The Last Starfighter

by Alan Dean Foster

  “That’s the understatement of the century, Navigator.”

  “You said there’d been a mistake. What kind of mistake?”

  “I don’t belong here. I thought I’d won some kind of big prize or something for reaching a score of a million on the game. I thought maybe we were going to go to the downtown motel to discuss it. Then I thought maybe I’d have to go into L.A. or something to accept it. So I end up going a lot farther, and there’s no prize.” He indicated the pile of clothing. “I can’t put these on. You called me a Starfighter. I’m no Starfighter, just a kid.”

  “Starfighter ability is not a function of age, Alex Rogan.”

  “Just Alex.”

  “Alex, then. It is a matter of a special combination of unusual talents courage, flexibility under stress, the ability to make rapid decisions while under great pressure, reflexology, mental acuity, determination and more. I am not qualified to enumerate all of them, much less to explain. But you were brought here to be a Starfighter, it would seem, and you have been issued the uniform.”

  Alex shook his head violently. “Uh-uh. Not a chance. I’m not putting this on. I don’t belong here. I told you, it’s all been a big mistake.”

  Now Grig appeared uncertain. “Am I to understand that you are actually declining the honor of becoming a Starfighter?”

  “You got it.” Alex said it with a relieved sigh, pleased to at last have made his point to someone. “Besides, how can you call it an honor when the ambassador from the League refers to it as belonging to ‘primitives’?”

  “Because a talent is rare does not make it less valuable, Alex. We have artists who utilize primitive techniques. That does not make their art less valid. There are concertiflows who design musical superstructures based on motifs thousands of years old. Their flows are no less effective for that.”

  “Well, mine is,” Alex insisted stubbornly. “I don’t belong here.”

  “Extraordinary. Unheard of. Not for your presence to be a mistake, but for you to decline the honor of becoming a Starfighter. Only a few have qualified. Primitive you may think it, but the honor remains significant. And you are actually turning it down.” He considered thoughtfully. “Wait a moment. Tell me again where you are from?”

  “I said, from Earth, and we’re not at war with anyone except each other.”

  “Earth, Earth,” Grig mumbled. “I am trying to recall. Perhaps in the vicinity of Quarlia.” He brightened. “Yes, I remember now. An insignificant place, well outside the usual trade or exploration routes.”

  “We like it,” Alex said defensively.

  “Most curious this is. If I am remembering my galographics correctly, Earth is not a formal member of the League.”

  “As far as I know, we’re not even an informal member. Everybody on my planet thinks all of you are figments of their imaginations.”

  “Typical reaction of those primitive races who believe themselves to be the center of existence. Nothing personal, Alex Rogan. Alex.”

  “No offense taken,” Alex replied. “I agree with you, Grig. We’re not a real modest bunch. Now, don’t you agree with me that I don’t belong here? This isn’t my fight.”

  “It’s all highly irregular. Earth isn’t due to be considered for League membership until its inhabitants mature to the next level.” He eyed Alex with sudden intensity. “Tell me, how were you recruited?”

  “Through a game. A machine. Some kind of simulator.”

  “No, no. I don’t mean how were you tested. Who actually brought you here?”

  “A guy who calls himself Centauri. I thought that was funny because that’s the name of the star nearest our own sun, and . . .” He broke off, staring past the Navigator. “And there he goes now.” He waved. “Hey, Centauri!”

  “Ah. Centauri.” Grig relaxed. Everything was falling into place.

  “You know him?” Alex inquired as they started to where the subject in question was arguing with a Rylan officer.

  “He is known to me personally as well as through his extensive reputation.” Grig’s tone was carefully neutral. “You are not the first to surfer from his manipulations. He is very clever and conceals his doubtful activities beneath a mantle of false simplicity. This matter will be resolved quickly, I assure you.”

  “Well, good,” said Alex, feeling better than he had in some time.

  The old man was still clutching his handful of crystals, or whatever they were, his glance shifting from his treasure to the eyes of the officer yelling at him. Hearing his name called he looked down the corridor to see Alex and Grig approaching.

  Alex was more than a little surprised when Centauri waved back and strode boldly to meet them. Maybe the old man thought the best defense was a good offense and was trying to put Alex off his guard.

  Or maybe, despite Grig’s words indicating the contrary, the oldster was really a little wacky.

  He reached out to tousle Alex’s hair fondly. Alex pushed the hand aside and stared grim-faced at its owner.

  Before he could say anything, however, the Rylan officer caught up with them.

  “For the last time,” he told Centauri angrily, “take off that ridiculous disguise!”

  “Ridiculous disguise?” Centauri sounded offended as he caressed his false face. “I rather like this appearance. It is most flexible and capable of conveying a great many meanings merely by the contraction of certain muscles.”

  “You are a member of the government forces, however slim the attachment,” the officer insisted. “You will appear in your natural state when on duty.”

  “Am I on duty, then? That’s funny. I thought I’d just been paid off.”

  “Paid off?” said Grig. “You’re up to your old Excalibur tricks again, eh, Centauri?”

  The old man squinted at the navigator. “Do I know you?”

  “Navigator/Operator First-Class Grig, recruited from Sesnet Shipping to run a gunstar’s guts.”

  “Sesnet, Sesnet.” Centauri frowned. “Don’t know as how I’ve ever traveled on that line.”

  “Maybe you haven’t, but you once used it to ship some Uramite sculpture from Shro-al to Wouldd on a liner I was assigned to. I remember your name because it was on the shipping manifest and because of all the fuss at the port when we unloaded the shuttle and the buyer nearly tore the place apart looking for somebody to strangle, preferably you. It seems that all his expensive sculpture had melted in transit.”

  Centauri studied the floor. “The sculpture all passed inspection before leaving Shro-al.”

  “I’m sure it did. But the temperature differential between Shro-al and Wouldd was just enough to affect the natural resins from which the sculptures were fashioned. So they melted in Wouldd’s strong sunlight, just like you melted into the distance.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Centauri protested. “That buyer ought to have known enough to have had a refrigeration unit waiting for his danged sculptures. Anyways, what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just reminding myself,” Grig replied easily, “and this officer here, of how you operate. It seems we have a bit of a problem here.”

  “We do?” Centauri’s look of innocence was wondrous to behold. “I don’t see any problem.” While he spoke he carefully avoided meeting Alex’s eyes.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Grig said quietly, “that it’s against the law to recruit from worlds outside the League? Not to mention doing that recruiting on immature worlds whose inhabitants haven’t even learned to stop fighting among their own species?”

  “But those are just the kind of backward, jerkwater planets where . . .” Alex’s expression darkened further and Centauri coughed and tried to cover himself. “The kind of unspoiled, uncorrupted civilizations where individual abilities required for Starfighter modes are to be found. D’you think I should’ve gone hunting for potential recruits on a world like Bissandra, where everybody’s either a painter or a poet? It’s going to take more than clever couplets to rid us of the Ko-Dan’s menace.�
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  “That’s no excuse. The fact remains that this isn’t Earth’s fight.”

  “It ought to be. They’re real close to being offered membership in the League. And isn’t Earth in danger too? Or do you think the Ko-Dan will stop with taking control of the League? They’re unsatisfied conquerors. Once they’ve taken control of the League they’ll start moving out into the unorganized systems like Quarlia and Sol.”

  “I am not qualified to analyze Ko-Dan politics and motives,” Grig responded.

  “You bet you’re not,” Centauri shot back, going on the offensive. “And to answer your question, no, I didn’t use the Excalibur test this time. Swords have gone out of fashion on Earth. The new testing mode involves entertainment displays called videogames.

  “I don’t understand all the fuss.” He nodded toward Alex. “Say what you want about my motives or methods, but there’s no denying one thing they work. Because this one has the gift.”

  He put his arm around Alex while the subject of his sudden affection eyed him warily.

  “It doesn’t matter whether he does or not,” said Grig.

  Centauri frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “This may come as a shock to you, Centauri, but he doesn’t choose to be a Starfighter.”

  It was a line of thought Centauri clearly was not prepared for. His shock as he removed his arm from Alex’s shoulder was clear.

  “Doesn’t ‘choose’ to be . . . but he has the gift!”

  “Maybe he has the gift, but he doesn’t have the inclination. It’s still a matter of free choice. No one can be forced to serve as a Starfighter,” Grig reminded him.

  Centauri sputtered a reply. “Naturally, of course. But to have the talent and not want to use it . . . it doesn’t fit any of the psychological profiles!”

  “Remember what you yourself said about these Earthfolk.”

  “I know, but this is so far outside my experience that I . . .” He turned on Alex. “What’s wrong with you, son? Are you a coward? Are you crazy? Don’t you have any idea of the seriousness of the situation we face and of the singular tribute that’s being paid to you?”

  “You know what you can do with your singular tribute!” Alex discovered that he was shouting. Maybe Centauri was right. Maybe he was crazy. He was also mad. “You didn’t tell me about any of this! You said I was going to receive an ‘honor.’ I thought you meant a prize for making high score on the game. I thought you meant a real prize, like money or something. You never said a thing about my being chosen or selected or singled out or whatever you want to call it to fight in some crazy interstellar war.”

  Grig’s tone had turned solemn. “So you didn’t even tell him what this was all about before bringing him in here and attaching him officially to League forces. Irregular, highly irregular.”

  “I was late!” Centauri looked from navigator to officer, pleading his case. “There wasn’t time. You know how near the Ko-Dan fleet is rumored to be. Besides, I didn’t think it would matter. I thought he’d love it. I thought in that respect he was a normal human being. They love to fight! You should read some of their history. Exquisite aberrations!”

  “Nonetheless, this one chooses not to serve,” Grig pointed out. “The final decision, of course, is not mine to make.” He turned to face the Rylan senior officer who’d been standing quietly nearby.

  Now the officer stepped forward and stuck out a hand. “Return the payment, Centauri. Return the payment, I’ll see it’s sent back to disbursing, and we’ll consider not prosecuting.” He glanced over to Alex. “You have victimized the ignorant representative of an immature alien race.”

  “Hey, now wait a minute . . .” Alex began, but he got no further. Centauri was giving a superb imitation of having a severe stroke, staggering backward and holding the side of his head with one hand while the other waved helpless in the air.

  “Return the payment? You must be delirious! I understand, though. It’s the pressure of preparing for the forthcoming battle, of having to relearn ancient tactics. Must be a terrible strain.”

  “Not as bad a strain as you’ll be under if you don’t make instant recompense for your misdeed.”

  Centauri struggled to recover some of his fast-fading aplomb. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to invent those testing games, working undercover on a primitive world, hiding licensing arrangements through dummy corporations while trying to conceal advanced technology from curious native engineers? Do you know how hard it was to merchandise the result and get the games properly distributed? Only a distribution foul-up enabled me to stumble on this remarkably talented if dense young adult here . . . Do you know what went into seeing to it that the machine’s advanced aspects were not tampered with? Not to mention getting them put in the arcades before Christmas?”

  “Christmas?”

  “A local holiday corresponding roughly to All-Ether Day on Rylos.”

  “Yes, it must be terribly upsetting for you,” Grig put in, succumbing slightly to Centauri’s tale of struggle in spite of knowing better, “and I do sympathize. Yet it remains that you lied to this nice young man, and that he prefers not to pursue the path you have so deceptively chosen for him.”

  “I told him he was to receive a special honor, and so he has,” Centauri pointed out. “So I was a little conservative with some of the details, so what? I saw him fight, using the simplified gunstar fire controls on the simulators I designed. All he needs is a good navigator/operator like yourself to take him into combat. He can be the greatest Starfighter ever!”

  “Centauri,” Alex protested, “that was just a game.”

  “A game? Maybe you thought it was just a game, but it was a carefully thought-out, heavily researched test. A test which you took along with hundreds of representatives of other young, combative races. And the test worked exactly as it was designed to. It selected you, my boy, and here you are.”

  “Right. Here I am, about to get killed.”

  The Rylan officer shifted impatiently from one foot to the other and gestured with his extended hand. “Return the payment, Centauri. Or do I have to call Security?”

  “No need to rush things. Why so insistent? This is a secured installation. Where could I run to?”

  “You always manage to find someplace.”

  Centauri chose to turn from the officer and ignore that. Instead, he tried to convince the crux of his current difficulties of the rightness of the course his good friend Centauri had chosen for him.

  “Now why talk of being killed? You don’t seriously think being a Starfighter is dangerous? You’re being foolish, my boy. What could be dangerous?”

  “Yeah, what,” Alex snapped. “It’s nothing, really. A simple little interstellar war involving a few billion combatants. What could be dangerous?”

  “Exactly my point.” Centauri sounded pleased, managing to ignore Alex’s sarcasm with marvelous ease. “All you have to do is . . .”

  There was a disturbance in the hangar. In minutes everyone was aware of its presence among them. Hands put tools aside while armed troops scurried to battle stations in case the chance presented itself for them to shoot at more than an uncomfortable feeling.

  The light began to change, darkening at first near the center of the largest open area, then brightening as a flat white glow built into a solid globe of illumination. The light intensified, solidifying.

  Alex whispered to Grig. “What is it?”

  “Image projection. Somehow the Ko-Dan have learned the location of our command center.”

  Alex thought a moment. “The traitors Enduran mentioned. It has to be.”

  “Yes, the traitors.”

  “Are there many of them?”

  “No, but there are enough to make a difference, and they are led by one whose philosophy, while abhorrent to all civilized peoples, possesses a certain malignant attractiveness. They are not to be underestimated, nor is their leader.”

  “Xur.” Alex stared fascinated at the rotating
sphere of dense light and remembered details of the videogame.

  “Yes, Xur, but that is little more than a name to you. To us it conjures up the image of a real person, of a great evil. Enduran knows this more than any other.”

  “Enduran? Why him?”

  “Watch, listen, learn.” Alex held his questions and did as he was told.

  Within the spinning globe of light a face began to take form. It resembled another recently observed and Alex struggled to place it. Then he had it, and understood what Grig meant. The resemblance was striking, and frightening.

  Enduran had appeared on the floor of the hangar, shaking off the protective hands of the aides who tried to hold him back. The ambassador approached the projection fearlessly. His expression hinted at anger barely held in check.

  The projection reacted to this new presence, smiled humorlessly. “Hello, Father.”

  “You have no father,” said Enduran. “I have no son.”

  The image did not appear in the least upset. “And neither of us has any illusions. No, that is not quite right. You still believe in the invulnerability of your foolish, outmoded ‘Frontier.’ It is less solid than the image you gaze upon now, and will vanish just as easily should I will it so . . . Father.”

  “Do not call me Father!” Enduran fought to check his emotions. Were he to lose his temper and strike out at a pillar of smoke it would draw only laughter from the traitor. Enduran would never give him that kind of satisfaction.

  “You are no longer my son. That much is settled. You have made yourself an outcast, not only from your family, but from your civilization, from that which nurtured you. You have betrayed on a level unprecedented in history. Knowing this, why have you chosen to return?”

  The projection was am used. “I wouldn’t think that after all you’ve learned that my intentions are still open to question. I thought I made them quite clear when I was thrown out of the Council.” Some of Xur’s humor gave way to the blind fury barely concealed beneath his veneer of politeness.

  “I have returned to fulfill my destiny, Father. The destiny you and the other members of the Council denied to me. I have returned to claim my birthright. I have returned for the good of all Rylans, as my supporters well know.”