Brian Daley - Tron

The horror of it washed over Crom, waves of shock followed by an overwhelming, disabling dismay. He was only partially roused from it by the next question: “What’s your name?”

“Crom,” he answered, barely aware that he had.

“I’m Ram,” added the other. Seeing Crom’s face, he hesitated, but went on, thinking it best to tell the new conscript just what he was in for. “They’ll train you for the games, but—” He didn’t finish the sentence; Crom clearly wasn’t the sort of program who held great promise as a gladiator. Ram finished awkwardly, “Well, I hope you make it okay.”

Ram changed the subject quickly, before Crom had a chance to think too hard about the implications of that last statement. “Hey, what’s going on in the other sectors? I’ve been stuck in this Grid for 200 microcycles now.”

He gested over his shoulder with a thumb and Crom saw crossed-off rows of tick marks on Ram’s wall, representing the period of his imprisonment. Crom stopped agonizing over the possibility of destruction in the arena long enough to wonder whether captivity would be much better.

Crom shrugged. “It’s murder out there. You can’t even travel around your own microcircuits without permission from the Master Control Program.” He threw up his hands, trying to recapture some of the indignation that had evaporated when fear had set in. “Hauling me down here to play games! Who does the Master Computer Program calculate he is?”

But Ram made no answer. The cells around them, and the Training Complex, were answer enough. Crom suddenly felt tired, weighted with despair. “If only Tron was still around—”

Ram made a sudden noise under his breath at the sound of that name, a noise that spoke to Crom of surprise and anger. Ram’s face had gone cold, closing in his emotions.

But Crom went on, “Did you ever see that guy in action? A hundred-percent independent!” Crom shook his head in admiration. “MCP couldn’t tell him what to—”

He stopped. Ram had turned to look over his shoulder, at the window to the next cell beyond his. Crom, confused, asked, “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

There was a slight noise from the cell where Ram was looking, of someone moving around. A figure stood silhouetted by the light, his back to them, his glowing disk affixed to it. Crom strained to see, and as he did, the figure turned to him slowly. The compound interest program saw the features known so well to programs throughout the System: the clear, canny gaze and calm, strong face.

Crom gasped in disbelief. “Oh, my User—Tron! They’ve got you in here?”

Tron—a legend come to life. When programs throughout the System spoke among themselves of independence, of loyalty to the Users, of defying the MCP, it was Tron’s name that was most often invoked. Tron championed the User-Believers; Tron had defied all the MCP’s efforts to enslave or convert him. He had never been defeated in battle. No Warrior of the Red Elite had ever been able to withstand him.

Tron in a cell, captive on the Game Grid.

Crom slumped; Tron’s imprisonment had hit him like a physical blow, filling him with a sense of utter disaster. But the Champion’s first words lifted that feeling: “Not for long, friend.”

Crom’s spirits rose all at once. The words had been spoken without bravado, a simple statement offact, with all of Tron’s conviction behind them. For the first time, Crom began to feel hope. Sark and the MCP didn’t control the System yet.

IN ANOTHER PART of the System, a lone tank slid along, proceeding cautiously through a landscape of huge, planar surfaces, a maze of defiles. High walls bracketed a flat ground floor that wended in a series of obtuse turns. The rectilinear look of the Electronic World prevailed here too; blockish forms bordering the defiles were divided along precise edges by glowing demarcations and bands, and subdivided by areas of shading.

The tank was unlike any conventional vehicle, a collection of sleek curves with a wide, low silhouette. Its main battery was an enormous cannon, longer than the tank itself, complex and streamlined. It was mounted with its longitudinal axis lying along that of the tank, the gun mated in offset fashion to the turret, which was located on the right side of the hull. Instead of ordinary treads, rows of glowing, V-shaped light-tracks drove the war machine.

The vehicle’s command and fire-control center was gymbal-mounted in the turret for stability, tilting as the tank moved along, rotating to the operations of its lone crewman. The program’s name was Clu, and he, too, wore armor. Clu worked his controls with great dexterity, peering intently into the casklike guidance-targeting scope. The tank’s interior was bright with the glow of its controls and energy-channels.

Clu paused for a quick gulp from a container; his circuitry shone a little brighter. He stared into his scope once more, the fire-control center rotating around him. “Think we can merge into this memory okay, Bit?” he murmured, poised over the controls.

A shape of gleaming light suddenly appeared, many-faceted, zipping around the tank’s interior. In response to Clu’s question, it stopped dead in the air and expanded into a green, shining star, like some unearthly, spiky Christmas ornament. From it, a voice answered with an eager “Yes!”

As soon as it had spoken, the Bit reverted, shrinking back to its former shape. Clu nodded to himself absently. “Now, ol’ Flynn said for me to look over in here.” He worked the controls with a sure touch. The tank swung into a turn, advancing between lustrous defile walls.

Clu was annoyed and disappointed in that, after all his and the Bit’s work, the danger and the running fights and constant peril of encountering a Recognizer, they’d come up with nothing for his User, Flynn. Clu persevered nonetheless.

Now he frowned into his targeting scope. “But I don’t see what he’s looking for. I’d better get over to that Input/Output Tower and let him know.”

For Clu, as for many other programs still at large in the System, there was no question as to whether or not he should respond to his User. What point was there to program tyrannizing program, rejecting the Users? And certainly there hadn’t, before the MCP, been the sort of cruelty and hatred that threatened the System now. If Clu had his way, all that would change.

Now Clu worked the control surfaces, stroking and patting the energy channels, heading the tank for the distant Input/Output Tower, to make his report and seek new instructions. The tank’s command center rotated and tipped. The vehicle left the maze behind, merging with a stream of cometlike data bits moving along a canyon-size passageway, all bound for the Tower. Overhead, the sky was filled with unique colors and shapes, and luminosity—shifting patterns evocative of clouds.

Clu, bent over his controls, paying close attention to his scope, steadied himself with the thought: Flynn will know what to do.

His features were the same as Clu’s: animation in the face, irreverence, humor, a nimble turn of mind. Clu was, in fact, a reflection of him.

Kevin Flynn crouched over the keyboard of the computer terminal as Clu had over the tank’s controls, muttering to himself. He was intent, concerned.

“C’mon, you scuzzy little data; be in there!”

He was blond and in his late twenties. He’d already been up and down in life, gone through enough victories and defeats to be convinced that any circumstances could be altered if you wanted badly enough to change things. He had an irresistible confidence in himself and that was fortunate for him, given the number of times he’d gotten himself into scrapes.