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Chapter Text

The voices woke him up – adults, and muffled enough that he couldn't tell if they were arguing or just really excited. Unable to go back to sleep, and curious to know what was going on, Jethro rolled out of bed and walked to the bedroom door, putting his ear to it.

“Science, medicine, religion...rewrite everything!”

“We've been...Sure? The Shiva laser...years ago. Without...Control...”

One of the voices was his father, but putting his ear to the door wasn't helping him follow the conversation. His room had a second door that opened up into the bathroom, so he decided to go through that one and open that door instead of his bedroom one. If Pop asked, he was just getting a drink of water.

The bathroom door was thankfully ajar. Jethro cracked it open just a hair more and he was able to hear the conversation.

Below the mezzanine, Alan was trying to wrap his brain around what Flynn was saying. Someone who didn't know Flynn would have mistaken him for drunk or high, and with the things Alan was hearing, he wasn't entirely sure that was off the mark.

“Gibbs was right the entire time. The whole thing was right under our noses, and we just didn't see because it was too obvious.” Flynn was giddy.

“I don't know,” he admitted skeptically. “Even with the Master Control Program, we never worked out all the bugs in that project. I thought the whole thing was canceled when Gibbs passed away and Lora left for DC. You mean to tell me that -”

“Believe it, man. I have a couple more bugs to work out, and I don't want to spill a lot of the details, but I think I've cracked it.”

Alan got off the chair and gripped his friend's shoulders. “And I think you might be cracking up! Look at you – haven't shaved in days, probably haven't slept in that long, either. I don't even want to think about the last time you might have had a meal. You've worked yourself to the point of collapse between those ungrateful bastards in the boardroom and whatever you've been doing on the side. More times than I want to admit, I've had to watch you...” Alan's voice trailed off. “Please, Flynn. I can't keep watching you try to kill yourself like this.”

That seemed to bring Flynn down from his euphoria. Sighing, he put his own hands on Alan's shoulders. “I'm not trying to kill myself, Alan. I'll be okay. But thanks for worrying anyway.”

“I will hold you to that,” Alan said with a sigh, dropping his hands. “Remember that you have Sam to consider, all right?”

“He never leaves my mind, but...” Flynn stepped back and began to rifle through his pockets, pulling out a brand-new pager and tossing it over. Alan barely caught it. “Okay. I run my final tests and I'll give you a page. Sleep with that thing if you have to.”

As Alan looked up to catch the pager, he saw Jethro on the steps. “Jethro, what are you doing out of bed?”

“You guys woke me up,” Jethro said. “Hi, Uncle Kevin.”

Flynn grinned. “Hey, Jet. C'mon down. At least give me a hug before you trot off to bed.”

Jethro almost took the stairs two at a time to come down and give Flynn an enthusiastic hug. “Can I come too?”

“Come where, Jet?”

“I wanna see it too, the stuff you're working on.”

Alan chuckled. “Jethro, I'm sure you don't want to sit through one of our board meetings.”

“Not that, the other stuff. Can I see it?”

“Only if your dad comes along with you, okay? Now, get your butt back to bed.”

Jethro looked very reluctant to be sent out of the conversation, but acquiesced, stopping to give his father a hug as well before walking back up the stairs. Flynn watched until the bedroom door closed.

“I swear, the kid reminds me more of Lora the older he gets.”

“And here I thought it was just me,” Alan said. “But please – whatever it is, it can wait until morning. Go home, Flynn. Spend some time with Sam, make sure to get some rest and a meal that isn't out of a Styrofoam box.”

“I'll take you up on that, actually. And remember to keep that pager on you, buddy. Because when it's ready, you'll be the first to know.”

Alan watched his friend leave, hop on his motorcycle, and drive off into the night. It would be the last time either he or Jet saw him alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

March 3, 2010

13:32 PST

Several of the longest-serving employees had already remarked on how much Jethro “Jet” Bradley looked like his father. He had the same height and broad shoulders, the same high cheekbones and light brown hair (though his father's had gone gray). His jawline and nose favored his mother's genetics, along with his blue eyes.

He grew up in the shadow of Encom. His mother had taken a Department of Defense contract that kept her in Washington DC more often than not, but she was once considered “apprentice” to the company founder before Gibbs passed away from a stroke in 1983. His father had once been the CEO, taking up the mantle reluctantly for his vanished friend, only to have the sharks upstairs try to railroad him into early retirement with busywork and a token title. And of course, there was his godfather; the most famous unsolved mystery of the 1980's.

The bad news was that the economy forced him into taking a job at Encom to avoid another poverty-wage temp contract. The good news was that the game department didn't make an issue of what large shoes he didn't want to fill.

The lunch room on the lab floor wasn't the most spacious or the most quiet, but it was the one with the Tron arcade game. Jet had already eaten (if you could count a cup of noodles as “eating”) and was engrossed in the light cycle level. He jerked the stick left and right, making a spike in the trail and cutting off the first opponent. Veering down, he began to accelerate towards the second.

See the patterns, feel the patterns. The rest is all in the wrist. The advice was just as true now as it was when he was a kid begging for arcade tokens. Whether it was a classic like this one or the latest update to the Steampunk Arcanum MMO he just sent Patrick, the same logic applied. There was always a pattern to a computer game, always a way to “see” an AI's actions before they were made. Find the pattern and the game was defeated.

“Jet?” It was one of the techs, a new guy he still didn't know the name of. “Do you think your dad would mind if I had some of his popcorn?”

The mention of his father startled Jet enough that he made a turn a nanosecond too late and crashed his sprite into a wall. Game over.

“Uh, sure. Have all you want,” he said.

As if on cue, his cell phone rang. Jet glanced at it – just the number he wasn't looking forward to getting a call from. Well, might as well tie on the blindfold and prepare for the firing squad. He hit the green key. “Yeah?”

“Patrick told me. I'm a little surprised you turned down the level six programming position.”

Yep, exactly the conversation he didn't want to have on his lunch break. Jet sighed, “Look, Pop. I know you're disappointed...”

“Damn right I'm disappointed,” Alan said harshly. “I pulled a lot of strings to get you that offer.”

Strings you shouldn't have pulled without asking me first! “I'm happy making games. Life's short, Pop. I plan to enjoy it.”

An exasperated sigh over the line. “You sound like Flynn.”

Jet tried not to tense up. Was his father just trying to push his buttons? He bit back a “Which one? The one that left you holding the bag dealing with those cutthroats upstairs or the one who hides in a storage shed and only comes out to do publicity stunts?” and didn't dignify the comment with a reply.

“Hold on, son,” Alan said. Jet heard over the line. “Ma3a, results of security diagnostic?”

The mechanical, vaguely female, voice said what the terminal in the lab would have shown. “A virus has entered the system via email. Lab drives one, two, and four are infected.”

“Jet, we'll have to continue this later,” Alan said.

Before Jet could hang up, he heard the sound of a door crashing open.

“This is a restricted area,” Alan said. “You can't just come barging in here.” There was the sound of footsteps and a metallic clatter.

“Dad?” Jet asked, worried.

There was another crash and the sound of a struggle. “Get your hands off me! What do you think -”

“Dad! Can you hear me?”

The line went to dial tone. Jet looked over his shoulder at the tech who had grabbed a fist full of popcorn. “Tell Patrick up in games that something's wrong with my dad. I'm going to go check. Which lab is he using?”

“Three,” the man said.

Jet was already running.

2.0

Lab Three was a mess – papers scattered everywhere, the desk phone unplugged and on the floor, the office chair lying several feet away, wheels still spinning in the air.

“Ma3a, what happened in here? Where's my father?”

“Alan-2, I require immediate assistance,” the AI answered. Normally, the designation made him cringe – it was the sysadmin's idea of a bad joke.

He couldn't get a cell phone signal in the underground bunker of a room. Hunching over the desk, Jet tried to plug the phone back in to call 911 while checking the terminal readout. “Talk to me, Ma3a. What do you mean?” Jet was still trying to plug in the phone. One of the lines had been hacked apart with a box knife. He would need another cable.

“Contingency Protocol activated. Laser activity in five seconds.”

Laser?

“Ma3a, stop what you're doing!” Frantically, he began to try and access the subroutines on the lab server, finding his father's security protocols thwarting access to anything relevant. Damn it!

“Put on goggles and clear digitizing bay.”

“What?! Ma3a, abort. You hear me? Ab -!”

Jet didn't finish the sentence. The beam struck him from above, disassembling his body one voxel at a time.

The world went to white, then blue, then to colors and patterns there were no words to describe. Finally, all went dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Encom Lab Server 3

Laser testing RAID arra y

**Virus Alert**

Subject: **Virus Alert**
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Mar-03-2010

Unfortunately, not everyone has updated to the new virus protection software and as a result, an unknown virus type has corrupted many systems on Group Seven lab server.

We're working on the problem right now. Until further notice, do not download or upload files to the central source code server. We are doing our best to quarantine the virus, but its aggressive nature is making it extremely difficult. It's really unlike anything we have ever seen before.

Thank you for your patience,
IT Department

2.0

The next thing he was truly aware of was that he was on his back, staring up at a dark ceiling in a room that seemed to glow turquoise (no visible light fixtures, the walls themselves were glowing). Jet reached up for his face, feeling for his glasses, and blinked when he couldn't find them. Strange – things didn't look blurry, nor did he get the eyestrain headache he would expect without them. Pulling himself up, that's when he got a good look at his arms.

His jeans and button-down shirt were gone. In its place was something that looked like spandex or vinyl, striped with lines of blue-white. A large patch, vaguely triangular in shape, took up most of his chest. “Ma3a? What did you do?!”

Jet scowled at the lack of an answer. Was he just having one of those dreams brought on by falling asleep at the keyboard after a peperoni pizza binge and seventy-two hours of straight coding? If that was the case, it was bizarre and realistic even by those standards.

“So you are a User. Fascinating.” A voice that sounded like it was processed through an old Moog startled him out of his thoughts. Jet swiveled his head, looking for whoever spoke. The only thing in the room with him was an object that looked like a floating crystal paperweight, glowing from the inside with the same shade of blue as was on his suit.

He was not sure whether to answer it back. The little glowing paperweight continued to speak, its shape pulsing from smooth to spiky with its vocal cadence. “Well, User, now that you've been digitized, you can think of me as your tour guide to this world inside the computer...”

Jet pinched the bridge of his nose, too confused to piece together a coherent sentence. There was something...familiar about this place, like he'd seen or heard about it somewhere.

“There are a few crucial functions you'll have to learn if you hope to survive if you hope to survive the System,” it said.

'Survive' sounded ominous, but a lot better than the alternative. If nothing else, he needed to figure out what in the hell was going on! His 'tour guide' flew into a socket on the wall and a door slid open. Cautiously, Jet stepped out into what seemed to be a main room. It was circular in shape, the walls and floor glowing gently. About a half-dozen people, dressed in the same strange combination of skintight, neon-striped spandex were working on terminals. Some were talking among themselves with worry.

Jet walked up to one that was crossing the room. “Excuse me, can you tell me what's going on?”

The man looked at him strangely. “You must have been offline for cycles, Program! Six more sub-directories on this server have been compromised. The corruption managed to slip past our scheduled scans – obviously an inside job.”

Jet cocked his head. “Sorry, I've just been...transferred here.”

“Your User must have been trying to move you to a protected area ahead of the attack. You're probably still disoriented from the transport. At least we're holding our own, but I don't know for how long.”

Jet started piecing it together. The last things he recalled clearly before waking up here were his father gone, the lab a mess, and trying to pull up the security records only to find a massive virus had hit Encom's email servers and had corrupted the security files.

Inside the computer, though? The Gibbs-Lisberger theory said that parallel worlds were a mathematical possibility. That's why the Shiva laser was constructed in the first place...Okay, theory proven. Somewhere from his eternal reward, Old Man Gibbs was dancing a jig. As for the rest? Well, he considered himself to be pretty good about “roll with it now, details later, panic last.” That had been an effective survival method when he had found himself roped into whatever wild idea Sam wanted to pull off.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah,” said the other man. “Head to the archive bin in the other room and download the correct permissions to run the firewalls. We'll probably need an extra hand if node seven collapses.”

The “archive bin” seemed to be little more than a glass box with small glowing shapes in it – green squares, yellow spheres, triangles of blue – all about the size of his palm. He grabbed a blue triangle, and felt something pull into him. At least, that was the best way he could describe it. A circular pattern on his right forearm that was curiously dark before had a small section light up. Curious, he grabbed another, and the same pulling sensation happened, along with another lit patch. He grabbed a third and looked carefully in it, seeing a circle of blue and white, some sections dim and others lighting up. As the third's contents seemed to drain from its shell and leave a tingling through the circuits on his arm, Jet saw a third section light up.

Standing up, he walked to the nearest door. Part of the sigil on his arm lit blue, but one section lit up in red. The door remained closed. Rummaging back through the bin, he pulled out one that looked to have the correct section and absorbed it. Placing his hand on the panel again, all the sections lit up and the door slid open.

So that's how it works. Collect the right set of keys, open the locks.

The little glowing paperweight floated to just over his shoulder. “Archive bins contain permissions, emails, and subroutines. Permissions are used to access other bins, activate I/O nodes or open locks. Emails and subroutines will probably not be as important.”

“Why not?”

“Reading data meant for others is considered bad behavior on the System, and I doubt the User world views snooping any more favorably.”

Jet rolled his eyes. “What do you know about the 'User world' anyway?”

“I am Ma3a's assistant, and she sees all at Encom – including Users. I find your kind to be quite insane. Ha ha ha.” For something that spoke in monotone, the “tour guide” was amazingly sarcastic.

He made a show of rifling through the bin some more to ignore his 'guide's' sarcasm. What was that old gaming adage? 'Take whatever isn't nailed down and then check for loose nails.' Speaking of games, the floating shape reminded him of something...

“So, what are you exactly? A bit?”

“A Bit? Hah!” said the shape. “I am a Byte. Ma3a would not send a simple Bit to perform a Byte's job. Let me tell you, Mister!”

Jet looked up. “Okay, can you take me to Ma3a, then? I've got a lot of questions to ask her.”

“Yes. She has requested your presence at the I/O room. She has an urgent message for you.”

That got Jet to his feet. “Urgent? Well, I hope she explains to me what's going on. Lead the way.”

He was lead down a short hallway into a small room. Byte explained further. “Among Programs, communication with one's User is to be done in private, and it is highly ritualized. Seeing as you are a User, and we are in a state of emergency, we will dispense with the usual formalities. Communication between Programs on the system takes place at public I/O nodes.“

“How will I know if someone's calling me?” As if in answer, Jet was suddenly struck with a feeling like a phantom tug on his arm and an overwhelming sense to go beyond the door.

“That is how.”

Jet walked forward, the door sealing shut behind him. The room itself was nothing special – just a raised dais lit with a small white circle. He took a step toward it and the room lit up with elaborate mosaics of color and light, the dais in the center becoming a solid column of white light. Pulled along by the odd compulsion, Jet stepped into the light, and was surprised by the fact that it wasn't painful to his eyes.

Connecting to I/O Tower...

Jet saw a strange figure in the column of light with him, appearing as a woman in a long, flowing golden gown and an elaborate gold mask. Jet never thought something so surreal could be that beautiful. “Alan-2. It is good that you have arrived safely.”

“Ma3a? Is that you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Though you are seeing me only in projection. My influence is limited due to the damage the corruption has caused, but I will offer support and help as I can.”

He blinked in disbelief. “So, I'm really inside the lab server? And did you do this to my father?”

“Alan-1's location is unknown to me. He is no longer inside the Encom Tower. Unfortunately, security cameras for Lab Three were corrupted by the viral attack two minutes before Alan-1 vanished.”

Jet shuddered. That couldn't be good. “Just great. Tell me about this virus. I've heard the other people...Programs...talk about some kind of attack.”

Ma3a opened her hand, a small green cube floated above her palm. Hesitantly, Jet touched it and felt the information literally download into his mind.

2.0

A cloaked humanoid figure, riddled with yellow-green fissures all over gray skin could be seen towered over the terrified Program brought before him. The guards were just as twisted as their boss – their circuitry lines lit up in the same yellow-green, their faces and shells decayed by signs of corruption.

“Please...” the undamaged script begged. “I...I don't understand what you want -”

“You have permissions I require,” the monstrosity bellowed. “State your directive!”

“I'm just a simple email courier. I'm behind on my deliveries this cycle.”

“I know what you are and what you will become.” What could generously be called a hand slipped out from under the robe, generating a cloud of sickly-colored energy.

The guards snatched the hapless email script. “No! No...What are you...? No!”

The cloud surrounded the email Program, the blue of his circuitry lines bleeding away into the corrupted yellow-green.

“The Users have forgotten you. Only I remain.”

2.0

The vision ended and Jet almost fell over. “What was that?”

“That was the last visual my field agents were able to transmit before they were derezzed.” The white light surrounding them began to flicker.

A voice boomed through the complex. “Code alert. Corruption has breached firewall. Attention!”

“There is not much time. You must be synchronized with an identity disc before proceeding further.”

“A disc? What do I need a disc for?”

A blue ball of light above her other hand “A disc is your identifier and primary tool in the system. Everything you do or learn will be imprinted on your disk. Without one, you will be considered a rogue element and subject to immediate deresolution. It will also serve as your primary defense against the corruption. A subroutine with combat protocols has already been uploaded.”

Something about this was unreal and too real – familiar and strange all at the same time. He reached out and took the disc from Ma3a. Something jolted through him and his circuit lines flashed bright silver for a moment before fading back to blue-white. A white-gold mist around him solidified into a bizarre type of plate armor – curiass, arm guards, greaves, helmet – made of a substance that was so light as to not impede movement, but took a solid blow from his fist when he smacked it experimentally. The circuitry from his suit faithfully rendered on the armoring.

Ma3a's image began to waver as the light around them sputtered. “The corruption is spreading. Save yourself while you still can!”

“Ma3a, wait!”

The light sputtered and went out entirely like a spent candle. Jet clutched the disk in his hands, feeling its cold, almost ceramic, edges.

He ran out of the room and the scene was pandemonium – Programs running in panic everywhere as the sickly yellow corrupted scripts threw blobs of green goo around. The goo hit and let out small explosions. One Program was clutching what remained of her leg as tentacles of green-yellow twisted up her body. She crumbled into nothing before Jet's horrified eyes.

The Program he had been speaking to earlier was on the floor, crawling away from two attackers. “Get away from me!”

His reaction was almost like being in a trance, muscle memory he never had. The disc left his hand seemingly of its own accord and struck the first one in the chest. Jumping out of the way of a pile of green goo hurled his way, the disc was recalled to his hands like magic.

How did I manage to do that?! But there was no time to think about it; more yellow-green Programs were shuffling toward him, trying to hit him with their sticky grenades. He struck again. Over and over, hurling the disc, striking, dodging like a strange dream. See the patterns, feel the patterns...

The last of the invaders crumbled to voxels, but it was too late. There was only one surviving Program, and he was already flickering ominously, one arm shattered like glass and it looked like part of his stomach was gouged out. In his remaining arm, he held a permissions sphere.

“The corruption has overtaken us. Save...save yourself. Evac shuttle in the next sector. Take my permission.”

“Hold on. Is there anything I can do? Do you have a first aid kit or...or something?”

The wounded Program flickered blue and sickly yellow-green as its appearance began to decay. The circuit lines glowed brightly for a final nanosecond before the Program faded away like it never was. Jet grabbed the permission and downloaded it into his arm. There wasn't time to panic, process, or scream – just run.

The walls around him were crumbling and sickly-colored, or covered with corrupted tentacles like a bad Japanese movie. Several frightened and wounded Programs were trying to run away. He passed by one who saw one of his fellows start to turn, and saw the other Program deliver a killing blow with an improvised stick weapon. Other bodies...shells...were yellowing and decaying, lining the halls with victims in one moment, gone the next.

He finally reached the evacuation shuttle – a small, flat barge that was filling up rapidly with terrified Programs. One that looked like a smallish, bald man was shouting behind him. “Romie? Romie? Where are you?” When he got to the shuttle, he looked among the occupants. “Oh, no. He didn't make it!”

“Who's Romie?” Jet asked.

“My second bundled counterpart! We already lost our Aida a sector back, then we got overwhelmed by these Z-lots. He told me to run, and now...He was so young. So many cycles left. ..”

“Get on the transport. I'll try to find him. Which way?”

The Program pointed to a hallway that was covered in corruption to the point where only the ceiling remained untouched. Steeling himself, Jet ran forward.

“Wait! What are you doing?!” Byte asked, still hovering over his shoulder.

“We're gonna save who we can first,” Jet answered, racing forward.

He didn't have to go far – three Z-lots had a blue Program chased up a set of blocks – trapped.

“Surrender to the corruption!” they taunted. “Embrace your Master User!”

Jet hurled his disc in a warning shot, forcing the Z-lots to turn their attention to him. A nanosecond later, he was regretting the decision. He dodged the first attack, but not the second. It hit him in the shoulder like a paintball pellet, a blotch of sickly green on his armor. He fired back, striking the first, and swinging around so that the next shot landed close to the second, the explosion shattering it to pieces. The third came up behind him, and Jet whirled around, disc in hand, and sliced from shoulder to hip. It dissolved in a screech.

The blue-lined Program hopped down from the blocks. “Thanks for saving me. You...” He gasped when he saw the growing patch of sickly green on Jet's shoulder.

Jet knelt. The infected part stung like alcohol on road rash, but the fight took his mind off it. He closed his eyes and he could see the corruption in his mind's eye, a patch of green trying to dance along the edge of a double helix pattern. If he were in any frame of mind to process it, these visions would have unsettled him. Now, he mentally tried to find all the pieces of it and assemble it into a ball, then store the ball away in quarantine.

When he opened his eyes, the corrupted patch was gone, and in his hand was the not-quite formed ball of decaying green and gray code which he tossed aside.

“How can you do that?” the rescued Program breathed. “You're not supposed to be able to -”

Jet chose the shortest explanation he had. “Ma3a brought me to help.”

The Program seemed to swallow hard, not sure what to do next. “I'm Romie. Did...did Marco make it to the shuttle?”

Jet took Romie's arm. “Yeah, he did. Let's go.”

They ran back through the twisted corridors. By now, the transport was almost unstable due to the number of terrified Programs that were crammed onto it. Jet shoved Romie ahead. “Get on board.”

“But there won't be room for you!” Romie protested.

“Byte, is there another way out?”

“Yes, there is but -”

Jet shoved Romie on the transport. “Go!”

As Romie boarded the transport, he slipped something into Jet's hand. “Thank you.”

The transport took off, soaring into the vast digital sky.

“I was about to say,” Byte droned. “That we will have to pass through the power coupling and security program base, meaning that we take our chances with both the Z-lot invasion and the Intrusion Countermeasure Programs.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Subject: Award Announcement
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Mar-03-2010

We are thrilled to announce that our very own Mr. Alan Bradley, has been awarded the highly coveted International Academy of Intelligence Artificielle's 'Digital Pal' award for his latest iteration of Ma3a.

Please join us and Mr. Bradley in the employee lunch room as we proudly present him the award certificate.

Congratulations, Mr. Bradley.

Subject: Award Announcement
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Mar-03-2010

Evidently, Mr. Bradley is not available to attend the award presentation. For those who are interested, a copy of the award certificate will be featured in the next company newsletter.

Senior Management

2.0

Alan had regained consciousness several minutes ago by his own estimation. He couldn't see much of anything and fought down a horrible sense of panic when he realized he was bound up with duct tape and in some kind of box where his head touched one end, his feet touched the other, and his knees were curled into his chest. The enclosed space alone made him shake. He was usually good at disguising how awful his claustrophobia could get, and under the circumstances he could not afford to panic. The last time it had triggered, it was back in 1985. The remodel of Encom Tower hit a snag and the elevator had been caught between floors seven and six, trapping him with Flynn for a good three hours.

“Easy, man. Keep breathing...Deep breaths...You're not alone...” Like every memory of Flynn, it was a mixed blessing. At least the deep breathing was a good idea.

Alan's body ached with each breath. A hood was covering his face, and he was gagged with the same duct tape used to tie his wrists and ankles. Robbery didn't seem to be the motive. While his cell phone, wallet, and the pager were gone, his wedding band and the chain around his neck were untouched. He could feel vibration under him – he was in a moving car.

“You think he's still out?” asked one of his captors.

“Of course he is. He's a middle-aged computer geek, and I gave him a full blast from that Taser. He's out like a light. He's also trussed up good back there. We just deliver him to Crown with the computer parts, and it's out of our hands.”

“You really think this'll work?”

“Encom's biggest shareholder is MIA, so we'll have to get the rest of the holdouts on our side. From there, I'm sure Crown can work his magic to screw the Flynn kid out of his shares.”

“Well, Crown had better pay us for this,” said the first one. “Because for a middle-aged computer geek, he put up a good fight. He knocked out a tooth.”

He could practically hear the other captor shrug. “Maybe once Crown gets what he wants out of this guy, we can take him out and bury him next to Kevin Flynn, how's that?”

The mention of the name, however casual, felt like a punch to the gut. If he were painfully honest with himself, there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't think of his old friend and wonder what the truth behind the disappearance was. He had concluded long ago that Flynn was likely dead; suicide, perhaps. Murdered, very likely. The pager he carried like a saint's medal was a reminder to carry on the work and the ideals behind it, as Flynn had done for Walter Gibbs.

Who would carry on for him?

The car stopped, and he felt the box being jostled and loaded onto a cart of some kind, with more boxes settling on top and around him, pinching the tiny space even tighter. Eventually, he felt himself being unloaded, the box ripping open, and he was yanked out and to his feet. The hood came off and the duct tape on his mouth was ripped off brutally.

The room was a nondescript, windowless conference room that could have been inside any number of anonymous office buildings. A medium-height, African-American man with a strong build was sitting at the table, gloved fingers steepled and hawkish gaze fixed on him. The two thugs forced Alan to sit across from him and blocked the door out.

“Here he is, Mr. Crown.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Alan asked pointedly. “Because kidnapping is still illegal.”

The other man didn't flinch. “My boss knew that you, of all people, would never sign over anything to us willingly. And you have what we need. We get that, and we let you go. You talk afterward, and we'll make sure to find you.”

“Oh, I doubt I have anything you need. I'm not even the CEO anymore. I'm just an old mascot who tinkers in the lab these days.” He almost, but not quite, managed to avoid sarcasm.

“False humility won't get you anywhere, Mr. Bradley. It's come to my employer's attention what you've been working on under the board's nose. We're looking for that and your shares. We are prepared to pay generously...or make you do the same.”

“And what if I said 'no?' I didn't much like my escort here.”

Crown got up and began pacing. “Alan Thomas Bradley. Born September of 1950. Married Doctor Lora Baines in June of 1982. One son, Jethro, that currently works at Encom as a game designer, though he often goes uncredited on his work. Rather...ambiguous relationship with the departed Kevin Flynn. Was the CEO after Flynn's disappearance, but bumped to 'executive consultant' several years later.”

“So you've read the public records on me. Nothing you couldn't obtain from a simple web search.”

Crown stopped pacing and snatched the back of Alan's jacket, bending down to stare him directly in the eye. “It's what isn't on the web searches that my employer wants. We know about 'Flynn Lives.' We also know that back in 1981, you designed one of the first and most advanced pieces of security software ever created. Damn near every anti-virus and system monitor program today was inspired by your work. We also want to talk about the Shiva laser.”

“The Shiva laser project was discontinued when Gibbs passed away,” Alan said. “And all other attempts to replicate it have met with miserable failure. Not even the Department of Defense has been able to re-create it.”

“But you have,” he said pointedly. “And don't lie. We have the security feeds to back it up. You've re-discovered the -”

“You're mistaken,” Alan said. “The bugs have not been worked out. The technology -”

“The technology will be ours. Along with your shares of Encom stock. We will compensate you if you cooperate. Otherwise, we will make you vanish.”

The mention of the laser was all he needed to hear. That technology was too dangerous to leave in the hands of criminals. “I'm not signing anything.”

Crown looked up to his “men,” and signaled them. Alan found himself jerked to his feet again.

“Take our honored guest to the storeroom. Make sure the door's locked. And Mr. Bradley, please behave yourself. My boss does have associates in Washington DC, after all. And from what I understand, your wife's health is very fragile.”

The threat stopped him. He could sacrifice himself if it came down to it, but Lora...

The pair pulled him away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Program Integration Sector 23.6.2

Network ID: Lab Server 3

Login <!Failed>

//Retrying

Login <!Failed>

//

-->(Jet)52.41^^Unauthorized

This was the kind of day a security Kernel dreaded the most. Sectors were collapsing left and right due to the viral attack, and all of his countermeasure tactics were failing.

“Kernel, we've lost contact with section five-beta. The exit port autoexec has been completely cut off.”

“Incompetent scripts!” He scolded his subordinates. “We were given our directives and our function to fight off viral attacks and infiltrator Programs. Send more countermeasures to deal with the threat.”

“We can't – not until that autoexec is fixed. The good news is that our transports arrived to quarantine safely. We are currently scanning all Programs arriving for signs of viral infection.”

“That takes time we don't have. Derez the survivors. This server is not to crash on my watch, and I will take no chances.”

The Kernel’s aide had entered the room several nanoseconds ago, but was not going to interrupt his already enraged superior. “Kernel, we intercepted a transport leaving the infected sectors. A survivor named Romie reports that there is some unknown Program sent by Ma3a herself trying to help the survivors.”

“Make sure this 'Romie' is quarantined. And this unknown factor could be a User for all I care. I'm the one in charge of the server's security – not her. If she was as capable as she claims, this never would have happened. She'll be the one in quarantine if I have anything to say about it. I want this unknown detained or de-rezzed. Preferably the former so I can interrogate him first.”

The aide looked over to the interrogation cage and the decompiler rack, still smelling fresh of ozone from the last unfortunate spark to de-rez on it.

Jet followed Byte through the server maze, jumping over the tentacles and broken areas.

“The exit port is this way, User.”

“It's Jet, Byte. And I still don't understand why Ma3a brought me here.”

“She did not impart that knowledge to me, only said that I was to help you in whatever way I can.”

They came to what looked like a broken road, ending in a cliff just too large for Jet to jump – nor could he leap high enough to grasp the edge. Byte, of course, sailed over it with ease.

“Follow me,” Byte droned.

“I can't get over that cliff. It's too high to jump. Anything I can use for a boost?”

“If you were a Program, I would suggest downloading a Y-amp subroutine to increase your jump height. Unfortunately, you are not...”

Jet pulled the disc from his back. “On a Program, what would they do with the subroutine?”

“Install it on the disc. The disc contains much of the auxiliary code for a Program, including subroutines.”

“Then maybe I can alter my settings.” Jet sat cross-legged and pulled up the display. It looked like his face, floating above the triangle-in-triangle shape located in the disc center. Scowling, he turned the display slightly and a circular display with slots manifested.

“Subroutine install. It would seem that you have the capacity after all.”

Jet touched a part of the display. “Hey, what's this? I got this from Romie when I loaded him on the transport.”

“That is a subroutine – a Y-amp to be exact. Without intending it, Romie gave you the means to escape.”

“This code looks...strange. Like some of the gaming scripts I was working on. Let's see...” With his finger, he dragged the subroutine into one of the slots on his disc, and closed the display. Jet fastened the disk to his arm and felt a jolt, like something was walking on his spine. The moment passed soon enough.

“Here goes something,” he said, stepping backward, and making a running leap for the wall. To his shock, he vaulted the distance easily, landing on the ledge above. It took him a second to process it. In the real world, that wouldn't have worked at all.

“It looks like you not only uploaded the Y-amp subroutine, you were also able to make it more efficient. Perhaps the calculations Ma3a made about Users were accurate after all. Come, this sector will soon be a total loss.”

Jet followed Byte, still not entirely convinced this was real. This looked like some kind of video game nightmare. Two viral scripts blocked the path ahead. Jet pulled the disc and made two quick strikes, silently apologizing.

“Quick,” Byte warned. “Search the core dumps for permissions or subroutines.”

Jet shuddered. “Loot the bodies” was a traditional aspect of gaming, but his stomach (or what passed for it) soured when he realized he was doing it for real. Searching the fading piles of voxels, he snatched up a blue permission chit and an unknown subroutine spike and kept going.

“This way!” Byte guided him into a place that looked like it was made of glass and steel. It looked like an office building after an earthquake – shattered glass, broken consoles, chairs and tables upended and glowing fibers of what probably passed for paperwork scattered everywhere.

“This is the Intrusion Countermeasure dispatch tower. Normally, this would be a monitoring post for the sector, but the communications array has been destroyed. The interior probably has little damage, however. The Z-lots are not as stupid as we wish.”

“ICP units? I guess the virus would have them on full alert. Maybe we can help them.”

“Or maybe they will mistake you for the source of the corruption,” Byte warned. “You are an unknown factor, and your energy readings do not fit the parameters of any known Program type.”

“One way to find out,” Jet said as he started walking as silently as he could towards what looked to be an office. From inside, he could hear voices. Like all Programs, they had that odd electronic distortion, though these were even more prominent than usual.

“That was the last transport out of the sector. Anyone left behind is on their own.”

“There was a report from the pilot. There's some kind of unknown Program that is running around the system.”

“One of the Z-lots?”

“No, his circuit patterns would make him seem otherwise.”

“We can't take chances, especially as we're under siege. Z-lots can eat my disc. Anything not a Z-lot gets taken to the Kernel for questioning. If there's one thing I hate more than viral code, it's unauthorized intrusions. Nothing but trouble.”

Jet sucked in a breath. This was going to be a lot harder than getting past Encom's night-shift security or breaking into the school's server room after hours with a forged key card. Still, he had a good idea of the basics when it came to sneaking around where he shouldn't be.

Deep breath, crouch beneath window height, and move as slowly as you dare. Jet crept past the window and flattened himself against the opposing wall. His hand brushed a door's panel and it slid open. Taking the opportunity as it presented itself, he ducked inside.

This was an office with three worker Programs, dressed in light-striped tunics and simple gridsuits. One of the males looked up. “I don't recognize you. State your designation.”

“Uh...Jet. I was uploaded shortly before the virus hit. I'm trying to get to the exit port.”

“You and everyone else,” the Program said. “But the autoexec is broken due to the viral attack. No one can cycle the power stream. Get too close and it'll fry your circuits. The best we can do is hope the ICPs hold the line.”

“How many others are trapped here?”

“About a dozen or so, Program. We're probably doomed.”

“Is there any other way to cycle it?”

The Program shrugged. “Sure. If you want to risk your source code crossing a Z-lot infested lower circuit and then manually configure it. All of the data bits are shut off.”

Jet sighed. “Guess I take the risk. Byte?”

The glowing little shape rested above his shoulder. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Look, I know we have to save my father, but we have to save ourselves and as many others as we can.”

One of the other Programs looked at him quizzically. “What are you anyway?”

“I'm here to help,” he said, checking a map on the wall and downloading it into the disc. “Just...tell the ICPs that if they ask.”

He opened the door and started towards the lower hallways.

One script looked at the one who spoke. “Who was that, Cornelius?”

“Probably some unauthorized warez trying to gain access. With the directions I gave him, he'll upload himself right to the Kernel's office.”

The office was more of a maze than the corrupted sector. Jet ran through the staircases and twisted hallways, growing increasingly frustrated at all the dead ends.

“This is the third time you have passed this archive bin. You are lost,” Byte snarked.

“Yeah, I am,” Jet grumbled, sitting on a data block and sighing, tossing his disc in the air idly. A green email cube was floating in the archive bin. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jet pulled it out and read it.

Subject: Jet

To: AlanBradley @ encom.com

From: PatrickMcDonough @ encom.com

Date: June-8-2009

No, the Flynn kid's latest stunt didn't harm the game servers. We should just be glad the pranks are just harmless fun. We both know that Mackey and Dillinger Jr. plan for these things, and they're of the opinion that there's no such thing as bad publicity.

Why would you think Jet's involved with those stunts, anyway? He also hasn't so much as breathed a word about Sam Flynn since I hired him. I realize the kids knew each other since they were in diapers, but college has a way of growing kids apart. I don't even recognize half the people I went to high school with. You mentioned he's got an “attitude problem,” but I've never seen it. I'd say your boy grew up when you weren't looking. The only concern I had was that he asked to keep his name off the Space Paranoids Online project. We hit a compromise, but any idea why the kid wouldn't want to sign his name to his work?

• Patrick

Jet sighed. “I told you, Patrick. Space Paranoids isn't mine, and it's not right to put my name on it – lead programmer or not.”

Of course, the mention of his godfather's famous game mixed with the situation he was in now triggered the connection in his head. That's where he heard about worlds inside the computer – now how much of it could he remember, and was any of it going to help? Half-remembered old stories and too many hours on video games, theories his mom talked about that still flew over his head, and passages of Digital Frontier all clamored for attention and made it impossible to think.

Leaning forward in frustration, something caught his eye. “Byte, there's a hole here, or some kind of hidden passage. Let me...” Pushing the block aside revealed a crawlspace.

“That does not look promising.”

“And you have a better idea?”

Byte went silent. Jet took that as permission to crawl into the cramped tunnel.

There was no light in here aside from the soft glow of his circuitry lines. Fortunately, it was a short tunnel. The bad news was that it opened up to nearly a sheer drop. There had once been a data block storage area here, but the damage took out the bridge that once crossed the chasm. There were piles of abandoned blocks just seeming to float in the air with no support. Jet was able to climb down to one and was pleasantly surprised to find it held his weight.

“Unreal. Well, guess I'm jumping across.”

He wasn't a thrill seeker or into extreme sports, aside from whatever Sam could talk him into. Looking down? A very bad idea. Holding his breath, Jet made the first jump and landed on an archive. He knelt down, and then made a second leap. Good. A third leap and he was across. It led to another door, and when he opened it, it led up a ramp to a locked door. Unfortunately, when he put his hand on the panel, a part of the sigil on his arm glowed red. He was missing the permissions to unlock it. Looking around, though, he saw another crawlspace, immediately to his right. He ducked down and crawled into the next room.

This was another room full of data blocks and equipment storage, contraband from the looks of it. Jet pawed through the bins, snatching a few falsified permissions and useful-looking subroutines. Yes, it was wrong to steal, but he hoped he could be forgiven under the circumstances.

“Halt! Do not execute escape routine!”

Jet turned around to see five Programs with builds that the NHL would envy. They wore bulky armor that looked like riot gear and their circuitry was bright red.

He raised his hands. “I'm just trying to get out of this place. I have to find -”

“Kernel,” one of them said, pressing an earpiece. “We found the renegade Program. De-rez on sight?”

“No, I want him brought for interrogation.”

Two of the countermeasures ran up to him and held his arms. Jet made no effort to resist. He wasn't necessarily proud of his encounters with LAPD, but he at least knew the drill. “I'm willing to go peacefully, but I'm searching for Ma3a and my father.”

They roughly pulled him out of the room and down the hallway towards the security office, but halfway there...

“Surrender to the corruption!” Z-lots – over a dozen of them. They started to toss their exploding goop at them, balls of it exploding on impact.

“Scatter!” ordered the countermeasure.

The pair holding his sides let go and split off, trying to fight. At least Jet still had his disc. He pulled it out and began firing, ducking behind the shield of an ICP. One of the ICPs in front was struck with the corrupting ball and collapsed, its form twisting as the circuitry began to change.

Jet stood up and let the disc fly. There wasn't time to think. The world around him seemed to narrow as he leaped into the fray. Using his disc as a melee weapon, he trusted the strange routines and the combat protocols Ma3a had somehow given him.

When it was over, his suit was covered in green-yellow blotches. Out of the five countermeasures that arrested him, there was only one that hadn't de-rezzed, and the corruption was creeping through his circuits. Jet dropped to his side.

“Hold on, there's got to be something...”

“I...I was wrong about you. But you are infected, like me. It will not be long.”

Jet shuddered. This was more extensive than the last time. He was covered in this gunk. Was there a shower in this place? “Let me try...” He put his hands on the square node located at the mid-chest. A confusing tangle of images blasted through his mind. He could see the code behind his eyelids, and it was decaying too fast to do much. He imagined pulling the corrupted pieces into himself unable to see his circuit lines go all yellow-green, nor did he see the same shade bleed out of the dying Program. The corruption became just another inert ball of code that Jet cast to the side. Forced to quit the effort, he was breathing hard by the time the trance was broken.

What just happened?

The ICP was still fading out, flickering like a fluorescent tube on its last legs with the smell of ozone in the air. “Thank you...whatever you are,” he said weakly. “At least I will return to the Void a free Program.”

“I don't know what else I can do.”

“You're not responsible for that virus. Here's the permission set for the power router. Take it and go. If there are others, take them with you...”

Before Jet could say anything more, the Program hissed and glowed brightly a final time before fading out entirely. Jet noticed the sigil on his arm glowing brightly and completely. He had full permission, but at a terrible cost.

Running into the office, he looked at the broken paneling. “What a mess!” He wiggled under it, pulling out burned components, and rerouting wires. It wasn't going to be a very good repair, but it certainly was a repair. The panel came back online and he cycled the power. The exit port went live, glowing bright white. He also saw Byte float over to it as if waiting for him.

Jet left the office, went down the ramp, and stepped through.

The world turned red – red walls, red floor, columns of bright red numerical patterns flowing up and down across the room.

“Freeze, Program!”

Jet soon realized he was surrounded and cornered – again. Byte was nowhere to be found. The countermeasures soon had his wrists bound with energy rope, his disc confiscated, and several nasty-looking light-pikes poking into his back. “Look, I can explain.”

“Explain it to the Kernel, Waerz. We're not interested.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

1989

24 hours after last verified sighting.

Flynn's parents were watching the boys, and had taken them out of the city to avoid the vultures that passed for Los Angeles press. The call had been routed to his car phone, and Alan's hands were stiff from holding the bulky receiver by the time the call was finished.

“There's been a break-in at Flynn's arcade. We've quarantined the site, but you'd better come down here. We need to know if anything's missing.”

Three squad cars were parked outside the brick building, the “Y” in the neon sign was burned out again, and the lack of patrons just made the scene more ominous. Parking the car in the laundromat across the street, one of the sergeants ushered him inside.

“Did Mr. Flynn use the apartment often? He does have a primary residence.”

“He used to live here before he got married. He would still come here if he was working late or needed the privacy.”

“Some privacy,” sniffed another policeman. “This thing overhangs the busiest arcade in town. My kids blow through their allowance at this joint every other week.”

“Well, with everyone paying attention to their games, they weren't paying attention to him.”

“You aren't protecting him by keeping your mouth shut, Mr. Bradley.”

“What do you mean?”

“People don't just keep a spare apartment unless they have something or someone to hide. C'mon, he's widowed, CEO of a major company, which means he's loaded. Not too shabby in the looks department, probably a real smooth talker...”

“He didn't have a girlfriend. I'd know.”

“Maybe not a girlfriend. We did some asking around the Encom office, and rumor has it that he was AC/DC. Did he go cruising for boyfriends, maybe?”

Alan sighed and put his palm to his forehead. “He wouldn't do anything that might endanger his little boy.”

“All the more reason to keep it under everyone's radar,” the officer said. “Well, unless you and he had...”

Alan wasn't dense, and the policeman's tone was downright rude. “No.” he said flatly. “And I'm telling you there is no way he voluntarily disappeared.”

“We're not leaking it to the press, but after what we found here, we're inclined to agree with you.”

They walked up the narrow, neck-breaking staircase to the old apartment. Inside, Alan could hear the sounds of cameras and muttering voices. The policeman opened the door and...

His heart almost stopped and his stomach nearly crashed to the basement. Everything was torn apart. He knew Flynn was never the best housekeeper, but this was clearly a case of ransacking. The kitchenette cabinets were open, fragments of coffee mugs and shards of plates broken on the floor. Sheets were torn, the mattress upended and the space under the bed exposed. The Space Paranoids and Tron posters were torn from the walls and lying on the floor with huge rips in them. The cushions and beanbags looked like someone took a knife to them.

“Oh, my God.”

“We need to know if there's anything obvious that's been stolen from this place. It looks like a robbery gone wrong. The arcade manager reported this when he noticed the petty cash had gone missing and went up to the boss's office to look for it.”

Alan took a couple of shaky steps into the room, walking over to the desk. “His computer. Someone took his computer.”

The hood came off again and Alan's eyes adjusted to the overly bright lights. The goons bound his hands again, but duct tape wasn't quite the miracle substance many thought it was. Unfortunately, by the time he got his hands free, the thugs were gone and the door was locked solid. Alan banged on the walls and the door, but there was no reply, no echo. Wherever this was, no one would be finding him any time soon.

He sat heavily on a crate and ran his hands through his hair. The Shiva laser? Flynn Lives? Why did Crown consider those important? It wasn't like he had worked out all the kinks in the process anyway, and it wasn't like he made his involvement in either project common knowledge. Resuming the laser experiment was just a way to get back at Mackey for trying to force him into retirement, little more than a symbolic gesture. He really hadn't expected Ma3a to...

He looked up to the ceiling. “Is this where it ended for you, old friend? Some storage closet and an unmarked grave?”

His only answer was the hum of the cheap florescent lights.

After a moment of wondering what Flynn would do, the answer came. You're only defeated when you give up! C'mon, man. Look around you. See if there's anything you can use to bust out of here.

Alan looked down at the crate. It was hastily sealed with clear tape, and he could see some telltale off-white plastic beneath. Looking around again, he saw an old-fashioned phone jack and a grotty-looking power plug.

“Computer parts! They locked me in a room full of computer parts!”

He knew he was going to be in big trouble if his captors saw him, but Alan decided to take the chance. He didn't have to go down without a fight. Under a thick plastic tarp, Alan uncovered an old Tron arcade game. He never understood why Flynn spoke of his old security software with the reverence one would use for a distant friend, but the irony of Tron possibly saving his rear end wasn't lost on him.

The end result was a cobbled together mess of parts that would have been better off in a recycling bin. The connection wasn't even respectable speeds for dial-up, but it was the best he would get. From around his neck, Alan pulled off his necklace. Good thing Crown and his “security staff” just thought it was an ordinary piece of jewelry. It was a gift from Lora for their last anniversary, after all. The hidden USB stick slid out and Alan plugged it in.

He typed in the IP address for Ma3a's home server and used a forged Guest access to break into the server, uploading the flash drive's contents through the painfully slow connection.

Upload in Progress...

MCRY73. exe

Version 6.21

Uploading to Encom Quarantine Server...

Mercury was designed to protect Ma3a. Hopefully, it would be enough. If he could get Ma3a out of danger, she could warn someone at Encom and get the police.

As he bent down to check the connection from his improvised modem, something caught his eye, a piece of tan paper sticking out from under the Tron game. Alan pulled it out.

It was a scrap from a manilla envelope – brittle with age, spotted with mold, and torn at the top edge. There was nothing inside of it, but the writing on the front made his blood freeze.

...ergency or death...

Alan recognized the half-print, half-cursive chicken-scratch lettering. He hadn't seen it in twenty years, but he definitely recognized it.

Flynn's handwriting.

If he didn't think his situation was grave before, he certainly thought it now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Her directive was to serve Ma3a, and like all Programs, Mercury had never needed to question it. After all, she had a long legacy to live up to and perpetuate.

Since Ma3a was docked to her port and could never leave it, Mercury acted as eyes, ears, spy, protection. Even the Kernel had only the vaguest idea of what her true directive was, since she was often kept off the server until needed, in a safe house on a USB drive between missions. She had been awakened and rezzed to the system by Guest, a mysterious entity who spoke through the I/O nodes in garbled words and static.

Help Ma3a. Defend Ma3a. Destroy all threats to System...

She had her combat protocols, but she wasn't an instrument of brute force. That was the task of ICP units and the Kernel. They were crude, heavy things of digital muscle and simple directives. If they helped Ma3a, then she sided with them. If their directives conflicted with Ma3a's continued operation, they would be destroyed.

To maintain her cover, she worked the Game Grid, passing herself off as a not-so-simple gaming script. News, gossip, rumors all filtered through the Games like a web browser. Programs let down their firewalls and caution when they were caught up in the passing excitement of a disk match or a lightcycle race.

She heard about the Z-lots, the corruption sweeping her server, and about "Master User Thorne." That's why she was making her way to the ICP Tower, ostensibly to talk about one of the Spoolerserv ICPs with a penchant for high-energy wagers. What she was really there for was to listen to what was being said out of the Kernel's earshot.

While she was waiting in the Kernel's office, a pair of the hulking brutes brought in a strange script they blamed for the corruption. The prisoner was male-designated and broad-shouldered, but more compact in his limbs than the bulky ICP configurations. His armor had a bizarre configuration; black background with thick circuit lines encasing him from boot to jawline at the front and up to the middle of his head in the back. His spiked hair rendered in a shade not found on other Programs, not quite light or dark.

They strapped him to a decompiler rack – an “interrogation” device that was used more for casual sadism than obtaining useful data. Despite her directive to dispatch threats, Mercury almost felt sorry for the trapped script...almost.

The Kernel's lieutenant pulled out a data roll and unfurled it, reading off the information. “Query Index 224-C. Unauthorized use of resources. Program quarantined in connection to spreading virus. User is unknown.”

The Kernel marched up to his dais and activated the control console. Mercury sighed. She had a pretty good guess on how this would end. The Kernel was a lot of things, but merciful and willing to listen were two things he certainly wasn't.

“State your origin,” the Kernel snarled.

“Look, you're making a big mistake,” the captive argued.

“Mistake?!” The Kernel pounded the console with his fist so hard that even his veteran subordinates jumped back nervously. “Reveal your creation date before I disassemble your code one operation at a time.”

A jolt of power shot through the machine and the prisoner twitched and let out a cry of pain. “I...I was born in 1982.”

Funny, he didn't look like a Z-lot. His circuit lines were a clear blue, like hers. He didn't speak like a Z-lot, either. A creation date of 1982? Hah! A script that old? The Kernel kept up the questioning and the prisoner's answers were, to put it mildly, bizarre.

"You have been accused of spreading a viral agent through the system," said the Kernel gruffly. "What is the intended goal of this sabotage?"

"I'm not responsible for that virus!" he insisted. Mercury had to sniff. Sure, you're not. And that's what all the Trojans like to say...

The Kernel was just as disbelieving as she was. "Enough! Who is your User?"

The unknown script seemed thrown by the question. "I am a User!"

"Blasphemy!" shouted the Kernel. "Regulars, put the prisoner in the Bin. "

"Wait, you can't do this, I'm a User!" The stranger struggled futilely as the Kernel walked away. "Find Ma3a. I'm trying to help her."

That got Mercury's attention. Maybe Ma3a and Guest sent her some backup after all. Though why in the Void he would try passing himself off as a User? There was only one report in the whole of cyberspace of a User coming to their world, a story so ancient it was reduced to Tower Guardian legend and considered mildly ridiculous. She certainly knew the legend, certainly, but she was as skeptical as anyone else about it having any truth.

The Kernel wasn't as slow in the processor as many of his subordinates, but he was still single-minded. "Let the log file show, prisoner refused to cooperate and is considered incompatible. Schedule him for immediate de-resolution."

She knew she had to intervene somehow. Users knew she couldn't guard Ma3a alone with the damn virus crowding the sector, and if he was de-rezzed, she would never know this new player's true intention.

Player...that gives me an idea.

"Kernel," she suggested. "Put him on the Grid."

The Kernel was like many of his troops. The appeal of ironic punishment and an entertaining show was too good to pass up. "The Grid? Interesting proposition."

"I guarantee it'll be a race you won't forget," she said with a wicked smile.

The Kernel waved over one of his more competent flunkies. "Take them to the staging pit."

She saw the stranger look up to the window of the Kernel's office where she had been staying, searching for the one who intervened on his behalf.

Don't thank me yet. If he couldn't handle himself, or was lying about Ma3a, it was just a different kind of de-rez sentence. Mercury didn't much care either way.

Disc...gone.

Byte...gone

He was aching all over, trapped in this video game nightmare, he had no way to contact anyone, still didn't understand why Ma3a did this to him, and had no clue as to where his father was or even if he were still alive. And I thought the time I tried breaking into the college's server room was the worst day of my life.

The Kernel's forces herded him into a small room where several glum-looking Programs sat on fold-out benches. Some were blue, others lined in green or red. At the far end of the room was what resembled a bank teller, surrounded by a thick forcefield Jet assumed to the the local equivalent of bulletproof glass.

“Newbie, huh?” A green, female Program looked up.

“Yeah,” Jet admitted, accepting the spot she left on the bench by scooting over. “The Kernel sent me down here.”

“You and most of the scripts here. The Game Grid is where you win your freedom or de-rez trying. A few have sadists for Users that send them here as a directive. So, what's your story?”

“The Kernel mistook me for a virus. I tried to tell him, but...”

“Caught in the crossfire? Better than my story. I was the product of a Denial of Service attack. My User wasn't the smartest one on the grid. Rest of my fellows got nailed by the ICPs as soon as we hit the server.”

“So you're a...” There probably wasn't a polite way to put 'hacking Program' or 'malware.'

“I'm not sorry about it. Name's Bonnie.”

“Oh, hi. Name's Jet.”

“Well, Jet. Wish I could make you feel welcome and all, but it's a short, brutal runtime here. You'll need to get your lightcycle rod from Wolfgang, and then Elmer will show you the grid lines. After that, it's play until you die.”

An announcer voice called out. “Programs Bonnie, Mac, and Zook enter Light Cycle Arena One.”

“Guess that's my call,” Bonnie said. “Victory or crash.”

“Good luck,” Jet said.

Bonnie and three other Programs trudged to the data stream and vanished.

“Hey you,” shouted the Program behind the forcefield that Bonnie identified as “Wolfgang.” “Quit idling and grab your lightcycle rod.”

Jet walked over to the window and picked up the rod. It felt oddly cool in his hands. In the analog world, he would have called it eighteen inches long and made of black ceramic. It seemed to be two pieces fit together, but Jet couldn't tell how – or if- he could separate them.

“Now, data stream's on your left, walk down, make an immediate right. Don't delay. Elmer will handle your training.”

“Elmer” turned out to be a countermeasure Program that used his light-pike as a cane. He was missing a leg and his chest sported gashes that nothing human could survive, looking like hunks of code carved out of his body. From his hovering perch, Elmer glared down at Jet and the other two rookies.

“Listen up, conscripts. You've been sentenced to the Game Grid. Here, you will receive the standard, substandard training necessary to rez up your cycle and not immediately crash into the wall. We want you to at least put up a decent show before you're turned into shattered pixels. Put up a really good show, and you might win your freedom. Fail to follow commands, and you will be subject to immediate de-resolution...”

As the crippled Program went over the rules, Jet was struck with a cold feeling of deja vu. The rules were just like the old Tron game he had been playing before he got zapped, albeit with lethal stakes. In fact, if he dared to think about it...

“Did I ever tell you boys about the Game Grid?”

“Only about a million times,” Sam had said with all the worldly wisdom of six years old.

Jet was trying hard to fend off sleep. No way he was going to admit he was tired. The whole point of a sleepover, especially one at the arcade, was not to sleep. “Tell me about the lightcycle races! That's my favorite part of the story.”

“Well,” Kevin sat down on the floor. “Lightcycle races are the most popular form of entertainment there. The arenas are always packed and everyone cheers on the color of racer they want to win. Now, the bikes themselves are beautiful and really fast. If I drove that fast on my Ducati, I'd have every cop in the county on my tail. And those cycles can't brake, either. They can slow down a little, but not very much. And they leave walls of light in their wake. The goal to winning a cycle race is to trick your opponents into crashing into a wall or into a cycle trail.”

“But that's not how you won it,” Sam said, reciting a story he knew well. “You saw the other guy crash and glitch up the wall, then you got out of there with Ram and Tron.”

“Am I telling the story or you?”

Sam raised an eyebrow in a remarkable imitation of his dad.

“That was just the first race I won,” he said. “And the cycles have upgrades now. The basics are the same, but technology just makes it better. Soon, there'll be 3-D cycle matches. I'm working on those.”

The phone in the next room started ringing. “Aw, crap. I have to get that.” Getting up, Kevin ducked into the next room.

“My dad's just teasing us, you know,” Sam said, lying back on the sofa. “There's no such thing as a world inside the computer.”

“I know,” Jet said with a tired sigh. “But wouldn't be cool if it were true?”

“You're such a dork, Jethro.”

Sam got a face full of pillow as an answer. When Uncle Kevin came in three minutes later, there were two boys jumping on the sofa, two ripped pillows, and feathers everywhere.

“Conscripts, rez up your cycles!”

Jet saw the other two grab the rod with both hands and stretch out, the cycle appearing out of nowhere and speeding off. When the cycle rezzed to life, it clicked - an honest-to-God lightcycle! It was sleek, beautiful, fast, blue, and his.

All of the stories...all these years part of me wanted this to be true... It is true! The delight was almost enough to forget the dangerous circumstances.

Back home, he had a BMW that he sunk about a year's paycheck into, tweaking the engine and the chassis, imagining it as one of these. The one time he actually dared Sam into a dangerous stunt was when they were both just out of high school, the summer before they went their separate ways for college. The race had been transcendent, speeding through the empty back roads in the industrial district, accelerating past sixty, past eighty, past a hundred. The wind flew around him, and he felt like part of it. Despite the speed, time seemed to slow down and he half-imagined he was flying. Sam was trying to gain on him, but Jet had been able to coax just a little extra speed. Twisting over the roads, under overpasses, around bridge pylons, and across railroad tracks, it was freedom, it was indescribable...It landed them both in jail once LAPD caught up to them, but Jet didn't regret it a bit.

This made his BMW feel like a half-dead seventies-model Honda.

Jet saw Crow, the yellow cycle, just off to the side. Crow twisted the cycle and tried to cut him off, but Jet saw it a split second before he fell for the trap. Accelerating to top speed, making a quick turn, doubling back,and riding the thin line between Crow's cycle trail and the wall. He had to time this just right...

Lightcycle trails extended only for a limited distance, shrinking as the rider moved ahead. With barely a pixel to spare, he turned and just missed the retreating edge of Crow's trail. Doubling back, he started to charge Crow head-on.

“I'll take you out, warez.” Just like the stories, the communication radio was meant for team coordination, but usually used for trash talk.

“Not if I take you first.” Jet accelerated and didn't flinch as the gap narrowed – the proverbial game of chicken.

A flash of red crossed his vision, and Jet narrowly avoided crashing into Frog's trail. Crow, however, was not so lucky. With a shriek and a sound like breaking glass, the yellow trail vanished entirely.

The audience started to boo and hiss – either Crow had been the one favored to win, or Frog's tactics were considered bad form.

“Nice one, Program,” Frog jeered.

Jet slowed down to the lowest speed possible and twisted away from Frog's path.

“That's right, run.”

Frog sped up and made a charge to cut Jet off at the pass again. Jet kept his speed low, making twists and turns that looked like he was trying to avoid Frog's trail and attempts to cut him off.

And then he sped up and made a sharp right turn. The audience let out a gasp, then began to cheer.

Frog realized it too late. “What the -?”

What looked like attempts to dodge out of the way were merely a series of feints, an elaborate trap that locked Frog into looping back on his own trail. With a shriek and a sound like a bug zapper, Frog de-rezzed.

“Grid One victory goes to blue racer.”

A transport ring appeared and Jet sped over to it. It dumped him out on the next grid.

The second grid had more walls, and a few speed patches. Red slowed you down and green made you accelerate. He pushed all other thoughts aside and let time dilate. Just like playing a game, just look for the patterns...Fortunately, his opponents were just as interested in killing each other as they were him. Trevor and Bonnie were dogfighting in the center. Sk8 was still off on a far corner.

“Bonnie, that you?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“How about we team up? Nail these losers.”

Bonnie veered off and Jet made a quick perpendicular turn. Jet matched her speed. Trevor rocketed past them and tried to cut them off. Jet easily avoided the obvious trap, and Bonnie rode between Jet's trail and Trevor's.

“I'm turning and going to give you some space. We rocket ahead and force him into the -”

And then Bonnie pushed a button on her console. A t-shaped spike blocked the road, and Jet was going too fast to avoid it.

“What the -?” in the process, he slammed the control console, activating a button that looked like a shield. He broke through the spike and kept going. “What the hell, Bonnie?”

“Win or go offline,” she said sharply.

The buttons on his console – five of them. Shield, spike, missile, turbo, and a fifth that went unlabeled. The shield button was now dull and useless. Damn – so much for thinking there was anyone here not trying to get him killed.

He rocketed ahead, overtaking Bonnie and Trevor both, heading straight for the wall. Making a sharp turn, he cut them both off and kept going

Steady...Steady....

The wall crept up in his vision - feet away, inches away. Cutting it so close his tires shrieked in protest, he snapped two left turns and was rocketing along the wall. Trevor's shield blasted through his trail, but it wasn't enough to avoid the wall. The explosion and debris from his cycle shot backwards and crashed through Bonnie's windshield.

De-rezzed. Down to him and Sk8. Sk8 was rocketing toward him and Jet saw something firing towards him – missile. Jet made a dodge and let the blast take out a section of his trail. Accelerating, he fired the missile blast and took out a section of wall, creating an obstruction in the trail. Twisting, he headed for the opposite wall, making like he was running.

Sk8 burned through his tricks – turbo to catch him with him on the opposite side of the arena, a wall spike that Jet made a switchback to avoid. Finally, Sk8 engaged the shield. One use to blast through the cycle trail, no good against the wall. Jet was counting on it. If this didn't work, he was toast.

Neck and neck they ran, speeding across the arena. Jet engaged the spike, and Sk8 dodged it, laughing...

Laughing until he reached the debris Jet blasted loose with his missile. There was a shriek and a crash.

Grid two victory.

But it didn't feel like a victory...just another temporary respite. He was already shaky and breathing hard. How long could he keep this up?

As champion, Mercury was placed in the box seat with the Kernel to watch the elimination matches. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the games.

“He's good,” she muttered.

The Kernel was more skeptical, folding his arms. “Nah, just a lucky turbo junkie.”

“No, he's the real thing. Speed isn't how he wins. Feints and traps, tricking his opponents, that's how he's winning.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I am. Been a while since I had anything other than two-bit Trojans and kiddie-scripts to take on. What can I say? A girl gets bored.”

“Heh,” the Kernel said. “It was your idea to put him on the Grid.”

“Fine. Grid four, double elimination. Winner takes all. I want to see what he's made of.”

“I'll arrange for it right away.”

She turned on her way out, calling over her shoulder, “Oh, and Kernel? Give my opponents some downtime before sending them in. I want them all at their best.”

After surviving one more round of racing, the portal took him back to the staging pit. Wolfgang doled out flasks of something that was the color of Mountain Dew under a blacklight and tasted...green. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not to drink it, but was too thirsty to care and downed the whole thing in two gulps. After that, two guards marched him to a cell.

His "accommodations" were vaguely like one of those capsule hotels he stayed in when he went to a developer's conference in Japan. At the time, he was just out of college and freelancing, so it wasn't like the contracting company was going to pay for a decent hotel anyway. The room was tall enough to stand in and wide enough to fit the bed. Dim light from an unknown source was enough to make out shapes, but not much else.

The aftermath of his adrenaline rush left him bone-weary. Rest would probably be a good idea before being sent out into another round of lightcycles. He'd barely survived that last round. On the downside, the small cubicle with its silence and its thin bunk gave him too much time to think. He felt jittery, unbalanced, his mind running faster than his lightcycle, and just as unable to brake. The glowing patterns on his body flickered like a bug zapper and seemed to buzz faintly like one, too.

He turned the lightcycle rod over in his hands. By now, his brain had caught up with the basics, but even those spun off into more questions. Why him? What was his father and Ma3a really working on? Who was that “Master User” that seemed to be behind the virus? Who wanted to hurt his father, anyway? And did this so-called “digital universe” have anything to do with what happened to Uncle Kevin?

The last item on the list was the most dreadful to think about. Jet still had the toy Solar Sailer on his bookshelf along with his developer's awards, action-figure likenesses of his parents perched on its deck. Those stories always were too fantastic to believe, even if part of him secretly wanted it to be true. Now, Jet had to wonder how much was left out for the sake of six-year-old ears. If his godfather came here in 1989 and met with foul play...

You're next, Jet. It's just a matter of time.

He lay on the bunk and closed his eyes, too exhausted to move but too tense to rest. Breathe in...breathe out...don't think...

He had just succeeded in reaching the not-quite-awake stage when he heard something snap and felt a mild electric shock tingle across his chest.

"Don't move. You will answer my questions, and you will not try to fight back. If you do, the Rod Primitive is a painful way to de-rez, and no one will query too hard about your outcome." The voice sounded like the femme fatale in a bad detective movie processed through a synthesizer.

Jet nodded furiously in agreement.

"Good." The electrical shock sensation abated. "Ma3a has a lot of enemies, especially now. It might not be worth your while to help her."

"Too bad," he hissed. If he was getting killed, might as well be for the truth. "I'm helping her anyway."

"Who really sent you?"

Jet dared to crack open his eyes. It was definitely a woman (or at least a female Program) in the room with him. With the cubicle so small, she was half in bed with him already. All she seemed to be carrying was her lightcycle rod, which she had snapped in two and was using as an improvised shock stick weapon. Her circuit pattern was as elaborate as his was, lit in the same blue-white. Her face was eerily beautiful, the angles of her cheekbones and chin just a little too sharp and her skin a little too flawless to be human. Her "hair" was short and the same blue-white as her circuit lines. She seemed deadly and cold, an Amazon made of ice and electricity. Wisely, he decided not to see if first impressions were accurate. Everything here seemed to be trying to kill him.

"Ma3a sent me. I swear," he answered. "I'm here to help her. I've been fighting off the virus, but the ICPs mistook me for the cause when they couldn't identify me."

Those shock sticks came close enough to be painful and Jet bit back a curse. "What do you know about 'Master User Thorne?'" she asked.

"Nothing," Jet answered. "I know of a J.D. Thorne, but he's Encom's security director. I had to help him fix his hard drive last week." Never mind that he was a game developer and not helpdesk. To Thorne, just about everyone was a flunky.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over, assessing him in a way he couldn't name before pulling away her lightcycle baton, sealing the sparking halves, and placing it back on her hip. Her hand centered on the thick-lined blue panel on his chest. When her fingers splayed over it, a different kind of shocking sensation spread outward from it. The contact made him gasp as nerve endings from his chest to his fingertips lit with relief, like having a deep tissue massage everywhere at once.

She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. The position would be indecent on his side of the screen. Leaning in so her face was millimeters from his, she chuckled low. "You don't have any of the virus in you. The ICPs really should have checked for that..."

"What the fuck?" he blurted out. Okay, he normally didn't have to resort to language like that unless the boss came in insisting they shave three weeks off the beta-testing or Sam had another 'great idea.' His heart (or whatever replica he had in this digital body) began to pound. "Look...look. Who are you?"

She became serious, almost apologetic, as she leaned in and cupped his face with one hand while the other gently traced and scraped across circuitry patterns he had previously assumed were a form of identification or merely decorative. More of those indescribable feelings began a slow burn through his body. "I think we're on the same side," she explained. "I want to believe you're here to help. I want to believe you. You must understand, though, how dangerous entrusting permissions to the wrong script can be."

"Yeah, that got me into this mess," he said. What was she doing to him, and why did it feel so good? Without being entirely aware of what he was doing, he reached up and began to mimic her movements, touching the ladder-pattern of lines on her sides, and feeling a ghost of the same sensation in his body. What was happening to him?

"Ma3a needs your help. And you'll need mine," she said, her hands caressing the energy meridians that crossed his shoulders. "Let me give you a chance at surviving the next round..."

It felt good...better than good. Energy was flowing into him and all the tension was flowing out. Electric warmth circulated in his body like blood and breath. It resonated in places he didn't know could feel.

"What are...?" He couldn't even speak coherently.

"You're so tense that you'll burn yourself out. And the energy rations here aren't good for your system in the long-term," she said by way of an explanation, stretching out and putting more of her body into contact with his. "Relax."

Oh, God...the feel of her body against his; every point of contact sent renewed pleasure through his whole being. His rational brain tried to figure out how this even worked – the energy meridians of this digital body transmitting sensation in a similar method to the human nervous system, but somehow amplified a hundredfold. Of course, his rational brain was also screaming that this was entirely, utterly wrong. She could still whip out that rod and kill him after all.

He pushed aside his fear and analysis. Whatever she was doing, it was fucking incredible and just as sane as anything else in this world of half-remembered stories and surreal terror. Greedily, he reached up and raked his hand into the Program's hair, pulling her into a kiss. Now it was her turn to gasp with surprise, and Jet couldn't help feeling a little smug. About time he managed to shock someone here.

"Users..." she breathed, when they broke apart, her eyes like electrified sapphire. "You feel so...different. So..."

Silencing her with another kiss, his free hand was exploring the Byzantine pattern of circuitry on her back, including a short, thick line right between her shoulder blades that almost caused her to jump off the bed when he placed the flat of his palm across it. The pleasure resonated in his chest in a strange, telepathic-style connection, their joined energy in a complete circuit – flowing, looping, no start and no end.

The circuitry on his hands fit the lines on her neck like they were designed for one another. The aura of their joined bodies glowed brightly enough to be blinding, but it wasn't painful like it would be in the analog world. His hips arched up as she pushed down – unable to stop, unable to hold back from the touching, the energy, the life, the release...

The sensation was too much, the feeling too intense. His entire body felt like it was tearing itself apart and reassembling from the sheer power/pleasure/touch. The woman gave a shuddering cry as Jet's own vision went to white-out.

When he regained consciousness several minutes (hours on this universe's clock) later, he felt calmer, more settled. Whether it was the energy he shared with his strange visitor or just being resigned to the realities of the world he found himself in, he didn't know.

And before this, how long had it been since you got laid, Jethro? drawled an inner voice that sounded a little too much like Sam's for his liking.

Okay, so it was this world's idea of sex. With a sentient computer program. And he still had no idea what her name was. Fine. Just one more surreal aspect to the insane situation he found himself in, something to process when –no more allowing for "if" - he got back home.

When he was called, he marched into the data stream and onto the Grid.

The announcer called out for the third and final challenge. "Welcome to the light-cycle racing finals. In this double-elimination match, Jet and Lan are squaring off on one side of the arena, while Mercury and 2-D are on the other side. The winners will meet in the middle..."

Pulling his cycle baton, the light-cycle rezzed into life beneath him. He was ready this time.

He'd survive. He'd find her. They'd find Ma3a and his father. All that stood in the way right now were three light-cycle cars and four arena walls.

On the other side of the arena, Mercury rezzed up her own cycle. She wasn't used to apprehension, but felt it anyway. Her encounter with Jet was supposed to have been a straightforward interrogation, but her curiosity got the better of her. No resource would be spared in protecting Ma3a, not even calculated use of her own shell and energy.

She had been hoping to break down Jet's guard, get him to reveal his true origins. Things just went too far. Worse, he truly didn't feel like an ordinary Program, not even an infiltration script. He burned too brightly, he reacted strangely.

And the kiss...that was part of the legend, the Lost User's final gift.

Cast her to the Void, maybe she really had seduced a User. And if Ma3a had anything to do with this...

2-D thought he was hot stuff, but she had her own mission, like always. Help Ma3a. Defend Ma3a. Destroy all threats to System...

She reached her decision gate. She verified her missile power-up was loaded, but she wasn't about to waste it on 2-D. Gunning her cycle into top speed, she fired for the observation tower, ignoring the shocked announcer.

"Jet, do as I say, and don't ask questions," she said over the com. "Hurry, and make your way to the far side of the grid arena. Escape the arena by using the ramp made of debris. Do it now!"

Doubling back, she made a run for the ramp, sailing up and over the side of the arena wall. No more time for games. She just hoped Jet could follow.

Jet was busy with Lan's attempt to try and force him into a corner that he almost didn't get the message., but he did hear the word “escape” and thought the idea sounded fine by him. Snapping his cycle around, he made a run for the center. Lan, for his part, just kept trying to find a way to gain on him.

Fine. Jet engaged the spike, forcing Lan to make a sharp right turn while he hit the red patch that slowed his cycle to “merely” highway speeds.

Far side coming up.

Now, he was dealing with both Lan and 2-D on half the arena. This place was a broken mess – Mercury's rampage left obstacle piles everywhere and in random spots, and he still couldn't see the exit.

A nasty bunch of twisted pseudo-metal and stone was dead ahead. Either this was it or a dead end. He gunned it up to full speed, his two opponents trying to follow him in.

“Into the maze? You crack me up, Warez.”

Jet ignored it and concentrated on the road. Left, right, left again. There was a crash behind him as one of his foes met his end. Jet slowed his cycle as the tunnels grew darker and the turns tighter. The whole thing ended at what looked like a steep incline. This was either the way out of the way dead.

He took the risk. Gunning the engine to get maximum leverage on the steep ramp, he sailed upward until it reached the top of the wall and over.

I'm out! Bracing for impact, though, he realized the lightcycle was dissolving right under him. He didn't even have time to swear as he hit the ground so hard the wind was knocked out of him. Luckily, nothing was broken, but he was definitely going to feel that in the morning.

“Hello, Jet.”

Managing to pick his head up, he saw the strange woman that had...well, that came to his room last night. “Mercury? You're...uh...”

She smiled wickedly. “Yes, I am. And you're not half-bad yourself.”

“Uh...thanks.”

She helped him to his feet and into an alleyway. “You mentioned Ma3a? Well, my User sent me to help her.”

Seeing as Ma3a was his father's project, Jet tried to allow himself some hope. Maybe his father had... “Who is your User?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Goes by the name of Guest.” Looking around, she gestured for him to follow. “We should get out of here.”

“How did you...” Jet had a lot of questions, certainly, but only one he could voice right now. “How did you know I could hold my own out there?

She chuckled and sauntered into the maze of the city. “I didn't.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

From: ISOlated Thinker

To: ZackAttack

Date: February 18, 2010

I refuse to be intimidated or moved by these idle threats. It's not going to stop me from the work. The calculations are almost finished, and we have safeguards. There is no need to put anyone else in danger. I'll handle this. As soon as I have the algorithms, I will send them to you directly.

From: ZackAttack

To: ISOlated Thinker

Date: February 19, 2010

I know you too well, and you are still a terrible liar. Please don't let your pride cloud the issue – these death threats aren't just the work of people trying to scare us. I have a horrible feeling they're serious. We have fought so long and hard to try and rebuild what got lost. And even if you're going to be stupidly brave about it, think about “Yori” and “Mercury.” If you won't tell them, then I will!

Seth Crown was not going to let the little things stop him. His parents struggled all their lives to move out of Harlem, and pushed him to work hard in school. If he got less than an “A” on anything, his parents would voice their disappointment very clearly. He learned early on that there were no excuses for failure. People judged him for his former neighborhood, his skin tone, his choice of profession. In response, Crown doubled down and fought all the harder. He was proof that anyone could claw their way up, and if you had to ruin some less-savvy types to get there, no one would weep for the losers. Ultimately, results and success were the only things people respected. “The Rules” were things that lesser people used to justify their laziness and lack of ambition, to hold back those with the will and ability to do better.

At the time he was hired, Future Control Industries was a promising Internet start-up specializing in data storage and records management. A Harvard Law degree and high marks on the bar meant he could take almost anything he wanted, but when he heard what the company founder's vision for F-Con was, it certainly beat out the notion of being a junior partner or token in some East Coast firm. The longer he worked there, the more he was entrusted with the day to day operation. On paper, F-Con was completely his. It wasn't like the boss was ever going to show up in person.

Of course, while he could handle the business end, he was not a master of computers. That's why he hired Esmond Baza fresh out of Leicester University. Baza certainly knew what he was doing on the technical end, and readily responded to promises of riches and fame. Already, he was being paid very generously for his work. The other factor in Crown's favor? For all of Baza's smarts, the other man was a coward. If the carrot didn't work, the stick certainly did.

Crown opened the door to the basement lab. “Baza, what do we have?”

Baza looked up from the computer terminal closest to the door. “What we have is a deadline and numbers that refuse to crunch, but we were able to keep the corruption off our servers and send it directly to Encom. Once this reaches the press, I'll estimate their shares will take a nosedive.”

“Leave the legal and finances to me, Baza,” Crown warned. “You are here to handle the technical end.”

“I'm aware of that,” Baza replied, hunching over his terminal, his wrinkled shirt gaping open. “But unless we'd like a repeat of the Thorne incident, we'll have to continue tweaking the protocols. By the way, when the inevitable queries come about his whereabouts, what do we tell them?”

Crown nearly cracked a smile. “We just tell everyone he came down with a very nasty virus.”

“I see. Well, short of finding Mister or Doctor Bradley and extorting those laser codes from them, I don't see how this is going to work.”

Crown folded his arms. “Funny you mention that. I've got the man trussed up in a closet right now. “

“Pull my other leg, Crown.”

“No joke. I sent out two of our prospective Wraiths to deliver him like a Christmas present.”

Baza's dusky skin blanched as he processed this. “And you don't think the police won't come banging down our door for this? Programming the Wraith project is one thing, but when you start crossing the line into -”

Crown grabbed Baza by the shoulders, gripping just tightly enough to let the other man know he was serious. “What you've done already would get you locked up in Federal prison for life. If you were going to chicken out, it's way too late for it. Go big or go home.”

Baza looked around nervously. “I...I never signed on for that. You told me no one who didn't agree to the risks was going to get hurt! You said that the Wraiths were the only ones who might! I never agreed to kidnapping anyone!"

“Too bad.” Crown's tone of voice implied a threat. As in “one more word out of you, and you'll be next in front of that laser.”

Sure enough, Baza caved. “You...have a point.”

“But I don't think like a computer geek. In his position, where would you hide those files?”

“Probably somewhere like a secure FTP site or in some harmless-looking folder. I might even embed it into a document or even a video file. It would have to be readily accessible to implement on the Shiva Mark Two.”

“What about his artificial intelligence he was working on, the one that was in the press?”

“Ma3a? Something like that would be of more interest to our friends on the other side of the monitor, don't you think? And the sheer complexity of the Math Assistant Three would make it a risky choice to hide those calculations. No, he's probably hidden it so deep in Encom's systems we could run a hundred seekers for a month and not find it.”

“Then you're coming with me when we pay our distinguished guest another visit.”

“Uh...what? But should he contact the police...”

“He won't. We can handle him, and so can our 'friends.' It wouldn't be the first time that they've made an Encom bigwig disappear.”

Baza's thin lips pressed into a line and he started to try and break Crown's hold on him.

Crown tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “You get me those files. I'll take care of our guest. Got it?”

“I...got it.”

The door opened again, and the distinct click of stiletto heels on concrete followed. “Ah, Doctor Popoff, nice of you to make an appearance,” Crown said.

Popoff folded her arms. She was a petite woman with dark red hair and heavy makeup, who usually wore high heels and expensive suits as to compensate for her height and otherwise non-threatening appearance. Her voice gave her away, a scalpel's sharpness in her thick French accent as she quickly cut any matter to the basics of money, time, and efficiency.

“We have our candidates. I have three-dozen for our first prospective launch. They are being run through the environmental simulators now, and the biological stress appears to be minimal. Of course, the true test will be actual contact with a digital environment. We will select the top six candidates to go first.”

“Provided Baza here can get us our correction algorithms.”

“You want them, then you go shake down Mr. Bradley for them. I'm going with the numbers we have and attempting to compensate.”

Popoff rolled her eyes and set her hand on Baza's shoulder. "Relax, Baza. No permanent harm has come to Mr. Bradley. And none will, as long as he gives us the codes." The smile and calmness in Popoff's voice didn't reach her eyes. The strange glint in them sent a slight chill down Baza's spine.

“Well, Popoff, you heard the man. Time to visit our honored 'guest' and give him some incentive to cooperate.”

Dulles International Airport in Washington DC was heavily-trafficked, the sweeping curves of the main concourse letting in the fading afternoon light. Roy Kleinburg didn't carry more than a laptop and a change of clothing. He didn't dare check his bags anymore, and was frankly uncomfortable running anything through a security scan. Pulling his tattered denim jacket around him, he looked nervously around for the person he was supposed to meet.

Alan is not going to like this, but better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially given that stubborn pride of his.

“Roy! Roy, over here!”

He saw her sitting on one of the hard benches, two cups of coffee next to her. Unfortunately, she didn't look any healthier than the last time he saw her in San Francisco. She cradled the cane between her knees, and her face looked even more gaunt than the last time.

He made quick strides over to her. Despite the fact he was not as young as he used to be, he prided himself on still being able to walk or bike with the best of them. He hated to drive.

“Lora. Thank you for coming to pick me up and for answering my email.”

“No,” she said. “Thank you for warning me. Alan's heart is in the right place – it always is – but hiding things like this to 'protect' me...” Lora sighed. “I'm parked in the main garage, and the cup on the right is for you. I made sure the coffee place is kosher.”

Roy couldn't help a smile as he picked up the mug. “Thank you. Do you need -?”

“Just give me a few seconds.” Grasping her cane, Lora slowly pushed herself off the bench and winced visibly with pain. “I can go without for a little while, but I feel it the next day.”

“Getting old isn't pleasant, but it beats the alternative,” Roy said, trying to make light of the situation.

Lora winced again and leaned heavily on the cane, gesturing for him to follow. “Come on, whatever you flew all the way out here for is probably not meant to be shared with half the airport.”

Roy nodded. Her condition has become much worse since I last saw her. Alan isn't the only one trying to hide unpleasant truths.

Coffee in one hand, he offered the other arm for her to lean on if she needed to.

As soon as they were in the car, and the doors were shut, Roy opened his backpack. “The emails came through the Flynn Lives boards. We dismissed them as just a bunch of idiot trolls at first, but then they started filtering in...details.”

Lora turned the key and looked behind her before backing out of the parking space. “What kind of details?”

“Little things. Like a mention of Encom internal protocol, or a picture that had Alan's home in the background, and things about the proposed sale that aren't in the press.”

“I can't believe half the board is so eager to sell the company.”

“Blame that idiot Mackey. All he wants is a quick buck and a one way ticket to the Caymans. You know that Alan is one of the very few people who is standing in the way of selling the company.”

Lora pinched the bridge of her nose. “Him and Sam both.”

“Which is why I flew all the way out here as soon as I could book a flight. I only found out about the death threats by accident. I'd been working with him on those 'off the record' modifications to Ma3a when I...”

She still had a beautiful smile. “I know you hacked his computer, Roy. Or tried to.”

“I didn't have to, not when Ma3a showed me the emails herself.”

“What?!”

“I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified by that thing,” Roy admitted. “Anyone other than Alan working on it, and I'd swear they were trying to re-create Master Control. That incident still makes me wake up in cold sweats!” He pulled out the hard copies and arranged them in chronological order. “He's been working on Ma3a extensively, shutting himself in that lab at all hours to work on some sort of algorithms, but even I can't get details out of him. He's burning himself up, Lora. I can't get through to him. These threats have just made him dig in his heels all the more.”

Lora sighed. “I know what he's working on, Roy. I know why he's working on it. And as soon as we're at my apartment, we'll trade information. Deal?”

“Yes,” he said. “I just hope we're not too late.”

That's when Lora's cell phone rang. She engaged the Bluetooth speaker. “Hello?”

“Is this Doctor Lora Bradley?”

“Yes, it is. How can I help you?”

“It's Detective Cortez from Los Angeles PD. I've got some bad news.”

Lora and Roy looked at each other.

“What is it?” she asked.

“At about one thirty, there was a break-in at Encom Tower. Whatever the attackers were after, we can't tell, but there was a struggle in one of the labs. Your husband's missing...and no one can seem to find your son, either. Jethro's boss called us after he failed to come back from lunch. One of the techs said that he ran off to check on his father. We think that the same kidnappers got both of them.”

Lora turned ashen.

“Rest assured, Doctor, we're doing all we can. The FBI's been called in on this one, too. We're going to find them...”

Neither of them paid much more attention to the platitudes and assurances of the policeman, and the assurances that the detective would call with more detailed questions to assist in the investigation. It was all a blur as they drove along the side streets and into the apartment parking lot. As soon as the engine cut, Lora slumped over the wheel.

Roy put a hand on her back. “Lora...”

“Roy, get me upstairs. Show me whatever you have, and set up your laptop, including the tricks you claim not to have.” She looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but the rest of her face seemed fixed on something between anguish and rage. “I'm not going to sit on the sidelines waiting, because it didn't work last time.”

He said nothing more, packing his papers back into the backpack and opening the car door.

This was not Richard Mackey's day. It seemed half of LAPD was camped outside Encom Tower and the other half invaded his building. This would not do. Absolutely would not do. He was responsible for Encom's public face, and they could not under any circumstances afford this kind of publicity.

He marched down to the lab level, running his hand through his hair, and strode down the hall. Crime scene be damned, this was still his building. He was stopped cold by a pair of detectives who physically blocked his path. “Are you Mr. Mackey?”

“Yes, and I'd appreciate it if your department acted discreetly. My office has been hit with a shitstorm of angry and worried calls. This puts the company in a bad light at the worst possible time.”

The first of the detectives, a wiry Latino in a suit a size too large, flashed his badge. “Detective Ramirez, LAPD. I don't think you understand the situation here.”

“And I don't think you do! This company is conducting highly sensitive merger negotiations. Bad publicity will send the stock price to the basement and ruin it all.”

Ramirez looked over to his partner, clearly keeping himself from rolling his eyes. “Mr. Mackey, there were signs of a struggle inside the lab. Whatever happened to Mr. Bradley, it was sudden and violent. A man's life is in danger -”

“Bradley?” Mackey sniffed with contempt. “Probably jumped off the same bridge Flynn did. Not really a secret how close they were. Don't waste your time.”

The second detective spoke. “His son, Jethro, works for Encom as well, correct?”

“I don't keep track of that. If he does, then he's a low-level programmer or something. If Alan Bradley was pulling strings to get his boy in the company, then you'd think he'd have promoted him to something in management just to embarrass the board.”

Ramirez scowled. “Your head of gaming was the one who called us when Jethro failed to come back from his break. According to Ted Daley, the tech in lab five, Jethro was last seen on the phone with his father and running toward the scene.”

“Well, I suppose you want to know if either of them had enemies? I don't know anything about his son, but Alan Bradley himself is the most stubborn, prideful man you'll ever encounter. Maybe if he's found, this will finally persuade him to cash in his shares and retire. That way, the board can conduct twenty-first century business.”

The two detectives looked at one another. “So, he's not well liked?”

Mackey sighed. “He's seen as a hero by many of the younger and lower-level employees, and a handful of fossils who remember the Flynn era. Academia loves his work on quantum computing and artificial intelligence, even if it's not something that's going to turn a profit. Those of us on the board have been trying to get him to take the hint that it's not the eighties anymore.”

“Do you think he was up to anything illegal? Embezzling, fraud?”

“Oh, hell no.” Mackey laughed. “If you want someone in handcuffs, try hunting down Joseph Daniel Thorne. He was our security director. He emailed, saying he's come down with the flu or something, but no one's at his house and hasn't been for days. Probably skipped town or something. I have no idea where he is.”

“So, is there a chance that Thorne and Bradley staged this? That they had some plan to bilk the company and skip town?”

“Thorne, maybe. He's still sore over being passed over for promotion in December. Bradley, though? Far too much of a boy scout. He's usually the one lecturing everyone else on ethics. Quaint, really. I think the man still uses an abacus to balance his bank account.”

“For all you say, why was he still on the board?”

“Because, he is the second-largest shareholder, a former CEO, has worked here since 1980, and as much as I'd like to see him off fishing somewhere, has pretty much maneuvered his way into where firing him would cause just as much bad publicity as half of the police force camped outside my tower.”

“What was Mr. Bradley working on in this lab? Seems a little strange of an executive to be slumming it on this floor.”

“I'm not entirely sure. He's been running an experimental artificial intelligence project. The grant money was good enough to keep him going, I guess. He calls it Ma-three-a or something. It runs a good portion of lab functions and distributed computing. The lab nerds adore it, though. Won him a ton of awards from the university set, too. I don't use it myself. It's very creepy. Rumor has it he modeled its voice and 'personality' off his wife or something.”

“So, you don't know of anyone who would want to do Alan or Jethro harm?”

Mackey pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. Just...I don't care what kind of money I have to put into this to keep this out of the papers. Now, please...just finish what you have to do and leave - quietly.”

“Do your job, Mr. Mackey. Don't dictate how we do ours,” Ramirez said.

Seeing that he wasn't going to be able to throw his weight around with the detectives, he turned away and back to the elevator, pulling his Blackberry out of his pocket, frantically pushing buttons.

Ramirez rolled his eyes. “Can't arrest a guy for being a jerk, but how fast do you think we could get a warrant for his computer? And how much you wanna bet he uses 'ABC123' for a password?”

Chapter Text

To: NickA @ encom. com

From: OliviaW @ encom. com

Rumor has it that Mackey is going to sell off the company, First, the CFO gets run out of town due to misappropriation of funds, the security director's gone AWOL, and now this! A merger is never a good sign for the home team – ten to one, our jobs will go to China! Know any good headhunters? I have a car payment to make!

• Olivia

To: OliviaW @ encom. com

From: NickA @ encom. com

I've done my homework on Future Control Industries. They don't seem to have much of anything of substance behind them, just a lot of venture capital cash and a website, like those 'here today, gone tomorrow' fly-by-nights from the late nineties. Furthermore, the board's split. Mackey might be interested, but Dillinger Jr. is on the fence. We all know how close he plays his cards to the vest. The two biggest shareholders could stall things. They keep trying to force Bradley out, but he's damn sharp. And then there's the Flynn kid, but he doesn't come out of hiding unless he's trolling the board again.

This may be a case of 'trust in God, but lock your doors.' I've sent out resumes to three other companies (I'll send you links later), but this 'merger' looks questionable. Doesn't hurt to iron-plate your rear-end, though. BTW, can you return my stapler?

- Nick

Mercury led Jet through twisted alleyways that seemed to blur into little more than an incomprehensible set of blue and black, peppered with rubble.

“What is this place?”

“Sector five, track four. It used to be a word processing plant, but the office suite was incompatible with Encom Server 10. So, it was uninstalled. This is the leftover data on the hard drive, and we're using obsolete registry entries to evade the ICP patrols. It's a low-end malware tactic, but it does work.”

Jet scowled. “What are you, anyway?”

Mercury's eyes narrowed and she scanned the way ahead for trouble. Finding none, she half-crawled up a crumbled pile of data blocks, heading for the low roof of an abandoned building. “I work for Ma3a. That's common knowledge. Most just think I'm a lightcycle jock Ma3a sent out because she can't participate in the Games herself.”

“She can't?”

“No, Ma3a's confined to her processing dock. She sees a lot, and she's much more powerful than any Program known to exist. The Math Assistants were built as successors to the old Master Control Program, and have that linage to live down.”

Jet cringed. “Master Control?”

“You didn't know? They were designed as distributed computing – forecasting, quantum physics calculation, encryption better than those Pentagon jokers. Ma3a has a lot of power, at least five times that of the late Ma2a. No one here is sure how she works, but she administers the entire Encom Grid, and has connections that even the Users may not know about if you're any indication. Most of the time, things have been peaceful under her rule.”

“But Master Control was dangerous. At least that's what Mom and Pop always said. They never trusted that experiment in the first place. Why would they recreate it with Ma3a?”

“Ask them,” Mercury said, gesturing for Jet to cross the crumbling roof and climb a creaky-looking ladder. “It's not our place to know anyway. Since Ma3a's confined to her dock, she needs others to act as her agents. I'm one, and you've probably met that smart-ass Byte of hers.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Guess you're her latest recruit.”

“Great,” Jet grumbled. “She recruits me, zaps me in here, and still doesn't tell me much about what's going on. She told me I have to fight off some kind of corruption.”

“Is it true, then, you being a User?” Mercury asked.

Jet took another rung of the ladder. “Yeah, it is. Why do you believe me if no one else does?”

“You don't react like a Program - at least no Program I've run across. Where'd you learn those dirty lightcycle tricks?”

“Um...you want the truth?”

“I'm asking, aren't I?”

“I've lost track of how many quarters I fed to the lightcycle game back at the old arcade. I have a high score on the one at work. No matter how good the AI on a game script, there are always patterns to their movements, their reactions. Figure out the patterns, and the rest is all in the wrist.” He shrugged. “At least, that's how my godfather put it.”

“The string 'godfather' isn't one I recognize.”

“Oh. Well, he was a friend of my father's. A friend of Ma3a's creators. I know Programs use that term.”

Mercury laughed. “Really now? You 'know?' Have you been here before or something?”

“No, but I think my godfather was. He told stories – lots of them. Maybe no one believed what happened to him, so it was just easier to pass it off as stuff to tell little kids. I guess part of me always kinda wished it was true.” Jet shook his head and looked into the endlessly dark sky. The joke was definitely on him.

Mercury scowled. “I know the legend, but never really believed it. Most scripts don't. Sure, there's enough in the archive to prove Tron existed, but the whole idea that some User showed up personally to help him battle Master Control? Yeah, that's a four thirteen.”

“Tron? That's a program Pop wrote years ago.”

Mercury looked over her shoulder. “Pop? Try Alan-1.”

“Same person,” Jet said. “That is my dad's login.”

Mercury scowled. “You definitely don't talk like a Program. I can't decipher half the strings out of your mouth.”

“Where are we heading anyway?”

“Back to the Kernel's Observation Tower, where you uploaded yourself coming in. They've still got your disc. The Kernel's User was Thorne himself, so he's taking this Z-lot invasion personally. He'll tear your disc to shreds trying to find some evidence that you're the corruption source.”

“That doesn't sound good. And I heard you mention Thorne. I don't know what he's got to do with anything. According to the emails I've been reading, he's just out sick with a nasty flu.” Jet held back the silent “good riddance” from the sentence. Thorne was an ill-tempered petty tyrant who made the lives of the rent-a-cop Encom security hellish and didn't do much for the average employee's nerves, either.

“All those Z-lots? The ones we managed to interrogate speak of Thorne as some kind of 'Master User' who will take over all of cyberspace. I'll have to admit that whatever they are, it's nothing we know how to fight. Discs cut them down, and Rod weapons de-rez them like any other script, but they're fast and tough, and they...” Mercury shuddered.

He finished the rest. “They infect. Any Program hit with their ball weapons becomes one of them.”

“You've held your own against them so far,” she pointed out.

Jet shrugged. “The virus doesn't seem to affect me much. It hurts until I can clean it out of my system, though. I'm able to heal other Programs infected with the stuff, I think, but they've usually taken so much damage by that point they de-rez. Maybe if they weren't so badly damaged, I might be able to save some of the infected.”

Mercury scowled. “Damn, the Kernel's a null-unit. All set to de-rez you and you're probably the only effective weapon we have.”

“Speaking of weapons, why don't you use a disc like the others?”

“Ma3a sends me out to do the nasty jobs she can't be caught doing herself. Since I'm designed as an infiltrator, there's too much incriminating data on it. I can't risk it getting stolen or lost. It would put Ma3a in danger more than it would me.“ Checking to make sure no one else was following, she ducked behind a crumbling section of abandoned data blocks and gestured for Jet to get down next to her. “How much combat programming is in your base code, anyway?”

Jet shook his head. Sure, he was a connoisseur of first-person shooters, and could wipe the floor with everyone else in the gaming department at paintball or laser tag. He never could beat Sam at it, though. There were also some high school and college scrapes caused by too much bravado, but... “Before this? Not a lot.”

Mercury turned around. “Let's hope it's enough. I'll show you a little trick I learned that may come in handy. You already saw it in action, now to show you how it's done.” She pulled out her lightcycle rod and gave it a half twist, a second twist in the opposite direction, and then pulled the two halves apart. Jet's nose was hit with the sharp tang of ozone as the unsealed halves sparked like an oversize firework. “The rod isn't a pretty weapon, and you have to get very up close and personal to your target to take them down, but most scripts lack the knowledge that you can do this. My predecessor knew, and she taught me.”

He pulled out his own lightcycle baton and copied her movements, leaving him with a matching pair of sparking rods. He still didn't know if living out a first-person shooter was the brightest idea, but his options were limited. “What's the plan?”

She looked around a crumbling wall. The Kernel's Tower was straight ahead. It was a tall, red structure that looked like a pole covered in barbed wire. A hissing forcefield and thick wall that looked like stone rendered in eight-bit graphics kept casual explorers away. The gatehouse at the entrance had one ICP on guard. A patrol of about a dozen guards marched out of the gate, and rounded the corner, vanishing from sight.

“I create a diversion. You sneak up on the guard and jab those things into his back, preferably the circuit lines,” Mercury said. “From there, we gain access.”

He nodded and she darted ahead. Jet knew how to sneak. It started with climbing out his window in the middle of the night as a teenager, sometimes to go to concerts, sometimes just to see if he could. The thrill of going somewhere forbidden, seeing what he wasn't supposed to see, appealed to his thirst for knowledge and curiosity. He had sneaked into clubs when he was underage and broke into abandoned buildings. When Sam got the idea to start griefing Encom as a way to fight back against the current board's emphasis on cheap profit and coasting on past successes, Jet was totally on board. Adolescent idealism being what it was, it sounded like it would actually be effective.

It wasn't. He'd already had that argument with Sam, and it didn't end well.

There was only one time Jet got caught. He almost got expelled from UCLA over hacking the school's mainframe. Looking back on it, his fatal mistake was in trying to run from the campus cops. If he'd just played casual and hadn't panicked, they probably wouldn't have caught him. The road rash, dislocated shoulder, broken bones, hospital stay, and steep cost of repairing his motorcycle weren't as painful as the stony silence and look on his father's face. He did a lot less sneaking around after that, even if he never could give it up completely.

Mercury moved like a cat, walking with perfect balance on top of the narrow fence rail. The guard looked up and drew his disc.

That was Jet's cue. Moving as swiftly as he dared, he climbed down the ladder on the building side and used the obstacles placed to impede foot and vehicle traffic from approaching as hiding places.

The guard was closing in on Mercury, disc out. Spotting her, he let his weapon fly. “Freeze, Program!”

It narrowly missed her, but it pushed her off balance. One good shot, and she would be dead. Jet couldn’t afford to wait. He ran forward and nearly tackled the guard, jamming the rods into the disc holder on his back. The guard twitched and bucked under Jet before finally exploding into voxels that faded like nothing ever was there. Jet snatched the disc left behind, and pulled himself to his feet as Mercury came by.

“Is everything around here lethal?” he asked.

“Not everything, just most.” She waved him into the guard house. “Why did you grab that?”

“I might be able to get something from it.”

“We've only got a few micros until the patrol comes back. Make it good.”

Jet bit his lip. The disc was fading out rapidly, but he was able to extract enough code to give him an idea. “Mercury, do you trust me?”

She scowled. “Enough. It's not like we have a choice if we're going to save Ma3a.”

“We can't fight all of them, but I noticed when I was captured that there doesn't seem to be a lot of variety in the ICP armor configurations. And the best way to walk around somewhere you don't belong is to make it look like you do. You'd be surprised on how many places I've just walked into with nothing more than a janitor's uniform and a broom.” The disc itself de-rezzed, leaving a subroutine that looked like a pulsing red pyramid in his hand. “I'll need your disc.”

Mercury regarded Jet warily, then reached behind her and pulled her disc. “You do anything stupid, and...”

“I'll be dead,” he finished. Bringing up the readout, Jet found an appropriate slot and locked the subroutine in place. Mercury's appearance began to change as her light, flexible armor and blue gridlines changed to the heavy armor, red lines, and face-concealing helmet of an ICP drone.

She looked at her hands, and at the sigil on her arm. “Amazing. You extracted a disguise subroutine from that?”

“It was the best I could do.”

“I don't have any permissions to go with it, though.”

“That's where I come in.” Jet turned over his arm to reveal the fully-lit permissions sigil. “Full permissions, but no disc- no disguise.”

Mercury pulled a light rope from the storage on her hip and started to un-loop some. “Guess you'll be my prisoner, then.”

Jet held out his hands and tried not to think about how huge of a risk this was. “Where are we headed?”

The rope tightened as Mercury put an expert knot into it. “Disc access is one floor from the top. It's standard procedure to comb over its contents prior to de-rezzing the prisoner. That way, they can rope in any accomplices or find out any bugs the criminal managed to exploit. Or, if the Program turns out to be innocent, the proof's on the disc. It takes time, though, so any suspects will be in quarantine on the first five floors.”

“Lead on, then.” Inwardly, Jet was just crossing his fingers and hoping Mercury was the ally she seemed to be.

The first level was the Prisoner Bin. Jet couldn't help but flinch as he heard the sounds of crying. It seemed like every cell was full. Sometimes, there were two or three to a cell. Some huddled together, like they were trying to conserve warmth, their circuitry dim. Another cell the size of a storage shed had four Programs crammed inside, the prisoners sitting on the floor, holding hands and heads bowed in prayer. The only word from their whispers he could make out was “User.” Another pair, obviously “bundled,” were in another cell. The male Program held his unconscious wife, whose circuitry was flickering like a cheap bug zapper while he begged her to come back online.

The sight made his throat close. "Is this normal?" he hissed to Mercury.

The disguised program shook her head slightly. "No," she replied. "Normally less than a quarter of the cells are filled and the occupants are fairly well treated."

Jet frowned. "Then what's going on here?"

Mercury shook her head again. "I'm not sure, but you can bet the Kernel has something to do with it. With Ma3a's long-range communication cut off due to the virus, he's in charge, and it's gone to his processor."

Jet's face twisted into a grimace. "Like Program, like User, I guess. When things go wrong for Thorne, he tends to go nuts until the problem is fixed." Which is part of the reason I fixed his hard drive instead of waiting for Help Desk.

Jet couldn't really tell, but it looked like Mercury was scowling under the helmet.

“Hey, Program? They get you, too?” A voice from inside one of the cells.

Jet looked up, and tugged on the rope to halt Mercury. “Romie? What are you doing here?”

“Kernel rounded us all up from the transport and marched us in here. Quarantine, I get, but...” The mail script looked nervously at the disguised Mercury.

“All of you?”

“Kernel's not taking chances. He's stripping our discs and sending us all to de-rez.”

Even under the disguise, Mercury couldn't help blurting out, “What?”

Romie scowled at her. “Don't give me that. The ICP units have their orders from Kernel himself. They already marched the last cell block to the decompilers.”

Jet gasped, and Mercury pulled the rope, leading him down the corridor.

“Worse than I thought,” she grumbled. “I knew it was bad, but de-rezzing uncorrupted civilian Programs? That's over the line.”

“We've got to do something.”

Mercury shook her head. “We have a mission, and we carry it out. It's not going to do Ma3a any good if we get ourselves captured or de-rezzed.”

Jet scowled. Forget any leftover bedtime stories - he absolutely hated this place. So what if he was a User? Didn't seem to do much good, and this place's attitude towards living beings...

How many laptops have you dropped? How many hard drives did you reformat? How many times have you gone out of your way to crash a system out of spite? Just to depress himself further, he added, Besides, it's not like you can change the situation on either side of the screen. You just have to put up with it.

A soft whirring noise caught Jet's attention and he looked up. A strange object that looked like a meter-long medicine capsule was floating near the ceiling. "What's that?" he asked.

“Finder,” Mercury answered. “Even if you evade the ICP units, those things are death from above. If you're not authorized, those lock on and keep firing until you're a smoking pile of voxels. Not a nice way to go.”

Jet grimaced, hoping he didn't have to fight them off, but getting a bad feeling he would have to. “And those red things on the wall?”

“Security rez-in stations. They're extremely short-range I/O transports, able to pull an ICP to wherever one's activated as reinforcements. They suck up a lot of power and need a couple nanos to cool down between rez-ins, but they're a nice way to dial up a small army on short notice.”

“Great. And I suppose grabbing my disc will set off the alarms?”

“Every last one.” Mercury said with a chuckle.

The thought of fighting his way out of this mess was even less pleasant than faking being a prisoner to get in. Jet looked up at the Finders crossing the ceiling and the distance between rez-in stations, counting the time it took for them to complete a circuit.

“Uh, oh.”

Jet found himself jerked suddenly into a portal, then pulled into a side corridor, out of sight of the patrols. “Mercury?” He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Mercury's armor flickering, reverting to her normal appearance. “Uh, oh.”

“You think you can stabilize this? Otherwise, we're fighting our way out sooner than we planned.”

“I don't know. It was improvised in the first place. Where are we?”

Mercury looked around. “Contraband storage, looks like.”

Jet shook his head. “Maybe there's something here we can use -”

They heard the announcement over the communication system. “Intruder Alert on level three! Activating security rez-in station.”

“Glitch it! Too late.” Mercury pulled out her rod and shorted out the rope around Jet's wrists. “Looks like we're fighting our way through.”

Two hulking brutes in ICP armor clanked down the hall, but what they lacked in speed, their disc throws made up for. Jet narrowly dodged the one flying at his head and made a dive for his attacker's legs, smacking him with the closed cycle rod. Mercury was charging the second, keeping him occupied as Jet and the other one crashed to the floor.

The strange part is that the ICP didn't use the same tactics he'd expect from an analog-world fighter. His swinging punches were slow, and the bulky armor didn't lend itself to kicks. Jet's hand stung as he clocked the ICP across the jaw. The ICP pushed him off, running for the disc that overshot due to the flying tackle.

Jet undid the lightcycle rod without being completely aware of it, the sparking ends crackling and the smell of ozone in the air. The ICP picked up the disc just as Jet's weapon nailed him in the chest plate. The guard twitched and gasped before exploding into glowing cubes.

No time to think or slow down. “Which way?”

Mercury gestured to the lift in the center, now sealed off by a forcefield. “Through that, and your permissions won't do the trick there. Unless we can override or destroy those encryption keys, it's end of line.”

“You said contraband earlier. Let's see if we can blast our way in.”

Mercury raised one platinum-colored eyebrow. “Now your reading my processor.“ She took his wrist and jammed it against a panel, which slid open to a small, dark room. The only light came from their circuitry and the soft glow of the subroutines, emails, and permissions floating in the clear archive bins.

Jet started rifling through them. Outside, an alarm had sounded. Mercury stacked a few data blocks near the door to use as cover if needed. Discarding many of the contents as useless subroutines and pawing through piles of spam email, he pulled out two octahedral shapes and pressed one into Mercury's hand. “These look like they'll work with our rods.”

Mercury looked at Jet skeptically as Jet snapped together his own rod and began to pull up the subroutine contents, twisting them around the rod like a ribbon. The rod itself shaped into a gun with a wide barrel and a snub nose.

“Suffusion guns,” Mercury explained, applying the subroutine to her own rod. “Popular with one-bit thugs and Resource Hog gangs. The range isn't great, and the energy expense almost makes it not worth it, but they've got quite the kick.”

“How powerful?”

“Enough to knock your output into the next sector if you're not careful. They'll destroy the keys. From there, it's the uppermost floor and the disc storage.” She gestured for him to follow.

R.T. and Spooler were new transfers to the main tower from an outlying sector. Currently not set to any task other than guarding the entrance to disc storage, the pair had little to do but pass the time comparing notes.

“Reports are coming in from all over the sector. The Kernel doesn't think Mercury and the fugitive have found a way to escape the sector.”

“I heard another drive has been lost,” R.T. said, his red circuitry lines flaring briefly with fear. “If we lose main processing, the Kernel may order an evacuation to archival and complete reformat.”

“What about the civilian and utility Programs?” Spooler asked. “The Kernel isn't going to leave them to de-rez or get infected.”

“Kernel's new orders are to leave them. There aren't enough transports for the ICP units, much less dead weight. He's going after any means necessary to stop the Z-lot invasion. If it eradicates the threat, then it's all filed under 'acceptable losses.'”

“I'm not so sure -”

“Order are orders. Follow commands and don't send out too many queries.”

“But none that we currently have in quarantine are infected, and some of them say that there are Users running loose on the system!”

“You actually believe that? You must be glitched!”

“Glitched or not, I'm heading to the nearest sec-rezzer at the first sight of tr-” The sentence was cut short by a pair of suffusion blasts.

The disc storage area was a twisting maze of corridors and archive rooms, all the better for hit and run attacks. Unfortunately, the ICP units outnumbered them and they had already triggered the alert.

Jet was clearly a rookie in actual combat, and she had seen other scripts – even ICP units – blue screen in an actual firefight. Him being a User was still the most unlikely and ridiculous explanation possible, but there wasn't another one she could use that covered all the checkpoints and too much just didn't add up about him. The same fatal flaw that put her in his room in the first place was the same that made her decide that both of them were getting out of this mess alive; if he wasn't exaggerating about his abilities, he was the only chance Ma3a had.

One of the ICP guards got in melee range, thinking he could use his greater bulk to take her out. It would have worked if he hadn't been compiled with only rudimentary melee subroutines. Her combat programming was more efficient; duck the first punch, drop, hit the node on his abdomen and watch his circuitry blink, then sweep his leg out from under him. Finish with a headshot.

The next opponent didn't get a chance to finish drawing his disc. Jet's shot hit center mass and the ICP shattered before he hit the ground.

“Nice one,” she said.

Run, duck, fire. The ICP units came in pairs, and sometimes a third would rez-in at the checkpoints. Jet was pulling his weight, certainly, but wasn't racking up half the kill shots she was. Worse, the energy expense of firing the suffusion rods carried was starting to drain her, but Jet didn't seem to be affected by anything other than worry.

He was muttering something under his breath as he walked a step behind her, watching and taking out any ICP units trying to get the drop on them. Sometimes, he was saying things that sounded like a glitching script repeating its directive or invoking its User. Other times, he was counting out some kind of pattern as they passed through shelves upon shelves of confiscated discs, each with a different face hovering over its output, different symbols carved into their tracks and grooves.

“Keep your focus, conscript,” she scolded as they twisted through the maze of corridors.

“I am!” he insisted. “The next sec-rezzer activates in three..two...”

“Activate security rez-in station!”

An ICP unit rezzed in just ahead of them. Mercury dodged his disc shot before blasting him with her suffusion rod.

“The sec-rezzers are twenty-eight paces apart, and have cool down of fifty. If you can't beat them with quickness, the figure out the patterns. Also...” Jet pushed his hand against it, shutting it down, followed by a quick blast from his gun to destroy it. “No offense, but AI units never take advantage of the spawn points. Take those out, and you have fewer places enemies will come at you.”

Mercury shook her head. All this time as an infiltrator, and the thought had truly never run through her processor. “Spawn of a virus. How did you figure that one?”

Jet shrugged. “I started in QA. One of the worst jobs I had was play-testing Call of Halo, playing the same badly-coded level over and over again, trying to find ways the end user will break it. Got to the point where I was playing it in my sleep,” he explained. “And it only paid minimum wage on top of it. I managed to crash the game by destroying all the spawn points. Half the dev team wanted to give me a raise and the other half wanted to wring my neck.”

Again with the references and strings she had no idea how to process. The more she heard Jet speak, the more something else seemed off. There was a strangely flat quality to his vocal output. Mercury suspended that mental process. They needed to survive first. By the time they finally caught any kind of break, over a dozen ICP units were de-rezzed, three shelves worth of discs were splinters on the floor, and Mercury's circuitry was dull. She was breathing heavily and fighting off the temptation to collapse.

“We've searched through the whole archive on this level, and no disc which means...” Mercury shuddered. “They've got it on the floor above us and are actively scanning it. We have even less time to retrieve it than I thought.”

"Great," Jet grumbled, peering carefully around the corner. Then he paused and touched her shoulder. "Hey, you okay? You don't look so good."

"Why aren't your lines dimming?"

Jet blinked. "Huh?" He looked down at himself, then at the gun, then at Mercury. He shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't feel anything." Jet pulled his head back just in time to dodge a disk-shot. "Whoa!" He quickly fired his weapon and derezzed the ICP. Then he picked up a disk off one of the broken shelves and hurled it at the next-closest guard. The stolen disc sliced neatly through an ICP and came back to his hand. Pivoting on his heel, he used it to reflect a shot back to its owner.

Mercury blinked. Was the energy drain causing her optics to glitch? A Program simply did not use another Program's disc. Even reading it was a violation that was supposed to be reserved for the worst of the worst. It was like sharing the data that one's User placed in their spark, taboo of the highest order. Even if you did blaspheme like that, the disc would have to be modified to fit the new wielder before it could be summoned back to one's hand after a single throw, not using it continuously.

She crouched behind a stack of archive bins and inert data blocks, trying to conserve her dwindling reserves. Jet shrugged back at her, like he was uncertain why she found the idea of using this disk so strange.

"You shouldn't be able to do that," she said.

"Do what?" Jet asked as he threw the borrowed disk again, then swore and dove for cover. "Merc, a little help here?"

“I'm out of energy,” she said. She frantically looked around for a reservoir of liquid, patch sphere, or other source she could use. Unfortunately, the only source of energy in range...

She couldn't believe she was about to do this. "Gimme your hand."

Jet blinked, but reached out his own hand to where Mercury was crouched.

Guilt wasn't something she experienced often, but for the second time in her brief association with Jet, it kicked in hard. Energy sharing between Programs was something...intimate. Not something you used in a firefight. It was a good thing he probably didn't understand that. Hands joined, circuitry burned, and she pulled energy from him. Like before in the lightcycle barracks, it was nearly enough to overload her right there, waves of relief and pleasure coursing through her circuitry as it regained its vigor.

Jet looked a little dazed as Mercury let go. "Umm...."

Mercury cut him off. "I'll explain later, now let's go! The portal to the scanner room is clear."

They charged as fast as they could for the short-range portal, accepting the abrupt change from "there" to "here" as they ran into the scanner level, a single hall that wrapped around the analysis room itself. They took position on either side of the door.

Three ICP units, led by a particularly nasty-looking one, were questioning a pair of terrified utility Programs. There, on the dais, was Jet's disc, a 3-D readout floating above the triangle on triangle emblem in the center.

“Scan it again!” the burly ICP demanded.

“But...but Devwatch, sir, we can't. Our equipment can't decipher most of the data. We don't know what to make of any of the output readings we are getting.”

“I think it's...it's true,” the female-designated utility said, voice shaking. “I...I think he was telling the truth about being a User.”

“That is an unacceptable answer. This 'Jet' is nothing other than a sophisticated Z-lot. You scan that disc until you can get me some answers, or you'll be on the decompiler!”

One of the other ICP looked back. “Uh-oh. We've got company.”

Three quick shots took out the ICP units as Mercury and Jet stormed into the room. The utility Programs watched in shock as Jet made a beeline for his disc.

"Yes!" Jet exclaimed as he ran over to it.

The female-designated dropped to her knees. "We're so sorry. We're....please don't de-rez us, User. Please don't...If we had known..."

The male elaborated. "We had no idea what you were. We thought it couldn't be true."

Jet facepalmed, then glanced at Mercury. "Is everyone here going to do that?"

"I hope not. And Ma3a had better have a good explanation for this. Grab that, and let's go."

"Okay..." Jet snatched up his disk from where it lay. As he placed it on the slot in his armor, a flurry of images and impressions flooded into his head like a dream set on fast forward. In his mind's eye, he could see the whole layout of the tower – the location of any active rez-in stations, the location of patrols, the fastest way to get to portals and lifts. It was like having a heads-up display with a mini-map downloaded into his brain. It gave him a great idea. Finding an inert bit on the console, he powered it up and watched it fly out of the room. He remembered Ma3a's lab sector using them for security locks, and in the sockets for the prisoner doors.

“Mercury, follow that bit. We're headed back down to the prisoner bin. Hopefully, we can give the Kernel an even bigger problem on the way out.”

Mercury raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Tell you when I think of it,” he said, trying hard not to look at the kneeling utilities nearby. He wasn't sure if being worshiped was much better than being attacked.

Anger fueled him as much as the idea of having a goal. Even on his own side of the screen, there was only so much he could take before the pent-up frustration boiled over and he caught himself doing something epically stupid. That's how he ended up in the LA county lockup (three times), paying off traffic tickets (at least a dozen times), and losing at least one job.

He holstered the suffusion subroutine in favor of his disc, preferring the quickness and precision of it to the scattershot destruction of the shotgun-like device. Mercury went back to her rods. Much of the fighting blurred together, and Jet's earlier observations about the Finder patrols proved accurate as he nailed those with disc hits while Mercury watched his six.

Through the portal and back through the prisoner bin. Alarms were screaming, shots came from everywhere. Block, block, sidestep, fire, repeat. See the patterns, feel the patterns.

Don't think too much about the implications.

He lost count of the ICP guards he killed. The Finders were the harder challenge, as their small size and nasty firepower already made for three close calls.

"Hey, Program!" Jet's head snapped around. He recognized that voice. Romie was waving them over. Jet glanced at Mercury and the two of them sprinted across the hallway at the next break in the enemy fire.

"Romie, right." Jet slammed his hand on the control bit for the forcefield. With a metallic, “No,” the forcefield went down. Reaching back, he pulled out the borrowed disk. "I think this is yours."

Romie raised an eyebrow and took it back, eying it and Jet warily. “Two times you save my base code in one micro.” Romie fell in with them, and threw his disc. The shot went wild, missing the ICP he had been aiming for, but nailing the one behind it. “There goes my time off for good behavior,” he said. “Got any plans?”

"Yes," said Jet. "You can repay the favor. Which way to the control room?"

Romie frowned, crunching data. Then he smiled. "Can do. Follow me!"

With every ICP on alert, no one was in the break room, and the trio ran through it on their way to the control panels. Barging through the doors, Mercury threw one of her rods to strike the lone, unwitting guard in the chest, knocking him offline. Jet was able to lock the three of them in and seal the door behind them.

“We're idling bits here,” Mercury warned. “Whatever you got, make it good.”

Romie ran to a panel and began inputting data. "Take out this control bit here, and it opens all the cells. You wanted a distraction? I can't think of a better one."

"Well, for an e-mail router, you're not a half-bad saboteur, script," Mercury remarked.

Romie scowled. “The Z-lots got Aida. Marco was taken by the ICP units and de-rezzed. They were my counterparts. The Kernel and Thorne can both de-rez for all I care. Your friend here saved me when no one else would.”

Jet shuddered, but any words of sympathy would have to wait. He put his hand on the panel next to the one Romie was working. Touching the panel caused another flood of images to blast into his head, but it just seemed to make his thought process clearer instead of confusing it. “You open the doors. I'm rerouting the ICP dispatch orders and scrambling the commands to the Finders and sec-rezzers. If we can send those into confusion attacking each other, they won't be able to stop the jailbreak.”

On the other side of the door, the ICPs had other ideas. The sealed door began to buckle and pixellate. “Blast! They've found the logic probe,” Mercury grumbled.

On the other side of the door, the cell block doors sputtered on and off, the Finders started shooting one another, exploding into glowing shrapnel that rained on the ICPs below.

Prisoners ran, storming down the doors to disc storage. The ICPs had weapons but the prisoners had numbers and nothing to lose. From the ground floor to the spire, all was chaos. If the prisoners had discs, they used them. Some resorted to their hands or pieces of pixel-stone.

“Call for backup!” the guard captain shouted.

“I can't. The comm systems are jammed. We need to get back into that communication room.”

“Nine-Volt and his team have the logic probe. And there's no way out of that room except through the door.” The captain smiled coldly. “They're trapped and they know it.”

Romie started manipulating the switches on the panel, dark hands flying over the control panel. "Come on, come on..." the Program murmured.

Mercury looked around and found exactly what she was looking for – a hatch. Loading the suffusion subroutine, she shouted to them “Keep working.”

Romie continued typing. "Whatever you're doing, you'd better hurry! Jet, hit that panel!"

Jet followed Romie's order without a second thought, diving to one side and slamming his hand on the glowing panel. The blast's shockwave threw the Mercury, Jet, and Romie to the ground. Then all was silent.

Jet picked himself up, shaking his to try and clear the ringing in his ears. "What did you do?" he asked, helping Mercury to her feet. As the one closest to the door, she was hit the hardest.

Romie got to his own feet and grinned. "I opened the power conduit to the logic probe and overloaded it. Ka-boom!"

"Unfortunately," Jet said, "There's not much left of the panel – or the room we came through. How are we going to get out?"

"Then it's time for the backup," Mercury said. Taking her suffusion gun, she aimed it directly at the floor, blasting a large chunk of voxels into dust and exposing a dark hole below. "Into the hole, boys."

She dove in first. Jet and Romie looked at each other and followed her lead.

Chapter Text

To: RMackey @ encom . Com

From: Crown @ fCon . Ind

Subject: F-Con merger

A courier should be arriving shortly to deliver out final proposal. I trust the terms will be acceptable and in order. You will, of course, find that you and your fellow board members will be given generous parachute offers.

The merging of our companies will lay the groundwork for a profitable future for all of us. Thank you for realizing, Mr. Mackey, that this is not a personal failing. It is merely a necessity for your business to remain profitable and join the twenty-first century. We both are smart enough to know the eighties are over and Encom needs the new life that our leadership can give it.

S. Crown III

Senior Exec Vice President

Future Control Industries

To: Crown @ fCon . Ind

From: RMackey @ encom . Com

Subject: F-Con merger

We certainly agree on the major points, and I'm giving this one last look through by legal, just to make sure all the “I's” are dotted and “T's” are crossed. I also agree that your severance offer for the executives is generous indeed.

There is one complication, however. The company charter requires a majority vote of shareholders to agree to a sale. The board is currently split. While I agree that a merger would be a good idea for both our companies' long-term futures, our largest shareholder is...eccentric. We could certainly override him with enough votes on the board. However, we also have two other major shareholders – Alan Bradley and Edward Dillinger Jr. - refusing the sale. Now, Ed's a businessman. He sees the potential for this to go over big on Wall Street. Alan is more set in his ways. I'm sure, however, that he can be made to see reason.

Richard Mackey

CEO

Encom Inc.

To: RMackey @ encom . Com

From: AlanBradley @ encom.com

Subject: F-Con merger

I mean no disrespect, Richard, but this merger is a bad idea. Future Control Industries seems like a promising company, but I've been in the computing industry long enough to see a lot of promising companies turn out to be fly-by-night operations. I suspect this is the case with F-Con.

The company allegedly specializes in secure data storage and retrieval, but when I asked their so-called information security officer, I didn't like the answers he was giving me. If you want me to bore you with the details of encryption and firewall protocol I'd be happy to, but suffice to say, even I could hack their so-called network security blindfolded. They're a house of cards, and Encom deserves better. I'm not selling, and neither will Sam. Junior also smells a rat here. Two other board members are undecided.

I realize the economy is in a bad state and that the company has been struggling, but we are making a profit, and that profit has gone a long way in the R&D department. Several promising new technologies are just on the horizon (once the bugs are worked out) – technologies that are miles ahead of Microsoft, Apple, or even Google.

Well-written software, research applications, and cutting-edge technology offerings have always been our edge over our competitors. Offering the consumer a quality product for a reasonable price is the business model that has lasted over 100 years and will last 100 more.

Alan Bradley

Executive Consultant

Encom Inc.

Alan wasn't a man who resorted to swearing often, but he let out a few choice ones as he kicked the old game console in sheer frustration. It barely qualified as a motherboard, just as the old dial-up modem was painfully slow and kept dropping connections. He uploaded Mercury and gave it the emergency command, but the poor connection meant he lost his program somewhere in the system and couldn't get back in.

As he was about to redo all of the connections, he heard footsteps. Hastily, he grabbed the tarp and threw it over his mess of circuitry and parts. When the door opened, there were the two thugs that attacked him in the lab – one which had a very nasty bruise on one cheek and sported a black eye. Alan had to take a little pride in being able to score a solid hit on a professional tough half his age. They were escorting a petite, auburn-haired woman in a sharp suit and too much makeup.

Alan crossed his arms and allowed some of his anger - and none of his fear - to show on his face.

“May I help you?” he drawled.

The woman's smile was predatory, almost reptilian. "You already know what we are after – the location of your research data on the digitizer," she said, her English thickly accented. "Perhaps some time to think it over has changed your mind about our offer, no?"

"Sorry, I'm afraid not," he answered, shoving his hand in his lab coat and feeling the thin scrap of envelope in his pocket.

"And perhaps you still believe you have a choice in the matter, Mister Bradley. There is much we are prepared to offer, and every man has a price."

Alan actually laughed. "You're trying to bribe me? Really? After all this?" he indicated the room, and his bruises.

"As Mister Crown has pointed out, we know that we must take...greater measures to ensure your cooperation. I have studied you – your papers, your biographical data. You are a...complex man, one that is not easily persuaded."

"I'm not inclined to speak to criminals, no.”

“Would money buy your cooperation? It works for most.” She waved her hand as though dismissing the idea. “But you are not 'most.' Perhaps the idea of comfort – you want for nothing for the rest of your days. You would not have to be a coast away from your wife. She is working with you in secret on this, am I right? Would she be inclined to talk if it spares your life? Would you talk to save hers?”

His eyes narrowed. They could threaten him all they liked, since it seemed a likely bet that he wouldn't come out of this alive. Threatening Lora? Inwardly, he scolded himself; he had been trying to protect her and it likely would not be enough. It didn't do anything for the fear he was trying not to show.

“The laser is her life's work. Should she not be able to see it completed before her illness proves fatal?”

They were looking for weaknesses – he knew that. Someone had given them the full book on him, and they were looking for the vulnerabilities. Mentally, he started to go through the list of people that might have betrayed him. If he knew their mole, he would at least have an idea on how much they knew. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the laser technology is nowhere near -”

“Spare us the charade, Mister Bradley. We know how far along you are in your research.”

“What? You can't calculate some simple math problems yourself?"

She laughed sharply. "Simple? You discount yourself. But I suppose you have had a long pattern of doing so. Always one step behind, always cleaning up after another's sloppy work..."

Alan's hands clenched into fists and he forcefully restrained himself. Don't react. Don't give them anything they can use.

She glanced down at her clipboard before looking up at him, probably checking some psych profile. "You have always believed yourself good and honorable, the white knight in a dark world. You never seized glory for yourself. Even as CEO of Encom, you were telling the press that you merely held the seat until your...companion returned. Which he never has. You raised his child as your own. And the pager? Very charming."

Alan stayed silent. The more you talk, the more time my Mercury program has to to its job.

The woman tucked the clipboard under her arm and circled him, looking him over like a fascinating artifact. "To hold out hope for twenty years? No man is so honorable. There is always a baser element, even if you deny it so that you may sleep."

Alan made no response.

She pulled the pager from her pocket and began running her thumb across its top. "What was he to you? Why would you risk your career and your fortune so many times on a man that should have been your rival?"

"He was a friend, a good one. That wasn't a secret."

"A friend, you say?" her voice was frankly disbelieving. "You walked in his shadow through your entire professional - and personal – life, Mister Bradley. You did so much of the work, but your charismatic partner got the credit and titles. No one would go to such lengths for someone who was just a friend.”

Alan was hard pressed to keep from laughing. God knew that rumor had been floating around the Encom boardroom for years. Let her go down that track if she wants to, he thought, amused.

“If you wish to keep your silence to the grave, then it is your business. But if we are to negotiate for the algorithms, then we will need to find out what it is you want. If money and comfort do not motivate you, then perhaps an appeal to your honor and loyalty.” She opened her palm to fully show off the pager. “We know of your hunt for answers, the questions that haunt you enough to carry this little totem. Perhaps trading information for the laser's codes?”

Alan tried not to react, but couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath. If he hadn't found the scrap, he would have dismissed her out of hand. The prospect of a solid lead, of answers for what happened, maybe even a way to give his friend a proper burial...It was still a deal with the devil. "I want you to go to hell," Alan said coldly.

The woman nodded to her thugs, who quickly backed him into a corner and grabbed his arms, effectively immobilizing him.

“It is too bad you choose to not to take this seriously. But I'm sure that we can find a price for those codes you would be willing to pay." She snapped her fingers and motioned for the thugs to follow her. “Portez-le à Monsieur Crown!”

They jostled and kicked him as they pulled him down the hall, accompanied by the sharp staccato clicking of the woman's heels. At the end of a twisting, musty-smelling hallway, her keycard tapped a panel and a large section of metal wall slowly pulled outward.

Now that's a big door...The old sarcastic comment floated into Alan's mind without invitation. Once it was wide enough to permit access, the woman nodded to the thugs, and Alan was pushed inside.

The light in here was dim, like the basement lab of a mad scientist. Banks of servers and supercomputers running at full capacity made the room sweltering hot while arrays of fans barely kept up with making sure they didn't overheat. And the far edge of the room had what looked to be a transporter pad from the old Star Trek series with three cameras...

Not cameras, he realized. Lasers, and ones that are more sophisticated than the surplus parts I had to beg off the DoD or salvage from the research labs.

A small cubbyhole with an old wooden table and step stool passing for a workstation was off in a corner. A dusky, East Indian man sat at the computer while Crown hovered over him, stopping to address the new arrivals.

“So, Dr. Popoff, you negotiate a price with our guest?”

“He has not named his price.”

“Didn't think he would,” Crown said, gesturing to a flat panel TV mounted on the wall. “But as you can see, we're also researching the technology. And we've made a bid on Encom for the rest.”

The TV was tuned to one of those 24-hour news channels with a stock ticker on the bottom. On the screen were arrays of tech stocks – Microsoft, Apple, Google, IBM. Encom's symbol had a red arrow and the stock price had taken a sharp dive. The talking head in an expensive suit was clearly reading a teleprompter just off stage, turning to a bleached blonde (also reading from a teleprompter) and discussing the potential impact of a virus outbreak that current security measures seemed unable to defeat.

“The virus, called 'Z-lot' by Encom's security team, has completely overwhelmed the company's servers and essentially shut down the world's second-largest tech firm. This has caused its stock price to plunge in heavy trading and will be of benefit to Future Control Industries, an aggressive tech start-up that's interested in taking control of the ailing giant. Unfortunately, the Z-lot virus has also shown signs of spreading to the open Internet, putting any computer running an Encom OS in danger...”

“What did you do?” Alan asked, covering his dismay with anger.

Crown raised an eyebrow. “I'm not the computer expert. You'd have to ask the man behind it. As you can see, however, your frumpy company is no more. Your talents, however antiquated, can still be of use.”

The technician rubbed the back of his neck. “And when we come up with a means of defeating that virus, thanks to your algorithms, then we'll be known as heroes. Encom will fall, and we will be there to pick up the pieces.”

“Enough, Mister Baza,” Popoff scolded. “We do not pay you to provide commentary.”

“There's no offer you can make that I'll accept,” Alan said. “You've made no attempt to hide your identities, your company, or your plans. Therefore, I have to assume that you do not intend to let me leave this building alive.”

Crown and Popoff looked between themselves. Baza's shoulders drooped and he made a show of going back to work on his terminal, clearly unsettled by the situation. Crown and Popoff probably aren't as technically minded, so they need him, but they don't treat him well. That makes Baza the weak link here. I might be able to start them infighting if I get through to him.

“We got a secure line?” Crown asked.

“Yes, it's all ready when you are, along with voice distortion and some added encryption.”

“You can obscure the IP address?”

“I already am, but it isn't going to help much after a couple minutes. I can only spoof the IP address of the call for so long. The VPN adds another layer of protection, but if that's -”

“You can get me two minutes?”

“Yes, Mr. Crown. You have two minutes.”

Crown marched up to the conference call phone on the desk and nodded to the thugs. They pulled Alan over to the desk, and one of them drove a knee into the small of his back, sending shooting pain through his body and dropping him to his knees.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Alan's heart sank, recognizing the voice on the other end. Lora...

“Who is it?” Roy finished the last connection to his laptop, looking at her worriedly. “Is it the police again?”

Lora put the phone on the table and engaged speakerphone, quickly gesturing for Roy to keep quiet as she plugged it into the USB on his laptop.

The voice was a sharp baritone, filtered through heavy modulation. “Missus Bradley.”

“That's 'Doctor' Bradley, actually. Who is this?”

“Are you alone?”

Roy did his best not to breathe, opening one of his home-brewed, and not-quite-legal, applications.

Lora lied through her teeth. “Yes.”

“We have your husband. Cooperate, and he lives. Fail to comply, and you will never see him again – not even a body. Understand?”

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the table, trying not to shake. Roy gulped. “Put him on the phone.”

“Lora,” There was some distortion on the line, but she clearly recognized Alan's voice.

“Alan, are you all right?”

Even with the distortion, she could tell he was fatigued...maybe worse. “I love you. I always have and always will. I'm sorry.” There was a finality and resignation in his tone that chilled her, and she couldn't stop the stinging in her eyes or the tremors through her body.

There was a cry of pain over the line, and Lora almost leaped out of her seat. “Alan?!”

The first voice came back on. “He's alive for now. If you want him to stay alive, give us the location of the laser's correction algorithms.”

“Lora, don't!”

She quickly glanced over to Roy. Roy mouthed the words “Keep talking.”

“Why? Why those?”

“You do not need to know, but his life depends on them.”

A coast away, Alan steeled himself against the pain when one of the guards twisted his arm almost to the point of breaking it. The TV in the background continued to drone on, and then he heard it.

“At this hour, Encom executive Alan Bradley has been reported missing. Also missing is his son, Jethtro 'Jet' Bradley, who works for the company's gaming department. At this hour, no further information from Los Angeles Police Department has released, but foul play is suspected...”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the split screen. His own face was on the left, Jet's on the right. Dry vital statistics like age, height, weight, hair, and eye color scrolled into view. Sacrificing himself, he could handle; hell, he had been committing a slow form of suicide for the past twenty years.

Sacrificing someone else, especially Jet...

He was aware of his arm and knees shooting signals of pain, the other hired goon's hand keeping him forced to the ground. He was aware of Baza's nervous typing, Crown's hawkish gaze, Popoff's cold, analytical impatience. It all seemed detached and unreal. The only thing that was real was the horrible knowledge that his son was in danger, his wife was alone, and he couldn't do anything to protect them.

Baza pointed to the timer on the screen.

“Thirty seconds, Mrs. Bradley. Talk, or your husband and son are both dead.” Crown nodded to the thugs. The one who didn't have Alan's arm twisted behind his back pulled out a Taser and powered it on, giving a little smile and nod to the laser platform. Alan had a terrible suspicion about how they were planning to dispose of him.

I tried. I wanted to save her. I'm not ready to lose her. And the last conversation I had with Jethro was yet another foolish argument. I was trying to keep him from getting involved. He bowed his head. They might as well get it over with. I failed...again.

Lora made the judgment call. “Ma3a. The codes are in Ma3a. The rest is on the lab server. Just don't -”

“Thank you for your compliance, Missus Bradley.” Crown ended the call.

The thugs eased up on the pressure, but not their grip. “Now,” Crown said. “If you provide us with the password, we can do this the easy way.”

“It's too late,” Alan said. “Your virus attack forced me to initiate a re-format and automatic overwrite of Ma3a's home server. Even if you manage to get those hard drives, you'll find nothing. You have me, but let my boy go. He's not involved in the laser research. He doesn't know anything.”

Crown pounded a fist into his palm, sparing only a momentary glance over his shoulder. “Baza.”

“We are dealing with a man who pioneered computer security.”

“Emphasis on 'pioneered,'” Crown said.

“If he really has done what he said, then whatever we might be able to get will be incomplete and corrupted – assuming we get anything at all. Unless that program of his can upload itself out of trouble, we've lost our chance.”

Crown brought up his fist and punched Alan in the jaw. Shaking his hand to relieve the pain of impact, Crown ordered the hired muscle, “Take the old man away before I really hurt him.”

As soon as the door shut behind Alan and the guards, leaving the three to themselves, Popoff started tapping her foot. “We do not have his son, and if he has gone missing, there is a chance he is looking for his father and will trace us here.”

“So long as the Bradley couple don't know that, we'll use it to our advantage. Add it to your grocery list, Baza. We need to see if we can beat the format to Ma3a, and we need any dirt we can dig up on Bradley's son.”

“What about Thorne?” Baza asked. “We can't control what he's become any more than Encom can stop the viral attack he's started. It could just as easily attack our systems as theirs.”

“We keep that firewall up and make damn sure that we nuke any drive that shows signs of Thorne getting access.” Crown paced the floor. “Just because that idiot gave us bad information doesn't mean we have to be the ones paying for it. We use him as long as we can, and cut him down when he becomes a liability.”

Popoff looked at the door. “I certainly hope this plan does not run into further delays. Our superior has been waiting a long time for this, and he will be most impatient if we do not comply with his timetable.”

“We'll deliver, one way or another. After that, we won't have to worry – not even about him. That digital frontier and the world it controls will belong to us.”

As the line cut, Lora slumped over and buried her face in her folded arms, her body shaking with sobs. “Did you get anything, Roy? Anything?”

Roy put his hand between her shoulder blades. “I think so. It was a voice over IP call routed through a VPN. They were using some very sophisticated encryption and trying to keep their IP address anonymous. I recorded the whole thing. I'll crunch the data as fast as I can. Lora, I...”

“Don't make a promise you can't keep, Roy. Please don't.”

He knew what she meant. “I won't.”

Roy marched into the bathroom and got Lora a damp washcloth to wipe her tears, then set to work, determined not to fail this time. Alan and Jethro were coming home or he'd die trying. He couldn't promise her, but he could swear it to himself.

A second phone call was made from F-Con's office. It rang to a private number on a Blackberry in Encom Tower. Richard Mackey sat in a darkened office, tastefully decorated with the usual bookshelf of business titles, a well appointed desk with an integrated workstation, a couple chairs, and potted plants. In one corner, a small gray safe sat a few feet from the executive desk.

“Mackey.”

“Mr. Mackey, this is Seth Crown over at Future Control Industries.”

“Crown? What do you want now? I thought the deal was already signed.”

“The deal's no good.”

“But I gave you the paperwork. I got most of the other board members to -”

“But not the three largest ones. Now, we are prepared to re-negotiate the terms of the deal, especially in light of the recent misfortune your company's suffering from.”

Mackey glanced up at the TV. He had it on mute, but the CNN banner was spelling out, “Z-lot virus source unknown....Computer virus may have spread to the open internet...Unconfirmed report saying no repair known...Antivirus programs fail to stop spread.” And the ENC stock ticker kept dropping in price the longer he stared at it.

“What's the deal?”

“Check your email.”

Mackey pulled up his Inlook email program and gave a cursory glance over the new terms. “This is preposterous! We'll all be ruined!”

“The way Encom's circling the drain right now, you're damn lucky we're offering anything above a dollar. Mackey, it was on you to convince the holdouts to sell when our offer was more favorable. It's not our fault you can't keep out a virus attack. The news is also reporting that one of your executives was kidnapped from company headquarters, so your building's security is just as porous as your email's.”

“Yes, yes. It is not my fault that Bradley wanted to go jump off a bridge or something, is it?”

“Apparently, it is. I'll call back in a couple hours. Hopefully, we won't have to negotiate the deal any further.” There was a click and the sound of a dial tone to punctuate Crown's sentence.

Mackey turned out the lights, locked his office, and opened the safe. There were three items inside – a bottle of fine bourbon, a rock crystal glass, and a .22 pistol. He took out the bourbon and glass, poured a measure, and watched the monitor as Encom's stock price continued.

He'd wait until Crown called back to see if he'd need the gun.

Chapter Text

Wherever they landed was barely better than where they came from. Jet almost inhaled a lungful of whatever they landed in. The amount he did ingest tasted like tar and vinegar, causing him to gag and spit it out. Aside from the glow of their circuitry, it was almost completely dark in here.

He managed to swim over to a small ledge running parallel to the river of muck, where Mercury and Romie pulled him up. Romie slapped him on the back, careful not to touch circuitry lines. “Easy now,” Romie said. “That stuff'll short you out if you ingest enough.”

“It tasted awful,” Jet admitted between coughs. “What is it?”

Mercury started to walk ahead, gesturing for them to follow. “Energy runoff from the applications district, memory and core dumps, waste from the circuit buses. The pipelines for these byproducts run under the city to the heat sink where they're burned off. It's not like a Program can drink that stuff.”

Jet made the translation in his brain. Sewer. Got it. The more irreverent and sarcastic part of his mind wondered how many more gaming cliches he'd have to survive before this was over. He made a quick check to make sure he still had his lightcycle rod and disc. “Where are we heading?” He asked, coughing a few times to get the remaining pollutants out of his lungs.

“We need to get to an I/O Tower and reestablish contact with Ma3a or Guest,” Mercury explained. “After that, we'll need to find Byte and get a transport to Ma3a's processing dock. Guest's last command was to uncouple her from the system.”

“So the two of you aren't here to combat the virus?” Romie was nervous.

“No,” Mercury said. “My User never explicitly commanded me to battle the corruption, only to contact Ma3a and free her from her dock. I'm not sure why.”

“Guest must have realized the futility of combating such an aggressive virus,” Jet said. “I'm not sure if any Program has a defense against it that will work.”

“What about you?” Romie said. “I saw you take a few direct hits from the Z-lots. You shrugged it off. Who's your User anyway?”

Jet had another coughing fit before he could answer. Mercury stepped up and did it for him. “He doesn't have one, Romie. He is one.”

Romie blinked, not entirely sure he heard that right. Jet elaborated, “It's true. Ma3a zapped me in here. I think I'm supposed to fight that virus.”

“You aren't kidding, are you? It would explain a few things, but I thought a User would have been...I don't know...”

“More impressive?” Jet offered.

“You've been pretty impressive so far,” Romie pointed out. “I guess I never thought much about Users aside from following their commands.”

“Um...thanks for that Y-amp, by the way,” Jet said. “Without it, I wouldn't have been able to get out of the sector.”

“Oh,” Romie admitted. “You're welcome. I saved up my bit-creds and got that. Figured that would make it easier to climb archive stacks. No offense, but Users can get really impatient sometimes.”

That got Jet to smile. “None taken. I've noticed that Programs don't seem to lie as much as Users do. Even the guy who uploaded me to the Kernel's office technically told the truth about how to get to the data port, even if he didn't tell me where it went.”

Romie seemed to be offended by the notion. “Giving inaccurate output deliberately? That's for malware, trojans, and viruses – not legitimate operators. If you can't disclose your information or someone doesn't have permission to access it, you tell them! If we gave each other false data, then how would the system run?”

“It probably would look a lot like the other side of the screen,” Jet said bitterly.

“Users lie?”

Jet nodded. “Not all the time, but frequently enough. And to put it in perspective? There are seven billion of my kind. We call ourselves 'humans,' mostly. Out of those, maybe a tenth have any kind of access to a computer and can be called 'users.' And out of that? Well, maybe a quarter of users know how to do anything more than the basics.“

“That's still a hundred and seventy-five million,” Romie pointed out. “Do you work together at all?”

“That's just it, Romie,” Jet said with a shrug. “We don't. We don't know this world exists. We see lines of code on monitor screens. There might have been one user who ever saw this place in any detail. I think he tried to tell the world, but...”

Romie blinked incredulously. “As in the Lost User? He actually existed?”

“Romie!” Mercury scolded. “We have a job to do, not waste time on Guardian stories.”

Jet held up a hand. “Mercury, it's okay. And what do you mean about 'Lost User.' Is he -”

Romie couldn't place the look on Jet's face – something like hope crossed with caution – but he answered as best he could. “I just know the legend. An administrator Program called Master Control decided that he was greater than Users, that they need us more than we needed them. He rallied thousands of Programs to his cause and began a crusade to force those who believed in Users to start lying to them or abandon them. Those who still served their Users were hunted down. Just when things looked like they couldn't get any worse, one of the greatest Users of all time codes a hero.”

Mercury scowled. “'Heroes don't exist. A warrior script does their job, no matter how dirty or dangerous. Tron carried out his directive – nothing more.”

“So you don't believe a User came to help him, Mercury? Not when you have one staring right at you?”

“I believe only what I can verify,” she said bluntly. “Jet's right there. I can see him, hear him, touch him. The whole 'User' part? That's the only explanation I can't dismiss, fantastic as it is, but you had better believe I'm going to have a lot of questions for Ma3a.”

“You and me both,” Jet said. “But, Romie. This could be important. What happened to the Lost User? Do you know?”

Romie shook his head. “The story said that he sacrificed himself in the battle with Master Control, giving Tron the chance to destroy it and return freedom to the system. Programs know the story, but it's not something most of us believe is true. Until I saw you, Jet...I was kinda with Mercury. A User de-rezzing to save -”

“He didn't die,” Jet said.

Romie scowled. “How would you -?”

“Whatever he did, it reversed the process and spit him back out in his world – our world. He tried to tell others. He told me. He told his son. He wrote a big book everyone assumed was some kind of metaphorical head trip. No one believed him. And one day, he ran away and never came back.”

The Programs looked at one another. Jet looked at his boots. “I said too much.”

Romie clasped him on the back.

Mercury crossed her arms. "This is all well and good, but it still doesn't prove that the Lost User story is true."

"There's no way he could have made all of it up. But you're right, all I have is stories and suspicions.” He held up his disc. “If there is proof, I'll find it."

Mercury shrugged. "That's your decision gate, I suppose." She looked around. "We need to keep moving. Come on."

That's when they heard it – the sound of shuffling feet and voices in the corridor ahead. Mercury threw her hand up to silence them.

Jet dropped his voice to a whisper. “Sounds like chanting.”

“At least a dozen, judging from their voices,” Romie said. “We'll have to sneak past them somehow.”

“And I don't suppose you boys have Fuzzy Signatures built into your code to dampen your signal. Okay. We handle this carefully. Follow my lead,” Mercury said.

The passage led into a larger chamber, creeping along a thin ledge that had once been a mezzanine overlooking what could have been a control room. It had been taken over. The room glowed a familiar, terrifying green. Organic-looking tentacles pulsed like they had a heartbeat. Feet below them, almost twenty Z-lots had a female-designated trapped against a wall.

“All hail Thorne. Thorne is the Master User. The Corruption is all. The Corruption is total. Only Thorne will remain. All hail Thorne. Thorne is the Master User. The Corruption is all. The Corruption is total. Only Thorne will remain. All hail Thorne...”

The trapped female tried to run, but she was trapped, overwhelmed and surrounded. “Users! Mia-R, can you hear me? Are you there?! Please!”

Jet shuddered. Mercury grabbed his arm and shook her head to try and convince him not to be a hero. Before he could pull away, however, the tentacles seemed to sense the poor woman's presence and wrap around her legs and arms while the disgusting yellow-green began to overwrite the blue of her circuitry.

“No! Help! Any - !” A tentacle around her mouth cut off her speech as more appendages snaked out of the walls and twisted around her chest, her hips, her waist, her neck. The more she struggled, the more she was swallowed whole by the appendages.

“All hail Thorne. Thorne is the Master User. The Corruption is all. The Corruption is total...”

And moments after her last scream, there was nothing left but a cocoon made of nearly organic membrane hanging from the wall.

One of the Z-lots pointed upward. “I've spotted clean ones!”

So much for stealth, Jet thought. “Merc, Romie - run!”

The three of them dashed for the closest exit, dodging the sticky green bomblets the Z-lots were literally pulling from their bodies and throwing. Jet allowed himself to fall back, sniping at some of the Z-lots below with his disc.

Mercury pulled her disc and ran into the fray, but Jet reached out and almost pushed her down as he interposed his body between her and the incoming shots. A few glancing blows stung, and his armor was peppered with sprays of green, but he kept moving, kept attacking – Mercury and Romie couldn't take the hits, but he could. Throw, dodge, throw again, run. It didn't matter. Every hit turned into a blur – he had been afraid, and now he was just angry; angry at his attackers, angry at the Kernel and Ma3a, angry with himself.

He barely noticed that he had pulled some of the tar-like green code from his body and threw it back at his attackers. Three of them were caught in the explosion. Mercury climbed to her feet, arming the suffusion rod and picking off those she could while staying out of reach of the bomblets.

He was down to five of them when the cocoon ruptured open. The creature that emerged was nothing like the female Program that had been shoved into it. It looked like a floating black cloak over a pulsating, amorphous mass of green light. There were no hands, feet, or face visible. An indescribable shriek split the air.

His disc sailed for what should have been its head, but the arm reached up and swatted it away, causing the shot to go wild. What emerged from the sleeve was a twisted mass of writing tentacles tipped with green spheres.

“Uh oh.” It was barely out of his mouth before the spheres exploded into a cluster of bomblets launched his direction. He managed to dodge the worst of it, and his disc returned to his hand. The shot struck, and green fluid leaked from the wound like blood as another ear-shattering shriek emerged from the thing. Jet dodged the next volley, but the corroded railing, weakened by too many attacks, started to flicker out and distort, creaking with the strain.

Jet feigned left and darted right, avoiding the next blast, but the catwalk he stood on was not as fortunate, the corroded synthetic metal giving way and sending Jet sliding down the makeshift ramp to roll end over end on the floor below. It was cold like stone, but its appearance was far too uniform. The impact knocked the wind out of him and left him gasping, unable to move quickly when the thing brought up its arm for a killing blow...

Mercury's disc whizzed through the air and hit it dead-on, center mass, in its back. It shrieked again and began to turn inside out. Jet could only manage to stumble, still gasping for air, behind some debris as it ripped itself open from the inside and burst in a flash of green.

The disc returned to Mercury's hand halfway down the debris pile. “Jet...” The energy through her shell felt nearly white hot, and she was breathing hard to expel the heat. She glanced down and saw that there was a patch of green creeping up her leg.

Infected. Doomed. Glitch it!

He was half-buried among the remains of the mezzanine, covered in greenish blotches that were rapidly turning gray and inert. His hands and face had jagged cuts, and a strange red substance leaked from them, almost but not entirely unlike energy.

“Ugh.” He grumbled. “I'm okay,” he said groggily, pushing away the debris. “A little banged up is all.”

“That makes one of us,” she said sadly, gesturing to her leg. “Jet, you have to make a run for it or de-rez me. The corruption...”

“Romie?”

“Got away.” Mercury hissed with pain as her circuitry dimmed, backing away. The corruption was spreading rapidly, covering her leg and creeping to her waist. “Jet, there's not much -”

Jet's eyes fixed on her leg and he scrambled to his feet, worried. “Mercury, no.”

Before she could push him away, he closed the gap, and touched her shoulders like he was steadying himself. Mercury felt a warm, wonderful rush of energy through her, enough to forget the creeping infection. Daring to crack open an eye, she saw Jet's circuitry turn green, and she dreaded that she had somehow infected them both. After a moment, Jet groaned softly and collapsed. Mercury felt a cold shudder through her shell when she saw his circuitry had completely gone out. His eyes had gone dull and stared into nothing.

“Jet...? Jet!” Oh, Users. If a Program spent all their energy like that, it was certain de-rez. Glancing down, she saw the green corruption on her leg was completely gone. She was healed – like the infection never was.

Jet still didn't move – even his chest was horribly still.

“You are not going to de-rez on me,” she growled. “Ma3a did not haul you in here just so you could get yourself sent to the Void.” Anger, annoyance, frustration – those were easier to process than the flutter deep in her shell. She knew that he had somehow worked whatever strange and unexplainable abilities that came with his User status to heal her, but if he did this at the cost of his own life...

Damn it! Why didn't Ma3a warn her about him? She was used to not knowing the whole plan as the AI worked her mysterious ways. Right now, she was faced with a mystery that was much bigger than Chinese spyware terror cells, data pusher gangs, and gridbug infestations. The only certainty she had with Jet was that he didn't deserve this garbage-in-garbage-out.

Sympathy isn't part of the job description, Mercury Six. Even the realization of that made the flutter inside twist into something cold.

The good news was that his shell didn't seem to be decaying like she would expect with a dying Program. Some of the strange substance got on her fingertips before realizing her hand was on his cheek. Pulling it back, she held it up to the light, looking at the dark reddish-brown that resembled nothing else in her world. It was slick and sticky all at once. Fear ran through her processor as it hit her just how alien he truly was beneath his surface appearance.

Jet coughed twice and Mercury pulled him to his side as he vomited out something green that turned gray and quickly sizzled away. With his airway clear, he sucked in a deep breath. Okay, airflow checked out. Her hand moved lower and felt a steady beat under her fingers when she brushed the front of his neck - fascinating. What other differences were there between his shell and hers?

Quit indulging your curiosity. You've done enough of that with him! She scolded herself.

With a gasp and a cough, he drew another deep breath and his circuitry rebooted, turning blue-white again. His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her.

“Merc?”

“What did you do?”

“It's...hard to explain. Are you okay?”

Relief quickly change to annoyance – did he have any idea how close he just came to de-rez? “Jet...”

He grumbled some indecipherable strings as he tried to sit up. Despite his weakened condition, he still stared her in the eye. “I know what you told me. User pulled an override. Deal with it. Are you okay?”

She stepped back to gather her composure, pulling herself out of arm's length, trying to snap back into “all business” mode. She wanted to thank him, ask how he worked whatever User magic he had to heal her, but there was the mission, and too much at stake to let him off the hook like that.

“Glitch it, I'm expendable. Romie is expendable. You are the only thing that Thorne's virus can't seem to kill or convert! Ma3a did not go through the trouble of uploading you in here just to get de-rezzed. You get killed, and it's mission failed. End of Line.”

He closed his eyes and before getting back on his feet, still breathing heavily. Mercury wondered if it was to cool his processor in the same way a Program did, or if Users breathed for a different reason. She scolded herself again herself for indulging in yet more irrelevant curiosity.

“Could you or Romie have taken a hit from those viral bombs and not turned into part of the zombie horde – or worse?” He shuddered and got within touching distance of her again. “No way, Merc. If you're going to risk your life for me, then it's only fair that I watch your back, too.”

It was a dirty trick, but two quick strikes to his circuitry and a fast sweep of her legs, and he was on the floor. She had her disc out, holding it to his neck. “This is how 'fair' the System is,” she said sadly.

His face contorted into a sneer, but he made no move to touch her or fight back. “Tell me something that's not obvious!”

Whatever battle Mercury was fighting in the back of her processor, she lost. With a sigh, she pulled the disc away, and put it on her back, where it went flush with the rest of her circuits. She got to her feet, and offered Jet a hand in getting back up. He didn't take it, choosing to get up on his own - good.

“Jet, you have to survive, and if you let yourself get carried away with your emotions, you aren't thinking. You aren't seeing the patterns, you aren't focusing on your directives, and you won't see the shot that de-rezzes you.”

“What kind of garbage world is this place?” Jet fired back. “I take lives and it's no big deal, but I save one and I get a lecture?”

“Do you even see the bigger picture here? Ma3a uploaded you to fight the virus. If you sacrifice yourself to save anyone – even me – then thousands, millions more Programs will be lost.”

“You're fucking welcome,” he grumbled.

Mercury felt a call and checked the communicator link on her arm. “I got a signal from Romie. He left a request at an I/O node not far from here. Come on.”

She started towards the closest exit and motioned Jet to follow. Concentrate on the directives and the mission. Whatever you do, don't concentrate on him any more than necessary, she reminded herself.

But every time she resisted glancing over her shoulder, her resolve eroded ever so slightly. Jet was different – and not just his User status. No one else got inside her source code like he did – forcing her to question, to explain, to trust, and to feel...

Mercury closed her eyes and curled her hand around the rod at her hip, willing herself to focus on the mission.

The Kernel paced his office impatiently. His forces were getting fewer, the reports weren't coming in, and he still had the issue of the Z-lot invasion that was progressively getting worse. He had sent word to recall all ICP units from the outer sectors and rally at his tower at the core.

A lone I/O tower, Ma3a's palace, was a ziggurat in the near distance, the golden beam stretching into the sky as a last hope. The AI had been too trusting, too open to the outside. Users were too prone to making mistakes, too chaotic and unpredictable with commands. His own User, J. D. Thorne, had been giving him illegal commands for cycles, and then vanished abruptly. The Kernel knew better than to think it was a coincidence that “Master User Thorne” was invoked by every Z-lot his men had been able to capture.

His own User had betrayed them. The Users had failed the Programs that served them. If he could, he would kill Thorne himself, and never bow before a User command again. They weren't worthy of his service or that of his men. That brought to mind the second rogue element, claiming to be the Lost User's second coming or something. Probably nothing more than a glitched script that was just as dangerous to himself as he was to the ICP units. If he wasn't so tied up with Thorne...Adding insult to it was that Mercury had also turned traitor. Wasn't she just a simple game bot? The glitched script must have corrupted her; it was the only explanation he wanted to accept.

The elevator slid open and his aide raced to the Kernel's dais as fast as he could manage, carrying a data readout. “Sir, corruption reported in sectors 1-255 Core protocol failure is imminent.”

“Reroute all ICP units to the front lines and shut down all write access. This system will not go down on my watch!” He paced a few more lengths, not bothering to look at his aide. “Have the fugitives been located?”

“Uh...no. The Game Grid prisoner bin was overtaken by a riot. The male-designated managed to retrieve his disc and escape. We believe he's still traveling with Mercury and an email carrier, designation Romie.”

“Incompetence! Explain to me why I shouldn't de-rez you for your failure,” the Kernel barked.

Trying to redeem himself, his aide explained. “I wasn't at the tower when it happened, but the few survivors briefed me. He won't get far; permission sets have been changed, and the entire sector is locked down. Nothing is getting in or out unless it passes through our transports.”

Frustrated with his lack of success, the Kernel started pacing. “Broaden the search criteria. I want those Programs found!”

His aide saluted. “Yes, sir. And the I/O tower has repaired the relays. Ma3a is requesting to speak to you.”

“I don't particularly care what that overblown administrator has to say. We're at war!” He stopped and looked up at the communication platform. “I'll see what excuse she wants to give for sending the infection vector.”

Climbing up to the dais, he activated his control panel. One of the walls lit up in projection with Ma3a's image.

“I apologize for the delay, Kernel. The viral attack has crippled many of the communication lines, and I have allocated as many resources as possible to their restoration.”

The Kernel shook his fist. “And while you have been wasting resources on that, my men have the Z-lot invasion and rogue Programs running loose.”

“Describe the rogue Programs.”

“No matter – they'll be de-rezzed soon enough. The reformat has been initiated. This server will be eradicated in about fifteen minutes.”

“Kernel, I will need packet transports sent to my citadel. Dozens of uninfected Programs have taken shelter here,” She frowned with concern beneath her gold mask. “Furthermore, what they are reporting disturbs me. They claim you have ordered the termination of innocent refugees fleeing corrupted sectors.”

“There's no such thing as 'innocent.' As virulent as the Z-lot infestation is, we can take no chances. Those packet transports are for my men and only my men so we can continue to battle the virus. Besides, I won't fall for your tricks anymore Ma3a. I know you sent the infection vector right to us in the first place.”

Ma3a's scowl matched his own. “Kernel, you are out of line. Explain yourself.”

The Kernel pulled up security footage from the power distribution unit. In it, Jet was fighting his way through a cluster of Z-lots and ICP units, the scene so chaotic that one couldn't tell who was fighting who.

“Do you deny you sent an unknown factor to this system? We have the logs and the security footage of him killing several of my men.”

“Kernel, the infection source is User Thorne. We both know that. I uploaded a countermeasure to the virus –”

He wasn't going to let her finish. “Then you admit you brought a rogue element to the system.”

“He is not to be harmed by your men,” she ordered.

“It's too late for that. Due to your inability to control the situation, I am taking charge. By admitting responsibility for this rogue element, you have become a liability to the continued operation of this system. I am putting your tower under interdict, and ordering my men to bring you into quarantine.”

“Kernel -”

“And any script that you shelter or employ will also be considered a criminal element. I'm prepared to sacrifice this server in order to save the system.”

“I will not let you de-rez thousands of blameless Programs in the name of 'saving' the system. I don't want to order my agents to fight your men. Reconsider this course of action so that we can focus on the true enemy here.”

“You're either with me or an enemy. End of Line.” He cut transmission and turned to the room full of ICP fighters. Some whispered among themselves, others stared at him in shock or confusion. A few even had their hands on their discs, as if unsure what to do.

“You heard me and you heard her. Ma3a is to be considered a threat to this system.”

“Uh...sir?” His aide was the most ambivalent of the lot, disc in one hand, but unable to look him straight in the eye.

“Yes?”

“You might want to reconsider that, in light of what our interrogators discovered.”

The door opened again, and two pike-wielding ICP units marched in the pair of weak-looking disc technicians, marching them up to face the Kernel.

“We...we talked to the techs who tried to read the fugitive's disc, sir,” the aide elaborated. “You're going to want to hear this.”

The Kernel glared at them both – pathetic workers. Back when he was rezzed, their kind weren't even worthy of discs. As it stood, their discs were mounted on their backs, mostly useless as they lacked the routines to make use of them, even in defense. “Out with it!” he ordered.

The female-designated squared her chin. “You won't defeat him, Kernel. He is a User. We've seen him, and what he is capable of.”

The male-designated elaborated. “His disc was mostly unreadable. Even what little we could read had concepts, ideas, images we had no idea how to comprehend. He fought through your army, spared our lives, and freed your uninfected captives.”

The Kernel growled – a harsh sound like a broken fan run through low-grade MIDI processor – and pulled his disc, placing the edge against the female-designated as though he would cut her from shoulder to hip. “You tell me the truth! How is he controlling the Z-lots?”

“He's not.” The male-designated said. “Ma3a did send him. And she sent him to fight for -”

He didn't get to finish it as the Kernel sliced through the female first, and then cut his neck clean through, leaving two piles of decaying voxels on the floor.

His aide's circuitry went white, gasps and whispers filled the room.

“Enough!” The Kernel ordered. “Our job is to protect this system from any threat. By introducing a rogue element, Ma3a has become a threat. The only scripts you are to trust are your fellow ICPs. The reformat has already begun. We cut our losses here and we find this virus at the source. For that, we'll need to take the I/O tower by force.”

The ICP units looked nervously amongst themselves. As terrifying as the Kernel's behavior was, directives were directives. They had no other choice.

The Kernel's aide, however, couldn't take his eyes off the fading remains of the technicians.

Jet figured that his best bet was to shut his mouth and let Mercury lead the way. He was in deep enough, no sense in pissing her off further. To that end, he tried to concentrate on altering a spare suffusion subroutine he somehow acquired from the contraband archive, letting the familiarity of tweaking settings and code try to slow his racing mind.

She was right in one regard – he wasn't thinking when he reached out and grabbed her. All he remembered was the blind fear that she would die like so many others he hadn't been able to save. Once he touched her, he hadn't a coherent way to describe what happened. It was like he could see into her, and saw the foreign body trying to corrupt her, then pulling it out of her and into himself. That was the last he remembered before blacking out.

The weapon configuration had changed significantly, the snub nose and wide barrel becoming elongated and smooth. Instead of firing a mass of pellets, it would now focus its energy ammo in a concentrated burst.

If he were completely honest with himself, he felt like he'd taken a ride in a washing machine, but he was recovering faster than he would have in the analog world. While it was a good thing not to be in pain, it was yet another reminder that he was in way over his head. His body responded in strange ways, he had abilities he didn't understand or know how to explain, and most attempts to make sense of “why” went nowhere. Despite Mercury and Ma3a insisting he was critical to fighting off the virus, he had no idea how he was supposed to do that.

On top of all that, he was worried about his father; imprisoned (he wasn't going to think of the “or worse” scenarios) by parties unknown, and confronting memories of a godfather he forced himself not to think about for years. Jet desperately wanted this to all be one of those “peperoni pizza and 72 hour coding binge” dreams, but sadly knew it wasn't. And while Mercury could use some work on her delivery, she did have a point. His sense of self-preservation was shot to hell, and he wasn't going to be any help unless he survived.

The short, uncomfortable grip was next to get tweaked. Jet fiddled with the code, elongating the stock and barrel. It was starting to look like a proper rifle, at least. Patrick had insisted that his programmers and designers get real-world experience when crafting their games, to give Encom's games just a little added edge over their competitors. In the process, Jet found out that he wasn't half-bad with a sniper rifle. Maybe a virtual one could give him an edge in the survival department.

Mercury's grip on her cycle baton was so tight that her knuckles would have gone completely white had she been human, her mouth in a firm, hard line.

Finding a maintenance ladder at the end of a corridor, Mercury climbed up first, opened the hatch, and then looked down to signal the all clear. Jet climbed up and saw Mercury motion to him to duck behind what appeared to be a group of crates. The crates were too smooth and uniform in size, perfect cubes about a meter on each face. He touched them, and the surfaces were somewhere between ceramic and metal. The room was stacked high with them in groups of two or three clustered on the floor, another large stack creating a makeshift staircase on the far end of the room next to a sec rezzer. Looking up, he saw the crates seemingly suspended in mid-air, passing slowly on a set route as if running along an unseen conveyer belt.

“Where are we?”

“Data block storage. It's a loading port for data packets. ICPs inspect the payload for viruses and malware. If we could get on board one of those packet transports...”

“What about the call from Romie?”

“There's probably a I/O node near the exit. We can pick up the message from there.” She glanced up. “What are you looking at? Any ICPs?”

“No. I just never saw crates hovering in midair like that.”

“Please don't get distracted by the sights,” she said. “There's nothing good about this place.”

Jet sighed. All those wonderful stories and childhood dreams – and the reality behind it turned out to be nothing more than danger and death. “Sooner I leave, the better.”

“Stay alive long enough to do it,” Mercury cautioned.

He followed her through the twisting corridors, moving stealthily, memories of late nights and highly illegal pranks helping his body remember the skills, despite the alterations that came with digitization.

The old Dumont Shipping factory had been shuttered by 1990, Encom selling off the subsidiaries and the new management going for cheaper labor overseas. The old behemoth that had once made shipping containers had been a steel mill before that. Now, it was just left to rot.

Two boys, armed with flashlights, were able to squeeze under the hole in the chin-link fence. Jet pulled his backpack behind him, the tools inside clanking together.

“Dude, you're going in first.”

“Aw, Sam, stop being a baby.” Jet had ten months on his “cousin,” which made him the more grown-up of the pair...at least by an eight-year-old's logic. “We're just going to explore it.”

“There's probably rats inside or something.”

“So what? That's why we got the heavy flashlights. They'll be more scared of us than we are of them. Come on!”

The sun was setting over the ocean, and the eastern sky was starting to turn pink and purple. Pop wouldn't be home for hours yet, which gave them time to go and investigate. They'd talked about it for weeks, exploring the old factory not too far from Sam's house before it was demolished. Not to steal anything, but just to go in and see what was behind the closed doors. A rusted but serviceable padlock secured a back door, but the wood around the lock suffered from dry rot. A few sturdy whacks from the flashlights and prying it with a screwdriver from Jet's pack did the trick.

They opened the door and gasped – it was huge on the inside, much larger than the outside appearance made it appear. Most of the machinery and equipment had been stripped down and removed, but there were still the remains of heavy machines too big to bother with removal. Exposed cables and wires hung from the wall, and a latticework of girders and pulleys hung from the ceiling.

“Whoa – cool!” Sam had a big grin on his face. Good – it was hard to get Sam to smile these days. “Look at all this junk!” He raced over and started to climb what looked like a big engine. “Wonder what this is...”

“I'm checking out the girders. Think we could get to the roof?” Jet gestured to an open hatch that let in sunlight.

“I wanna check out the ground floor first!”

“Says the guy who's scared of rats...”

“No rats yet,” Sam said. “C'mon!”

The I/O node they found was at the back end of the complex, probably used to dispatch orders to the courier scripts. Jet had to transfer power to it just to get the blasted thing online. Mercury punched in the code.

The node sputtered awake, and Romie's face floated above the display. “Hey, Pro...er, never mind.”

“Keep it short, Romie,” Mercury said.

“I managed to sneak on a transport. We can get to the I/O Tower in this thing no problem, but unless the mooring apps are overridden or destroyed, this packet's going nowhere. Now, here's the deal; I used to work in this place. The app controls are located on the top level. The towers themselves are crawling with ICPs, but they aren't looking at the roof. Find some way of getting up there and overriding it, and then hurry down here.”

The message ended, and Mercury sighed. “Well, that's just great. How are we supposed to take on two towers worth of -”

Jet pointed upward at the blocks making their silent rounds up and down pre-set invisible pathways. “We may not have to.”

Finally, it got a smile out of her. “I like the way you think.”

There were a few interesting things on the bottom floor – a grody old bathroom with plenty of spider webs and no running water, break rooms and lockers (one with the rotting remains of someone's lunch, another with a set of old tools and coveralls inside). Now, it was really getting dark, the last of the light fading out under the western horizon.

Jet ran up the metal stairs to the catwalk. “C'mon, we still haven't seen the roof.”

“How are we gonna get up there?” Sam asked skeptically, pushing his dirty blonde curls out of his eyes.

“Simple.” Jet shoved his flashlight into his pack, leaned over, and was able to pull one of the big pulleys over, grabbing the chain. “We use the girders and walk up!”

Swinging out over the rail, the heavy chain was a little harder to hold onto than he thought it would be, but after sliding down a couple feet, he got the hang of it, climbing it link by link, careful not to get his fingers caught in the loops. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Sam trying to do the same, flashlight stuffed into his belt loop.

Link by link, they climbed, finally reaching the biggest, thickest one of the girders. The fire escape ladder leading to the roof was about fifty feet away...with a two-story drop to the concrete below.

“Sam? Don't. Look. Down.”

Jet counted the patterns. Three blocks going down, fourth block went up. From there, hit the second block to go over to the ledge and wait for the next block going up. He knew the y-amp boosted his jump height and length. Hopefully, this would be pretty simple.

“I'm going to try for the one on the far edge. Think you can get the one straight up?”

“You don't have to do this,” she warned. “It might be better if -”

“Mercury, I've done this kind of thing before. You think it's any safer leaving me behind?”

She had to think about that. “No. I still don't like it.”

“Neither do I, but it's not like the alternative is better.” He saw his block. “Here goes nothing.”

Stepping out, he put both feet on the block and watched as his weight didn't so much as impede its pace as it shot up into the air.

“Don't. Look. Down,” Jet reminded himself.

The summer between high school and college. The August night was sultry and almost stifling, but it didn't matter. They could practically taste the sands going through the hourglass – childhood's end. That's why they had to cram as many memories as they could into the summer before Jet went to UCLA and Sam started at Caltech.

They were back in the industrial district, the air tasting of salt air, ozone and pollution. They'd finished the climb up to the roof of a squat foreman's trailer next to an abandoned construction site.

“Hey, man, remember the factory?”

Jet pointed to the condemned old building, now half-collapsed. No one ever did get around to finishing the demolition. “Yeah. How was I supposed to know you couldn't keep hold of a chain and end up with a broken arm? We got in so much trouble for that!”

Sam clasped him on the back. “Worth it, though.”

“Always worth it.” After a long pause, Jet asked. “Hey, are you worried at all? About y'know...college, Encom? I've heard you and Pop talking -”

“Alan can talk all he wants. Doesn't mean I have to listen, and neither should you. Just because my dad bailed and left a ton of shit in my lap doesn't mean I have to take it. I don't want to live up to all that hype. I'm just going to go in and try to have fun, maybe learn a few things.”

“I'd still like to go into games. You thinking about that, too?”

“I'm doing my best not to think, Jethro. Night's young, the moon's full...” His grin was huge, and his eyes were wild. “Let's make a run for it.”

“Make a run -?”

The glint in Sam's eye turned feral. “Catch me if you can.”

And off he ran, speeding across the rooftop and making a leap onto a stack of girders.

Jet didn't waste a second, “Oh, it's on .” He broke into a run, leaping onto the girders and scrambling over a pile of concrete to close the distance.

Across rooftops and through culverts, up fire escapes, and down the windshields of parked cargo trucks. Leapfrogging across concrete pylons and ducking fences, they ran and ran until they were out of breath and the sun started to peek over the horizon.

Mentally crossing his fingers, Jet leaped. He landed on the edge of the block and wildly swung his arms to try and regain his balance.

Damn it! After a few terrifying heartbeats, he managed to drop to his knees on the box. With the Y-amp installed, he kept running the risk of jumping too far!

The ledge that was halfway up the shaft was approaching quickly. Slowly getting to his feet, he took another jump and praised whatever entity (if any) that looked out for Users that he was on stable ground for the moment. It was then that he noticed his hand aching. He must have smacked it on something during his climb.

Taking a deep breath, he counted the blocks again. One...two...three....four....five. Fifth one went up, third one went across. Fourth one went up again, and second one would get him to the top. Again, this was like something out of a twisted video game.

“I am never designing another one of these platform mazes ever again.”

He sighed and jumped onto the next platform going skyward. That's when he heard the tell tale click-chirp sound – Finders.

“Uh-oh.”

Mercury was leaping across blocks, wide open to attack.

“Mercury,” he called down. “Finders! Get on the ledge!”

Before he knew what he was doing, the rifle subroutine was in his hands and he squeezed the trigger. One Finder went up in a pulse of red light, its last shot leaving a black crater where Mercury had been standing a nano before. He missed the second shot as the Finder swiveled to take aim at him. The third's shot scorched the surface next to his before he cursed, returned fire, and blew the Finder to bits.

The conveyer ground to a halt. Lights and sirens flickered and wailed. Below, he saw Mercury leaping across the stalled blocks with ease, making her way up to his level.

“We got their attention, all right!” she said. “Hurry, jump across and blow up the encryption keys on either side of the app platform. They're brown, and about the size of your foot.“

Jet didn't waste any time, jumping on one block, then a second, and onto the roof of the tower. Two quick shots blasted the keys. Holstering the rifle, he slammed his palm on the override. It lit up, and an energy bridge crossed the gap to the other side. Jet started running.

Chirp-click-chirp. Shit!

Shots coming down all around him, the bridge itself began to flicker beneath his feet. As soon as he could manage it, he jumped for it!

The energy bridge collapsed under his feet, and he grabbed onto the ledge. Like everything here, it was smooth and didn't offer much of a handhold. Desperation and fear boosted his strength enough to scramble upward. Below, he saw Mercury jumping across the block maze. Without the blocks moving, she had more of them to jump across.

Guess it was on him. Narrowly rolling out of the way of the shot, he pulled his disc and fired – one shot. The Finder was destroyed. The second shot glanced off his armor and pain shot through his leg, blinding him and nearly causing him to pass out. His hand also throbbed in time with wounded leg.

But then, another disc shot took out the second Finder, followed by two quick shots to the encryption keys and a pull of the override.

Mercury jumped onto the last ledge to see the terminal overridden, Jet on the ground, clutching his leg, and a little blue sphere hovering inside an archive bin. There were sounds of ICP units nearby that were getting closer. With the terminal blown, they weren't getting through the door with anything short of a logic probe, but they'd probably send one up within a few seconds.

“Jet, can you stand?”

“Help me up. The pain's...bad.”

“That should have shot your leg off...” Mercury helped him to his feet, his left leg buckling under him. She looked around and found an archive box. “Can you download from that?”

He nodded and touched the bin, pulling the blue subroutine ball from the bin. It turned into a thick, warm piece of what seemed to be rope. Mercury seated him near the terminal and hastily tied it around the base, then pulled him to his feet, wrapping the rope around their waists.

“You trust me?”

He seemed to be running it through his processor, before answering it with a nod.

“Hold on.”

They jumped.

The light-rope broke their fall a couple meters from the walkway where they came in before derezzing from the strain and dumping them ungracefully onto the floor.

“Emergency rope,” Mercury explained, helping Jet up and allowing him to lean on her. “It's in case a worker goes over the edge and doesn't de-rez immediately.

“How...far to Romie?”

“Not far. Come on...” The sound of ICP units echoed through the corridor. “I'm going to need you in some shape to fight. Come on...” She half-pulled him over to a closet of some kind and yanked the handle. Inside was a red sphere the size of a basketball.

“Touch that. You'll want to download it like an archive file.”

Honestly, she didn't know if a patch sphere would work on him. They were used for injured Programs, restoring health and repairing energy leaks. They weren't good for a lot, but when nanos counted...

He sucked in a breath and tested his leg, now healed and able to bear weight. “Well, that worked. Have to remember that.”

“C'mon,” Mercury said, gesturing to him to follow.

Scrambling around the data storage, moving from block to block, they closed in on the only way to the transports. Unfortunately, there were voices on the other side – ICP units.

“Where are you going? We're taking heavy casualties out there.”

“The Kernel is ordering anyone they can spare to the front lines.”

“But it's all over!” his partner argued. “I say we cut our losses and evacuate the server. Let the reformat handle it. The ICPs will be loaded onto the remaining transport tugs and uploaded to carry on the fight elsewhere.”

“The Kernel will never give up, and neither will I! Drive C forever!”

“Suit yourself. I'm too new a version to get de-rezz -” A pause. “Hey, what was that?!”

One of them ran out and almost ran right into Mercury's arms – and rod weapon. The second and third were blown straight through the chest by Jet's rifle.

“Activating Security rez-in station.” Spawning right in front of them was a large, heavily armored ICP with a very large version of the rod weapon, sparking at the ends.

“Oh, spawn of a virus,” Mercury said, dodging out of the way of the blow.

The only thing Jet's rifle shot seemed to do was make it angrier as it continued to ignore him and close in on Mercury. Her smaller size and faster speed were holding off de-rez, but she was getting backed into a corner with fewer ways to dodge his fire. Jet holstered the rifle and tried to reach for his disc when his hand burned with pain. Shaking it, he realized there was something warm and sticky in his palm. Without thinking about it, he tossed it at the ICP that pinned Mercury into a corner.

It was a viral grenade like the Z-lots carried. Instead of corrupting the ICP, however, it hit him square in the back and exploded, shattering him into flying limbs and a smell of ozone before fading out entirely.

“Merc?”

“Oh, glitch.” She grabbed his arm and pointed to the security feed. “If the Kernel sees that, he's definitely not going to accept that you're anything other than a Z-lot. Let's hit that transport – now!”

They ran out to the walkway and banged on the door of a shabby-looking email transport. The door slid open and they ducked inside. Romie was already at the controls. Jet dropped into the co-pilot seat, Mercury strapped into a small seat in the back.

“Take off!” she ordered.

Romie engaged the controls and glanced out the window. A dozen ICP units were running in through the doors and alleys. “Don't have to tell me twice. Engaging transit now!”

The transport rose off the ground and hit the energy beam suspended above the dock and shot off like a cannon, riding the maze of energy transit beams crossing the system.

“They'll be following?” Jet asked.

Romie's smile was cold and twisted. “Not with the route I'm going. We'll lose them.”

//Kernel Update//

//Search Params ^^ rogueProg (Jet)

//Search Params ^^ rogueProg (Mercury)

//Search Params ^^ rogueProg (Romie)

→ Retrieval < / Failed>

Chapter Text

Subject: Promotion to Security VP
To: JDThorne@encom . Com
From: Catkinson@ encom. com
Date: Dec-1-2009

I regret to inform you that the Board of Directors has decided to make an outside hire for the position of Vice President of Corporate Security. While I realize this is the second attempt you have made in three years for the position. Mr. Mackey feels you are too valuable in your current position to promote. I'm certain he would have told you in person, but he is in Singapore on business.

Claire Atkinson

Encom Senior Executive Vice President

Subject: Freelance Work

To: Crown@ fcon . Ind
From: JDThorne@encom . Com
Date: Dec-18-2009

A mutual friend has sent me your email address and asked that I contract you regarding possible freelance work. While I am currently Director of Corporate Security at Encom and have been with the company almost 15 years, I feel I have reached the limit of how far I can go with them. My contract, however, does allow me to take freelance work.

If you do have a freelance assignment that matches my skills, I look forward to hearing from you.

J. D. Thorne

Encom Chief of Security

Subject: Proposition
To: JDThorne@ encom . Com

CC: Crown @ fCon. Ind
From: [email protected]
Date: Dec-20-2009

Mister Crown forwarded the email to me personally once he realized who you were, Mr. Thorne. Future Control Industries is very interested in contracting your services. I would like to set up a meeting between you and Mr. Crown to discuss a partnership in more detail.

Please contact my secretary.

Looking forward to meeting you Mr. Thorne.

CEO
Future Control Industries

Subject: Welcome to the Team
To: JDThorne@ en. com
From: Crown@ fCon. ind
Date: Dec-22-2009

Mr. Thorne,

Glad to have you on board. Our meeting was certainly informative. We both know Encom is a company stuck in the past when the industry is all about looking into the future. Our CEO is already making plans to take over the company, but an insider point of view never hurts.

We're on the brink of a new digital world order. What we do in the course of the next few months may shift the structure of government and military power as we know it. Those who cannot keep up will be left to watch from the sidelines. Those trying to stop it will not see it at all.

To secure this, we need to acquire the Digitization technology you claim Bradley is covertly rebuilding, and that Mr. Thorne, is where you come in. As Chief of Security, you are in a unique position to gain access to technologies required to set our plan in motion.

I'll be personally overseeing your progress. Report to me directly of your findings.

Seth Crown III, Attorney
Corporate Attorney
Future Control Industries

Subject: Nothing but Smoke and Mirrors
To: Crown@ fCon. ind
From: JDThorne@ en. com
Date: Feb-15-2010

As requested, I was able to persuade Alan Bradley to allow me a look at his research. He still thinks of me as a friend, and Encom has treated him as shabbily as they have me. I hope you can persuade him to help make the sale, as he will likely be the deciding vote on the board – it's not like the Flynn boy comes out of his garage for anything except to cause trouble.

I took the attached video with my cell phone. I do not think Bradley saw me do it. As you can see in the video, he was able to shoot the laser at an orange, digitize it, and then play back the model to reconstitute it. When I asked about applications for his laser, he tried to evade the question by claiming the correction algorithms were not yet perfected. This is likely a smoke screen to keep the technology and its potential to himself. I've known Bradley for over a decade and know how he thinks. I've already told you about the other projects he keeps hidden from Encom.

The correction algorithms are nothing more than smoke and mirrors. There is no reason to delay your test run.

J. D. Thorne

Encom Chief of Security

Subject: Digitization Technology
To: CEO@ fCon. ind
From: Crown@ fCon. ind
Date: Feb-23-2010

According to our man on the inside, Bradley really has achieved the impossible. The video he sent is confirmed the be authentic. The beam hit the orange, broke it down into digital code, and reassembled it thirty seconds later. I've put the video on my private FTP site for you to download.

Seth Crown III, Attorney
Corporate Attorney
Future Control Industries

Subject: Digitization Technology
To: Crown@ fCon. ind
From: CEO@ fCon. ind
Date: Feb-25-2010

Well done, Mr. Crown.

As you know, I've had my eye on Encom for many years. Mr. Mackey is also warming up to the possibility of a sale, once I dangled a sufficiently large golden parachute offer. He has little substance; leave him to me. When he falls, most of the board should follow.

As for our friend on the inside, let him know that we will certainly give him the reward he asked for.

CEO
Future Control Industries

He was once Joseph Daniel Thorne, and he lived a life that was mostly going nowhere. He joined the Air Force out of high school and had a mediocre career as a file clerk. His discharge was honorable, and he parlayed that into becoming a security guard at a Department of Defense research lab. Again, his career was neither one of praise or condemnation.

But then the accident happened, and he sacrificed his government job for something a little more exciting. Encom itself was no more challenging than a research lab, but it was what he did after hours that excited him; conspiracies, secrets a flamboyant CEO allegedly took to his grave. He wasn't personally involved as others were, but the idea of the forbidden, the unknown, gave his life some excitement. Otherwise, he came home to a shabby little house in Whittier with an underwater mortgage, a single gray cat, and cold takeout.

When he was passed over for promotion a second time, it was the last straw. His therapist had advised him to take charge and be confident anyway. So, he contacted a friend of a friend and was put in touch with Seth Crown. Corporate espionage was something he had learned to do from the very man who hired him to Encom, anyway. They both led a double life, but Thorne was not the kind of fool who believed a publicity whore like Kevin Flynn would vanish into thin air for twenty years and still be alive.

Future Control Industries offered him a world – literally. He stepped before the laser with no regrets and emerged a greater being.

His palace was the heart of a server, yellow-green and built around a sphere with sharp edges. He sat upon a living throne, literally reaching out with his consciousness across the world networks. His influence spread across systems by the nanosecond. A widening chant, echoed from the minions in this throne room across the farthest corners of the Internet.

“All hail Thorne. Thorne is the Master User. The Corruption is all. The Corruption is total. Only Thorne will remain. All hail Thorne. Thorne is the Master User. The Corruption is all. The Corruption is total. Only Thorne will remain. All hail Thorne...”

Not merely a User, but the Master User. He had to feign interest when attempting to read Digital Frontier. It sounded like the ramblings of a stoned madman with far too much philosophy and metaphor. He only did so because it was required reading for the conspiracy he joined. But there was one passage that stuck out at him.

In our own world, we are men. In the Digital Frontier, we are as Gods.

Thorne definitely liked being a god.

Chapter Text

A latticework of energy beams crossed above the cityscape of the server, but the routes Romie drove were roundabout, some of them little more than thin trickles of light over an endless-looking span of darkness below. He switched beams frequently, not keeping to a single strand for very long. Mercury had ducked into the cabin to aft, preferring to pace the cargo hold than sit.

To pass the time and take the edge off his frayed nerves, Jet was reading emails he'd downloaded from the archive bins as he and Mercury rushed through the system. Most of the emails were useless – minutia about project work, out of office notifications, one employee taking paternity leave because he and his partner adopted a little girl from China. Some mentioned the rumored sale, but Jet never paid much attention to the rumors. Besides, most everyone knew that Mackey was good with playing the market and making sure the stock continued to be a good buy, but something of an idiot on everything else. Jet also knew the board was split, and the whole thing was above his pay grade anyway.

Of course, since Sam wasn't going to emerge from his storage shed, that made his dad the next biggest stockholder, and theoretically the deciding vote. But was that behind the kidnapping? How did Thorne factor into all this? How did everything tie together?

He stretched and yawned. Fatigue was creeping up on him and his stomach was growling. The last time he slept or “ate” was back in the cycle arena, and he had no idea how long ago that was. He had a vague recollection about time probably working differently here, but the specifics eluded him.

“What's below us?” Jet asked, looking out on what seemed to be an ocean of black ink.

“The Simulation Sea. Every system, no matter how large, is just an island in it.”

“So we could go to another system by crossing it?”

Romie shook his head. “In theory, you might, but in practice, it's nothing but cold, corrupted junk data. The only way to travel between systems is a designated exit port or transit beam. I've never know the Sea to be anything other than a deathtrap. A few Programs every cycle drown in it. We run out of power and we'll sink. That's why the ICP interceptors aren't following. They use a lot more power than an email packet, and can't use these low-power tracks. Of course, there is a risk we'll drain the remaining power and drop like dead weight.”

“So...we're taking a big risk.”

“De-rez here or de-rez at the ICP prisoner bin. It's still de-rez. We're just going the...” The lights flickered ominously. “Uh-oh.” Romie pounded the controls, and the control panel lit back up. “Whew! Thought we were in trouble there. We're just going the route that might get you and Mercury to Ma3a's Citadel.”

“What about you?”

Romie stared out across the Sea. “What about me? I wasn't meant to run without Marco and Aida.” He stared out into the nothing. “But when you and Mercury came along, I figured I can die fighting, at least.”

“You're not going to -” Jet wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, much less if he wanted to.

“Obsolescence is a fate worse than de-rez. Even if my Users restore Marco and Aida from backup? Well...it won't be them.”

Jet was tempted to ask, but decided against it. No sense in rubbing salt (or equivalent thereof) into Romie's wounds.

“Hey,” Romie asked, obviously keen on changing the subject. “What was your function before Ma3a sent you in here?”

“Users don't exactly have functions or directives,” Jet explained. “It sometimes takes us a long time to find out what our purpose is, but...” The chair squeaked convincingly as he leaned back. “Unfortunately, I make games.”

“Why's that unfortunate?”

“Romie, those games...the Game Grid is...” He ran his hand through his hair, trying to figure out a good explanation. “My side of the screen, they're harmless fun. This side of the screen, they're lethal.”

“The Users...you didn't intend to make them that way?”

Jet shook his head. “No! If I knew...I've lost count of how many laptops I've dropped, hard drives I've reformatted, servers I've crashed, and game bots I've destroyed. And all of them were like you and Mercury – living beings with friends, and jobs, and everything. I'm surprised you don't hate us!”

Romie shrugged. “My processor doesn't handle philosophy too well, Jet. But I haven't been let down by Ted-8 or Jenna-5. They rezzed me up, gave me a purpose, set me up with Marco and Aida. Can't complain too much about my runtime up until this point. And you? You're probably better than you think you are.”

Mercury walked back in and sat in the middle chair. “What's our ETA to the Citadel?”

“About fifteen -” A flash of red passed across the viewport to the port side. Romie went ramrod straight in his chair. “Oh, glitch!” Yanking the control stick hard, the transport shrieked in protest as it veered sharply to the right. “We're gonna have to put down – that thing's a reformat! It touches us and it's all over. Strap in, folks!”

Mercury, Jet, and Romie fastened the restraints. Romie flicked switches and dials, jerking controls that were minimally responsive at best. Jet put his hand on the control panel, bracing himself, hoping with everything he had that it wouldn't end here.

The little email transport faltered on its beam and began to drop into free fall, hitting the dead Sea at an angle and skipping like a stone, once, twice, three times until it skidded onto the “beach.”

Romie didn't black out, but he was a little surprised to still be alive after the rough landing. “Everyone okay?”

Mercury unhooked her belt. “Yes. Jet?”

Jet groaned. “A little banged up. I've had hangovers more pleasant than this.”

“Can you walk?”

He pushed back, fumbling for the belt control. “I'll try.”

Mercury unbuckled him and helped him to his feet. He staggered drunkenly and Romie caught him before he fell over. The pair of Programs steadied him as they limped out of the transport.

Romie kept looking over his shoulder. “That reformat's not stopping, How long you think we have?”

Mercury looked up at the red wall, far away on the horizon but inching closer. “If we're not off in fifteen minutes, we're de-rezzed.”

The Kernel watched from his tower. The ICP units were hunkering down near the front lines for a final stand against the Z-lot invasion, but his tower had also dispatched every transport to the ICP line to escape the reformat. The server was a total loss, but the army would survive and live to fight on other servers, other parts of the network. Stopping the Z-lots was the most critical function, all other Programs could be sacrificed; acceptable losses to continue the fight.

The other reason to have Ma3a's citadel under interdict was to prevent the AI from escaping. She proved to be one more unpredictable factor. Ma3a's so-called “countermeasure” had slaughtered his way across half the sector, incited a prison riot, and took efforts away from combating the Z-lots.

An I/O node lit on his panel and he touched it. The message was from a public node on the far edge of the sector.

“Morton Seven – report.”

Morton saluted and then began to speak. “Kernel, we found the stolen transport on the far edge of the sector on the shores of the Simulation Sea. It looks like they were trying to escape across a discontinued transit route when they lost power and crashed.”

“Did you find the fugitives?”

“No, Kernel, but we assume they de-rezzed in the crash.”

“You assume?!” The Kernel tapped his fingers against the panel and hit another panel. “Send a squadron of light jets with bomber escort. Raze the sector. We are leaving them nowhere to hide.”

Mercury suspected that while Romie's piloting did the heavy lifting, there was some User intervention on Jet's part that kept them all from making a nose-dive into the Sea. Jet could move - but not very well. He was leaning against walls every few steps to stay upright. Romie was staying in the center, circuitry a little dim, but not too badly damaged..

The area they were passing through was deserted. Not even so much as an errant Bit was floating around. It was likely the residential sector for system utilities district, judging from the few discarded tools haphazardly left behind; crates and brooms for file cleanup, a broken mechanic's re-coder. The tools were among debris and personal belongs scattered on the walkways, like the occupants had dropped whatever they were doing in mid-task.

Romie spoke up. “Mercury, we have to find an energy pool or something, because I'm exhausted, and our User friend doesn't look so hot, either.”

Mercury looked around the buildings. “This is a residential zone. An energy well shouldn't be too hard to find.”

“If it's...it's a residential area,” Jet asked, his words slurring a little. In a Program, that meant being critically low on power. “Then why are all the windows dark?”

Mercury looked over her shoulder at the reformat wall, still a red haze on the far horizon, but closing in. “Ma3a would have sent out an evacuation order if she re-established any kind of communications. Standard procedure would be to get everyone aboard Reco transports and upload them to safety, but with the Kernel blowing his stack...”

"They've....been abandoned or arrested...or de-rezzed outright," Jet said, filling in the rest as he leaned against the wall to keep from falling on his face.

Mercury folded her arms. "Unfortunately, the Kernel may be irrational, temperamental, and not very good with things out of his function, he's very good with what is in his parameters. Jet, what can you tell us about Thorne? Anything could be important at this point."

“Hold up,” Romie said. “Just what are you, anyway? You sure aren't some lightcycle jock.”

Mercury scowled. She didn't like announcing this. “I'm an Agent. Group Seven. Means I usually don't take orders from Users, I take orders from her.”

“An Agent? Group Seven? Seriously?” Romie shook his head like he didn't hear it right. “That's a bit much. Easier to believe that I'm traveling with a User than some Group Seven operative.”

Mercury's scowl didn't abate. She pulled her disc off and dialed up the ID display. Superimposed over the 3-D model of her face was a gold symbol that looked like a stylized version of Ma3a's mask and seven gold lights encircling it. “This enough proof?” When Romie was too stunned to produce an answer, she snapped the display shut. “And before you ask, no, I checked for any other agents still active. There are none. Thorne wiped us out. Means that as much as I don't like the idea any more than you will? You're being conscripted.”

Romie flinched back. “Excuse me?”

Jet ssank down to sit on the ground. "Romie, you've been a big help so far. We wouldn't have been able to leave that sector without you.”

“You think I'm going to be some kind of Agent? What are you, glitched?”

“Ma3a recruits from all walks of Program life. And operatives usually aren't open about what they are unless there's an emergency. Most of the time, we're just her eyes on the system, making sure small problems stay small.”

“The Administrator's private spyware network,” Romie said accusingly. “What if she goes off the rails?”

“Get your head out of defrag. We're independent security monitors, not mindless bots. We serve the System and the people in it. And yes, there are protocols for if Ma3a becomes corrupted. Users willing, that won't happen.”

“Don't know Thorne well,” Jet said, mercifully steering the conversation back to the task at hand. “He's in charge of building security at Encom...good at that, otherwise he'd have been fired. Almost had Sam in handcuffs during one of his visits. I...uh...I killed the lights and triggered the sprinkler system. Slowed Thorne down long enough for Sam to get away."

Romie and Mercury shared a confused look, and Jet sighed. "Never mind."

“You're a User, you got uploaded here. Same thing could have happened to Thorne,” Romie said.

“Maybe. But who could have done it and why? And how could Thorne be behind this virus? He's no programmer, certainly not good enough to develop what we're seeing. ” He glanced up, seeing a light in the near distance. “What's that?”

"That," Mercury said. "Might just be our ticket out of here. It's the packet transport station. With luck, we might be able to get on the evacuation Reco."

Jet tried to get to his feet, leaning on the wall for support.

Mercury looked behind her. "It won't be much longer, Jet. We'll find Ma3a and we will get answers."

Romie argued, "He doesn't need answers. He needs energy."

She took one glance towards Ma3a's tower in the distance, and another glance at the approaching reformat. Even if they were lucky enough to get transport, they'd be cutting this close. She could just order them ahead, but Romie's lines were clearly faded and Jet's were even worse. Glitch it, she was getting soft. Looking around, she found a window with the security password auto-saved and smashed it with her rod. The window shorted out with a hiss of energy. Climbing inside, she quickly found what she was looking for – an energy font and flask subroutines. The energy that dribbled out of the font wasn't the clear, purified stuff. Impurities gave it a yellowish sheen that thankfully wasn't the same yellow as viral code. She sampled some first to be on the safe side, then filled three flasks with energy, passing two through the open window to Romie and Jet while she drained the third.

“Drink while we walk. We don't have all microcycle to sit here. We have to keep moving.”

Romie grimaced as he drank, but his circuits returned to normal. Jet didn't react to the acrid taste, and his circuitry remained dim. He must have expended a lot more energy than even he realizes. I hope he realizes he's not invulnerable. So far, he seemed much too at ease with risking his life, and that set off her alarms.

They rezzed up their cycles, Romie on the back of Mercury's, but keeping them on slower speeds as to look out for traps. Grimly, they continued through the wasteland that once was a thriving residential sector. It was a short drive to the transport station past shuttered up shops, along streets that should have been thick with traffic.

When they got to the station, they saw it – a massive Recognizer. Four stories tall, conforming to no analog-world version of physics, with a wide, blocky pair of legs and even thicker top with an almost comically-small cockpit “eye” on top. The Reco itself was ivory-colored with bright gold trim.

Jet halted in his tracks. “That's trouble, isn't it?”

Mercury shook her head. “For once, no. Recognizers are used as security vehicles, but older models like this Type Five are repurposed into civilian transports. Ma3a must have sent it. Look, it's her colors.”

It was one thing to hear about them in an eccentric godfather's stories, or to program endless variations of them for Space Paranoids Online, but to see one face to face was something impressive, intimidating, and mind-blowing all at once. “I'm used to those things being...” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Leading up the loading ramp were at least a hundred Programs, carrying little more than the discs on their back and a bag of possessions as they filed in slowly. It reminded Jet of crowded airports and the dingy ferry terminals he sat in during a trip to Seattle, but there was a creepy lack of conversation aside from hushed whispers. A triad held hands. Two female-designated Programs hugged. A male and female rubbed the back of a second male who stared endlessly at the red doom on the horizon. A male in a coat decorated with elaborate circuitry that carried himself like he was high-status passed over a flask to another male-designated who was dressed shabbily. The shabby one sipped and passed it back, giving a weak smile of gratitude.

Jet and his companions took their place in the back of the line. A male-designated in some type of uniform approached them, ignoring him and Romie and speaking directly to Mercury. “Mercury? While I'm sure a lightcycle champion isn't immune from this chaos, we're not going to just -.”

Jet tensed up, thinking there would be trouble, but Mercury pulled off her disc slowly and opened the display to her Agent's identification in its center before replacing it on her back.

It must have been the equivalent of flashing an FBI badge because the crewman's eyes got wide. “You're Ma3a's agent? I didn't think Group Seven actually existed.”

Mercury nodded. “She likes keeping her eyes and ears hiding in plain sight. Unfortunately, these two conscripts and I might be the last agents Ma3a has for this server,” Mercury said brusquely. “The only hope these Programs have is at Ma3a's dock. We're coming aboard.”

The crewman all but saluted. “I'll tell Captain Cally right away. We're getting everyone we could evacuate from the sector onto this Recognizer, and we're headed straight for there. But where are the ICP units? Are they making any progress against the viral attack?”

“No, and the Kernel's blown his stack, it looks like. He's been killing civilian Programs evacuated from the fallen sectors against Ma3a's orders and bits to bytes the viral outbreak isn't the only reason communications lines got cut, seeing as the ICP channels still work. It's worse than we thought,” she explained. “How quickly can we get to her citadel?”

“No faster than ten minutes. I realize that will cut it short with the reformat, but this is a Class Five Reco. It's designed for capacity, not speed.”

“Then let's hope we're not going to fend off a boarding -”

That's when they heard it – explosions sounding in the far distance. Worried onlookers gasped and pointed to the sky. The hazy red reformat wall was approaching, but ahead of it were a squadron of light-jets, their butterfly wings glowing an ominous red. Far on the horizon, a tall office building exploded into glittering cubes and orange-red flame. Frightened gasps and screams spread through the crowd.

“Get everyone aboard that transport now!” Mercury ordered.

Programs screamed and began scrambling up the ramp, the crewman running back to warn his fellows about the situation. Mercury looked over at Jet and Romie, activating the suffusion gun. “We may have to buy them some time. Get ready.”

Jet activated his rifle and Romie pulled his disc. The three of them ducked for cover behind a ticket booth and a trash can, giving each other grim nods. The sounds of bombings came ominously closer. The line of Programs boarding the Recognizer was getting shorter, but not outpacing the pace of explosions.

The turnstiles, ticket counters, and narrow stairwells created an advantage for the three defenders as ICPs came flooding in. The panicked crew behind them were herding frightened civilian Programs up the ramps and onto the Reco.

Jet sniped for the middle of the crowd to slow them down. Romie fired short bursts with the disc and the scatter-shot pellets from Mercury's suffusion gun took out enemies who ventured closer. The ground shook and parts of the ceiling came down. One large chunk de-rezzed an elderly female-designated that was too slow in reaching the ramp.

Jet felt a sudden, sharp pain in his hand, but it gave him an idea. Glancing up, he saw a heavy support beam, already damaged by the bombing. With a little luck...

“Merc, Romie – fall back!”

They did as asked, still firing, bringing up the rear of the queue. Jet concentrated, finding that small part of viral code he had quarantined away, and willed the remains of the corrupted code into his palm, throwing it as hard as he could. The viral grenade hit its target and exploded. Hunks of pixel-stone and simulated metal crashed between the stairwell and turnstiles, crushing a dozen ICPs and cutting off the approach.

“Hurry, Jet! Get aboard!” Romie shouted, gesturing him to follow them up the ramp and onto the Recognizer. Not even a nano after he was aboard, the hatches sealed and the huge, awkward-looking craft sailed effortlessly into the sky, hitching one of the remaining beams and speeding away.

Jet sagged against one of the walls, breathing heavily. He looked around at the inside. This area was obviously a cargo hold, stacked with thick, cubical data blocks like the one he saw at the processing area, but it was also crammed with people – Programs. (Did the difference matter anymore? No.) They were of all sizes – a short, thick one, another tall and skinny. A muscular one that towered over Jet was sitting glumly in a corner while a slender, petite one tried to comfort him.

“They're going to follow – the light jet bombers, at least,” Romie said. “They have a short range, but they don't need transit beams.”

The sounds of bombing still could be heard outside the thick walls. “Get me to the bridge,” he answered. Oh, he was tired. He didn't even know where he was drawing strength from. It just had to be enough. “Maybe being lead programmer of Space Paranoids Online can do some good.”

They climbed up the ramps. The Reco had definitely been retrofitted – it resembled a passenger ferry more than the military transports he coded up. Programs sat on the benches, the floor, the ledges on the wall where he had once coded in weapon racks and armor berths. All of them looked up as the trio passed by – some with fear or despair, some with the faintest remains of hope. One old man in thick robes held the hand of a younger woman and two younger men as they prayed.

“In shell and code, the Users make us. With spark, they give life. With directive, we have purpose. We serve faithfully, and may they protect and guide us in return...”

Jet shuddered. He wasn't sure if God existed, much less cared, but all he could do was pray in return. Help me save them.

There are over a dozen classes of Recognizers that have been used in the Encom system over the years. Starting out primarily as enforcement and capture vehicles, obsolete models were converted to packet transports, carrying freight and passengers throughout the system. Their great height, long range, and immense bulk made them very effective at carrying large loads, and they moved surprisingly fast, though their movement defied most laws of User physics and their speed was still greatly inferior to smaller craft like frame relays, email transports, and light-jets. Nor are their armament, armor, and shielding a match for the immense ICP battleships or virtual servers that approximate the size and appearance of floating cities within this world.

The Class Five was always a transport; designed for troops, now for passengers. The bridge was located, as usual, in the sensor “eye” at the top. The great horizontal mass beneath consists of six decks, each about a hundred meters long by a human's measure, each deck approximately five meters high. Five decks are for cargo and passengers. The sixth consists of equipment necessary to power the capture devices and engines held in the straight vertical legs, each as tall as the horizontal is wide. It is the slowest model, with a maximum capacity of 1800 passengers and 100 crew. It can fly with a minimum crew of ten. This one flew with approximately seventy-five crew and 1500 passengers.

Mercury's agent access got them into a lift going to the cockpit, and it opened on a steely-eyed captain who was trying to man the control stick. The engineering station had a short, stout Program barely out of beta manning it, eyes wide and staring at the decaying voxels in shock. Two fading piles of digital remains were mute testimony to the fate of the radio operator and navigation officer.

The captain looked up, relief on her face, but she didn't leave the steering column. “Cally. Captain of this vessel. You three must be Ma3a's agents, though I didn't expect you to be one, Mercury. Guess it's true about her having eyes everywhere.”

Mercury nodded. “Status?”

“The weaponry was dummied out when this was turned into a transport, and those light jets are in firing range. Backlash from the shielding killed off the vanguards at the cost of several crew, but we're helpless against the rest. Rest of the crew is working all over the Reco trying to keep her flying.”

Mercury looked over at the shell-shocked beta at Engineering. “Keep the shields working. Jet, can you get the weaponry? I'll check the radio, see if we can get a line to Ma3a.”

Jet was already over at the inactive weapon control panel. “Working on it.”

The captain looked at Mercury incredulously. “Didn't you hear me the first time? The cannons aren't -”

“Jet can handle the weapons,” Mercury explained, hoping she wouldn't have to get into details they didn't have time for. “He's got a talent for these kind of things.” The Reco's command deck lurched.

“I've got the cannon on the right shoulder.” Jet said. He looked distressingly pale, clammy skin and flickering circuitry. “Romie,” Jet said. “I'll need you to take this one.”

“A cannon? Are you -?”

“Serious. Yeah. I can talk you through it.”

“I...I know basic defense, but nothing like -” Romie couldn't even finish the sentence, looking up at Jet., trying to say more, but failing.

The first shot hit, and the Reco deck shook.

“Shields are holding,” the engineer said, “But they're down to thirty percent.”

Jet was still trying to fend off the shakes, but tried to keep his voice as steady as possible as he worked the second console. “Whatever we used to be? Doesn't matter. You heard Mercury. We're Ma3a's agents now. We got a bunch of Programs on this Recognizer to save.”

Romie was still a little shaky about the prospect. “You think I can do this?”

“Yeah, you can. All in the wrist,” he joked weakly, projecting a confidence he didn't feel. “I also got the primary turret online. Put the headset on, and we'll do this, okay?”

Romie paused, checked the readout with the jets closing in and the reformat right behind. Seeing no other option, he nodded.

Down in the hold of the Recognizer, the lights flickered and dimmed to thin emergency lights in the floor as power was shunted to essential systems. Through the back, thin-winged light-jets, a dozen of them, closed in ominously, opening fire.

The first shots hit and the refugees screamed. Some crowded to the back. A bundled pair held each other, certain it was the end.

The Recognizer, seemingly helpless, continued along its path, but the large craft would stand no chance at outrunning their pursuers. A second shot hit. A third. The thick shielding flickered and showed signs of failure...

And then a shot – not from the jets, but from the Reco itself! One of the pursuit craft de-rezzed in a shower of sparks. Three more followed.

The deck erupted in cheers.

“Five down!”

“Means seven to go. And shields are five percent. Any more shots and we're going to have casualties on the lower decks,” Jet warned. His stomach twisted. He could play this level in his sleep - when it was a game.

He swung the cannon around and a lucky shot nailed two of them in one blast.

“They'll swoop in for another pass. Time it so that they're crossing the second bar of your screen before you fire.”

Jet fought off a wave of nausea and dizziness, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. He was pushing himself to breaking and knew it, but he had to keep going, or everyone on this ship was going to die.

No more stories. No more games.

On the lowest passenger deck, in a darkened corner, a refugee script huddled among the crowded deck, feeling chills as his systems seized and his rendered muscles ached. He told himself it was just the stress, the ten microcycles without shelter, trying to outrun the Z-Lots as they overtook his sector, the ICPs as they enforced their massacre in the guise of quarantine. He didn't have the right permissions, but he slipped past in the confusion.

Starving and desperate, the last energy he drank was from a broken conduit two sectors before reaching the station. It looked and tasted foul, but he was flickering out and he had to keep going. There was no other choice, but he had felt ill ever since, harder to keep walking, going on sheer willpower. Surely, his Users had answers. Surely they knew how to help. His head and his abdomen throbbed and a sudden movement from the Reco lurched him forward. He was on his hands and knees, and he vomited.

The vomited energy was yellow-green.

The radio crackled and hissed, but the channel came online. “Contact established! Ma3a, this is Mercury aboard Packet Transport 112-Theta. Class Five Recognizer, full load. We're headed to Citadel, under ICP attack.”

“Mercury, you have survived. Have any others?”

“Yes. Jet is with me. And an email script, Romie, that I recommend for full Agent status and training.” She looked back at them, fighting against the light-jet squadron. This was difficult to admit, but she owed Ma3a no less than honesty. “I'm alive thanks to them.”

“I can connect a secure tunnel to the next beam. If the transport can reach it, you will have safe passage to Citadel. Transmitting access codes now...”

The transmission sent, but the next hit destroyed the conduit to the radio, and Mercury barely dove out of the chair to avoid the power surge.

“We've reached the next junction.” the captain said. “Switching to the higher-energy beam!”

The consoles and circuitry lines of the walls and panels lit brighter beneath their feet, and the surge of energy powered their guns. “Eight seconds to the secure tunnel, and we're stable – for now,” the engineer said. “But I'm getting no contact from engine room. The line's intact, but it's gone silent.”

Mercury knew they weren't out of trouble yet. “How many of the squadron evaded?”

Romie said,“We shot two more, but three of them...I can't read them on the sensors.”

“Means they've landed a boarding party on the upper deck, right in our blind spot,” she said darkly. “Jet?”

“I...I'm okay.” It was clear he wasn't. Circuitry pale, sweating. He was pushing himself past exhaustion, and not even Ma3a likely knew what a User's limits actually were.

A thick clanging sound cut off any argument.

Romie, Mercury, and Jet had their discs in hand before the door came down. Three ICPs stormed the bridge.

“This Recognizer belongs to the Kernel.”

The captain wasn't having it. “I'm Cally, the captain of this Reco. We're a civilian transport on a rescue mission from Ma3a herself. You explain your Kernel's actions!”

The ICP's disc flew for the captain's head, but Mercury was anticipating it, her own disc blocking the shot and sending it wild while the counterattack sliced through the ICPs neck cleanly, reducing him to fading static.

The fight was on, but the surviving ICP continued to make his demand. “All packet transports and evacuation vessels will be commandeered for ICP use. All other functions are acceptable losses to combat the Thorne virus. Ma3a is considered a traitor to the Encom system, and all who serve her have been sentenced to immediate de-resol -”

That last sentence ended with a disc in his chest. The disc belonged not to the agents, but to the captain.

“I'll keep this Reco flying. Boarding party's likely headed for the engine room. Get the rest of those null-units off my ship.”

The engineer looked up. “Captain, alert's been pulled on Deck 5.”

“Seal it off. We'll only drop it long enough to send a team to the engine room.”

The Kernel's second in command, Morton, led the boarding party, but as he and his men stalked the decks of the ship and watched as civilians cowered, kneeling or lying on the decks in surrender, no sudden moves. A female-designated sobbed. An old male-designated was weeping.

It was his directive to protect and restore order to the system. Was this protection? Was this defense? He did not know anymore.

“This vessel and all contents are now under the command of the Kernel,” he stated. “Remain calm.”

Someone shrieked. One of his men threw a disc and killed her instantly.

“That is an illegal operation!”

“They'll be killed in the reformat anyway, Commander Morton,” his subordinate said with a sneer.

With a quick turn, circuit strike, and shove, the insubordinate Program was against the wall, and the commander delivering a painful energy surge. “I am giving the orders, script. We commandeer this vessel with with no unnecessary casualties. Standard procedure is quarantine and scan.” The subordinate looked like he wanted to argue, but was too intimidated to press the issue. Morton turned to the crowd. “Any medic Programs?”

Three male-designated and two female-designated raised their hands. Two of them had full packs of gear.

“Inspect every refugee on this deck for signs of viral infection, starting with each other. We verify, deck by deck, that we don't have any contamination.”

“It would be faster to -”

The commander's glare ended that sentence. He let go of the chastised soldier, but kept a wary eye open as he opened a line over his earpiece. “Team Beta?”

“We're at the engine deck, proceeding to engine room after conducing a security scan.”

“Keep me informed.” He was about to signal the bridge when the alarms went off. Morton quickly checked the location. Deck Five.

The commander ordered his men. “Entee, Sid, Ojin, you go to Deck Five with me.” He trusted the other pair to have cooler processors. “Codewall, Lan, you keep things calm up here. Help the medics if they need it.”

Mercury led the way down to deck five, Jet on her heels. He had already pulled out his suffusion routine, the short-range more appropriate for the tight quarters.

“You didn't have to come.”

“If we run into Z-Lots, I'm still immune. Romie's not. He's also a better pilot, meaning that he's of more use on the bridge.”

Mercury scowled. “Jet, you're too damn willing to risk your life. You've spent enough energy to exhaust a half-dozen Programs and you're still pushing it.”

“We've been over this, Mercury. The choices aren't good. I'm taking the same risk as everyone here.”

Logically, she couldn't argue with that. Fail, and he was just as dead as everyone aboard. “Doesn't mean I like it.”

“Makes two of us,” he said. Crossing over to the comm panel, he signaled the bridge. “Romie, seal off the deck behind us.”

“Got it,” he radioed back. “I'll keep alert for any other alarms. But there's been nothing since the alarm got pulled. You see anything?”

The deck itself was disquieting empty. Chairs and benches were overturned, pixel-glass was shattered, internal walls and partitions were smashed and looked like hunks were torn out. The emergency overhead lights flickered, leaving unreliable pools of anemic light on the floor to augment the dim circuitry of the walls. Like all the passenger decks, it had been full to capacity seconds before. Now, there was nothing – silence.

Jet took a sharp breath and gagged. “Ozone. They died.”

Mercury squinted. In the dim light, the fading remains of a few dying voxels remained. “You're right.” She hit the panel again. “Bridge, we have visual. Something killed everyone on this deck, and it only took a few seconds to tear through. Watch deck four and engine deck for any alerts or sabotage.” She looked both ways before signaling Jet to follow as they made their way to the engine deck.

Two steps. Three. Five.

A dozen voices shrieked at once. From behind the chairs and benches, from the partitions and the walls. They'd been innocent refugees, now they were twisted Z-lots -green circuits, empty eyes, shells twisted and held together with what looked like green paste. They ripped off their flesh and threw it, the bomblets landing with an infectious splash on the floor. Mercury dodged and backed toward the bulkhead door to the engine deck.

“Mercury, get back behind the door, I'll follow.”

She did, using the frame for cover and Jet summoned a viral grenade of his own, pitching it into the crowd before returning with a volley of suffusion fire, mowing down the mindless fiends. Unfortunately, one of the Z-lot bombs got a lucky shot and the door came crashing down too quickly to duck behind it.

Unable to hold his ground, Jet looked for an alternate escape route. The viral bombs were painful and made moving difficult (he was already running on terror and adrenaline). He resorted for tearing viral code off his suit and throwing it back at them.

He ducked behind a maintenance door and sealed it behind him, taking a moment to breathe and try to pull the remaining gunk off his armor. “Zombie apocalypse. Not the way I thought I'd go.”

He didn't get a chance. A red blur charged him, kneed him in the gut and tackled him. The suffusion gun went spinning uselessly out of reach. His attacker was an ICP unit, one of the boarding party. He also recognized the face. It was also the Kernel's aide and top subordinate, one of his interrogators back at their prison.

Jet struggled, smashed his elbow into a circuit node on the ICP's shoulder, which broke contact for a moment, and tried to reach for the gun. The ICP responded with a nasty palm-strike to the underside of Jet's jaw. Jet continued to struggle, finally getting his hand around the grip and pull it up to fire...

There was the whine of a disc activation and the sharp edge held inches above his throat. “Don't. Move.”

A twisted sing-song voice behind them broke the standoff. “Clean ones!”

Jet turned the gun, aimed and fired. The ICP looked over his shoulder to see the Z-lot creeping up on them both stagger back with a parody of a smile and tear green goo out of the wound. Even worse, there were several more Z-lots to the front and back, pinning them in. Realizing they had bigger problems to deal with at the moment, he let go of Jet, scrambling to a fighting stance and delivering a head shot to the infected script, which collapsed in a green, organic-looking heap.

They stood back to back in the narrow corridor, forcing the eight or so attackers to face them single-file, cutting them down with quick strikes of disc or blasts from the suffusion gun. After clearing the corridor, Jet kept his gun at the ready, waiting for the ICP to make a move. The ICP had his disc drawn, as if thinking the same thing. Finally, Jet decided he'd have to be the one to speak first.

“You okay?”

“I am not infected,” he answered. “But you are a wanted fugitive, and I am under orders to de-rez you on sight.”

“Kinda figured,” Jet said. “But I don't want to kill you. These Z-lots are the real enemy here. We can die fighting each other or we can work together and live. Your call.”

The ICP seemed to weigh this in his processor before slowly lowering his disc. “Can't interrogate you if you've de-rezzed. You've been nothing but unanswered questions ever since you showed up.”

Jet kept it simple, trying not to breathe too hard in relief as he lowered the barrel of his gun. “I work for Ma3a. I'm with her agents. We're trying to get the uninfected Programs on this Recognizer to her Citadel so we can evacuate them before the reformat.”

“The Kernel believes that any Program outside of ICP forces is a potential infectee. That's why...” The ICP couldn't finish the sentence.

“I can see the argument. Ma3a thinks differently.”

“You are obviously not commanding nor allied with the Z-lots as the Kernel believes, and his orders have been erratic as of late. My directive is to serve, however.”

He was going to sound like an idiot, get his ass kicked, or it would be just the right question to ask. “Does a countermeasure serve the system, or just the Kernel?”

The ICP straightened, indignant. “We defend and protect the system from any and all threats from without and corruption from within.”

Jet checked the suffusion rod. His weapon was charged and ready. “Sounds like you have your answer. Do you have a name?”

“Morton,” he said. “How many agents does Ma3a have aboard this Recognizer?”

“Name's Jet. There are two others with me.”

“There were twelve of us. Three I sent to the bridge, and three on the team down here with me. Those three...succumbed to infection, I believe. We fell to an ambush and were unable to retreat.”

“The bridge party attacked us. We had to defend ourselves. I'm sorry,” Jet answered. “And the captain had the bridge seal off this deck when the alarm sounded. We...we didn't....”

Morton's expression seemed to convey more resignation than anger at the loss. “At least that is done. Contain the infection, reduce the potential threat. It was the correct action.”

“I'm sorry for the loss of your men,” Jet said. “The ones with the passengers, what are their orders? De-rez?”

“No. I am following standard procedure and quarantining the passengers while my men and some medic scripts check for any signs of infection.” The way Morton emphasized “standard” drove home the point. “I wanted...confirmation. Do you know of any useful tactics in fighting the Z-lots?”

Jet touched the wall. Things were so much easier to remember on the other side of the screen. “A few...”

Mercury was worried sick by the time she was able to scramble down to the engine deck. Jet was nowhere to be found, and she knew that while he was relatively immune to the virus, there were other, nastier ways the Z-lots could finish him.

Fortunately, she got his call signal a few seconds later and was able to find a panel.

“Mercury? You okay?”

“I managed to seal the bulkheads and get to the engine deck. You?”

“Still on five, and I found the ICP commander.”

“Tell me he's a pile of smoking voxels.”

“No, saved each others' lives. He's willing to call a truce. He's already notified his men to stand down, and I let Romie and Cally know.”

Mercury had to pause a while to run that one through her processor. What was he going to tell her next – the Sea had come to life? It wasn't the way she would do things, but Ma3a would certainly approve. “Okay, we can go back to shooting each other after the Z-lots are gone. Any good ideas?”

“Mercury, this is Morton, Aide and Commander to the Kernel. Since the lower two decks have been compromised, we need to keep this area shielded. My men have verified that the infection has not spread to any of the upper decks. There were three more infectees, but my men...did what they had to.”

Mercury found herself closing her eyes and sighing. She was inured to mass de-rez before this, or so she thought. “Jet, hate to ask, but what do you know about Class Fives that could solve this?”

“I can't remember much about this class. These things got dummied out of the game early on,” he answered. “ I know that if we disabled the external shields on the lower decks, we'd vent everything to space. It's our best shot, provided we can get ourselves and any survivors to safety first.”

Mercury looked to the engine room. “Guess I scrounge up some permissions and see if the engine crew were able to survive, Mercury out.”

Morton and Jet crept along the thin, claustrophobic tunnels along the Recognizer's edge, listening at the door before opening the hatch onto another section. It was no better than the last – ripped chairs, overturned benches, ripped paneling. Morton pulled his disc and nodded. Jet turned and opened fire into the room, spraying a few shots into the obvious hiding places. Three Z-lots that popped up were swiftly dealt with.

“Not a lot in this room,” Jet said.

“Caution,” Morton remarked. “We'll do a security sweep. You start at the left wall, and I will start at the right. Mirror my movements.”

Jet tossed off a bad imitation of some kind of salute and started on the left wall. Morton eyed him warily. He heard that outrageous “confession” at the tower, all right. A User of all things? At the time, he was of the same opinion as his Kernel. Now, he wasn't sure what to think. He saw the technician's report about the Jet's disc and all that unreadable data (and saved a copy to his own disc without the Kernel's knowledge), and there was just something....strange about him. Maybe he could believe that claim, except for one thing; Ma3a might be a powerful Program, but she was still a Program.

Users did not serve Programs.

“I think this was a barracks room, converted to crew quarters” Jet said, “Most I was able to find was this permission archive in the wall.” He began to download the permissions.

“Officer staterooms would be on the top deck. This room would be for the engineers. We'll need to get that to your companion on the engine deck.

“Right,” he said. “Place is still swarming with Z-Lots. It's a bad sign we haven't seen more.”

Mercury met up with the other ICP team...what was left of them.

The south engine corridor was a red and green horror show. Piles of green viral code, faded red voxels, including some larger body parts – she almost stepped on a whole, armored torso that was slow to decay.

“Oh, glitch.”

And that's when things got worse. The deck lurched forward and to the left suddenly before righting itself. Glancing out the rear access, to the beam track, she saw that the Reco was sitting powered, but unmoving, along the track as the red wall of death crept closer.

Spinning around, she fired quickly enough to kill the Z-lot trying to backstab, but that did not prepare her for the door to the engine room bursting open and an energy-searing scream emerging from within. A dozen Z-lots - armed with broken machines, tools, pieces of the walls and benches vandalized earlier.

Mercury stepped back and turned the suffusion gun back to a rod, snapping the halves apart and bracing for melee.

Jet and Morton ran across the deck, shooting down the rare Z-lot they encountered until they reached the engine deck, and that's when they heard it – sounds of screams and sounds of suffusion fire.

Then the Reco shuddered with a metallic groan and knocked them to the deck. They scrambled to their feet, said no more and started racing.

By the time they got there, Mercury had her back to the wall and rods out, the close-quarter melee weapons striking and shocking victims in a chain reaction. Morton's aim was precise enough to slice through necks and remove weapon arms, while Jet's suffusion shots went more for crowd control, aiming for center mass. The three of them quickly divided and destroyed the remaining attackers. Morton looked at the remains of his men with dismay. Jet, worried, checked Mercury for infection.

“Not this time. I'm okay,” she assured him. “They sabotaged the engines. We're stalled. Get in there.”

Jet blinked when he saw the damage. He coded these things, but never gave much thought to how the engines and machinery of something impossible to recreate with User-world physics would actually run. It looked vaguely like raygun-gothic met an 80's arcade, wheels, turbines, belts, neon ductwork, and there wasn't a surface that hadn't been battered, dented, or smashed.

Mercury came up from the maintenance hatch. “All clear below, but I can't tell one piece of equipment from another.”

Morton ran to a sealed door at the back. “Survivors. Some of the engineers.” He opened the door and five survivors – three male-designated, two female-designated, stumbled out.

“The ICPs...” said one of the female-designateds. “They got us through the door when the Z-lots breached the engine room. They fought, tried to lead the Z-lots away from the critical systems, but...”

Morton nodded sadly. “They served well.”

The smallest of the men pointed to a console at Jet's left. “The power distributor, they've completely destroyed it. If we could get that back -”

Jet ran over to the control panel and started trying to repair it. Mercury stepped in to shield as much of the view as possible from the crewmen.

Mercury asked, “Morton, can you take the engineers and get their information on how to do an external shield reset? We'll work on the panel.”

The engineers and Morton looked incredulous, but Jet told as much of the truth as he could get away with. “I...used to design Recognizers.”

Morton continued to eye him strangely, but decided that it was going to have to wait. He waved, and a pair of the engineers came with him. Three more stayed behind. They made sure the door was closed behind them to keep out any straggling Z-lots.

“Thrusters,” Jet asked. “They get the thrusters? We'll still need those to get out of here.”

“We'll check.” The other three went down the maintenance hatch.

Mercury walked up next to Jet. “You can fix this.”

“I don't know,” he admitted, fiddling with the broken controls, trying to put his hands on the shattered dials to recompile them, only half-succeeding. “Guns are easy to code. A physics engine isn't. And Recognizers aren't the eight-bit sprites my godfather was coding back in the eighties. Even when I did code these things, there weren't lives at stake. Mercury, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I don't know what I can or can't do here.”

“You can do this,” she said simply.

“Because I'm - “

“Because you can.” She put her hand between his shoulder blades. “Go on. Touch it.”

He did.

“Don't focus on anything else. Just the code and my voice.”

Behind his eyelids, he could see the familiar lines of code and the broken strings needed to repair. No keyboard, no interface, no compiler. Just thought and will and reality shaped around it...And a wave of nausea and dizziness while his knees buckled underneath him. He barely managed to hold onto the console to keep himself from face-planting onto it. “I...I don't get it. I fixed the code, but there's nothing. No power...”

Mercury put her hand on his to stop him. “You're out of energy. Expending too much results in fatigue. Too much, too quickly, can send you into shock and kill you.”

“So we die because I need a drink?” He went back to working the panel, frantically running his fingers through his hair, increasingly nervous and upset. “There's got to be a way. I've got to...”

Mercury put her hand on his back. “Jet. Deep breath. Cool your processor. You can't save anyone if you panic.”

He straightened, taking a deep breath as instructed. “We need a jump start. Are there any power sources – any kind of energy storage - on the ship? Otherwise, we're dead.”

She didn't take her hand off his back, but the hopelessness of the situation was starting to hit her. “Not that I know of.” Mercury shuddered, seeing one of the console readouts depicting the reformat wall inching closer. Damn it! It was going to end here of all places?

Jet's circuitry flickered, as he sighed, looking up from his fruitless efforts of jump-starting the Reco. “Mercury, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be...I don't know, better than this, maybe?”

Guilt and anger kicked in hard. “No, I'm supposed to be better than this,” she said heavily. She stepped back, but forced herself not to look away in shame. “I thought you were an enemy. I went to you to question you, maybe kill you if I had to. Instead, I seduce you. And I should be escorting you to Ma3a, not dragging you into combat.”

“For all you knew, I was an enemy. And things...just went too far. I can't hate you for that.” He looked at the upper console with the reformat wall closing in. “Merc, I'm not really scared to die. Half the stunts I've pulled should have killed me anyway. The only regret...well, not being able to save these people, or Ma3a, and what's going to happen to my dad?”

The concept of “dad” or “father” didn't translate well. The closest she understood it was “creator” or “progenitor.” There were probably nuances to it that eluded her, but it hardly mattered now. It was also a bad idea to crack, even at the last nano, and close the space between them and take his hand, sending a comforting pulse of energy...

Energy...

Her head snapped up. “That's it! We have over a thousand passengers. It's dangerous, but we have no other option.”

“What the -?”

“Energy is our life force, our...” She shook her head. “I don't have the time to explain.” Opening a communications line to broadcast to every deck, she sent out a ship-wide broadcast.

“This is Mercury Six point two one, Agent of Ma3a. As you know, the reformat is coming. This Recognizer's engine needs a jump. We need all of you to give what you can to get us started again. Open a panel, hold on to your neighbors...”

On the upper decks, passengers pried open the conduits grimly. Everyone had one eye cast to the red wall of death at their backs or the secure tunnel promising survival.

One of the surviving ICP units was first to touch the open, inert conduit. An elderly female-designated took his hand. A young male-designated put his hand on her shoulder and reached out for his neighbor.

Link by link, hand on hand the chains were formed, each giving of their own life to send into the ship on the direction of the voice from the communications system.

“Do this for each other, for your system, for your Users, for Ma3a, for yourselves.”

Panels began to light, and some of the refugees flickered from the strain, but they kept praying, kept giving.

Jet said, fingers flying as he worked the controls.. “We're almost there. C'mon...” He looked up, and reached out.“Mercury? Every little bit's gonna help.”

She didn't take his hand. It was glitched, of course, thinking that just one more Program pushing the Reco would do any good.

Kisses were certainly not unknown to her people; but they were rare, almost sacred, things due to the legend behind how they came to be; a final gift before a User's sacrifice. They were for only the most deeply committed of bundled pairs, or situations where you feared you'd never see your loved one again. Mercury had never been one for the sacred, but if one has to make a last-ditch effort, one might as well go full out.

Instead, she raked one hand into his hair and kissed him like the world was about to end, which was likely to happen anyway. He twitched with shock at first, but quickly relaxed into it, kissing her back just as fiercely.

Shared energy flowed through them, and he took her hand, placing them on the console, channeling it through their body and shell and into the console which started to click.

On the bridge, Cally and Romie watched as the reformat wall inched closer to their inert craft.

“Been only a short time,” Cally said. “But an honor all the same, Agent Romie.”

Romie blinked. Agent? It almost didn't process until he remembered what Jet and Mercury had told him. Guess he really was an agent of Ma3a now. Wonder what Marco and Aida would make of that. Aida would have laughed herself silly. Marco would have asked if he could sign up, too.

He missed his counterparts. Until now, he figured he was ready to join them. With this backdoor conscription into Ma3a's private forces, Romie now felt like there was more he could do with his runtime, maybe saving these people so the deaths of his friends and loved ones wouldn't be for nothing.

He went back to the power routing console. “Cally, I'm getting a reading from the engine room. Looks like we've got some power. I don't believe this -” He looked at the other surviving crewman. “Give those guys a little boost with the power load balance. Let's hope the patch job flies as good as she looks.,” he said, running over to the navigation station. “Engaging the thrusters!”

The Recognizer wobbled to the right, then to the left, jolted forward twice with shuddering halts, but on the third try, it hit the transit beam square on and began taking off like a shot, outpacing the approaching reformat and speeding down the beam.

“They did it!” Cally said. “We did it!”

Romie hit the radio. “Hit the panel as soon as everyone's through! We can vent the deck as soon as we

get confirmation.”

Morton and the surviving engineers fought their way back to the engine room, cutting down the Z-lots they found. The engineers just needed to be motivated by anger, but regular tool use gave them a decent disc throw. When he got to the engine room, Jet and Mercury both looked a little dazed, circuitry dim as they held each other up for support, and the engineers were climbing up from the hatch. “We have the shield bits ready. Let's go!”

Fortunately, they encountered no further Z-lot trouble as they all ran up the ramp, and past the bulkhead. Morton and Mercury made sure everyone else had climbed the ramp before escaping themselves, sealing the hatch, and giving the signal.

The environment shields dropped. Z-lots and debris were swept off the ship and into the void as the Recognizer vanished into the secure tunnel, the entrance sealing behind them.

At full capacity, a Class Five Recognizer can carry 1800 passengers and 100 crew. 1235 refugee Programs, fifty crew, three surviving ICP units, and three agents of Ma3a speed off to a thin promise of safety.

Morton and his two surviving men headed back to the top deck of the Recognizer tug, planning on using the sensor blind spot so they could sneak back to the front lines when they reached the Citadel. Unfortunately, it meant an end to the truce, but it probably wouldn't be the last time their paths were going to cross. Fortunately, no other cases of infection were found among the passengers or crew, and Ma3a's secure tunnel meant the rest of the journey could pass in safety.

An impromptu party was still in full swing, simple electronic music played on hand-held keyboards and strange devices that resembled nothing from the human world that nonetheless made sounds vaguely like string instruments. Others were on their feet, dancing as well as they could in the small spaces allowed. A small, girlish one giggled as she whirled around with a dark-complected woman with deep wrinkles in her face. Two young males seemed to be getting into an acrobatics contest, using bare poles and crates as props for enthusiastic moves straight out of an old Michael Jackson video.

Jet could barely stumble two feet without someone congratulating him, or thanking him, all with a gentle touch to his arm, shoulder, or back. From what he had seen so far, Programs had fewer reservations or taboos about touch than humans did. It was odd, but he hardly objected. Seeing no sign of Mercury, he climbed up to one of the maintenance catwalks, just content to watch the festivities below.

“Something told me you'd be up here,” Mercury's voice. She slid in right next to him, handing him a flask of energy. She had procured her own and was drinking from it in generous gulps. “Cally was nice enough to tap the emergency rations. Says the crew's even agreed to let us use a stateroom to get some rest.”

“I hope you thanked her. How's Romie?”

“Getting a briefing. I used my permission set to upgrade him. He's now officially deputized. It won't be the same as being able to carry out his core directive, but it's at least a reason to function.”

“Is he all right with what we're asking?”

“He knows we have to rescue Ma3a and fight the virus. Someone has to look out for these refugees if we can get them to the open Internet. He's the script for the job.”

“Yeah, he is,” Jet said, taking a drink from the flask. “And I'm hoping Ma3a can send me back. My father's still in danger. I have to find him. I don't know how long it's been since I got here. Seems like forever.”

“Tell me about it. From the time I saw you in the Kernel's tower to the time we board this Reco has been the longest hour of my runtime,” Mercury said dryly.

Jet shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around that. It had only been an hour since...? “Yeah, longest hour of my life, too.”

“Drink energy and rest when you can. Keep your strength up. You're powerful, obviously, but not invulnerable. Not immortal, remember that. I don't want to lose you.”

He put the flask aside and touched her shoulder. “Mercury, back there, in the engine room...”

She sighed and looked away. “You trust me...you're willing to de-rez for me, and you have no reason to.”

“Mercury, I'd be....I'd be dead without you. Maybe worse. I was dropped into this world without warning, blundering my way from one disaster to the next with only my godfather's unreliable stories as a guide. Of course I trust you. Haven't we been through enough to prove that?”

She gripped the railing, looking at him out the corner of her eye. “I'm not used to depending on someone. Mercury series isn't designed for it.”

“Series?”

“I'm version six point two one. Means five predecessors to live up to. All of them worked for the Math Assistant AIs, all of them worked alone. Thought I would be the same.” She downed another gulp of energy. “Somewhere along the way, I've started to trust you, Jet. Not because I have to, but because I want to.”

“And together, we've made it a lot further than either of us could have gone on our own.” He looked down at the gathered crowd, celebrating their small victory, and put one arm around her shoulders. “Look at this ship, at everyone here. If we didn't all work together, none of us would be alive.”

Mercury pulled in a little closer, enjoying the contact, putting her arm around his waist. “I'll admit. You're as good with finding allies as finding trouble.”

They remained that way for several seconds, arms around each other, drinking their energy, enjoying the music, watching the dancing and celebrations of relief and gratitude from those glad to be alive who knew all too well that it was a temporary reprieve from the danger. The reformat was still in progress, the ICPs and Z-Lots would be waiting at Citadel. They'd lost almost everything already and their chances of continued survival were small, but they'd clawed out victory and life for a few more minutes and that was enough for now.

“There's something you told Romie back on the shuttle,” Mercury said, breaking the silence. “I'd like clarification.”

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Is it really true Users - excuse me, humans - don't get directives or know what their functions are?”

He dropped his arms and stepped back, almost like he summoned a wall between them. “That's right. Our creator? Well, if he exists, he probably just booted up our universe in a basement somewhere and left it running. That's our big struggle, Merc, trying to find our destiny, where we fit into the big scheme of things. Some people figure it out early, some never do.” Jet shrugged, as though trying to work out some tension between his shoulders. “My parents...the ones who made me, they're scientists. My mother deals in quantum physics. She's the one who made the first edition of the laser that got me here. My father?” Jet shook his head. “You guys would know him as Alan-1; pioneer of computer security and artificial intelligence. Then there's Sam - he's pretty much heir to the Encom throne if he ever decides to come out and take it -”

“What about you?”

“What about me? Best I can manage is to build games and try to stay out of their way.” He sighed in frustration. “I know what my father wants, but I don't want his life; all that secrecy, all those projects he thinks I don't know about, putting up with all that garbage from the board while trying to keep the company from collapsing. I've seen what it's done to him. He made a lot of sacrifices for people who can't appreciate -” He stopped himself. “I guess I'm part of that.”

She stared at him in shock. “You don't have a purpose? No reason to live?”

“Mercury, don't -”

She folded her arms and gave him a stare she likely used on errant malware., “Answer it, Jet. You act like you have a de-rez wish, and I need to know why.”

“I've done a lot of dumb things,” he admitted. “Learned to sneak, how to drive a cycle way too fast, learned how to get around places I'm not supposed to be. Learned things you're not supposed to do with computers and code and how to do them anyway. I've been arrested, landed in the hospital, tried cleaning up my act -”

“Sounds like everything in your runtime up until this point has been preparing you for the battles we're fighting right now, but it doesn't answer the question.”

He finished off the flask of energy, the container dissolving after the last of its contents were drained. After that, he stared off into the distance. “I try not to think about that. I just try to...I don't know, get by. Live in the present, try not to think too much about the past or the future or about what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“Well there's the deadliest question in the known universe,” he said acidly. “Merc, what I want...” His voice trailed off.

When was the last time someone asked him that? He honestly couldn't recall. So much of his life was focused on what he didn't want – getting dragged into his father's conspiracies, Sam's ineffective crusade, spending his whole life working like his mother, going crazy and abandoning everyone without a goodbye like his godfather. He scratched out a place with his work in the game department, building virtual worlds to escape into. He thought he was happy, but was that the truth?

“What do I want?” he asked himself.

The crowd was dancing below, and he could feel the music as much as hear it. Mercury was right by his side, and he could trust her without question. He wasn't dumb enough to think they were out of danger, or that the fight wasn't going to get a lot worse, but he was okay with it. There was this big, dangerous, fascinating world where those old stories didn't even scratch the surface. Could he really go back to the analog world and forget all this?

“In there is our future. In there is our destiny...” His godfather's last speech to the Encom employees and shareholders, words Jet had said many times with contempt or bitter irony. Now, he was seeing it all in a new light. Maybe there was more truth to it than he dreamed.

“I have to rescue my father. But what I want? There's so much about this world that I want to know about, so much to learn here.” It clicked into place. “Show me this world, Mercury. Show me how to respect it, how to help.”

“You already are. Ma3a made that call bringing you here.” Mercury assessed him coolly. “You're careless, fighting entirely too much with your emotions, you admit yourself you don't know what you're doing. Her expression softened, her hand brushed his jaw, but her eyes were still ice and steel. “But Ma3a sees potential. You can make allies in unexpected places, have abilities no Program could hope to match. You are willing to fight and you're willing to learn, but I can't go easy on you.”

“You can't afford to,” he said. “Ma3a needs us. Especially now.”

She looked him right in the eye, her voice just this side of the threat. “I need you to promise, then. Promise me you will protect Ma3a with everything you have. Promise me you will live for her and the people of this system. Promise me that, and I promise that I will train you as an Agent, that we'll fight together. And I'll go to the Void itself to help you rescue Alan-1.”

“I promise.” He had never felt more at peace or more sure of anything than those two words.

“Good.” Mercury smiled shakily. “Very good.” She nodded to the crowd below. “First rule, then? Take your victories when you can.”

“Asking me to dance, Merc?” He put his arm out for her to take. “Might step on your foot.”

She couldn't help a laugh. “I'll take that risk, rookie.”

Arm in arm, they walked down the ramp and into the teaming crowd and thrumming music.

The whole atmosphere was intoxicating; the layered beat of the music, the crowd of people, the laughter and the energy. It reminded Jet of the raves he attended in high school and college (so many missed papers due to those nights). There was a smell in the air like dry ice instead of the tang of sweat and heady marijuana smoke. Instead of glowsticks and lighted jewelry, the Programs' circuitry lit the makeshift dance floor. Most of the circuitry was blue-silver like his and Mercury's. But there were some patches of emerald green (not the sickly green-yellow of infection), deep electric blue, a decorative flash of ruby red on an otherwise blue Program. Many of them smiled at him and Mercury as they joined the crowd.

The music, with its elaborate electronic beats flowed into him like energy, his feet following the beat as his eyes slipped shut. Jet breathed it all in, let himself forget this was not his world, that the analog world, the danger he faced ,and the trouble his father was in were far, far away. For now, they'd earned a little celebration. The change between songs was subtle, flowing from a high-energy, aggressive song to a second that was slower and more trance like.

He cracked open an eye to see Mercury still within arms' reach, looking just as lost in the music as he felt. Like her fighting, she was all precise movements, nothing wasted, exact matches of her body...shell...to the music. Her head was thrown back, a grin on her face as she danced, hips and shoulders swaying with the beat as the blue white of her circuitry dimmed and brightened in patches across her shell, showing off the curves of her rendered muscles. Jet had seen her in all kinds of ways in the last hour (yeah, the time dilation thing? Definitely needed looking into); but blissfully happy was a genuine surprise.

She lowered her gaze to look directly at him, her smile turning sultry. “You act like you're enjoying the show.”

“I am,” he admitted. “The way you move, the light across your circuitry. Never seen anything like it.”

She clasped her hand around his forearm , thumb brushing a fat, white line that ran from shoulder to his index finger, sending a soft brush of energy. “We could be de-rezzed in ten minutes. Don't just settle for looking.”

He shuddered and took a sharp breath, the line and its tributaries darkening to blue-violet. It was like the pins and needles feeling of sensation returning after sitting in one position too long, but without the sharp pain. It jolted all the way to his spine and down his back. “What? How are you able to do that?”

The look on Mercury's face darkened, but she thankfully didn't break contact. “Remember how we powered the Reco? Energy is a Program's life force. It runs through our shell, connects it to our spark. We burn it as we go, drink the liquid form to sustain us, but we can also share it, merge it with another's...” Her other hand came to rest on his identifier mark, the semi-triangle at mid-chest and another wave of slow pins and needles warmth began to burn into him. “Anything from a quick pulse to a full-blown meld.”

“Those melds are...intimate, I take it?” His hand was on her waist now, palm covering a node. Experimentally, he concentrated on sending a soft, steady flow of energy through it.

Mercury's sharp intake of air and muffled gasp he took as an affirmative. “Back in the cycle barracks. That was a meld. And an amazing meld to boot.” She grimaced. “I'm still sorry for taking advantage like that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, not anymore.” His hand moved from her waist to her back, lightly brushing the cluster at the small of her back, still concentrating on sending a steady and controlled flow of energy. Her whole shell flashed purple. “And the circuitry?”

“Our identifier,” she said. “You might notice after a while that faces can look similar, especially copies of a Program or Programs made by the same User. Everyone has a different pattern and layout to their circuits. The color usually gives away their system origin. Start noticing the patterns, the way they carry themselves. It'll tell you a lot about who you're dealing with.”

“Not the whole truth, Merc,” he teased, his hand moving up her spine, watching her circuitry flush from white to violet and back again.

“Cheeky glitch,” she fired back, gritting her teeth. “I'm sure there are spots on your shell more sensitive than others. And I'd like to find them all.” As if to drive home the point, she put her hand on a thick line crossing his right bicep, sending back the energy with a steep surge.

Oh...wow! It was like being touched everywhere at once, that first rush of sexual contact magnified by ten. How was he even standing? “Yeah, but not...Not like –“ Breathe, Jethro. You remember how to breathe, right? “That. Not all over.” Part to regain control and part out of curiosity, he murmured. “Wonder what would happen if...” He bent his head to nuzzle at the crook of her neck, nibbling at the fine patterns and was rewarded with a strangled cry.

The music had changed to something slower, more sensual, the Programs swaying to it, circuit patterns lighting up the room in ever-changing flickers of color and light. The heady smell of dry ice and ozone in the air hung in the air as every touch across her shell and circuitry sent the same sensation ghosting through his body. Nibbling his way up her neck and across her jawline, he savored every hitch of breath and suppressed gasp. Even closing his eyes to buffer the sensory overload barely helped; all it did was translate the sensations to colors and sparks dancing behind his eyelids.

“Stateroom,” she gasped. “Cally gave me permissions to access a stateroom. First officer quarters. Was going to...suggest sleep mode in shifts...”

So many ideas ran through his mind, but he had to make sure this was not going to be a repeat of the cycle pit. “Mercury...if...” His hands felt like they were vibrating like the rest of his body slightly as he struggled to maintain some composure. “I don't want you to feel any guilt over this, because I won't.”

“If you won't, I won't. Stateroom – now.”

They half stumbled, half-pulled each other through the corridors, barely able to not distract each other further. After what seemed like hours (in Program time), they reached the stateroom. Mercury had to open it with her palm print and they gracelessly staggered into the room, the door sliding shut behind them.

Jet was momentarily taken aback; the room was complete empty, aside from a window. Outside the cabin, the warping starfield effect reminded him of old sci-fi shows or older screen savers. Not even the walls or floor gave off a glow. Before he could say anything, Mercury touched a panel, and the room began to shift. Wireframe layouts compiled first, then layers draped over them in dazzling colors. Blue, then red, then cool green, then back to white-gold. A bed was now in the center of the room. A desk and chair jutted out from the wall. Light came from the soft glow of the walls. He blinked twice to make sure he wasn't just seeing things, rapidly trying at the same time to figure out just how that worked.

“Nice trick.”

“It's no five-rate from the green sector,” Mercury said. “But it'll do.” As if to cut off any more questions, she reached over and kissed him again.

It was like sucking on a battery, a sour-sharp taste that made everything tingle as she arched into him with a gasp. Pressed against her, circuit brushing circuit, an intoxicating buildup of heat and energy burned at every point of contact. She held on, arms wrapped around, one hand snaked into his hair, leg behind his ankle. The layers of cheerful, pulsing, bass-heavy music from the celebration below could be heard and felt through the floors and bulkhead, vibrating through his body, blurring hearing, touch, sight as their circuits flickered blue-silver-purple. Oh so dizzy, too much, need more. It's never felt like this! Ecstasy and LSD couldn't even try matching this kind of sensory-hacking high. Everything felt hot, cold, acid, sweet, pulsing with the bass beats of the music and his armor was too tight and...

“Merc...do these...” He could barely think long enough to piece together a sentence. “Do these things come off?”

It seemed to startle her out of the lust-induced haze. Did he cross some kind of Program-world taboo? “They do. What, exactly, do you have in mind?”

He knew he was blushing. “Um...I want you, Mercury. When humans...Users...do this, clothes usually come off. Unless...well, I have no idea if...”

“Oh, there is something called 'user-style' interfacing. It's not an unknown concept, it's just considered...” She smiled wickedly, and took his hand, guiding it to the switch that deactivated her suit and armor. “Deviant.”

The way she phrased “deviant” implied something considered kinky instead of outright perverted. He breathed a sign of relief. “Oh.”

Suits and armor retreated from their bodies in a matter of nanoseconds, and he shivered at the shock of air against his over-sensitized skin. A quick look down and he saw the he was mostly normal; sparse hair on his chest and arms, skin that was a little paler than his normal shade (his digitized form apparently didn't factor in LA summers), and most of his scars (the lightning bolt pattern under his right arm, the thin white one on his abdomen, the twisted maze on his left leg) were intact.

Mercury, on the other hand, was pure, surreal beauty. It started at her short platinum hair and icy blue eyes, face just a little too sharp and a little too smooth to be human, and under her suit was a maze of even more elaborate circuitry, playing over her arms, her breasts, her abdomen, down her legs, intricate lines of blue-white, some as thick as two fingers, some as thin as a fingernail. He was never going to look at body ink the same way after this. Strangely, she was completely hairless from the neck down, no nipples, no navel, some dulled lines on her arms and a dark spot under her right breast that could be her version of scars.

She crossed her arms, doubt clear in her face. “I'm not like a us...human female, am I?”

“And I'm not like a Program.” He put one hand at the node on the small of her back. rubbing that sensitive spot gently, and the other hand stroking her hair, feeling the smooth, soft texture that was almost, but definitely not human, the strange empathic connection linking their energy and every touch.

“No circuits, no light,” she murmured. “I want to touch everything at once.”

He pulled her in for a kiss, slow and reassuring...Sweet, sour, sharp, feel it with my whole body, taste the colors. Want so much, never ached like this. The hand that had been on her back now guiding hers to his chest first, settling over his heart. She gasped, and her splayed hand sent a warm wave of pure joy through their link. Her hands explored mercilessly, lightly over his arms, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up on end, across his shoulders, fingertips finding all the little and large knots of tension from a lifetime's worth of hunching over a computer...

Building code.

Building worlds.

He kissed her harder, leaning into her touch, chasing that thought away. A User was the last thing he wanted to be, especially now. Hands traced skin and circuit, playing with taste, light, color, energy, life...and her hand reached lower still to wrap around his cock....

It was like shoving a fork in a power outlet with a side of fireworks and lemon juice.“Shit! Merc!”

Her hand flew back like she'd touched a hot pan. “Sorry. Was that -?”

“No, no...No, just the opposite of that, actually. You were saying earlier about some spots on my 'shell' being more sensitive than others? Well...”

She laughed nervously. “Hit the power source, did I?”

“You've got me so...so charged right now that...” he managed to stammer. “Just a little too much all at once.”

“Noted. I'll be gentle...” Her hands moved to his shoulders and she kissed him slowly, throttling the energy flow to gentle warmth, peace, comfort. The white had bled out of her circuitry, leaving all that elaborate filigree the color of amethyst. He started with one of the thin lines on her neck, tracking it with his fingertip as it snaked across her collarbone and between her breasts, across her ribs and down to her hip, and it was her turn to guide his hand next. He concentrated on the energy circuit between them, the slow build of pleasure. Mercury hissed and pushed against the heel of his hand.

“You have no idea how bright you burn, the strength you carry inside.” Her hot breath brushed against his ear. “The way your energy feels inside me...”

They'd been unaware of how far they backed up until Mercury's shin hit the cot. She adjusted her footing, but Jet hadn't been ready for it, and he stumbled, his foot glancing off Mercury's instep and sending her falling backwards onto the bed with Jet nearly crashing on top of her.

“Told you I'd step on your foot, Mercury.”

She raised one platinum eyebrow. “So you did.”

He kissed her quickly, then drew back enough to see her – laid out on the bed, circuitry flushed, eyes wide and wild. He wanted to save this to memory, to never forget this one moment.

“So beautiful – perfect.” Touching her circuits, their shared energy ghosting the sensation in his body, the sharp citrus and metal taste of her body as he started at her neck and explored with eyes and hands and lips and tongue, listening to her breathy cries and what may have been digital world obscenities as he memorized lines and patterns across her shell, felt the purple static build down his spine...

When he finally parted her legs, he noted the differences from a human woman. Mostly smooth, like a doll, none of the salty-slick wetness, but a slit nearly hidden and a painfully bright knot of wine-colored circuits where a clitoris ought to be. Experimentally, he bent and kissed it. The taste of electricity and a surge of power crashed through his body, causing him to taste bright, hot light and feel her cry and arch up into his touch.

The angle wasn't very good, but he worked a finger inside her and the spike of energy was enough to nearly undo him. Her breathing shallow, her circuits amethyst, her thighs open and hips arched, eyes squeezed shut, completely lost in the pleasure.

“Jet,” Mercury said between gasps. “Don't hold back. Overload with me.”

He pulled back to catch his breath. If just touching her was making him ache so badly, then what was it going to be like being inside her? Cautiously, he maneuvered until they were side by side, her leg over his hip, hand cupping her cheek, eyes locked with hers, trying to steady himself. The tip of his cock was so close – the slightest movement all it would take.

“Let me know if this isn't going to work.” Because I'm not going to be able to keep any kind of control otherwise.

Mercury kissed him in response and angled her hips just so...he could feel the muscle give way as he entered her. It wasn't the slick heat he knew from human women, but still hot, smooth, so tight. Mercury cried out against his mouth as her hips pushed down, engulfing him.

Shit! Why he didn't break right there was a mystery.

“I can see...why this...called blasphemy,” Mercury couldn't even form complete sentences, but it was still more cognitive ability than he had at the moment. “Users, you feel so good -”

That word was an unfriendly jolt back to a harsh reality, and he couldn't quite lock down the involuntary stiffening of his body. Mercury seemed to sense it. “It wasn't meant -”

“I know.” He put his hand on her identifier, too aware now of the contrast between his body and her shell.

She mirrored the gesture, hand on his heart, leaning in for a kiss. No more barriers, no more words, just skin on shell, heartbeats and pulsing energy, the need for connection and comfort. Using the leg hooked around him for leverage, she pulled them over until she was flat on her back, legs wrapped around his waist, burying him even deeper, eyes shut, head thrown back, her mouth wrapped around a gasp, though no sound came out.

He wanted to take it slower, gentler, but his control shattered at the experience of her. He thrust hard and she cried out pleas for more, which he gladly obeyed. Her legs tightened, her heels digging into his back, angling her hips just like that...

“Jet!” It was the last thing he heard before the storm hit. Pure electric bliss flooded every part of him as she hit overload and pulled him in with her.

It felt like flying.

Later, he lay pressed against her side, idly playing with a circuit as her coloring returned to blue white.

“Well, that was...good,” Mercury said. Truth was, she was still trying to come up with enough processing power to form a sentence. Guess there was something to the whole idea that interface was better when you had feelings for the other person.

“Just 'good?'” He was teasing, mostly. While outright lies weren't usually part of Program parameters, half-truths and evasions were standard procedure. Jet hid so little. There was this...hard-wired goodness to him, something incorruptible that was so different from everything she was used to dealing with; malware gangs, data pushers, the game pits where ruthlessness was a fact of function.

“There's not a string that covers it,” she said, propping herself up on an elbow. “Could get used to this idea; apprentice, partner, lover.”

"Me too.” His finger stroked the edge of the thick circuit on her arm. “There's a lot I could get used to.”

Jet stilled and looked her in the eyes. “Mercury, you asked me to make a promise earlier. Can I ask one of you?”

She scowled suspiciously. “Promises are tricky things. I'll hear you out, though.”

“Promise that you'll never worship me. I...I know what my people are to yours, that in a lot of ways, I'm...different from you. But you've seen that we have limits, weaknesses. We're created, we function. We have friends we like, and jobs we don't necessarily like. And we die - eventually.”

The request itself wasn't surprising coming from Jet, but there was something more to it. He went out of his way to play down what he was, what it meant here. Not shocking, since admitting what he was nearly got him killed. Yet, it was oddly comforting that Users did not operate from some grand design. It explained a lot, actually.

“Program lifespan is about two hundred fifty cycles, give or take. Security monitors like me or game bots tend to have shorter runtimes, but glorious while it lasts,” she said. “How long does a human live?”

“Barring accident, illness, or just bad luck? About eighty years, give or take.”

Mercury pulled back, a little unsettled. “Years? Seriously? That makes our runtime...well, in years, it's between five and six of them.” She blinked in amazement. “You weren't bluffing the Kernel when you said your creation date was 1982, were you?”

“December twenty-first, 1982. The creation process probably is a lot different on my side of the monitor, though.”

“I'm not sure I want to know.” She smiled sadly. “It's going to be a lot to process, and I'm sure you haven't stopped surprising me, but you have yourself a deal. It would be hard to train you from my knees, anyway.”

For the first time, his expression became unreadable, like he was retreating somewhere deep inside himself. “Mercury, thank you - for everything.”

“There's still a battle ahead of us. Maybe a lot of them.” She kissed him lightly. “Rest, Jet. I'll be here when you wake up this time.”

His eyebrow raised. “Still no guilt right?”

“None.”

He leaned in to whisper it in her ear. “None for me, either.”

It wasn't long before he was in sleep mode.

It took Mercury longer to shut down, so much running through her processor. She had always believed Users to be distant and vaguely cruel, indifferent to Program suffering, uncaring of their joys. In that way, Thorne lived down to the idea – alien and destructive, powerful, but not even caring for his own minions. Jet was the other side of that disc, but he still posed more questions than answers, not intentionally, but just by being.

He stirred in his sleep and flung an arm around her. Mercury decided the questions and ramifications could wait. Jet made his promise, he fought for Ma3a and the people of the system. That was good enough for now.

Chapter Text

To: All Personnel
From: [email protected]
Subject: Police Activity

Dear Encom Employees:

We are, as you know, under attack by a viral attack that is a case of suspected industrial espionage. Several members of Los Angeles police department and the FBI will be investigating the incident and a security breach on the lab floor. If stopped by one of them, please do not answer questions, but refer them to senior management and company security. We are working on this and would like to make sure they are given correct information instead of speculation and rumors that could hamper the investigation.

To: [email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject: ANY sign of Thorne?!

We have half of LAPD camped outside, F-Con is trying to alter the terms of the sale, and the media is tearing us to pieces. Thorne has been MIA for nearly a week, and he is our security director. Can you be our point man on this?

Thorne goes missing, and it seems both the Bradleys have gone missing, too. Didn't even realize until today Bradley had a son, much less that he worked here. You'd think his father would have put the kid into management to be an even bigger pain in the ass than he already is.

To: [email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject: I'll handle it.

See subject.

LAPD Detectives Jorge Ramirez and Antonio Cortez were not strangers to the darker sides of human nature. Random shootings, the occasional drug deal gone sour, celebrities thinking their ephemeral fame made them immune from the law...

But there was something genuinely creepy about Encom. Maybe it was the too-perfect tower of glass and steel or the sterile white and blue corridors within. Maybe it was the fact that everyone was just a little too calm about one of their big shots being attacked and kidnapped from that tower in broad daylight. They were just waiting on headquarters to hurry up with the warrant so they could do a little detective work of their own before the Federalis showed up and threw their weight around.

Their questioning of CEO Richard Mackey having gone nowhere, the next step was to try and get a quick and dirty warrant to start checking computers.

“Y'know,” Cortez remarked as they sat in the squad car, waiting for the warrant to go through. “My uncle worked the Flynn case, back when he was a sergeant.”

Ramirez chuckled. “Heard that guy lost his marbles or was like DeLorean, pulling cocaine deals on the side. Thought he was spotted in Costa Rica under an alias.”

“Not what my uncle told me. Couldn't spill too much about the case, but he's still certain to this day somebody offed Kevin Flynn to keep him quiet. About what? We'll probably never know.”

“Really bizarre that two Encom bigwigs end up falling off the face of the Earth. Didn't figure the 'glamorous' world of software was this cutthroat.”

Cortez pulled out a cigarette, rolled down the window, and silently offered one. Ramirez waved it off. Cortez shrugged and lit his. “I'm hoping Cold Cases gets another crack, especially in light of this shit. Maybe the same perps figure they got away with it 20 years ago, why not go for round two?”

Ramirez drummed his fingers against the dashboard. “Look, I gotta pick your brain here, but was there anything to what Mackey said about Bradley and Flynn being thick as thieves?”

“Thicker. Thieves snitch on one another if you give them a shot. Bradley was the right hand man of the operation, the secret weapon. Some figured he was the one who got Flynn out of the way so he could step into the spotlight.”

“Was he cleared?”

“Three rounds of questioning, two rounds on a polygraph, and airtight alibis provided by a dozen co-workers and phone records to his wife. Cleared within a week.”

“Any other enemies?”

“That was the fun part. Flynn was a bad boy. Pissed a lot of people off. Supposedly, he got his job by sending his predecessor to Terminal Island for a few years.”

Ramirez shook his head. “Was that predecessor found? Questioned?”

“Nah. Funny thing – committed suicide a year before Flynn vanished. Can't slap cuffs on a corpse.”

“Damn. And I thought being a cop was the life of danger. Should have gone into software.”

Cortez shrugged and stubbed the butt out on the car door. “Probably would pay better. And jackpot.” He pulled up the laptop. “One made to order warrant. Three cheers for modern technology.”

The halls of Encom were still eerily...normal for a crime scene. A forensics team was already in the lab, and had the section roped off. The rental-cop security paced or collected in knots of two or three, muttering uncomfortably. One, a girl that was obviously working through college, judging from the stack of textbooks at her workstation, seemed terrified.

“I'm sorry, officers, but I can't reach Mr. Thorne at all. He's the one in charge of building security, and would be the guy to handle stuff like warrants. No one's heard from him in days. The last notice we got was that he'd come down with some kind of flu.”

“When was that?” Ramirez asked.

“About three days ago. Could...could you guys go to his house or something and see if he's okay? I mean, if it's not too much trouble...”

“Not a problem, miss. We're probably going to want to talk to him anyway. Has there been any other break ins or trouble at Encom Tower lately?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Nothing since Mr. Flynn's last check-in back in December.”

Ramirez scowled. “Check in?”

Cortez chuckled and elbowed his partner. “You don't read the headlines on the tech page? Company's biggest stockholder is Kevin Flynn's kid. Shows up every year on the day of his old man's disappearance to play a prank on the company. Since he technically owns the place, we can't charge him with anything.”

“Then why hasn't he shown up in regards to his company being for sale?”

The security guard started shuffling on the balls of her feet. “I...I don't know, but I think I can get you to someone who can help you...”

What they “got” was a corner office on the thirtieth floor and Edward Dillinger Junior. He looked like any other hipster stereotype – button down shirt and slacks, glasses, fashionably skinny with carefully maintained stubble. Behind the look, however...

“What we know – the security cameras were taken down by a sophisticated viral attack that came in through the email systems at the security desk, then spread to the labs. Two to five minutes later, we have what appears to be a break in and a brazen kidnapping of Mr. Bradley from his basement lab. We're dealing with a viral attack and the media, so my question is why you both are not at the crime scene.” Edward didn't have to raise his voice or anything other than an eyebrow, but everything about him dripped annoyance and contempt.

“We got a forensics team down there now. What we're looking for is motive. From what Mackey was saying earlier, it looked like Bradley had enemies. What kind of enemies could a guy like him make that could prompt something this brazen?”

“Perhaps the real motivation had nothing to do with his tenure at Encom and more to do with his private life. So often, people have their hands in things no one suspects. Maybe a secret life – drugs, women, men, gambling debts, ties to organized crime, shady political ideals, questionable scientific experiments...” He pushed up his glasses. “It's always the quiet ones who have the biggest secrets to hide. I'd really like to know what you find when looking closer at Alan Bradley.”

Cortez muttered under his breath, “I'm sure you would.” It was just loud enough for Ramirez to register it, but it didn't seem Edward heard it.

“Sounds to me that you don't like him much,” Ramirez said, trying to steer things back to the case at hand.

“I'll be honest – not particularly.”

“Why?”

“Aside from the fact that he and Flynn ruined my father?” Edward rolled his shoulders back like there was a knot in them. “The board is split, and our largest shareholder is MIA like usual. Take this sale – Encom could profit immensely from a merger with a rising star in the industry like Future Control Industries. As second-largest shareholder, his is the vote that truly matters..”

“But Bradley isn't the only hold out. He's leading half the board against it, and you aren't voting for the sale either,” Cortez pointed out.

He answered with what might have been a shrug. “Say the vote goes through and we sell to F-Con. If I was on record as voting against them...well, my future with our new owners would be short and unpleasant. If the sale does not go through, and I'm on record as voting for it, then my tenure at Encom would be short and unpleasant. No, I worked too hard to get my way to the top. I'm not going to throw it away when abstaining is the smarter option.”

Ramirez didn't look like he could help himself. “Anyone ever tell you the nastiest spots in hell are reserved for guys who play both sides during a conflict?”

“I'd have to believe in hell to start with. Furthermore, the quote is that the hottest spot in hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of moral conflict. There is no moral conflict here; just a business decision.” Not even so much as a change in his voice.

Cortez was still wanting to work that angle. “But Bradley was holding things up. He was old and in the way, and not in a position where they could force him out, either. That had to make someone mad; enough to decide to use violence to get rid of him.”

“And in addition to being an old pain in the ass, I take it Bradley was one of those holding your dad's indiscretions against you,” Ramirez added.

He looked like he was going to start cursing at them for a second before seeming to deflate. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Surprisingly? No. I should be grateful for that much. Shook my hand when I got hired and helped set up my office. He doesn't talk about those times, and I never wanted to bring up the subject. I'd like to think he regrets what he had to do. It changes nothing, of course. He was actually a pleasant change from the parade of interchangeable MBAs who can barely open their email, much less understand what modern technology actually does. Bradley knows the technology end, but never figured out the business aspects. ”

Ramirez scowled. “And you think you have them both down?”

The glasses – and arrogance – were quickly replaced. “Top of my class in Computer Science and a double major in business. I clawed my way in here and to the top despite everyone's expectations. Again, not throwing it away. Bradley might, if he felt some ideal of his was threatened. Check into what he was doing on the side. I'll bet you'll find your answer there, especially since he was the only one targeted.”

“Maybe not. No one's seen your security chief for the last few days, either.”

“Again, check into their private lives. Bradley was the one who hired him as a personal favor back in 1992. I'll admit, Thorne performed his job, but he lobbied several times for a promotion his job performance didn't warrant. Thorne's so-called security team hasn't been effective in stopping Mr. Flynn's annual 'check-ins,' which disrupt at least a week's of production, depending on how vindictive he wants to be that year. We told Thorne that's why he was passed over, but he likely didn't take the hint.”

Cortez really didn't want to ask this, but his gut overrode his good sense. “I was kinda wondering...you think there might be any relation between this kidnapping and the Flynn case from 89?”

The studied arrogance flickered ever so slightly. Was that rage? Fear? Confusion? In any case, the moment was over in a nanosecond. “Gentlemen, I was twelve years old at the time. And after my family was ruined by Flynn, with my father's incarceration and suicide, I wasn't in any mood to follow the story.”

“And how about Jethro Bradley, Alan Bradley's son? You know anything about him? Any enemies he might have made? Two of you are about the same age, sons of the giants who built the company...”

Edward shrugged. “Never met him. I heard he worked for Encom, though it's surprising that he keeps choosing to slum it in the game department instead following in his father's footsteps. I guess he prefers building dream words to shaping the reality of a company. Now, if you'd like to question me further, please do so through my attorney and allow me to place a phone call to let him know. Go back to investigating crime and discover what Mr. Bradley was really up to.“

He handed the pair two business cards with the name and number of a local law firm, and another pair of business cards with his own contact information. The police officers, sensing they weren't going to get any farther with him for the time being, took the cards and left.

Ten minutes later, a message under heavy, private-key encryption was sent from a secure terminal.

To: MCTRL_751
From: Junior

There have been complications...

Crown was still rubbing his fist. Been a long time since he had to punch someone, and it wasn't like someone of his station should be cracking heads. That smug old man had done a really good job of pissing him off, though.

He walked into the dimly lit office and took a chair, leaning back and trying to dull the throb of an impending headache.

Disembodied, slightly metallic, vaguely British-accented voice over the speakers. Almost, not quite human. “I saw that over the video feeds. Bad form, Mr. Crown. Though I would have liked to do that to Bradley myself.”

Oh, the boss saw that. Big deal. “I'll bet you would have.”

“What's even worse form is kidnapping a man in broad daylight. Did you not have the patience to wait it out until he was off the campus? Until he was out of Encom's sight? It was a simple disappearing act. With the right measures, we could have made it look like a suicide. Instead -”

Crown stood up and argued with the unblinking camera. “Thorne forced our hand. Shot him in, and he began infecting everything in sight. We turned him on Encom, but if Bradley had been allowed to remain there long enough -”

“There is a fleet of Los Angeles police cars surrounding the building with the FBI on their way. You and your thugs botched this, Crown. You had better give me some good news before things get...uncomfortable for you.” The distorted, synthetic voice still dripped with impatience and barely contained anger.

“We found the algorithms. We have seekers deployed after his Math Assistant AI. Give us those and three hours, and it's not going to matter what they think they'll find.”

“Very good. And anything else we can get from the Encom lab?”

“Unfortunately not. Captain Encom nuked the drives. Not likely we'll get anything, even if we put a gun to Baza's head.”

“Bradley always has an ace up his sleeve. He's the tricky one. Getting Flynn out of the picture was a comparatively easy venture compared to what it will take to destroy him.”

“We got a lucky break. Sick wife on the line, and they believe we have his kid hostage.”

“Do you?”

Crown contemplated lying, but it wouldn't help. “No, but a pampered brat riding daddy's coattails isn't capable of getting in our way.”

“Find the Bradley boy. Eliminate him as a threat. Make that your top priority. That is your only real leverage in this situation.”

Crown scowled. “Got Popoff working on digging up any dirt, mostly so we could keep bluffing. You know something I don't?”

“I do not like unknown factors,” came the reply.

Crown tried not to roll his eyes. I'll take that as a “no.” “What would you like done with Bradley Senior?

“As long as he is permanently silenced, I leave the method of disposal up to you. Your timetable is short, Crown. I suggest you leave this office and get to work.”

Crown choked down an impulse to argue further. Boss was right, even if he didn't like it. As soon as he walked out of the room, Popoff was waiting.

“We have three hours. Can't put off the timetable longer than that. And boss's orders – we find the Bradley kid and take him out.”

“Does he believe the boy will look for his father? Planning some foolishly brave but futile rescue attempt?” Popoff was smiling faintly, despite the circumstances.

“You run the psych profiles, not me. What's your verdict?”

“What little I found suggests a dreamer, one of little merit or threat. However, I have just the thing for that,” She pulled out a thumb-drive. “Clarence has been very good at finding the cracks in our DataWraiths. Amazing efficiency, this little script.” She smiled wolfishly. “I cannot argue with the results. Our subjects now fight and obey without question. But we will set him to learn all he can about Mister Bradley the Younger. From there? I'm sure he can be destroyed. Maybe even set against his father. Should be interesting.”

Crown pointed in the direction of the lab. “Then don't talk. Load the damn thing. We launch the Wraiths in an hour – algorithms or not.”

Despite his best efforts, the walls were closing in and the air felt like it was getting stale. The latter, logically, Alan knew to be a trick of his imagination. There was a long, thin vent along one side of the room and the incessant noise of a fan going.

The side of his face was one large, dull throb of pain. Crown wasn't as strong as his hired thugs, but anger could definitely compensate for the lack of raw power. No teeth were loose, but it was both welcome and unwelcome distraction; welcome because it took his mind off visions of the walls closing in, unwelcome because it was not only painful, but a reminder that he was trapped on more than one level.

His makeshift computing rig told him that the reformat was complete. It was necessary, but just the knowledge of how much work was lost made him feel ill. Yes, it was for the greater good that it was destroyed; he couldn't let Crown have something that dangerous.

Lora, I'm so sorry. All of that was supposed to be for you.

He sat down on a crate and ran his hands through his hair. Nothing left to do now but...

Alan forced himself to look up at the game's screen again...

//Session initiated.
//Ma3a Online, broadcasting from 172.245.16.3
//Safe Upload complete

Ma3a made it out! He almost jumped to his feet (almost – he wasn't young anymore), and walked over to the machine, mind reeling, trying to open the right ports and make contact with the AI

“Ma3a, I'm glad you're still intact. I'm sorry about revealing you as the carrier for the correction algorithms. We had no choice.”

Even though she was uploaded out of immediate danger, those bastards would still be tracking her. There had to be some safeguard he could use. Think, man, think!

There was one. It was dangerous, untested, cooked up a very long time ago, but he had to take the risk.
His hand gripped the joystick to “type” in a response, but the screen went to silver with blue lettering. For a moment, he feared the jury-rigged “computer” had crashed for good, but...

//Gu3st? D0 u Kn0W @n Alan Br@dley? T4y1ng to r#@ach h1m...

Alan's heart leapt into his throat. Someone knew he was missing already? Someone trying to find him? Quickly, he started to punch in a reply.

//Connection lost.

Damn!

If he could get that connection back, maybe he could signal for help. A darker, more cynical part warned that it was likely a trap, but there were few options. Whoever that was, it was likely the last chance he had.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Ma3a's Citadel was a complex with several small administration buildings and the tall gold and ivory ziggurat of her main core in its center. It was surrounded by a park-like environment, twisting paths around holographic fractal “trees.” Chittering code optimization wares grazed on ambient data, moving in slow paths as their fat, insect like bodies fed contentedly. Power pools of pure, bright silver spotted the grounds as aesthetically pleasing recreation spots. A wall of pixel-stone, double a Program's height, surrounded it as a final line of defense. Normally, it was a perfect hybrid of park and administrative center of the Encom system. Now, its gates were shuttered, a small ICP army camped around its perimeter, and Z-Lots closing in, both factions looking for any vulnerability so they could storm the system's last refuge.

The battered Recognizer popped out of the tunnel, barreling down on the courtyard. A rag-tag fleet of packet transports, frame ships, byte carriers, email shuttles, Recognizers, and land transports crowded the park like a bored child's collection of toys. The red haze of the reformat wall inched closer with every nano.

“Remember,” Cally had told them. “No one will get much of anywhere without an open beam. You take care of that and we'll lead the evac. It looks like the west wall's already been breached. You'll be going in hot. ”

Reversing the capture function opened the way to get Jet and Mercury to the ground. Discs were already out, and they fell into a back to back stance, alert for trouble. The section they had landed in was strangely quiet. Seeing no immediate threat, Mercury gestured for Jet to follow.

They moved quietly, not saying a word or making any unnecessary sounds, Jet silently thanking those long-ago nights of sneaking out his bedroom window and those long parkour chases across the industrial section of town trying to keep up with Sam. There was an additional edge; Mercury had let him copy a subroutine of hers called “fuzzy signature,” which further dampened the sound of footfalls.

They came to a darkened door and Mercury gestured for him to flank one end of the door while she took the other. She glanced in and then turned back, nodding, gesturing “two” on her fingers.

Jet mouthed out, “Red?”

She nodded.

Jet activated his disc and held it at ready.

Mercury's shot caught the first sentry in the back, downing him instantly, but the second powered on a shield and activated a cannon, laying down suppressive fire. They ducked back behind the door frame. Jet scowled and concentrated, summoning and pitching a viral grenade. The explosion shattered the shield, and a follow-up shot from the discs finished off the guard. They crossed over a second floor balcony. The courtyard below was packed with refugees, barricaded and trapped, a last stand against ICP, viral, and reformat.

Jet felt the familiar pull of a call. Glancing up at Mercury, she nodded an acknowledgment. She got that one, too. The room they ducked into was eerily quiet for having the door half blown off, jagged and damaged pixels scattered and crunching under their feet. The I/O node was the only intact or recognizable object in the room. Mercury touched it and it flowered to life, Ma3a's image floating in nothingness.

“Mercury...Alan-2. It is good you survive, but we do not have much time. The system is losing vital function. The protocols protecting my docking structure will soon fail.”

“Hang in there, Ma3a,” Jet assured her. “We're on our way to free you.”

From beneath her gold mask, Ma3a's face twisted with worry. “Free? I...I have never been outside my docking structure. I...I don't know if it a good idea.”

“Ma3a, we have to risk it. If the corruption or ICPs don't get you, the reformat will!”

The hesitancy vanished. “You're right. Hundreds of uninfected civilians have taken refuge here. The exit port must be activated if any of us will have a chance at survival.”

“My orders were to free Ma3a. I can't disobey a direct order from my User, Jet. Even if it means -” Mercury’s grip curled tighter around her rods. “We won't have time to free her from the dock and get the exit port restored.”

Jet picked up on the request. “Where do I have to go?”

“Exit port controls are at the level three cache. Take my permissions and a map of the Citadel. We'll rendezvous at Level Five. That's where we can reach the exit port. I'll be escorting Ma3a there, but you will be on your own.”

He nodded shakily, taking the offered permissions and watching his sigil light up as each downloaded. The map was a little trickier. It installed on his disc, a 3-D miniature coming up as the display. Two blue dots displayed where they were, a gold room indicated Ma3a's dock, and a white room on the other side marked the exit port controls.

“The reformat will complete in less than three minutes. I'll get Ma3a, you get that exit port – or none of us make it out alive.”

Jet’s path took him through the courtyard. Makeshift barricades wouldn’t keep anything out for long, and everyone knew it. Disc in hand, armor glowing blue, the huddled refugees thought he was little more than a stranded game script. He ran quickly past them, not allowing to be stopped for questions.

So little I can actually do for them. A look over his shoulder verified the red haze was closing in. A chance, but that’s it.

Quickly checking his map and determining the fastest route down through the maintenance levels, he ducked in through a half-collapsed wall and listened closely; he heard distorted, sing-song voices up ahead – Z-Lots, several of them.

“Come and play little Programs. Come and play with us.” There was the dull thwack of something being hit.

“Celebrate the end…” said another, the deep voice suggesting a corrupted ICP ended in crazy giggling.

A third voice, under no less electronic distortion, but much clearer than the Z-Lots sounded in protest. “Hey! What do you think this is? Pong?! OW!”

Byte?!

When Jet had been captured, Byte managed to slip away in the chaos and run back to the Citadel to alert Ma3a. After all, what could he do against a completely irrational Kernel and an entire army? He had no defenses other than speed and being hard to hit, and he didn't want to test the aim of the entire army. Even a null unit got the occasional lucky shot. Better to do what he was the best at; hide, observe, overhear, report.

He heard Ma3a had made contact with Mercury. At least that was good news. She was the top Agent for this system, and if anyone could survive, it was her. At the news that the Reco had landed, Byte ventured out of an open window too small for a Program and tried to sail past the chaos – refugees huddled behind bulkheads, ICPs trying to break down the gate, Z-lots...

Byte would have insulted their coding, their coloration, their “Master User,” their lack of function. He wanted to protest that the virus must have corroded their cognitive functions to uselessness. He would have thought up dozens of varied and wonderful insults...

Except the Z-Lot had plucked him out of the air and hurled him to his green-lined and equally uncultured buddies. He bounced off the thick head of one Z-Lot, hurled to the next. It had continued like that for what seemed to be minutes before he heard his name called.

“Looks like we have a clean one!” shouted one of the Z-Lots, swatting Byte to the side so they could investigate their latest victim, firing blindly at everywhere but the pile of pixel-stone in the hall.

Byte was trying to regain control of his momentum to sneak away when three shots stopped the Z-Lots, the last of them derezzing on the floor with a hole through his head and a very shocked look on his decaying face. Served him right. Byte floated over to his rescuer, hovering over Jet’s left shoulder.

“Thank goodness the Z-Lots are gone. The horror, the indignity. It is about time you showed up. Some User you turn out to be.”

Jet barely acknowledged the criticism of his rescue abilities. “Byte, now isn't the time. I have to get to the exit port controls. Can you lead me to them?”

Oh, yes. That. “Follow me.”

Byte glided down the halls carefully, Jet following closely, both wary for another batch of Z-Lot or ICP trouble.

Subroutines, permissions, email. Jet grabbed them all mindlessly as Byte meandered through the twisted corridors of an archive on the way to the control room. The only thing running through his mind was to try and save something, anything, as much as he could. Otherwise, the halls were eerily silent.

The control room for the exit ports and firewall controls was smaller than he expected, roughly the size of his apartment’s living room. It required a three story climb, and was somewhat detached from the main ziggurat complex, surrounded by a deep-looking pool. It had once been silver like most of the others, he guessed, but it was now greenish and grimy from corruption. Through the large windows surrounding the tower, he could see the reformat closing in, the red haze devouring anything it touched and creeping in by the nano. Forcefield walls surrounded banks of controls from unauthorized access. Two doors, one on each side, provided the only entrances and exits.

“Strange there are no guards here,” Jet said.

“ICP transports have their own designated firewall port. They can leave, but everyone else is stuck here to de-rez. Figures.” Byte floated over to a strangely-shaped socket and sat in it. “Activate the exit port, and it will be seen by all of what's left of the system.”

Double sided disc, so to speak. The refugees could see it, but so would every surviving Z-Lot and ICP. “We haven't got a choice.”

The walls dropped, Jet ran in and quickly worked the controls, burning through his hastily obtained permissions. The seconds ticked away as he tried to manipulate the controls, hastily transferring power through an interface that was straight out of a Towers of Hanoi puzzle – trying not to make the false move that might overload the system and doom them. The floor and the walls shook with power as he snapped the last parts of the sequence; left to right, center to mid, right to mid, base to right. Center to left, center to right, left to right.

A column of bright, white light shot up like a geyser from the top of the ziggurat. The port was open! Now to get out of the tower, find Mercury, and -

“Quit running!” ICPs. Figured.

And from the other side? “Surrender to the corruption! Serve your Master User!”

Damn it.

“Byte, keep that port open. I’ll hold them off!”

Byte floated over and docked in a socket at the port’s base while Jet pulled his disc. This was going to suck.

Ma3a's voice echoed from an unknown source. “Attention: All server applications. We are under attack by an unknown virus. The corruption has infected the operating system and multiple threads are failing. In less than a minute, it will breach my docking protocol. All uninfected Programs, board the closest transport and upload to the exit port. It is the only way to save yourselves. This is my final transmission. End of Line.”

Out in the courtyard, the reformat had taken down the front wall, and the gathered Programs held their breath and waited for the end. Many cried, many screamed. Others collapsed in despair or prayed to Users who could no longer hear. A few held the line at the makeshift barricades, grimly firing back at ICP and Z-Lot, stoically brushing aside the remains of others to carry on the fight.

Z-Lot from one side, ICP from the other, the dwindling lines of defenders striking with discs and hunks of pixel stone. If one fell, another grimly stepped up. The back of the invading lines were being vaporized by the encroaching red format wall.

And when all seemed lost- a beam of pure white shot up from the top of the ziggurat. The exit port heading no one knew where, promising thin hopes of safety. The gathered Programs did not waste time. They ran for their transports – tall Recos, stout packet and email transports, small delicate frames relays. Leading them was a white and gold Recognizer that floated high in the air, clearing the way.

But they did not go unnoticed. A larger number of ICP vessels laying siege noticed and took to the skies, picking the smaller, weaker craft from the air as they hurtled to the light. 

Mercury encountered little difficulty navigating through the passages and tunnels; she knew them well, after all. The Z-lots had little processing ability past “see Program, infect Program” and fell to quick strikes from discs or rods. There were much fewer Z-Lots than she expected, and that was welcome and worrisome. The ICP units were trickier. Her Fuzzy Signature and stealth programming helped in avoiding the patrols, but they also knew the corridors; in better times, the ICP patrols were normal fixtures of security.

They did not know of the exploits – little catwalks and edges too narrow for an ICP’s bulky shell and armor, but she could navigate them. One of those edges, a reco's height off the ground, would be certain injury or de-rez if she fell, but she inched her way across it, half her foot hanging off the edge as she pressed herself to the wall.

And that's when she heard it – chirp-click-whirr

She remembered how Jet dealt with Finders back at the tower. Wait…observe…count the time it takes to make a circuit…Three…two…one!

The Finder fired, and Mercury jumped, landing astride it as it bucked and jerked trying to throw her off. The noise got the attention (and discs) of the ICP squad below. Forcibly jerking the firing mechanism below, she shot two of them, jerked hard to the left to avoid a disc, dive-bombed to avoid cannon shot. The Finder started to overheat, sending painful surges of energy into her legs. She gritted her teeth and hung on, discs whizzing, Finder screaming. When she could endure no more, she reached into the guts of her improvised “ride” and pulled out the circuitry. With a final shriek and busts of fire, the Finder plunged to the floor and Mercury pushed herself off just in time, rolling awkwardly and painfully out of danger as the Finder crashed into the remaining ICPs, destroying them all.

She coughed and groaned as she got up. The fall wasn't controlled, and she was definitely feeling the effects. Her right lower leg was flickering – the wounds weren’t bad, but they would slow her down at a time when slow wasn’t an option.

No more time to waste. Ma3a awaited.

The heart of the ziggurat was a complex I/O Chamber. It was all cathedral-like walls, majestic, multi-hued columns, gently sloping ceilings, mosaics of geometric shapes and sharp colors like stained glass. It was an artistic and architectural masterpiece unmatched in the digital or analog world, a place between palace and shrine. In the center of the dazzling beauty was a central blue pillar. Floating inside like a spirit caught in glass was Ma3a herself, clad in white gown with gold circuitry, thick gold mask obscuring her face.

Mercury had only been in this chamber twice; the first when she was rezzed to life and given her directives. The second time was now.

Ma3a's eyes opened, and her voice was quiet, pained. “Mercury, the system is dying. Full Data erasure in sectors 32, 64, and 96. I'm losing data. Dead ends are everywhere.”

Mercury swallowed fear and concern. Ma3a had never sounded like this before, not in all her runtime. “Hold on. What has to be done to free you?”

“Destroy the docking seals.” Ma3a gestured to a pair of gold, flower-like protrusions on the wall.

It did not yield to her disc strikes, requiring three blasts apiece from the suffusion rod, but the seals did break. The pillar collapsed, so did Ma3a. Mercury helped her up. Strange, she had always pictured Ma3a as taller, more regal. Out of her docking chamber, she seemed small and delicate, a half-head shorter and slight of build.

“Jet's getting the exit port open. Come on, I'll escort you.”

The ICPs must have been monitoring, because the internal communications network sounded the alarm. A female ICP made the announcement. “System Warning: Emergency escape protocols triggered. Ma3a...is leaving us.”

And the Kernel answered.

“Attention: This is the Kernel. Reformat is 99 percent complete. All ICP units not assigned to the Citadel, upload to remote storage. To those assigned to Citadel, destroy all retreating vessels. Your sacrifice will not be in vain.”

It became obvious to Jet very, very quickly that holding off the horde wasn't a viable option. ICP squad on one door, Z-lots on the other, both of them threatening to overwhelm him by sheer numbers. Viral grenades and disc strikes weren't thinning out the combatants quickly enough. The only thing saving him from the numerical disadvantage was the hatred they had for each other.

Unfortunately – that meant viral-infected ICPs in front of him and a reformat wall behind him. The narrow doors and small room were keeping the combatants to about three or four at any time, but for every one he cut down, another took its place.

“Byte, have you locked the port?”

“I'm working on it.” Byte looked like a little quartz ball embedded in concrete. “You know,” he said as he worked. “It occurs to me that we all de-rez or are reformatted eventually. The Users, in their 'ultimate wisdom' decide when we are obsolete and then -”

The red wall of doom was, from Jet's perspective, three city blocks from his feet and closing fast. He dodged out of the way of a viral grenade, which flew past his head and struck the ICP trying to tackle him from behind. “Byte, can we pleaseget philosophical later?!”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” It was as though he just noticed the rapidly-approaching death on their heels. “Just another moment.”

Bracing for a last stand, the forcefields re-engaged, a thick wall now between him and the oncoming horde. Discs ricocheted and viral code splattered against it uselessly.

“Shields locked. They won't be able to undo those in time with their diminished processor capacity; never impressive to start with.”

“But how am I supposed to -?” Jet stopped. The window behind him had shorted out in the fight, and the only escape was the pool below, green slick over silver. “Oh, boy.”

Death by combat on one end, death by reformat on the other, and uncertain fate below. No choice but a jump. The impact was like smacking into a wall, forcing the air out of his lungs as he struggled to the surface and hoped he wouldn't pass out before then. He wasn't sure how he managed to swim over to the edge, spitting out something that wasn't quite water. He felt like he had had chugged too many Red Bulls and vodka; dizzy, vaguely ill, and far too wired.

Byte floated to his shoulder. “Your circuitry -”

Jet noticed his circuits flickering between green and silver. “I can...process this.” Wow, speech was tough. “Lead the way out.”

Mercury's road to the exit port wasn't any smoother. Red haze almost at their heels, ICP forces intent on taking them out in a suicidal charge, Z-Lots running crazed interference. She pulled Ma3a through the corridors, dodging piles of viral residue and ICP discs, voxel remains from unfortunate sparks crunching under their feet. Ma3a shuddered, knowing what they were. Mercury's leg was starting to throb, the lines on her calf flickering in and out.

“You can't hide,” an ICP taunted. “We know all the shortcuts!”

One shielded, one without. Mercury was able to kill the unshielded taunter quickly enough, but it took nanoseconds they couldn't afford for her to engage the suffusion subroutine and overwhelm the shields.

The ICP’s disc strike missed Mercury by a mile, but Ma3a cried out behind her. Mercury’s return fire took out their attacker, but when she looked back, she saw the administrator clutching her arm. She expected (but was sickened by) the ragged gash of injured and deadened pixels carved out of Ma3a's shoulder, but when she touched the wound...

Mercury felt something sticky-slick under her fingers. “Ma3a, you're -”

“Mercury, please.”

“You're injured.” She knew this wasn't the time or place to process the data.

Ma3a looked pointedly at Mercury's leg. “So are you.”

“Come on, the port isn't far,” she said, not sure if she was trying to assure Ma3a or herself.

The closest access to the exit port was on the fifth floor, dead center. Jet wasn't sure how he managed not to face-plant in the corridor once or twice, especially as Byte led him up a rising platform, up a stack of data blocks, through a corridor that seemed to sway as he walked. His body was trying to fight off the side effects of diving into what amounted to toxic waste.

All he had to do was get to safety.

The access room was very large, circular, and a narrow bridge of solid light crossed a vast chasm to get to the platform where the port opened – a pillar of light open to the sky. Several doors led into the room. Through one, he saw Mercury escorting Ma3a, and he ran to meet them halfway.

“She’s injured,” Mercury said, almost pushing Ma3a into Jet’s arms. “What happened to you?”

“Took a bath in bad code. Long story. I’ll…I can process this out of me once we’re safe.”

They were halfway across the bridge when the wet sounds of viral grenades whizzed past them and landed in splats at their feet, corroding the bridge. A small army of Z-Lots followed them, taunting them in sing-song voices with nothing sane as they charged.

Mercury pulled her rods, striking her foes, sometimes pitching them into the bottomless pit. Jet sniped longer range with his disc, getting a few good shots despite his impaired state. The reformat was closing in, the armies about to overwhelm them. They’d both been hit with viral sludge, slowing their movements.

“There’s too many of them! We can’t fight them all off!” He tried not to notice the blotches all over Mercury’s chest and arms.

Jet felt blood-warm ceramic pushed into his hands. “Get Ma3a into the data port.”

He was still fighting the brain fog as much as the zombie horde. “What?”

Mercury's reply was curt. “You took an oath, rookie. See it through.” Before he could say another word, she shoved him back on the exit port’s platform where Ma3a and Byte had already crossed. He fell on his back

The Z-lots were charging her one or two at a time on the narrow bridge. Patches of green were crowding out the silver on her circuits. The reformat had eaten the far wall and was closing in. Still, she fought.

Jet struggled to get to his feet, his body feeling like it was made of lead. “Mercury, the reformat -”

A nano later, he heard voxels shattering over the distorted wails of Z-lots. Jamming her rods into the light under her feet shorted out what was left of the bridge, sending her and the attackers crashing into the black.

He felt an arm grip his and pull him backward.

Everything turned white.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

The phone call came in the middle of the night, the loud ringing rousing Jethro half-awake. Through the open door, he heard his father on the phone.

“They checked the arcade? He's not there? No one's seen him since...” There was the sound of shoes pacing across the kitchen floor. “Okay, so they found his motorcycle. Was there anything else?”

Whatever it was, it was serious. He hadn't heard Pop sound this worried before.

“No...no, he didn't. And Sam? Well, that's good, at least. Lora's flight will come in tomorrow...”

Jethro didn't know whether to get out of bed or not. Pop was already upset, and getting in trouble for being out of bed for the second night in a week probably wouldn't be a good idea, anyway. Turning on his side, he looked up on his bookshelf – the phosphorescent paint on the toy Solar Sailer glowed a soft, comforting greenish-blue. The pair of action figures sitting on its deck were mostly invisible aside from circuit lines that glowed in the same shade. In daylight, they were miniature likenesses of his parents; a comfort when he missed his mother, far away on the other coast because of work.

Uncle Kevin gave those to him on his last birthday, and told stories about them. The one that looked like his father was Tron, the hero of the digital world. The one that looked like his mom was called Yori, who could pilot any vehicle simulation and repair anything that was broken. In Uncle Kevin's stories, they were married just like his parents were, working together, never far apart. But that wasn't the best part; because Tron was built by Jet's father and Yori by Jet's mother, it meant that Jet wasn't alone. He had a brother and sister, they were just too far away to visit. But someday, he would. Uncle Kevin promised...

“I don't know. I don't think Flynn would, but since Jordan died...”

Jethro shuddered. Uncle Kevin? He seemed fine a couple days ago...

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the light in his room came on suddenly, stinging his eyes. Jethro flung his pillow over his eyes to try and tone down the awful brightness.

“Jethro, I'm sorry about this, but get up. I need you to pack a bag.”

He didn't open his eyes. “Pop, what's going on?”

“You're going to stay with Sam and his grandparents for a few days. I'll call the school.”

His eyes adjusted enough to open them, even if the bright light was still painful. “What's wrong, Pop? Who was on the phone?”

“Jethro, something's happened to Uncle Kevin. We don't know what it is just yet, but he's lost. We're trying to find him.”

“Lost?”

His father nodded. “Sam will need some help until we find him. His grandparents want to take you boys out of town while we -”

“But Sam and I can help look for him, Pop!”

“Jethro, I can't be worried about the two of you or risk getting both of you lost. We will find him. Please, just...” Was it his imagination, or was Pop having trouble talking? “Just pack a bag.”

There was something in his father's voice that scared Jethro – not the “movie monster” or “really fast roller coaster” type of scared, but something very big and adult and “nothing an almost seven-year-old-kid could understand” scary. He got up and pulled his duffel bag out of the closet, keeping it handy for the times he got to stay with his mom in Washington DC over school breaks. Behind him, he heard his father heading for the door.

“Pop...?” Jethro asked hesitantly, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes, son?”

“Don't get lost.”

His father walked over and ruffled his hand through his hair. “I won't get lost, Jethro. You'll always be able to find me.”

After his father left the room, Jethro threw a few shirts, underwear, and a pair of jeans in the bag. He took one look at the door, and one look up at the shelf. If Tron and Yori were here, they’d expect him to be brave.

The action figures were thrown on top of the shirts before the bag was zipped up.

Jet drifted in and out of consciousness for a small eternity. When he did come fully awake, his stomach (or what passed for it) did a violent lurch and he doubled over in pain, rolling over to his side and vomiting out yellow-green slime that hissed and turned into gray, inert matter before flickering out of existence. With a moan, he flopped back over and threw an arm over his eyes.

“Jet, are you functional?”

“Mom, I'm not feeling so good. Can you find my phone so I can call Patrick -” He stopped himself. Wait a minute; where was he? Pulling his arm away, he cracked open his eyes again, a little disturbed that the brightly-lit room did not sting his eyes.

The walls were gold colored, the ceiling white, and their glow lit the room evenly. Simple furnishings – tables, chairs, a lounge, the bed he was laying on – were all made of wireframe mesh with gold and ivory overlays. The room around him seemed intimate and home-like despite the digital architecture; tables and fractal “plants,” intricate geometric mosaics inlaid in the walls, soft chairs and couches like the one he was lying on, and a vast window overlooking an amazing cityscape of golds and greens.

He looked at his rescuer. Ma3a was no longer in projection, but right next to him, Byte just above her shoulder.. She still wore her gold-circuited ivory robes and heavy gold mask, her expression one of great worry and concern. That's when it all came roaring back; the laser, the insane run across this digital world, the confrontation at the Citadel, launching the refugee transports ahead of the reformat…

“Do not try to move too quickly. The transit was rough, and you had absorbed a high percentage of corruption.”

“Where are we?”

“We have uploaded ourselves onto the personal home server of Alan-1. I was able to open a direct port to the safest computer capable of storing me.”

Still inside the machine. Jet sighed and braced himself for the next question. “Mercury?”

Ma3a shook her head and picked up the disc resting on a nearby table, handing it reverently over to Jet. “Mercury Six fought bravely. She joins her predecessors in sacrifice.”

Jet had hoped that somehow she had survived, that there was some trick or miracle. He sagged back into the cushion disc clutched to his chest, and stared at the featureless white glow of the ceiling, feeling more alone and lost than he did in the Game Grid, despite Byte and Ma3a's presence. “The packet transports—how many?”

“Two hundred and thirty packet transports were able to launch. Only eight were confirmed to have reached escape paths.”

Jet pinched the bridge of his nose. More bad news.

“You were offline for five minutes, eighteen seconds,” Ma3a said. “I was worried that you would never regain functionality.”

“I don't care,” Jet said, sitting up reluctantly, and glaring at Ma3a. “Ma3a, I want answers. Why did you digitize me?”

“The situation had become critical. Encom's computer grid – indeed, this entire world—is threatened by the spread of Thorne's corruption. There was no choice other than to take whatever action was necessary to combat the virus.”

He fought off a powerful urge to grab Ma3a. “You drag me in here and give me the run around...I've been shot at, infected, tortured, sent to the Games, watched people die, nearly fall to my death...all because of a damn computer virus?!“

“According to my calculations, a User would be five hundred and twenty-six more times more powerful operating from within the system than without. This is no mere computer virus. As you have seen, no countermeasure can withstand it.”

“So you think J. D. Thorne behind this? He’s a rent-a-cop, not a programmer. There’s no way he could come up with something like this.”

“The last known activity related to Joseph Daniel Thorne was a large cash transfer into his bank account forty hours ago from a source I have been yet unable to trace. There have been no records of his toll pass on any checkpoints, no social media or internet activity, no cellular phone calls made or received, no text or emails, and no withdrawals from his bank account. Recent internet searches and activity have related to Shiva laser, Digital Frontier, Flynn Lives, and other topics germane to the possibility of human digitization. Given this, and the first confirmed appearance of 'Master User Thorne' thirty-three hours ago, it is unlikely to be a coincidence.”

“Did you digitize him?”

Ma3a looked genuinely offended. “No, the origin point of his entry into the system is unknown, but the only thing that appears capable of fighting a User is another User. To this end, you have proven an effective countermeasure to the Z-lot infestation so far.”

He could look her in the eye. He could keep his temper from going nuclear. He couldn't do both. Jet turned away, half-stumbling over to a corner and leaning against the walls. “Why me?”

Ma3a's answer was just as infuriating as it was matter-of-fact. “Alan-1 was not available. Alan-2 was.”

Anger, sorrow, and frustration made for a toxic brew inside his hollowed-out stomach. Jet thumped his fist against the wall. The unnaturally yellow surface was unaffected. “Your calculations were wrong. I'm not powerful. I don't know what I'm doing. I barely survived.” He turned around. “And don't call me that. My name is 'Jet.' Alan is my father.”

“Father? Do you mean that Alan-1 is an earlier version of you?”

“Well…” What good would it do to explain? “Something like that.” His attempt to save the system was a complete failure, and he had no idea what to do anymore. “Ma3a, you have to send me back. My father – Alan-1—is still out there. He'll know what to do.”

She shook her head, and he could see it in the reflection of the simulated glass. “I'm sorry, Jet. I carry the necessary correction algorithms, but the reformat destroyed access to the laser system. Until or unless those servers are restored, I have no means of reversing the process.”

It was just going to keep getting worse, wasn't it? Mercury gone, the people they tried to save all dead, no means to get back to analog, meaning he was a world away from saving his father. “Did the reformat stop Thorne at least?”

“No. His Z-lots breached the firewall, and my agents were destroyed before tracing the IP address of the attacking machine.”

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He failed. There was no way to spin it otherwise. He failed Ma3a, Mercury, those innocent Programs, his father...

“Mercury was my final line of defense,” She tapped the disc in Jet’s hand. “Now, you are.”

“I'm not her. I'm not even in the same league as her,” he said, staring at its identity display, still feeling lonely and confused.

“And yet, she trusted you with her disc,” Ma3a said, placing a hand on his shoulder and sending a soft, small trickle of power as comfort.

“What does that mean, Ma3a?”

Her smile was sad. “You truly do not know?”

Jet shook his head.

“It is not my place to explain, but know that she would not have done so unless she trusted you without question.”

That familiar, disgusting feeling; walls closing in, of feeling helpless and trapped, like something had grabbed his neck and chest and the powerful need to just go away...“Forget it.“

Halfway to the door, Ma3a interrupted him. “While you were offline, I was able to reconstruct the thirty seconds of security footage related to Alan-1's last known whereabouts.” She opened her palm, a delicate green sphere that looked like it was made of clockwork resting in her palm. “Would you be interested in seeing it?”

Jet hesitated before reaching out and putting his hand on hers. Like before, the world around him went blank as the information downloaded directly into his brain.

The whole event was recorded in hazy, low-resolution security camera footage.

Alan hovered over the phone, and Jet heard his own voice on the speaker phone. “I'm happy making games. Life's short, Pop. I plan to enjoy it.”

His father sighed heavily and shook his head. “You sound like Flynn...” Glancing over at a terminal, he scowled with worry. “Hold on, son. Ma3a, run a security diagnostic.”

“Yes, Alan-1.”

“Results”

Ma3a's voice sounded tinny over the lab speakers. “A virus has entered the system via e-mail. Lab drives one, two, and four infected.”

Jet saw his father reach for his desk chair. “Jet, we'll have to continue this conversation later.”

There was a loud pounding on the door, followed by the heavy click of the steel doors crashing open. Two men dressed in what appeared to be delivery uniforms and pulling a hand truck walked down the ramp to Alan's terminal. The larger of the pair carried a box knife in his left hand.

He eyes the men with suspicion and alarm. “This is a restricted area, you can't just barge in here.”

The hand truck went sailing down the incline towards the terminal, crashing into the desk as Alan narrowly dove out of the way.

“What the-?!”

The larger of the pair attempted to grab him, but he struggled and shook off the attempt at a submission hold. ”Who are you? Get your hands off me!”

“Dad? Can you hear me?”

“Cut the line!” the thug ordered his partner.

The box knife sawed through the cable, cutting off the phone line. The attackers stood between Alan and the door. Desperate, he fought back. One of the hits cracked across the smaller thug's jaw, followed by a vicious elbow jab to the second assailant's gut. Seeing a brief window of opportunity, Alan tried to run for the door.

But the larger thug pulled a Taser. The shot sent Alan to the floor, face contorted with agonizing pain, but he was still trying to crawl to escape. He only got three steps before the last of his strength gave out. Opening a box on the hand truck, the pair of attackers dumped him inside, stacked the rest of their phony cargo on top, and walked right out the door.

“No...” Jet thought he had gone through enough to numb him, but seeing his father helpless on the floor made him feel unsteady and sick all over again. He felt a comforting hand at his back – Ma3a.

Focus on the mission; your directive and what you have to accomplish. Mercury was gone, but just made her advice all the more important. He looked up. “Who were those people?”

She spun the picture, narrowing in on a half-hidden keycard badge around the smaller one's neck. A corporate logo with a purple stylized “F” could be seen.

“There is a ninety percent chance that they are associated with Future Control Industries, also known as F-Con. F-Con is a privately-owned firm that has been interested in taking over Encom for several years, but in the last few months, the Encom board has been more willing to consider a sale.”

“What's stopping them?”

“In previous years, Encom's board was not interested in a merger or takeover. However, the board is now split. Mackey, Atkinson, Schultz, and Patel are willing to commit to the sale. Bradley, Dillinger, Gao, and Nakamura are not. Either a majority of the board or the chief stockholder must agree to the sale.”

Jet pinched the bridge of his nose. “And it's not like Sam's going to emerge from his glorified storage shed to help.”

“Several attempts have been made to reach shareholder 'Samuel Alexander Flynn' by email, text, and voice mail but they have met with no response.”

“Yeah, that's Sam for you...” Unfortunately, he had torched that bridge a while back. Even if he could get a call through to Sam, it's not like Sam would listen. “I’m…lost here. What can we do now?”

Byte floated between them. “If I may interject, we are on Alan-1’s home computer. Perhaps there is information here that will indicate why F-Con took such drastic measures to ensure he was removed. Perhaps we can also uncover more information about Thorne’s involvement and system origin point.”

“That’s –“ Jet stopped. “That’s a pretty good idea, actually.”

“I will go to the closest I/O Tower and attempt to resume contact with Guest. Alan-1’s archives are extensive and will take some time to search. If you uncover anything significant, contact me from the nearest I/O node.”

The email archives were a complex of massive buildings on an outlying hard drive at the system’s edge, resembling an analog-world office park or university campus. The main archive building was a seven-story building with no sense of elegance – a tall, wide brick of a building in the center of the complex with few windows. Jet walked inside, showed Ma3a’s credentials to the clerk, an equally tall and broad Program with as little elegance as the office building. The clerk said in no uncertain terms that his Encom-based disc would only get him access to the basic stacks, and that any unauthorized snooping would end in messy de-rez.

Unfortunately, Jet knew his father. Nothing of value would be here.

The stacks themselves were towering shelves crammed with archive bins of varying sizes, organized into neat subdirectory shelving. Inside the virtual crates, green email cubes and attachments of varying sizes, colors, and shapes floated aimlessly. ICP guards, marked with mustard-yellow and emerald-green circuitry patrolled the stacks, but their numbers were few. It would be easy enough to evade detection. A glance upward, however, revealed Finders also patrolled the stacks, the low hum and periodic chirp alerting him to the possibility of death from above.

He pulled a few of the emails and started reading. Unfortunately, the content was just as dull and irrelevant as he expected; requests and order forms, some online shopping, a form letter regarding last year’s extremely dull company picnic. After at least a full minute (in grid time) of searching mails, Jet shook his head.

“We’re coming up bust, Byte. My dad wouldn’t put anything important in these stacks. We’re going to have to search elsewhere.”

“For all we know, your creator hid any relevant data in a folder labeled ‘Kitten Photos.’”

“He wouldn’t be that obvious,” Jet said. “But you are right, we have to narrow the search.” As though on cue, he felt the tugging sensation of Ma3a’s call and gestured to Byte to follow him. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he opened the closest public I/O node.

“Jet, what do you make of this?”

The audio was distorted and static filled. Every third word or so was illegible. “Ma3a…you’re still intact…revealing…correction algorithms…no choice.” The message fuzzed out. “One option left…an upgrade…designed for the Tron program…please find it.”

Whoever this was, it was still contact with someone on the other side. Maybe…“Guest? Guest, do you know Alan Bradley? I’m trying to reach him - ”

The connection fuzzed out and dropped. Jet smacked the wall in frustration.

“I am sorry, Jet, but the connection I can get to Guest is intermittent at best. What I do know is that Mercury had been uploaded from the same IP address.”

There was the possibility “Guest” was his father. If anyone could find a way to contact Ma3a, it was him. There was also the possibility of others; Roy, for starters. And that was not even going into how many hacktivists and conspiracy nuts got attracted to the Flynn Lives movement that his father pretended not to run.

“Do you know anything about the upgrade he mentioned?” Ma3a asked.

Jet shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t make sense. That was a program my father wrote years ago. It –“ He stopped himself, and quickly corrected. “He would be older than me, and Programs don’t live that long.” Mercury’s disc, still clipped to his back, seemed to gain several pounds.

“Perhaps these archives would contain more information. I have found several references to this upgrade in levels eight through eleven, but I require more data to reconstruct the context.”

“I was thinking that, too, but my permissions only gave me basic access…” He tapped his fingers against his disc, trying to think. “Do you have the layout of the archives?”

“Yes, but I warn you that it is not entirely complete. There is much he hides; even from me.”

Join the club, Jet thought sourly.

“I am uploading what information I have on the archive to track five, sector eight of your disc. From there, unfortunately, you are on your own.”

The security guards patrolled in loops to the county of forty. The Finders circulated the stack going the opposite direction at the same pace. Time to plot out a route. He pulled up the schematics on his disc. “Byte, we’ll need to start with that socket in the corner.”

Breaking through the forcefield was simpler than he expected, but that didn't make him feel any more at lease. There was computer security and there was his father's computer security. The good news is that he didn't notice any guards below basic access – but Finders were everywhere. Timing the circulation of Finders, he was able to weave through and snag fragments of emails and archives.

Subject: Digitizing Technology

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Feb-82

----

We noticed the random fluctuations during the digital conversion experiments that will need to be corrected somehow. The MCP's unique ability to 'learn' enabled it to perform computations beyond current science. Without it, I'm afraid it may be years before we re-establish the ability to digitize matter correctly.

The only thing I can think of is perhaps a set of algorithms that can be written to compensate for these fluctuations. The complexity of these algorithms is quite frankly unfathomable, but I believe it is theoretically possible.

Lora Bradley

Programming Engineer

A second actually made him laugh:

Subject: Tron Upgrade

To: Abradley @ encom. Com

From: Kflynn @ encom. com

Date: Feb-82

Hey, Alan. Got an idea for a brand-new game. This'll blow Space Paranoids out of the water! But just one thing – can I name it after your security program? Promise I'll give you credit. Thanks in advance!

Another one:

Subject: Tron Upgrade

To: Kflynn @ encom. com

From: Abradley @ encom. Com

Date: Aug-82

I'm a little confused. I noticed that the scheduled upgrade to the Tron program is no longer listed on the quarterly upgrade schedule. Is there something I need to know?

Jet scowled. Wait a minute, that was about when Uncle Kevin said....? Twenty years had fogged a lot of memory in regards to the stories. He shook his head, stored it to memory, and kept looking. He indiscriminately grabbed documents and uploaded them for reading later – Flynn Lives memos, project notes, package tracking...

The Finders were getting harder to time the deeper in the archives he went. But when he reached level five, he heard the telltale chirp-click. He put his hand on his disc and ducked for cover. But when he looked for the Finder, it was pointed away from him. A flash of dark green and gray darted between the stacks.

“There's someone else here.”

“Is it a good idea to help them?” Byte asked. “For all we know, the Finders have found malware that has manged to reach the lower stacks.”

“Could also be someone who needs help.” The sound of a shot firing. “But we won't know if he's cubes. Come on!”

Springing up from hiding, he hurled the disc. It smashed right into the side of the Finder, which dropped like a lead weight and hit the floor in a small explosion. Jet waited a few nanos for an alarm or running guards, but none were coming...odd.

Turning the corner around a nearby archive stack, he saw a male-designated Program in a grey suit with emerald-green circuitry and purple highlights cowering in a corner. “Are you all right?”

He looked up, eyes covered with a purple visor. They were bleary, hidden under messy, thinning reddish hair. “If you're here to arrest me, I'll go quietly. Just...not the Finders.”

“I'm not...” He paused. “Not yet, anyway. Who are you. What's your function?”

“The green didn't give it away?” Clarence said. “I'm a medic. My system was hit hard by Z-lots. Since sitting around wasn't going to help, I went out looking for a cure. Searching and sneaking got me this far, but then I got cornered by the security system.”

Questions would have to wait; Finders would shoot them both upon discovery. “Okay, but keep close and keep quiet.“

They crept down into the ninth level, and Jet hunted through the stacks. The indexes here were encrypted – promising sign in that it was worth his father's trouble to hide, but there was also the matter of his father all but writing the textbooks on computer security for the last thirty years. When he was a teenager, it became something of a challenge to try and hack his old man's security. Of course, every marginal success got detected, and his father was adept at building the better mousetrap to keep him out. He never said anything about the hacking attempts and never had to – the escalations were message enough.

He pulled another message. Thankfully, the encryption was older and easier to slice, even if there was a very large amount on it.

Subject: Digitizing Technology

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Oct-94

----

As many of you have already heard, there was a serious accident in the lab yesterday involving Lora Bradley.

Until the investigations into the cause of the misfiring laser are complete, the digitizing lab is temporarily off limits to all employees.

- Thorne, Joseph Daniel - Night Shift Security

Jet shook his head. Mom's accident? Thorne was tied to that? He began working at Encom only a couple months after the email.

“Is that the same...?” Byte asked.

“I don't think it's coincidence,” Jet said. “Let's keep looking.”

This section of the archives was full of great leads as well as Finders he had to snipe just to get through the stacks. Emails here had more to do with the Flynn Lives project.

Subject: Digitizing Technology

To: ZackAttack

From: ISOlatedThinker

Date: Aug-02

----

I know you are concerned, old friend. No one is more frightened than me, but time is running out for us.

We've finally made a breakthrough in our digitization technology, although it is far from perfect. The 'analog-to-digital conversion' is functional and we are nearly complete with the necessary algorithms. Inorganic matter – plastics, metal – they digitize and recompile without noticeable ill effect, but organic matter corrupts; thousands of small errors in the DNA end in total collapse. It explains a lot about what we're up against, but we are making progress on that front. Ma3a and I should have the calculations done in the next few months.

It's been a long road but we are almost there. Flynn had been right about the algorithms. I wish he was here to celebrate this moment.

So many things led right back to Kevin Flynn, including where he was now. Jet shook his head – thinking about him rarely led back to anything good. Still, download and store.

Click...Click...Chirp. Finder! Two of them – one on each side – and more were closing in.

“Clarence, Byte – duck!”

Clarence dropped to the floor. Byte sailed straight up. Jet pulled his disc and sniped one, which blew up and took out two more, but the rest opened up in a wide pattern of fire.

Burning pain shot through his back as he tried to find some minimal cover. Blindly, he fired off the disc, hoping for a lucky shot. After the fourth attempt he heard a chain reaction of explosions and the shots ended. Jet dropped to his knees, clutching his side.

“Easy there.” It was Clarence. “No more are coming.” Clarence dragged him into a small alcove- some marginal shelter. Droplets of blood hit the floor, flickering out and erasing, but not quickly enough.

Programs didn't bleed. Oh, damn.

Clarence didn't seem to notice or know what it meant. “Hey, I'm a medic. I've seen worse, you know.”

He could not move enough to see what Clarence was doing.

“My, my...you have some complicated code. Nothing I can't handle though. And...there.” His disc was fitted back into his arm holster. Relief washed over him, and all the pain was gone. In fact, he felt better than

ever. Getting to his feet, he looked himself over – no trace of wounds. Clarence handed him a flask, which he took and gulped.

“One good turn deserves another,” Clarence said cheerfully. “Those Finders would have been a messy way to de-rez.”

“Clarence...”Jet looked around, but didn't see any trace of blood. Perhaps it decayed too quickly to be noticed. Perhaps Clarence didn't believe it worth mentioning.

“Oh, while I was working” Clarence mentioned “Your Byte found something interesting in that archive stack – third shelf, second one in.”

“Anything pertaining to Thorne?”

“No, but he said you ought to have a look, he says. Bytes are funny like that – bad with explanations.”

“I am hovering right here!” Byte objected.

Jet found the bin, pulling out a very old message with elaborate encryption. He set to work twisting and turning the pieces like an old tavern puzzle until he finally got past it and saw the ball of data underneath and its distinctive marking; four little blue squares in a T-shape, three on top, one on bottom.

Subject: Tron code archival

To: Kflynn @ encom. com

From: Abradley @ encom. Com

Date: Sept 82

With the decommissioning of the Shiva Laser project at Encom, I realize we have to junk the old EN-511 and everything on it, Tron included. But just in case the code proves useful for some future work, I will store it on the new mainframe's archive. It will be safe on EN-1282.

“EN-1282 is still operational,” Byte said. “Ancient and more in hibernate than not, but it is on network and accessible.”

“I guess that's where we're going next,” Jet said. “Clarence, we can't stay here. We've got to get you back to the surface. We'll share what we know – Ma3a conscripted me to help stop this. I'm sure she'll welcome your help.”

Clarence scowled. “Ma3a? She's an administrator. Encom, right? Why are you working for her?”

Jet waved it off. “Long story. Stick close.”

They were able to sneak out the way they came in, a payload of email on Jet's disc. He touched an I/O node and contacted Ma3a.

“We've got it. The upgrade is on EN-1282, the old company mainframe in Lab 5. We'll have to find a way back onto the Encom system. We also found a medic – he says his name is Clarence. System got overrun. Maybe he can help us out.”

“It will be good to have help. Clarence, you must be quite brave to take a risk for your system. Meet me at I/O Tower Eight, and I will be able to open a connection to EN-1282.”

In a nondescript office park passing for F-Com corporate headquarters off in the analog world, deep in the subbasement server room, Esomond Baza looked up. “I've located Ma3a and what appears to be a security monitor program.”

“A security program that's tied to the AI and not the server itself?” Crown scowled. “How much of a problem will this cause?”

“Not much,” Baza said. “We upload a Seeker and that will overwhelm the security and make a successful capture. We'll have Ma3a in no time.”

“Good. The boss spoke up on this.”

Baza went rigid in his seat. “He...did?”

“We have two hours – that's all. It had better be in our hands, Baza, or you can explain it to him personally.”

Escaping back out was easier than crawling in, and they all were able to walk into the city, hop a monorail train, and get to the nearest platform to I/O Tower Eight without issue. Their appearance hardly brought a raised eyebrow among all the mustard-circuited natives on the system as well as some blue Encom Programs and third-party software in a variety of colors and styles.

But just as Jet, Byte, and Clarence were breathing a sigh of relief, the sky lit up to a large blue portal spilling out dozens of red lights – airships, light-jets, even a few modern-issue Recognizers.

“Attention all Programs! This is the Encom Security Kernel. We are in pursuit of escaped malware believed to be responsible for the massive viral outbreak. Return to quarters – we will begin assault immediately.”

The channel closed and the first waves of virtual cannon fire started to rain onto the city streets. People started screaming and scattering in all directions.

Clarence adjusted his visor. “That...can't be good.”

Jet grabbed his arm. “It's not. No time to explain – we have to get to the tower!”

Running against the screaming, panicking crowds, they dashed for the I/O Tower – an immense spire looming over all other buildings with an intense beam of light piercing the sky. Ducking inside, the atmosphere was astonishingly serene compared to the chaos outside. Still, Programs inside were huddling against the inner walls.

A dark-skinned woman in an elaborate headpiece and caftan stepped into the hallway. “You! The warrior in Encom circuitry—Administrator Ma3a has been waiting for you.”

The two stepped forward, but the Guardian blocked Clarence. Clarence tried to protest. “But -”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “You may wait outside or make yourself useful.”

Jet ran forward, but looked over his shoulder. “Clarence, they probably have wounded or they'll get them soon enough. I'll be back.”

Jet took the stairs two at a time and raced up to the inner chamber of the tower. The walls were covered in elaborate geometric mosaics and sweeping lines and shapes of dazzling color – incredible artwork if he had any frame of mind to process it. The chamber itself was immense and seemed to travel upward forever. Ma3a stood in its center on the dais, hands clasped and eyes shut, surrounded by a column of light.

“Ma3a, the Kernel's here. He brought - “

“I know. What of your mission?”

“The upgrade is on EN-1282, but I don't see -”

She waved her hand and a portal appeared. “Please take this portal to the observation platform and prevent the ICP forces from entering. I am completely vulnerable while docked with this system.”

“Ma3a -”

“Jet, please. You must hold them off until I can activate the system's internal defenses. Now go – hurry!“

There was no point to arguing. Not with an invasion bearing down. He knew what Mercury would say – into that portal and fight like hell.

The portal dropped him onto a high mezzanine encircling the top of the tower. ICP forces were landing, and through the speakers he heard orders – round up civilians, find and destroy Ma3a, reformat the hard drive after.

He pulled the rod from his hit and activated the rifle setting. Time to put his sniping to the test.

The first wave landed and began charging through the maze surrounding the I/O Tower. From his platform, Jet could ID several choke points. He fired. One went down, then a second. He knew that if even one of them reached the gate, it would spell disaster.

They were many, he was one.

He was the only one Ma3a had left.

“Crown! I think I found the Ma3a program.”

“You think?!” Crown wasn't going to be happy with anything less than full certainty.

“I found a file upload. The Encom security software activity indicates she is on an outside server – probably a private server of some kind.”

Crown had to smile at the irony. “So Encom's own security system leads us right to her. Nice one, Baza. You nab that AI, and I'm sure the boss can arrange something a little extra in your next paycheck.“

“I'm preparing some Seekers now. She's vulnerable. We'll have her.”

Jet's arms ached. The nanoseconds seemed to tick away like minutes as the waves of ICP units kept charging. Fire. Aim. Fire again.

“C'mon...C'mon...C'mon...”

One got to the door. Another almost manged to sneak past. They just kept coming, no matter how many he shot. The Tower shook ominously under his feet, and he heard distant screaming. It caused his shot to go wild and blast away a chunk of masonry. He saw them closing in, each shot even more of a close call. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out.

Many stories below, the huddled civilians watched as the ICP forces started to enable a logic probe and batter the door. Clarence looked up from bandaging a wound as the Guardian grabbed a ceremonial-looking staff from the wall and activated it, prepared to make a futile last stand.

In the Tower's heart, Ma3a opened her eyes. While docked, she could see the whole system, see the network of life and communication across every sector. It was her shell, her spark, all connected and tied back to her. She could see the Kernel's forces, feel their intention.

No. Not this cycle.

And with all she had, the Administrator raised her arms and sent her will outward.

Jet was breathing hard. There were too many of the ICPs, his shots were too slow. Sickeningly, he realized that normal, human endurance and reaction time wasn't going to do anything against the sheer numbers.

And then...the unthinkable. A wave of gold light swept over everything, rolling across the system like high tide on sand. The ICP attackers let out a collective shriek of dismay as they were vaporized upon contact from the ground and air like a reformat while leaving the bewildered few civilians he could see intact.

Jet tapped the I/O node nearby. “Ma3a?”

“The ICP invasion has been halted for now.”

“How did you-?”

“I am fully docked with this system now.” Jet suspected that was the entire answer. “I will now establish a portal to EN-1282. You must go through alone.”

“What about you? I can't just leave you unguarded.”

Cutting her off in mid speech, a massive thing of purple and black code emerged from the opened port. It vaguely resembled an abstract drawing of gigantic worm with a mouth of spikes and four blank “eyes” at the center of the spikes. It was the size of the IO tower itself and everything about it registered as a threat.

“A Seeker!” Ma3a cried.

“I don't know if I can fight that! You have to undock from this system so we can make a run for it.”

“The degree to which I am connected to this system is extensive. I will need several minutes.”

“Minutes?!” He was starting to get an unfortunate glimpse into why programs, processes, and applications could run erratically or not at all. “Okay, I'll have to fight it off.”

She opened a short-range portal so it put him outside the Tower. Unfortunately for him, it meant being a small, squishy-looking human up against something that looked like a purple mechanical kaiju.

“This should get its attention.” Jet said, pulling his disc and throwing directly for center mass. It glanced off the Seeker's armored hide and the creature made a dive for him.

The only escape route was straight into the beam.