The Last Starfighter (6 page)

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 of 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.”

“That’s what Starfighters are supposed to do,” Centauri informed him, “and you’ve proven you can do it as well or better than anyone else. Better than anyone else around here, certainly.”

“No bullshit?” His ego rose another notch.

“No bullshit, Alex.”

“What about my prize?”

“Ah, yes. Your prize. We must talk about that. It is a matter of the utmost importance.” He gestured toward the rear seat. “Step into my office.”

Alex started around the hood, but hesitated on reaching the other side of the vehicle. The old man
looked
straight, and he seemed honest. How could some creep know about his achievements on the game? And this wasn’t Los Angeles or New York.

Still, there was the fancy car, and the fact that it was dark and quiet out. Alex read the papers, followed the nightly news on channel three. He didn’t want to end up a surprised corpse in some irrigation ditch.

“Maybe I’d better get my mom out here. If I’ve won something she’ll need to know about it, and if there are forms to sign, I’m not twenty-one yet. I’ll need a co-signer and . . .”

“Do you think I am some threadbare charlatan?” Centauri was suddenly angry. “I am
Centauri
, and you may . . . you must . . . trust me implicitly! There are no forms to sign, and you may inform your maternal parent of the honor you have been selected to receive in good time.

“For now, though, time and secrecy are of the essence. Do I look like some metropolitan pervert scrounging the back alleys and streets in search of the innocent to debase? Is that what you’re thinking of me, my boy?”

“Well, uh . . . no,” Alex replied, trying to hide the fact that the thought had occurred to him. Then he had an idea which made him feel much better.

“You say you invented Starfighter?”

The old man nodded. “That’s right. Devised the look and format all by myself.”

“Then can you tell me what appears on the screen on the eighth attack level?”

Centauri didn’t hesitate. “Ko-Dan Pack Fighters in squads of six guarding six landing ships equipped for taking control of civilian targets.”

Alex relaxed. No passing weirdo would know that, even if he’d played the game on occasion. Eighth level was rarified territory. Some of his initial excitement returned as he climbed into the car.

The interior was more spacious than he’d expected. There was lots of legroom and a complex array of digital instrumentation visible all around, none of which he recognized. Not that he was any expert on what pinafarina might have put on the road that year. The back of the car was solid. There was no rear window.

Something moved away from him and he sensed another presence close by, though he couldn’t see a face.

“Oh yes,” said Centauri. “Say hello to my assistant, Beta.”

“Betty?”

“No, Beta.”

“Is he Greek?”

“Not hardly.” The old man grinned.

Alex strained but couldn’t make out any features in the dark. The car’s bulk blocked out most of the light from the trailer park and the instrument panels up front were lit by subdued illumination.

He reached out to shake hands. “Hello.”

There was a tiny spark that made him jerk his hand back and look quickly at his fingers.

“Static electricity,” said Centauri smoothly. “You know the problems you can have with these foreign models.”

“Yeah, sure.” While he was engaged in inspecting his still tingling hand, the other passenger had disembarked, still without giving Alex a clear look at his face. He appeared to be a young man, about Alex’s size. More than that Alex hadn’t been able to tell.

He turned back to the driver. “Centauri’s the name of the star nearest Earth, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Alpha Centauri. And Beta Centauri. I assure you I am not related to my assistant, except through common interests.” He nodded outside. “He has business of his own to attend to and will not be rejoining us.”

“Funny name,” Alex murmured.

“Now what makes you say that?” Centauri sounded hurt. “Plenty of people are named after stars. There’s Carina, and Andromeda, and Lyra, and . . .”

“Okay, okay. I take it back. So it’s not a funny name. I just never met anyone named Centauri before, that’s all.”

“It’s more distinctive than Joe, isn’t it? Better a distinctive name for a distinctive personality.”

“What about my prize? Or honor, or whatever you want to call it?”

“Ah yes. I really must congratulate you on your virtuoso handling of the game, my boy. Centauri’s impressed, and that ought to impress you.”

“Impress me with a prize,” said Alex, tired of being put off. But the old man seemed determined to ramble on.

“I seen ’em come and go, but you’re the best, m’boy, the very best. Dazzling execution, phenomenal hand to eye coordination, a positive instinct for making the right decision at the critical moment. Light years ahead of the competition.”

“Thanks.” Alex was trying hard not to fall under the spell of this wave of tribute.

“Which is why Centauri’s here. He’s got a little proposition for you. Interested?”

“What kind of proposition?” Alex was suddenly wary.

“It involves the game. Being a Starfighter player. Interested yet? The rewards are great.”

“Sounds good, I guess.” Maybe the company wanted him to give demonstrations or something. Surely they had to pay him for that.

“Bravo! I knew you’d say that.” He turned to his controls. “Now you must meet your fellows.”

“What? What fellows?” Were there other prize winners besides himself?

There was a
whoosh
as the gullwing doors came slamming down. They locked tight without the metallic snap Alex expected. Everything inside the car operated silently and with great precision.

The engine seemed to whine instead of rumble as Centauri peeled out of the parking lot like it was the final lap at Indy. Nor did he slow down upon entering the highway, ignoring the stop sign at the intersection. Instead, he accelerated, indifferent to the first curves as they began to climb into the hills.

Unexpected acceleration shoved the wide-eyed Alex back into his seat. Inside the car all was silent. He’d never imagined such efficient insulation. At the speed they were traveling there should be a roaring all around them, but wind and noise were completely shut out of the car. As for the seat comforting him, it nudged him gently from behind, supporting him with an oddly personal touch. Soon he found that despite their increasing speed he was able to move his arms and legs with ease.

“Hey, what the hell . . .?” He covered his face instinctively as the car leaned into a sharp curve. Somehow it managed the bend without spinning off the road.

“Handles well, doesn’t she?” Centauri was as calm and composed as if they were negotiating rural traffic in broad daylight at ten miles an hour. “Special compensators. All I have to do is drive. Not all these hybrids are built with an eye for that kind of detail.” He grinned. “This is fun!”