Tron by Brian Daley

thrust aside doubts, and thoughts of colossal, shining beings who’d shaped and directed the System in times past. The User was, after all, no great issue.
    He finished, “You will each receive an identity disk. Everything you do or learn will be imprinted on this disk. If you lose your disk or fail to follow commands, you will be subject to immediate de-resolution. That is all.”
    Now all the conscripts were directed to look down into the arena. Flynn saw that, far below, a game— a duel , he corrected himself—was about to begin. Arrayed against a lone conscript were four of the Red Warrior Elite. Sparkling, spinning circles of light flashed and flew between them, and Flynn, recalling Sark’s mention of disks, watched in fascination.
    Not that it’s likely to do you much good, he thought regarding the unfortunate program who fought alone, but I’m for you. Believe what you want to believe! Get ’em!

T RON HELD HIS disk lightly, his weight forward on the balls of his feet, and met the gaze of his enemies.
    They tried their best to show him nothing but ferocity, but none of them could conceal a degree of doubt. This was no hapless accounting program they faced; the very fact that there were four of them against him was proof of that.
    And, they all knew the reputation of Tron, the independent, the User-Believer. By recanting his belief, Tron could have earned himself high rank, perhaps become the equal of Sark, or even supplanted him. In the minds of the four Reds, Tron knew by now, would be the same thought: if they’d had his prowess, they wouldn’t have wasted it defending their beliefs. That was a vast irony to him; they would never understand how his convictions and his abilities were intertwined.
    Two Warriors went into casting positions. “Go,” one called. From that crouch they released, with snapping, side-on casts. The disks came, one low, one high. Tron went into a defensive posture, his own disk held before him in both hands, vertically, one leg set behind him now for balance. Calculating angles and speeds, he saw nothing else, thought of nothing else, but the weapons racing toward him.
    He deflected the first with a crash of discharging energy, and it wobbled away, spent. But he had no time to watch it, and lowered his disk instantly to deflect the second. That one, too, rebounded from Tron’s disk. He launched a quick counterattack, throwing at one of the now unarmed Reds. His disk caught the Red, opening a wound in him, with a corona burst. The wound roiled with escaping energy, showing signs of de-rezzing.
    Flynn looked on, amazed; it was a far cry from his arcade. And that User-Believer! Flynn could only admire the sure, quick movements, the complete control and unthinking agility.
    Another conscript, seeing his expression, indicated the lone combatant. “See that Warrior? One hundred and ten wins, no losses.”
    Flynn nodded, not doubting it a bit. But all the duelists had their disks back now, and the four Reds, the wounded one included, were circling their enemy. As much as Flynn admired the User-Believer’s skill, he didn’t see how the program could win.
    Far down on the arena floor, one of the Elite yelled, “Waste him!” Crouched, expectant, nerves thrumming, Tron waited. All four hurled their disks at the same moment.
    Tron ducked, dodged to one side, and blocked one disk with his own. The others passed through the air where he’d been standing a moment before. Tron instantly threw, and struck a Red Warrior who screamed as he was hit. The Red de-rezzed in a searing release of energy as the aura of Tron’s weapon spread over him, replacing his own red one.
    Tron straightened, took his disk as it returned to him. Holding it in a practiced attack grip, he pivoted, and cast. The Red who was his target saw, tried to elude the whirling plate of light, but failed. Struck, he crumpled backward; the shimmering scan lines and crackling static of his own de-rezzing were the last things he