Chapter 26
chapter
twenty-six
Ender
“She is a liar,” Ansel says.
“This does not prove that she is a traitor,” I say.
But even as I speak the words, I don’t fully believe it. Ansel reports directly to my father, even though military structure dictates that he speak to Orson Warrick first, who passes the message along to the Supreme Director.
Ansel was rather bitter when my father passed him up for the promotion over me. And then again, when he picked Haven instead of Clover to be my wife. He despises Orson Warrick, too, so it would please him to see his daughter arrested for treason. It would taint the Warrick name.
“I’ll keep a close eye on the girl,” I say. “And find out the entire truth.”
“It would be best to ask an unbiased person,” he says. “Clover can handle the task. If there are any secrets she is keeping, my daughter will unearth them.”
A knock sounds.
“Enter,” Ansel says.
Clover steps inside. Her white hair is knotted in a tight bun, and her arms are folded behind her back.
“Yes, sir?” Clover asks, staring at me.
“Your father had you dragged here for nothing,” I say.
I have the strange urge to rip out the Colonel’s throat. I don’t care if he is simply doing as my father instructed. I don’t appreciate being treated like a child who is incapable of doing his job.
“Clover has agreed to befriend the girl and discover her secrets,” Ansel says. “I sent her a message briefing her on the situation.”
“She is not an idiot,” I say, between clenched teeth. “She won’t simply take Clover into confidence when they’ve never exchanged a word before.”
“You underestimate me, sir,” Clover says. “I am more than capable of extracting information from a potential threat, and that is exactly what Mercy Warrick is—a threat.”
“Since when?” I ask.
Clover and Ansel exchange a look.
“We understand that she is your future sister-in-law, but do you truly wish to integrate with this family if they are committing treason?” Ansel asks. “Their mother was executed for working with the Resistance. Who is to say the girl is not following in her footsteps?”
“You forget her father is Orson Warrick, the High General, and she may possess his loyalty and dedication to the regime,” I say. “I will handle the girl. You forget that I am the Commandant. I am the next Supreme Director. I am the future.”
Ansel stiffens, his mouth tightening into a thin line. He doesn’t appreciate the reminder, but I’m done maintaining the peace. He is clearly working towards his own goals, as is Clover.
They both can’t be trusted.
“Your father awaits a report,” Ansel says. “I will be sending my own, with my observations.”
“I’ll review your report before submission.”
“You mean you’ll edit it?” Clover asks bitterly. “Why are you so obsessed with her? One would think you like her more than your wife.”
“Are you implying that I am a cheater like your mother?” I snap.
There were whispers of her mother’s unfaithfulness since before Clover was born. Ansel turns a blind eye because he cares more about his duties than his family. But I know it bothers Clover; she has a rather strained relationship with the woman who birthed her.
Clover flinches at my harsh words.
“You are both dismissed,” I say coldly.
Anger flashes in Ansel’s eyes, but he knows better than to lash out at me.
Clover looks at me like I’ve betrayed her. We’ve always maintained a cordial relationship, but I can’t help but wonder if she is as keen on me as Haven claims. Maybe she is working with her father to target Mercy and ruin my engagement, which means her intentions might not be as pure as I assumed.
I can’t rely on either of them.
I’ll have to figure this out myself.
I visit the Archives late that afternoon.
I took the chopper to Division Three straight after that meeting with Ansel.
Normally, I prefer to drive; there’s a rhythm to the road that keeps me grounded, but the engagement party is in two days.
There’s no time for traffic or navigating the endless checkpoints scattered across the boroughs.
Once we land on the pad and the deafening whir of the helicopter’s blades settles, a mass of capital enforcers step forward to escort me to my destination.
I never called them in, but it must have been the signal tower in North Mire that did, following protocol as usual. I’m supposed to have a minimum of four details with me at all times if traveling between boroughs. It’s another reason why I prefer to drive, so I can escape them.
The Archives is a sprawling stone building with nine floors stacked like a bureaucratic ladder. Its facade is pockmarked and weathered, with darkened windows.
I give the grave-faced enforcers a pointed look.
“Remain here till I return.”
“But, sir—”
“That is an order.”
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?”
“Of course, dear, that is my job,” she says. She pauses, staring at me intensely, pushing up her tortoise-shell glasses. “What a beautiful, young boy you are. I have a granddaughter who is––”
“I am engaged,” I say. “And busy, about that fi—”
“Oh, what a shame,” she says, cutting me off. Even though I did the same to her a few minutes ago, I find her awfully rude. “All the good ones are always taken. May I see a picture of your girl?”
I debate pulling rank, but the old woman stares at me expectantly, waiting for a photograph, and I don’t have it in me to upset her. I open my mouth to explain that our engagement is arranged, and I have no photos of her, when Knox appears from the shadows.
“I got one,” Knox says, pulling out his foldable tablet. He has a smug smile on his face. “Spider just sent me this. It’s new.”
It’s clear to see that he plans to show Haven. Even though I have yet to prove that she is my real wife. I think he believes me now. He’s spent enough time with her to see that she is not the girl we met that day at Fort Canyon.
My brow furrows. “Spider sends you pictures of her?”
“Yeah, it’s funny,” he says.
Knox tilts his tablet towards the clerk.
Haven is attempting a handstand in the courtyard. It must be their day off, because goofing around any other day of the week is inexcusable. The next one is her with her arms draped around her squadmates, grinning widely at the camera.
“Oh.” The woman places her hand to her chest. “What a beautiful girl. You are a lucky man.”