Golden Deseret
"Father Brigham stood on this hill, overlooking the space of the mighty empire, and declared 'This is the space,'" the tour guide professed, pointing to a hologram of a large man with an even larger beard. He stood erect, proud, happy—as if all of his glorious accomplishments had led to the greatest civilization in the universe.
Which, it had.
Below the tour group, a giant salt lake—Lake Bonneville—glistened from peak to peak. It was taught in history books that thousands of years ago, these peaks had been the tops of the largest mountains in what was once known as the Kingdom of United States. After the Restoration Project, though, driven by the Saints, water had filled this basin, restoring it to its original beauty. The restoration of all things, the Saints running the project called it; their hope for brining about a second revelation of their Lord.
Above the water, the central hub of Golden Deseret, the glorious three-tiered empire, floated. The Temple. The central headquarters—or so it was preached to the corners of the universe—of the Apostolic Brethren, the leading quorum of Golden Deseret. On levitating metal, its gold-plated walls glowed in the sunlight.
Char shaded their eyes from the glow. It was so damn bright for some reason—probably the sun and the atmosphere and the water's reflection, something science-y that Char had slept through during school. They weren't on Earth for the literal brightness; they wanted to know the reason behind the other types of brightness—the non-quantifiable joy of the Saints. It's why they had come to Earth Prime, the center of the celestial empire. A narratist by study, they were seeking the story around the question—what made Golden Deseret so golden?
Silver Deseret, the empire of the moon, was fine—nothing too flashy, nothing too bedazzling. Bronze Deseret, the empire of the stars, was spread apart, colonized, vast. But for some reason, Golden Deseret, with its imperial seat on the first planet and its influence stretching across the stars, had always fascinated them. Maybe it was the illusive Apostolic Brethren. Maybe it was the sacraments and rituals performed on behalf of the few who lived on the planet—once covered with water, now overflowing with it. The mysteries, at least for Char, were legion, and they knew they wouldn't sleep until at least some of them had been unearthed.
The tour guide moved the group down to the bottom of the hill, but Char stayed next to the "This is the space" monument. A man, many wives, a theological kingdom in the wild. Everyone in the Bronze Empire was taught the stories. Of Joshua Shmit and the plates of gold. Of the struggles of the Plains Walkers. Of Davit McCoy and of Joshua P. Shmit and of Rustle N. Eliason. Of the Fallen Times, when the world was dark, the bombs were used, and the economies crumbled. Of Elder Lugones and his dream of the stars. Of the hard work of the Sisters and the Mothers. Of the two-thousand stripling soldiers, first to the moon, who founded Zaratemla, the center of the Silver Empire.
It was a story that spanned a generation—generations—and many wives. Char smirked at that thought. They hadn't wanted a wife, nor a husband for that matter. The narrative mattered; the story; the scoop; the knowledge. It was a simpler way to live life, they knew, but they liked it. It allowed them to ferry passage to Golden Deseret, something no one in their college courses would have dreamed about. Living on the edges, Plutohah Quadrant, wasn't the greatest existence. They had what they needed, they worked hard for what they had, and that was that.
Char walked up closer to the giant holograph of the man that had started it all. Father Brigham. The man, the legend.
"So," a voice said behind them. "You look up to the man?"
Char turned around and met the eyes of the speaker.
"Well, he is above me."
The speaker laughed. Barked, more like it. The sound echoed around the slope. They looked down to see if the tour group noticed—they weren't technically supposed to be here after the group moved on (the rules emphasized staying with the group). The group kept fading into the distance though as they made their way back to the docking station.
"That he is," the speaker said, putting out a hand. "The name's Raph."
"Charlotte," Char responded. Greetings, Char reasoned, should always be given with a proper, full name.
"What's brought you to the highest kingdom in all the land?" Raph asked.
A person to the point. How delightfully enlightening.
"I'm here to pick up a few stories."
"A narratist."
Char nodded. Obviously, this person at least knew of the trade. Few actually did. Narratist wasn't seen as a product job—non-industrious. And the Golden, Silver, and Bronze Empires were rather industrious.
"Tell you what," Raph said. "I'll tell you a story, if you'll listen to mine."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
Raph raised an eyebrow above a blue eye.
"Is it?"
Well, Char reasoned, Char had come to Golden Deseret for stories, and so stories were the name of the game.
"Where at?"
"How about we head over to a nice soda shop on Nephi Platform—Popalicious's?"
With nothing better to do, Char nodded, and the two headed toward the tour group to catch a ferry over.
I am participating in #Archtober from the ARCH-HIVE. They challenged creators to create something every day, or every other day, for the month of October and base it on a theme. I’m free writing for 30 minutes every two days based on the two-day schematic and theme rules they’ve established. So, the writing will probably not be super coherent, but it’ll be fun.
