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.
“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.”
“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..
Thought of Flynn brought back to Tron a brief report he’d heard of the combat with Crom, on the rings. 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
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
