The Tracker studied the building’s exterior, curbing its anticipation with an effort. The lanterns were extinguished. The café was closed.
It scanned multiple life signs inside, an unusually high number for such a tiny establishment on the outskirts of the village. It scanned a second time with precise attention to detail—the building, the alley behind the café, the street beyond. Left to right, up and down.
Curious. There was no indication of an Implant. The bio-forms inside the building were therefore not its target. It hesitated for a moment, sifting the parameters.
The logic was not there. Yet the data was irrefutable. Data from the Givers could be trusted. Must be trusted. But where was the Implant?
Long minutes passed. The Tracker remained where it was, eerily motionless as it parsed the many variables. An Implant must be harvested to bring the Quest to completion, yet there was none to be scanned among the café’s occupants.
The data was not reliable. The Givers had erred.
No. Inaccurate. The Givers were as wise as they were generous. Questioning their wisdom was madness itself, and would not be tolerated. Their data led to this location, at this time. The Givers would never lead it astray.
The logic would be there. One of the bio-forms in the building, most of whom appeared to be gathered by the rear of the structure, was its target.
There was no betraying sound as the Tracker exited the bushes and zeroed in on the café. Moonlight gleamed, but there was no revealing reflection from its body.
Its pulse could not quicken, but nevertheless, something akin to eagerness heightened its already-enhanced senses. It disregarded the feeling.
The Quest would soon be over, the Harvest about to commence. The blessing of the Givers was at hand.
It glided with ghost-like stealth across the empty street, as silent as the grave.