Tron

by Brian Daley

  A huge search force was deploying the area. Tanks wheeled and raced, hurrying to assigned positions to run their patterns. Sark’s Carrier presided over all; aboard it, the Command Program and his lieutenant studied the display of the situation on a broad expanse of wall-screen. Sark evaluated it, envisioning what the escapees were capable of doing, what they might choose as their best course of action, projecting himself into the minds of his prey.

  He made a sudden decision. “Get the pursuit force back into the canyons.” His eyes narrowed as he considered the screen. “Those programs never made it out of there.”

  While the lieutenant relayed his orders, Sark thought about the User and Tron, on the loose together out there. To him, they were a deadly disease abroad in the System.

  “We’ll have them in no time, sir,” the lieutenant maintained with the confidence of one who holds no responsibility. “Long before they interrupt interface.”

  Sark glared at him icily for a moment, then turned away. “We’d better, null-unit.” The lieutenant flinched at the affront, but dared say nothing. “I’ll be lucky if the MCP doesn’t blast me into a dead zone,” finished the Command Program. “I want those conscripts!”

  The lieutenant turned to a communications officer to summon more units, as many as it might take to saturate the area, and the vacant region that lay beyond.

  RAM, TRON, AND Flynn hoisted themselves carefully up the cavern wall, finding fairly easy purchase on the geometrical protrusions. At last they reached an opening that they’d spotted from below. From there they surveyed the area. Their hiding place was located just inside the outermost wall of a vast megastructure, Flynn saw. The terrain fell away to a distant horizon; it was a poorly defined area of much lower resolution than the Game Grid and its immediate environs.

  Beyond the rolling desolation of the electronic wasteland there was what looked like a cluster of large buildings, forms showing a meshwork of lights, a city reaching into the sky.

  Flynn wondered if the MCP had any way of locating them in their current hideout, but decided that it was unlikely. The region was unpopulated, ignored by Master Control and its forces. He asked himself what had happened to the abandoned zone, how it had lapsed into a twilight region, and where its inhabitants had gone. The MCP and Sark answered the first question, of course. As for the second, Flynn assumed that the programs who’d lived there were now part of the MCP, some of them, and that others were Red Elite, and the rest consigned to the Game Grid—like poor Crom. And Flynn grimaced at the thought.

  He looked to the others. “Well, do we pay a call on ol’ Master Control?”

  Ram stared at him in shock. “What—just the three of us?” When Flynn had led them from the Game Grid, Ram had been astonished at the innovation, deeming Flynn a daring tactician. But now, Ram wondered if Flynn wasn’t well and truly glitched.

  Flynn shrugged off the obvious hazards of the idea. “You know anybody’s got an army for rent, that’s fine. But my, uh, my User said to go take that sucker out.” A twinge of honesty made him add, “If I don’t get to the MCP, I’m never getting out of here.” He thought of the massed troops of Sark and the MCP and wondered glumly if he had any real chance.

  But Tron had caught his enthusiasm. “We can’t get to the MCP without help from my User,” he declared. “I have to get to that Input/Output Tower, communicate with him.”

  Flynn looked to where Tron was pointing. Near the center of the City was a tower, a resplendent cylinder lifting high in the air. Input/Output, Flynn seized on the words, now we’re talking! If only Alan and Lora are standing by . . .

  “Fine, check it out with Alan,” said Flynn excitedly. “Maybe he knows what to—”

  Something down in the chamber had caught his eye, a flicker of light. His fear that it was one of Sark’s troopies or some odd and dangerous life form of the Electronic World was quickly quieted. It was a rippling blue phosphorescence, visible from that angle but not from where they’d stood on the cavern floor. It emerged from the ceiling of the place in glowing wavelets, an iridescent waterfall, to run down the wall and form a small stream, collecting in a pool there.

  Ram, spotting it too, exclaimed, “That’s just what I need right now!”

  Flynn, puzzled, followed the other two as they scrambled back down and made for the stream. Ram flung himself down on the bank of the runoff, dipping his hands into it. To Flynn, the stuff he scooped up resembled a liquid; it was a fluid that emanated power. It give off light in soft blues and whites.

  Tron and Ram both leaned down over it and drank deeply from flowing scintillation. Tron, pausing, pronounced with great enjoyment, “Ah, nice! You forget how good the power feels till you get to a pure source.”

  Of course, Flynn thought. The Master Control Program would certainly have governance over all the conventional power sources or outlets. Lower the programs’ power and you keep them lethargic, dependent, obedient. But here in this ignored area, this trickle still ran unmonitored. Flynn pondered what it must feel like for Ram and Tron; no doubt the MCP kept User-Believers on pretty light rations.

  “I feel much better,” Ram announced, leaning back on his elbows, eyes squeezed shut with bliss. He seemed fresher, more vital and alive than he had been; the circuitry of his body shone more brightly.

  “That’s incredible,” Flynn muttered. He lowered himself to lie prone, as they did, at the pool’s edge. He scooped the stuff in his hands, his palms and fingers tingling with the feel of it. He sipped tentatively, then drank deeply. The liquid power had a wonderful taste he couldn’t define. It spread a delirious warmth through him as it went down, livening and strengthening, lifting his spirits, renewing his sense of purpose. He could see that it was having the same effect on Tron, and on Ram, who now drank from his inverted disk as if from a saucer. Ram caught his eye and politely offered the disk; Flynn drank more.

  Tron, stirring the rippling blue liquid with his hand, looked into it in deep concentration. Once, all programs had felt alive and responsive and energetic, as he was feeling; they could again. The sight of the City had made him think of Yori, as so many things did. His uncertainty as to whether or not she was still there was physical anguish. He channeled his yearning, putting himself into closer contact with the System.

  “I can feel it,” Tron said softly.

  The tone of it caught Flynn. “Feel what? You okay?”

  Tron felt a vague response from somewhere in the limitless awareness of the System. “Alan-One.”

  Flynn’s heart—or whatever served a Warrior for one—soared to hear that. But he refrained from commenting, both to keep from distracting Tron and to avoid a complicated discussion. The Input/Output Tower it would be, then.

  Tron pulled his hand from the eddied stream, rising to his feet in an easy movement that spoke of vigor and resolve. “Let’s move out.” He took up the handlebars that were all that had been left when his light-cycle had vanished, the others did the same. Tron gave silent thanks for the availability of power in the chamber.

  The cavern’s mouth was silent, dark, resembling any number of other such openings in the terrain. Unsurprising that the forces under Sark had passed by it in their haste to overtake the escapees—or so they’d intended—in the flatlands beyond.

  A sound grew; the whine of engines echoed up from the throat of the cave. All at once the three light-cycles shot from it like torpedoes, once more in tight formation, their riders bent low over the handlebars.

  Tron, in the lead, turned. Ram and Flynn kept close behind. They streaked through the desolate meanders of ledge and canyon, guided by Tron’s instincts and memory, bound for the City. And Tron was bound, as well, for something as important to him as the end of the MCP’s domination..

  Is she still there? he asked himself, as he had countless times before. He put aside doubt; he would find her. He was free, with Ram and Flynn at his back.

  Thought of Flynn brought back to Tron a brief report he’d heard of the combat with Crom, on the rin
gs. He’d been heartened and surprised at Flynn’s defiance in sparing Crom. Tron himself had been more than defiant in his time—Sark had lost plenty of game programs, guards, and Red Elite in that chase and capture!—but Flynn’s disobedience of the Grid rules had won Tron’s admiration. Still, he couldn’t fathom where Flynn’s amazing whims came from. They smacked of—Tron groped for the word—autonomy.

  Tron returned his attention to driving; it was enough that Flynn was allied to him. Tron felt that the fact couldn’t be without meaning, and somehow showed the hand of the Users at work. Flynn, meanwhile, leaned into the turns and kept pace with his friends, showing skill and a certain exuberance.

  Not far away, a Game Tank turret swiveled, its gunner laying his cannon in on the three light-cycles. The machine maneuvered for a clear shot at the escapees, who hurtled out onto a long arch of bridgeway.

  The gunner stared into his scope, his fire-control center rotating. A moment later, the fugitives entered his field of fire. “Range: nine,” chanted the gunner. “Mark: forty-five.” He strained at his scope. “Forty-eight degrees. Hold it! Hold it . . .”

  Tron flashed out across the bridge, Ram and Flynn spreading out to his rear due to the narrowness of the way. The gunner readied to fire. The cycles were suddenly within his cross hairs, their speed and direction pinpointed by his fire-control predictors.

  “Fire!” the gunner barked. The glare of the main gun lit the tank. The gunner watched for its effect. The flaring, ruinous chevrons reached out, striking the span just where the cyclists rode. There was a blast at impact, brilliant force spewed in all directions, making it impossible for the gunner to see for a moment.

  Flynn and Ram were thrown from their cycles. Oddly shaped fragments of the Electronic landscape landed all around them, concealing and partly covering Flynn and Ram. The round had struck the bridge just behind Tron. He skidded his cycle to a halt at the far end of the bridge, nearly losing control. Gazing back in horror, he saw that the bridge had been blown in half; a large portion of its central arch was completely gone. Of Ram, Flynn, and their machines, he could see nothing.

  Face contorted in grief, Tron looked into the abyss. For Ram and Flynn to have survived the Game Grid, won their freedom, and come so close to the Input/Output Tower only to fall—Tron could make no sense of it. He let out a cry that was mourning, indictment, and plea, “NO-oo!”

  He could see nothing in the chasm below, where modular rubble lay heaped. It didn’t matter, there was no way that Ram and Flynn could have lived through such a fall. He could hear tanks maneuvering toward him, aware that one of the escapees was still alive. They fired as they came, angling, their salvos sending energy fountaining high into the air all around him. Tron thrust aside everything but his sense of mission, and revved his machine. He peeled down a narrow gully where tanks would be unable to follow, hoping that the ledges and landings would shield him from Sark’s Carrier.

  A practical side of his mind told him that if the search force was scouring the canyon area for him, the way to the City and the Input/Output Tower might lay clear. He began a roundabout course, to lose the tanks in the irregular terrain and get to the road to the Factory Domain.

  Flynn held his head, wondering if somebody actually had beaten him with a crowbar, as he felt. He groaned, even though he found his skull still intact, and gave grudging thanks to the Game Grid for the durability of its helmets and armor.

  He struggled to his knees, waves of dizziness and nausea assailing him. He heaved for breath, waiting for his vision to clear, and tried to put together what had happened. He’d been following Ram across the bridge . . .

  The sound of approaching tanks broke through his pain, answering his groping questions. He spied a nearby form; Ram sprawled, unconscious or dead, unmoving. Flynn now recalled laying down the light-cycle as the blast had struck the bridge, and Ram had done the same. Both machines must now be at the bottom of the crevasse. Just luck that we’re not with ’em, he realized.

  Flynn labored to his feet, swaying a little, and stumbled over to Ram. The clamor of the armored detachment reminded him that he had little time to act, none at all to check on Ram’s condition. He searched around him desperately for a hiding place and spotted a fissure in the rampart face a few yards away. Panting, pulses of darkness obscuring his vision every few moments, Flynn dragged Ram’s body to the fissure and drew it in after him. There was barely room for them.

  Just then a huge shape descended to hover overhead. On board his Carrier, summoned by the tank-force commander as soon as the escapees had been sighted, Sark peered into a viewscreen. Through high magnification he saw the remnants of the bridge span, the rubble and the heaped ruin in the crevasse below. He’d already had word that one cyclist had survived, and that units were tightening a search pattern around the area. Sark suspected that the survivor would prove to be Tron; he’d been the most capable of the three. That meant, at least, that Sark’s worries with the User were over. But partial success wouldn’t be enough to placate the MCP.

  The column of tanks rolled past the spot where Flynn had taken refuge, looking for an alternate route across the gap in order to resume the chase. Flynn, already pressing himself and Ram as far back in the fissure as he could, tried to press back even farther. Tanks rolled by, smooth and swift, light-treads flashing.

  He waited for them to notice him, to halt and train their guns on him or unbutton so that the crews could take him back into captivity. But the column moved at a rapid clip, never slowing.

  The tankers’ report went to Sark even as they raced after Tron: no remains had been found, and the other two cyclists were under a small mountain of shattered arch.

  Bent low to his controls, Tron gave his cycle all the power it had. Here on the flat, open part of the domain, his only chance was speed. If searchers came after him now, there would be no concealment and little likelihood of evasion. The cycle was a yellow streak, the ground beneath it a featureless smear. He’d eluded the search pattern in the canyon area; he doubted he could do the same out here.

  Above and behind him, Sark’s Carrier was coming onto a new heading. Tron hadn’t been found in the canyons, and if he wasn’t located soon, the Command Program decided, that would mean that he’d somehow gotten through. He would then logically be on the way to the Input/Output Tower. Sark felt from the pattern that the survivor was Tron, without doubt. Sark was secretly, maliciously pleased; he wanted Tron to perish at a time and in a manner that he, Sark, could enjoy.

  Flynn thought his vision was beginning to go, then realized that it was getting darker. Staggering under Ram’s weight, striving to put one foot in front of the other as he seemed to have been doing for eternity, Flynn tried to tell himself that the darkness could only help him avoid recapture. That didn’t keep him from feeling uncomfortable with the thought of being overtaken by night in such bleak terrain. Hiding, scuttling, ducking, with the unconscious Ram to carry and look out for, he’d somehow made it past the search cordons. The tankers probably assumed Ram and him dead. The search was geared to a fugitive traveling by light-cycle rather than one plodding through the narrowest passageways with another on his back.

  He’d long since stopped taking in the view of a low-resolution, eerily empty landscape, except to try to figure out which way to go next. He’d stopped for frequent rests, and been boosted by the power he’d drunk. But even so, the endless slogging was wearing him down. Numbed by exertion, he tried to ignore the haunted feel of his surroundings.

  He came down onto the flatlands, leaving the convoluted canyon-constructs behind. He reached the level region long after Tron had passed over it and Sark’s Carrier had abandoned the hunt there. Flynn’s plan was still to try to get to that Input/Output Tower. If Tron still lived—and Flynn couldn’t shake the feeling that he did—the User Champion would be doing his best to get to it, too. If he couldn’t locate Tron, Flynn planned to sneak into the Tower and take a cut at contacting Alan himself.

  But for now he had Ram
to think of. Abandoning the injured program never occurred to him; Flynn had fought alongside and shared deadly risk with Ram. He was incapable of seeing Ram as other than a friend and ally.

  And so he trudged on, slowly covering the distance, drawing on some unexpected reservoir of strength. He wasn’t sure how his new physiology worked, but, given the circumstances, he wasn’t about to question its advantages. He passed into an area where piles of components and modules were scattered about or heaped like discarded toys. Polyhedrons, angular pieces, and segments of what once had been greater wholes were piled or strewn in every direction, their resolution low. Flynn decided to take shelter in the area, see what he could do for Ram, and give himself a chance to rest.

  He came across a gigantic pit, hundreds of yards in diameter, filled with jumbled shapes and patterned oddments. Near the center of the pit, he saw, was a structure that reminded him of a blockhouse or pillbox. It appeared to have a doorway. Flynn resettled Ram’s weight, braced himself for one last effort, and began picking his way carefully across the debris, stepping with extreme care, straining to see, trying not to think what what happen if some of the pieces should suddenly shift.

  With a final lunge, using the edge of a fragment as a handhold, he drew himself up onto the object. It appeared sound, something like a bunker. That decided him; he would have concealment and shelter as well. He wasn’t sure how weather in the System might manifest itself outside the Game Grid, so he wasn’t taking chances. He entered cautiously, in case somebody or something else had already claimed the place as home or lair.

  Inside, a faint glow suffused the air, a last residue of power. The entire front of the place was a single window. Short staircases connected several different sections or landings, all of them mounted with or giving access to instrumentation, control banks, or other gadgetry. A thing that might be a cannon or a telescope rode a low track that ran along the window. Flynn could make nothing of the pedestal, or whatever it was, fronting the window’s center; it had an outspread cross-member and a central lever resembling an aircraft’s control stick.