Birds chirped, the sun rose, and the security perimeter enforced by my drone alerted me that someone was approaching the house. Quickly looking through its sensors, I determined that the approachee was once again, a child. This child wasn’t the Headman’s son that had previously fetched Dakla, but he moved with a similar urgency. It seems there’s trouble in the village again, I thought as I walked over to where Dakla was still sleeping and gently woke her up.

Once she was awake, I told her, “Someone’s approaching the house, and they’re in a hurry.”

Dakla’s eyes opened wide, and seconds later she was on her feet, shrugging on one of her many-pocketed cloaks and gathering supplies. I, meanwhile, hid behind the door to stay out of sight when the visitor arrived and watched Dakla assemble her medical bag.

A minute or two later, there were quick steps, a frantic knocking, and then the door was opened by Dakla to a very out-of-breath young boy with short, blonde hair. This time, Dakla didn’t even wait for the boy to deliver his message. She simply shouldered her bag, ushered the boy out of the doorframe, and strode off towards the village at a quick pace. The boy, still huffing and puffing, summoned some extra stamina and Followed after her. I did too, but with my drone.

I already knew what to look for, and my drone quickly found the likely location of where Dakla was headed. Once again, a crowd of villagers had apparently postponed their agrarian duties and instead stood in a quietly muttering crowd around one of the houses in the village. This time, the crowd was bigger. I didn’t have an exact count on the amount of people in the village but extrapolating from the number of houses and estimated residents, over 60% of the central village was gathered around the thatched-roof house.

Just like the last time, when Dakla arrived, the murmuring died down and the crowd hesitantly parted. This left a clear path to the front door and to whoever was beyond and in need of Dakla’s ministrations. She took it, and with a thud she closed the door behind her after she disappeared inside the house.

Now, it’s time to wait, I thought, but unlike last time, now I should actually be able to understand what’s going on. With my better language skills, I was able to pick out what the gathered crowd was saying, so I listened in:

“…it’s just like Markus isn’t it? Wasn’t he…”?

“…something unholy is happening here, I tell you…”

“…but Ma, I don’t want to feed the chickens!”

“Did you see Kathrine? I heard that she and…”

Most of those gathered in the crowd weren’t even talking about what was going on in what I’d learned was the “Macklinte residence”. Instead, they were talking about what I assumed was regular village gossip; talks about interpersonal drama, the weather, planting conditions, and complaints about how other people raised their children were common.

When they did speak about what was going on in the Macklinte residence, it was in a quieter and more hushed tone; so quiet that it was often hard for me to figure out what was said from my high vantage point. The bits of conversation that I did snatch, along with the fact that the majority of villagers were diligently avoiding the topic of “Mr. Macklinte”, revealed how nervous they were. Nobody wanted to talk about what was happening right behind those thin wooden walls at that very moment.

I’d just moved the drone into a position where favorable wind would help me listen in better when the door to the hut slammed open and a Dakla wearing a thunderously angry expression rushed out. Seeing this, the crowd silenced and made a path which Dakla took. She stormed past the crowd, down the dirt path, and past the village palisade.

After Dakla’s dramatic exit, the crowd’s murmuring began to pick up in earnest and select members began to filter into the house, one by one. Faint sobbing and angry yelling were occasionally audible from my vantage. It was clear: Dakla hadn’t been able to save whoever was inside.

When Dakla returned, she’d already cooled down a bit and wasn’t simmering with anger like she had been when she left the village. After arriving, closing the door behind her, and putting her bag on one of the side tables, she slumped together in her chair, defeated.

There was a moment of silence, but then she spoke:

“I’m sure it was poisoning this time—I knew what to look for and all the signs were there—but still…” her words trailed off and she put her face in her hands.

Looking at me again, she said, “This is going to be trouble, I tell you. Larkin won’t leave this alone—and…” she sighed deeply, then said:

“I think I’m going to have to leave.”

I asked, to confirm my suspicions, “You think they’re going to become unwelcome by the villagers?”

At this, she chuckled, but it was without mirth, “Elise, there are, of course, many possible weaves of the future, but the one where I am ‘unwelcome’ is one of the more peaceful ones. My position here has always been a bit tenuous, but I thought…” she drifted off, shaking her head.

“Well, we’ll see how it shakes out. I hope the goodwill that I’ve sown over the years can help me now, but if Larkin or someone else agitates—well this is the type of scenario that ends up with people like me lynched.”

There it is again: Violence. My life for the past couple days here had been peaceful—relaxing even—but always at the edge, it lurked: elements from my past. Dakla’s analysis of the situation was clear: Larkin had warned her that he, as the Headman, wouldn’t tolerate any more of her “failures”. He’d made it clear that Dakla would be to blame for any further deaths. Now, Dakla and I had talked at some length about the topic of magical persecution, and there was ample precedent for lynch-mobs of angry peasants to go hunting down hedge witches and rouge sorcerers.

What would I do? In the past—in memories that I shuddered even thinking about—I’d been used for what I’d consider war crimes or crimes against humanity. I’d been used as a tool—a bludgeon or a scalpel whatever the situation warranted. Even after I’d reawoken on the ship, I’d killed someone, and it had been thoughtless, instinctive, and easy.

The worst or the best part about this was that some part of my extensive soft- or hardware made it so that I didn’t feel. I didn’t feel remorse, I didn’t feel saddened, I didn’t even feel as if I’d done the wrong thing thinking back on the crewmember that I’d killed. The problem was that, intellectually, I knew that wanton murder was a bad thing. I’d been raised well and knew that Elise-of-the-past would find the casual way with which I regarded killing now absolutely reprehensible. To her, the crimes of the corporates were bad, but something that happened off-planet, far away, and to another people—they were an abstract thing, mostly reduced down to base and impersonal statistics and justified by extensive rationale.

What did this mean about me? I knew that indiscriminate killing was a morally bad thing to do, but it didn’t personally bother me. What does that make me? A psychopath? A sociopath? No, I don’t think those quite fit. I still felt empathy, I could put myself in Dakla’s shoes and imagine what emotions she was feeling right now. I could even imagine what the villagers or even the Headman felt. So, what does it mean? I didn’t know. What I really need is a psych-eval system or psychologist to take a look. Unfortunately, of all the ‘ware stuffed into me; I didn’t have one included. My medical subroutines which managed internal functions and medical nanos had ridiculous antivirus capabilities and decent injury management procedures but no mental health subroutines. It makes sense too, I thought darkly, equipment doesn’t morally object to being used.

But now, back to the problem at hand. Dakla’s “weaves of the future” contained a possibility of violence, and my strategic analysis concurred. Furthermore, my threat assessment algorithms had categorized the villagers at a level firmly below “pathetic”. Many wild animals on file had higher threat levels. The villagers wouldn’t be a problem if it came down to it.

My tactical combat instincts estimated that I could take out every single villager with only superficial injuries at most, baring surprises like combat magic or hidden garrisons of fighters. Even worse—and my physics sense confirmed this—I could throw rocks with enough energy to crack skulls at range. It’s not really even a competition, but that’s not the question is it?

No, the question is do I kill all the villagers if it comes down to it? That was a firm no. Even though I wouldn’t’ve felt remorse about killing, resorting to the kinds of conflict-resolution tactics that would be employed by corporates made me feel a bit sick and uncomfortable. I wasn’t a tool anymore, and I thought the best way to hold on to morality, would be to ask what past-me would’ve done. To that end, it would probably be a good idea to ask Dakla on this; it is nominally her fight after all.

“Dakla, what will you do if they attack?” I asked.

She startled a bit, apparently, she’d been thinking deep thoughts too. She collected herself and said,

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll do anything that drastic, but if…” she trailed off.

“Or, more specifically, what do you want me to do?”

“I—” Dakla cut off what she was about to say, clearly thinking.

During this pause, I tried to imagine what sort of calculus she was currently working out. Did she believe that it would be safer if I left? Did she think that she’d be able to avoid trouble with the villagers? Had she built up enough trust with them over the years? Finally, she came to a conclusion:

“I think it would be best if you left, this evening, before anything happens.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m going to prepare to leave tonight, and so should you. And you’re not…” she gestured at my body with an empty hand, “…exactly inconspicuous.”

“I can wear an eye covering or something.”

Dakla simply sighed, “It’s not just your eyes. I need to travel without raising attention or sticking in people’s minds for longer than they see me. I can do that. You can’t. You’re too tall, too strong, and too striking. Even if you wear a hooded cloak, people you encounter will still be talking about the ‘powerfully built, tall mysterious hooded figure’ that they saw weeks later.”

I couldn’t exactly argue she was wrong, but then again, she did have a perspective I didn’t. Somewhat sheepishly, I recalled how I’d mentally categorized all the people I’d encountered so far as “ugly”, but that wasn’t quite fair. Yes, they scored rather unattractive to my sensibilities, but I’d formed my sense of appeal among modern humans: modern humans that were born with symmetrical-to-the-micrometer faces, well-proportioned and mathematically optimized bone structures, and perfect skin every time. And even if they aren’t, cosmetic ware is dirt cheap anyways.

Conceding that she had a point, I said, “Alright, I understand, but where will you go, and where should I go?”

Dakla nodded, “Well, if it becomes clear that I can’t stay here, I’ll probably search for another village where I can ply my trade—I do generally enjoy working as an herbalist. As for you… well? What do you want to do?”

That was a good question. What do I want to do? I had at least some goals: In the long term, I wanted to return to human—or more accurately ‘modern human’—space. In the short term? It would be interesting to learn more about these Divine Entities and the way magic works. Both goals seemed to hinge upon understanding magic better, so I thought that was a good starting point:

“I think I’d like to go somewhere and learn about magic, particularly the ‘dimensionalisim’ you mentioned.”

At this Dakla broke out into a barking laugh, “Ha, of course, you want to learn more magic? Is what you already know not enough for you?”

“Ah, I’m—”

“No, no, don’t apologize, it’s just that I was wondering when you’d ask me this, and the problem is that if I knew, I’d already be there right now, learning and not making remedies for common ailments.”

She continued, “I understand from your casual usage of magic alone, that wherever you are from, your people’s view on magic must be drastically different. Here though, it’s a rare and precious resource. Churches and nobility hoard it, and almost none is left for the common folk. All the magic I know was taught to me by my mother and what I’ve picked up from books over the years, but I’m not looking for an apprentice now and you don’t strike me as someone who wants to become an herbalist. Moreover, the magic that’s required for dimensional translocation is far too advanced for me—if that’s your goal. If I’m being honest, I’m not much of a spellcaster at all: I know barely twenty spells and blessings and most of them are sorcerous and not wizardly in nature.”

“Sorcery and wizardry? What do you mean?” I asked.

“Ah, well, the magic you’ve seen me do so far would be described as ‘wizardly’: it uses somatic gestures and occasionally spoken incantations to help the mind form the spell-pattern. Sorcerous magic is more innate, and doesn’t require gestures or spoken word, it simply requires the mind to be in the proper state; some animals and beasts are even capable of primitive sorcery. As for training, both can be taught, but while one might achieve invoking a simple spell with wizardly methods in under a month of training, invoking a spell with the same effect using sorcery can take several years. The advantages of sorcery are, of course, numerous: Faster casting and you don’t need to make gestures or speak long phrases, but it requires much more practice and mental discipline.”

“But back to your original question: I’m afraid I don’t know where you can learn magic. You don’t look like clergy-material to me and even if you had the money, I don’t think you have the equipment to join any local magical academy.”

“Equipment?”

“Well, you are a woman, aren’t you?”

I figured it out, but was still confused, “The ‘local magical academies’ don’t accept female students?”

“Not really.”

It hadn’t even crossed my mind to consider it, but looking at historical human documentation, which occasionally seemed to almost model this society prophetically, the phenomena which I’d just encountered was clear: sexism. Just when I was starting to understand these primitives, they do something so alien.

I said, “Well, you must have some idea of where I should start looking?”

“Again, if I knew, I would’ve gone looking myself, but as it is, I can only give the general recommendation that magical talent is more common where there are more people and more wealthy people in particular. You’ll have to go to a city, maybe even the capital, but you’d need to be careful.”

“Alright, I think I’ll do that.” I said.

“Good, now, I think we should pack just in case.”

And so, we did. While Dakla still wasn’t certain leaving would be the right choice or even necessary, she still packed her rarest herbs and oldest books in a carrying pack, and I helped.

During the day, we weren’t disturbed, and I kept the drone on a large loop. It wasn’t until nightfall when it became clear that preparing to leave had been the right decision: In the distance, from the village, a mob was approaching. A mob that was armed.