ARC: The Buried Life by Carrie Patel

table nearest her. She thrust it out at Sundar, who instinctively stepped back and pulled his hands away.
    “Afraid of a paper cut, Inspector?”
    “The penalty for owning unauthorized books…” He trailed off, his eyes widening. Other than the murder of a whitenail, the possession of unedited, unapproved texts was the most severely punished, and certainly the rarest, crime in Recoletta.
    “Never mind that you’re an inspector on an investigation,” Malone said, “your response is automatic. Now imagine that for everyone who doesn’t have a silver seal.”
    No sooner had the inspectors taken stock than slapping footfalls and shrill wheezing broke the near-silence.
    “Just what are you doing down here? This is a confidential study, no visitors allowed!”
    “Roane and Rodriguez. We’ve come to see how the work is progressing,” Malone said, cutting him off with a cold stare.
    The man’s face underwent a staggering series of transformations as he flipped between apology, confusion, and suspicion. “I had no idea you were here, Doctors. Pardon me, but we were not expecting you until–”
    “Yet here we stand,” said Sundar, relishing his new role. “And as you are aware, we’re on a tight schedule. Now, if you please.” He gestured vaguely down the stacks.
    The man bobbed his head. “Many apologies, sir and madam. Allow me to take you to Dr Hask, who must be expecting you.”
    Falling in behind their escort, Sundar leaned close to Malone. “Not too shabby yourself, Roane. Or are you Rodriguez?”
    “Quiet.”
    As they passed between the desks and inhaled the room’s strange, musky perfume, Sundar craned his neck to see the scholars and their books. Even Malone was surprised. These were not the anemic, fusty bookworms one usually envisioned, cramped between parchment stacks and chamber pots. They looked lean and driven. She glimpsed a few titles in recognizable script: names like Behemoth , Art of War , and Heart of Darkness . As they continued, Malone fixed her eyes down the hall, monitoring every bend and corner in their path. Sundar’s lingered just a little longer on the mysterious titles.
    The bookcases reached from the floor to the ceiling, where chain link gates hung. Expressionless supervisors with lists and medieval key-rings manned the shelves, and whenever a scholar requested or returned a book, the nearest supervisor jotted a note. Malone pitied the overseer whose job it was to account for every book at the end of the day. She turned to their guide.
    “I hope that Cahill’s death will not impede progress unduly.”
    “His loss will be felt, since he was heavily involved with the project. But I doubt that this inconvenience will cause too many setbacks.”
    “What are the chances of this sort of ‘inconvenience’ happening again?”
    “Well, ma’am, I guess that depends on who you ask. The higher-ups are assuring us that this is just a nasty coincidence, but between you and me,” he said in a lowered voice, “a few people look worried.”
    Sundar glanced around the tables. “They look pretty calm to me.”
    “Hm? Oh, most of them don’t know the half of it – not yet. It’s some of the upper echelon that’s looking real twitchy.”
    “How is the directorate going to cooperate with the authorities?” Malone asked.
    “You mean the Municipals? I wouldn’t know about that. That’s a question for Dr Hask.”
    Footsteps approached again, rapid and determined. Pages rustled and flapped as the newcomer and his palpable rage drew near.
    “Badge, badge, badge, Gowlitz! Do you see a visitor’s badge? On either of them?” The interloper’s mustache was waxed to a thin pair of upward-pointing clock hands.
    “Sir, they’re part of the panel from Sou–”
    The smaller man rounded on him. “It’s a rhetorical question, you idiot. That means no talking from you. Or perhaps you’d like to explain this to Dr Hask?”
    Gowlitz’s guilty silence only enraged him further. “Back to