Tracker: Tracker Trilogy, #1

By Deven Kane

Before the Trackers, survival was easy.

Two generations ago, Earth's wealthiest citizens — the Hoarders — seized control of the planet's resources, retreated into their heavily guarded Enclaves, and left the rest of the population to fend for itself.

Until recently, when the Hoarders began to randomly Implant people with a new kind of microtechnology, capable of converting their unsuspecting hosts into violent and deadly automatons. They also created Trackers, mechanically and chemically enhanced creatures fanatically devoted to hunting down and killing anyone unlucky enough to have an Implant.

Amos Morgan and Aubrey Carter, together with a small band of fellow Runners, must unravel the mystery, racing against time before the Trackers discover them.

And before their own Implants change them into …

Something else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smoke Valley Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989509029

Deven Kane

Deven Kane plays a mean bass and loves to tell stories. He writes dystopian thrillers and urban fantasy, which he describes as “supernatural thrillers set on another world.” “Speculative fiction allows me to explore human nature, interpersonal conflicts, the desire to rise above our circumstances, and the obstacles that hold us back,” he says. “No matter the setting—Earth’s near future, the past, or an alien culture on another planet—the most compelling stories are always about our interactions with each other. The good, the bad, the ugly, and our need to transcend.” His novels include the dystopian Tracker Trilogy (Tracker, Dissident, and Scorpion), and the urban fantasies Darkwood and Treehawke. Deven and Wendy live under the benevolent supervision of their bemused dog.

Book preview

GROUND ZERO

In the not-so-distant future, tensions between the haves and have-nots, entrenched in generations of bitter suspicion and conflict, reaches an intolerable level.

After the construction of the walled Enclaves — heavily-fortified megacities — the walls between the two groups have never been more real. Earth’s resources are controlled by the powerful elites residing inside the Enclave, nicknamed Hoarders by those outside the walls, while the lower classes exist only to serve their demands.

Humanity is splintered apart by greed, betrayal, and those craving for absolute power. Add to this toxic mixture the Hoarders’ ultimate stealth weapon: the ruthless, fanatical Trackers.

Some outside the Enclave call them soul-less.

And not without reason.

ONE

So … It’s official. I’m a Runner. Amos Morgan sat on a gurney in the makeshift infirmary, several floors below the ruins of the Old City. He eyed Doc Simon as she took a weary seat on a stool next to her worktable. I guess there’s no point in asking for a second opinion.

Doc massaged her temples, eyes closed, and said nothing. Amos mentally kicked himself for his caustic attempt at humor. Calling her diagnosis into question? Brilliant.

You already knew that, Doc said, so softly Amos barely heard. She planted her elbow on the worktable and turned to look at him squarely. And, before you get any ideas, my answer is still ‘no.’ Surgery is out of the question.

Amos clutched a handful of blanket in one fist. He managed to hold his tongue, but he couldn’t conceal the hot defiance in his expression.

Doc wasn’t fooled by his silence. She waved a hand at the scanner. This new contraption is a step in the right direction. Thank you. I know you risked a lot to procure it for us. She slipped off her stool to approach him. Now we know, exactly, where your Implant is located.

His fingers traced the spot, an inch below his ribcage, left side. No scar. No memory of how or when Hoarders stuck an Implant inside him. A flood of emotions fought for supremacy. Denial, outrage, shock, horror. The strongest won out — panic. That’s it? Be patient, hang in there, hope for the best? The words escaped like bullets between his clenched teeth. He tasted bile at the back of his throat.

I’m sorry, Amos. Doc ran a hand over her graying hair and sighed heavily. Pinpointing the location of your Implant doesn’t answer the surgical question. Her gaze met his, firm and unyielding. I don’t dare operate. Surgery could trigger the Implant …

He inhaled a deep breath and held it, holding his inner voice at bay. And once it’s activated, he replied slowly, not looking away, Trackers can easily target me.

Doc raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Amos gave in. And endanger everyone in our Hub.

Doc nodded solemnly. Amos felt less panicky after admitting their dilemma out loud. He needed to say it. Doc knew what she was doing.

Trackers can still find me, even if my Implant isn’t activated, he said quietly, desperately. It’s only a matter of time before some Hoarder pushes the button, and once it’s in my blood … He left the thought unfinished. Trackers were like sharks.

Doc placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Everyone, all across the Hub network, is working on a solution. Her eyes moistened slightly. I promise you, I’m not giving up. Neither should you.

He nodded wordlessly. She meant every word. He never doubted that. Emily Doc Simon, former medic from what remained of the armed forces after the Enclave closed its gates, was the glue that held their Hub together.

I’ll update the others. Doc paused by the door, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. Join us in the mess hall when you’re ready. Take as much time as you need.

Amos nodded gratefully. Doc returned his gesture and padded away on silent feet.

His inner voice balked. A Tracker almost caught you, two weeks ago. He’d managed to escape, more by accident than skill or cunning. He couldn’t rely on fate or fortune. He had an Implant.

Amos slid off the gurney to pace around the infirmary. It didn’t take long­ in the cramped and spartan space. Their clandestine Hub, in a subbasement beneath Eastside Mission, didn’t have the luxury of extra space. Exercise should have calmed him, but he felt his tension increasing with each successive lap.

The scanner, cobbled together from pieces of stolen Hoarder tech, drew his attention to Doc’s worktable. He paused to examine it, although he wasn’t sure why. Now that he knew his Implant’s location, the scanner was irrelevant.

Memories of his recent run-in with a Tracker flared again. The subhuman killing machines were clearly surrounding him, gradually tightening their net. Amos spun away, stalking the length of the infirmary.

He halted beside the gurney, floored by an unexpected insight. He lingered for a half-breath, gauging the variables. Galvanized, he lurched into action.

A search of the cabinets under Doc’s worktable yielded the items he needed. A field medkit, stocked with bandages, extra sutures, gauze pads, tape. An assortment of Doc’s natural painkillers. He grabbed an empty backpack and stuffed his discoveries inside. Another cabinet contained the rest. Local anesthetic. Scalpels.

He swabbed the area just below his ribcage and injected himself with the local. Take all the time you need. He mouthed Doc’s words silently, praying she wouldn’t change her mind before he finished.

He hesitated, suddenly aware of an unexpected complication. His mind raced, and he located a small mirror, wedging it upright on the worktable. Doc’s verbal patter came easily to mind. Implant aligned with the oblique musculature, at roughly a fifteen degree angle, just below the tenth rib.

He scooped up the scanner to double check, and allowed himself a grim smile. His memory was accurate.

He tapped the area with his fingers, pressing harder each time. Numb. Numb enough, anyway. He chose a scalpel, wasting precious seconds as he pantomimed the incision. He took a deep breath, held it, and sliced through the skin.

He expected bleeding, but wasn’t prepared for how it obscured his view. He wiped frantically with a linen cloth, using the scalpel to gently pry at the wound.

A dark object protruded from the incision. He tugged it out with a pair of tweezers. The Implant offered no resistance. It didn’t appear to be attached to the muscle wall. It was simply … free-floating tech. He clamped the linen against his side to staunch the flow of blood.

Moments later, he tightened the final suture and taped a gauze pad over the incision. His Implant, a cylinder roughly two inches long and three-quarters of an inch in diameter, lay in a cradle of bloody linen. He stared at it, mesmerized, as he stowed the medkit in his backpack. His thoughts slowed to a paralyzing crawl, and his actions followed.

His inner voice clamored to be heard. It’s still an Implant. The Hoarders could activate it at any moment.

Amos acted instinctively, stuffing the linen, Implant and all, into an outer pocket of his backpack. Activated or not, his Implant couldn’t remain in the Hub. He cautiously eased his arms through the shoulder straps, mindful of the stitches in his side, and slipped out of the infirmary door.

Shouts greeted him, muffled and indistinct, as he stepped into the corridor. He halted abruptly, heart pounding.

A single word reverberated in the distance, echoing off the concrete walls. Tracker! The voice was shrill, panic-stricken. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Uncle John, Eastside’s manager. If so, it meant the trapdoor between the Mission and the subbasement must be open.

The straps dug sharply into Amos’s shoulders, as if the contents of the backpack had instantly tripled in weight.

I don’t dare operate. Doc’s words hammered in his ears. Surgery could trigger your Implant. Guilt and horror erupted, threatening to overwhelm him. Maybe it’s not too late. If it’s my Implant they’re after, maybe I can draw them away.

He reversed direction and darted down the corridor. He located the exit he wanted, leading deeper into a subterranean maze of service and waste tunnels. Sewers. He slammed the door shut behind him. Noxious fumes assaulted his nostrils.

He ignored the stench and broke into a stumbling dash. A Runner … literally running.

His inner voice mocked the irony.

TWO

Amos stood at the edge of a tranquil forest clearing. Sunlight slanted between the branches overhead, illuminating the long yellow-green grass. Hardly a leaf stirred, and aside from an occasional bird or cricket, the quiet was absolute.

His inner voice interrupted. The perfect spot for your unmarked grave.

Amos gritted his teeth and shifted the pack on his shoulders. He cast a wary eye at the open sky above, and edged his way around the perimeter of the clearing. Dense foliage shielded him from the hot sun. His headache began to fade as the cool air revived him.

The forest floor sloped downward, and he paid close attention to his footing. The last thing he needed was a sprained or broken ankle.

How many know the Story … who did I tell? One name came to mind. Don Benoit, another member of their Hub and a friend of many years. Doc Simon knew a few details, enough to worry about his mental health, but only Don knew the whole Story — and Amos’s destination.

A faint trickle of running water reached his ears. A half kilometer further, he estimated. The stream was a familiar landmark, and hearing it reassured him. More than a decade later, he could still remember the route.

The terrain sloped at a steeper rate. Amos halted, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. The closer he got to the rushing water, the less he’d be able to hear. He couldn’t afford to stand still for long, but one last listen wouldn’t hurt. If a Tracker was on his trail, he couldn’t take too many precautions.

He hadn’t seen the attack at the Mission with his own eyes, but harbored no doubt about the warning shout he’d heard. Trackers plus his Implant — how else could the Mission have been discovered?

Your fault. His inner voice pounced. That’s why you’re running. Just like before.

Guilt tightened his muscles, reawakening fire under his ribs. He took shallow, measured breaths until the pain receded. He resumed his trek downslope, picking his way over moss-covered rocks and protruding roots. The denseness of the forest worked to his advantage. Any pursuers would have difficulty sighting him, unless they were closer than he realized.

How good is a Tracker’s eyesight?

Their knowledge about the creatures’ enhanced abilities was piecemeal at best. That they possessed unnatural strength and endurance was obvious, as was their single-minded obsession where their targets were concerned. The Hoarders designed Trackers for grim efficiency.

A rock shifted under his foot, throwing him off-balance. He caught himself against the nearest tree, barely averting a headlong fall. Pain lanced under his ribs, wringing a small gasp from him. His palm burned from the bruising impact against the rough bark. He inspected the damage, unsurprised to see blood welling from the scratches.

Blood on a tree? His inner voice shrilled a warning. You might as well send up a flare. Here I am — come, get me.

Amos chafed at the delay, but dealing with the bloodied bark took precedence. He unsheathed his combat knife, carving out a small section of bloodied bark, and tucked the wood chips inside his jacket pocket. He re-sheathed his knife and took a step back to survey his handiwork with a critical eye.

Satisfied, he resumed his trek.

The stream was farther downhill than he expected, but before long, he paused beside a large boulder on the bank. Water cascaded loudly over the rocks, and he felt a twinge of fear. Anything could creep up on him, and he’d never hear it. He leaned against the boulder, scanning for a way across the stream. Nothing.

One direction was as good as the other. He chose left, following the current downstream. Trees flanked the waterway, branches meeting overheard to create a green tunnel. The rushing water was both hypnotic and a noisy reminder of his vulnerability.

He scrambled over the rocks, following the winding stream. In different circumstances, he could almost imagine this was a challenging, but otherwise pleasant excursion in the wildness.

The ache under his ribs kept him grounded in reality. Amos opened his shirt to inspect the bandage. No new blood appeared to have soaked through. He didn’t have time to examine the wound. He could only hope his hasty sutures were adequate.

Relieved, he continued his journey downstream, pausing at regular intervals to listen. Despite the rushing water, he was satisfied he was alone.

His inner voice whittled away at his confidence. Trackers, the ultimate stealth weapon. Don’t get sloppy now.

It was one of those rare moments when Amos and his inner voice agreed. If it weren’t for his recklessness, the Hub … Amos clamped down on the wayward thought.

Guilt was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

THREE

Amos hiked several hundred meters before an outcropping of medium-sized boulders forced the meandering waterway to take a sharp turn south. The stones extended across the full width of the stream, creating a fast-moving series of rapids.

Amos studied the jumbled rocks with a critical eye. A natural crossing point. He centered the pack’s weight and, testing each footstep, gingerly picked his way across the water-soaked bridge. He reached the opposite shore and scrambled up the embankment, pausing once he found level ground. Directly before him lay a patch of muddy earth, scored and torn. He crouched, studying the scene through narrowed eyes.

A spirited struggle had recently taken place, judging by the churned and ripped dirt. He glanced up, searching for and spotting stained leaves on nearby underbrush. He considered, briefly, leaving some bloodstained evidence of his own, in hopes of throwing any pursuers off his scent. Or perhaps he could plant the idea he’d come to an unfortunate and violent end.

The obvious contradiction negated that idea almost instantly. Augmenting the scene with his blood would leave the very trail he wanted to avoid. A Tracker wouldn’t be fooled by conflicting blood-scents, especially …

Amos sat back on his heels. If he’d triggered his Implant by removing it, then his blood was already tainted. But he didn’t feel any different. His mind was clear, his actions rational. None of the warning signs that had befallen less-fortunate Runners. He breathed a cautious sigh of relief, but gave his backtrail a quick scan, just in case.

He skirted the muddy patch and pressed deeper into the forest. After the steep descent on the opposite side of the stream, the renewed uphill climb put heavy weights on his feet.

The terrain looked familiar. Thick, towering pines, defiant roots anchored in the rocky ground, interspersed with moss- covered boulders and jumbled piles of stone. He was getting close.

The sun moved further west as he continued south. Or south-by-south-east, he guessed. His exact direction was no longer clear, muddled by his many twists and turns. Landmarks were few, recalled from an earlier time, but still vivid after the passage of years. The Story belonged out here.

Amos crested another ridge and staggered down a short slope. The stream was reduced to a distant murmur, lost behind the dense foliage. He scaled the opposite side of the shallow trench, forcing his weary legs to cooperate.

He froze abruptly, one hand outstretched to grasp a leaf-covered branch for aid. His inner voiced raged at him. Get it together, idiot. Amos pulled his arm back, glancing at the dried scrapes on his palm. They no longer bled, but his thoughtless action could have reopened the wound.

Shadows lengthened at an alarming rate as the sun crept toward the horizon. The prospect of wandering blindly in the dark was as unwelcome as sleeping out in the open. Amos dug deep into what was left of his adrenaline, and found an alternate way over the ridge.

The slope above rose at a gentler angle, another sign that his destination wasn’t far off. He peered ahead, gazing back and forth until he spotted it, roughly two hundred meters from his position. A massive Douglas fir, towering tall, one denuded branch pointing almost perpendicularly west, toward the setting sun. And twenty meters further upslope …

The mouth of the cave was unremarkable, just one among several crevices sprinkled around the hillside. Amos studied it with a critical eye, striving for fresh objectivity. He nodded, approving. His cave betrayed none of its secrets, except to those already aware of its location and significance.

Hope outweighed exhaustion as he navigated the incline. Daylight waned as he trudged past the Douglas fir. He kept his eyes averted from the slight mound of needle-covered earth near the foot of the tree, except to note that it remained undisturbed, sacrosanct.

He paused by the cave’s entrance and pivoted, in a slow and way circle, scanning the dark forest. The surrounding slopes were as silent as an empty cathedral, and the rushing stream failed to register.

Amos cupped a hand over his bandaged ribs and hunkered down to stick his head inside the cave. He sniffed cautiously, but nothing suggested it had become an animal’s lair.

He wormed out of the shoulder straps and set his backpack on the ground. He extracted a small lantern and ducked into the cave before igniting it. The meager light — reduced to its lowest setting — banished darkness and cast elongated shadows in the cave’s recesses. Amos crept further in, shielding the lantern’s glow with his body. His inner voice added nothing. His precautions were adequate.

The interior of the cave was as big as he remembered. His imagination hadn’t painted it as more spacious. Amos reached behind to drag the backpack inside, fumbling awkwardly with its fastenings. He managed to extract the Implant from its blood-crusted cocoon and inched forward, lantern in one hand and Implant clutched in the other.

He crawled deeper underground, and found the crevice he wanted. The cave was saturated with the Story, but the narrow crevice held its epicenter.

He balanced the lantern on the uneven stone and worked his arm into the crevice, fingers brushing against the familiar piece of rock. The one that slid to the right, if you knew just how. A tiny pocket of space lay behind it, too small for hiding anything of value. A geological oddity, nothing more.

But not tonight.

Amos unclenched his fist to reveal the Implant. His Implant. It lay in his palm, dormant, stained rust-brown with dried blood. His blood. He stared, mouth dry, fascinated and repulsed.

The diminutive tech fit easily into the pocket-sized space. A few centimeters left to spare, even. Amos slid the smooth stone over it and permitted himself a tentative smile. His plan, hastily concocted, was working.

His inner voice scoffed. Don’t pop the champagne just yet.

For once, Amos didn’t argue. Fear, regret, and guilt were his lifelong traveling companions.

He was safe, for the moment, but had no way of knowing how the rest of the Hub had fared. Nor any means of verifying whether or not he’d drawn the Trackers away. That didn’t prevent him from enjoying a sense of cold accomplishment. So far, so good.

He’d escaped the ambush at the Mission and, as far as he could tell, made it without being followed. His Implant was secure in the crevice, and unless he’d let the Story slip to anyone besides Don, the cave’s location remained secret.

Amos rolled onto his back and extinguished the lantern. His eyes gradually adjusted and he could, just barely, distinguish the stone ceiling overhead. He pillowed his head on the backpack, wishing there’d been room enough to include a blanket.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, conspired to overwhelm him, and he slept.

FOUR

A pair of lanterns flickered inside the cozy kitchen, one beside a metal washbasin on the counter and its twin on the table. A warm breeze blew into the farmhouse, and the back door creaked as it swung wider open.

Aubrey Carter sat at the kitchen table, staring wide-eyed at the young couple seated opposite her. Thomas