The cargo lift didn’t descend so much as it fell in slow, shuddering increments. The air grew thick with the smell of scorched copper and something else—the heavy, sweet scent of preservative chemicals that had been sealed away for two centuries.
As the platform screeched to a halt, the emergency lights flickered on. They weren't the buzzing orange of the mall; they were a sterile, pale blue that made everyone look like ghosts before they were even dead.
"Welcome to the Cradle," Arthur whispered, stepping off the lift. His boots rang against the floor, which was made of a seamless, white composite. "The birthplace of the Great Upload. And the graveyard of the 'Originals'."
Before us lay a hall that seemed to stretch into infinity. It wasn't filled with books or servers, but with glass c
