Knox gives them a lopsided smile to soften the blow. They stand at the door, guarding the entrance like their lives depend on it. Capital enforcers are all Gifted and well-trained. They could be doing so much more with their time than following me around. Even though they are well-compensated for it and are honored to protect a Vale.
We walk through the steel turnstile. A woman glances at our IDs, then waves us through with a nod.
“What are we looking for?” Knox asks.
“Do you know Haven and Mercy’s mother was executed by Warrick for being a traitor?” I ask.
“Yes,” Knox says. “It was a public broadcast. I was young, but I remember the uproar. Especially the revelation that he fathered the twins and intended to take custody.”
“Do you know why she was executed?”
Knox shrugs. “Working with the rebels, I presume. Or theft. That’s basically it. People don’t really commit any other crimes anymore.”
“I want to review her file,” I say. “It should be here somewhere.”
A small part of me believes that if I learn what she was hiding, I will understand her infuriating daughter a little more.
The Archives smell faintly of dust, disinfectant, and paper. Floors creak underfoot as the clerks navigate the building. A few of them pass us, heads bowed in fear, pushing metal carts stacked with manila folders. Most files from the last ten years are digitized, but older cases still live in paper form: handwritten notes, yellowed court transcripts, and printed reports.
“Was there a trial?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” Knox says.
The High Justice’s office reviewed cases on an ongoing basis and determined if a case deserved a trial. Most people weren’t lucky enough to gain an audience to plead their case, but once in a while, the Justice was bored enough to indulge the public with a spectacle.
“What’s her name?” Knox asks.
“Astrid Mallory.”
“Didn’t take Warrick’s surname?” Knox raises an eyebrow.
“They were never married,” I say. “She hid the pregnancy from him.”
“Can’t blame her.” Knox whistles low. “Orson Warrick is a cold-hearted bastard.”
We take the elevator to the second floor. Somewhere, here should be a complete dossier: witness statements, Warrick’s notes, trial transcripts, and internal communications regarding the crimes of Astrid Mallory.
Enforcers in gray uniforms pace across the space, eyes scanning every visitor. Like most government buildings, the Archives are heavily guarded. Clerks move in coordination, sorting through the boxes on the conveyor belts and logging incoming files into the central database.
The fluorescent lights overhead twitch like dying moths.
I point to Knox. “Check the digital records. See if it was transcribed in the past few years. I’ll handle the paper files.”
“Got it,” he mutters, already sliding into a workstation.
The second and third floors are the Outlawed Books section. Rows of low cubicles stretch endlessly, crammed with history books that were prohibited by the regime.
I take the elevator to the fourth floor, where the Criminal Cases section is, which holds all the paper documents for all filed crime reports. The air smells old and musty.
Oaken shelves rise in dizzying heights with a ladder placed nearby to access the upper levels.
I run my fingers along the folders, each stamped with codes and dates. I flip through them carefully.
I pause at the year of Astrid Mallory’s execution. There should be a file with the execution orders and witness statements, but nothing comes up.
An elderly woman walks by pushing a cart.
“Excuse me,” I call. “I can’t find a file. Could you help me?”
