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: “
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!”
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.
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 poised 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.
08
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
The Red met his stare for a moment, then backed away. “Sure, sure; just kiddin’.” His companion seized him by the arm and pulled him away as Flynn gradually relaxed, watching them go. He replaced his disk on his back, and the guards fell in with him again.
It wasn’t long before he realized that he wasn’t being taken to his cell. Understanding now that his captors meant to toss him into one mortal duel after another until he lost, he cudgeled his brain for something to do about it. But he could think of nothing, aside from making it a costly project for Sark and the ranks of the Elite.
His preoccupation was cut short as he was escorted into the holding area for the light-cycle contest. There, he found two User-Believers already waiting. He recognized the closest, Ram, even as he went to take his place with them.
Ram’s face broke into a surprised look, then a delighted smile. “Flynn!” He turned to his companion. “Look, Tron; he survived!”
Flynn glanced sharply to the other User-Believer as he passed Ram, curious about the legendary User Champion. A tall figure stood there; Flynn got his first good look at Tron.
“Alan!” he exclaimed.
Tron frowned, disturbed by something he couldn’t quite bring to mind, like a shadow from a dream. He examined the new program, then demanded, “Where did you hear that name?”
Flynn, groped, confused, for an answer. He’d concluded for an instant that the MCP had zapped Alan as well as himself, but for some reason Alan didn’t seem to recognize him. “Well, isn’t that—”
“My User’s name, yeah,” Tron finished for him. “But how—”
“I, uh,” Flynn fumbled, knowing now that this was no digitized man of the Other World. It came to him then that Tron had been in the System for a long time before he, Flynn, had shown up. Overcoming his initial shock, Flynn saw that this wasn’t the time to go into his real origin. As he took his place next to Tron, he improvised, “I’m a program from a User that—that knows Alan.”
“He was disoriented in transport, Tron,” Ram put in.
“Yeah,” Flynn added out of the side of his mouth. “But I’m remembering all kinds of stuff. Like, my User wants me to go after the MCP.” That put surprise on Tron’s face; he was plainly impressed with Flynn.
But just then three Red Warriors entered; they were loud, rough, anxious for combat, slapping one another’s shoulders and laughing harshly. They lined up opposite the User-Believer team, a few paces from them. The two teams eyed each other without comment.
