Free Tron by Brian Daley Page A

determination to employ all diplomacy. Nothing left but grace under fire, he sighed to himself.
    One of the gorillas stepped forward without warning and bashed the disoriented Flynn in the arm with his staff. There was a dazzle of light, and agonizing pain rocketed from Flynn’s fingertips to his shoulder. He fell back with a yelp, and knew that he was defenseless against such a weapon.
    Those jokers were plainly not present for choir practice.
    “Hey! Take it easy!” grated Flynn as they closed in around him. Maybe he really was lying in intensive care someplace with a concussion, but he didn’t feel like dreaming about having his head handed to him. Best keep it light, he philosophized.
    “Look, if this is about those parking tickets, I can explain everything!” But the Memory Guards of the Master Control Program, herding him toward the cells of the Training Complex, gave no indication of having heard him.
    High over the Game Grid drifted the long, gleaming shape of Sark’s Carrier, impregnable and vigilant and menacing, tacit threat and reminder. Recognizers came to and departed from its hangar bays without pause. Its free-standing antennae rotated in their fixed positions around its bridge, and its crew maintained constant surveillance. It was more than a vessel; it was the manifestation of Sark’s—the MCP’s—rule.
    Sark himself, merciless Red Champion, stood within his podium gripping his energy handles, legs encased in the power outlets, consuming the energy allotted him by Master Control.
    A crackle of static sounded briefly, then an image formed before him. It scintillated, rippling like disturbed water, then resolved into a visage Sark knew well, one that filled him with awe and carefully repressed dread.
    The MCP’s ghostly image hung before him, a burnished cylinder of lustrous metal. Its face rippled in multichrome pastels. Sark heard its voice pronounced loudly, making the bulkheads vibrate.
    “SARK, ES - 1117821. Open communication.”
    Sark’s casque-helmeted head rose. “Yes, MCP,” he responded, a little hoarsely, withdrawing his attention from the power intake. He squared his armored shoulders, waiting like a faithful, ferocious dog for the orders, the approval or punishment, that his master might care to mete out.
    “I’ve a challenge for you, Sark.” The MCP’s voice was like death itself. “A new recruit. He’s a tough case, but I want him treated in the usual manner. Train him for the games, let him hope for a while, and blow him away.”
    Sark relaxed the merest bit. Easy enough assignment; he’d done precisely the same to so many programs that he’d lost track of them. And Sark had, with the orchestration of most of the MCP’s resources, captured Tron. Maybe he was about to meet one of those Department of Defense programs; Sark relished the prospect of a contest with a truly antagonistic program. And that program would, indeed, eventually be destroyed.
    A feral smile curved his lips. “You’ve got it. I’ve been hoping you’d send me somebody with a little moxie. What kind of program is he?”
    “He’s not any kind of program, Sark,” the MCP answered with no flicker of emotion. “He’s a User.”
    Sark nearly lost hold of the energy grips, dumbfounded. “A User?” he echoed, lowering his voice unconsciously in some remnant of worship, a shadow of reverence.
    “That’s right,” Master Control answered with what sounded like an element of irritation at Sark’s reaction. “He pushed me, in the Other World. When somebody pushes me, I push back. So I brought him down here.”
    Sark felt its scrutiny upon him. “What’s the matter, Sark?” it asked, as he coped with the concept of deicide. “You look nervous.”
    Sark licked his lips. “Well, I—it’s just—I don’t know. A User. I mean . . .” He who had persecuted and destroyed so many programs who’d still believed in their Users, who’d been given by Master Control the task of eradicating that