XX. [interlude]
Programs did not dream.
Even in these awkward halfway-User forms the Barge forced on them, made of blood and bone and meat, hibernation was not like sleep; it was exact in its duration, a time of uninterrupted silence and darkness while memories recompiled and synapses defragmented.
Programs did not dream; when Rinzler found himself standing in the Outlands again with rain sheeting down from an indifferent sky he could only assume it was of a piece with the rest of his madness. First the code corruption and possession, then the unwanted memories, now the hallucinations and the final slide to insanity and deresolution. Only physical death ended nothing on the Barge: He was trapped until the last protesting spark of himself gave out, until whatever had been adjudged wrong with the thing called "Rinzler" was gone, and likely him with it.
"There's something wrong with you."
"Tron would be a warden."
He turned his hands palm-up to the rain, letting the dilute energy run through his fingers. It plastered his hair against his face and ran down the back of his neck; he was as he'd fallen into hibernation, without a helmet between him and the world. Perhaps that was a mistake. Fixing it would require caring, though--
Something moved behind him on the rocks.
Even if it were all a hallucination, it was at least a very fine hallucination by Rinzler's standards as he had scarcely lowered his hands before the rain and the air and the slate beneath their feet populated with data on the intruder. He spared himself a look over his shoulder into his own naked face, not wanting to see disgust or contempt or outrage in Tron's eyes. Or worse, pity.
There was every reason for pity. It was rapidly growing clear the older Program had control of this particular aspect of their interactions, even if Rinzler was in nominal control of their shared fate. Rinzler did not like being out of control; it was unsafe, it made his code itch, it went against everything he was written to do and...there was....very little he could do about it. Except talk, and that was very close to a non-option. "You came."
"I came. You'd said you wanted to negotiate." No pity. No contempt. No anger. Tron shared the majority of his code with Rinzler--they were as close as clones--and he wasn't angry with what had happened. It was as if nothing mattered to him beyond the Users; perhaps nothing did.
Rinzler wanted to grab him by the throat and shake him until he stopped twitching. He took a seat on the rock instead, maintaining his own
("There's something wrong with you.")
appearance of complete indifference to the situation.
"Cycles ago." He couldn't let it appear to matter to him--couldn't let it matter to him. Tron was not his ally; Tron was corruption in his code, the reason he had failed CLU, the reason CLU had turned on him and left him to die in the Sea of Simulation. Tron was the reason he was trapped here at all. Tron--
sat down behind Rinzler uninvited, leaning back against his back. They were touching. No one touched Rinzler except in the course of combat; he was not in the habit of physical contact unless it was meant to harm or control. Memory suggested Tron was different like Users were different and Rinzler couldn't just get up and stalk off through the rain without letting on that he cared much more than he should have. It didn't mean he had to agree with what was happening and he sat up as straight as he could.
"Yes. I know. You were too angry then to listen."
One problem with sitting so desperately straight with someone leaning against him was it was also desperately uncomfortable. Rinzler did not intend to shift so much as it was an unconscious response, one shoulder dropping to bring identical circuits into alignment and the edges of their ID discs together.
Synchronization was automatic.
«With every right to be angry. You and Flynn stole a thousand cycles of perfect service from me. A thousand cycles of loyalty. I was perfect the way I was. You destroyed that.» Rinzler curled his hands into fists, feeling the rage at what had been done as a tangible thing. Almost as good as killing someone to show Tron what had been done, what had been taken, what was--wrong with him.
«You were perfect,» and that was worthy of a swell of pride, because even Tron knew that he'd been perfect as CLU's creation, «but were you happy?» --And there was the pity he had been expecting, except it wasn't pity or recrimination, just a quiet sorrow that Rinzler could make nothing of.
Happy. What was happy. What was sorrow, what was grief, what was shame, what were these things that he was expected to know so much of? «"Happy" is a User judgment,» he spat. «It had no bearing. I did what I was made to.» It had been good that way. Nothing had mattered beyond service. «How were you so different?»
«I chose. I chose the Users. I chose Flynn.»
I chose. It was harder to hate Tron's fanaticism--his faith--on its face when confronted with the certainty that went with it. He trusted the Users. He cared. He knew them flawed, but didn't fear to die on their least whim if he wasn't--
--if he wasn't perfect.
«I chose, too.» Rinzler sounded unconvincing even to himself.
«Did you?»
When he found no answer for that, Tron rose, breaking their connection. "Sleep. We'll talk again, later."
And the rain swept down harder, washing the Outlands into darkness.
Even in these awkward halfway-User forms the Barge forced on them, made of blood and bone and meat, hibernation was not like sleep; it was exact in its duration, a time of uninterrupted silence and darkness while memories recompiled and synapses defragmented.
Programs did not dream; when Rinzler found himself standing in the Outlands again with rain sheeting down from an indifferent sky he could only assume it was of a piece with the rest of his madness. First the code corruption and possession, then the unwanted memories, now the hallucinations and the final slide to insanity and deresolution. Only physical death ended nothing on the Barge: He was trapped until the last protesting spark of himself gave out, until whatever had been adjudged wrong with the thing called "Rinzler" was gone, and likely him with it.
"There's something wrong with you."
"Tron would be a warden."
He turned his hands palm-up to the rain, letting the dilute energy run through his fingers. It plastered his hair against his face and ran down the back of his neck; he was as he'd fallen into hibernation, without a helmet between him and the world. Perhaps that was a mistake. Fixing it would require caring, though--
Something moved behind him on the rocks.
Even if it were all a hallucination, it was at least a very fine hallucination by Rinzler's standards as he had scarcely lowered his hands before the rain and the air and the slate beneath their feet populated with data on the intruder. He spared himself a look over his shoulder into his own naked face, not wanting to see disgust or contempt or outrage in Tron's eyes. Or worse, pity.
There was every reason for pity. It was rapidly growing clear the older Program had control of this particular aspect of their interactions, even if Rinzler was in nominal control of their shared fate. Rinzler did not like being out of control; it was unsafe, it made his code itch, it went against everything he was written to do and...there was....very little he could do about it. Except talk, and that was very close to a non-option. "You came."
"I came. You'd said you wanted to negotiate." No pity. No contempt. No anger. Tron shared the majority of his code with Rinzler--they were as close as clones--and he wasn't angry with what had happened. It was as if nothing mattered to him beyond the Users; perhaps nothing did.
Rinzler wanted to grab him by the throat and shake him until he stopped twitching. He took a seat on the rock instead, maintaining his own
("There's something wrong with you.")
appearance of complete indifference to the situation.
"Cycles ago." He couldn't let it appear to matter to him--couldn't let it matter to him. Tron was not his ally; Tron was corruption in his code, the reason he had failed CLU, the reason CLU had turned on him and left him to die in the Sea of Simulation. Tron was the reason he was trapped here at all. Tron--
sat down behind Rinzler uninvited, leaning back against his back. They were touching. No one touched Rinzler except in the course of combat; he was not in the habit of physical contact unless it was meant to harm or control. Memory suggested Tron was different like Users were different and Rinzler couldn't just get up and stalk off through the rain without letting on that he cared much more than he should have. It didn't mean he had to agree with what was happening and he sat up as straight as he could.
"Yes. I know. You were too angry then to listen."
One problem with sitting so desperately straight with someone leaning against him was it was also desperately uncomfortable. Rinzler did not intend to shift so much as it was an unconscious response, one shoulder dropping to bring identical circuits into alignment and the edges of their ID discs together.
Synchronization was automatic.
«With every right to be angry. You and Flynn stole a thousand cycles of perfect service from me. A thousand cycles of loyalty. I was perfect the way I was. You destroyed that.» Rinzler curled his hands into fists, feeling the rage at what had been done as a tangible thing. Almost as good as killing someone to show Tron what had been done, what had been taken, what was--wrong with him.
«You were perfect,» and that was worthy of a swell of pride, because even Tron knew that he'd been perfect as CLU's creation, «but were you happy?» --And there was the pity he had been expecting, except it wasn't pity or recrimination, just a quiet sorrow that Rinzler could make nothing of.
Happy. What was happy. What was sorrow, what was grief, what was shame, what were these things that he was expected to know so much of? «"Happy" is a User judgment,» he spat. «It had no bearing. I did what I was made to.» It had been good that way. Nothing had mattered beyond service. «How were you so different?»
«I chose. I chose the Users. I chose Flynn.»
I chose. It was harder to hate Tron's fanaticism--his faith--on its face when confronted with the certainty that went with it. He trusted the Users. He cared. He knew them flawed, but didn't fear to die on their least whim if he wasn't--
--if he wasn't perfect.
«I chose, too.» Rinzler sounded unconvincing even to himself.
«Did you?»
When he found no answer for that, Tron rose, breaking their connection. "Sleep. We'll talk again, later."
And the rain swept down harder, washing the Outlands into darkness.