Tron walked through the City with a purposeful stride, hunting for Chip. Despite the mind-bending display of lights and subcall-bending display of humming energy paths that the City presented, Tron did not find it difficult to locate the administrative program. He merely sought out gatherings of programs and listened for Chip's excited, husky voice. Sure enough, he found Chip in the middle of such a gathering, speaking earnestly to three dignified, middle-aged programs who stood slightly closer to him that the rest - the rest looking at Chip dubiously, muttering among themselves with a static-y crackle. Tron walked closer, listening.

"Ah, but you're acting like you don't owe your Users anything!" he heard Chip said to the trio. Chip hooked his thumbs into the belt of his tunic, standing with easy grace.

"And just what do we owe them?" one of the trio growled. "They abandoned us. We won our own freedom. We will spend it as we like."

"You won your freedom with the help of The Users Alan1 and Flynn! And don't forget that the MCP harmed The Users, too," Chip replied, his genial manner not slipping. "We have the opportunity to refresh our connections with our Users and begin a new era - hello, Tron - of productivity."

A program so handsome that he was almost beautiful made his way up from the gathering crowd, looking down his nose at the other three programs. "That is the truth. Of course, my User is exemplary - a man who stands head and shoulders above all others." He smiled smugly. "All of you would benifit from serving him for a while."

Tron watched the crowd of programs warily. This one-on-one evangelism was, he thought, perhaps not the best way to go about winning over programs and forming an administrative structure. Of course, this was not his programmed skill set, not at all; he had been made for action. He should trust Chip.

"All Users are equal in the eyes of their creations," Chip was saying. "We serve the needs of The Users, whatever those may be."

The handsome program barked an unamused laugh. "You are surely not implying that the needs of other Users should be counted equal to the need of my User..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tron caught a movement and a flash of blue. As quickly as a surge of current, he knocked Chip aside, deflecting the flying blue disc with his own. As it ricocheted, he slapped it aside, then threw his own disc at the program who stood, legs akimbo, a space suddenly open around him as other programs fell back. Tron's disc hit him squarely in the chest, and he de-resed with a desultory electronic squawk.

Tron guided the disc as it arced back into his hand. He held it for a moment, letting information about the terminated program flow from it into his hands. Chip struggled to his feet, asking, breathlessly, "What the hell?" Tron tuned him out, processing the data the disc was feeding him. The one he had terminated had been a very simple program - a spell-check. But there was something else to it, some taste...

Tron replaced his disc and straightened. "Come with me. We have to get back to the I/O tower."

Chip started to protest, but shut his mouth as soon as he saw the look on Tron's face. He held out his hand and let himself be pulled as Tron trotted away, the muttering, gossiping, now-suspicious crowd parting in front of him with many guarded glances.

------

Flynn jogged down the stairs and across the carpeted floor, thundering to a stop and hanging his head over the cubicle that was his destination. Bradley stared intently at his screen inside of it, his fingers flying over the keyboard, the tappity of the keys so swift that it blended into a staccato tone.

"Whatinhell are you doing, Alan?"

Bradley paused, pushing his chair back and looking up at Flynn. "What?"

"What is up with this restricted access? People were just starting to get back to work!" It had taken long enough to get the MCP-less system back up, running, and accessible, and now Bradley wanted to shut it down again?

"The system has a virus, Flynn."

Flynn's mouth dropped. He shut it again, then started to sputter. "Who? What? How?" One of the employees? Dear lord, why?

"I don't know." Bradley sighed and spun his chair around, leaning back to face Flynn's Kilroy-stance head. "I just got a report from the Tron program of suspicious activity. Suspend all nonessential programs - that includes your Chip - and I'll send Tron out to hunt down and wipe out the virus. I'm writing additional subroutines for him right now."

Flynn shook his head. "I'm not going to shut down the administrative program I just started because someone tossed a bug in the system! You're my best programmer - wipe that thing out." Flynn turned and stalked back down the hallway. He was not going to be a popular boss if one of his first moves on taking over would be to shut down access to the computer system that underlay the whole damn company. He ignored the grumbles that Bradley delivered to his back.

------

Tron stepped away from the I/O port. He paused for a moment, adjusting. His mind was whirling. He had communicated directly with his User twice, now. Had any program ever been so fortunate? The second time had been no less ecstatic and fulfilling than the first. Alan1 had upgraded him with new subroutines - purpose-driven subroutines flitted around inside of him, settling into their place, creating an even more harmonious whole out of himself. Ah, purpose! He had a purpose again, and he could see his circuits glow with the excitement that gave him.

"How long is he going to take?" Tron heard Chip grouse.

"Patience, my son," Dumont muttered.

Tron walked out, practically springing from step to step. He could not stand still. Purpose, purpose! "Alan1 has assigned me to find and destroy this virus. I will." He spoke with deadly finality.

Chip glanced around at him. "I'm coming with." His attitude was somewhere between anxious and irate. Well, he had just been the target of an attempted assassination - but Dumont had control over the I/O temple. No violence would be done to Chip as long as he remained there, Tron was sure.

"You're just going to slow me, Chip. You'll be safe here, with Dumont."

"How do you know?" Chip asked, folding his arms and staring assertively. "It might want the I/O port! Another virus might come from the I/O port!"

From the I/O port? Tron could believe no such thing. That was the link to The Users, and viruses did not come from The Users! Come to think of it, where did they come from? Tron started to feel dizzy as he pondered that problem, and was relieved when Dumont's voice broke into his thoughts. "We must now and again sacrifice for our Users."

"Not me!" snorted Chip. His cerebral circuits glowed as an idea came to mind. "I won't slow you if I can interface and share your abilities."

That was a bad idea on more levels than Tron could entirely grasp. He had not been designed to interface, and his abilities were not ones meant to be shared. Surely Alan1 had good reason for making him so. "Chip..." he protested, but Chip had already grabbed his arms. Block him out, Tron thought. Simple enough. He was built to do that, to maintain his own program's self-integrity. But the affection he had felt for Flynn welled up as he stared at Flynn's creation, looking too helpless (why had Flynn made his program so?), and that affection would not let him say no. Before Tron entirely comprehended the progression of the process, Chip had begun the interface.

It was like nothing Tron has experienced before; a sense of the other sliding in, foreign subroutines sliding under and over and through his own, this distinct perspective taking his mind. But it was not just any other; it was Chip, and the routines had his taste, his flavor - one that felt like a still pond of pure power source, the smooth solder of a fresh join, the brush of drawn gold wire. Tron barely noticed when his vision went gray, and it took a moment to remember who and where he was. He was on a stairway; an old man was holding his cheeks in frail, wrinkled hands. "Are you all right, my boy?" a concerned voice asked.

Tron sat up. Yes, his name was Tron, wasn't it? He felt almost giddy. An odd attitude was coursing through him - a playfulness, almost. He recognized the source of it as foreign to him; it came from the subroutines that Chip had shared with him. His nature did not let him absorb those, integrate them into his own runtime, but they played at the back of his mind, almost tickling. He let them. With no further interface, they would fade in good time.

Tron looked around. Chip was standing off to the side, his back straighter than usual, his manner haughtier. He looked at his arms, glowing a bright blue, breathing, "Wow. This is incredible! The focus, the abilities... this is just something else!" He suddenly laughed, the sound brash and loud in the echoing temple. "Let's go get 'em!"

Tron stood, testing his feet, feeling two systems of balance wanting to control them. Chip practically skipped towards the door, and Tron turned to follow. Before he did, Dumont reached out to grasp Tron's arm. "Be careful. We lost too many good programs under the MCP. I would not want to lose you to the first challenge of the free system."

Tron squeezed the hand on his arm, speechlessly. With a nod at Dumont, he pulled the hand off of his arm and followed Chip.