The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  The jump in his voice suggested a laugh of surprise. “The same regime that just murdered your partner?”

  “And where were you and your army?” Malone said suddenly. Her throat tightened.

  Sato’s fierce look softened. “I came to intercept you as soon as I heard you were coming,” he said. “I didn’t know about your partner until it was too late, or I would have brought reinforcements. But I didn’t know what this was going to turn into, and neither did he.”

  Malone nodded dumbly.

  “Inspector, the regime stopped serving you a long time ago. The order you believe in has been feeding off of Recoletta like a parasite.”

  As Sato waited for her reaction, a startling realization came over her that she would not have so much as entertained a mere week ago. He was right.

  Seeing the understanding dawn on her, he rose and offered his hand. “There is a long night ahead of us, and I have allies from all corners waiting in the city. There is nothing left for you in the Council’s Recoletta, but I have a special place for a woman of your genius in the new government. Will you join me?”

  She looked at his proffered hand with her last shred of skepticism. “Do I have a choice?”

  Again, Jakkeb Sato smiled. “There is always a choice, Malone.”

  It hardly surprised her that she accepted the hand and the future it entailed, and when they met the train with Sato’s cheering and hooting faction, waiting almost at the spot where she had jumped another like it hours ago, it was as though there had never been a choice, only this next inevitable step for her and for the city. As they returned to Recoletta under the sheen of the late morning sun, Malone sharing her berth with energized radicals rather than crates, she began to appreciate what that new step might bring.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Machine In Motion

  Jane was running again, this time from Roman Arnault’s domicile. His matter-of-fact yet tender words resounded in her ears, making her hasty exodus even more difficult than it would have been half an hour ago, but he had succeeded in instilling the proper sense of urgency. Now that he had revealed his maneuvers on her behalf, all she could think of was returning home to find Freddie and flee for the safety of all three of them.

  Passages that had been a crush of panic and people only a little over an hour ago were now deserted, leaving eerie, abandoned streets that spoke of human presence in the past tense. The tunnels she traveled, wide and narrow, straight and crooked, smooth-faced and rough-hewn, cast irregular echoes of her footfalls, reminders that she should be moving faster. Jane had the uncomfortable feeling that her departure was already overdue.

  Even the public transportation, normally a metronome for Recoletta and its way of life, had stopped running. The rail shuttles that crossed the city and the suspended cars that ran along the major thoroughfares were all still, many stopped with their doors askew at the last exit their drivers had reached after hearing the explosions.

  The sun was setting. Jane could see its last slanted rays entering through the skylights, and the feeble light they cast on the walls of tunnels and buildings was distinctly sanguine. Heaps of rubble and gaping holes blown into passageways and edifices that had attracted mobs of the morbidly curious before were now as empty as dried honeycomb.

  Night had fallen by the time Jane reached the apartment. The hints of movement behind her neighbors’ doors and the poorly hidden glow of lamplight behind drawn curtains were the first reminders since leaving Roman that others still inhabited Recoletta, and she found these small tokens comforting, if bittersweet. She moved quietly now, uncertain of what to expect. Jane tapped softly at Fredrick’s door and listened for the same stirrings she heard elsewhere. After several moments, she pulled out the spare key he had given her and slipped inside.

  The place itself was in its usual state of disarray. Papers littered the floor, spillover from the writing desk against one wall. Jackets, overcoats, and unbuttoned shirts were also scattered about the room, draped over chairs and hung on any available corner. With a rising dread, she continued her search in the back rooms.

  The closet, bedroom, and bathroom all showed signs of a total lack of upkeep, but nothing more serious. Drawing deep, steadying breaths, Jane convinced herself that he must have gone across the hall to her apartment to await her return.

  Yet when she came to her own domicile, only her piles of abandoned laundry greeted her. In the context of the impending transformations in her life and the city around her, it was jarring to see her home exactly as she had left it, and probably for the last time. Ashes in the fireplace and kettles on the stove, but no sign of Fredrick. Or Olivia.

  The bathroom was clean, polished, and empty. The workshop was full of clothes and bedding but devoid of people. It was not until she reached her bedroom that her search returned any clues. What she found left her numb with dread.

  Placed upon her nightstand next to the made bed (a stark contrast from Fredrick’s disordered quarters) was a note written in his familiar, hurried hand.

  Jane,

  If you’ve gone where I think you have, then I have the comfort of your safety, but I have my own leads to pursue. Olivia left shortly after you and refused to elaborate on what is happening. She told me to stay here and wait for you, but I can’t be sure when you’ll return. If you read this note, know that something very big is about to take place, and I have gone to Dominari Hall to find out what.

  Her heart sank as she read the last sentence. Knowing what she knew, she could not possibly leave Fredrick in what was about to become the epicenter of the battle. Her flight would have to wait. She glanced at the clock: barely after 5.30. The official curfew did not matter anymore, but she worried about another that might descend without warning.

  She filled a satchel with a few articles of clothing, some food, and the money and valuables she kept stashed in her nightstand. She would have to hope that whatever city she landed in would accept her currency. On a second fleeting thought, she grabbed a couple pairs of trousers and button-up shirts from the drying line for Fredrick. They would be among the least of their original owners’ worries, and planning for Fredrick’s eventual flight with her restored a measure of hope. She returned to the streets, praying that she was not too late.

  Jane was running faster now, racing against an unseen army descending upon the city and the doom it spelled for her and Fredrick. Given the Council’s desperation in the final hours of its reign, her friend was walking into a volatile situation.

  The streets were darker than usual, owing to the absence of groundskeepers... or anyone, for that matter. Most of the city’s radiance stones still glowed bravely, and the fire-trench lighting remained strong in the larger halls, but a few untended torches had begun to go dark, casting perilous shadows. Jane struck her foot against an uneven curb and stopped, gasping in pain. That was when she heard the gunshots.

  Echoes resounded through the passage, and she could not tell where they were coming from. When she heard second, third, and fourth rounds, she was certain they were in different locations. Looking up at the line of skylights in her high-arched, oval-shaped tunnel, Jane saw only blackness. The lit torches flickered ominously in their sockets, but she was sure they were the only things moving.

  * * *

  Mayhem erupted in pockets around the city. Jakkeb Sato’s army was trickling into Recoletta from all sides, and supporters already in place were coming out of the woodwork. The City Guard was distracted and scattered by the afternoon bombs and unprepared for the guerillas that advanced from the shadows. Confused guardsmen alternately fired blindly at the darkness and fled into the traps their attackers had set up. Though trained as a fighting force, Recoletta’s erstwhile stability with neighboring powers had kept them out of any major skirmishes. The mysterious attacks threw them off balance and cut them off from their commanders and one another.

  In the chaos that ensued, the guards fired at anything that moved.

  Chief Johanssen had heard the s
hots as well. One battle had erupted outside Callum Station, and, though he could not tell who was firing, the combatants were getting closer. Most of the inspectors and officers had set off throughout the city in the wake of the bombings. Of the few that remained, some were listening intently in their offices, and many others were standing in the halls. Farrah poked her head into Johanssen’s office, an expression of concern clouding her normally calm features.

  “What’s happening, Chief?”

  “No telling. Wait here,” he said, moving into the hall. He heard a scream come from somewhere in the rotunda, followed by yelling and several more shots. “They’re inside the station,” he said. Already the haze of gun smoke was making it difficult to determine who was firing… or being shot. “Stop! Hold your fire!” he yelled down the hall. The shots continued and the cloud of musket smoke advanced closer. A bullet whizzed past his nose, and he ducked back into the office. Across the hall, one of Johanssen’s officers fell under a volley of bullets. The thick layer of smoke, combined with the unknown scatter of his own men, kept him from adding his own shots to the fray.

  “Cease fire!” he bellowed at the unseen attackers. “Stop shooting, dammit!” But still the advance continued. “Miss Sullivan, get into the office,” he said over his shoulder.

  “But Chief–”

  “Get into the office and open my bottom-right drawer. Toss me one of the hand-mines inside.”

  “A what?”

  “Bottom drawer. Now.” He extended his hand toward her, his eyes glued to the open slit of the doorway.

  Farrah reached into the specified drawer and produced a small, roundish ball about the size of her fist. She held it almost as far from her body as her extended arm would allow, as if a few extra feet of distance would spare her the disaster of an accidental detonation. She looked back up at Johanssen, certain that he must not have realized what he was asking her to do. “Chief, I don’t think this is–”

  “Then don’t miss,” he said, finally turning his head to her. Those unsmiling eyes and that firm-set mouth told Farrah all she needed to know about his earnestness in the matter.

  Catching her breath, and not for the last time, she hoped, she lobbed the mine to her chief in her softest underhand. Johanssen caught and cradled it with more delicacy than his massive paws had seemed capable of. He checked the hallway once more, but the other officers were either retreating or had already fallen under the gunfire. Pushing the door to the hall most of the way closed, he snaked his arm above the frame and balanced the mine atop the remaining wedge. He pulled Farrah’s desk into his office, pushing it against the heavy double doors as he shut and locked them. His fortifications complete, he crossed back to where Farrah waited behind his desk as if barricading the office were a daily bit of business.

  “Nice arm,” he said.

  Her lips curled in a kind of shocked rage, and she wondered how long he had kept a box of mines in his desk, which sat not twenty feet from hers. “You can say that again. Because if I’d thrown just a couple feet short…”

  “We’d probably be breathing through our handkerchiefs. It’s a smoker, Miss Sullivan.” His eyes glittered at her, and Farrah found herself taken aback, as usual, by the chief’s rare flashes of humor.

  Reaching into a cabinet, Johanssen handed her a howdah pistol and a bag of ammunition. “You know how to use this?”

  She knitted her brows in exasperation, her eyes only leaving his to check the breech as she loaded and cocked it. “Chief…”

  He threw a hand in front of her. “Get back.” They knelt behind the heavy oaken desk that faced the double doors.

  “What’s the plan?” Farrah asked.

  “The smoker should scatter and string ’em out on their way in. With the red-eye they’ll get, they won’t be shooting straight, either. Get ready. I think they’re about to come through the–” He stopped at the loud hissing in the other room.

  “Door?”

  “They’re in your office now. Keep your sights level.” He reached under the desk and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun, steadying it on the desk. He set a box of shells by his knee. The shouts they heard from the other room, though, were both more numerous and more ordered than either of them had expected.

  “Chief?” Farrah was just beginning to lose her cool. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I want you out of here.” Johanssen pulled a small lever under the desk, and the fireplace at their backs swung open to reveal a secret passage.

  “I can’t leave you here!”

  The first shot tore through the double doors, and Johanssen returned fire.

  “You have to. Get to Malone and tell her what happened. If she got as far as I think, she’s the only one of us who understands what’s going on.” A bullet lodged itself in the mantel above their heads. “Go!”

  Nodding mutely, Farrah hurried down the passage as Johanssen pulled the lever again to seal it and snapped it at the base. Johanssen managed to exchange two rounds with the attackers before the first of the band broke into the office, and it would be impossible to say whose confusion was greater: Captain Fouchet’s or Chief Johanssen’s.

  “Fouchet! What the hell are you doing here?” Forgetting that he was under assault, Johanssen almost rose to his feet in disbelief.

  “Putting an end to your little insurrection.”

  “You think this is us? Have you lost your mind?” He slid two more shells into the breech.

  “No, I followed my ears. Rather telling when the attackers strike from the vicinity of your station and retreat into it, don’t you think?”

  Johanssen felled a gunman that had knelt just inside the doorway and taken aim. “Fights are breaking out all over the city, you moron,” he said.

  Fouchet ducked back into Farrah’s office, yelling through the haze. “And where else would a small army have gotten so many weapons, eh?”

  “Your Barracks, that’s where!” Johanssen saw a shadow shift in the doorway and fired into the wall just to the right of it. He was rewarded with a gasp of pain from Fouchet. Johanssen reached for his box of shells and grabbed two more.

  “You Municipal scum,” Fouchet muttered, stumbling around the wall and training his sights on Johanssen through the smoke. Farrah was halfway down the passage when she heard two final shots, one the blast of a shotgun and the other the report of a musket.

  * * *

  Jane had reached the Spine, where the firing seemed more remote. The flames ribbing the walls burned red, and the distant shouts and rumbles of gunfire furthered the impression of standing inside a great, dormant beast on the verge of awakening. She was alone with fading radiance stones like dying stars, and the emptiness was immense and the darkness barely warded off by the sputtering torches and the reddish glow from the wall.

  The tiles appeared molten under Jane’s flying feet in the low, shifting light, but they led inexorably to Dominari Hall and the Barracks. She was running along one of the lower tiers of the Spine, and, other than the soaring ribs and floating points of light, she could discern nothing in the darkness above. Her legs burned when at last the towers of Dominari Hall came into view, rising to the surface like the roots of a mammoth tree.

  Lights shone from behind windows, and bright torches illuminated the plaza around the hall. A tangle of shapes ran in every direction across the plaza, and in the patches of shadow and light it was impossible to tell who was coming and who was going. The only thing evident was massive confusion.

  When at last she reached the overhang where Dominari Hall, and beyond it, the Barracks, was perched, she ascended in the shadows. In the frenzy of activity, no one stopped to question Jane.

  Inside were fewer people but they were still running in all directions. The mayhem seemed to defy the ordered, pristine interior of Dominari Hall. Ivory and porcelain-enameled walls rose to chandeliers of gold and crystal that hung over a scene out of a pauper’s opera. With only a little choreography, the leaps over upturned tables and the semi-m
usical sprints through shattered mirror-glass would have fit perfectly in several productions that Jane had seen in what she already thought of as her former life.

  It would have been pointless to call for Fredrick and, in any case, she doubted it would be a good idea to advertise her presence, regardless of the disorder. Nevertheless, searching Dominari Hall from top to bottom would surely take more time than she had and likely bring her to one of her antagonists before Fredrick. Realizing this, she stepped into the path of a woman heading straight in her direction.

  Jane made eye contact, or she thought she did. “Excuse me, I need–”

  The nameless bureaucrat continued looking through Jane as she galloped along in a beeline, slamming into Jane’s shoulder. Jane crashed against the wall, barely straightening her back again before attempting to hail another clerk mid-flight.

  “Hello, I just–”

  This time, Jane swung out of the man’s path before he could collide with her, but he paid her no more notice than the woman before him had. If she wanted to get anyone’s attention, she would have to seize it more forcefully.

  Fortunately, Jane only had to wait seconds for the arrival of her next target. A middle-aged, bespectacled man sped toward her, the red blooms on his cheeks standing out against his spotless, white shirt. As he reached her level, Jane extended her foot in time to send him sprawling.

  Hearing the thud that his body made as he hit the carpet and seeing his confusion and terror, Jane’s first impulse was one of deep guilt and regret. She extended a hand to help the man to his feet, but as she did so, she reminded herself that Fredrick’s life depended on her quick action.

  “You! Where did you come from?” Jane attempted to sound authoritative; to her own ears, she only came across as crabby. But to the man she had tripped, she was evidently convincing enough.