art by Jonathan Westbrook
by Renee Carter Hall
The crow tightened his grip on the silent power line. He was not going to fly. He was not. He was not.
An instant later, he opened his wings, launched from his perch, and flew the next slow circle of his route. The transmitter embedded in his back had long since given out, and the only input he had now was his own sight, nothing augmented, no algorithm to compare what his eyes saw with the surveillance databases. He circled the dead city block anyway, always watching, even though there was nothing left to watch for.