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
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
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.
10
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 fortunate. 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
