The three of them approached the last hole. They stood just above the chemical tank's waterline, where the air rippled with something unhealthy. Arlen started coughing. He created a spear and handed it over, saying, "Hurry."

The soldier stabbed into the beast's lair, creating anguished gurgling howls. It tried to turn but had no space to move. Two more stabs and it slumped, barely moving. The man turned aside looking sick from his own efforts in addition to the toxins. "It'll go faster at least."

"Thank you. Let's head back."

Upstairs in Sachin's laboratory they explained what they'd seen. The ancient scientist quivered in his prison of glass, saying, "I had _suspected_ something crawled in there and died! Arlen, touch this device. It should work with your shaper field."

One of the vines uncoiled and revealed a rod of stone and crystal, similar to the devices he'd taken as some kind of battery or circuitry in other Builder devices. At Arlen's touch the thing lit up in a mesmerizing scarlet swirl that rushed with burning heat along his arm and back. His muscles locked for a moment and he staggered, finally dropping the bauble. "Ow. What?"

Sachin said, "If my planning is correct, your field has read some of the simpler structures to install. That doesn't include creating many of the parts, but there's a method for crawling even a heavy object along a wall to where it needs to go. You will remain here and help me install replacement filters and production equipment."

Arlen reminded the old one, "With stopping the toxin leak as a first priority, right? That could lead to dangerous production accidents."

"Yes, yes. I can't reach everywhere here, so your hands and power will be needed."

Arlen relayed the conversation. "It sounds like Sachin wants me to stay and help with repairs. It'll be a chance to learn, too."

Meadow said, "Is this the same kind of long-term offer that Thoko gave you?"

Arlen winced. "I won't allow that."

#

Arlen spent a few days with the Builder researcher. Outside of anything specifically devoted to the repairs, the facility, the need to go kill some long-dead enemy, Sachin usually trailed off in mad rambling. But at the very least, Arlen was giving some companionship to the former human, as Sachin claimed to be.

Arlen inspected and installed filter equipment, stirring propellers, pipes, and more. His building powers had gained some versatility from practice and the device he'd touched. He could slowly inch heavy parts along a floor or wall, and craft precision housings according to a kind of built-in blueprint. There were enough simple shapes in the "library" to make construction in general easier. Sachin claimed that Arlen should be able to fashion other materials, and grew frustrated when that didn't immediately work.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Arlen did want to try, but not to succeed too quickly at anything that could make the place capable of making more poison yet.

Maybe he could talk Sachin into becoming a more benevolent chemical engineer. For now they worked together to seal off the worst of the filth and run some of it through a neutralizing system.

As a side project, he coaxed Sachin to translate parts of the Builders' written language. The man seemed not to even remember the whole thing, or much else, and grew agitated when reminded of how much he'd lost. But he had literally forgotten more than Arlen ever knew on the subject. They created a priceless set of thin iron plates with a translation of phonetic Builder writing and common technical terms into the islanders' language. Not surprisingly, the natives had learned writing from the Builders, so the marks were roughly the same.

"What were the islanders, to your people?"

Sachin rambled, but some of his answer was clear. "As orphaned children. Ones we were too busy to adopt. But they could be trained to fetch useful things, and we had some resources to spare."

"What of the ones who lived on this island?"

The scientist went quiet, then answered only, "There was a war to win."

"And what of the island spirits?"

"I know nothing of them."

#

Arlen had been living for days in a self-made apartment on the ruins' outskirts, away from the worst of its atmosphere. Mirefolk brought him a gritty porridge and fish that he tried to eat sparingly, telling himself the pollution was slow-acting.

He explained to Sachin that he'd be back later, and needed to check on other sites. The Builder grumbled at the "interruption" to Arlen's apparently permanent employment, but didn't stop him. Arlen headed along his new road, back toward the village where he'd met the assembled chiefs. Before he'd passed the outskirts, a messenger reached him, saying, "The Drinkers are angry."

"They often are. What's going on?"

The man explained, this particular clan or tribe had heard of Arlen's progress and saw it as blasphemous.

Arlen smacked his forehead. "Do they like being poisoned?"

The messenger shuffled his feet uneasily. "The way we've always lived, we've been tough enough to survive it. We're the strongest here."

"Ever seen a giant toad with a spiked tongue?"

"Yes; how giant?"

"Bigger than you."

"Not quite. But... but our hunters could handle it!" He thumped his chest.

"How much do your clans talk with the other islands? Or visit them?"

"Not much. I've never been, except once to Decim."

"I want a peace where you can go freely, and nobody's fighting each other. It'll be better for everyone."

"I think I understand. But the Drinkers don't. It's safe, doing things the way they do."

"Won't be for long. The swamp won't protect the Mirefolk forever."

"Because of your amazing roads?"

"Not just that. Someday there'll be more people like me, and they won't understand your ways at all."

The messenger frowned. "Then I hope you can talk some sense into the clan."

Arlen went into town to speak with whoever was in charge. The main tribe here was called the Ring. Its chief was more involved than most in direct contact with Decim. But the man was one of the more skeptical ones from the rodeo party the other night. "It's your fault the Drinkers have a louder voice now. You killed some of the raiders from other clans, leaving most of theirs."

Multiple crazed raider clans. He hated hearing the plural.