The vault was small, dry, silent. In the center, a single lead-lined pedestal. And on it, the data slug. No traps. No lasers. Just the quiet hum of a backup battery that had outlasted civilization.

“Confirmed,” Kaelen said, patting the sealed pouch on his chest.

The descent was hell. His antique hard-suit groaned under the pressure. The vault door, a massive slab of depleted uranium, required a code he’d last used ten years ago, whispered to him by a woman whose face he’d forgotten but whose voice still haunted his shortwave dreams.