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DARKNESS WAS NO DETERRENT to the Tracker. Its night vision more than compensated for the lack of natural light. It stalked through the darkened city streets, scanning back and forth, left and right, up and down.
The Givers had provided it with the latest upgrade: a heightened ability to sense what lay behind the weathered tenement walls. The slightest deviation would be enough to draw it closer for a more detailed scan.
The humanoid bio-forms dwindled in number as the darkness became complete. The nonfunctioning light standards stood at regular intervals on both sides of the boulevard, like the ribs of a long-dead animal. Devoid of flesh, devoid of function.
Irrelevant. It paid them no heed.
The traffic also lessened by a large margin, although there was another reason for this. The Givers had forewarned their allies. The vehicle operators knew a Tracker was in the vicinity. None would be foolish enough to be within striking distance.
Street after street passed. It strode forward with an unbroken gait and rhythm. Back and forth, left and right, up and down, in a continuous cycle of scanning.
The Quest was everything. Nothing could interfere. The Givers were generous, but they would tolerate neither failure nor inattentiveness.
The Tracker scanned two bio-forms directly ahead, drawing closer with each step. Its processors clicked, and it zeroed in on the newcomers. Heat flared around its eye as the scan intensified.
The Tracker continued its relentless march toward the bio-forms. Closer and closer. Scan. Back and forth, left and right, up and down.
The bio-forms were within striking distance, close enough for them to notice its unflinching gaze. One of them—the one to its left, the larger of the two—issued a verbal challenge, his words belligerent and threatening.
The bio-form’s exact words were of no consequence. Neither of them were its target. They were irrelevant.
The Tracker slowed its pace as the bio-forms, both of them now, continued to voice a pugnacious challenge. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking its path with no clear intent to step aside. No matter. They were irrelevant, temporary obstacles to the Quest.
It had no interest in the content of their communication, filing away their verbalizations in its memory chip for archival purposes. It would analyze their meaning later, if necessary. The only phrase with any possible relevance had to do with their apparent unease regarding one of its eyes.
The Tracker resumed its stalking pace, pushing past the bio-forms. They yielded, but only for a moment, allowing it to pass between them. The Tracker had no clear indication which one struck first.
The Tracker staggered to one side from the force of the impact, and the offending bio-form seized it by the shoulder, attempting to restrain it.
The Tracker hesitated, puzzled by the unexpected action of the bio-form. Then it snapped the bio-form’s arm in one swift motion. A decisive twist further dislocated the broken appendage, driving the bio-form to his knees.
The shrieking protestations of its would-be assailant were filed away for later analysis.
The second bio-form moved in from behind, the betraying sound of attack muted until the last moment. The Tracker stumbled a second time as it received another vicious blow to the head. The second bio-form had struck it.
Its first assailant pulled a metallic object from his jacket with his functional arm. He moved to rejoin the attack, roaring gibberish.
The Tracker blinked at them as its processors clicked furiously.
Analyze. Adapt. React.
Nine-point-two seconds. Its internal chronometer dutifully recorded the elapsed time. Two broken and lifeless bodies sprawled in a crumpled heap at its feet. Their faces were slack, eyes staring at nothing as their life fluids stained the cracked pavement.
The Tracker scanned them one final time—the Givers would not tolerate inattention to the Quest. No, these bio-forms were irrelevant. No Implants, and therefore no Harvest.
The Tracker shoved them over the edge of the road and kicked them into the gaping storm drain. The muffled splashes in the sewer below barely registered.
It straightened from its task, catching the reflection of its face in a broken windowpane.
Analyze. Perhaps the red circle of light around its eye had drawn the unwanted attention of the bio-forms.
Adapt. It scooped up some of the dirty sludge with its fingers, rubbing the dank soil around its eye. The Tracker examined its reflection again and was satisfied by the result.
It hoped the Givers had noticed its quick adaptation and were pleased.
The Tracker resumed its search, immediately catching sight of another bio-form, diagonally across the street.
No. Inaccurate. This was not a bio-form. Even from this distance, it detected the red circle of light around the newcomer’s left eye. The visual enhancements were effective indeed. The Givers were as wise as they were generous.
On both sides of the dark street, processors clicked as each Tracker absorbed the new data.
Analyze. Adapt. Respond.
No. Inaccurate. No response was required beyond benign acknowledgement.
The Tracker was not alone in its Quest.
The Givers provided no explanation, nor was one required. The presence of a second unit was irrelevant. Nothing mattered but the Quest.
Across the street, the second unit watched. It, too, bent down to scrape its fingers into the filth lining the street, applying the dirt around its left eye.
The Tracker turned resolutely away, shifting into its highest gait, and resumed its methodical scan. Any thought of the second unit was dutifully filed away. Irrelevant.
The completion of the Quest must be its sole focus. The Givers were generous but they were not to be denied. The presence of a second unit—even a multitude of additional units—was a distraction it could not allow.
But deep inside a mental vault, scarcely acknowledged or felt, fear began to stir.