ARC: The Buried Life Read Online Free Page B

station. Set in the outer ring of downtown and its respectably cheerful verandas distinguishing high-end shops, offices, and town houses, Callum Station loomed like a pallbearer at a card party. The entire structure radiated gloomy impassivity, from the smooth columns to the broad steps and the steady arches of the roof. The building’s one unique feature perched above the drab, gray structure: a beacon inside a narrow tower, lit at all times to symbolize the perpetual vigilance of the Municipal Police.
    With one sleepless night behind her and a full day ahead, Malone reflected that this was more apt than ever.
    She descended a broad stairway to a spacious underground rotunda lit by the clean, white light of radiance stones that seemed unnecessarily bright this morning. The chemically treated crystals glowed like white-hot fireflies and could, after a few hours exposed to the sun, light a room for days or weeks on end. They preserved some of the natural wavelengths of sunlight, allowing for the lush gardens in the wealthier areas of town. Here, however, they threatened to give Malone a headache.
    Several wide corridors sprouted from the rotunda. Malone marched through the largest of these, marked by a pair of grim lion statues and two equally stone-faced guards gripping bayonets.
    She followed a pair of burning trenches set high in the passage’s walls. Chemists had invented various powders, pastes, and oils to enhance the luminosity of flame, extend its life, and even alter its color, and these compounds roiled in almost every fire in the city. With sophisticated mirrors and lenses crafted from mineral and glass composites, no corner of the underground had to remain dark.
    Deputy chiefs’ offices, conference rooms, and smaller corridors leading deeper into the station lined the hall. Next to one of these stood a young man wearing Municipal black. He was handsome, in an eager, boyish way, with jet hair, a caramel-brown complexion, and a disarming smile. Malone knew the other hundred-odd inspectors by name, and she was acquainted with most of the support staff, but not with this man. Nevertheless, his eyebrows rose in recognition as she approached.
    “Inspector Malone! Good morning. You must’ve just come from Cahill’s domicile.”
    She nodded.
    “Excellent. The sweeps who reported the incident are already here. Didn’t want to talk to them until you arrived, naturally. I’m sure we’ll want to compare notes.” The young man tapped his forehead. “Of course. You must be wondering what I’m on about. Chief’s assigned me to work with you on the contract.”
    Malone’s muscles tightened as he fumbled in his coat pockets, producing a shiny, newly minted inspector’s seal and handwritten orders marked with Chief Johanssen’s stamp. “Richards told us he’d sent you, said you should be back within an hour. Or two.” For what seemed to be the first time since his rapid introduction, the young man stopped talking long enough to breathe, his eyes wide with expectation.
    Malone looked at the orders, half-expecting to see him assigned to morgue duty for the day. The two things Malone knew about trainees and junior inspectors were that they rendezvoused on the bottom level of the station and that they never worked with her. Yet it was her name, scratched in blotted black ink, staring back at her. “And you are?”
    “Me? I– oh! How careless. Inspector Rafe Sundar, ma’am.” He gave a short chuckle of embarrassment, his graceful features momentarily absurd.
    Malone studied him. Extending an arm, she squeezed her lips into a smile. “Pleasure.”
    A broad grin warmed his face, and he pumped her hand rapidly. His left hand gently pressed her arm into the handshake. Malone preferred the crisp efficiency of a brief, dry squeeze, but Sundar had her in an extended vice grip of friendliness. “The honor is entirely mine, Inspector,” he said. “I have to say, I’m thrilled to be working with you. You have quite the