by Brian Daley
Perhaps later he could make some sense of it all, maybe even find something to use. He particularly wanted to know what he was headed into, what was going on in the System, and what had happened to Tron. But all that would have to wait until he’d rested.
He put Ram down carefully against the rear bulkhead of the place, setting him against an inclined surface at the base of it. Then Flynn collapsed to lie back, closing his eyes. But, oddly, that reservoir of energy began to restore him at once. He could feel it, a strengthening of some inner charge. Flynn’s mind spun with the events of the past few hours. He tried to go completely limp, to relax; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d stretched out like this. His hand fell, bumping a panel.
Energy jumped the gap between Flynn’s hand and the panel, which then shone with renewed power.
Flynn’s eyes shot open. Seeing what had happened, he stared in disbelief at his hand, which now glowed like a lantern. To find out if his senses were deceiving him, he leaned toward the bulkhead and held his palm up, slowly extending it.
An incandescent ray sprang from his palm to spatter against the bulkhead, which took on that incandescence. An instant later, the whole place began to shudder and quake. “What’s going on?” Flynn yelped to himself.
He heard Ram’s voice, thick with awe and some fear. “You shouldn’t be able to do that.”
Turning, he saw that Ram had been watching. “We’re inside a Recognizer,” Ram went on. “You can’t steal a Recognizer.”
Flynn laughed helplessly. “Are you kidding? I think it’s stealing us.” He gazed, stunned, at his sparkling hand. “Do you see this?” He turned it over, examining its bright circuitry. “Holy—”
He stood, holding his hands wide apart, concentrating, to find out what was really occurring. An arc of energy, dazzling and potent, leaped from his hand to one of the surfaces of the Reco’s interior, imparting animating force. The long tongue of radiance sought various components, reactivating them.
Flynn didn’t question what was happening; it was a phenomenon he could only partially control, and couldn’t begin to analyze. His human origin, he concluded, gave him additional abilities in the System, abilities no program could match. The Reco interior was now bright with vivified systemry. Finally, Flynn felt it heave free of its interment and rise. He sprinted to the front observation pane, taking the low stairs in one bound.
He saw that he’d taken shelter in the Reco’s head-module. It ascended, a hundred feet and more into the air, wobbling. As Flynn watched, another massive component rocked and shook itself loose from the clutter of the pit, lifting toward him; it was the sloping housing-collar in which the Reco’s head had once been set. It gently settled in underneath the turret head and fixed itself in its former position, the binding field taking hold.
Other polyhedrons were levitating from the pit now, pieces of the central assembly that provided the main power source and operated the huge pincers. Lifting majestically after them came the pincers themselves, monolithic. Flynn, who’d conceived the Reco, watched through its eyes. Scattered parts reintegrated themselves and resumed unity. He didn’t know which astounded him more, the event he was watching or the fact that he was responsible for it.
The Recognizer was holding place over the pit and the gaps in the heaped forms below, where its components had him. Flynn waited for a few moments, but nothing more happened. It was as if something more were expected of him. He stepped over to the pedestal assembly at the middle of the observation pane, looking it over, studying its crossbar.
“This looks promising. Kinda like the old arcade grips.” He took hold of the crossbar. Again, energy ran from him, to outline the instrument as Saint Elmo’s fire had the masts of sailing ships. The Reco shuddered, then moved forward. “All right!” Flynn crowed, intoxicated with his success. “Smokin’!” He began to experiment with the controls. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
Somewhat erratically, the Reco picked up speed. Flynn saw right away that controlling the huge machine was trickier than he’d thought. He took a quick glance back at Ram. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
Then he saw that Ram’s corona was darkening quickly, and knew the program’s fight to survive was not going well. “We’ll get you out of here,” Flynn promised. “Hang on.”
Ram’s voice was slurred with pain and the diminishment of his aura. “How—how can you—‘ he said, then winced in pain, unable to finish.
“Never mind that now,” Flynn threw over his shoulder, struggling to keep the Reco on course. “I gotta get us outta here, get you fixed up.”
Ram painfully drew himself into a sitting position. When he strained to speak, Flynn could barely hear him. “Come here.”
Flynn released the controls. The Reco halted, holding place. Flynn hurried to Ram’s side and kneeled, not knowing what to say or how he might help. The first aid he knew was of no use here.
Ram clutched his hands; the grip was pitifully feeble. “Tell me who you are!” he begged.
Flynn gazed down at him, feeling futile, unsure of what to do. But he couldn’t lie to Ram now. “I’m a User.”
Ram’s aura had flickered low, a dying nimbus. He stared at Flynn with the intensity of a man next to death. “Help. Tron,” he implored. “Flynn, help Tron.”
It was the last of his strength. “Ram!” Flynn cried, and as he watched, horrified, Ram’s body began to break down, scan lines appearing as he faded from view. Flynn shouted his name again as Ram vanished, leaving Flynn’s hands grasping at empty air. And then Kevin Flynn was alone, suddenly aware of how much the companionship of Tron and Ram had come to mean to him. To think of Ram as a program who’d de-rezzed was inconceivable; a friend and ally had died.
THE CITY HAD changed since Tron had last been there. Once a place as bright as the heart of a star, a place of activity and industry, center of the Factory Domain, it was now dimly lit except for the Input/Output Tower. Its once vigorous programs now appeared to be in a state of shock, or somnambulance. The MCP was obviously doling out its hoarded power very sparingly. The entire Domain was at a low state of resolution, much of it dark and two-dimensional-looking.
Tron steered for the Factory Complex, which lay near the City’s center. There, he knew, some minimal level of activity would still exist. And there, too, he hoped to find the one who was most important to him.
When he’d neared the Factory Complex, he halted the light-cycle and permitted it to de-rezz. Discarding the useless handlebars, he took in his surroundings, grimly, incensed at the cruelty and waste he saw. He trotted from the alleyway where he’d stopped, out onto a broad thoroughfare. Programs of all sorts walked there, many of them strangely shaped because of their functions.
There was a Warrior of a type not known to Tron. He had an energy lance cradled in the crook of his left arm; his right arm and part of his helmet had been blown away, leaving only long, trailing steamers of glowing filaments. A little light-exchange monitor, outmoded and enclosed in his glassy bulb, passed by. Tron had to step around a segmented connectoid that, crawling along like a huge, blind worm, nearly bumped into him. He recognized cryptarithmetic priests by their circuited cassocks. But there was little animation to anyone, and no enthusiasm. Tron saw one program speaking to another, and stopped to listen.
The program spoke in monotone as the two gazed at one another lifelessly. “Three hundred. Eight? Zero . . . forty-three.”
Tron could listen no more. Shaking his head sadly, he walked along streets that had once been ablaze with productivity and drive. He spied his objective, the design and fabrication center of the Factory Complex. On the way, he stopped by two more programs to eavesdrop once more, unsure of how the recent changes might have affected local circumstances.
“Sixty-six,” mumbled one of them stupidly. “Nine; seven-two-three-one. Mark four.” Tron walked on. He approached the Factory Complex, a megacluster of industrial buildings and grouped production facilities. He was cautious, and that was fortun
ate. Stationed in front of the Complex’s main entrance was a squad of Memory Guards, their staffs displayed conspicuously. Tron stepped back into the shadows—one small positive side of the darkening of the Factory Domain—and considered his situation, trying to recall the layout of the Complex. In the distance he could see the Input/Output Tower, and touching it just then was the bright Communication Beam that permitted programs to talk to their Users, reaching down from infinity. Urgent as his mission was, Tron had to find Yori first, for the help she could provide, in part, but in the main because—he had to find her.
Sark’s Carrier cruised over the fretwork of byways, culs-de-sac, channels, and chutelike roads bordering the City. The craft was headed for the Factory Complex; Sark was certain now that he knew where his quarry would go.
Below, unnoticed by the Carrier, a Reco blundered and bumped along through the maze, bouncing off the high walls from time to time, now so low that it scraped the ground, now so high that its operator had trouble maintaining control.
Flynn stood before the eyeslit working the controls, tilting the crossbar and finger-stroking the touch-scales.
“Damn Reco!” he muttered, trying to maintain a delicate touch with the skittish controls. “Why can’t it just go straight?”
He groused at himself for not having designed a better-handling, more stable villain for Space Paranoids. He was interrupted at it by something overhead, a sparkle from one of the pieces of equipment, right where a Reco’s third eye would’ve been. Flynn looked up at it and it seemed to draw back warily. He turned away from it, nonchalant, pretending not to have noticed. The sparkle appeared again at the extreme corner of his peripheral vision.
The Bit edged forward, trying for a better look at Flynn. It came a little farther. Flynn whirled on it, holding up his hand with thumb and forefinger out as if it were a gun. “Okay; hold it right there!” He wondered what eerie new development the System was about to toss his way.
It was a glittering, faceted shape, nearly a sphere. The Bit cringed timidly, then saw Flynn’s face. Thinking it had found Clu again, it came closer. The Bit expanded into a spiky green star and, overjoyed, shouted, “Yeah!”
Flynn checked the thing over suspiciously. “What d’you mean, “yeah”?”
“Yesss,” the Bit elaborated. It added, “Sure. Right!” Its spikes disappeared as soon as the Bit went silent, and it reverted to a faceted, shining sphere.
Flynn reminded himself that he couldn’t just let the Reco stand dead in the air. He took hold of the crossbar once more. He asked the outlandish newcomer, “That all you can say?”
“Uh-uh,” the Bit allowed. “No!” For these responses its spiny form shone red. Then it lapsed once more to its original appearance.
“Oh,” Flynn mulled. “Anything else?”
“Absolutely,” replied the Bit energetically. “Yup!” It had missed Clu terribly since taking refuge in the Reco he’d destroyed with his tank. It was deliriously happy to be back with him, but didn’t understand why he had become so forgetful.
“Only yes and no,” Flynn ruminated, brows knit. Then it dawned on him. “You’re a Bit!”
“For sure!” the Bit confirmed, relieved.
“Where’s your program?” Flynn asked, dividing his attention between the touchy Reco controls and the Bit. “Won’t it miss you?”
“Negative,” said the Bit with a note of confusion, implying that he’d asked a question to which he should know the answer. It flittered near him expectantly. He eyed it with a certain caution. It sure wasn’t afraid of him, now that it had gotten a good look at him. The thought set something off.
“I’m your program?”
The Bit beamed happily, a verdant sphere. “You betcha!” it told him in a congratulatory voice, with some relief.
Flynn sighed and went back to conning the Reco along. “Another mouth to feed.”
In time, he became a little more practiced and a good deal more confident. He increased speed, and if the Reco’s progress was unsteady and given to sudden veerings, at least he avoided slamming it into a wall. This was the sort of thing Flynn loved, learning a new skill, testing his coordination. For a while, he forgot his problems and played the Reco as if it were a game.
“Pretty good drivin’, huh?” he asked the Bit smugly. Just then the Reco gave an ungainly lurch, coming close to one of the walls of the channellike route.
“No way,” judged the Bit harshly.
“Who asked you?” Flynn snarled. He brought the Reco around the next turn in a wide, unsteady swing, its stabilizers complaining. “I’m getting the hang of it,” he added. “Watch this!”
Lower lip between his teeth, he increased speed, making for the City. But he’d overaccelerated and was, after all, operating a machine that was usually run by a number of crewmen. The Reco tilted one way, then another, like a drunk. It slammed into a wall, bounced across and rebounded off the opposite one.
“Noo-ooooo!” the Bit wailed, flashing an emphatic red, sounding as if it would’ve enjoyed hiding behind something again.
’Hey, gimme a break!” Flynn protested. “They didn’t teach Reco steering in Driver’s Ed.” But he refused to slow to a more sedate pace, deciding that here and now were the place and time to master the vehicle. I’m getting this thing to the City if I have to dribble it there! he vowed silently.
And so they went, the Reco caroming off the occasional wall and dividing its time between orderly progress and impromptu assaults on the sides of the channels. Flynn, driving with brio, cheered himself on enthusiastically. The Bit did not.
Inside the Factory Complex, workers along an observation window manipulated fabrication controls, intent on the most complicated simulation project the Complex had yet attempted. Taking shape before them in a vast hangar was the craft that Gibbs had seen pictured on Dillinger’s desk, drawn from the concept of a Solar Sailer.
As the workers sat at their boards and screens, defining what the ship would be and how she would operate, the Solar Sailer herself came into higher and higher resolution, generated by the System. Voices murmured spiritlessly, “Transfer forty-nine,” “Five-seven-eight-three,” “Sixty-seven?” “Eighty-two,” “Eighty-two,” “Eighty-two.”
One row of workers was made up entirely of female programs, one of whom was checking a diagram listlessly, mechanically. Once, she’d been a premier designer-coordinator, recognized throughout the Complex for her exacting and uncompromising work. But now she was reduced to the status of labor automaton. She wore a worker’s aspect, her circuitry muted, complete with, tight helmet-cap and boots.
From behind a nearby pillar, Tron watched her, appalled by her insensibility, afraid for her. The background of emotionless voices made the scene more bizarre and frightening. Yori, he thought, even you?
She rose and walked to one of the Memory Guards posted around the room. “Production input?” the guard demanded.
As if in a trance, she replied, “Three-zero-five-six. Ninety-nine. Limited four. Eight.”
That appeared to satisfy the Memory Guard. As Yori walked away, he noted, “Twelve.” What that might mean, Tron had no idea, and Yori did not react to it.
It hadn’t take him long to locate her; even in an enervated state, he had known, she would be virtually indispensable to the Factory Complex. Now, as he’d hoped when he’d selected his hiding place, she walked in his direction when she left the work area. As she passed by, Tron reached out to grab her arm and pull her into concealment with him. She yielded to it, oblivious, giving no sign of recognizing the one who meant everything to her, and to whom she meant the same.
“Yori!” he implored. She simply gazed at him.
“Nine,” she recited. “Sixty-two. Four. Seven.”
He shook her. “Yori!” She was unresponsive. In sudden decision he held his hand near her face, more thankful than ever that he’d come across free-flowing power in the cave.
Tron focused all his attention to Yori, and on the power he’d absorbed, care
fully calculating the transfer he was about to make. Power beamed from his hand, not in a rush, but in a carefully controlled stream. It found the specific terminus, the circuitry-nexus at the base of her throat. They held their poses in that fashion for long moments as Tron poured new life into her. Yori’s circuitry flared brighter.
Her expression changed, the dullness falling away. Astonishment took its place as she felt the transfusion coursing through her, as if she’d come back from de-resolution. Then she recognized him and broke into the smile he treasured. “Tron!”
She threw her arms around his neck and they embraced, laughing, holding one another close. He lifted her from the floor. “Yori! Hey—”
She hugged him again. She was nearly a head shorter than he, her figure at once slender and full. The high cheekbones and wide eyes were the image of Lora’s. “Oh, Tron, I knew you’d escape! They’ve never built the circuit that could hold you!”
He looked around, remembering the guards. “We have to make plans. Where can we go?”
She saw the Complex around her with new eyes now that he’d restored to her her true personality, finding it difficult to remember the endless, mindless work there or the unthinking phantom who had been Yori for so long.
“This way,” she said, taking Tron’s hand. “Quickly!”
She led him by back corridors, toward an unguarded exit. Trying to keep to a conservative pace, they passed programs who moved with shuffling steps or stood stuporously, all but devoid of life. Some few showed signs of vitality, but not many. Tron listened in as they passed three programs huddled in conversation.
“Two-eight-two, unit four,” one factory program droned as they passed. “X-sector to interface,” a second replied, the third contributing, “With micronet zero-zero-zero.”