The Last Starfighter

by Alan Dean Foster

Her face turned up toward his and their eyes locked. He bent forward, lips straining for hers . . . and she dodged neatly, bussing him on the cheek. Then she rose from the swing and headed for her trailer.

  “Night, Alex.”

  His first thought was that she’d made some kind of unconscious mistake. Her aim was off, that was all. But there was more to it than that.

  ’"Night, Alex’?” he repeated. “What the hell’s ‘Night, Alex’?” He wasn’t as much mad as he was confused. Usually it was Maggie who initiated the kissing. “Hey, wait!” He caught up to her as she started up the steps toward her small porch.

  The spies were out that night. No CIA recruit listened or watched more intently than Louis Rogan from his position at his bedroom window. He was old enough to have some idea of what was happening, was aware there was physicality involved (though he thought of it in different terms). He was as fascinated by the sight as if he’d been witness to a murder.

  Maggie continued up the steps but hesitated at the door.

  “C’mon, Maggie, tell me what’s wrong. You can always tell me what’s wrong.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Won’t get mad?”

  “Promise.” He held up crossed fingers, looked solemn.

  “I guess it finally hit me.” She didn’t want to look at him, but discovered she couldn’t look anyplace else. “You’re really going away, aren’t you?”

  “Is that what’s bugging you?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Don’t you think that’s important?”

  “Sure it’s important. Of course I’m going away. We’re both going away.”

  She frowned. “Both?”

  He mounted the steps, put both hands on her shoulders. She didn’t back away. “Yeah, both of us. Who’d pester me if not you? Who’d pester you if I wasn’t around? Don’t you remember? We already went through all this. I go to college, find a place, get a job, and come back for you.”

  “I . . . I didn’t think you were serious about that, Alex. I thought you were just talking through your hat.”

  “Naw. Always talk through my lips. See?” He stuck out his chin, pointed to his puckered mouth. “Watch my lips. I . . . am . . . coming . . . back . . . for . . . you. Got it?”

  “But what about Granny? She needs someone to look after her.”

  “Granny?” Alex nodded sharply at the trailer. “Granny needs someone to look after her about as much as Ma Barker did. Granny can take care of herself, and anyway, you’re not the only one she’s got. Who do you think helps her out when you’re in school?” He gestured toward the surrounding mobiles. “This whole park’s her family. I should have so many friends looking after me.”

  She was silent, and he found himself nodding at her. “That’s not it. That’s not it at all, is it? It’s something else. The truth is that you’re scared of leaving this place. Scared of leaving . . .”

  Suddenly angry, she snapped back at him. “I am not scared!”

  He put up both hands, defensively. “Hey, take it easy. So maybe I’m wrong. You know how to prove me wrong.” He softened his tone.

  “Whatever happens, whether you come with me right away, or later, or down the road some time, it’s you and me forever, right? Rogan and Gordon versus the world. ’Cause I’m not goin’ anywhere far enough to keep me from coming back to you, Maggie.”

  What now? Was she laughing at him, or crying? It was always so hard to be sure. He had a clearer idea when she put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  “Oh, I love you so much, Alex.”

  “And I love you twice as much back, Maggs. I’ll always love you.”

  This time their lips didn’t miss.

  Unable to believe his prepubescent gaze, Louis Rogan made an anguished sound as he flipped up the visor on his space helmet, the better to ensure missing none of the sickening display. Weren’t they ever going to let go of one another? And how could they breathe! Maybe they were holding their breath, yeah, that had to be it. But how could they hold their breath for so long!

  “Di-a-ree-ah!” he murmured, thoroughly disgusted with what he was seeing.

  But he didn’t turn away.

  3

  One good thing about working in a small town, Jane Rogan thought tiredly as she drove the old pickup into the parking place alongside her home: Everyone knew you too well to risk pinching you. Not that some of the regulars in the cafe didn’t keep trying to pick her up. At first it had been flattering. Now it was just boring. She doubted any of the men were serious, though. It was nothing more than a carefully choreographed ballet.

  “Hey Jane,” Seth Daniel would call out, “how about bringing some of that over here?”

  “Some of what, Seth?” she would reply, the waitress’ professional smiled epoxied on her face.

  And Seth would grin at his coffee-drinking buddies and say, “You know what.”

  And she would sigh and reply, “Not on the menu tonight, Seth. Besides, you know your stomach.”

  And they would all guffaw while muttering private male obscenities to one another, and the tips would be good, and that was what mattered.

  She checked the front seat to make sure she’d gathered up all the mail and put it on top of one of the two big bags of groceries, next to the loaf of generic brand white bread. Then she balanced a bag in the crook of each arm and started for the trailer. She could have called Alex out to help, but she already felt badly enough about making him miss his picnic that morning. So she managed by herself, even though the bags were getting a little heavier each month, in spite of the fact that she always bought the same quantity of groceries.

  Once inside, she set the bags down on the kitchen table, put the spoilables in the refrigerator and the freezer, then went to check on Louis. He was lying in bed, eyes shut tight. She backed out, checked Alex’s room and wasn’t surprised to discover it empty.

  Still, a look at her watch caused her to frown. She knew there was no reason for her to worry. Not about Alex. Except . . . ever since he’d made that one trip to the college side of town and had come back at three A.M. reeking of beer she’d felt compelled to keep a closer eye on him. Of course, he’d only done that once, and he was of the age to sow a few wild if thoughtless oats, but having been forced to miss the picnic and the swimming he might just be in a state of mind to try something silly and . . .

  Her worries vanished as he came striding into the living room, a big smile plastered across his handsome young face. He was whistling the theme from Rocky loud enough to wake half the park.

  “Shushh, Alex, you’ll wake Granny and the others.”

  “Wake Granny? Granny Gordon could sleep through World War Three, humble Mom.” He gazed ceilingward and adopted a Shakespearean pose. “Yea, and someday they shall point to this place, to this very abode of tin and glue, and they shall say, this is where it all began.” He slipped back into his normal slouch, grinning widely at her. “Guess what? I finally broke the record on Starfighter. Not the local record, mind you. I pushed it so far it had to back up and start over again.”

  “That’s nice, dear.” She sifted the mail, some of which she’d already opened and checked. The bills she left untouched, preferring to put aside their malign revelations until the last possible instant.

  “Nice?” He gaped at her. Obviously she had no idea of the significance of his accomplishment. When he’d walked into the room he’d felt like Rocky running up the library steps in Philadelphia. Now his euphoria vanished and he felt like Rocky in Rocky III, getting the stuffing bashed out of him by Mr. T.

  Mothers had a way of deflating one’s ego faster than a blocked punt run back against you for a touchdown.

  “It’s stupendous, mom, not ‘nice.’ We need to call somebody. The paper, the Guinness Book of Records people, the local TV news . . .”

  “I picked up all the mail,” she replied patiently, nipping intimations of imminent immortality in the bud, “because Mr. Perlman’s truck broke down.” She handed over a single ragged-topped en
velope. “This came for you and when I saw the return address I got so excited I had to open it.”

  “That’s okay, mom.” Still feeling good, he accepted the envelope. “What is it?”

  She didn’t look at him. “It’s about your loan.”

  “Loan?” Suddenly he didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to know because he already knew the nature of the letter’s contents from the look on her face. He just held the envelope, staring at her.

  “Your student loan.” She sighed again, deeply this time, and tried to smile at him. “I know how much it meant to you, Alex, but you can still go to City College with your friends.”

  Weak and sick, he let the letter slide out of its container and forced himself to read the words. “Dear Mr. Rogan,” it said with unctuous politeness, “we regret to inform you that your application for a loan to cover tuition and related study costs at the University has regretfully been denied due to lack of sufficient collateral.

  “Scholarship loans, we must remind you, are dependent on achieving an SAT test score of approximately . . .”

  He crumpled the paper slowly in one hand. Of course his SAT scores weren’t what they should have been, could have been. How could they be, when you spent half the nights the month of the testing fixing crappy plumbing and installing fiberglass insulation and exterminating ants? How did they expect him to study, to keep up with the rich kids like Jack Blake with his free time and his personal computer and his tutor and . . . and . . .

  “And I’ll always love you, Maggie,” murmured Louis wetly from his listening post in the hallway. “Kissy, kissy, kissy!”

  “Louis!” Mrs. Rogan shouted.

  Ten-year-old or no, Louis saw something then in Alex’s sudden glance that made him retreat back into the warm darkness of the hall. It wasn’t a threatening look. That he was prepared for and could have coped with. What he wasn’t ready to handle was the look of pain on the face of his invulnerable, indomitable big brother. In his preadolescent fashion he was aware that he was responsible for some of that pain, so different from the usual childish torments he and Alex exchanged. It was a numbing realization and he didn’t know how to react. He felt queasy, as if he’d just eaten something he knew he shouldn’t have.

  Alex didn’t say anything to him, which was good. The expression on his face was hurtful enough. Twice embarrassed, he turned and fled from the trailer.

  “Alex!” Jane Rogan moved after him and halted at the doorway. Sometimes peace and privacy could be more consoling than maternal concern. She was a good enough parent to let him go.

  When you’re running real hard, fast as you can, and your mind is elsewhere, sometimes you forget to breathe. Eventually the body gets through to the brain and both combine to bring you up short. Alex slowed, wheezing and gasping, found himself halfway to the highway. Behind him colored lights flashed at the night—Starlight Starbright, Overnighters Welcome—in intermittent neon swirls.

  He uncrumpled the letter, still clenched in his right fist, and read through it a second time. There was nothing personal in it. It was a standard printed rejection form. Even the signature had the look of a stamp. Nothing personal. He let it drop to the road.

  Nothing personal, he thought, as an evening breeze carried his hopes for the future toward the ditch that bordered the parking area.

  It didn’t matter. Just like Mom said, he could still go to City College with his friends. But he didn’t want to go to City College with his friends. He wanted to go to the University. He wanted out; out of the county, out of the state, out of Starlight Starbright and all it stood for.

  He could go to City College and collect his A.B., then move on. Two years of junior college and then the University would have to accept him, would have to. But that also meant two more years of rusty pipes and blackened electrical outlets. Two more years of “gonna be a hot one today,” every day for the whole summer. Two more years of nothing to do in nowhere. He couldn’t take it.

  Behind him, something went spizzit. Frowning, he turned back toward the general store. At first he was sure it was the big neon sign, finally determined to give up the neon ghost. The buzzing noise came again, but the sign never flickered or dimmed. The sound and the flashing light came from beyond. He headed for the porch.

  It was the videogame, come alive with color and light, practically vibrating with energy. But no one was playing it and there was no one in sight. His first thought was that someone had tried to break into the machine’s coin box, but a close look showed no signs of attempted break-in, no denting of the hard steel that protected the collection containers.

  Funny too those lights and that buzzing noise. Not like the game responses at all. Abstract yet organized. He decided a power surge was the cause. Sure, that would explain it. Somewhere up the line between the park and the generators at Hoover a big surge had shot through the grid and had thrown the game’s delicate microprocessor out of whack.

  All he could do was unplug it until the company that serviced it could be notified. If he left it alone it might burn itself out, and he didn’t want to chance his mom being held liable for damages due to negligence. They couldn’t raise a fuss if he just pulled the plug.

  He reached for the back of the console . . . and it stopped. Just went dead, almost as if it were afraid of being turned off and had decided to be good.

  Or maybe he’d debated too long and it already had burnt itself out, he thought.

  A dark shape suddenly loomed on the road in front of the store, just inside the glow from the store’s lights. It caught Alex’s attention immediately, large and boxy and unusually long. A rich man’s toy, some kind of customized cut-down van. Funny-sounding engine, too.

  “Hello,” said a voice. “Excuse me, son?” A gullwing door whirred open, piqueing Alex’s curiosity further. He was torn between his duty to check out the suddenly silent game and his desire to see inside that peculiar vehicle. It was an uneven battle.

  He walked toward the car, trying to get a good look at the interior without seeming to stare. “That’s a neat car, Mister.”

  “Thanks. I try to keep it in shape.”

  “Foreign job?”

  “It is an import, yes.” The man smiled at nothing in particular.

  Alex gave it a last, envious once-over before announcing officially, “Store’s closed now.” He pointed toward the highway. “It’s not far into town. There’s a 7-Eleven on Main that’s open twenty-four hours. You can probably get what you need there.”

  “I doubt it, son.”

  Alex tried to see down the road. “You don’t have a trailer broke down somewhere, do you?”

  Something inside the car moved and he saw a dimly illuminated face. It was an elderly face, male, lined but without the deep creases of true old age. The owner might have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His white sideburns were bushy. When he looked up Alex was startled by the clarity of the driver’s eyes. They might have been transparent, protective lenses shielding some deeper secret from sight.

  The man puffed on a cigarette at the end of a long holder, something Alex had seen only in the movies. As if sensing the boy’s interest the driver removed the holder and inspected the cigarette affectionately.

  “Quaint affectation. Generates nothing in the way of nourishment, chemical stimuli or beneficial endocrine products, yet it’s catchy, catchy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, my boy. In reply to your question, no, I do not have a trailer broke down somewhere. Nor am I here to peruse your establishment for cigarettes or chewing gum. Actually I am here looking for someone.”

  Alex remembered some of the tales Otis had told him about his younger days. He’d always laughed at the stories afterwards, knowing they were nothing more than tall tales spun to wile away the hot summer evenings. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “You with the IRS?”

  Now it was the old man’s turn to look confused. “The IRS? A perennial rhizomatous or bulbous herbaceous plant o
f the family Iridaceae, is it not?”

  Alex took a step backward. “Mister, I think maybe you’ve had too much to drink tonight.”

  “Nonsense! I’ve imbibed no more liquid than is necessary for proper bodily functioning. As to this individual I seek,” and he gestured toward the porch, “can you by chance tell me the name of the person who broke the record on that game over there, and where I might find ’em?”

  Pride overwhelmed Alex’s caution. This old guy was weird, but surely he was harmless. And the fancy rig he was driving . . . maybe he worked for the company that made the Starfighter game. Maybe there was some kind of electronic relay or something built into the console that sent back the results to some local headquarters. Maybe this old man wanted to give him a prize or something.

  “His name’s Alex Rogan, Mister, and you’re looking at him. Who’re you? Did I win something for my score? Is that why you’re here?”

  The man choked on his cigarette. “Hard to get the knack of this. What, win something? Well, you might say that. Yes, one could say that your achievement has entitled you to receive a singular honor.”

  Visions of enough money to pay his way through the University suddenly flooded Alex’s mind. Maybe there’d even be some left over. He could buy Louis the stuffed tauntaun he’d always wanted. He could buy Mom a new TV, maybe even a new truck!

  He forced himself to dampen his excitement. Perhaps the prize didn’t consist of cash. It might be some kind of product, or nothing more than a bunch of free plays on the game.

  But if it wasn’t something big, something important, then why would the company send someone out to meet the top player in person?

  “As for myself,” and the oldster smiled broadly, “Centauri’s the name. I invented Starfighter, which is why I’m here to talk to you.”

  “Really? You actually invented the game?”

  The old man looked pleased. “Sure did. What do you think of it?”

  Alex struggled to sound sophisticated. “Not bad. It took me a while to get the hang of it. It’s not as complicated as some games but there are a lot of controls to work at the same time and the upper skill levels make you work pretty fast.”