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SWEAT POURED DOWN THE Tracker’s face. Its feverish search pattern was taking its toll. Tiny rivulets of sweat coursed down its cheeks, anomalies to its standard mode of operation.
It filed the information away as superfluous. Irrelevant. No distractions were permitted. This unit is reliable. The Givers would not be denied.
The number hadn’t changed during the long nocturnal cycle. Seventeen additional units continued to scan through the city, street by street, building by building. All seventeen units would not complete the Quest—the ratio of Implants was too low.
From time to time, it observed tiny circles of red light in windows, down alleys, or peering street-ward from rooftops. With each new sighting, fear spiked through the Tracker’s body, and its speed increased. This unit would succeed.
Its processors remained quiet throughout the night. No new data. No explanation for the deployment of seventeen units. Irrelevant. The Quest was all that mattered. The Givers could not be denied.
Seventeen . . . No. The Tracker’s face twisted in a rare grimace as it throttled the interfering thought. Do not allow distraction. This unit is reliable.
Despite its grim determination, doubt snaked out of the shadows, poking and prodding at its cognitive functions. The lack of new data, the deployment of an unnecessarily high number of units—had it lost the Givers’ confidence? Had it failed in its duty?
The Tracker grew accustomed to the heat around its left eye. The burning sensation was a constant reminder, driving it to execute its mission. It entered yet another derelict building, pausing to analyze its reflection in a broken windowpane.
The dirty camouflage had long ago dried and fallen away, and the red light was visible once more. Its facial expression was haggard and staring. It no longer bothered to imitate the carefree expression of a typical bio-form.
To disguise itself again would be a waste of valuable time. Camouflage was irrelevant.
No. Inaccurate. The Givers’ orders were specific. Anonymity was crucial. The Givers were wise but they were not to be denied. Nothing could interfere with the Quest.
Seventeen . . .
No—nothing could be permitted to interfere. The Tracker continued its frantic scan, increasing its speed mode yet again. An alarm rang in its processors as it exceeded its safety parameters.
Recklessly, it over-rode the warning. The Quest was all that mattered. This unit would succeed.
Fear whipped it without mercy, a fanatical taskmaster. Fear was all it had left.
That, and the Quest.