Tron Legacy (5 page)

SAM REVVED THE ENGINE ON HIS DAD’S LIGHT CYCLE
. The chopper may have been vintage, but it moved. Which was good. Sam didn’t have any time to waste. He had to get to Zuse.

Sam streaked a blazing path across the Outlands’ ebony landscape. Everything except the skyline in the distance was carbon black. Sam focused on the flickering energy of the grid’s main city, glowing with unique particles of light.

As the lights grew brighter, Sam spotted a long, narrow bridge. He crossed it, entering into what Quorra told him was referred to as the Old City.

The streets were tangled and twisted here, but Sam didn’t feel lost. This part of the city’s digital metropolis was a reflection of the real one he’d lived in all his life. On the other hand, Sam noticed some disturbing differences.

This Old City showed more decay than the one back home. The roving Sentries and barbed wire looked wrong to Sam, too. But he recognized the layout well enough. He even knew that with a few turns he would be at his dad’s arcade—or at least this digital domain’s version of it.

“This is a restricted area,” a metallic voice boomed through the dreary streets. “Authorized programs only. violators without functionality or residence confirmation will be deleted…”

Sam noticed Sentries up ahead. They were stopping passing programs and checking their disc Ids.

Better look for cover, Sam thought.

He ducked into an alley across from Flynn’s arcade. As he parked his dad’s cycle, he noticed a destitute program sleeping nearby. Sam traded his blue arena baton for the defeated program’s ragged poncho. disguised now, Sam ventured onto the main street.

“Sam Flynn?”

Turning, he recognized the pretty program approaching him. This was the head Siren, the same living statue who had helped Sam suit up before he entered the arena. She looked more conventional now, wearing street clothes and carrying an umbrella.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “You gave me some advice.”

“And you followed it. I’m glad,” the Siren said with a smile. “It’s unfortunate we met the way we did.”

“Yeah. Can I have my jeans back?” Sam asked.

“I am off duty now,” the Siren replied.

“Well, you have a good night,” he said, turning to go.

The Siren stopped him. “You’re looking for someone?”

Sam froze. “What makes you say that?”

The Siren plucked Quorra’s holographic card out of his hand. “Intuition,” she replied flatly.

Just then, two armored Sentries appeared at the end of the block. The Siren pulled Sam into the shadows.

“I can help you, Sam Flynn,” she whispered. “I know what you are looking for, and your other options don’t strike me as particularly attractive.” The Siren’s gaze drifted to the Sentries.

Sam nodded once. The Siren took Sam’s hand and led him away, out of the Old City and toward the new.

Back in the Outlands, Kevin awoke with a start. Sensing something was wrong, he got out of bed. In his bare feet he padded to where his son was supposed to be sleeping.

Sam was gone—and so was the vintage Light Cycle.

Kevin knew Sam could never have gotten out of the safe house without help. He summoned Quorra.

She found Kevin on the veranda staring out at the flickering lights of the metropolis. “The city is bright tonight,” he said. “Clu is excited to see me.”

Quorra flinched. He knows I helped Sam. did something happen? The city lights were brighter than ever. Spotlight beams stabbed at the black sky. Quorra could see squadrons of air Sentries assembling above the city’s towers.

Suddenly she became frightened. Clu knew Sam was on the grid! He was marshaling his forces.

“Thank you for bringing my son to me,” Kevin said quietly. Then he touched a button on his belt. Thick, plasma-laced armor morphed around him. Battle boots encased his bare feet. The data disc Clu wanted appeared on Kevin’s back. It glowed steadily in the shadowy light.

“You can’t go,” Quorra pleaded. “Sam is going to be okay. I sent him to someone we can trust.”

But Kevin activated his faceplate. “I don’t expect you to understand. There’s no other choice.”

Kevin’s face looked almost ghostly inside the illuminated helmet. “Chaos,” he said with a strange smile, looking at the flashing lights and assembling army. “That’s good news.”

SAM FOLLOWED THE SIREN
to a towering building. He craned his neck. The top of the building was pulsating with light. A symbol flashed in the brilliant neon. It was the same symbol he’d seen on Quorra’s holographic data card.

Walking inside, Sam and the Siren boarded a glass elevator. She pressed the only button and the doors closed. The elevator soundlessly ran up the side of the colossal building. Sam marveled at the view. Not even the Encom Tower was as high as this monolith.

The elevator finally stopped. The doors opened and Sam’s jaw dropped.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

The Siren took his hand. Her eyes were burning with a strange inner light. “This is the End of Line Club, Sam Flynn,” she said. Then she tugged on Sam’s hand, pulling him into the massive club.

The interior was vast and multileveled. verandas, balconies—even floating islands—were crowded with programs. Helmeted DJs played music from a booth overlooking the kaleidoscopic floor.

The jam masters used color and light along with sound. Everything pulsated with different hues and shades. Even the programs changed color with the throbbing beat.

As Sam struggled to process this strange place, the Key Siren led him to the neon bar. They passed a row of Sentries sipping energy drinks. At the sight of the guards, Sam tensed with alarm.

“Relax,” she said. “The Sentries are occupied.”

She pointed out other Sirens just like her. They were sitting next to the Sentries, whispering to them.

Sam nodded and continued to follow the Siren. She led him to the base of a high platform at the center of the vast club. The platform was heavily guarded by grim-faced programs. They stood, arms folded and staring straight ahead, as the party flowed around them like ocean waves around giant boulders.

A man sat on the platform they were guarding. He wore a formal tailcoat and a top hat. He spun a cane in his left hand. His hair was white, his face the same pale color, and his clothes a startling white as well. He was like no program Sam had ever seen.

“His name is Castor,” the Siren told Sam. “If you want to speak to Zuse, you have to go through him.”

Sam noticed the wall of guards parting. A tough-looking program climbed the platform stairs. Pixels were missing in his face and neck—this world’s version of a hideous scar.

“That’s Bartik. Bartik the Anarchist,” someone close to Sam whispered, pointing to his scarred face.

Bartik crossed the high platform and approached Castor. down in the crowd, Bartik’s gang watched the meeting with interest. So did Sam. He moved closer to hear what the two were saying.

“Have a sense of humor, my friend,” Castor began. “It’s only a revolution.”

Plasma pulsated through Bartik’s armor. “I didn’t come here for entertainment,” he snapped. “It’s time. You can feel it. The boy’s on the grid. He’s spurred hope.”

Sam tensed. They were talking about him.

Bartik pointed to the windows. “The eastern sky is alight!”

Castor sighed. “And you wish me to ask Zuse to rally the troops? Stir the masses? rouse the rabblers? Am I right?”

“Programs are disappearing, Castor,” Bartik said. “Soon none of us will be left. We need to strike now. Unite the factions. Encourage revolution!”

“Of course, Zuse can do these things,” Castor said, stifling a yawn.

“Then grant me an audience,” Bartik pleaded.

Castor yawned deeply. “Your enthusiasm is intoxicating, dear Bartik, but Zuse’s time is more than precious. We shall see…”

The Siren turned to Sam. “Wait here.”

He watched her move up the stairs. The guards never questioned her, and that surprised him. She leaned close to Castor and whispered in his ear.

Castor glanced quickly at Sam, then took a harder look. Finally, he turned to Bartik and said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I have to attend to something. But have a drink. Courtesy of End of Line.”

Castor stepped down off the platform and walked right up to Sam. The programs around them suddenly got quiet. Sam felt like every program in the club was watching them, including Bartik and his gang. He wanted to shrink into his dirty poncho. But Castor hooked a thin arm around Sam’s.

“Come away from these primitive functions,” Castor cooed, leading him back onto the platform.

Castor glanced at him once more, his eyes filled with curiosity…and something else Sam couldn’t pinpoint. “The Son of Flynn!” Castor gushed as they walked. “Of all the innumerable possibilities, of all the places he could have chosen, he just happens to walk into mine!”