Ram, in the next cell, was holding his disk up, edge-on, examining it closely for any imperfections. He was whistling an eerie, lilting tune that Flynn didn’t recognize as any User music. Flynn drifted over that way; he’d had little time to talk to Ram and none at all to speak to the next prisoner along. Their schedules of practice and the timing of the combats in which the other two had participated since Flynn’s arrival had had them out of their cells and in different places at different times.
But Flynn had learned one thing. The name of that other program was Tron.
Now he edged up to the opening between the cells, automatically careful to avoid another run-in with its defensive field. Ram continued his whistling, lost in thought. Just like any other guy you’d run into, mused Flynn, except that he’s a program. Wonder if I’ll ever get used to that?
“Hey, Ram,” he called. The music broke off in midnote, and Ram looked around at him. “What were you… y’know, before?”
Ram brightened, plainly to memories that cheered him. “Oh, I was an actuarial program; worked at a big insurance company. It really gives you a great feeling, helping folks plan for their future needs.”
He’d half-lapsed into a fond reverie. Flynn, who’d only intended to draw him out in order to learn more about Tron, felt a little guilty. A passing thought occurred to him; what would Dr. Gibbs think if he could see how very much useful function meant to these programs?
“And of course,” Ram was saying, “if you look at the payments as an annuity, over the years, the cost is really—”
Flynn could bear no more. “Yeah, yeah; that’s great.”
Ram, not noticing how little enthusiasm Flynn was showing, countered politely, “How about yourself?”
A question Flynn had been expecting with some misgiving. The truth would have the programs treating him as if he were demented, at best. At worst… a heretic? In any case, there was absolutely no way he could prove his story and it could only confuse matters at this point. “Oh, I don’t remember too much. Name’s Flynn.”
Ram nodded sagely. “Sure, a little disorientation. That’s normal, when they transport you. It’ll come back to you.”
Thinking how much he would like to come back to it instead, Flynn went on, “Where’s your friend Tron? I gotta talk to—”
He was stopped by shouts from above and the peremptory hammering of guards’ staff butts on the ceiling overhead. Flynn looked up at them, then at Ram, who was silent. No more conversation now; somehow Flynn sensed that it was no training session to which he would be taken this time.
Marching down the corridor between the guards, he tried his best to quiet his stomach and concentrate on what lay ahead. “You guys sure are friendly,” he told the darkened cowls of the guards with elaborately false warmth. They gave no sign of having heard him.
From the bridge of his Carrier, Sark watched the monitor screen, evaluating the User’s reaction—or lack of it—to the upcoming match. The User had shown unusual talent during the training process, and so that training had been terminated. Now, being led to the Game Grid, Flynn exhibited behavior no different from that of thousands of Warriors Sark had seen, though the Command Program was, as always, too high above the complex to see facial features in any detail. But this User seemed interchangeable with the programs he and his kind had created. Sark drew reassurance from that.
Command Program Sark spoke over his shoulder “Wait. Let him fight one of his own kind.” The order was relayed to select a User-Believer as adversary. Sark smiled, wishing that he could pit two Users against each other and regretting that he himself couldn’t be the one to destroy a User.
Flynn, nervously adjusting his half-tunic, walked with his guards out onto a broad ledge overlooking the Game Grid. From it, a bridge of solid force stretched to the concentric rings of the jai alai game. Beside him was another program who’d been brought forth, a conscript whose name, Flynn recalled, was Crom. Each of them now wore an electronic cesta over his right hand. Flynn was confused, peering around for the Red Warriors he expected to meet in combat; he saw only the pudgy Crom.
Crom, without hesitation, walked one bridge and took up his place on a ring there. Flynn gave the guards a perplexed look, but they only stared at him wordlessly. With an inward shrug, he walked the second bridge and waited uneasily. Then both bridges disappeared.
Flynn and Crom gazed at one another across the gulf. Flynn essayed a grin. “Looks like we’re in the same boat, here—”
Crom, nervous, glaring with resentment and fear, shouted, “You think you’re gonna wipe me out, don’t you?” He knew of the aptitude Flynn had shown at practice and he presumed that Flynn was aware of what was about to happen and welcomed it. Crom could think of no other reason for being pitted against another conscript; his antagonist must have agreed to join the Elite, and slay Crom as proof of his conversion.
Comprehension was forming in Flynn’s mind as he watched the look on Crom’s face. “No, I—”
Without waiting to hear, Crom fired the blazing game-ball up at the mirror with his cesta. It rebounded from the mirror and sped at Flynn’s rings. Flynn jumped, cesta out, intending to intercept it, but misjudged angles and distances. The gameball struck the ring just ahead of him, dissolving it. Crom cackled with delight.
Flynn skidded to a stop with a wild windmilling of arms, barely retaining his balance and avoiding the long plunge to the grid floor below. He was staring down in horror when he heard a sound from above. Another pellet hit the mirror, aimed straight at him.
Reflexes cut in before he had time to doubt. He ducked, bringing up the glowing, humming cesta. He caught the glowing ball cleanly, brought the cesta around and tossed it back at the mirror with smooth precision, without hesitation or debate. The pellet struck the mirror and rebounded from it with no reduction in speed or energy. Crom, wild-eyed, tried to gauge the sizzling ricochet. He dove, missed, plowed to a stop. The pellet released its charge on contact with one of his rings, and the ring de-rezzed in a spectacular display.
Flynn threw up an arm, elated. “Okay!” He’d expected to go up against a Red Warrior but, seeing himself matched against Crom, presumed that this was some sort of advanced training or graduation exercise and that both conscripts would be preserved for the real thing.
Overhead, Sark watched and gloated. Either the User would die at the hands of a User-Believer or a User-Believer would be destroyed by a User. Sark savored the irony, and knew that the duel would stand as an example to the other conscripts, of the importance of self-preservation.
Back in their cells, Ram and Tron continued the quiet conversation they’d carried on throughout their captivity, relaxing as best they could, backs to the common window. Their quiet, solemn talks were in sharp contrast to the merciless drill and combat of the Game Grid. Ram had come to draw great encouragement from Tron, from his loyalty to the Users. And there was Tron’s straightforward reasoning: why, indeed, would Sark and the MCP militate so viciously against User-Believers if their beliefs didn’t present some threat?
When he’d thought it through, Ram had finally decided that the demonstrations of power, the taking of conscripts, were a keystone to Master Control’s authority. If MCP and Sark could get programs to deny the existence of Users in contradiction to what all programs knew to be true, what then might they not order programs to do? The entire System, and the power to reshape it, would lie within their grasp.