On the raised star-iron platform of Vault One, Arthur Vance commanded the Master First-born End-post to isolate the strategic tracking data for all leftover world-size repositories.
With a sweep of his hand, the rotating light-projected globe swelled, segmenting into six detailed tactical displays that floated in a semi-circle around the squad. Each display represented an ancient Sovereign Vault, complete with deep-rock depth profiles, surrounding heat-powered settings, and stone-built schematics.
Arthur walked along the floating consoles, his analytical mind committing every variable to memory.
“Six leftover acupoints,” Arthur analyzed, his razor-sharp magnifying glass humming as it recorded the tracking data stream directly into his neural archive. “Each vault is situated in an extreme deep-rock frontier, deliberately chosen by the pre-Cataclysm Sovereigns to protect the planet’s deepest genetic seeds.”
He paused before the second floating display, expanding the light-projected ground shape of Vault 02:
“Vault Two,” Arthur said, turning to his companions. “Volcano bowl Tartarus. Located in the deepest sub-oceanic trench of the western Pacific, nine thousand eight hundred meters beneath the surface. But unlike the total zero of Antarctica, Tartarus is a white-hot magma fire.”
Pip tilted his golden head, his raptor eyes gleaming with bright, clear excitement.
To the divine roc, a surrounding heat of four hundred and eighty degrees was not a lethal hazard. It was paradise. Pip’s solar-gold feathers rippled with anticipatory sparks. He let out a sharp, joyful whistle that echoed across the star-iron dais.
