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THE SOLITARY FIGURE moved between the trees with unswerving confidence. The brightness of the full moon was irrelevant. A non-factor. The Tracker’s visual enhancements provided more than enough clarity for it to navigate the uneven terrain.
The Givers were as wise as they were generous.
It stood by the banks of a stream, the dark and tumultuous water presenting a natural barrier to its journey. The frigid liquid was not a serious impediment. Its enhancements were designed to deal with much worse.
No, the only concern was the possibility of losing the scent of its prey. To cross the rushing stream at the wrong location would be an unforgivable miscalculation.
The Tracker balanced on one of the boulders lining the water’s edge, straining to listen above the rapids. It scanned left and right, up and down, back and forth.
Negligence would go neither unnoticed, nor unpunished. The Givers were generous but they were not to be denied.
The turbulent water failed to reflect its features, the only exception a muted red glow encircling its left eye. The burning sensation under its skin was disturbing, but its mental processors rejected the human reaction of alarm. Nothing could interfere with the Quest. Nothing could be permitted to interfere.
Fear was encapsulated, buried deep within. Fear was not a factor. A sensation it would have once named confidence buoyed it, the certainty of its Quest shoving all other emotions aside. This unit would succeed.
It caught the scent again and scrambled over a series of boulders to cross the stream. Within moments, it stood on the opposite bank, the liquid barrier now behind it, purged from active memory.
The scent was stronger here. The Harvest was at hand.
The Givers would be pleased.