The City Below

One Grace Buteo stood before the scanner in the Zone 2 precinct and allowed the machine to verify her biometrics. Arms out in a T, she drew a steady breath and rehearsed for the two hundredth time what she would say to Commander Adams upon seeing him. The AI beeped, signaling completion of the scan. A light changed from red to green. The sealed door protecting the private sector of the precinct slid open, giving her access to the bio-sealed building. The precinct bustled inside. Officers, engaged in the enormity of their work for the zone, scurried like ants through the building. Grace might have reached the commander’s office and their oh eight hundred appointment without fanfare if the scan itself had been the end of the verification process. But as Grace crossed the threshold between the holding area and its guarded inner chambers, the AI spoke in a sweet, lilting voice. “Welcome back, Commander Buteo.” Footsteps faltered. Shuffling papers stilled. Conversations died. Officer Lore Duchovny stood from his desk and began clapping so hard his dark hair fell forward into his face, half-hiding his set jaw and blazing eyes. But his clapping was soon swallowed by the cacophony of hundreds of hands, coming together over and over again—beating out a terrible rhythm that turned Grace’s stomach to stone. “Don’t . . . please,” she begged, feigning a gracious smile. It was hard to do when the right side of her face resisted, the scar tissue tight and unwilling to move. The applause only worsened, giving way to words. Someone whistled. “Thank you, Commander.” “My whole family thanks you, Commander.” “We are so glad you survived, Commander.” “It’s so good to see your face again.” Grace doubted that. The burn scars eating away at her jaw and cheek weren’t pretty to look at, and yet Lore Duchovny gazed at her as if he were looking into the face of an angel. Hands reached for hers. Others touched her arm or squeezed her shoulder as she tried to push her way through the crowd. She was a saint, who, if touched in passing, would bless the believers. They have a reason to believe in you, Gray. Her dead husband’s voice in her head was enough to wind her and turn her stone of a stomach cold. Somehow, she continued down the line, passed from embrace to embrace, until it was Commander Adams himself before her at his open office door, his own smile bright. His cheerful gaze faltered when it took in her right cheek, temple, and neck all shriveled above her collar. But he was quick to flick his eyes up to meet hers again. He ushered her inside the office and closed the doors while the officers outside continued to clap and yip. “Are you all right?” he asked. Commander Adams stood more than six feet tall, the black officer uniform tight across his broad shoulders. He was frowning at her. She wasn’t sure what disturbed him—the new scars or her thinly veiled distress. He seemed to take in her blind panic and the heat collecting in her face. She’d broken out in a sweat along the back of her neck, but hopefully he couldn’t see that. She drew more breath and found her chest unwilling to expand. “I wasn’t expecting such a reception,” she admitted and helped herself into the chair opposite his desk. That many people, that many bodies closing in on her—it had weakened her knees. Sitting down allowed her to affect some poise. “It . . . surprised me.” Adams put the desk between them by taking the opposite chair. “Every person in this precinct owes you their life. The least they can do is show a little gratitude.” “The card was enough.” He laughed, clearly surprised. “A card with a thousand signatures and endless praise will never be enough. Throw in a zonewide parade and a plaque, perhaps a statue in your honor, and maybe we’d be approaching proper compensation. But no, what you did was priceless.” “That’s ridiculous,” she said. A statue? Of her? It wasn’t like she curbed an epidemic or removed all the radiation from the sky. “I hope you aren’t serious.” “In fact, the funding is already approved.” She could only blink at him. “Commander Buteo, you stopped the first mass-murder attempt in our zone in centuries. Those terrorists wanted to wipe out all of our officers in a single blow and would’ve succeeded if not for you. Hell, the IED was only six meters from Duchovny’s wife and daughters and he damn well knows it.” There was something funny in the way Adams said the word terrorists. Not unlike fairies or goblins, as if this word were merely make-believe. “But because of you, our officers are safe. Their families are safe. Our city is safe. And everyone knows what you paid for that safety.” What I paid. The lives of her husband and her son. Her right arm from the elbow down. Half of her face. It was the burned scar tissue that Commander Adams kept looking at now, as if that was the worst of it. How could she explain that her loss of beauty could never compare to all the happiness she buried in the Soul Grove? “We’re safe again, and we have you to thank for that. Let the city and its officers have their hero.” “I’m not a hero to Davion or Kaiden,” she said. “Your loss is . . . unfathomable,” he agreed, tapping the surface of his desk. “But just because you couldn’t save two lives, that doesn’t change the fact that you did save thousands upon thousands. The officers’ and their families’, to be sure, but also the lives of our city’s citizens. What would have happened to them if our borders had fallen?” She barely heard this. She thought, they weren’t just any lives. They were the only two lives that mattered. “Still, I’m getting complaints from the mayor that this event seems to have stalled immigration requests. Hopefully, if we have a couple of quiet months ahead of us, the number of applicants will go back up and he’ll get off our backs.” Grace understood that the lack of crime was one of Zone 2’s most attractive features. But all the centermost zones—Zones 1 through 6—could make such a boast. Violent crime prevailed only in the outermost districts. Despite the mayor’s concerns that their crime ratings might rise by a mere one percent or even two percent, Grace knew that people would sell everything they owned to have a place here. Her husband Davion had always told her to be grateful for her job. To be grateful that petty, nonviolent crimes made up the bulk of her work. That her livelihood required creative problem-solving solutions rather than the strong arm of the law. The only real danger to their zone was cybercrime: hacking, thefts, or fraud—and she was trained for all of it. It’s not like the outer zones, Gray, he’d told her. Where someone will slit your kid’s throat for your last gallon of water. Yes, she knew what Davion would say about all of this if he’d lived. That she was lucky. That there were others who would give up their husbands, their children, their face, and both arms just to be able to walk down their streets free. She understood this, but she didn’t care. She wanted her family back. “So what do you think? About the statue? I believe they’re considering bronze.” Adams waited for her reaction, clearly expecting some outpouring of gratitude or delight. She’d used most of her energy to pull herself from bed, bathe, and arrive at the precinct on time. What little fight she had left was lost to the mob outside. She couldn’t spare any energy for a diplomatic response. “I think it’s stupid,” she said. “If it can’t be stopped, I can only hope you’ll put it somewhere I’ll never see it.” “It would be less for you than for the people of this city,” he said, his excitement deflating. “The attack frightened them. They need a visual reminder that they’re safe here. That their zone has a guardian.” He flicked his eyes down, activating his corneal display. His eyes glowed blue. “I’ve just received the notice from the hospital saying you can return to work.” “I’m fit for duty,” she assured him. He flicked his glowing blue eyes up to meet hers. “Do you really feel ninety days is long enough to recover from your personal losses?” Grace used her considerable will to remain calm. “Are you referring to the prosthetic arm, the burned face, or the dead family, Adams?” Adams sputtered. He’d better accept the hospital’s assessment, because the only thing worse than being applauded for an act of heroism she deeply regretted would be going home without the job she’d sacrificed all her happiness for. “All I have left is this job, and I plan to do it. Lucky for me you have no authority to decide whether or not I’m fit to be here.” Her voice was cold. And she spoke truth. He was voted into his post the same as she was. He was her co-commander, with no more power than she had. If he wanted her removed, he’d have a hell of time achieving it. He bristled and sat up straighter in his seat. “Honestly, it’s great to have you back. This precinct needs both of its commanders, especially after last night.” Her heart kicked in her chest. “What happened last night?” “Not an explosive device,” he was quick to add. “Just a theft. Viscosity Inc. had over two dozen organs stolen from their South Hanscomb facility. The case came in at oh two hundred.” “A public or private building?” “Private and fully bio-sealed,” he confirmed, leaning his forearms on his desk. His eyes lit with that slight, reflective blue light as his gaze reviewed the details invisible to her. “Only those with clearance can enter and exit the facility.” “How many had access during the time of theft?” “About sixty employees to the organ chambers. Over two hundred were coded for the lab itself. The whole company employs more than twenty thousand people. It’s enormous.” “And the biometric system detected nothing?” “There’s a lot of data to sift through. It will be a time-consuming case.” “Time is all I have now.” She shouldn’t have said this. Such comments would initiate conversations she didn’t want to have. “Grace . . .” he began and then seemed to think better of it. “When I mentioned that you’d returned from leave, the CEO, Getty Peters, was thrilled and requested you for the investigative assessment. I’ll try not to take it personally.” When a crime was confirmed in the city, it was the commander’s job to complete the initial assessment and determine if the security of the zone had been compromised. That was her utmost responsibility—to keep the zone safe and secured from all threats, inside and out. Once the assessment was complete, the investigation was dissected and tasks were delegated to the precinct’s inspectors. A commander, after all, was part team leader, part politician. Particularly diplomatic when interzone action with other commanders was needed or tending to the delicate nerves of city officials was required. She supposed this would be the first of many requests, and she would be the favorite for a while. And why should it matter if she buried herself in work? Who waited for her at home? No one. “Once you solve this,” Adams said, lacing his fingers together, “I think the zone will relax. The network breach and explosion frightened the community. With Commander Buteo out in the streets again, asking questions . . . well, it will cheer them up to see you. The moment your name sounds in the Informed Citizen Bulletin—” His voice dropped to a comic imitation of a newscaster. “‘Commander Buteo saves the day again’—it will quell the unrest that has built while you were…away.” While she lay in a hospital bed healing third-degree burns and having her arm replaced, he meant. “I’ll get started then.” Adams smiled. “I’ll tell them to expect you. While you’re out, I’ll finish up my ninety-day cache. I’ll have it to you by the end of the day so you can be brought up to speed on all that’s happened in your absence. Unless you want me to join you for a verbal debriefing?” “I don’t mind working solo,” she said. In fact, it might be a blessed reprieve to abandon herself to the job without forcing smiles or combatting kind words. She needed a break from the endless thoughts that circled her mind like buzzards. “Oh, you won’t be alone,” Adams said. She frowned. Her face resisted it. “I won’t?” “Your request for an assistant inspector was approved while you were in the hospital. I oversaw the onboarding myself. Inspector Heron Jane is at your disposal. He’s . . . different.” Grace rose from her seat, declaring the return interview over. “I look forward to meeting him.” “Wait, Grace.” Adams twisted his hands together. She paused in the doorway and turned back to face him. The gentleness on Adams’s face made her skin crawl. He was looking at her scars again. “I know it will be hard to put what’s happened behind you, but you have to try.” She gestured at the office around her. “What do you think I’m trying to do here?” “Just try not to torture yourself.” She grasped the door handle and laughed. It was a bitter, sharp sound. “Do you know me at all, Adams?” “I do,” he said, his expression part concern, part fear. “And I’ve never known you to let sleeping dogs lie.”