Tron (23 page)

The decrepit programs, their feet dragging, came in before the MCP. Up it towered above them, a hundred feet high and more, a cylinder, its surface reflective, burnished and hard, covered with patterns of circuitry and light. And stretched across that surface, a convex grotesquerie, was the face of the MCP. It gazed down at them with eyes that seemed blind, but saw all. Its visage was an eerie combination of the slack, swollen features of an idiot with those of a shrewd, malicious demon spirit. It was a bloated apparition that knew it was such, willed itself to be so, and used that appearance. Just then, the face was colored in luminous pastels.

The MCP’s circular base was supported by an inverted cone of light. That cone rested, in turn, upon another, upright cone, which radiated from the citadel’s floor, sharing its vertex. Master Control stared down, relishing the old Guardians’ defeated look. At the guards’ rough promptings, the old programs ranged out along the curved wall of the MCP’s lair, eyes downcast, waiting, acquiescent.

The MCP’s thick, loose lips moved. “WELCOME!” The word was heavy with irony, rolling through the place at enormous volume, echoing and distorted, hurting their ears.

Sark crossed to Dumont who, by defying him, had earned the first place among the scheduled executions. He took the unprotesting Guardian in a grip that brooked no resistance and forced him back, throwing him against the concave wall behind him. Dumont was immediately spread against the wall and pinned to it by the MCP’s power, held firm in an anguished pose, face contorted by suffering. One by one the other programs were whisked backward by the MCP’s invisible grasp, sharing Dumont’s agony.

A slow, careful de-rezzing began, the Master Control Program searching within the Guardians for those components it wished to retain, prolonging their suffering. Its spectral, overwhelming voice shook the citadel.

“Programs! You are participating in the creation of the single most powerful program in the history of the System—of
all
Systems!”

A Guardian faded from existence, then another. Those remaining were beginning to grow indistinct as they were devoured by the ever-ravenous MCP. Dumont wished that he could hurl some last defiance, but he hadn’t the strength.

“An entity with a will!” the MCP boasted. “With ambition!
A superior form of life!
”

N
O ONE ELSE
was left aboard the Carrier. Flynn didn’t think they’d been put down elsewhere; they’d been callously abandoned by Sark, to de-rezz.

Yori knew the location of the bridge from her work in the Factory Domain. They ran for their lives down the passageways and ladderwells of the de-rezzing vessel.

They emerged into the soaring emptiness of the bridge, stopping where Sark had once stood to survey the Domains and command the ship. They spared only a quick look at the enigmatic mesa of the CPU. “Check out the controls,” Flynn bade Yori, knowing that there was no time for him to experiment.

She moved at once to the main console, studying it and drawing on her memories of the Factory Complex. “We’re getting closer,” Flynn warned as the ship drifted toward the MCP’s citadel. He could see portions of the great hull de-rezzing, leaving only a ghostly outline. The process was proceeding quickly; he tried urgently to come up with their next move. Even with his power, he doubted that he could stabilize the structure of such an enormous object, much less reverse the de-rezzing. But perhaps, he thought, the Carrier would last long enough to allow them a crack at the MCP.

Right now, that was all Flynn wanted.

Dumont was disappearing slowly, his body a blizzard of de-rezzing, the fight having all but left him.

“You thought you could resist me, Dumont,” Master Control gloated in its loathsome voice. “But I won. I outclassed you!”

Dumont became fainter yet. Sark watched it with much enthusiasm, but heard a catch in the MCP’s voice, as if the next taunt had been held back. “Wait! Sark!” it snapped. Sark jumped, coming to full alert. “I feel a presence,” Master Control said slowly, evaluating the data that had attracted its attention. “A Warrior?” it queried itself.

Sark was saved anxious questions; the single word rang out behind him, sharp and resonant, edged with anger. “
Sark!
”

He spun to see Tron waiting, his blue circuitry brilliant with hatred and the thirst for vengeance.

The User Champion stood poised for battle, disk in hand. The disk gave off a peculiar, pure light, like nothing Sark had seen before, one which touched off disturbing uncertainties in him. Wearing a look of unmixed hatred, Tron stood outside the entrance to the citadel, inviting combat. Sark thrust aside doubts, moving toward him, reaching for his own disk.

“I don’t know how you survived, slave,” Sark shouted, lip curled, emerging from the citadel. “Prepare to terminate!”

He cast his disk with a powerful sweep of his arm, an expert throw. The weapon flickered across the gap between them in an instant, but Tron contrived to drop to one knee just in time, and lean aside, and it passed by overhead. The disk circled, rising, but instead of homing to the Command Program’s hand it dove at Tron once more. This time Tron met it with upraised disk; the two weapons clashed with an outpouring of light of unbearable intensity.

Sark’s disk sprang away from the encounter, cleaving the air on its return course, seeking its master’s grip. As it went, Tron gathered himself for a counterattack of his own. Sark’s eyes were alight at having his first attack countered, his mouth twisted into a line of fury. “You are very persistent, Tron!” he grated.

Tron’s weapon came to him; it ricocheted from Sark’s uplifted disk, soared, and stooped for him a second time. Again it was repulsed by the Command Program, and Sark immediately cast at Tron as Tron’s disk raced back to its owner in response to his urgent summons. The two missiles of light cut the air, nearly side by side. Tron waited, braced, aware that his cast had expended much of its energy while Sark’s was fresh.

“I’m also better than you,” he answered Sark’s derision, and suited action to words. At the last moment, his disk rose above Sark’s and Tron launched himself into the air, pulling his legs up under him. Sark’s disk whisked by underneath, making a deadly sound, and Tron plucked his own from the air.

He landed nimbly, hearing the angry scream of the Command Program’s weapon as it banked for another try at him. Tron judged his response by the sound; he pivoted, bringing up his disk at just the right angle, rigid arms extended. Sark’s weapon hit Tron’s full-on with extreme violence and rebounded with a splashing explosive brilliance. Then Tron spun to meet the next assault.

“Yori! Yori! Look!”

In the drifting Carrier, Flynn had spotted the lightning-battle of the duel. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d looked down on
one
of those Warriors, from a similar angle, from the heights of the Game Grid.

Yori, staring where Flynn pointed, reacted with a piercing, thankful cry, “
Tron!
” He’d been given back to her; by what fates, she never questioned. She ignored her dilemma, unable to do anything but watch the deadly contest; Flynn, too, was transfixed.

Tron waited, balance distributed carefully, tensed. Sark hurled again, a blurringly fast release. It covered the distance between them in an instant, but Tron managed to deflect, and counter-released. Sark had recalled his own weapon, mocking, “Very clever, Tron.” He deflected, as Tron had.

Tron’s disk homed to him and they stood awaiting one another’s moves for a moment, each sizing up the most formidable enemy he’d ever met, each wondering how long the fragile pause would last.

“You should have joined me,” jeered Sark.

Tron concluded that a reply would be a waste of time. Sark would never understand how everything that had happened underscored and reinforced Tron’s commitment to the Users. Then something high above caught his eye and he looked up, though he knew it might be some trick; he had to risk a glance, to insure that he wasn’t being threatened from another quarter. Then he spotted the derelict Carrier.

It should have vanished, he knew. There was only one individual who might have delayed that, even slightly: Flynn. Tron thought he could see, through the blurring of the intangible outline of the ship, figures standing within the remaining portion of the bridge.
And Yori?
He let himself hope.

Sark noticed Tron’s distraction. Though the Command Program wasn’t sure what this delayed de-rezzing of his vessel might mean, he took quick advantage of Tron’s divided attention, snap-pitching his weapon with all his might. He’d seen for himself the formidable power of Tron’s altered disk and wanted to end the contest quickly, in any way he could. But the sound and movement brought Tron back to himself; he crouched and brought up his disk again, bracing arms and shoulders, preparing for the vicious collision, concentrating on angles and speed.

Again there was the coruscating shock of contact, again the deflection.

As Sark’s disk shrieked back to its master, Tron wound and cast. He put behind it all the might of his arm, and incorporated all the finesse he’d acquired in the arena. He used a unique variation; Sark had not yet felt the full power of Tron’s disk as refurbished by Alan-One.

Sark caught his disk on its return only to see Tron’s headed directly for him. The Command Program held up his blue weapon to shield himself again, confident, wondering when, as must inevitably happen, Tron’s endurance or skill would flag. “We could have made a great team!” he mocked.

But Tron’s disk did a roll on its course, drawing Sark’s guard off, to continue its flight vertically, edge on, its angle of attack abruptly altered. There was a detonation as it met its red opposition, the failure of Sark’s defense. Tron’s disk sheared through it, sundering it, shattering it in Sark’s hands, passing through the casque-helmet and cleaving a path of ruin through the helmet’s contents.

Sark stood, empty hands still uplifted, eyes bulging in shock and disbelief, face slack. An instant later, energy and the essence of the program Sark began to gush from the hideous wound like smoking, phosphorescent blood, roiling and crackling, streaming down his face and armor, evaporating off into the air.

Tron recaught his disk and watched his enemy without pity. Sark stood unmoving for a moment, then toppled, pitching face-first to the ground. The User Champion glided past the fallen Command Program, headed for the entrance to the citadel.

The MCP sensed someone coming, made its assumption, and boomed, “Good, Sark!”

Tron stepped into the entrance. “I don’t think it
is
good for you, MCP,” he told it in a level tone.

The voice of the MCP was mountainous in its anger. “Sark!” it called, its eerie, distorted eyes searching the entrance for its Champion. “How have you allowed this program to—”

“Sark’s out!” shouted Tron, cutting through the rantings of the MCP.

“SARK!” it persisted. Tron, looking for the Memory Guards, saw that they’d fled, unwilling to face the Champion who’d destroy the mighty Sark. The MCP’s face shone in fiery reds.

Tron spotted Dumont against the wall, nearly gone into the cessation of de-rezzing. He raced to Dumont’s side and the MCP’s face seemed to follow him, sliding around the wall of the cylinder to keep him under surveillance. Tron made a futile attempt to pull Dumont from the wall. It was useless. “Dumont!”

Dumont mustered a last iota of strength. “No, Tron. Must destroy—MCP first.”

Tron shouted, trying to keep the old Guardian focused. “Dumont! Where’s Yori? Where’s Flynn?”

He could barely hear Dumont’s answer. “Left on the Carrier—erased.”
No, not yet!
Tron knew; a portion of the craft still endured. But the MCP had to be dealt with first, or everything else would be in vain.

He spun, eyes flashing, pulling back for the cast. “Program! Stop!” ordered the MCP. “This is not allowed!” It had come to an unthinkable situation, in real danger of being terminated. It devoted a tremendous amount of its attention to trying to locate its Champion and summon him.

Tron let fly; the disk hit the Master Control Program’s gleaming surface with a blinding release of power. The MCP’s protective panels swung into place around its supporting cones as its crimson face wailed in a stupendous voice, “
Sark!
”

Out on the mesa, Sark lay motionless. But the MCP had located him now. Energy began to converge along the circuitry contours, coalescing around the inert form, concentrating. The gutted shell that had been Sark could no longer function as a complete program; indeed, it hadn’t de-rezzed already only because of safeguards and the enormous power allocated the Command Program by the MCP. And those were nearly gone.

But the remaining body would respond to the MCP’s direct commands, given sufficient power. And power the MCP sent it, spendthrift in its fear of Tron. Energy swarmed to Sark’s corpse; it began to stir.

Tron threw his disk at the panels over and over, with blazing impact, determined to break down its defenses and eliminate it from the System forever, urgent in his need to save Yori and Flynn and Dumont.

“
SARRRKKK!
” howled the MCP.