Sark was saved anxious questions; the single word rang out behind him, sharp and resonant, edged with anger. “Sark!”
He spun to see Tron waiting, his blue circuitry brilliant with hatred and the thirst for vengeance.
The User Champion stood poised for battle, disk in hand. The disk gave off a peculiar, pure light, like nothing Sark had seen before, one which touched off disturbing uncertainties in him. Wearing a look of unmixed hatred, Tron stood outside the entrance to the citadel, inviting combat. Sark thrust aside doubts, moving toward him, reaching for his own disk.
“I don’t know how you survived, slave,” Sark shouted, lip curled, emerging from the citadel. “Prepare to terminate!”
He cast his disk with a powerful sweep of his arm, an expert throw. The weapon flickered across the gap between them in an instant, but Tron contrived to drop to one knee just in time, and lean aside, and it passed by overhead. The disk circled, rising, but instead of homing to the Command Program’s hand it dove at Tron once more. This time Tron met it with upraised disk; the two weapons clashed with an outpouring of light of unbearable intensity.
Sark’s disk sprang away from the encounter, cleaving the air on its return course, seeking its master’s grip. As it went, Tron gathered himself for a counterattack of his own. Sark’s eyes were alight at having his first attack countered, his mouth twisted into a line of fury. “You are very persistent, Tron!” he grated.
Tron’s weapon came to him; it ricocheted from Sark’s uplifted disk, soared, and stooped for him a second time. Again it was repulsed by the Command Program, and Sark immediately cast at Tron as Tron’s disk raced back to its owner in response to his urgent summons. The two missiles of light cut the air, nearly side by side. Tron waited, braced, aware that his cast had expended much of its energy while Sark’s was fresh.
“I’m also better than you,” he answered Sark’s derision, and suited action to words. At the last moment, his disk rose above Sark’s and Tron launched himself into the air, pulling his legs up under him. Sark’s disk whisked by underneath, making a deadly sound, and Tron plucked his own from the air.
He landed nimbly, hearing the angry scream of the Command Program’s weapon as it banked for another try at him. Tron judged his response by the sound; he pivoted, bringing up his disk at just the right angle, rigid arms extended. Sark’s weapon hit Tron’s full-on with extreme violence and rebounded with a splashing explosive brilliance. Then Tron spun to meet the next assault.
“Yori! Yori! Look!”
In the drifting Carrier, Flynn had spotted the lightning-battle of the duel. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d looked down on one of those Warriors, from a similar angle, from the heights of the Game Grid.
Yori, staring where Flynn pointed, reacted with a piercing, thankful cry, “Tron!” He’d been given back to her; by what fates, she never questioned. She ignored her dilemma, unable to do anything but watch the deadly contest; Flynn, too, was transfixed.
Tron waited, balance distributed carefully, tensed. Sark hurled again, a blurringly fast release. It covered the distance between them in an instant, but Tron managed to deflect, and counter-released. Sark had recalled his own weapon, mocking, “Very clever, Tron.” He deflected, as Tron had.
Tron’s disk homed to him and they stood awaiting one another’s moves for a moment, each sizing up the most formidable enemy he’d ever met, each wondering how long the fragile pause would last.
“You should have joined me,” jeered Sark.
Tron concluded that a reply would be a waste of time. Sark would never understand how everything that had happened underscored and reinforced Tron’s commitment to the Users. Then something high above caught his eye and he looked up, though he knew it might be some trick; he had to risk a glance, to insure that he wasn’t being threatened from another quarter. Then he spotted the derelict Carrier.
It should have vanished, he knew. There was only one individual who might have delayed that, even slightly: Flynn. Tron thought he could see, through the blurring of the intangible outline of the ship, figures standing within the remaining portion of the bridge. And Yori? He let himself hope.
Sark noticed Tron’s distraction. Though the Command Program wasn’t sure what this delayed de-rezzing of his vessel might mean, he took quick advantage of Tron’s divided attention, snap-pitching his weapon with all his might. He’d seen for himself the formidable power of Tron’s altered disk and wanted to end the contest quickly, in any way he could. But the sound and movement brought Tron back to himself; he crouched and brought up his disk again, bracing arms and shoulders, preparing for the vicious collision, concentrating on angles and speed.
Again there was the coruscating shock of contact, again the deflection.
As Sark’s disk shrieked back to its master, Tron wound and cast. He put behind it all the might of his arm, and incorporated all the finesse he’d acquired in the arena. He used a unique variation; Sark had not yet felt the full power of Tron’s disk as refurbished by Alan-One.
Sark caught his disk on its return only to see Tron’s headed directly for him. The Command Program held up his blue weapon to shield himself again, confident, wondering when, as must inevitably happen, Tron’s endurance or skill would flag. “We could have made a great team!” he mocked.
But Tron’s disk did a roll on its course, drawing Sark’s guard off, to continue its flight vertically, edge on, its angle of attack abruptly altered. There was a detonation as it met its red opposition, the failure of Sark’s defense. Tron’s disk sheared through it, sundering it, shattering it in Sark’s hands, passing through the casque-helmet and cleaving a path of ruin through the helmet’s contents.
Sark stood, empty hands still uplifted, eyes bulging in shock and disbelief, face slack. An instant later, energy and the essence of the program Sark began to gush from the hideous wound like smoking, phosphorescent blood, roiling and crackling, streaming down his face and armor, evaporating off into the air.
Tron recaught his disk and watched his enemy without pity. Sark stood unmoving for a moment, then toppled, pitching face-first to the ground. The User Champion glided past the fallen Command Program, headed for the entrance to the citadel.
The MCP sensed someone coming, made its assumption, and boomed, “Good, Sark!”
Tron stepped into the entrance. “I don’t think it is good for you, MCP,” he told it in a level tone.
The voice of the MCP was mountainous in its anger. “Sark!” it called, its eerie, distorted eyes searching the entrance for its Champion. “How have you allowed this program to—”
“Sark’s out!” shouted Tron, cutting through the rantings of the MCP.
“SARK!” it persisted. Tron, looking for the Memory Guards, saw that they’d fled, unwilling to face the Champion who’d destroy the mighty Sark. The MCP’s face shone in fiery reds.
Tron spotted Dumont against the wall, nearly gone into the cessation of de-rezzing. He raced to Dumont’s side and the MCP’s face seemed to follow him, sliding around the wall of the cylinder to keep him under surveillance. Tron made a futile attempt to pull Dumont from the wall. It was useless. “Dumont!”
Dumont mustered a last iota of strength. “No, Tron. Must destroy—MCP first.”
Tron shouted, trying to keep the old Guardian focused. “Dumont! Where’s Yori? Where’s Flynn?”
He could barely hear Dumont’s answer. “Left on the Carrier—erased.” No, not yet! Tron knew; a portion of the craft still endured. But the MCP had to be dealt with first, or everything else would be in vain.