07
TRON HELD HIS disk lightly, his weight forward on the balls of his feet, and met the gaze of his enemies.
They tried their best to show him nothing but ferocity, but none of them could conceal a degree of doubt. This was no hapless accounting program they faced; the very fact that there were four of them against him was proof of that.
And, they all knew the reputation of Tron, the independent, the User-Believer. By recanting his belief, Tron could have earned himself high rank, perhaps become the equal of Sark, or even supplanted him. In the minds of the four Reds, Tron knew by now, would be the same thought: if they’d had his prowess, they wouldn’t have wasted it defending their beliefs. That was a vast irony to him; they would never understand how his convictions and his abilities were intertwined.
Two Warriors went into casting positions. “Go,” one called. From that crouch they released, with snapping, side-on casts. The disks came, one low, one high. Tron went into a defensive posture, his own disk held before him in both hands, vertically, one leg set behind him now for balance. Calculating angles and speeds, he saw nothing else, thought of nothing else, but the weapons racing toward him.
He deflected the first with a crash of discharging energy, and it wobbled away, spent. But he had no time to watch it, and lowered his disk instantly to deflect the second. That one, too, rebounded from Tron’s disk. He launched a quick counterattack, throwing at one of the now unarmed Reds. His disk caught the Red, opening a wound in him, with a corona burst. The wound roiled with escaping energy, showing signs of de-rezzing.
Flynn looked on, amazed; it was a far cry from his arcade. And that User-Believer! Flynn could only admire the sure, quick movements, the complete control and unthinking agility.
Another conscript, seeing his expression, indicated the lone combatant. “See that Warrior? One hundred and ten wins, no losses.”
Flynn nodded, not doubting it a bit. But all the duelists had their disks back now, and the four Reds, the wounded one included, were circling their enemy. As much as Flynn admired the User-Believer’s skill, he didn’t see how the program could win.
Far down on the arena floor, one of the Elite yelled, “Waste him!” Crouched, expectant, nerves thrumming, Tron waited. All four hurled their disks at the same moment.
Tron ducked, dodged to one side, and blocked one disk with his own. The others passed through the air where he’d been standing a moment before. Tron instantly threw, and struck a Red Warrior who screamed as he was hit. The Red de-rezzed in a searing release of energy as the aura of Tron’s weapon spread over him, replacing his own red one.
Tron straightened, took his disk as it returned to him. Holding it in a practiced attack grip, he pivoted, and cast. The Red who was his target saw, tried to elude the whirling plate of light, but failed. Struck, he crumpled backward; the shimmering scan lines and crackling static of his own de-rezzing were the last things he saw and heard. Tron ducked a second cast from another Red, throwing himself flat and rolling to his feet, rising just in time to leap out of the way as a low-flying disk sought him.
He caught his own disk as it returned, recovered, and cast once more in midair. The weapon found another Red who, not expecting such blinding speed even from the storied Tron, could only stare with foolish shock on his face as he was hit and a boiling de-rezzing engulfed him. The other Reds became grimmer, and fear showed on their faces. The odds were far different now and their adversary much, much more than they’d expected him to be.
Tron addressed himself calmly to the remaining Reds, keeping himself from any overhasty move, reminding himself that great caution was still imperative—was always so, on the Game Grid. His disk returned to his hand like a thing alive. He took a step and hurled it again, with all the power of his arm behind it.
The Elite at whom he’d thrown held up his own weapon to block, but Tron’s crashed through it with a violent meeting of energies and burst against the startled Red. Like a triumphant nova, the blazing aura of Tron’s disk spread to envelop the Red as he de-rezzed.
A stillness descended over the arena as Tron and his remaining opponent confronted each other. The Red had lost control of his fear now, and could only watch Tron with bulging eyes. Then, slowly, he brought his disk up, readying against all hope to hurl again. Tron saw that, as always, there could be no end when Elite and User- Believer entered an arena but for one side or the other to be de-rezzed. He cast once more, eager for it to be finished.
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
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.
“
“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. “
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.
