Tron

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 go.

Below, unnoticed by the Carrier, a Reco blundered and bumped along through the maze, bouncing off the high walls from time to time, now so low that it scraped the ground, now so high that its operator had trouble maintaining control.

Flynn stood before the eyeslit working the controls, tilting the crossbar and finger-stroking the touch-scales.

“Damn Reco!” he muttered, trying to maintain a delicate touch with the skittish controls. “Why can’t it just go straight?”

He groused at himself for not having designed a better-handling, more stable villain for Space Paranoids. He was interrupted at it by something overhead, a sparkle from one of the pieces of equipment, right where a Reco’s third eye would’ve been. Flynn looked up at it and it seemed to draw back warily. He turned away from it, nonchalant, pretending not to have noticed. The sparkle appeared again at the extreme corner of his peripheral vision.

The Bit edged forward, trying for a better look at Flynn. It came a little farther. Flynn whirled on it, holding up his hand with thumb and forefinger out as if it were a gun. “Okay; hold it right there!” He wondered what eerie new development the System was about to toss his way.

It was a glittering, faceted shape, nearly a sphere. The Bit cringed timidly, then saw Flynn’s face. Thinking it had found Clu again, it came closer. The Bit expanded into a spiky green star and, overjoyed, shouted, “Yeah!”

Flynn checked the thing over suspiciously. “What d’you mean, “yeah”?”

“Yesss,” the Bit elaborated. It added, “Sure. Right!” Its spikes disappeared as soon as the Bit went silent, and it reverted to a faceted, shining sphere.

Flynn reminded himself that he couldn’t just let the Reco stand dead in the air. He took hold of the crossbar once more. He asked the outlandish newcomer, “That all you can say?”

“Uh-uh,” the Bit allowed. “No!” For these responses its spiny form shone red. Then it lapsed once more to its original appearance.

“Oh,” Flynn mulled. “Anything else?”

“Absolutely,” replied the Bit energetically. “Yup!” It had missed Clu terribly since taking refuge in the Reco he’d destroyed with his tank. It was deliriously happy to be back with him, but didn’t understand why he had become so forgetful.

“Only yes and no,” Flynn ruminated, brows knit. Then it dawned on him. “You’re a Bit!”

“For sure!” the Bit confirmed, relieved.

“Where’s your program?” Flynn asked, dividing his attention between the touchy Reco controls and the Bit. “Won’t it miss you?”

“Negative,” said the Bit with a note of confusion, implying that he’d asked a question to which he should know the answer. It flittered near him expectantly. He eyed it with a certain caution. It sure wasn’t afraid of him, now that it had gotten a good look at him. The thought set something off.

“I’m your program?”

The Bit beamed happily, a verdant sphere. “You betcha!” it told him in a congratulatory voice, with some relief.

Flynn sighed and went back to conning the Reco along. “Another mouth to feed.”

In time, he became a little more practiced and a good deal more confident. He increased speed, and if the Reco’s progress was unsteady and given to sudden veerings, at least he avoided slamming it into a wall. This was the sort of thing Flynn loved, learning a new skill, testing his coordination. For a while, he forgot his problems and played the Reco as if it were a game.

“Pretty good drivin’, huh?” he asked the Bit smugly. Just then the Reco gave an ungainly lurch, coming close to one of the walls of the channellike route.

“No way,” judged the Bit harshly.

“Who asked you?” Flynn snarled. He brought the Reco around the next turn in a wide, unsteady swing, its stabilizers complaining. “I’m getting the hang of it,” he added. “Watch this!”

Lower lip between his teeth, he increased speed, making for the City. But he’d overaccelerated and was, after all, operating a machine that was usually run by a number of crewmen. The Reco tilted one way, then another, like a drunk. It slammed into a wall, bounced across and rebounded off the opposite one.

“Noo-ooooo!” the Bit wailed, flashing an emphatic red, sounding as if it would’ve enjoyed hiding behind something again.

’Hey, gimme a break!” Flynn protested. “They didn’t teach Reco steering in Driver’s Ed.” But he refused to slow to a more sedate pace, deciding that here and now were the place and time to master the vehicle. I’m getting this thing to the City if I have to dribble it there! he vowed silently.

And so they went, the Reco caroming off the occasional wall and dividing its time between orderly progress and impromptu assaults on the sides of the channels. Flynn, driving with brio, cheered himself on enthusiastically. The Bit did not.

Inside the Factory Complex, workers along an observation window manipulated fabrication controls, intent on the most complicated simulation project the Complex had yet attempted. Taking shape before them in a vast hangar was the craft that Gibbs had seen pictured on Dillinger’s desk, drawn from the concept of a Solar Sailer.

As the workers sat at their boards and screens, defining what the ship would be and how she would operate, the Solar Sailer herself came into higher and higher resolution, generated by the System. Voices murmured spiritlessly, “Transfer forty-nine,” “Five-seven-eight-three,” “Sixty-seven?” “Eighty-two,” “Eighty-two,” “Eighty-two.”

One row of workers was made up entirely of female programs, one of whom was checking a diagram listlessly, mechanically. Once, she’d been a premier designer-coordinator, recognized throughout the Complex for her exacting and uncompromising work. But now she was reduced to the status of labor automaton. She wore a worker’s aspect, her circuitry muted, complete with, tight helmet-cap and boots.

From behind a nearby pillar, Tron watched her, appalled by her insensibility, afraid for her. The background of emotionless voices made the scene more bizarre and frightening. Yori, he thought, even you?

She rose and walked to one of the Memory Guards posted around the room. “Production input?” the guard demanded.

As if in a trance, she replied, “Three-zero-five-six. Ninety-nine. Limited four. Eight.”

That appeared to satisfy the Memory Guard. As Yori walked away, he noted, “Twelve.” What that might mean, Tron had no idea, and Yori did not react to it.

It hadn’t take him long to locate her; even in an enervated state, he had known, she would be virtually indispensable to the Factory Complex. Now, as he’d hoped when he’d selected his hiding place, she walked in his direction when she left the work area. As she passed by, Tron reached out to grab her arm and pull her into concealment with him. She yielded to it, oblivious, giving no sign of recognizing the one who meant everything to her, and to whom she meant the same.

“Yori!” he implored. She simply gazed at him.

“Nine,” she recited. “Sixty-two. Four. Seven.”

He shook her. “Yori!” She was unresponsive. In sudden decision he held his hand near her face, more thankful than ever that he’d come across free-flowing power in the cave.

Tron focused all his attention to Yori, and on the power he’d absorbed, carefully calculating the transfer he was about to make. Power beamed from his hand, not in a rush, but in a carefully controlled stream. It found the specific terminus, the circuitry-nexus at the base of her throat. They held their poses in that fashion for long moments as Tron poured new life into her. Yori’s circuitry flared brighter.

Her expression changed, the dullness falling away. Astonishment took its place as she felt the transfusion coursing through her, as if she’d come back from de-resolution. Then she recognized him and broke into the smile he treasured. “Tron!”

She threw her arms around his neck and they embraced, laughing, holding one another close. He lifted her from the floor. “Yori! Hey—”

She hugged him again. She was nearly a head shorter than he, her figure at once slender and full. The high cheekbones and wide eyes were the image of Lora’s. “Oh, Tron, I knew you’d escape! They’ve never built the circuit that could hold you!”

He looked around, remembering the guards. “We have to make plans. Where can we go?”

She saw the Complex around her with new eyes now that he’d restored to her her true personality, finding it difficult to remember the endless, mindless work there or the unthinking phantom who had been Yori for so long.

“This way,” she said, taking Tron’s hand. “Quickly!”

She led him by back corridors, toward an unguarded exit. Trying to keep to a conservative pace, they passed programs who moved with shuffling steps or stood stuporously, all but devoid of life. Some few showed signs of vitality, but not many. Tron listened in as they passed three programs huddled in conversation.

“Two-eight-two, unit four,” one factory program droned as they passed. “X-sector to interface,” a second replied, the third contributing, “With micronet zero-zero-zero.”

Tron had paused. Now he asked Yori, “What are they saying?”

“Those are instructions for shutting down functions,” she explained in a subdued tone. “If much more of this goes on, this System is going to collapse.”

Tron regarded the muddled programs with pity and frustration. The Users had been so free with their power, he remembered; their only aim had been to solve problems, to achieve and create. The System had been filled with activity and accomplishment then. But the MCP wouldn’t have permitted its subjects full power even if it had been able to do so and still feed itself to satiation. Master Control and Sark ruled, in part, by privation, keeping their subjects weak.

“I know, Yori,” he answered her. “But things are going to change. I’ve got to get to Alan-One; he was going to tell me how to—”

He’d been opening the exit door they’d found. Yori’s eyes widened as she saw something over his shoulder. She yanked him, skidding for balance, back inside; Tron had enough sense not to protest. They watched with the door open a crack as a Recognizer drifted up the street. Its mien was the perfect representation of the MCP’s tyranny—never resting, never betraying emotion, always on the lookout, prepared to punish or destroy.

The Reco prowled past their hiding place as Yori suppressed an involuntary shiver. Tron held her more tightly. But the Reco didn’t notice them, and continued its patrol. Yori led him off once more, keeping to the shadows. She might know a place of temporary refuge, he thought, but it was clear that there were no places of safety left.

In the City, some habitations were remnants of earlier times, not yet restructured or razed or consolidated. The MCP had been unwilling to divert resources for any such extraneous project, and so these places retained a scant minimum of livability. Leading Tron down a hallway in her building, Yori told him, “Dumont is in this City, too.”

That was one thing in his favor, at least. Dumont the Guardian had always been friendly to him, and had a particular regard for Yori. One of Tron’s main problems had been how to deal with the Guardian of the Input/Output Tower in order to gain access to Alan-One.

“Good.” He smiled, squeezing her hand. “I can use his Tower to reach my User.”

“I don’t know,” was her only reply, filling him with concern. Even Dumont, he knew, would have to pay lip service to Sark and the MCP. But if the Guardian were in fact in the MCP’s service now rather than that of his sacred trust, it might spell ruin for Tron.

They came to a door that opened to the pressure of her palm on its scan-lock. The door disappeared, since the room beyond it would be occupied; personal privacy wasn’t on the MCP’s agenda. He followed her in.

It was an apartment of spacious rooms with a broad sweep of window that showed them the City from a height of many stories, but it was uncomfortably stark. There were two-dimensional remainders of furniture and decorations on the walls and floor, rigid, artless murals.

He frowned. “What’s this place? It’s terrible.”

She took it all in with a wave. “My quarters. Not like home, is it?”

Not in the least, Tron thought. Not like that beautiful, crystalline place they had shared, with its spires of light and chambers of rich energy, filled with music and happiness and purpose.

“But we can talk here,” she was saying. “Besides…”

Yori extended a palm toward a portion of the wall surface near the door frame. Into it she directed a precise measure of the power he had given her. The door rezzed up, returning to them a privacy Tron hadn’t known since his capture. He realized now what an ache its absence had been.

And the flat images that had been part of the walls and floor were now shifting and changing, growing a third dimension, expanding like orchids opening in time-lapse photography. They took on color and texture, solidity and depth. The harsh illumination became softer, gentler, more subtle and pleasing to the eye.

Tron watched, bemused, but enjoying it all enormously. The floor and walls and ceiling altered; lounging surfaces and reclining areas burst forth, inviting relaxation, promising comfort. The entire apartment seemed alive. Decorative shapes and constructions, diverting and artistic, pleasant to behold, blossomed. Great care and thought had been given the decor, every last detail proclaimed Yori’s hand.

Now Tron understood why she went through her work phases as did all the others, insensible. How she must have to conserve her energy for even a brief period of this! he thought. He touched a resilient seating-form; its warm, yielding surface was so different from the hardness of his cell—so different from what it had been only moments earlier. He watched the interplay of the scintilla-mosaic and admired the graceful geometries of a fan-shaped sculpture. He promised himself that the entire System would see such a renaissance.

Yori was watching him, taking pleasure in what she saw on his face. “That’s—quite a trick,” he chuckled. Then concern wiped his smile away. “But isn’t someone likely to notice?”

She held his gaze. “I don’t care.”

They stood together for a time, then Yori broke their frieze, pointing to a hassocklike seating extrusion, urging him toward it. Tron sank down on it with the unconscious limberness with which he did all things. Yori seated herself on the floor before him.

“I can always count on you, can’t I?” he said, not a question at all. Her absence had been the most painful deprivation inflicted upon him by captivity.

She leaned to him, laying a consoling hand on his knee, sorrowing for their long separation, celebrating him with her eyes. She confirmed what he’d said, made him understand all her feelings with a single word, “Always!”

With the entire System at his heels and no one else on whom he might rely, Tron felt at that moment the recipient of immeasurable good fortune. “How much time do we have in this room?”

Her lips curved, her look secret and yet open, plain-spoken and at the same time oblique. Rising, sinuously graceful, she answered him, “Enough.” She went to touch another surface in one of the walls.

An aurora appeared around her, gentle and triumphant. Yori transformed, brightened, as if shedding camouflage. Her helmet-cap was gone; her golden hair swirled and floated behind her. Tron watched, enchanted. She spent gladly of the power he’d given her. The worker’s aspect fell away as Yori stood clothed in a cloud of splendor.

A diaphanous mantle fluttered around her, and the angular precision of her circuitry was replaced by lovely, delicate traceries, jewel-like beads of radiance. She was like a magnificent, emergent butterfly, arms extended, the mantle rippling and billowing. She was completely herself again at last, the central thing in his existence, infinitely desirable. “Come here,” she beckoned.

He stood and moved to her. The armor of combat sloughed away, and his helmet; they had no place here, and his circuitry took on a flowing look. His Warrior’s forelock and queue were revealed, stirred by the forces around them.

Tron stood before her. “I love you.”

They extended their hands until they nearly touched, palm to upraised palm. A blissful ray sprang between them, widening to envelop them, until they were like bright filaments. Celestials, they shared energy, were one. They sank down among the reclining-contours; the room shone with glory.

“I love you, Tron.”