The Last Starfighter

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Pleasant day today, eh?”

  “Yep. Goin’ be a pleasant day tomorrow, too.”

  “Goin’ to be a pleasant summer, accordin’ to the Farmer’s Almanac.”

  The talk continued, but Alex had stopped imitating the unseen speakers. Instead he found himself sitting straight up in his chair, frightened and aware. Aware of how that conversation had reached him virtually unaltered on hundreds of similar evenings. Aware that if he didn’t so something, and do it soon, he’d be fixing ’lectrics and patching water lines and repairing recalcitrant garbage disposals while listening to the same chatter for the rest of his life.

  Such simple, cunning traps existence laid for the unwary! His mother owned the trailer park outright. Easy enough for him to ease into handling the books as well as the repairs, to take over day-to-day operation of the business from her. Was that what mom really wanted for him? Was she carefully and efficiently leading him down that safe, secure, lethally dull path? He’d always doubted it before. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  One thing he was certain of, though. If he fell into that waiting trap and allowed himself to take the easy way out of making a living, he’d never escape. Never do anything in the world. It would be exactly like Jack Blake had said, and the laughter that had trailed back to Alex from behind the pickup would follow him, in the slightly more circumspect fashion of adults, for the rest of his life.

  Damned if it would!

  He slipped on clean shoes and fled from the friendly, warm room that had suddenly turned cold and alien and threatening, rushed outside into the mild air of evening and forced himself to slow down.

  There was nowhere to run to, except out the road or down into the desert. Not that he was running with thoughts of any particular destination in mind. He ran to prove to himself that he, Alex Rogan, was still in control and that life hadn’t sealed him up in its smothering blanket of paycheck and taxes and eight-hour workdays. Not yet it hadn’t. He was going to do something.

  If only he knew what.

  It was dark outside, desert nights black as the days were bright. In the darkness the neon sign outside the general store sputtered into intermittent life. Out back the big halogen lamp came alive, showing the way for residents and visitors alike.

  He needed to do something, anything, to take his mind off his sudden terror. But there wasn’t anything. Only the radio and the television and one quarter-eating machine.

  He’d run away from passivity and bland acceptance, so radio and TV were out of the question. They represented a return to threatening reality, not an escape. On the other hand, the game was interactive, dependent on his movements, on his decisions. Not like in real life, where such decisions were reserved for adults. At a videogame any kid could be in command, could make life or death decisions (if only in the abstract) on the glowing field of the screen, no matter if they concerned only eating dots, demented gorillas or a not-too-bright knight in search of his kidnapped princess.

  Or defending the Frontier against Xur and the Ko-Dan Armada.

  The people who’d installed the game one Friday had told him it was a difficult one. At first it had been hard for him, but now he’d grown bored with all but the hellaciously difficult upper levels. Most kids never reached them and watched in awe as he sauntered rapidly through the lower ranges that defeated their best efforts.

  Now he played alone on the porch, and the machine responded with whizzes and explosions and mock commands as he methodically worked his way up into the rarified strata beyond half a million points.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered aloud, impatient as always with the basics. “Let’s speed it up, huh?”

  “Prepare for target light practice, Starfighter,” the machine warned him in the same tone as always.

  Better now. As the play grew steadily more involved he started to take an active interest in the glowing goings-on. Already he’d run up a high score by concentrating on adding bonuses in the preliminary rounds instead of simply blasting his way through each stage.

  “Ready,” he murmured, as if the machine could hear and understand. It could not, but it added to the fun. He was relaxed again, calm and confident. His early fear had been wiped out by the need for him to concentrate on every aspect of the game lest he get blown away through carelessness. He’d mastered the game, true. He could play it in his sleep. But carelessness could trip up the most skillful player. Alex had always prided himself on never losing a videogame because of some stupid, thoughtless mistake. The game had to beat him. He wouldn’t beat himself.

  Someone else had heard the buzzes and pops and whines and had come out to see the light from the screen reflected on Alex’s face. Otis lit his final pipe of the day as he strolled over to watch. He liked the games, too, but played only rarely. His hand-eye coordination wasn’t as good as it used to be, and he’d worked too many years to start squandering his quarters now.

  It was just as much fun to watch the kids play, especially one as good as Alex. The coordination of today’s kids never ceased to amaze him.

  In addition to liking the game, he also liked Alex Rogan. That prompted him to ask, “Where’s Maggie?”

  Alex’s eyes never turned from the screen, but he heard.

  “Good question. Out having a good time, I guess. At least, I haven’t seen her since she went off with everybody else this morning.”

  Otis concealed his smile. “Oh, I see. And you never have a ‘good time,’ that it?”

  “Sure I do, Otis. I have some great times.” Otis had insisted that Alex call him by his first name ever since Alex could remember. “Mr. Davis” was someone else, the man who picked up pension checks at a mailbox. Otis, on the other hand, was a friend.

  “I love fixing the electric system, checking the plumbing, plunging toilets and cleaning up animal stuff.” He made a face. “Otis, I don’t even get a chance to have a good time around here.”

  The game let loose with a flurry of bright lights and electronic sound effects. Alex had advanced still another level. Now he caught his breath, flexed his fingers while waiting for the next setup to materialize.

  “Things change; always do. I ought to know.” Again the smile around the stem of the worn pipe. “You’ll get your chance, boy. Important thing is, when it comes, you got to be ready for it. You gotta grab it with both hands and hold on tight.”

  “Real profound, Otis.”

  “I don’t pretend to be no philosophy professor, Alex. I didn’t make as much as some folks either, but I took care of what I made because I knew what I wanted out of life. A hundred bucks invested right is better in ten years than a thousand bucks squandered now. I ain’t rich, but I’m comfortable. I don’t have to work anymore and I don’t want or worry about anything.”

  “Did you miss any opportunities when you were my age, Otis?”

  “Sure I did. We all do. But nobody ever warned me about missing ’em like I’m warning you now. I figure maybe I’m doing you a favor. Experience isn’t worth a thing if you can’t pass it along to someone else. There’s lots of things in life you can go back and replace, Alex, but not missed opportunities. You remember that.”

  He broke off as a big boxy shape emerged from the darkness and slid into the parking lot. Maggie climbed over the tailgate, balancing a moment on the oversized, custom rear steel bumper before jumping lightly to the ground. The picnic basket, empty now, was tossed down to her, followed by the towel and the borrowed ice chest. Goodbyes were made, accompanied by laughter and quips, all part of the aftermath of a good day’s mindless fun in the sun. Alex struggled futilely to shut it out, concentrating on the screen.

  Otis saw the youngster’s expression tighten and knew it had nothing to do with the difficulties of the game. His smile turned sad and he moved away, aiming for the rocking chair at the far end of the porch.

  Someone else noticed Alex’s discomfiture, however, and had no compunctions about rubbing new salt in fresh wounds.

  “ ’Night Maggs.” Blake made sure he s
aid it loud enough for Alex to hear him above the microprocessed mutter of the videogame. “See you ’round!”

  It was small comfort to Alex that Maggie didn’t reply. His fingernails dug at the impervious plastic around the control buttons.

  His off road tires spitting sand, Blake roared out of the lot, not caring if he woke any early sleepers. The noise hid the laughter. Or maybe there wasn’t any laughter. Maybe it was only in Alex’s mind.

  Maggie climbed the steps onto the porch, watching Alex closely as she came up behind him. She took a minute to study the videoscreen, but the nuances of the game were lost on her. Girls didn’t go in much for the wargames, no matter what the women’s libbers might claim. Girls preferred crushing the nasties in Millipede or the complicated maze games like Pac-Man and its variants.

  Maggie didn’t much care for any of them. She only took an interest because Alex was interested, though she could still admire his skill.

  “Packs low . . . life support plus two and functioning . . . photonics low . . .” The machine delivered its announcements in clipped, precise artificial tones, indifferent to everything else.

  Maggie rose on tiptoes to give Alex a peck on the cheek. He smiled briefly, kept his gaze locked on the screen. He was glad of the game. It gave him an excuse for not meeting her eyes.

  “I thought you were going to meet me at the lake,” she said. “What happened?” An open question, devoid of accusation. Maggie wasn’t bitter, only genuinely curious.

  “The same thing that always happens.” He wanted to sound mad but was only tired. Life was grinding him down. At eighteen. “I couldn’t get away. Fix this, repair that . . . you should see some of the junk that passes for wiring in some of these old mobiles.” He looked beyond her into the darkness to make sure she’d exited the pickup by herself.

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “They went to a movie.”

  “And Jack Blake just happened to be going your way?”

  “What did you expect me to do? Walk back?”

  He didn’t get the chance to reply because an alien warship unexpectedly sent a salvo of missiles in his direction and he had to evade and counterattack simultaneously.

  Maggie noted his concentration, though she had only the slightest idea of the difficulty involved. Then she saw the score and abruptly found herself staring intensely at the screen full of little colored lights and matrix images. She also managed to move closer to Alex.

  “Energy weaponry on reserve . . . life support critical . . . photonics at peak . . .” the machine declaimed emotionlessly.

  “Look out on the right!” Maggie yelled and pointed, excited now in spite of herself. She’d seen Alex play the game many times before but never had the screen been so crowded and full of action. She added absently, “He said it was on his way home.”

  “What was?”

  “The trailer park, silly.”

  “Issat so? Blake happens to live on the other side of town. He’s dumb, but not that dumb. Maybe not half as dumb as I’d like to think.”

  Exasperation filled Maggie’s reply. “Alex, I wanted to get back to you, okay? Hey, you’re really going great.”

  “Am I?”

  “Haven’t you checked your score?”

  “No time. Too busy.” And too busy to watch her arrive in Jack Blake’s ramcharger, a small voice scolded him. His gaze flicked upwards and he was surprised in spite of himself. “Hey, nine hundred thousand plus. Not bad.”

  Otis overheard. Despite his initial determination to leave the young folks to their privacy he couldn’t keep himself from abandoning his rocker and walking over to have a look. He stared at the screen.

  “Nine hundred twenty thousand. I thought you told me this machine can’t score over a million.”

  “I don’t see how it can,” Alex replied, concentrating on his work. “It isn’t calibrated past nine ninety-nine. Maybe we’re going to find out what it does.”

  “You’re going to bust it, Alex.” Otis moved to the edge of the porch, facing the park, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.

  “Listen up, everybody! Alex is going for the record. He’s goin’ to bust the machine!”

  “You can’t bust these machines, Otis.”

  “Then what happens if you hit a million?”

  “I don’t know . . . but it won’t bust. Will it?”

  Otis leaned close to the machine, his pipe smoking like a small steam engine. “Don’t ask me, son. You’re the electric wizard around here.”

  A couple of the regulars who’d been sitting outside soaking up the evening cool heard Otis’s exclamation and, attracted by the thought of one of their own doing something a little out of the ordinary, strolled over to see what was going on. They were nearly knocked over as a gaggle of excited kids dashed past them, all but attacking the porch, pushing and shoving for the best vantage points. Alex’s younger brother was in the lead and edged his way up close as strange new sights began appearing on the screen. As quickly as they materialized, Alex methodically demolished them.

  “Wow, you never got this far before, Alex!” Louis was so excited he kept bouncing up and down in front of the screen. Alex had to nudge him aside with an elbow. “The command ship! Beat the green shit outta it, Alex!”

  “I’m trying to, if you’ll keep your nose out of my line of sight.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Louis stopped bouncing . . . for about ten seconds.

  There was a bad moment when Alex was positive he’d blown it. Photonics were streaking for his position and there seemed no way out. In the split second available for making a decision he determined to do the unexpected. Instead of fleeing or trying evasion mode he boosted speed toward his attacker. The photonics, calculated to intercept him only if he fled, exploded harmlessly behind him. Before a second wave could be fired in defense, his fingers were stabbing as smoothly as any typist’s on the fire control buttons.

  The image of the alien command ship exploded and the bright flare of light shrank pupils all around the screen, making some of the onlookers wince involuntarily. The score limned by the red LED readout above the action rolled over past nine hundred ninety-nine thousand while the synthesized voice inside the console screamed triumphantly, “RECORD BREAKER, RECORD BREAKER!”

  The lights faded, the screen blanked, to be replaced briefly with the words, “CONGRATULATIONS, STARFIGHTER.”

  “Wow.” Louis’s voice was reverent. “You really blew it away, Alex. What happens now?”

  Trying to sound nonchalant, Alex gave a little shrug and turned diffidently away from the console. “Got to find a tougher game, I guess. No point in playing this one anymore.”

  More personal accolades were heaped upon the champion in the intermittent light supplied by the buzzing neon sign. Though most of the older inhabitants of the trailer park (Otis being the exception) knew next to nothing about the newfangled electronic games, they could recognize skill in another, and it was self-evident that Alex had just done something very exceptional.

  Gradually their talk turned to more familiar topics weather, taxes, the price of gas, the weather, the quality of this year’s cotton crop, how many tourists could be expected during the Season and, of course, the weather. They slid off into the night, chatting amiably as friends do, the quick jolt of excitement already forgotten. Otis gave Alex a congratulatory pat on the back before heading for his own mobile.

  Alex turned to Maggie. “Whattaya think?”

  “Not bad. But is there a future in it?”

  He slumped. “Guess not. But it’s fun.” He tried for a lecherous grin. “Want to come over and see my electronic etchings?”

  “You know, Alex, I always wondered what a real etching was.”

  “Me too, but it’s a nice line. Well, how about coming over to watch the crickets sing?”

  “Do they sound like Men at Work?”

  “Depends on the crickets.”

  She grinned. “Okay, but you have to promise to walk me home. It’s
scaaarrry out.” The Gordon trailer was one step removed from the Rogan’s.

  “It’s a deal, if my feet hold out. I’ve been on them all day.”

  She was suddenly sympathetic again. “I’m really sorry about the picnic, Alex.”

  “That’s okay. At least one of us had a good time.”

  The crickets were not recordable, nor did they sound much like Men at Work, or even their much earlier namesakes. It didn’t matter to Alex and Maggie. They snuggled close on the worn porch swing set up in the small fenced are a that was the Rogan’s front yard, luxuriating in the cool evening air. Around them the trailer park was winding down for the night. It was the end of still another summer day. Maggie said little, preoccupied, and Alex was wise enough not to press her for her thoughts.

  Somewhere Dan Rather’s report clashed with the Spinners doing “Rubberband Man” on Otis’s stereo. Otis had asked Alex for his opinion on compact disc players, but gave up on the idea when he discovered there was nothing out that he wanted to hear. Sony didn’t seem interested in Otis’s favorite music.

  Alex didn’t care much for it either, except for one singer Otis played over and over. It was a voice that stood out even above the news of the war in Afghanistan and the rise in the prime rate: Billie Holiday. Alex wished he could have seen her in concert. That made Otis smile, because he knew his young friend would never have been admitted to the joints where Holiday had been forced to make her living. But the boy’s interest pleased him.

  “Yep,” a voice was saying from the region of the Boone trailer, “that Alex sure is gonna go places.”

  “Sure is,” Elvira concurred.

  “I’ll say,” agreed Mrs. Boone. There was a pause, and then Granny Gordon announced the termination of parental radar by calling out, “G’night, kids.”

  A few moments later the lights in the Gordon trailer went out. Mrs. Rogan wasn’t home yet. Alex waited a moment longer before slipping his right hand innocently around Maggie’s shoulder. Seemingly of their own volition, the fingers clenched gently, drawing her still closer to him.