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THE TRACKER WAITED, in silence and with great patience, until daylight began to fade. Stealth was as great an ally as any of the enhancements the Givers bestowed. They had impressed upon it the need for anonymity.
Night vision was not a concern. To be detected by its prey was. The encroaching darkness would work to the Tracker’s advantage.
The targets it sought would remain on the streets long after the rest of the bio-forms sought shelter for the night. They would be exposed, easy to detect. The Quest required only patience and diligence.
The Givers offered no explanation for the new stress they placed on anonymity, nor was one necessary. The Givers were as wise as they were generous.
The Tracker willingly embraced loyalty to the Givers from the moment of its awakening. They asked much, but they had also given much. It savored the strength of its enhancements, the clarity of focus, and the logic of the Quest.
It knew nothing else. It needed nothing else. It shared the same undying devotion all Trackers bestowed on their benefactors.
And yet a wisp of memory fought to be heard.
There had been a short, sharp pang of fear on the day of its activation. But the shock and intensity of emotion ebbed away almost immediately. The Givers had flooded into its internal processors with data, providing it with direction and purpose.
Fear was contained, sequestered to its own tiny internal prison cell. Irrelevant. All that mattered was the Quest.
The sun set beyond the horizon, the clouds reflecting its fading rays in a riot of warm colors. The Tracker saw none of them.
No. Inaccurate. It perceived all of the various hues in the sky, but it merely evaluated and shelved the information. Nothing could distract from the Quest. The sunset’s only significance was the greater anonymity provided by twilight’s lengthening shadows.
The light standards towered over the concrete-and-asphalt expanse at regular intervals, lifeless and dark. The Tracker recognized them for what they were, but discarded the information.
New data clicked into its processors. The Givers gave their blessing to begin its search in earnest. The Quest was on.
It stalked out of the shadowed alley, categorizing the hundreds of blank windows in the crumbling edifices lining the street.
Here and there, rays of wan light shone through those occasional windows still possessing glass. Despite their destitute surroundings, a smattering of humanoid bio-forms continued to infest the decaying structures.
The Tracker stood stock-still, rotating its head as it activated the search pattern, scanning the street in a painstaking and predatory arc.
A flicker of red light drew its attention to the nearest window. It stepped closer, peering at its own image, reflected imperfectly in the grimy window.
Detached and objective, it paid special attention to the study of its face and form. Especially the face, which the Tracker noted was devoid of expression, gaunt and staring.
The Givers had been quite specific. Anonymity was its paramount concern.
Its internal processors clicked in rapid succession. The Tracker twisted its facial muscles into an unfamiliar pattern, managing to contort its expression into a reasonable approximation of a smile.
Satisfied with the results, it abandoned its reflection and proceeded north, deeper into the City. The Givers were patient—up to a point—and the urgency for the Harvest burned within it.
The Tracker strode confidently forward as it resumed scanning, its fear encapsulated and buried within. The clouds lost their sunset glow, and the cityscape morphed into a somber gray.
This unit would succeed. The Givers would be pleased.