For an annil Bigtooth had quite large tooth, but he was still not even half the size of the maan that ruled the city. He slipped through the false wall and let it seal behind him with a soft, satisfied grind.
"There," he said, rubbing his claws together, the keratin edges clicking faintly. "Elevators are dead."
Ilissir and Elina floated in their chamber, serene and infuriatingly quiet. The vault above them stretched up and away, glass and steel built at a scale that made him feel less like a guardian and more like a speck consulting a monument.
"Completely dead," Bigtooth added, stepping closer as if they might doubt him. "Relay spine torn out. Feed lines severed. Guidance loop scrambled just enough to scream, not enough to explain why."
He nodded to himself.
"Very professional work. I am proud."
The chamber hummed on, unimpressed.
Bigtooth leaned over the console and tapped a diagnostic panel that only half-lit, its surface filmed with mineral dust and dormant spore residue. The mineral bloom had layered in thin tides around screw heads and seam corners, old rings under newer rings, like the chamber had been breathing the same recycled moisture for too long. A dead service screen flickered once, spat out a date stamp, and for a heartbeat it read, AC: 50. Then it went dark again. Bigtooth squinted at it, then turned away fast.
"They could fix it," he admitted. "In theory. They would need to recouple the lower shaft relays, re-seat the ceramic buffers, and realign the ascent governors."
He paused.
"But they will not," he said with certainty. "They are Furniture Movers."
He straightened, tail flicking in a slow, irritated arc.
"They will shout. They will kick panels. They will declare the elevators cursed. Then they will take the stairs and complain loudly. This will slow the elimination schedule by at least one day. Possibly two if someone twists an ankle."
He allowed himself a small, pleased grin, baring short, uneven teeth better suited for gnawing than smiling.
"You are welcome."
Ilissir remained timeless. Elina's hair drifted softly in the suspension field, buoyed as if underwater.
Bigtooth sighed and began his rounds.
He hated cleaning.
Not the honest kind, like scraping algae from vents or beating mineral-spore dust out of intake filters. This was the sacred kind. The kind where nothing was actually dirty, but everything was ancient, fragile, and somehow still his responsibility.
He wiped condensation from the chamber glass with a cloth that had once been white and was now several shades of disappointment.
"Last leaders of the Inarin Empire," he muttered. "And where does that get you. In a tube. Naked. With me."
The stabilizers pulsed. Lights glowed at levels Bigtooth had calibrated by instinct rather than understanding, reading vibration and warmth through the pads of his fingers. He did not know what half the symbols meant. He only knew which ones screamed when touched and which ones sighed when left alone.
Everything was stable.
Which annoyed him.
If something broke, he could fix it. Stability meant waiting.
Waiting meant ten days.
Ten.
Bigtooth's claw drifted to his pouch before he could stop it. He pulled out the thin strip of writing plastic. There was only one notch on it. The first. It had been widened and polished by repeated carving until the edge rounded like a river stone, and hairline stress cracks spidered out from it as if the material had been forced to accept the same truth thousands of times. He pressed a claw into it anyway, worrying it deeper, until a thin curl of white plastic lifted.
Bigtooth pressed his forehead gently against the console, the cool surface damp with recycled moisture.
"Ten days of dry rations," he said. "Compressed grain bricks. Emergency fungus strips grown from spore-vats. No seasoning. No joy."
He straightened abruptly.
"At home," he went on, "I would be eating liverwort frond pudding. Warm. Soft. With that skin on top that looks wrong but tastes correct. Possibly with fermented sap. Possibly two servings. Because I earned it."
He glared at Ilissir.
"And instead I am here. Guarding you. Still."
He shuffled to the supply alcove and kicked open a crate.
Dry rations. More dry rations. Even more dry rations.
The crate was lined with flattened wrappers and ration dust, compressed into grey felt at the bottom.
One personal item. A cracked spoon with the edges worn smooth by a small jaw. The spoon's bowl had been reshaped by years of prying ration bricks apart, the metal thinned where a thumb always pressed.
"Luxury," Bigtooth said flatly.
He shut the crate, immediately regretted it when pain shot up his leg, and hopped in a tight circle, hissing, tail lashing.
"Excellent form, Bigtooth. Elders would applaud."
The elders.
He scowled.
Assign Bigtooth, they had said. This is a test, they had said. You fit in drawers.
Which was rude.
He dragged over a stool and climbed up to inspect the upper seals, brushing powdery residue from the seam where false wall met ceiling, releasing a faint spore scent into the air.
"If they find you," he said, "they will come tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever the stair-climbing finishes."
His tail flicked again.
"What a waste," he muttered. "All those hibernating heroes. Dragged out. Cut up. Sorted. Burned. Why not just switch the chambers off."
He paused, considering.
"There might even be a button," he admitted. "But no. They want proof. Pieces. Stories."
Bigtooth climbed down and sat with his back against the console, scales cool against the metal.
"I bet the old empire had committees," he said. "Committees about everything. Meetings about meetings. And now look. You leave me with this."
He gestured at the cables, the humming chamber, the sealed wall.
Elina's face remained calm. Ilissir did not stir.
"Token wife," Bigtooth said to Elina, nodding at Ilissir. "Very progressive. Empire was probably doomed anyway."
He sighed and pulled out a ration brick.
Tomorrow, the collectors would come. He opened his mouth to say it out loud and stopped, as if the word had failed inspection.
"Soon," he corrected, staring at the seam of the false wall. "Tomorrow is a scheduling concept. Ten days is the test."
The elevators would still not work. For sure. Absolutely. Unless someone competent intervened, which was unlikely bordering on impossible.
Bigtooth bit into the ration.
His face twisted, frills tightening reflexively along his jaw.
"This is supposed to taste like root vegetables," he said. "It does not."
He chewed anyway.
"One more day bought," he told the sleepers. "Possibly two. Courtesy of broken elevators and Maan stubbornness."
He swallowed and looked up at them.
"If you wake up," he added, "do not grant wishes. That causes paperwork."
The chamber hummed on.
Bigtooth leaned his head back against the wall.
"The elevators are not going to work," he said firmly. "They are definitely not going to work."
He closed his eyes. Gathered the vibrations from his chest, practiced and confident. "Hello Meir, I am Bigtooth a planetborn Annil. How are you today?"
"I am speaking very well. I am ready."