Tron

Sailer.

He cast again and again as the guards bore down on him, driven by their fear of Sark and the MCP to face this defense. Many of them fell; more than enough were left. Knowing that he must keep them from Yori, so that she could pilot them to safety, he threw himself headlong at the advancing guards, striking out at them with hands and feet, throwing them overboard, driving some back against the others, hoping that no reinforcements would come over the rail behind him.

Tron called into play all the battle skills, strength, and speed he’d developed as a Warrior, and the power given him by Alan-One, battling as if possessed. Sark had come just short of killing him on the Game Grid but, in so doing, had honed him into the perfect fighting machine.

A guard sprang to swing a staff at him. Behind the guard, an Elite was crowding close, though he didn’t seem to be ready for attack. Tron caught the Memory Guard’s staff at its insulated points and yanked with all his might. The guard flipped backward and sideways, taking the disorganized Elite with him, as Tron had intended.

And then, incredibly, the catwalk was clear. He looked around; Yori was patting and stroking calmly at the ship’s controls, safe. Searching for any other antagonists, Tron spotted a final guard standing atop the Sailer’s forebody. They stared at one another, the guard plainly distressed by what he’d seen but knowing what it would mean to fail Sark.

Tron took a step toward him, and another, like some great, stalking cat. The guard gulped, looked down over the side, then glanced back to Tron. Deciding that he had a better chance of breaking or surviving a fall than he had against the User Champion, the guard jumped from the Sailer’s forebody, aiming for a resolution emitter.

The Sailer lurched. Tron was thrown backward to fall sprawling. He looked aft to where Yori’s finger traced the circuit paths on the controls, energy flowing from her fingertip. “We’re off!” ghe called triumphantly.

A transmission beam passed into the receiver aperture in the ship’s stern to reappear as a projection from her bow, emerging from the nozzle there like some mighty searchlight, driving the Sailer on her way. Her sails curved, full and taut to either side. The craft moved, lifting slowly at first, Yori easing them out of the gargantuan hangar, then accelerating sharply once in the clear, and gaining altitude. In seconds, she’d left the Factory Complex behind. Tron spied Sark’s Carrier off in the distance, but knew that the Sailer was out of range of the warship’s weapons, and that even the Carrier had no hope of overtaking her.

On the Carrier, Sark, immobilized in his podium, saw hanging before him the projected image of the MCP. The Command Program writhed in agony as the MCP applied pain to him through the power outlets in the podium. Its voice was chilling, implacable, and hateful, yet honeyed. “I hope you’ve enjoyed being a Command Program, Sark,” it told him with slow menace. “I wonder how you’ll like working in a pocket calculator.”

Gasping, battered back and forth in torment, Sark managed, “We did take care of that User you sent us —”

“Yes! And now you’ve got two renegade programs running all over the System in a stolen simulation.”

Another wave of pain rose through him as Sark was shaken again. “We’ll get them!” he promised, barely able to breathe. “It’s only a matter of time!” He wouldn’t permit himself to think of what would happen if he didn’t recapture the two; this was only a taste of the punishment the MCP was capable of meting out. He, who was the favorite, Champion of the MCP, was also in danger of being its most pitiable victim.

“I don’t have time, Sark,” the venomous voice told him. “And neither do you. End of line.”

Nevertheless, the Carrier swung onto a pursuit course, after the Sailer. And even in his anguish, Sark knew a twinge of victory; this was a tacit admission that, after all, if he couldn’t apprehend the fugitives, no one could. The Carrier shone with brighter resolution, its power increased by the MCP.

13

OVERCOMING HIS SURPRISE at the Solar Sailer’s acceleration, Tron hauled himself to his feet. He started back to where Yori manipulated the vessel’s controls on the bridge, treading the catwalk lightly, watching the landscape slide by below at tremendous speed. Then something caught his eye and he paused, poising for battle, ready to bring forth his disk.

Yori, seeing it, called, “Tron, are you all right?”

He waved to indicate that he was, but said nothing, moving to the rail. Red fingers gripped it, in a precarious hold. One of Sark’s Elite had somehow managed to cling to the rail. Tron peered over it and saw him dangling there, legs thrashing in a futile attempt to secure a foothold and draw himself onto the catwalk.

Tron had his disk out now. Without compunction, he raised it, intending to bring it down on the hands and send the Red back to nothingness.

The Red looked up in panic; Tron recognized him just as he yelped, “It’s me! Flynn! ”

His eyes were wide, riveted to the disk which threatened to smash his hands from the rail. “Flynn!” Tron yelled, amazed, replacing the disk on his back.

Flynn gave an embarrassed grin. “Greetings, program!” he panted.

“You’re alive,” Tron said, turning that concept over in his mind and seeing that no fact was absolute.

“Yeah, I—oooops!” He’d begun to lug himself up again, but his grasp had slipped. Tron’s hands were at his wrists instantly, hauling him up while Flynn’s boots scrabbled against the Sailer’s hull for purchase. Tron’s strength surprised him, even for a Champion; Flynn found himself drawn up over the rail with relative ease. He collapsed against the bulwark, breathing rapidly, watching the electronic landscape go by. It had been a close scrape; he had several ideas about how software-engineering-degree programs should be broadened, for survival’s sake.

Sark’s intuition about Tron’s whereabouts had been correct. From what Flynn had been able to gather, the Command Program had quickly surmised that Tron and whoever was with him would seek the very fastest means of getting out of the City, and that had meant the Solar Sailer. By shuffling forward at the right moment, head lowered, Flynn had gotten himself selected as one of the Reds assigned to face to the Factory Complex to reinforce the guards there. The balance of his detachment had returned to the Carrier, apparently at the express order of the MCP. He and the Reds among whom he’d been hiding—many of them unknown to one another, allowing him to go unnoticed—had arrived just as Tron had been hijacking the Sailer. Racing along the catwalk to conk a Memory Guard, he’d been the victim of Tron’s ferocity.

As Flynn leaned against the bulwark, he had time to reassert control over the energies and fields that constituted his body in the Electronic World. He focused his concentration; the Red glow faded; he returned to his former appearance. Tron watched in fascination, speculating once more on just who Flynn was and where he’d come from.

“Who is this?” asked a voice Flynn recognized. He turned and saw Yori, the eyes and the lips and the prepossessing lines of her face. He silently mouthed, Lora! But he saw his mistake in an instant, and kept himself from naming her. But he took a step toward her and Tron, not sure why he did, interposed himself with an uncertain smile.

“Flynn,” Tron explained to the shimmering woman, as Flynn saw that they were a bonded pair and thought again what a strange mirror the System was. “Where’s Ram?” Tron finished, turning back to him.

Memory came in a flood, saddening the reunion. “I’m sorry, Tron. He’s—he didn’t make it.”

Tron lowered his head sadly, remembering the last concussion of the tank’s cannonfire, the havoc of it. He’d written off both Flynn and Ram; odd now, to feel Ram’s death all over again, with even more intensity. Flynn was thinking that he had at least found Tron, as Ram had urged him with his final breath.

Tron set aside grief, turning to Yori. “This is Flynn, the one who set me free.” That wasn’t quite the way things happened, but Flynn accepted the compliment with a grin, as she gave him an appraising look; Yori’s reserved gratitude was worth more than effusive thanks from some other. She was a revelation to him: her essence was that of Lora, transfigured into a radiant creature, still very much like the woman he remembered.

“Then, I owe you some thanks,” she said after a moment.

Flynn dismissed it with a rather dashing shrug. “No big deal. I ought to know my