A contribution by Ty41

I took refuge among sheep from the merciless hunters with their laser crossbows. Who would recognize the human fighting machine I have reprogrammed myself into, branded as a traitor and wanted dead or alive all over the world, in a shepherdess?
The locals appreciate the wool and milk of my animals - and their livers as a means of feckless divination. To their priest with the copper skull plate and the mechanical left eye, I should reveal that soon foreign conquerors will crop up and unwittingly spread a treacherous miasma that will turn many of his flock into white-collar lawyers, but I have no heart to do so.
Hopefully the invading troops will realize in time that there is nothing to obtain here, no exotic treasures, no decadent pleasures, no compliant disciples, not even a golden fleece. At best, they will ignore the nomads, their little tent city and the flat pastureland, moving on southward to the Boson miners and their grotesque star dredgers.

(6/10. Next up: “Sixth Sense“)

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