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THE DARKNESS NEITHER aided nor hindered the Tracker. All was equally clear, courtesy of its optical enhancements. The Givers were as wise as they were generous.
The Tracker utilized a concentric pattern, casting back and forth for the scent, as per normal protocol. The method was time-consuming, but the most logical and thorough search pattern to follow, unless and until new data was acquired.
A telltale click sounded in its processing center, heard only internally. It paused to integrate the new data. The fugitives it sought had been within its grasp at the checkpoint, but it failed to detect them. The Tracker felt a tremor of fear as the accusation implied by the new data sank in.
Absorb. Recalculate. Enact. It dared not disappoint the Givers a second time.
The Tracker ceased the concentric pattern of search, choosing instead a much more direct line of pursuit. The new data was reliable.
The direction taken by its prey was stored in its active memory cache. Their stolen vehicle would leave a trail it could follow with little effort. The Givers continued to give it every advantage.
The source of the new data—or any data—was never of concern. It had never stopped to consider how the information was gathered, nor if there was any significance to the timing when new data was relayed to its internal processors. All that mattered was how new data might aid in narrowing the Quest’s parameters.
Its new path required the same level of meticulous scanning, side to side to side again. The Givers did not tolerate sloppiness of execution.
It was rewarded several times—small glimpses, minute signs of the passage of those it trailed—which confirmed the data’s reliability. The Givers would never lead it astray.
The search pattern continued to narrow as the Tracker closed in on its targets. The fugitives would lead it directly to its ultimate prey, and then the Harvest would commence. The Tracker felt a faint glimmer of satisfaction. The Givers would be pleased with this unit.
The derelict farm was only a momentary distraction. The abandoned vehicle in the barn was confirmation in and of itself to the accuracy of the new data.
The twisted ruin of the travel permit, rendered unreadable and untraceable by the heat, was no deterrent. The discovery of the melted remains in the fire-blackened pail was another trustworthy indicator. Its quarry would soon be within striking distance.
A human might have felt a quickening of the pulse, or a growing sense of anticipation. Perhaps even a sensation it might have described, in its previous and largely erased life, as butterflies in the stomach. The colloquialism was irrelevant.
The Tracker shifted to a higher speed, its fear shriveling into near non-existence. The Quest was nearing completion. The Givers would be pleased.
The Tracker resumed its relentless journey through the scrub forest, unaware its pace had quickened. The roughened remains of the highway would have been the more direct route, but stealth dictated a nuanced approach. The end result would be the same.