Miles' hands were already on the body.

It was the sapient that Brisk had identified as his last team's scout. A short trunk body type, not that knowing that helped Miles at all.

It had the look of a biological pod. Round and oval-shaped, about a foot long, with a surface made of layered chitinous plates. It didn't have any obvious limbs or sensory organs, and as Miles touched it, he didn't feel any warmth or vibration.

How long has it been like this?

Brisk had known what he'd find here, so he had to have been present at the time of the attack. It had taken at least five days to cross from Unsiel Station to Ialdis, a ten-day round trip, and the ship had spent at least two days docked with the station.

Twelve days. Possibly more. Except, Brisk had said that time moved more slowly in the dungeon, and the effect was greater the deeper someone went. How much subjective time had the injured scout experienced? It could have been just a few days or even hours.

The outer carapace had been split open like a crushed watermelon. There were leaking cuts along its sides, cracks on the top. Miles' Eyes of the Altruist showed him the grim picture of its internal biology. There was one large central shape that looked like a popped balloon, and other shapes that looked like they were meant to be round, but now had broken membranes, shapes that looked like support structures, now fractured.

He didn’t know exactly what any of it meant. That was the province of doctors. He might need to study for years to know the intricacies of treatment for just one species. Luckily, he was a magic specialist. One of the advantages of magic was that it was general. It worked on conviction, principles, and achieving an end result without passing through the intervening steps.

He pressed his hands to one of the splits on the sapient’s side and cast Close Wound.

They have been abandoned to their injuries. In a harmonious world, no wound is left to fester. The cut must close. Such should it be.

Halfway through the casting, Miles realized he was activating the spell without using his index. He didn’t let the realization distract him.

The litany was slightly different from the version the index triggered, but it was fully in line with what he believed. He felt his magical core spin up, the flash of energy from his stomach to his hands, and a burst of searing light was born between his hands and the flesh of the sapient.

The magic he could call never ceased to awe him.

When he removed his hand, the wound had closed.

He repeated the spell on every visible injury, closing them, wiping away the sapient’s purple blood as he moved around their body.

When he was done, they still had a mess of internal injuries, and Miles turned to his next spell. Hasten Renewal had a subtle effect, accelerating a being’s natural healing, but in his accreditation test at least, it had shown the ability to make fresh burns look days old and help sapients purge their bodies of poison.

He placed his hands on the scout’s body and tried to cast the spell. After a few seconds of failing to summon up an appropriate litany, he gave up trying to cast it from memory and pulled out his index.

Name: Miles Asher | Traditions: Harmonizer | Index Value: δ#1,2#0##

Fundamental Properties:

Strength (0)

Durability (1)

Speed (0)

Reactions (0)

Will (0)

Authority (1)

Spells (Harmonizer)

Close Wound (Grasping)

A weft of harmonizing energy brings together the free edges of a tear, sealing the join in materials which are co-bondable, such as cellular membranes, metal compounds, woven fabrics, and homogenous molecular surfaces.

Temporary Enhancement (Grasping)

A temporary matrix of harmonizing energy alters one of a being’s fundamental properties by an amount in accordance with the weaver’s authority.

Hasten Renewal (Tentative)

A weft of harmonizing energy spreads from the weaver to their target, greatly speeding the being’s natural recovery by an amount multiplicative with the weaver’s authority.

Spells (Sky Quester)

Shield of Saints (Fo#bid##n)

A plane of soul energy is drawn from the quester to intercept a physical object, reducing its speed and force by an amount in accordance with the quester’s conviction.

Core Effects (Harmonizer)

Eyes of the Emigre

Embeds a matrix of harmonizing energy within the being’s mind which will reveal to them the meaning of any plain text or spoken language.

Eyes of the Altruist

Embeds a matrix of harmonizing energy within the being’s mind which reveal to them the health and ailments of a witnessed being.

Core Effects (Sky Quester)

Sword of Souls

Expresses a fragment of the quester’s soul as an immaterial blade, with length and cutting power in accordance with the quester’s conviction.

Miles barely registered the new items that his index listed. Shield of Saints. Sword of Souls. An entirely new branch of magic, one that humanity wasn’t strictly allowed to access through the index. He was confused for a moment by their presence, until he realized he’d dropped the dead grenadier’s crystal into a pocket of his cargo pants. His index was reading the magical information stored in the crystal because it was in contact with him, just like it had in the Delatariel Station market.

He didn’t let himself dwell on it, not right then.

He tapped Hasten Renewal to cast the spell and mentally followed the spark of energy that burned through his arm and into the injured scout.

Everything which lives, heals. In a harmonious world, a creature is forever its final self. It is that which it is.

Hot light shone in the space between Miles’ hand and the creature’s shell. The cracked sections he hadn’t been able to mend with Close Wound scarred over, a milky white layer above brown-black chitin. In the vision of his Eyes of the Altruist, the hole in the large central organ closed up. The crushed shapes grew less ragged. The fractured support structures didn't mend, but grew fine hairs that wove around the damage. He was helping. He didn't know if it would be enough.

Miles maintained the spell until he felt weak, and then he kept going. He watched the mending continue until his vision went dark, and then suddenly he was on his back, looking up at the pale blue lights of the ceiling.

Trin was looking down at him.

The Eppan said something. Miles didn’t understand it.

Miles couldn’t see any of the shapes that his Eyes of the Altruist projected, which meant Eyes of the Emigre should be active, but he couldn’t understand what Trin had said.

Trin said something else. He looked concerned. Miles couldn’t understand.

Brisk had wandered over, looking at Miles and the sapient he’d treated dispassionately. He spoke, a series of low barks that Miles couldn’t interpret.

Even focusing on his Eyes of the Emigre didn’t help. It felt like the translation magic was just gone.

Trin and Brisk had an exchange of words, with even Torg throwing a few clicks in. All incomprehensible.

Miles forced himself to sit up. His body felt both too weak and too light. He felt hollow and insubstantial, like a dry leaf in the wind. His empty backpack was too heavy for him, the straps cutting into his shoulders as if it weighed a hundred pounds. His clothes were a dead weight on him, pressing down on his body like a lead blanket, pressing on his chest, restricting his blood flow. He couldn’t even think about standing.

“I’m awake,” Miles managed to say, hoping that at least some of Trin’s words had been asking about him. “Weak.”

Whatever tools they used for translation didn’t rely on his magic. They’d be able to understand him.

Tools.

Miles remembered his comm, with its built-in translation software. He reached for the pocket on his cargo pants to take it out, but he didn’t even have the strength to undo the steel snap. He probably wouldn’t be able to lift it, in this state.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

It had to be a result of overusing his magic. He’d read warnings about becoming overtaxed, but the sparse explanation he’d had when he’d selected his index had been couched in a mixture of marketing jargon and obtuse terminology, the kind of explanation that a natural resident of the spiral might understand, but that he hadn’t fully grasped. He’d had feelings similar to this during his hours and days of practicing on torn fabric and small cuts, but he’d never felt so utterly empty. He hadn’t realized it could get this bad.

Miles felt a pair of soft, warm hands touching his waist, and he was lifted onto his feet.

Trin was supporting him. The Eppan said something, and apart from being sure it was something kind, he didn’t understand it.

Brisk had picked something up from the wreckage of bodies, a hand-luggage-sized metal case that dangled from a strap over his shoulder. He was pointing them towards the door.

Torg was still outside in the corridor, having never made it through the narrow opening. Brisk stepped out, and Trin started walking towards it with Miles being dragged along.

They’re leaving the scout behind.

They didn’t know that the sapient was still really alive. They hadn’t seen what he’d seen. They didn’t know what he’d done to help them.

“We can’t leave the scout,” Miles breathed out as they were passing through the doors. “They’re still alive. They might recover.”

Trin stopped in his tracks.

Brisk noticed that they’d stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He said something.

Trin hesitated for a few seconds, then started moving again.

Miles needed to convince them. He needed not just to be understood by them, but to understand what Brisk was saying so he could argue.

He focused on Eyes of the Emigre again. Another wave of weakness washed over him, but he felt something kick in his stomach. A lurch, as his stilled core began spinning again.

“I tried to heal them. I think I helped," Miles said. "They're alive and might get better."

Trin paused again, looking sideways at Miles and then at Brisk. "Maybe we bring them, just in case?"

Something in Miles that had nothing to do with magic unclenched at hearing Trin's voice.

"Vestilles all do that,” Brisk said. “They shoot out a pod when they're in trouble, it lives for a couple of days, then breaks down. It's been too long. She's as good as dead already."

Trin let out a breath and started walking again.

"She's not dead," Miles protested. "I healed most of the damage."

This time it was Torg that stopped.

Brisk continued walking for a few paces, before stopping as well and turning to face the two of them.

Torg approached Miles.

Click-chlick. 'Surviving.'

Miles understood the word, but didn't know how to interpret it. He took his best guess.

"Yes, she's still surviving."

Torg started back towards the room on his own.

With Trin and Miles stopped, and Torg heading back, Brisk was forced to wait as well, or else he'd be moving on alone. He watched Torg go, grinding his incisors against each other.

After half a minute there was the sound of screeching metal behind them as the doors were torn fully open, then the sound of heavy claws on metal as Torg padded back up to the group.

When he reached them, he was cradling the injured scout in two of his pincers, his ax and cannon each held one-handed.

"Fine," Brisk said, resuming his walk down the corridor. "I hope you can afford to get her a real healer."

Miles couldn't, but maybe the captain would be more inclined to help her.

***

Winding corridor, warehouse, storage room, sheared-open entrance. Together, they retraced their steps back to the place they’d landed. Nothing leaped out at them this time.

Miles had recovered a little by the time they made it back to their entry point. He had some strength, enough to open his pockets at least, and was walking without support.

According to Miles’ comm, they’d been down there about ninety subjective minutes, well short of the dungeon’s restructuring interval, assuming it ran on the local dilated time of each level.

Brisk hadn’t mentioned the case he’d recovered, or how he felt about finding his old team dead, or what they were going to do next. They just boarded the platform in silence.

The platform must have sensed their return, because it took off a few seconds after everyone was on board, beginning its slow, drifting journey back up to the entrance compound.

Brisk seemed tense on the journey back, sharpening his incisors against each other, constantly messing with the access panel on his new box.

Eventually, they made it back up to the compound. Elegant open-air structures greeted them as their platform set down, and they all disembarked.

Consul Thunis emerged from one of the buildings and started sidling over towards them, followed by a pair of hovering drones.

Brisk stepped to the front of the group and met them as they arrived.

“You have returned from the artifact. I hope your visit was successful.”

“Consul, it was,” Brisk said.

The consul’s eyes clicked as they roamed left and right, picking out the body of the recovering scout, as well as Brisk’s new box and the weapon on his hip.

“You acquired items within the artifact. Please present them for appraisal.”

One of the drones swung down to hover at waist level in front of the consul. It was a triangular device, with four oversized levitation units, and a head that expanded out into a wide platform like a table.

Brisk seemed to know what it was there for, unstrapping the belted pistol he’d collected and laying it on the surface.

The Gilthaen stood silently for a minute, as if listening to something only they could hear. Finally, they spoke.

“The Ialdis Corporation will pay sixty-eight standard exchange notes for this weapon and attachment.”

“Consul, we decline,” Brisk said.

They eyed the inert form of the wounded scout, next.

“This is a sapient?” they asked.

“Consul, she’s a scavenger rescued from within the artifact.”

“That is in order. By the terms of entry, a bounty of fifty standard exchange notes is payable for assisting with the extraction of another visitor.”

Brisk’s pupils diverged, a Hurc eye roll, but Miles was pleased when his comm unit buzzed with an incoming payment.

Finally, the consul’s gaze fell on the white box.

Brisk lifted it up and placed it down flat on the surface. He tapped the interface and the top popped open with a hissing sound.

When Brisk lifted the hinged lid the rest of the way up, he revealed a collection of items resting on a sheet of black padding. There was a comm unit, a couple of other tech devices Miles didn’t recognize, a rusted dagger, what looked like a wooden beaded bracelet, and a piece of silver jewelry.

“The personal effects of teammates who died in the artifact,” Brisk said.

The consul leaned down, bringing their large head and blinking eyes to within inches of the items. They scrutinized the box for almost a minute, before bringing themself back up to their full height.

“The contents of this box are being obscured by a signal mask generator. Please deactivate it.”

Brisk was very still as he said, “Consul, you are mistaken. I see no signal mask generator among the personal effects.”

“I am not mistaken. Deactivate the signal mask generator.”

Brisk was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the consul, then at Torg and Miles, and then he drew the pistol from the table and opened fire on the GIlthaen.

The gun stuttered, a flashing machine-gun rattle. A stripe of gray wounds blossomed along the body of the consul and they sagged backwards.

A pair of drones whipped out of one of the nearby structures, all sharp angles and screaming hover units. Brisk dropped the pistol, pulled his rifle, and fired twice. Both flying devices exploded before crashing to the mossy ground.

Brisk briefly checked around for more threats, then slammed the white case shut and took off with it towards the landing pad where the Starlit Kipper was docked.

Miles was frozen in place.

In front of him, the Gilthaen consul was writhing on the ground, translucent gray fluid flowing from the open wounds on its long body. What should he do? Should he run after Brisk? He was relatively new to the weave’s laws and politics, but he was pretty sure he’d just seen the spiral equivalent of a gas station robbery. And he was part of it. He’d been on the side of the robber.

Brisk was already twenty meters away, but so far, he was the only one running. Torg seemed to be as conflicted as Miles, and Trin looked like he was in shock.

Crick-clich. ‘Always polite.’ Torg said.

Right. Brisk had been the one to tell them they had to be polite to the consul. Or was he just setting himself up for an easier time at this inspection? Was he just trying to keep the Gilthaen’s goodwill so he wouldn’t have to run customs with whatever he knew he’d be bringing out?

Miles didn’t feel like he had a choice. Whether he’d be guilty by association with Brisk and the Kipper or not, the consul was dying in front of him.

Eyes of the Altruist.

The now familiar glow of biology sprang up in his vision, shapes and torn shapes drifting over the Gilthaen’s form.

Brisk had missed most of the consul’s internal organs. The gun he’d used had been the closest of any weapon Miles had seen to the firearms of old Earth, a machine pistol that spat out physical projectiles.

Most of the projectiles had hit the long, mostly empty portion of the consul’s lower body. One hadn’t. One of the Gilthaen’s lower organs had a jagged tear across its bottom, where a projectile had gone in, cut through, then passed out the other side.

Miles needed to heal them. Hasten Renewal seemed like the best choice, but it took way too much out of him. Last time he’d used it to mend serious wounds, it had all but knocked him out, and made him useless for over an hour.

Close Wound was more efficient, he’d cast that multiple times a day before with no problems, but here the serious wound was internal.

Miles fell to his knees next to the Gilthaen. He folded up the baggy sleeves of his robe, then pressed his hand against the consul’s body around the wound.

Its skin was hot, scaldingly hot, like a pot left on the stove. But if he wanted to help them with Close Wound, he’d need to apply it directly to the injury. He tentatively touched the edge of one of the bullet holes. A spurt of gray fluid caught his skin, burning him. He snapped his hand back.

There was no way he was getting direct access to the internal injury. He was going to have to exhaust himself again.

He looked around at Trin, planning to speak to him, but the Eppan was just staring down at the consul’s face in horror. Instead, he turned to Torg.

“Torg, if I pass out, can you look after me?”

Click-tick. ‘Yes. Survive.’

Yes, help them survive? Okay.

Miles turned back to the Gilathaen, putting his hands on a section of skin that was cool enough to touch. He brought out his index, found Hasten Renewal, and tapped to activate the spell.

Everything which lives, heals. In a harmonious world, a creature is forever its final self. It is that which it is.

What little magic he still had flooded out of him, and this time, the blackness came almost immediately.