Tron by Brian Daley

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