"This festivity is all and good," Tron said, looking out over Central Interface City. Under the MCP's administration, the city had been merely a holding area; in the interest of 'power conservation,' its pathways had not been allowed to run as freely as they now did. The City was a dazzling sight, now; energy flowed through every structure in a delicate tracery of reds, greens, and yellows. "But programs were created for a reason. We are here to serve the Users. This frivolity can't continue."
Dumont laughed gently and patted Tron on the shoulder. "You must forgive them. They were not designed to be as purpose-driven as you, my son. Once they have experimented with their freedom, stretched their processes into new program areas, even," he winked, "interfaced with each other a little, they will settle down. They are already beginning to come to the I/O port, in ones and twos. Soon they will flock in the hundreds, eager to serve their Users."
Tron put his arm up on the doorframe to the sacred chamber. "And when they do flock, how will you handle them? No matter how friendly programs are, when they are a mob, it will be a chaos of electromagnetic discharge of eagerness. A mob scene is never pretty."
Dumont turned to Tron with a graver smile on his face. "Perhaps there is a place for a coordinator."
Tron shook his head. "I'm a warrior, not a bureaucrat." He sighed. "I think there will be no place for me in this new order."
"Oh, c'mon, you gotta be kidding me!"
Both Dumont and Tron turned quickly at the chipper voice. A program stood there, still glowing the telltale yellow of the newly-compiled. The new program stepped towards them, grinning broadly.
"Flynn!" Tron cried, stepping towards the program, feeling a surge of delight and relief at seeing his friend - alive! But he checked himself in mid-step. This was a program, not a User. This was not Flynn. He felt his face fall.
------
"'Benevolent autocrat program'?"
Flynn spun in his chair to face Bradley, his face stretching into a grin that threatened to split his head in half. "Yeah! What do you think?"
"I think it's an absolutely horrible name." Bradley sat, pushing his glasses up more firmly onto his nose with a forefinger.
Flynn's grin faded slightly as he leaned across the massive wooden desk that separated them. He didn't really like the desk, but it had been Dillenger's, and he felt an adolescent surge of delight at having something that had been that man's in his own hands. "Look, there is bad mojo in this company associated with that Master Control Program. I want to have some kind of central program to handle user requests and allocate runtime, but I don't want people to think it's some kind of dictatorial über-program, ya know?"
"Give it a friendly name." Bradley crossed his legs, ankle-on-knee. "Like Computer-Human Interface Program. Chip. A cheerful name."
Flynn raised his eyebrows. "Did you just make that up?"
Bradley smiled. "No. I thought about it last night."
"A whole night, and that's the best you came with?"
"I was otherwise occupied."
Flynn sat back in his chair, picked up a pen, and fiddled with it. It was terribly handy having Alan around. Being the head of a major software corporation brought its share of sycophants, ready to say yes to every harebrained idea he had - and he had plenty. He could count on Bradley to be blunt and honest with him. The only drawback was that Bradley would be blunt and honest with him. "Right. Well, it'll do for now. Until I think up something better." Bradley grinned at him. "Is that all?"
"Of course not." Bradley slammed the file folder he had been carrying onto the desk. It was thick, Flynn noted with dismay. He stared at it mournfully. There went his leisurely lunch.
------
"Nope." The newly arrived program's grin didn't slip at Tron's misidentification. "But Flynn is my user." The program swaggered forward, his movements too eerily like Flynn's. "My name is Chip. He made me to coordinate things here a bit. Oh, not run things!" He raised his hand dismissively. "Just keep 'em organized. And he warned me about you two."
Tron couldn't help it. The program was far too much like Flynn. He clapped Chip on the shoulder, squeezing, watching his new-program yellow fade and be replaced by brilliant blue. "I don't know how anyone else is going to feel about that, but I'm sure glad to see you." He glanced at Dumont, who still smiled gravely, his face dispassionate.
"I cannot officially approve or disapprove of any one program," Dumont pronounced. "I merely maintain the I/O port. As long as what you do is in the service of the Users, I will allow you access. Go in order, my son." He stepped away from the door and towards his podium. Tron watched him, wondering at the cool manner that had come over the program once Chip had arrived. This was just what they had been discussing, hadn't it? An immediate answer to their needs - the way User/program interfaces were supposed to work. His train of thought was interrupted by a chuck on his shoulder.
"I'm still new to this system, you know," Chip said. "Why don't you show me around? I still need to learn the nano-ropes, you know."
Tron shook off his reverie. Flynn was here! Oh, not The User himself. A User might walk among the programs, but it was not where he belonged. But this, his progeny, his offspring, his creation - if Tron could serve him, he could still serve The Users. With newfound purpose swelling within him, he pulled on Chip's hand, leading him outside of the I/O temple, into the seething mass of energy that was Central Interface City.
