Of course, Flynn thought. The Master Control Program would certainly have governance over all the conventional power sources or outlets. Lower the programs’ power and you keep them lethargic, dependent, obedient. But here in this ignored area, this trickle still ran unmonitored. Flynn pondered what it must feel like for Ram and Tron; no doubt the MCP kept User-Believers on pretty light rations.
“I feel much better,” Ram announced, leaning back on his elbows, eyes squeezed shut with bliss. He seemed fresher, more vital and alive than he had been; the circuitry of his body shone more brightly.
“That’s incredible,” Flynn muttered. He lowered himself to lie prone, as they did, at the pool’s edge. He scooped the stuff in his hands, his palms and fingers tingling with the feel of it. He sipped tentatively, then drank deeply. The liquid power had a wonderful taste he couldn’t define. It spread a delirious warmth through him as it went down, livening and strengthening, lifting his spirits, renewing his sense of purpose. He could see that it was having the same effect on Tron, and on Ram, who now drank from his inverted disk as if from a saucer. Ram caught his eye and politely offered the disk; Flynn drank more.
Tron, stirring the rippling blue liquid with his hand, looked into it in deep concentration. Once, all programs had felt alive and responsive and energetic, as he was feeling; they could again. The sight of the City had made him think of Yori, as so many things did. His uncertainty as to whether or not she was still there was physical anguish. He channeled his yearning, putting himself into closer contact with the System.
“I can feel it,” Tron said softly.
The tone of it caught Flynn. “Feel what? You okay?”
Tron felt a vague response from somewhere in the limitless awareness of the System. “Alan-One.”
Flynn’s heart—or whatever served a Warrior for one—soared to hear that. But he refrained from commenting, both to keep from distracting Tron and to avoid a complicated discussion. The Input/Output Tower it would be, then.
Tron pulled his hand from the eddied stream, rising to his feet in an easy movement that spoke of vigor and resolve. “Let’s move out.” He took up the handlebars that were all that had been left when his light-cycle had vanished, the others did the same. Tron gave silent thanks for the availability of power in the chamber.
The cavern’s mouth was silent, dark, resembling any number of other such openings in the terrain. Unsurprising that the forces under Sark had passed by it in their haste to overtake the escapees—or so they’d intended—in the flatlands beyond.
A sound grew; the whine of engines echoed up from the throat of the cave. All at once the three light-cycles shot from it like torpedoes, once more in tight formation, their riders bent low over the handlebars.
Tron, in the lead, turned. Ram and Flynn kept close behind. They streaked through the desolate meanders of ledge and canyon, guided by Tron’s instincts and memory, bound for the City. And Tron was bound, as well, for something as important to him as the end of the MCP’s domination..
Is she still there? he asked himself, as he had countless times before. He put aside doubt; he would find her. He was free, with Ram and Flynn at his back.
Thought of Flynn brought back to Tron a brief report he’d heard of the combat with Crom, on the rings. He’d been heartened and surprised at Flynn’s defiance in sparing Crom. Tron himself had been more than defiant in his time—Sark had lost plenty of game programs, guards, and Red Elite in that chase and capture!—but Flynn’s disobedience of the Grid rules had won Tron’s admiration. Still, he couldn’t fathom where Flynn’s amazing whims came from. They smacked of—Tron groped for the word—autonomy.
Tron returned his attention to driving; it was enough that Flynn was allied to him. Tron felt that the fact couldn’t be without meaning, and somehow showed the hand of the Users at work. Flynn, meanwhile, leaned into the turns and kept pace with his friends, showing skill and a certain exuberance.
Not far away, a Game Tank turret swiveled, its gunner laying his cannon in on the three light-cycles. The machine maneuvered for a clear shot at the escapees, who hurtled out onto a long arch of bridgeway.
The gunner stared into his scope, his fire-control center rotating. A moment later, the fugitives entered his field of fire. “Range: nine,” chanted the gunner. “Mark: forty-five.” He strained at his scope. “Forty-eight degrees. Hold it! Hold it…”
Tron flashed out across the bridge, Ram and Flynn spreading out to his rear due to the narrowness of the way. The gunner readied to fire. The cycles were suddenly within his cross hairs, their speed and direction pinpointed by his fire-control predictors.
“Fire!” the gunner barked. The glare of the main gun lit the tank. The gunner watched for its effect. The flaring, ruinous chevrons reached out, striking the span just where the cyclists rode. There was a blast at impact, brilliant force spewed in all directions, making it impossible for the gunner to see for a moment.
Flynn and Ram were thrown from their cycles. Oddly shaped fragments of the Electronic landscape landed all around them, concealing and partly covering Flynn and Ram. The round had struck the bridge just behind Tron. He skidded his cycle to a halt at the far end of the bridge, nearly losing control. Gazing back in horror, he saw that the bridge had been blown in half; a large portion of its central arch was completely gone. Of Ram, Flynn, and their machines, he could see nothing.
Face contorted in grief, Tron looked into the abyss. For Ram and Flynn to have survived the Game Grid, won their freedom, and come so close to the Input/Output Tower only to fall—Tron could make no sense of it. He let out a cry that was mourning, indictment, and plea, “NO-oo!”
He could see nothing in the chasm below, where modular rubble lay heaped. It didn’t matter, there was no way that Ram and Flynn could have lived through such a fall. He could hear tanks maneuvering toward him, aware that one of the escapees was still alive. They fired as they came, angling, their salvos sending energy fountaining high into the air all around him. Tron thrust aside everything but his sense of mission, and revved his machine. He peeled down a narrow gully where tanks would be unable to follow, hoping that the ledges and landings would shield him from Sark’s Carrier.
A practical side of his mind told him that if the search force was scouring the canyon area for him, the way to the City and the Input/Output Tower might lay clear. He began a roundabout course, to lose the tanks in the irregular terrain and get to the road to the Factory Domain.
Flynn held his head, wondering if somebody actually had beaten him with a crowbar, as he felt. He groaned, even though he found his skull still intact, and gave grudging thanks to the Game Grid for the durability of its helmets and armor.
He struggled to his knees, waves of dizziness and nausea assailing him. He heaved for breath, waiting for his vision to clear, and tried to put together what had happened. He’d been following Ram across the bridge…
The sound of approaching tanks broke through his pain, answering his groping questions. He spied a nearby form; Ram sprawled, unconscious or dead, unmoving. Flynn now recalled laying down the light-cycle as the blast had struck the bridge, and Ram had done the same. Both machines must now be at the bottom of the crevasse. Just luck that we’re not with ’em, he realized.
Flynn labored to his feet, swaying a little, and stumbled over to Ram. The clamor of the armored detachment reminded him that he had little time to act, none at all to check on Ram’s condition. He searched around him desperately for a hiding place and spotted a fissure in the rampart face a few yards away. Panting, pulses of darkness obscuring his vision every few moments, Flynn dragged Ram’s body to the fissure and drew it in after him. There was barely room for them.