Tron

by Brian Daley

  The last Red wailed as the radiance of Tron’s disk enfolded him.

  Tron stretched forth his hand and his disk came to it obediently. He stood alone, panting slightly now that the battle was over, knowing that User-Believers and Reds alike were gazing down on him, letting the combat speak for itself. A part of him wondered bitterly what the next challenge would be and, if he survived, the next after that.

  Flynn, staring down, asked the conscript who’d spoken to him, “Who is that guy?”

  The program’s face grew animated. “That’s Tron. He fights for the Users.” There was tremendous pride to it; Tron was the only one to whom these downtrodden, terrorized captives could look for hope and vindication.

  “Tron?” Flynn echoed, recalling Alan’s project. That explained a lot, including Tron’s ability to cope so graphically with the Reds, and the obvious determination of Sark and the MCP to see him humbled and destroyed. Tron might be the key to the whole problem.

  “Silence!” bellowed one of the guards as Flynn was about to follow up with a dozen more questions. “No communicating!”

  Flynn shut up hastily, having no wish to test the punishments of the Training Complex. Overhead, Sark’s Carrier swung off on a new course, now that his entertainment was over.

  Within the ship, in the heady embrace of the podium, Sark glanced out from the command bridge. At his side, a lieutenant of the Elite waited nervously. Sark, drinking in the energy allocated him by the MCP, asked, “Which conscript just won that disk match?”

  “That one’s name is Tron,” answered the other. “He’s a fanatic User-Believer, a troublemaker.”

  Sark’s face twisted with distaste, the news spoiling the sublime pleasure of energy absorption. “Tron.” His lips curled at the name. “Isn’t he dead yet? You’re going to have to increase the odds.” Tron would be easy enough to get rid of, Sark thought, but that was entirely beside the point. Executing him wouldn’t suffice; Tron must be defeated.

  Back in his cell, Flynn tried once more to find some small measure of comfort, pacing a short path back and forth, trying to fit together all the astounding things he’d learned since he’d come to the chimerical counterreality. He’d just completed an exhausting training session, but his mind was still going full choke.

  He’d lost count of the number of drill periods he’d spent with the disk or power-cesta, or riding a light-cycle. The training had been, as advertised, substandard. Most of the captive programs held little hope of survival in the arena. But Flynn had discovered in himself a certain talent for the games—understandably, since he’d invented many of them, and based them on skills or sports with which he’d been familiar. He’d picked up techniques and tricks with surprising speed; his strong competitive nature had been his most important asset. There was a tremendous difference between playing a game via buttons and controls and ducking a combat disk, but he’d made of himself a promising Warrior trainee. He hadn’t been surprised when no one had asked him to recant his faith in the Users.

  Ram, in the next cell, was holding his disk up, edge-on, examining it closely for any imperfections. He was whistling an eerie, lilting tune that Flynn didn’t recognize as any User music. Flynn drifted over that way; he’d had little time to talk to Ram and none at all to speak to the next prisoner along. Their schedules of practice and the timing of the combats in which the other two had participated since Flynn’s arrival had had them out of their cells and in different places at different times.

  But Flynn had learned one thing. The name of that other program was Tron.

  Now he edged up to the opening between the cells, automatically careful to avoid another run-in with its defensive field. Ram continued his whistling, lost in thought. Just like any other guy you’d run into, mused Flynn, except that he’s a program. Wonder if I’ll ever get used to that?

  “Hey, Ram,” he called. The music broke off in midnote, and Ram looked around at him. “What were you . . . y’know, before?”

  Ram brightened, plainly to memories that cheered him. “Oh, I was an actuarial program; worked at a big insurance company. It really gives you a great feeling, helping folks plan for their future needs.”

  He’d half-lapsed into a fond reverie. Flynn, who’d only intended to draw him out in order to learn more about Tron, felt a little guilty. A passing thought occurred to him; what would Dr. Gibbs think if he could see how very much useful function meant to these programs?

  “And of course,” Ram was saying, “if you look at the payments as an annuity, over the years, the cost is really—”

  Flynn could bear no more. “Yeah, yeah; that’s great.”

  Ram, not noticing how little enthusiasm Flynn was showing, countered politely, “How about yourself?”

  A question Flynn had been expecting with some misgiving. The truth would have the programs treating him as if he were demented, at best. At worst . . . a heretic? In any case, there was absolutely no way he could prove his story and it could only confuse matters at this point. “Oh, I don’t remember too much. Name’s Flynn.”

  Ram nodded sagely. “Sure, a little disorientation. That’s normal, when they transport you. It’ll come back to you.”

  Thinking how much he would like to come back to it instead, Flynn went on, “Where’s your friend Tron? I gotta talk to—”

  He was stopped by shouts from above and the peremptory hammering of guards’ staff butts on the ceiling overhead. Flynn looked up at them, then at Ram, who was silent. No more conversation now; somehow Flynn sensed that it was no training session to which he would be taken this time.

  Marching down the corridor between the guards, he tried his best to quiet his stomach and concentrate on what lay ahead. “You guys sure are friendly,” he told the darkened cowls of the guards with elaborately false warmth. They gave no sign of having heard him.

  From the bridge of his Carrier, Sark watched the monitor screen, evaluating the User’s reaction—or lack of it—to the upcoming match. The User had shown unusual talent during the training process, and so that training had been terminated. Now, being led to the Game Grid, Flynn exhibited behavior no different from that of thousands of Warriors Sark had seen, though the Command Program was, as always, too high above the complex to see facial features in any detail. But this User seemed interchangeable with the programs he and his kind had created. Sark drew reassurance from that.

  Command Program Sark spoke over his shoulder “Wait. Let him fight one of his own kind.” The order was relayed to select a User-Believer as adversary. Sark smiled, wishing that he could pit two Users against each other and regretting that he himself couldn’t be the one to destroy a User.

  Flynn, nervously adjusting his half-tunic, walked with his guards out onto a broad ledge overlooking the Game Grid. From it, a bridge of solid force stretched to the concentric rings of the jai alai game. Beside him was another program who’d been brought forth, a conscript whose name, Flynn recalled, was Crom. Each of them now wore an electronic cesta over his right hand. Flynn was confused, peering around for the Red Warriors he expected to meet in combat; he saw only the pudgy Crom.

  Crom, without hesitation, walked one bridge and took up his place on a ring there. Flynn gave the guards a perplexed look, but they only stared at him wordlessly. With an inward shrug, he walked the second bridge and waited uneasily. Then both bridges disappeared.

  Flynn and Crom gazed at one another across the gulf. Flynn essayed a grin. “Looks like we’re in the same boat, here—”

  Crom, nervous, glaring with resentment and fear, shouted, “You think you’re gonna wipe me out, don’t you?” He knew of the aptitude Flynn had shown at practice and he presumed that Flynn was aware of what was about to happen and welcomed it. Crom could think of no other reason for being pitted against another conscript; his antagonist must have agreed to join the Elite, and slay Crom as proof of his conversion.

  Comprehension was forming in Flynn’s mind as he watched the look on Crom’s face. “No, I—”

>   Without waiting to hear, Crom fired the blazing game-ball up at the mirror with his cesta. It rebounded from the mirror and sped at Flynn’s rings. Flynn jumped, cesta out, intending to intercept it, but misjudged angles and distances. The gameball struck the ring just ahead of him, dissolving it. Crom cackled with delight.

  Flynn skidded to a stop with a wild windmilling of arms, barely retaining his balance and avoiding the long plunge to the grid floor below. He was staring down in horror when he heard a sound from above. Another pellet hit the mirror, aimed straight at him.

  Reflexes cut in before he had time to doubt. He ducked, bringing up the glowing, humming cesta. He caught the glowing ball cleanly, brought the cesta around and tossed it back at the mirror with smooth precision, without hesitation or debate. The pellet struck the mirror and rebounded from it with no reduction in speed or energy. Crom, wild-eyed, tried to gauge the sizzling ricochet. He dove, missed, plowed to a stop. The pellet released its charge on contact with one of his rings, and the ring de-rezzed in a spectacular display.

  Flynn threw up an arm, elated. “Okay!” He’d expected to go up against a Red Warrior but, seeing himself matched against Crom, presumed that this was some sort of advanced training or graduation exercise and that both conscripts would be preserved for the real thing.

  Overhead, Sark watched and gloated. Either the User would die at the hands of a User-Believer or a User-Believer would be destroyed by a User. Sark savored the irony, and knew that the duel would stand as an example to the other conscripts, of the importance of self-preservation.

  Back in their cells, Ram and Tron continued the quiet conversation they’d carried on throughout their captivity, relaxing as best they could, backs to the common window. Their quiet, solemn talks were in sharp contrast to the merciless drill and combat of the Game Grid. Ram had come to draw great encouragement from Tron, from his loyalty to the Users. And there was Tron’s straightforward reasoning: why, indeed, would Sark and the MCP militate so viciously against User-Believers if their beliefs didn’t present some threat?

  When he’d thought it through, Ram had finally decided that the demonstrations of power, the taking of conscripts, were a keystone to Master Control’s authority. If MCP and Sark could get programs to deny the existence of Users in contradiction to what all programs knew to be true, what then might they not order programs to do? The entire System, and the power to reshape it, would lie within their grasp.

  “That new guy was asking about you,” Ram said quietly.

  From the half-lit cell beyond, Tron’s measured voice answered, “Too bad he’s in a match now. I’ll probably never meet him.”

  “You might,” Ram replied. “There’s something different about him.” He couldn’t quite find the words for it, that odd acuity and irreverence of Flynn’s, that air about him that he knew far more than he would tell. But Ram sensed that Flynn was no ordinary program, that they’d be seeing him again.

  High over the Grid, Flynn pounced on Crom’s next throw, a long reach. The compound-interest program’s casts were becoming less and less effective as his desperation grew and his rings vanished before Flynn’s attacks. Now, Flynn bagged the shot, recovered, then pitched the game-ball back at the mirror.

  The light-node bounced off the mirror and scored on one of Crom’s remaining rings. The ring disappeared in a nimbus of energy as Crom bounded to one of his last remaining circles. The cast now went to Flynn; he weighed the crackling game-ball waiting in his cesta. He drew back for a cast, intending to knock out another of Crom’s rings, but then saw the look of dismay and resignation on the program’s face, and relented.

  With a quick glance to the hovering Carrier, Flynn laughed. “Here’s an easy one!”

  He lifted the pellet upward; it glanced off the reflective surface and came straight at Crom; an easy one, as promised. Crom, poised to meet it, was filled with uncertainty. This new Warrior was good, and sure of himself, giving up an advantage like this—if he was to be trusted—even though Crom had done his best to send Flynn down in defeat. That meant, Crom decided, that this giveaway must be a trick. Crom wavered; at, the last instant, he saw that Flynn had done as he’d said he would.

  Crom’s best wasn’t adequate; he missed the ball and it crashed into the ring on which he was standing. Crom, who’d seen that he had no hope of making the catch, threw himself toward his innermost ring, his last, with a frantic thrashing of arms and legs, just as the one beneath him de-rezzed.

  Crom just managed to catch hold of the remaining ring with hand and power-cesta. There he hung, feet kicking, high over the Grid. Flynn waited for Crom to haul himself up. Sark, in his Carrier, frowned at the monitor screen, furious with this unforgivable compassion. Such demonstrations could destroy the motivation of his Warriors, ruining all that he’d worked for, contaminating User-Believer and Elite alike.

  Flynn gazed across at frightened, weary Crom. The program was still kicking, scrambling hopelessly to draw himself up onto his ring, waiting dully for what he presumed would be the final shot of the game. Flynn saw now that no one was going to intervene; the game was supposed to proceed to its conclusion, with Crom dropping like a maimed bird and de-rezzing on the Grid below.

  Flynn had no intention of winning any game that way. Staring at Crom’s face, he tried to tell himself that the program was nothing but a collection of algorithms, but he wasn’t buying it, not when he saw Crom’s expression. Crom, seeing that Flynn hesitated to make the cast, could hardly have regarded him with greater disbelief if he’d known who Flynn really was.

  A voice reverberated above them, drawing their glances: “FINISH THE GAME!” Sark commanded.

  There, like an evil vision in a dream, the Command Program’s face filled the mirror. Flynn’s breath caught as he saw the projection. Despite the grotesque flarings and design of the casque, and the interplay of energies and colors, that face was Edward Dillinger’s.

  Flynn gritted his teeth, staring upward. This answered a lot of questions, but raised even more. But the image of Dillinger/Sark decided him, once and for all, on which side he stood in the System’s struggle.

  As Crom waited to perish, Flynn balled his fist, filled lungs, compressed lips, and shouted his reply to the loathsome face above: “No!”

  Elsewhere, the refusal had its effect. Over the sounds of the bus station, one of the kids, stabbing at lifeless firing buttons and pulling uselessly at a control grip, complained, “What’s wrong with it?”

  The videogame remained as before, still alight, but all play had halted. Nothing he could do elicited any further action. The other player, a classmate, answered, “I don’t know; on the blink, or somethin’. Damn!”

  Angered by the interruption, they hit the controls and banged the machine with the heels of their hands.

  Flynn, head lowered, ignored the command that beat at his ears from the Carrier “KILL HIM!”

  Kill . . . Flynn held up the cesta, contemplating it gravely. Perhaps, he thought, convictions were the only things that passed undistorted through the weird translation to the Electronic World. It might be a conceit, but he was ready to believe that wrong and right were constants.

  Flynn turned the power-cesta over, letting the game-ball drop harmlessly toward the Grid. He drew a deep breath, then smirked up at Sark’s enraged face. “You’ll regret this,” the image promised. Crom looked stunned.

  Flynn laughed aloud. Now what’re you gonna do, El Supremo? Gonna kill me, the winner? You could run real short of converts that way!

  A moment later, his vast satisfaction left him. By some unseen command, Crom’s last ring began to de-rezz. Crom still hung from it, feet churning, helpless. Hope had come back into his face with Flynn’s refusal, but now his features twisted in utter defeat, his doom having found him after all.

  Flynn, unable to help, could only look on. With a last cry as the ring lost all substance, Crom plummeted, tumbling toward the Grid floor, watched by both Flynn and Sark.

  Sark’s finger poise
d by a button on the Carrier’s bridge, one that would send the User to an identical fate. Despite the MCP’s order that Flynn was to meet his end in combat, Sark thought it would be safer to be rid of him immediately. The User was too unpredictable, too independent, unconstrained by any of the fundamental presumptions under which programs thought and acted.

  Sark’s hand wavered over the control as he strained to commit an act in direct disobedience of the will of the MCP. The finger shook as the Command Program fought an almost physical battle to follow his own will. But it was, in the end, no use; teeth locked, he resigned himself once more to the knowledge that he was the MCP’s to command, with no possibility of defiance.

  And as Sark snatched his hand away, the voice of Master Control was abruptly all around him. “He is to die in the games!”

  Flynn was glaring up at the mirror with impotent rage. The face was gone from it now and Flynn, expecting some further contest of wills or a renewal of combat, was surprised to see his bridge reappear. Two guards double-timed across it to take him away once more. Still, he had the feeling that things were about to get worse.

  ON THE WAY out of the jai alai area, Flynn was bumped by a pair of husky Elite Warriors, a deliberate jostling. The guards pretended not to notice. One of the Reds whirled on him, snarling, “Outta my way, rookie!”

  Flynn thought of the four Reds who’d ganged up on Tron, and of the pitiless murder of poor little Crom. He decided that, while he wouldn’t slay User-Believers just to save his own skin, he had nothing against taking on the Elite. One supple sequence of movements had his disk in his hand; his eyes invited the other to do the same.

  “Out of my way, zero-bit,” said Flynn quietly.