“I found this while investigating resources for the Thistle-down repopulation project,” Mar Kellen said. “Routine work for a gentleman of leisure. It had been erased from all resource maps but one, and that one must have been an oversight…. It didn’t seem important to the project, so I didn’t tell anybody. But I mentioned it to my Beni, and she—she was my mate,” he confided suddenly, pausing on the incline to look over his shoulder at Olmy. “Only thirty. Born since the Sundering. Imagine, an old war horse finding a young lady…truly a lady. Old Naderite family. But she had adventure in her blood. She far outstripped me for enthusiasm. She wanted to explore. So we explored. We came here, and found—”

He took a spry leap up into the cavity. Olmy followed, more gracefully but with less drama. A smooth black wall at the rear of the cavity reflected a meager dot from the light. Mar Kellen slammed his hand against a smooth black wall with painful force, face locked in a momentary grimace. “When we found it, it looked just like this. I knew the look. A security wall. Then I became enthusiastic. Nothing like a code to crack! Not easy, though. I had to crack thirty different coded blocks, using analysis invented only in the last century. Math has become my hag, Olmy.” He stroked the blackness, looking between it and Olmy. “But it’s a hag I’ve mastered. Once upon a time, this place was very secure…”

He picted a quick flash of symbols and the black wall brightened to gray then simply vanished. Beyond was a well-lit tunnel.

“Once inside, I suspected there were many lethal security measures. We looked for them, and found them—more than I would have thought necessary to guard anything. Most had reached their mandated limits of five centuries and had automatically deactivated. Obviously, nobody knew about it—not even presidents. Or so I assume. I may be wrong there.” Again, the wicked smile.

They approached the wide, half-circle archway entrance. A mechanical voice of ancient style—at least as old as similar voices in Alexandria—requested their identity.

Mar Kellen announced a series of numbers and displayed his palm to an ancient ID panel near the opaqued doors. “I’ve recoded with my own patterns,” he told Olmy. The doors cleared and opened slowly. Within, a bare, stripped-down reception area waited in semi-darkness. Mar Kellen beckoned Olmy through, and took him down a hallway to a small room, also lacking furniture or decor pictors.