The Impossible Fortress

by Jason Rekulak

  “Wait, hang on,” she said. “Did you really hurt your hand climbing under the fence?”

  Clark laughed, like her question was a joke.

  “No, I’m serious,” Lynn said. “What happened?”

  He took a moment to scan the room—he might have been searching for escape routes—then reluctantly pulled the Claw from his pocket. “I was born like this,” he admitted. “It’s called syndactyly, and it runs in my family.” He turned the Claw left and right, allowing Lynn to take a closer look. “But trust me, as soon as I turn eighteen, I’m paying a doctor to saw it off.”

  Lynn cringed. “What?”

  “They’ll slice it clean at the wrist,” Clark explained. “Then they can fit me with a rubber hand that looks totally normal.”

  “That seems extreme,” Sharon said.

  “No, that’s crazy,” Lynn said. “There’s no reason to be self-conscious. All those times you came to Video City, I never even noticed.”

  “Well, I kept it hidden,” Clark admitted.

  “But I’d see you other times,” Lynn pointed out. “I’d see you walking around Market Street. Or reading in the library. Hanging around the mall. And all those times, I never noticed. Honest to God.”

  I’m not sure what surprised Clark more: the fact that Lynn hadn’t run screaming at the sight of his hand, or the revelation that she’d been noticing him around town, in the library, at the mall. These revelations seemed to trigger an error in his programming; he stood frozen, his circuits freaking out, while Lynn and Sharon waited for him to say something.

  “Enough already,” Alf said, pushing past them and bellying up to the Gauntlet machine. “Can I join next game? Because I am really good. You girls will like having Alfred Boyle on your team.”

  Lynn took Clark by the hand, encouraging him to come along. “We need a fourth player,” she explained. “Mary wants to take a look around.”

  “That’s right,” Mary said. “I do.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I told her.

  We set off quickly before Zelinsky could make any kind of protest. Mary and I walked past rows of vendors selling computer coaching, computer tutoring, and even something called Junior Achievement Sleepaway Computer Camp—four weeks in luxury cabins equipped with state-of-the-art PCs, all meals included, for $2,500. Mary grabbed a brochure and gave it to me as a joke.

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask: Where had she been all summer? What was she doing? Did she ever think about me? Did she ever think about her daughter? I’d spent hours on the assembly line preparing for this moment. But Mary just made small talk, so I followed her lead.

  “It’s a bummer about Fletcher,” she said. “I really wanted to meet him.”

  “Me too.”

  “Nothing against this guy Dr. Brooks, but he told me his first computer ran on punch cards. In the 1950s. I’m not sure he’s actually played a video game.”

  “I keep telling myself we’re going to lose,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “Probably.”

  She didn’t sound disappointed. It was obvious she’d already moved on to bigger and better dreams. She was enjoying her new PS/2, hanging out with Lynn and Sharon, buying new clothes and making herself beautiful, while I toiled alone in the cosmetics factory, obsessing over all my past mistakes. Push, twist, push, twist, push, twist.

  “Have you seen the competition?” I asked.

  Mary pointed to the far side of the gymnasium, to a long table full of monitors, joysticks, and keyboards. “You can play all the finalists over there. They set up computers so people can try them. One of them is a total rip-off of Defender.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “Yeah, it’s great, if you want to play a slower, lamer version of Defender.”

  It was the first time I laughed all summer. I couldn’t believe how easily we fell into the old banter, like the last eight weeks had passed in a heartbeat. I wanted to walk past the finalists and see The Impossible Fortress, but our conversation was going well, and I didn’t want to screw it up. Maybe it was better to leave the past in the past.

  “By the way,” Mary asked, “is your mom dating Officer Blaszkiewicz?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that weird?”

  “Very,” I said, then thought better of it. “He’s not all bad, though. He’s super nice to my mom. And he’s convinced we’re going to win tonight, which is, you know—”

  “That’s cool,” Mary said.

  “Exactly.”

  We were interrupted by a hiss of microphone feedback. At the far end of the gym was a small platform that functioned as a stage; Dr. Brooks stood behind a lectern with two other university trustees. Together they called for quiet, and then Dr. Brooks began to speak. He thanked everyone for coming. He spoke at length about the importance of computer programmers in the near future. He predicted that one day soon, everyone would have computers in their homes. He promised that people would carry computers in their pockets and even wear computers on their bodies. “Imagine a computer no bigger than a candy bar!” he exclaimed, and we laughed at the absurdity of his predictions; they were all straight out of The Jetsons.

  Finally he turned his attention to the main event—the winner of the Game of the Year contest. “I want to be clear about something. All five of the finalists have terrific code. They’re very well programmed. But most are variations on popular arcade games like Space Invaders. Only one game tonight aspired to be truly daring, truly original.”

  Mary shot a hopeful glance at me and I knew what she was thinking. Maybe Dr. Brooks was a better judge than we realized. After all, what could be more daring and original than The Impossible Fortress?

  Dr. Brooks cleared his throat, looked down at his index cards, and continued. “Tonight’s winner is no simple arcade game. It offers a different, more sophisticated kind of fun. With strong graphics and exceptionally catchy music. And it’s artfully programmed in a mix of BASIC and machine language, to minimize the lag time in computer calculations. Please join me in congratulating this year’s first-prize winner, Zhang Hsu, for his extraordinary game Five Card Poker!”

  The wall above the platform filled with a screenshot from the winning game, five playing cards on a plain green background. Everyone around me was applauding, but I was too stunned to clap my hands.

  Dr. Brooks continued, “Yes, it’s impressive when a programmer animates spaceships and monsters and moves them across a screen. But what Zhang Hsu has done is even more remarkable. His poker simulation is powered by a complex artificial intelligence that can outwit human opponents in thirty-five percent of the games I played. It’s very well done, and I’m confident it demonstrates a bright future in computer programming. Congratulations, Zhang Hsu!”

  Zhang Hsu came to the stage, a short, terrified-looking boy who couldn’t be older than twelve. He made a short but gracious acceptance speech, thanking his parents and all of his teachers at Millstone Prep for their patience and support. There was another round of polite applause, and then Zhang Hsu’s father helped him carry the enormous IBM PS/2 off the stage.

  “Wow,” Mary said.

  “Yeah.”

  “We just lost to a nine-year-old?”

  “I think so.”

  I’m not going to lie. I was disappointed. Losing to a terrific game like Choplifter or Space Taxi would be understandable. But a five-card poker simulation?

  To make matters worse, we didn’t even collect our fifty-dollar savings bond. Amid all the excitement, the faculty seemed to forget about them. Mary and I asked three different adults about prizes for runners-up, but no one seemed to know what we were talking about.

  My mother walked over, followed by Tack and Zelinsky, and gave us hugs. “I’m sorry, kids. You guys gave it a good try. You should be really proud of yourselves.”

  “I think it’s bullshit,” Tack said, and he seemed genuinely outraged. “If I want to play poker, why do I need a four-thousand-dollar computer?”

&nb
sp; He put this question to Zelinsky, who just shrugged.

  “We should go,” Zelinsky told Mary.

  “It’s not over yet,” she said. “You said we could stay for the whole thing.”

  Zelinsky nodded at the stage, where a custodian was already unplugging a microphone and dismantling the podium. “They’re wrapping up. Where’s your friends?”

  Mary looked around the gym, but there was no sign of Lynn or Sharon anywhere. I hoped they would stay lost. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. There was nothing left after tonight, nothing but thousands of mascara tubes in a never-ending stream. I didn’t know how I’d find the strength to wake up in the morning.

  “Let’s go find them,” Zelinsky said. “It’s late.”

  Out of nowhere, Clark pushed his way through the crowd.

  “You guys have to come with me,” he said, gesturing not just to me and Mary but Mom and Tack and Zelinsky as well. “You all need to see this.”

  Clark led us across the gym to a section designated with a banner as Finalist’s Row. There were two long tables full of computers, and the machines were set to play any of the top five contest entries. We could hear the familiar music before we even reached the tables, before we saw that every machine, every single machine, was playing The Impossible Fortress. Kids and adults were crowded around the screens, gesturing frantically and arguing about tactics and strategy. Even more people were lined up behind them, waiting to take turns. One guy succeeded in rescuing the Princess, and he danced to the game’s victory theme while his friends showered him with high fives.

  “Holy crap,” Mary said.

  “People love it,” Clark said. “Look at them!”

  “No,” Mary said. “I don’t mean that.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly so I could see what she saw. Standing behind Finalist’s Row was a silver-haired man in a purple sports coat and black jeans. He was watching the players carefully, observing how they reacted to the game. I recognized him immediately, of course, the way anyone else might notice if Ronald Reagan walked into a room.

  “You’re Fletcher Mulligan,” Mary said. “You made it!”

  He gave a little bow. “Better late than never. We left LA nine hours ago, but Mother Nature was determined to thwart us.”

  He was accompanied by two younger men and a younger woman—his entourage from Digital Artists. They looked like teenagers themselves—older than me and Mary, but not by much.

  Fletcher pointed to the screen. “I’m getting a real kick out of this one,” he said. “Look at the animation on those sprites! And the music! Such a clever use of the SID chip, don’t you think?”

  I was too terrified to answer. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. Mary elbowed me in the side.

  “We made this,” I said. “Me and Mary. This is our game.”

  “Are you kidding?” Fletcher looked us up and down. “But you guys are just kids! What are you, fourteen? Did your teachers help you?”

  Mary laughed. “Definitely not.”

  One of the players restarted the game, and the title screen popped up. Fletcher leaned closer to the monitor, squinting to read the credits. “What’s Radical Planet?”

  Zelinsky, Mom, and Tack had wandered up behind us, and everyone was waiting for me to answer the question: What’s Radical Planet? I thought back to the night in the store when we coined the name. It seemed like a million years ago.

  “It’s our company,” Mary said. “Will oversees the games, and I handle the music. But we both do a little of everything.”

  “Who handles your sales?”

  “We don’t have a publisher yet,” Mary said. “We just want to make good stuff and worry about distribution later.”

  “Exactly, exactly!” Fletcher turned to his entourage and asked Mary to repeat herself, like she’d just summarized the meaning of life. “This is what I keep saying! Nothing ships before it’s ready! Just ask Atari. They learned their lesson with that dreadful E.T. game.”

  Fletcher’s companions laughed politely while our parents looked on, confused, trying to grasp what extraterrestrials had to do with anything.

  “Do you guys have business cards?” Fletcher asked.

  I nearly said no, but again Mary was way ahead of me. “We forgot them.”

  “How can I follow up with you?”

  Mary wrote the address of her father’s store on a slip of paper, along with the phone number. “We have an office in Wetbridge. Across the street from the train station. It’s a really nice setup.”

  Mr. Zelinsky cleared his throat. “And newly renovated,” he said dryly. “All new lights and shelving.”

  Fletcher gave us business cards. They were embossed with the famous Digital Artists logo, the image stamped on the boxes of all my favorite games. “I want to keep this conversation going, understand? Stay in touch with me.” He shook hands with both of us, then shook hands with our parents and Tack, and then spun off into the crowd like a whirling dervish.

  As soon as he left, Mary and I exploded with nervous laughter. “Did you hear what he said about the animation?” she asked. “Did you hear Fletcher Mulligan complimenting the animation in our game?”

  We marveled over the business cards like they were made of gold. They were way better than any trophy, certainly better than any fifty-dollar savings bond. Mary pushed the card in her father’s face. She was practically jumping up and down. “Dad, that’s the guy I was telling you about! He’s like the Willy Wonka of video games! Did you hear what he said about the SID chip?”

  “Calm down,” Zelinsky said. “What’s a SID chip?”

  Mary’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God. He’s coming back!”

  “Who’s coming back?” I asked.

  “Behind you!” she whispered. “Fletcher Mulligan’s coming back!”

  And the Willy Wonka of video games strolled up like we were old friends, like we’d known each other forever. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “What’s next?”

  “Next?” Mary asked.

  “What’s the next game?” Fletcher asked. “What are you guys working on?”

  I froze. We all froze. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to ruin anything. Even Fletcher seemed to understand he had asked a delicate question. “You are working on a new game, right?”

  Mary took a deep breath, like she was getting ready to blow out some candles. “It’ll be ready in a month?”

  “Perfect!” Fletcher said. “It’s good?”

  “You’ll love it,” Mary promised. “It’s way better than The Impossible Fortress. Better graphics, better music, faster gameplay. It’s probably the best thing Will and I have ever made.”

  Fletcher nodded, like this was the answer he’d been expecting all along. “Then I want to see it as soon as you’re finished,” he said. “My address is on the card. I’ll be waiting, okay?”

  We all shook hands again, and he vanished into the crowd.

  Mary and I stared after him, dumbfounded.

  “One month?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I panicked.”

  “One month to build a whole game from scratch? There’s no way. It’s impossible!”

  “That’s what you said about machine language. But we figured it out. We could do it again.”

  “It’s different now. I don’t even have a computer!”

  Mary looked hopefully to her father, and Zelinsky looked hopefully to the rafters of the gymnasium, as if the perfect excuse might be written on the ceiling.

  “Come on, Sal,” Tack said.

  “Fine,” Zelinsky said. “You can use the showroom. But this doesn’t change anything.” He pointed a finger at me. “I still want you out by seven.”

  And just like that, we were back in business.

  To play a version of

  The Impossible Fortress game

  visit the author’s website www.jasonrekulak.com

  A NOTE ABOUT THE CODE

  When I started
writing this book, I wanted to program an Impossible Fortress video game that would be playable on Commodore 64 emulators (hence the code excerpts at the start of every chapter). But over time I realized that Billy and Mary’s masterpiece would find a much larger audience—and would be a lot more fun—if it was designed and programmed for today’s computers. Enter the amazing Dan and Jackie Vecchitto of Holy Wow Studios. They read the manuscript at an early stage, spent many hours discussing ideas with me, and created a brilliant faux-8-bit adaptation of The Impossible Fortress that you can play for free at my author website, jasonrekulak.com. My high score is 11,358 and I hope you’ll leave me a note if you beat it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to my editor, Marysue Rucci, and my agent, Doug Stewart. They are the all-time high-score champions of The Impossible Fortress, and I’m incredibly grateful for all of their ideas, energy, and enthusiasm.

  Thanks also to TRaSh-80 fan Jonathan Karp, Richard Rhorer, Sarah Reidy, Cary Goldstein, Zachary Knoll, Ebony LaDelle, Tamara Arellano, Lewelin Polanco, Jackie Seow, Dana Trocker, Wendy Sheanin, and everyone else at Simon & Schuster. And thank you to all of the international editors and agents who have embraced this book, including Szilvia Molnar, Caspian Dennis, Hannah Griffiths, Alex Russell, and Tom Harmsen.

  I received terrific help and technical support from Luca Fonstad, Will Staehle, Doogie Horner, Dan Vecchitto, Greg Warrington, Ed Milano, Patrick Caulfield, Seth Fishman, Taylor Bacques, Shari Smiley, and just about everybody at Quirk Books. Thank you, all of you.

  My parents bought a Commodore 64 for our family in 1984, when a six-hundred-dollar computer seemed like an outrageously expensive luxury. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for everything—and thanks to the developers of VICE (http://vice-emu.sourceforge.net) for keeping the C64 alive and well.

  Finally: I couldn’t have written this book without the help and support of my wife, Julie Scott, and she’s the one person I can’t thank enough. You know I love you, don’t you? / You make my dreams come true.