The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  “Alright, Sundar. Show me what you can do.”

  * * *

  News of the murder uptown had already seeped through the city, and the Municipals’ secrecy only fueled the rumor mill. Jane’s central concern, however, was replacing the pearl button before her evening deliveries.

  She worked her way toward the center of town. At Tanney Passage, the capillary tunnels opened into a cavernous conduit. Her walkway overlooked a window-speckled chasm. Homes and offices were built into the chasm walls below her, where silhouettes bobbed behind windows and laundry fluttered over the abyss. It all looked so precarious.

  She drew back from the gulf. A notice board in the passage advertised the Cahill murder on a garish red sheet. The shreds of crimson hanging around the announcement suggested that someone, most likely in the City Guard, had already removed several installations of the same. She pressed on.

  Arching bridges spanned the chasm ahead of her, and railcar tracks punched through the rock below. The railcars dove through soot-blackened boreholes in the stone like great metal worms, and the lights in the nearest windows blinked whenever they thundered by. She boarded one bound for the Spine.

  When the railcar finally wheezed to a halt, Jane emerged at Recoletta’s central thoroughfare.

  Almost half a mile in diameter and stretching from one end of the city to the other, the Spine always left her feeling small. Eight different avenues lined the Spine’s curving walls, and a network of railcars and trolleys ran along it. Unfortunately, she was realizing that even something small could create a big problem. She quickened her pace, moving in and out of pools of light from the skylights above.

  She took a lift to a higher street and passed one of the fire-lined trenches carved into the tunnel. The trenches didn’t stand out this early in the afternoon, but at night, they glowed all the way from the edge of town to the Council’s seat at Dominari Hall. They looked like burning ribs, as if some serpentine behemoth had swallowed them all. Jane preferred the evening view near the top, where suspended radiance stones mirrored the eclipsed night sky.

  As she drew nearer to the center of town, tiny arbors and gardens sprouted from the wide walkway at the bottom of the Spine, and the gleaming threads of cable cars spanning the tunnel grew more numerous. She turned into a warren of smaller passages that wound through the market.

  Jane came to a large cave amidst the tunnels and saw the tiers, stores, and stalls of the market proper, spread over three levels: raw materials and tools on the bottom level, wrought goods on the second, and foodstuffs on the top, where the ventilation drove the odors of fish and cheese quickly to the surface. Hope quickened within her as the hubbub reminded her that one could find almost anything here.

  The wares on display came from near and far: from her own neighbors and from cities whose names she could not pronounce. Here, Jane could find dyes made in the factories near her home, buy fabrics woven in cities hundreds of miles away, and browse, if not purchase, jewelry from lands separated by waters and mountains. It was the closest she, and most other city-dwellers, got to travel.

  Goods on the top level originated closer to home. Foodstuffs came from the farming communes, settlements established dozens of miles outside the cities, where people lived aboveground and cultivated the plants and animals that nourished most of civilization. For such a vital link in Recoletta’s economy, the farmers themselves were notably absent. Their only contact with city-dwellers came in the trade that followed the railroads. In the minds of most Recolettans, farmers were little more than figments, and given the general disrepute with which city-dwellers viewed surface-dwellers, most were glad to keep it that way.

  Jane found the bead and button stalls quickly. Forcing her eyes to slow down, to comb each bin and display, was an act of sheer willpower. Her mind was focused on a carefully rendered image of the remaining buttons, and each specimen she saw in front of her was an inferior imitation. Too light, too opalescent, too fake. Goaded by the double edges of hope and dread, she ventured to the jewelers’ stalls. Even there, she realized that none of the specimens resembled the missing button closely enough. It was a small relief to be free of a solution she couldn’t afford.

  She was leaving the jewelry stands when she saw two overcoats of a similar cut and quality to the frock coat hanging in her apartment. The men wearing them were getting closer.

  Moving toward her through the crowd were two men dressed in inconspicuous but spotless suits. Their stride set them apart, as did the manner in which people instinctively created passage for them. Arguing in hushed voices and gesturing privately, they were attempting discretion, though not successfully, in Jane’s opinion. She knew before looking that their hands would be impeccably manicured, the nails trimmed to a fashionable length a half-inch past the fingertips. Jane wondered what whitenails were doing in the market when they had hordes of servants to run their errands for them. She sidled up next to a turquoise stall and pretended to examine the wares while she listened.

  “Of course I’m concerned; the man was slaughtered in his home last night,” said one.

  The second voice followed in more controlled tones. “Don’t be ridiculous. That was a complete anomaly. An accident.”

  “Can you honestly believe that? You know as well as I that this was no accident.”

  “All I am saying,” said the second man, “is that he was old, certainly a tad eccentric, and in poor health as it was.” His voice adopted a harder quality. “More importantly, he was not in the same position as you or I. You need not worry yourself about this.”

  The first voice returned, sounding more subdued. “I’m just beginning to wonder…” He paused.

  “Wonder?” There was quiet menace in the second man’s voice, like the muted hiss from a covered pit of serpents.

  “…if this is such a good idea after all.” The first man trailed off, and his companion cut in quickly.

  “Not a good idea?” he said, raising his voice. “Not a good idea? You have picked a most inopportune time to articulate your doubts, Phineas.” He nearly shouted at his fellow.

  “Not so loudly, please! Anyone could–”

  “You are the one who requested this little soiree in the first place. And I have already told you, there’s no one here to listen.” He swept an arm at the passing currents of people, gesturing as though they were little more than livestock milling about them.

  “We’re much safer discussing matters here than we would have been in the Council chambers or the directorates,” the second man said through clenched teeth. As if to prove a point, he gave a cursory glance around the booths. Haggling merchants and encumbered pedestrians paid them no heed. In fact, the cacophony of voices, the rattle and clang of goods, and the gritty shuffle and thump of a hundred footsteps all around them drowned their voices beyond a radius of a few yards. The second man looked past Jane and continued speaking.

  “The decision has already been made,” he said to the man called Phineas, “and it’s too late to undo this. Besides, you recall well the other misfortune.” He leaned close to his friend. “And as I remember, you had no qualms with that incident,” he whispered silkily.

  Jane saw both men clearly, now, and there was something familiar about the pair that she could not quite place. Phineas was a short, round, balding man with a swab of white hair behind his ears and tiny spectacles that he kept adjusting with unsteady hands. Shining with perspiration and rocking anxiously in place, he looked like an oversized, frowning egg. His companion was a tall, thin man with curly white hair crowning his head and gracing his chin like a dollop of cream. For his arched nose and assertive strut, he reminded Jane of a rooster. The rooster cocked an ear at the egg.

  “Yes, I remember that,” said Phineas, avoiding the rooster’s beady stare. “And maybe it was the wrong thing to do. But you’re right, we’re beyond the point of second-guessing ourselves – on both counts – and I suppose I would not really be in favor of halting everything anyway. It just concerns me, th
at’s all I meant.”

  The other man straightened his posture again and rubbed his pharaoh’s beard. “I am well aware, and let me assure you again that you do not need to worry. Even if what happened last night is at all related to us, and allow me to say again that such a coincidence is highly improbable, it cannot touch you or me. We are perfectly insulated.” The rooster almost cooed the last word, smiling.

  Phineas grinned. “Yes, I’m sorry for carrying on like this. It was just the shock, really.” He hesitated and looked up at his companion. “But, look, I don’t think there will be any need–”

  “I won’t breathe a word of this to the rest of the Council. We can, as you said, chalk this up to shock.”

  “Yes, shock. Good…”

  The taller man guided Phineas by the shoulder, leading him once more into the sea of people. As she watched them go, Jane saw the rooster give his companion what could have almost been a reassuring pat on the back.

  Chapter Three

  The Directorate Of Preservation

  If the Spine was the backbone of a long-dead monster, the bureau district was its cold, hardened heart. The passersby here were few and discreet, ducking in and out of featureless doorways and offices with their heads down. In their black attire, the inspectors blended in. Uniformed members of the City Guard with rifles and polished short swords stood at every corner. Their dead eyes scanned the pedestrians and lingered on the two inspectors. Malone glanced at Sundar, who looked like a young bloodhound on a scent.

  It was easy to forget how close the bureau district was to the opulent Vineyard. Even the councilors and other whitenails who oversaw the directorates seemed to shed their colors here, like butterflies turning into moths.

  The inspectors turned a corner, approaching a fifteen-foot high rectangular tunnel set in a plain rock facade at the end of the street.

  Malone searched Sundar’s face. “Let’s hear this plan of yours.” The dank air clung to her skin.

  He smiled. “Charm and invention, Inspector Malone. With the right measure of both, you can worm your way into – or out of – anything.”

  It sounded like an audition strategy. Malone thought of the other possible leads, Cahill’s neighbors and friends, their usefulness melting into fear and forgetfulness while she and Sundar wasted time. Knots formed at the corners of her jaw. “Don’t tell me this is how you got by in your procedures class.”

  “One chance, Inspector. If I don’t get us in, you won’t hear another peep from me for the rest of our investigation.”

  Indeed, Malone thought.

  Proceeding in silence, they reached the subterranean entry to the Directorate of Preservation.

  Sundar stopped and lifted a hand, motioning for Malone to wait. Frowning, she watched as he slipped off his gloves, pocketed his seal, and buttoned his overcoat, obscuring his fitted black shirt. He looked up, and Malone followed suit. Nodding, he pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket and adjusted them on his finely arched nose, affecting a studious air. It was all Malone could do to repress a sigh.

  “Are you serious?”

  He winked. “Trust me.”

  The dim hallway ended in a small reception room where an elderly secretary scrawled behind her desk in the faint gaslight. Miraculously, she was surrounded not by armed guards, but by cracked walls and decades-old gas lamps. It amazed Malone that even the most mysterious directorate in Recoletta carried a whiff of mundane bureaucracy. Every office lobby in the world must feel the same. The secretary looked up at the sound of their boots, blinking her mole-like eyes at them.

  Sundar clasped his hands and rested his forearms on the desk, and Malone glimpsed a thin, red cord hanging to the side. A panic alarm. Sundar would have only one chance to bypass her, and he would have to choose his words carefully.

  And he predictably began with polite nothings. “Good day, ma’am.”

  The secretary squinted at him. “Your business?”

  He swallowed. “You’ll kindly pardon my confusion, but we’re looking for the Directorate of Preservation. Could you, by chance, show us the way?”

  “You’re standing in it,” the secretary said. Malone bit her tongue and hoped that Sundar had more to his act than this.

  “How fortuitous. Not too many markings on the streets in this area, I’m afraid.”

  “Most people who come here know where they’re going.”

  Sundar flashed a radiant smile. “Never said better.” He reached up to scratch a spot behind his ear. “Now, to business. We’re here as–”

  He did not finish. A shining disk arced through the air between them, landing somewhere below the secretary’s desk. Malone winced, waiting for the secretary to dive for the panic alarm.

  “My lens!” Sundar felt the empty space in his frames. “How terribly embarrassing. I knew I should have had these mended. I do hope you can find it down there, I’m positively helpless without my glasses.” Malone caught the thespian’s flourish as he recited his lines. It felt like Sundar was overdoing it, but, even so, the secretary didn’t seem to notice.

  Busied and thrown off balance by the distraction, the secretary bent over the floor, patting it for the missing lens. Malone peered over the counter and looked at her ledger.

  At last the secretary stood up again. “Here.” Sundar slipped off his glasses and gave them to her. When she had pressed the lens into place, he leaned forward to allow her to slide the glasses onto his face.

  “Thank you so much,” Sundar said. “I’m afraid I can never see straight to pop it in myself.” The secretary’s hand brushed his cheek.

  “But my, what soft hands you have,” he said.

  Malone could not believe her ears.

  “However do you manage?” he said. “All that paperwork must suck the moisture right out.”

  To Malone’s astonishment, she saw blooms of color rising in the secretary’s wan cheeks, and she realized that the woman was falling under the persuasion of that graceful nose and those delicately curved lips.

  “Almond oil and beeswax.” She smiled. “I keep a little jar of it under my desk.”

  “Too clever! And it’s those little acts of inventiveness that say so much about a person, don’t you think? Well, I’m sorry to have gone on so,” he said. The secretary didn’t appear to mind. “But we’re here for research. I’m Professor Stewart, and this is my supervisor, Professor Donner. I believe we have an appointment?”

  The secretary shifted through her papers, frowning. “You’re not listed anywhere.”

  “I’m afraid this whole matter was rather last minute,” Sundar said. “I don’t mean to seem difficult, but this appointment is quite crucial to our trip here, and, as we’re obligated to return tomorrow, we really won’t have another opportunity.” The secretary glanced up, a doubtful expression creeping back into her face. “We’re visiting from South Haven, you see,” he added.

  Recognition flashed in the secretary’s small eyes. Seizing the advantage, Malone jumped in. “If you’ll check with Councilor Hollens, or with Dr Hask, I’m certain one of them could clear this up for us.”

  The secretary pursed her papery lips, wavering. After a moment’s hesitation, she rose. “Wait here,” she said. “Ten minutes.” She scuttled through the door beyond her desk and disappeared with a quickness that belied her age. Not wasting a moment, Malone darted behind the desk and skimmed the directory. An instant later, she motioned for Sundar to follow her toward the elevators.

  “Good work,” she murmured. “How did you know to mention South Haven?”

  He shrugged. “A hunch. The Council’s hosting a delegation from South Haven at the gala next week, so it seemed as reasonable as anything. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a party here from South Haven.”

  “Really?”

  “No one’s scheduled to visit today, but there are five appointments throughout the week.” She looked at Sundar’s wide eyes. “You might have noticed if you hadn’t been busy flirtin
g with the secretary.”

  He smiled. “But then you wouldn’t have gotten to peek behind her desk.”

  “Anyway, all of these delegations meet with Dr Charley Hask.” They stopped at the end of the hall.

  “Where can we find him?”

  “Level 4. Straight down.”

  Sundar started toward a stairwell, but Malone whistled and pointed to the elevator shaft. Empty as it was, the inspectors could see the bare stone walls, ribbed with steel tracks and pocked with access tunnels. Producing a collapsible metal lever, Malone pried open the safety gate as Sundar watched, mouth agape.

  “Is that regulation, Inspector?”

  “The Directorate will post guards on every landing of the stairway, and they won’t be as gullible,” she said before leaping into the shaft and grabbing the cable. “I’d put those gloves back on if I were you.”

  “Are we supposed to be doing this?”

  “We’re supposed to get answers. Besides, you just impersonated a foreign official and lied to a directorate representative.”

  Sundar gave Malone time to slide down several feet before jumping in after her.

  “By the way,” he said, attempting not to wheeze as he adjusted his hold on the cable and wound his legs around it, “how’d you know to mention Hollens?”

  “He’s supervised this directorate for years,” she said. “That’s where the experience comes in.” Loosening their grips, the two slid down the cable, their hands protected by the long black gloves.

  As she reached the fourth floor, Malone slowed to a halt. She leaned and stretched her arm, grabbing one of the rungs just below a small service shaft, and swung toward it. Crawling into the narrow chute, she heard the elevator below lurch into motion. Sundar dove for a rung and, smacking gracelessly into the wall, pulled himself into the shaft with a grunt. After a short crawl, they reached a deserted corridor and extracted themselves from the ductwork, brushing the dust from their coats.