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DON CROSSED THE DISTANCE with long strides, a sickened look on his face. Jane and Megan caught up, flanking him on either side. They stared at the vermin-ravaged carcasses sprawled at the base of the tree.
Jane ducked her head. Megan sensed her light-headed relief. The body at their feet wasn’t Amos.
“Tracker,” Don growled under his breath. He dropped to one knee, examining the damage on the left side of the Tracker’s head. The creature’s skull had been split open, exposing the alien technology embedded in its brain.
Don pointed to a fist-sized rock next to the corpse, a rust-colored stain marring most of its surface. “Looks like Amos had a visitor. That might explain why he’s not here.”
Jane circled the base of the tree, examining the scattered corpses. “What happened here? Look, a coyote—dead. It looks like it went into convulsions or something.”
Don kicked another small object away. “Rats. Also dead.”
He examined the Tracker, frowning. “Scavengers usually pick a carcass clean, but this time—for some reason—there’s almost no damage.” He gestured at the head wound. “Aside from the obvious.”
Megan crouched beside the Tracker, taking shallow breaths through her mouth, one hand covering her nose. The pattern of destruction was familiar to her.
“Tracker kill,” she said. This is how I killed the unit who interfered with my Quest. She felt her insides lurch. “This one. Killed by another.”
Don raised his eyebrows. “Mateo? He’s intervened before.”
Megan didn’t answer. She stared at the hints of alien technology in the Tracker’s brain tissue, laid bare by the head trauma which had deactivated it. She couldn’t see the entire device, but she knew exactly what it looked like.
Memories—half-formed and incomplete—danced before her eyes, overlaying the graceless body sprawled awkwardly at her feet. She saw a hand, two devices cupped in its palm, larger than the Implants but similar in design. She tried to see more than the single image, but to no avail.
Her breathing became ragged as the hand, and the sleek metallic objects, grew in size until they filled her vision. She recognized the twin devices. They were the mental processors which allowed the Givers to communicate with, and control, the Trackers.
Unbidden, emotions erupted inside her. A flashback—to a similar emotional reaction, experienced the first time she’d seen that hand.
Stark, unreasoning terror flooded her, as real as if she'd been transported back to that fateful day. Processors—no. Don’t do this. Don’t turn me one into of Them!
She heard a piercing shriek echo through her mind, a last desperate cry born of horror and betrayal. The scream was her own. Please, no! Why are you doing this to me?
The mental image vanished like a mist, and her senses came into focus. She heard the alarm in Jane’s voice, felt Don’s hand on her shoulder. She saw the rotting corpse, inhaled its rancid stench.
She vomited convulsively, collapsing to her hands and knees beside the dead Tracker.