Some reporter was trying to sweet talk her way in. "No press. Chief will issue a statement later for you. No pictures either. Not fair to the folks living here." Noting the Angel, he waved Arvard in. "Sir!" The way he locked up to attention spoke of his leanings, be it Saint or Jack Mormon, the few who kept only some of the faith's tenants, and at least attended church, though lacked the credentials to enter the Temple.
"Roped me in a Confederal Inspector who told me something I don't believe." Arvard told him, jerking a thumb towards Mike.
Holding up his badge, the Inspector asked a short question. "Where's the Chief. He asked for me."
Confederal law only allowed him to take the lead on cases that crossed Republic borders. Otherwise, he had to be escorted by the agency requesting assistance in their investigation.
"One moment, sir. Carlson, Get the Chief!" The officer shrugged. "Stupid restriction. We should be able to just let you in. Like I can Brother Higgins."
"Much as the Rebs were wrong on reasons, limiting Federal Powers makes sense now. Seen some of the things happened in Europe, and being as divided as we were on the Big War, I think staying out of those issues was smart." Mike allowed.
Moments later, the Chief stuck his head out. "Holzon, you have to see this. I still don't believe it."
Mike chuckled. Normally, with Burbank, he was the one showing evidence from cases outside the Zion Curtain and saying he was not believing it. "That bad?"
"That strange. I have no clue how they stuck it in there. That tube is only three inches in diameter. Some bones would fit,but how the skull got that far intact..." He noted the reporter. "Don't print anything until I get the statement out, Lindsey!"
"Can I at least say it has you puzzled?" The blond asked.
"Yes, and that it's going to be a cold case. These have been here a long time. Get that out, it's not a recent incident. Don't want folks thinking the Boyles are ax murdering beasts. The remains are visibly older than their residency here." He frowned. "And that is all I want to say for now. Agent Holzon, you need to see it first. Then we'll talk the other evidence we are finding.
"This weird grid, drives me nuts sometimes." Mike stated.
"Used to get to me. But, after a few decades, ya get used to it." Arvard admitted. "Dang. Inside an unlicensed telesond tube. And an older style one too."
"Yeah. She said she would see about sending what ever she can dig up on the line in Agency records. And by querying Deseret Telesond, Ma Bell and a few others on possible theft of service schemes in the past." Mike looked back to the bakery by the station. "What time that place open?"
"Six. But as the owner lives upstairs, I'd be willing to say we'll have hot chocolates and donuts at the crime scene shortly." That infectious grin creased his face again. "And if not, I'll be glad to intimidate them to starting a pot. Might even have some of that illicit coffee been smuggled in lately."
That admission startled the investigator. "Be a shame to have them shut down over it."
"Won't happen. Stupidest thing the Legislature ever did. Quorum's been on them about it too. Should have that little quirk fixed soon enough for you folks next supply train not to get stopped." The older man's head shook, long grey hair and white close cropped beard catching the orange tint from the gas fired street lights. "Damned fools want another war. We Angels told them to fight it themselves. Even threatened to step aside and let those Army boys at the Fort have a clear ride in, and throw them a parade for cleaning the shallow end of our geanalogical pool."
Mike chuckled. "Good thing your funding is not through them. Too bad mine is through elected fools. Nice idea, though if the Army hears you don't want to fight, they might tell Congress to get their own lazy bodies out here to fight."
"A war fought with fertilizer? Son, the farmers will love it, but your tree hugger agents might have a conipiton fit." Arvard laughed loudly, causing a young paperboy to jump as they rounded the corner.
The gathering of equipment impressed Mike. Two Fire Department Wagons, an ambulance, several other horse and buggy rigs. A neighbor's front yard already resembled the remuda of a large ranch. And an Allard '01 Road Steamer, gleaming with one of the fancy new rotating globes able to project light generated from auroral charges the vehicle would build up during the geomagnetic storms triggered by the increasingly frequent solar flares lately.
True to Arvard's prediction, the delivery steamlorry for the bakery held center stage, vapors moving into the empty branches of trees, wreathing the few pines set back from the street, mingling with the layer of fog building down into the valley as the inversion built.
"Quite a welcoming committee. I see Chief Burbank's car still runs. Amazing." Shaking his grizzled head, Arvard sighed. "Never trust these newer metal vehicles. Even the trolleys scare me. I remember the GeeStorm Surges of 89 all too well."
Mike shuddered. Deseret got off easy during the last high peak, in his opinion. "So do I. Lost two sisters and my father to one in Boston. One of those Sky Trams across the Charles had the suspension cable melt when the insulators failed."
Arvard stopped. Something in Mike's voice caught his attention. "You were there?"
Mike stepped onto the grass as he looked around, letting the paperboy pass them. "Yes. Managed to save two brothers, and my baby sister. Dad went back after mom and the girls. Mom was pulled free by some guy we never saw again already, but he never knew. The charge in the wire electrocuted him."
Arvard shook his head. "Small world. Should have known." Looking around, his voice dropped. "Southern accent like mine in Boston, back then with the Confederacy testing the waters for annexing Maryland from you Yanks, not a good thing. Being a mormon on top of that, could have looked bad. Terrorism bad. Even if I was there to out a few Johnny Reb saboteurs to settle some scores from something done out here."
Mike was shocked. It never occurred to him that the man who saved his mother might not have been a southerner. "Very small world. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."
Setting a hand on Mike's shoulder, the old man bowed his head. "It's irked me something fierce all these years, not being able to get them girls free from the tangled cable."
Mike nodded, quietly praying no repeats this solar cycle, but experts warned they were reaching another new peak in that activity. "Don't. They went quick. And that is what turned me to being an investigator. I wanted to ensure no one ever died because some company cut corners on materials again."
Arvard merely nodded. They stood a moment longer, then walked quietly to the house once Mike gestured that way.
At the door, a patrol officer stood checking credentials. Some reporter was trying to sweet talk her way in. "No press. Chief will issue a statement later for you. No pictures either. Not fair to the folks living here." Noting the Angel, he waved Arvard in. "Sir!" The way he locked up to attention spoke of his leanings, be it Saint or Jack Mormon, the few who kept only some of the faith's tenants, and at least attended church, though lacked the credentials to enter the Temple.
"Roped me in a Confederal Inspector who told me something I don't believe." Arvard told him, jerking a thumb towards Mike.
Holding up his badge, the Inspector asked a short question. "Where's the Chief. He asked for me."
Confederal law only allowed him to take the lead on cases that crossed Republic borders. Otherwise, he had to be escorted by the agency requesting assistance in their investigation.
"One moment, sir. Carlson, Get the Chief!" The officer shrugged. "Stupid restriction. We should be able to just let you in. Like I can Brother Higgins."
"Much as the Rebs were wrong on reasons, limiting Federal Powers makes sense now. Seen some of the things happened in Europe, and being as divided as we were on the Big War, I think staying out of those issues was smart." Mike allowed.
Moments later, the Chief stuck his head out. "Holzon, you have to see this. I still don't believe it."
Mike chuckled. Normally, with Burbank, he was the one showing evidence from cases outside the Zion Curtain and saying he was not believing it. "That bad?"
"That strange. I have no clue how they stuck it in there. That tube is only three inches in diameter. Some bones would fit,but how the skull got that far intact..." He noted the reporter. "Don't print anything until I get the statement out, Lindsey!"
"Can I at least say it has you puzzled?" The blond asked.
"Yes, and that it's going to be a cold case. These have been here a long time. Get that out, it's not a recent incident. Don't want folks thinking the Boyles are ax murdering beasts. The remains are visibly older than their residency here." He frowned. "And that is all I want to say for now. Agent Holzon, you need to see it first. Then we'll talk the other evidence we are finding.
Monday, October 6, 2014
untitled steam punk chap 3
The Twenty Seventh South Station, actually at Twenty-Seven Hundred South, allowed them a few moments more to talk as they walked the near block length to the second street down.
"This weird grid, drives me nuts sometimes." Mike stated.
"Used to get to me. But, after a few decades, ya get used to it." Arvard admitted. "Dang. Inside an unlicensed telesond tube. And an older style one too."
"Yeah. She said she would see about sending what ever she can dig up on the line in Agency records. And by querying Deseret Telesond, Ma Bell and a few others on possible theft of service schemes in the past." Mike looked back to the bakery by the station. "What time that place open?"
"Six. But as the owner lives upstairs, I'd be willing to say we'll have hot chocolates and donuts at the crime scene shortly." That infectious grin creased his face again. "And if not, I'll be glad to intimidate them to starting a pot. Might even have some of that illicit coffee been smuggled in lately."
That admission startled the investigator. "Be a shame to have them shut down over it."
"Won't happen. Stupidest thing the Legislature ever did. Quorum's been on them about it too. Should have that little quirk fixed soon enough for you folks next supply train not to get stopped." The older man's head shook, long grey hair and white close cropped beard catching the orange tint from the gas fired street lights. "Damned fools want another war. We Angels told them to fight it themselves. Even threatened to step aside and let those Army boys at the Fort have a clear ride in, and throw them a parade for cleaning the shallow end of our geanalogical pool."
Mike chuckled. "Good thing your funding is not through them. Too bad mine is through elected fools. Nice idea, though if the Army hears you don't want to fight, they might tell Congress to get their own lazy bodies out here to fight."
"A war fought with fertilizer? Son, the farmers will love it, but your tree hugger agents might have a conipiton fit." Arvard laughed loudly, causing a young paperboy to jump as they rounded the corner.
The gathering of equipment impressed Mike. Two Fire Department Wagons, an ambulance, several other horse and buggy rigs. A neighbor's front yard already resembled the remuda of a large ranch. And an Allard '01 Road Steamer, gleaming with one of the fancy new rotating globes able to project light generated from auroral charges the vehicle would build up during the geomagnetic storms triggered by the increasingly frequent solar flares lately.
True to Arvard's prediction, the delivery steamlorry for the bakery held center stage, vapors moving into the empty branches of trees, wreathing the few pines set back from the street, mingling with the layer of fog building down into the valley as the inversion built.
"Quite a welcoming committee. I see Chief Burbank's car still runs. Amazing." Shaking his grizzled head, Arvard sighed. "Never trust these newer metal vehicles. Even the trolleys scare me. I remember the GeeStorm Surges of 89 all too well."
Mike shuddered. Deseret got off easy during the last high peak, in his opinion. "So do I. Lost two sisters and my father to one in Boston. One of those Sky Trams across the Charles had the suspension cable melt when the insulators failed."
Arvard stopped. Something in Mike's voice caught his attention. "You were there?"
Mike stepped onto the grass as he looked around, letting the paperboy pass them. "Yes. Managed to save two brothers, and my baby sister. Dad went back after mom and the girls. Mom was pulled free by some guy we never saw again already, but he never knew. The charge in the wire electrocuted him."
Arvard shook his head. "Small world. Should have known." Looking around, his voice dropped. "Southern accent like mine in Boston, back then with the Confederacy testing the waters for annexing Maryland from you Yanks, not a good thing. Being a mormon on top of that, could have looked bad. Terrorism bad. Even if I was there to out a few Johnny Reb saboteurs to settle some scores from something done out here."
Mike was shocked. It never occurred to him that the man who saved his mother might not have been a southerner. "Very small world. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."
Setting a hand on Mike's shoulder, the old man bowed his head. "It's irked me something fierce all these years, not being able to get them girls free from the tangled cable."
Mike nodded, quietly praying no repeats this solar cycle, but experts warned they were reaching another new peak in that activity. "Don't. They went quick. And that is what turned me to being an investigator. I wanted to ensure no one ever died because some company cut corners on materials again."
Arvard merely nodded. They stood a moment longer, then walked quietly to the house once Mike gestured that way.
At the door, a patrol officer stood checking credentials. Some reporter was trying to sweet talk her way in. "No press. Chief will issue a statement later for you. No pictures either. Not fair to the folks living here." Noting the Angel, he waved Arvard in. "Sir!" The way he locked up to attention spoke of his leanings, be it Saint or Jack Mormon, the few who kept only some of the faith's tenants, and at least attended church, though lacked the credentials to enter the Temple.
"Roped me in a Confederal Inspector who told me something I don't believe." Arvard told him, jerking a thumb towards Mike.
Holding up his badge, the Inspector asked a short question. "Where's the Chief. He asked for me."
Confederal law only allowed him to take the lead on cases that crossed Republic borders. Otherwise, he had to be escorted by the agency requesting assistance in their investigation.
"One moment, sir. Carlson, Get the Chief!" The officer shrugged. "Stupid restriction. We should be able to just let you in. Like I can Brother Higgins."
"Much as the Rebs were wrong on reasons, limiting Federal Powers makes sense now. Seen some of the things happened in Europe, and being as divided as we were on the Big War, I think staying out of those issues was smart." Mike allowed.
Moments later, the Chief stuck his head out. "Holzon, you have to see this. I still don't believe it."
Mike chuckled. Normally, with Burbank, he was the one showing evidence from cases outside the Zion Curtain and saying he was not believing it. "That bad?"
"That strange. I have no clue how they stuck it in there. That tube is only three inches in diameter. Some bones would fit,but how the skull got that far intact..." He noted the reporter. "Don't print anything until I get the statement out, Lindsey!"
"Can I at least say it has you puzzled?" The blond asked.
"Yes, and that it's going to be a cold case. These have been here a long time. Get that out, it's not a recent incident. Don't want folks thinking the Boyles are ax murdering beasts. The remains are visibly older than their residency here." He frowned. "And that is all I want to say for now. Agent Holzon, you need to see it first. Then we'll talk the other evidence we are finding.
"This weird grid, drives me nuts sometimes." Mike stated.
"Used to get to me. But, after a few decades, ya get used to it." Arvard admitted. "Dang. Inside an unlicensed telesond tube. And an older style one too."
"Yeah. She said she would see about sending what ever she can dig up on the line in Agency records. And by querying Deseret Telesond, Ma Bell and a few others on possible theft of service schemes in the past." Mike looked back to the bakery by the station. "What time that place open?"
"Six. But as the owner lives upstairs, I'd be willing to say we'll have hot chocolates and donuts at the crime scene shortly." That infectious grin creased his face again. "And if not, I'll be glad to intimidate them to starting a pot. Might even have some of that illicit coffee been smuggled in lately."
That admission startled the investigator. "Be a shame to have them shut down over it."
"Won't happen. Stupidest thing the Legislature ever did. Quorum's been on them about it too. Should have that little quirk fixed soon enough for you folks next supply train not to get stopped." The older man's head shook, long grey hair and white close cropped beard catching the orange tint from the gas fired street lights. "Damned fools want another war. We Angels told them to fight it themselves. Even threatened to step aside and let those Army boys at the Fort have a clear ride in, and throw them a parade for cleaning the shallow end of our geanalogical pool."
Mike chuckled. "Good thing your funding is not through them. Too bad mine is through elected fools. Nice idea, though if the Army hears you don't want to fight, they might tell Congress to get their own lazy bodies out here to fight."
"A war fought with fertilizer? Son, the farmers will love it, but your tree hugger agents might have a conipiton fit." Arvard laughed loudly, causing a young paperboy to jump as they rounded the corner.
The gathering of equipment impressed Mike. Two Fire Department Wagons, an ambulance, several other horse and buggy rigs. A neighbor's front yard already resembled the remuda of a large ranch. And an Allard '01 Road Steamer, gleaming with one of the fancy new rotating globes able to project light generated from auroral charges the vehicle would build up during the geomagnetic storms triggered by the increasingly frequent solar flares lately.
True to Arvard's prediction, the delivery steamlorry for the bakery held center stage, vapors moving into the empty branches of trees, wreathing the few pines set back from the street, mingling with the layer of fog building down into the valley as the inversion built.
"Quite a welcoming committee. I see Chief Burbank's car still runs. Amazing." Shaking his grizzled head, Arvard sighed. "Never trust these newer metal vehicles. Even the trolleys scare me. I remember the GeeStorm Surges of 89 all too well."
Mike shuddered. Deseret got off easy during the last high peak, in his opinion. "So do I. Lost two sisters and my father to one in Boston. One of those Sky Trams across the Charles had the suspension cable melt when the insulators failed."
Arvard stopped. Something in Mike's voice caught his attention. "You were there?"
Mike stepped onto the grass as he looked around, letting the paperboy pass them. "Yes. Managed to save two brothers, and my baby sister. Dad went back after mom and the girls. Mom was pulled free by some guy we never saw again already, but he never knew. The charge in the wire electrocuted him."
Arvard shook his head. "Small world. Should have known." Looking around, his voice dropped. "Southern accent like mine in Boston, back then with the Confederacy testing the waters for annexing Maryland from you Yanks, not a good thing. Being a mormon on top of that, could have looked bad. Terrorism bad. Even if I was there to out a few Johnny Reb saboteurs to settle some scores from something done out here."
Mike was shocked. It never occurred to him that the man who saved his mother might not have been a southerner. "Very small world. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."
Setting a hand on Mike's shoulder, the old man bowed his head. "It's irked me something fierce all these years, not being able to get them girls free from the tangled cable."
Mike nodded, quietly praying no repeats this solar cycle, but experts warned they were reaching another new peak in that activity. "Don't. They went quick. And that is what turned me to being an investigator. I wanted to ensure no one ever died because some company cut corners on materials again."
Arvard merely nodded. They stood a moment longer, then walked quietly to the house once Mike gestured that way.
At the door, a patrol officer stood checking credentials. Some reporter was trying to sweet talk her way in. "No press. Chief will issue a statement later for you. No pictures either. Not fair to the folks living here." Noting the Angel, he waved Arvard in. "Sir!" The way he locked up to attention spoke of his leanings, be it Saint or Jack Mormon, the few who kept only some of the faith's tenants, and at least attended church, though lacked the credentials to enter the Temple.
"Roped me in a Confederal Inspector who told me something I don't believe." Arvard told him, jerking a thumb towards Mike.
Holding up his badge, the Inspector asked a short question. "Where's the Chief. He asked for me."
Confederal law only allowed him to take the lead on cases that crossed Republic borders. Otherwise, he had to be escorted by the agency requesting assistance in their investigation.
"One moment, sir. Carlson, Get the Chief!" The officer shrugged. "Stupid restriction. We should be able to just let you in. Like I can Brother Higgins."
"Much as the Rebs were wrong on reasons, limiting Federal Powers makes sense now. Seen some of the things happened in Europe, and being as divided as we were on the Big War, I think staying out of those issues was smart." Mike allowed.
Moments later, the Chief stuck his head out. "Holzon, you have to see this. I still don't believe it."
Mike chuckled. Normally, with Burbank, he was the one showing evidence from cases outside the Zion Curtain and saying he was not believing it. "That bad?"
"That strange. I have no clue how they stuck it in there. That tube is only three inches in diameter. Some bones would fit,but how the skull got that far intact..." He noted the reporter. "Don't print anything until I get the statement out, Lindsey!"
"Can I at least say it has you puzzled?" The blond asked.
"Yes, and that it's going to be a cold case. These have been here a long time. Get that out, it's not a recent incident. Don't want folks thinking the Boyles are ax murdering beasts. The remains are visibly older than their residency here." He frowned. "And that is all I want to say for now. Agent Holzon, you need to see it first. Then we'll talk the other evidence we are finding.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Untitled steampunk chap 2
"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.
"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.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Untitled steampunk story I started... chapter 1
(honestly, this is the project from my 2013 NaNoWriMo attempt.) (this is a canned posting, scheduled in advance, as all will be for the next long while. Little gifts to remind the world I walked upon it)
The rattle of bone and ceramic chime tubes, amid the hiss of the compressed air shifting them, forced Mike Halzon to open an eye, checking which alarm demanded attention. He felt the left corner of his mouth quirking upwards, once his eyes focused, noting the chimes on his side still swayed as the alarm stilled, waiting for an answer.
"Work?" Candace's tired voice barely reached his mind. A pile of comforters on her side of the bed explained the muffled tone, and the chill he'd been fighting. Cold fall mornings left him frequently wondering if sleeping bags would be better, even if they made cuddling before getting up difficult.
Before Mike could answer, the alarm rattled again, accompanied by the chatter of his Braille display activating with a message. Normally, the night-watch over in the Carson Confederal Office Complex let you have a cup of coffee before sending such.
"Guess so, honey, and sounds like they have their suspenders snapping too." The only nice thing about his wife stealing most of the blankets in their nightly war was being mostly ready for getting out of bed and facing the chilled apartment air. "And, looks like the super is skimping on the heat again." He shivered.
"Tightwad Scrooge. Not even Christmas, and he's lump pinching." His wife held a low opinion of those who cut corners to make a penny.
"Yeah. Good thing I managed to find that kerosene heater. Want me to fire it up?" Teeth gritted, blankets swiftly tossed aside, Mike's hand searched for his pants. Looking at the far wall, where the Braille Teletype stood, chattering again, he hurried. "Awfully urgent. Hope it's not a child abduction." The worst cases any law enforcement officer dealt with, those against the young, set nerves on edge and left trigger fingers itchy. A recent rash in all the Republics of such crimes, and the many officer involved shooting deaths of suspects as well as actual perpetrators, had the watch desk waking the Agent on call a bit excessively, but Mike would rather be involved for both the innocent and the guilty. Some times a police force swept things under the carpets, for their reputations, rather than did the full job.
Luck had it a full moon night, giving him the ability to easily find both the flow control and ignition sparker on the gaslight over his desk. Giving the flame a chance to settle down after the first flare inside the clear glass globe he preferred for lighting, his fingers ran over the top line of the display.
"You have to be kidding me." It slipped out, with a chuckle.
"Not a kid?" Candace stuck her head out. She liked the cases that made her husband l;augh. Those rarely involved funerals of people they knew, or long absences from home.
"They found a body, this cannot be right. Telefrophones tubed are only and inch wide. Getting a body inside one is impossible!" Shaking his head, he started the search for his reading spectacles, a sure sign he was getting older, besides the grey hairs his teen-aged daughters and job were competing over which gave him more of.
"Worker? It must be one of the echo switch rooms or something." Candace's own work with the Confederation Communications Normalization Agency, making sure all nineteen Republics in the Confederated Republics of America used compatible equipment for relaying information. Which, given the Johnny Reb attitudes of the southeastern republic, often left her exhausted and frustrated. Not to mention the multitude of communications companies and their varying technologies, patents, and territories.
"Not sure. Looks like I need to hustle out into the land of Deseret and catch that southbound Carman trolley. If I can find my boots." One last run of his fingers across the body of the message confirmed the address. A yank of the handle on the left side imprinted the Braille characters onto a call card for his records, and then he cleared the board. "Clear text message, so not some security scare, like that zeppelin incident a few months ago."
"Don't mean a thing, honey. You know my agency gets the call first on anything dealing with the teletype and sonophone tubes." Arms stretched out from her well insulated side of the bed, she yawned. "Then we dump it on you investigative types, waiting for you to do all our paperwork for us. And your boots are on the warmer over there."
Chimes ringing on her side the bed, and the groan they elicited from his wife as the reader board spoke with slow chuffs of air and clicks as the ceramic pegs locked into place one at a time. Grabbing his boots, he laced them up swiftly. "I'll remember that, and make sure I leave a lot of things out of my report, so you have to retype it, babe."
Ducking the pillow Candace threw at him, Mike left the room, stopping in the kitchen to light the stove, and set the coffee pot on for the rest of the family. He'd hope to hit one of the cafe's for a cup once in the Sugarhouse township area.
"Honey, there was a second page to your text." Candace roamed in as he bundled up for the chilly November air. "Something about details on the body."
Mike smiled, so happy he had a wife that looked out for him and the family. "Thanks. Your call the same thing?"
Her grimace said it all. "Yes. And we have a meeting immediately. Seems this sonotube was not on any lists. And it is still connected to the system."
"Clerical error or missed work order?" Given the motivation employees held under the restrictions on outside lives companies exercised here locally, and in other republics, such a miss was common.
"Not sure. You do your job, let me do mine. But, thanks. I forgot clerical errors as a possibility." Candace grimaced.
"Blame it on the coffee, I'll be your alibi." Mike laid a kiss on her cheek. "Leave a note for the girls?"
Candace shook her head. "No, my meeting is not until eight. I'll get them up and march them over to the post school."
Nodding, Mike headed out, hoping the Deseret Border Guard had the alert that a Confederal Investigator was headed out. Otherwise, he'd be much later at the crime scene.
The rattle of bone and ceramic chime tubes, amid the hiss of the compressed air shifting them, forced Mike Halzon to open an eye, checking which alarm demanded attention. He felt the left corner of his mouth quirking upwards, once his eyes focused, noting the chimes on his side still swayed as the alarm stilled, waiting for an answer.
"Work?" Candace's tired voice barely reached his mind. A pile of comforters on her side of the bed explained the muffled tone, and the chill he'd been fighting. Cold fall mornings left him frequently wondering if sleeping bags would be better, even if they made cuddling before getting up difficult.
Before Mike could answer, the alarm rattled again, accompanied by the chatter of his Braille display activating with a message. Normally, the night-watch over in the Carson Confederal Office Complex let you have a cup of coffee before sending such.
"Guess so, honey, and sounds like they have their suspenders snapping too." The only nice thing about his wife stealing most of the blankets in their nightly war was being mostly ready for getting out of bed and facing the chilled apartment air. "And, looks like the super is skimping on the heat again." He shivered.
"Tightwad Scrooge. Not even Christmas, and he's lump pinching." His wife held a low opinion of those who cut corners to make a penny.
"Yeah. Good thing I managed to find that kerosene heater. Want me to fire it up?" Teeth gritted, blankets swiftly tossed aside, Mike's hand searched for his pants. Looking at the far wall, where the Braille Teletype stood, chattering again, he hurried. "Awfully urgent. Hope it's not a child abduction." The worst cases any law enforcement officer dealt with, those against the young, set nerves on edge and left trigger fingers itchy. A recent rash in all the Republics of such crimes, and the many officer involved shooting deaths of suspects as well as actual perpetrators, had the watch desk waking the Agent on call a bit excessively, but Mike would rather be involved for both the innocent and the guilty. Some times a police force swept things under the carpets, for their reputations, rather than did the full job.
Luck had it a full moon night, giving him the ability to easily find both the flow control and ignition sparker on the gaslight over his desk. Giving the flame a chance to settle down after the first flare inside the clear glass globe he preferred for lighting, his fingers ran over the top line of the display.
"You have to be kidding me." It slipped out, with a chuckle.
"Not a kid?" Candace stuck her head out. She liked the cases that made her husband l;augh. Those rarely involved funerals of people they knew, or long absences from home.
"They found a body, this cannot be right. Telefrophones tubed are only and inch wide. Getting a body inside one is impossible!" Shaking his head, he started the search for his reading spectacles, a sure sign he was getting older, besides the grey hairs his teen-aged daughters and job were competing over which gave him more of.
"Worker? It must be one of the echo switch rooms or something." Candace's own work with the Confederation Communications Normalization Agency, making sure all nineteen Republics in the Confederated Republics of America used compatible equipment for relaying information. Which, given the Johnny Reb attitudes of the southeastern republic, often left her exhausted and frustrated. Not to mention the multitude of communications companies and their varying technologies, patents, and territories.
"Not sure. Looks like I need to hustle out into the land of Deseret and catch that southbound Carman trolley. If I can find my boots." One last run of his fingers across the body of the message confirmed the address. A yank of the handle on the left side imprinted the Braille characters onto a call card for his records, and then he cleared the board. "Clear text message, so not some security scare, like that zeppelin incident a few months ago."
"Don't mean a thing, honey. You know my agency gets the call first on anything dealing with the teletype and sonophone tubes." Arms stretched out from her well insulated side of the bed, she yawned. "Then we dump it on you investigative types, waiting for you to do all our paperwork for us. And your boots are on the warmer over there."
Chimes ringing on her side the bed, and the groan they elicited from his wife as the reader board spoke with slow chuffs of air and clicks as the ceramic pegs locked into place one at a time. Grabbing his boots, he laced them up swiftly. "I'll remember that, and make sure I leave a lot of things out of my report, so you have to retype it, babe."
Ducking the pillow Candace threw at him, Mike left the room, stopping in the kitchen to light the stove, and set the coffee pot on for the rest of the family. He'd hope to hit one of the cafe's for a cup once in the Sugarhouse township area.
"Honey, there was a second page to your text." Candace roamed in as he bundled up for the chilly November air. "Something about details on the body."
Mike smiled, so happy he had a wife that looked out for him and the family. "Thanks. Your call the same thing?"
Her grimace said it all. "Yes. And we have a meeting immediately. Seems this sonotube was not on any lists. And it is still connected to the system."
"Clerical error or missed work order?" Given the motivation employees held under the restrictions on outside lives companies exercised here locally, and in other republics, such a miss was common.
"Not sure. You do your job, let me do mine. But, thanks. I forgot clerical errors as a possibility." Candace grimaced.
"Blame it on the coffee, I'll be your alibi." Mike laid a kiss on her cheek. "Leave a note for the girls?"
Candace shook her head. "No, my meeting is not until eight. I'll get them up and march them over to the post school."
Nodding, Mike headed out, hoping the Deseret Border Guard had the alert that a Confederal Investigator was headed out. Otherwise, he'd be much later at the crime scene.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
The Muses Among Us Still - A poem of creation and beauty.
They say the gods are all dead,
fools that they oft are,
not seeing them all around us
in new, hidden forms.
Like my friends, the Muses,
buried inside new flesh,
wrapped themselves in the mists
of electronic communications
to reach out across vast distances
and tickle out bursts of creativity
with a single image,
a simple question,
or just a comment.
Muses dance along the electrons
using art to inspire art,
each having her own little way
to lift up souls with fingers
that create art themselves.
Hidden amid artists, writers, and friends,
these gals still walk among us,
seeking to enlighten a dark world,
driving off despair with works
they never quite made themselves
but inspired so easily in others.
Strings of Fate they weave with,
like the Norns and Parcae,
dancing the vast, billowing thing
the internet turned into
when the exits combined
off the information superhighway
into a powerful, mighty thunderhead
of creation and discussion
amid the turmoils of a world
that too oft leaves beauty behind
or shelves it in neat niches
that ignore the soul's needs.
Their whispers drive the currents,
hidden under the waves
that others try to batter shores
into submission with daily,
grinding upon the evils they see,
failing to recognize the wonders
under those waves, moving slowly
along the drift and convection coils
that are the foundations of all.
Blinded by their silly convictions,
deafened by mass media's blaring,
too many become mute.
Until the Muses new incarnations,
reach out gentle touches of inspiration.
I know they still exist.
I've felt their touch,
know their secret names,
and luxuriated in the warmth
their souls blaze across cold fibers
until my own spirit ignites,
sending fingers dancing
to their siren song
of comfort and hope.
I will not name them,
for they wish to remain hidden,
but have spoken of them
in verse and prose before.
One deals with promoting art,
another's hand creates to inspire others
to craft their own ways as well,
one merely records the days
with a camera in hand
seeking the tiny things
we speed past so foolishly
to bring us back to Nature.
These are but three,
there are others out there,
and my Muses will not be yours.
For, you see, we each find those ladies
inside some other soul we meet,
sometimes all in one person
others spread across multitudes,
or the hoarde that roams the webs
between souls that turn inward
until their touch germinates thoughts
into blooms of joy and beauty.
Find your Muses out there,
seek them in friends and foes alike,
and let the touch stir your souls
into creating rather than destroying,
you will be better for that moment
when the arts flow out of you
under their gleeful gaze,
as they retreat behind shadows,
into flesh shells once more,
smirking at still surviving
despite reports of their demise.
Satisfied not in adoration or worship,
but just in continued creation,
even if just a child,
holding crayons over paper,
wishing the sky to be
the color they hold.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex
fools that they oft are,
not seeing them all around us
in new, hidden forms.
Like my friends, the Muses,
buried inside new flesh,
wrapped themselves in the mists
of electronic communications
to reach out across vast distances
and tickle out bursts of creativity
with a single image,
a simple question,
or just a comment.
Muses dance along the electrons
using art to inspire art,
each having her own little way
to lift up souls with fingers
that create art themselves.
Hidden amid artists, writers, and friends,
these gals still walk among us,
seeking to enlighten a dark world,
driving off despair with works
they never quite made themselves
but inspired so easily in others.
Strings of Fate they weave with,
like the Norns and Parcae,
dancing the vast, billowing thing
the internet turned into
when the exits combined
off the information superhighway
into a powerful, mighty thunderhead
of creation and discussion
amid the turmoils of a world
that too oft leaves beauty behind
or shelves it in neat niches
that ignore the soul's needs.
Their whispers drive the currents,
hidden under the waves
that others try to batter shores
into submission with daily,
grinding upon the evils they see,
failing to recognize the wonders
under those waves, moving slowly
along the drift and convection coils
that are the foundations of all.
Blinded by their silly convictions,
deafened by mass media's blaring,
too many become mute.
Until the Muses new incarnations,
reach out gentle touches of inspiration.
I know they still exist.
I've felt their touch,
know their secret names,
and luxuriated in the warmth
their souls blaze across cold fibers
until my own spirit ignites,
sending fingers dancing
to their siren song
of comfort and hope.
I will not name them,
for they wish to remain hidden,
but have spoken of them
in verse and prose before.
One deals with promoting art,
another's hand creates to inspire others
to craft their own ways as well,
one merely records the days
with a camera in hand
seeking the tiny things
we speed past so foolishly
to bring us back to Nature.
These are but three,
there are others out there,
and my Muses will not be yours.
For, you see, we each find those ladies
inside some other soul we meet,
sometimes all in one person
others spread across multitudes,
or the hoarde that roams the webs
between souls that turn inward
until their touch germinates thoughts
into blooms of joy and beauty.
Find your Muses out there,
seek them in friends and foes alike,
and let the touch stir your souls
into creating rather than destroying,
you will be better for that moment
when the arts flow out of you
under their gleeful gaze,
as they retreat behind shadows,
into flesh shells once more,
smirking at still surviving
despite reports of their demise.
Satisfied not in adoration or worship,
but just in continued creation,
even if just a child,
holding crayons over paper,
wishing the sky to be
the color they hold.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Friday, November 1, 2013
Sample from my NaNoWriMo 2013 project.
First drafts are ugly, nasty little children with a bad case of the colic, crossed with a badger suffering from some insufferable disease and close to the torment of listening to a chihuahua trying to do yip-hop.
So, take this on faith, it will get cleaned up after it's submitted anywhere, but here is my opening for NaNoWriMo this year. And yes, I am still having issues with what to call the things replacing the tech we so take for granted.
Chapter 1
The rattle of bone and ceramic chime tubes, amid the hiss of the compressed air shifting them, forced Mike Halzon to open an eye, checking which alarm demanded attention. He felt the left corner of his mouth quirking upwards, once his eyes focused, noting the chimes on his side still swayed as the alarm stilled, waiting for an answer.
"Work?" Candace's tired voice barely reached his mind. A pile of comforters on her side of the bed explained the muffled tone, and the chill he'd been fighting. Cold fall mornings left him frequently wondering if sleeping bags would be better, even if they made cuddling before getting up difficult.
Before Mike could answer, the alarm rattled again, accompanied by the chatter of his Braille display activating with a message. Normally, the night watch over in the Carson Confederal Office Complex let you have a cup of coffee before sending such.
"Guess so, honey, and sounds like they have their suspenders snapping too." The only nice thing about his wife stealing most of the blankets in their nightly war was being mostly ready for getting out of bed and facing the chilled apartment air. "And, looks like the super is skimping on the heat again." He shivered.
"Tightwad Scrooge. Not even Christmas, and he's lump pinching." His wife held a low opinion of those who cut corners to make a penny.
"Yeah. Good thing I managed to find that kerosene heater. Want me to fire it up?" Teeth gritted, blankets swiftly tossed aside, Mike's hand searched for his pants. Looking at the far wall, where the Braille Teletype stood, chattering again, he hurried. "Awfully urgent. Hope it's not a child abduction." The worst cases any law enforcement officer dealt with, those against the young, set nerves on edge and left trigger fingers itchy. A recent rash in all the Republics of such crimes, and the many officers involved shooting deaths of suspects as well as actual perpetrators, had the watch desk waking the Agent on call a bit excessively, but Mike would rather be involved for both the innocent and the guilty. Some times a police force swept things under the carpets, for their reputations, rather than did the full job.
Luck had it a full moon night, giving him the ability to easily find both the flow control and ignition sparker on the gaslight over his desk. Giving the flame a chance to settle down after the first flare inside the clear glass globe he preferred for lighting, his fingers ran over the top line of the display.
"You have to be kidding me." It slipped out, with a chuckle.
"Not a kid?" Candace stuck her head out. She liked the cases that made her husband laugh. Those rarely involved funerals of people they knew, or long absences from home.
"They found a body, this cannot be right. Telefrophones tubed are only and inch wide. Getting a body inside one is impossible!" Shaking his head, he started the search for his reading spectacles, a sure sign he was getting older, besides the grey hairs his teenaged daughters and job were competing over which gave him more of.
"Worker? It must be one of the echo switch rooms or something." Candace's own work with the Confederation Communications Normalization Agency, making sure all nineteen Republics in the Confederated Republics of America used compatible equipment for relaying information. Which, given the Johnny Reb attitudes of the southeastern republic, often left her exhausted and frustrated. Not to mention the multitude of communications companies and their varying technologies, patents, and territories.
"Not sure. Looks like I need to hustle out into the land of Deseret and catch that southbound Carman trolley. If I can find my boots." One last run of his fingers across the body of the message confirmed the address. A yank of the handle on the left side imprinted the Braille characters onto a call card for his records, and then he cleared the board. "Clear text message, so not some security scare, like that zeppelin incident a few months ago."
"Don't mean a thing, honey. You know my agency gets the call first on anything dealing with the teletype and sonophone tubes." Arms stretched out from her well insulated side of the bed, she yawned. "Then we dump it on you investigative types, waiting for you to do all our paperwork for us. And your boots are on the warmer over there."
Chimes ringing on her side the bed, and the groan they elicited from his wife as the reader board spoke with slow chuffs of air and clicks as the ceramic pegs locked into place one at a time. Grabbing his boots, he laced them up swiftly. "I'll remember that, and make sure I leave a lot of things out of my report, so you have to retype it, babe."
Ducking the pillow Candace threw at him, Mike left the room, stopping in the kitchen to light the stove, and set the coffee pot on for the rest of the family. He'd hope to hit one of the cafe's for a cup once in the Sugarhouse township area.
"Honey, there was a second page to your text." Candace roamed in as he bundled up for the chilly November air. "Something about details on the body."
Mike smiled, so happy he had a wife that looked out for him and the family. "Thanks. Your call the same thing?"
Her grimace said it all. "Yes. And we have a meeting immediately. Seems this sonotube was not on any lists. And it is still connected to the system."
"Clerical error or missed work order?" Given the motivation employees held under the restrictions on outside lives companies exercised here locally, and in other republics, such a miss was common.
"Not sure. You do your job, let me do mine. But, thanks. I forgot clerical errors as a possibility." Candace grimaced.
"Blame it on the coffee, I'll be your alibi." Mike laid a kiss on her cheek. "Leave a note for the girls?"
Candace shook her head. "No, my meeting is not until eight. I'll get them up and march them over to the post school."
Nodding, Mike headed out, hoping the Deseret Border Guard had the alert that a Confederal Investigator was headed out. Otherwise, he'd be much later at the crime scene.
* * *
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