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THE STEEP ASCENT WAS daunting. Megan’s muscles burned in protest by the time they gained the crest of the hill. She was grateful when Don signaled a halt to catch their breath.
She leaned against the rough bark of the nearest tree, filling her lungs with the brisk air. Any distraction was preferable to the disturbing memories triggered by the dead Tracker.
Don straightened without comment, turning away from the brink of the cliff. Their brief respite, it appeared, was over. Jane followed in his wake, pushing aside the low-hanging branches. Megan trailed just far enough behind to avoid the branches as they swung back.
The rocky valley below was forested with various pines. The narrow plateau, in sharp contrast, saw the needle-laden evergreens interspersed with a sudden profusion of maple, hemlock, and dogwood.
Megan noted the botanical change in a detached manner, as if another part of her mind was at work—categorizing, sifting, and evaluating new data. Analyze. Adapt.
No. Her face twisted as she rebelled against thinking like a Tracker. No more Givers. I am Megan.
She spat on the ground. Her action was, in part, a symbolic rejection of her former programming. It was also an attempt to purge the aftertaste of vomit.
“You okay, Megan?” Jane pushed a branch aside for an unobstructed view. She seemed suspicious, although Megan also detected a note of feigned concern in her voice.
“Fine.” Megan waved a casual hand as she pushed through the underbrush. Don’t patronize me. I’m not fragile.
Jane studied her as she drew near, and then continued on Don’s trail. Megan quickened her pace, anxious to prove her breakdown by the Tracker’s corpse was behind her.
The truck’s engine bellowed to life as she emerged from the bushes. She sidled up beside Jane, who ignored her as they waited for Don to turn the truck around.
The overgrown brush on either side of the unpaved road forced him to execute a series of incremental turns, raising a choking swirl of dust. They held their breath against the gritty cloud as Don skidded to a halt.
Megan scooted across the rear bench, seating herself behind Don. Jane took the passenger side in the front. Don shifted the truck into gear, and the vehicle crawled forward.
“Well, Enrico can start breathing again.” Jane grinned, turning to face Don, one arm casually flung over the back of the bench seat. “His truck returned before sundown, and still in one piece.”
Don grunted in response. His thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.
“Amos is too smart to engage a Tracker single-handed,” he said, thinking out loud. “And judging by the angle of the wound, the Tracker was struck from above, hard. If I was a betting man, I’d wager Mateo was involved.”
Megan’s stomach lurched at the mention of the deceased Tracker. She swallowed hastily.
He died serving the Givers. She struggled to reconcile her conflicting emotions. But in a way, he was dead long before his life ended.
She flexed her hand, fascinated by the opening and closing of her fingers. She regretted the loss of the enhancements—the strength, the speed, the stamina. Her body functioned much as it once had, before . . .
Megan grimaced as the memory of the anonymous hand, twin processors cupped in its palm, invaded her thoughts.
“Megan? Are you okay?” Jane’s voice rasped on her nerves. Megan shifted to look at her, irritated by the interruption.
Jane’s body language was casual, one arm still flung across the bench seat, but her eyes were watchful, attentive. She’d seen the expression on Megan’s face, observed the beads of sweat breaking out by her hairline.
How can I explain myself? Frustration over her inability to communicate gnawed at her.
Her nightmarish recollection of the day she’d become a Tracker—even if the memory was an incomplete fragment—would be difficult to describe. Megan concentrated, willing her thoughts into coherent speech.
She reached up and touched the side of her head.
“Same in here. I have.” She ground the words out in short, sharp bursts. She hoped they could fill in the blanks, make sense of what she said. “Not working, but same.”
“The dead Tracker,” Jane guessed, her voice remote, her gaze shrewd. “The tech we saw inside its head—you have the same devices, but they don’t work anymore.”
Megan nodded and Jane eyed her with new interest. “I’ll bet seeing that tech brought back a few memories.”
Don growled something under his breath. Jane shot him a resentful look, but fell silent.
Megan nodded again. Her wavy hair feel forward, partially obscuring the patch over the ruin of her mechanical eye. Her scanning eye.
She decided against trying to explain the nightmare memory—the concept was too complex to put into words. There was something else her companions needed to know.
Let’s see if this works. Megan pointed to her eye patch, and then flexed her bicep, before indicating her eye a second time. Jane frowned, shaking her head as she tried to interpret Megan’s improvisations.
“Givers. Change,” Megan said, repeating her actions. “My eye, my body . . .”
Jane nodded. “You mean the enhancements? To make you stronger, enable your body to repair itself?”
Megan pointed at her with an enthusiastic nod. So far, so good. She forced her reluctant lips to form the words, hoping for a sudden burst of clarity. “Change. Dead animals. Wrong change.”
She saw the muscles in Don’s massive shoulders tense, and she imagined him clenching the steering wheel with greater intensity. Jane twisted her body further, leaning over the seat, her eyes searching Megan’s face.
“The animals were changing. Into what—Trackers?” Jane frowned, her skepticism plain. “Do you mean the Givers are experimenting on animals as well?”
Megan shook her head: no. Emphatically, no. In a flash of inspiration, she opened her mouth as wide as she could, and brought her teeth together in a sharp bite, hoping against hope Jane would make the connection.
“Animals, changes,” she repeated, and snapped her teeth together a second time.
Jane’s eyes widened in horror. “The animals died because they tried to eat the Tracker.” She caught her breath when Megan nodded with a relieved smile. “You’re saying they were killed by the enhancements?”
Megan reached up to tap the side of her head, smiling.
“Not complete,” she said, pleased she was getting through. If I had paper and pencil, this would be a lot easier.
“The enhancements are a package deal.” Don spoke for the first time, the truck’s sudden acceleration underlining his reaction to the news. “Whatever the Givers put into a Tracker’s blood was too much for the animals. It’s possible the tech in a red-eye’s brain acts as a regulator.”
Jane looked to Megan for confirmation, but the former Tracker’s only response was a noncommittal shrug.
“I don’t think she knows how it works, just that it does.” Jane settled into her seat, massaging the back of her neck. Without warning, she bolted forward, whipping around in her seat to stare wide-eyed at Megan.
“The blood.” The connection was made. “Darcy designed the Implants based on the same technology the Givers use to make Trackers. We’ve always said it’s in the blood. Doc saw it under her microscope, but nobody could ever figure out how it worked.”
Don lifted one massive hand from the steering wheel and brought it down with a resounding thump. “And Garr expects us to partner with Darcy? It’s like inviting your own executioner over for lunch.”
The kilometers flew by without their realizing it, and they came upon the paved highway sooner than expected. Don’s careening turn on the cracked pavement shook the truck, and the chassis groaned in protest. He accelerated again, speeding them toward the small town.
“The enhancements are what allows the Givers to control the Trackers.” Jane stared out the windshield as if she hadn’t heard Don’s bitter remark. “And Runners, once their Implants have been activated, are driven to assassinate specific targets. In both cases, it spreads through the blood. But in animals, the enhancements are straight-up poison.”
She leaned forward, dropping her head into her hands. “You said it, Don. Darcy’s pure evil. Brilliant, but evil.”
Don’s response was an inarticulate growl as he coaxed the aging vehicle down the derelict highway. The outlying farms near the small town were visible in the distance. They weren’t far from Enrico’s shop.
“So, what you’re telling me is: never turn my back on Darcy.” Don broke the silence, his somber eyes finding Megan in the rearview mirror. “And never attempt to take a bite out of a Tracker. You’ll be relieved to hear I have zero intention of doing either.”
Megan remained silent, recalling the man called Darcy from their meeting in the Old City. And the blond boy who’d called her by name.
She wondered what the connection was.