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THE TRACKER NAVIGATED the distance between the checkpoint and the small town with time to spare. The Implant hidden under the fugitive’s vehicle had drawn it like a magnet.
The enhancements performed their required function, increasing its blood oxygenation, its stamina, and now stood ready to augment its considerable physical strength.
It waited, concealed within an outlying structure. It had chosen a wooden building—empty barn, a distant memory suggested—with a clear view of the street. The Tracker sensed two Implants nearby, in close proximity to each other.
The Quest was within its grasp, the Harvest simply a matter of execution. The Givers would be pleased. It reached for the brittle door, eager to complete its mission.
No. Inaccurate. Additional data flooded its processors, a stern reminder of this Quest’s unique parameters. It must not initiate the Harvest of its own accord. The Givers would grant permission when the time was right.
The Givers’ unorthodox command at odds with its core programming. The Tracker struggled to restrain itself,
The Givers were as wise as they were generous. They were not to be questioned, only obeyed. The fugitive bio-forms—all three of them—must be terminated before the Harvest could commence.
Anonymity was paramount, timing was everything. The Givers were emphatic on this. The Givers were generous but they were not to be denied.
Analyze. Adapt. Enact—but not yet.
The Tracker remained hidden, monitoring the primitive villagers between the broken slats in the dilapidated barn.
Watching. Waiting. Anticipating.
The Givers would be pleased.