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THE TRACKER EXECUTED its assigned sentry duty with tireless efficiency, stalking resolutely back and forth along the footpaths in the impoverished shantytown. The bio-forms returning from the Enclave gave it a wide berth—the red glow of its scanner ensured that. The Tracker welcomed the solitude, as well as the lack of distractions.
The Quest burned within in it, but the Givers had been specific about this assignment. The Tracker was incapable of experiencing the emotion once known as exasperation, yet their directive was as troubling as it was puzzling.
The Tracker had detected no Implants within range of its continual scans. There was no logic to this pointless exercise, except the Givers issued the command. Their orders were not to be questioned, only obeyed.
A click echoed in its processors. New data was relayed from the Givers. The necessity for the patrol was over. Its sentry duty was complete. It was now free to continue the Quest.
The Tracker turned its back on the nondescript row of shops and stalked away, abandoning the shantytown. Nothing mattered but the Quest. The Givers were generous but they were not to be denied.
It had traveled perhaps five kilometers cross-country when a new click sounded in its processors. The determined pace it had maintained slowed as it assimilated the new information.
Analyze. Adapt. Enact.
No. Inaccurate. This was not new data. This was . . . something else.
Fear erupted, blocking out rational thought. Fear was all it had left.
The explosion flared white-hot in the early-evening twilight, but there was no one present to witness it. Scavengers gathered to feast on what was left.