The Last Starfighter by Alan Dean Foster

Now he strained to see past his brother’s ribs, looking at the videoscreen that was alive with flashing, rapidly changing lights. The images fascinated Louis. They were so alive, so full of movement and trickery. Alex ignored his younger shadow, letting his fingers dance easily over the multiple controls. Louis watched and tried to learn, knowing that Alex was a master at video games. Once he’d watched during a trip to the big arcade in town while other older kids oohed and aahed as Alex ran up several million points on Stargate, a game too complex for his ten-year-old mind to think of trying.

But this new game, this Starfighter, was even more complex, with half again as many controls to manipulate. Yet Alex seemed better at it than anything else. Something one of the other kids had called “rising to the challenge.” Some kids wouldn’t even try Starfighter because it ate their quarters too fast. On a good day, Alex could play the game for hours on just one.

When he wasn’t being interrupted, Louis reminded himself. So readily did he lose himself in the game that he’d almost forgotten what had sent him to the store.

“Mom’s lookin’ for you, Alex.”

“Yeah, sure.” His brother replied without taking his gaze from videoscreen. His arms hung parallel to the ground, still, relaxed. Only his fingers moved, depressing fire controls, adjusting thrust, guiding the tiny microprocessed gunstar through the maze of enemy fighters. It was very much a virtuoso display. Alex played the game as smoothly as Horowitz did his Stein-way.

“Come on, Alex. Mom’ll be mad at me.”

“What for?” Bright blue light momentarily filled the screen, fading to reveal a new series of targets attacking faster than ever, relentless and uncaring. “She told you to come tell me she wants to see me. Okay, you’ve told me. You’re in the clear.”

“Yeah, right.” Louis brightened, tore his gaze away from the motion-filled screen just long enough to locate one of the chairs that sat on the porch. Dragging it over, he climbed up onto the rickety platform. For a breathless moment he was an adult, as big as Alex.

“Look out!” Somehow his brother avoided the wave attack from the left quadrant. Louis couldn’t imagine how Alex had seen the attack coming in time to evade. He swayed on the chair, mesmerized by the lights and sounds, waving and bobbing wildly.

After all, it wasn’t his quarter at stake.

“Get ’em, Alex, get ’em!”

Get ’em Alex did efficiently, professionally, avoiding every attack on his own vessel while methodically eliminating ev erything the game could throw at him, quietly reveling in the simulated destruction and fully confident of his skills.

Louis edged closer and closer to the machine, drawn by the sights on the screen. His small face was aglow with delight. Alex was so good it was more fun to watch him than to play yourself. Well, almost. So much pleasure, and all for a quarter. Being good helped, though. Somehow the game wasn’t as much fun to play when it only lasted a minute or so.

“Blam, blam, blam!”

“Cool the sound effects, Louis. I can’t hear the machine. And move your head, will you?”

Once more the screen showed him the command ship. It loomed huge on the battle screen. He tried a different evasion pattern this time, hoping to avoid the squadrons of enveloping fighters that had shot him down the last time. It didn’t work. He was dead again.

Dying a lot this morning, he thought.

“Nuts!” He gave the console a whack before jamming both hands into his pants pockets. “Not fast enough. I should’ve had it that time.”

A new voice chimed in. Both boys turned to see Otis staring at the screen. “Heard you almost hit eight hundred thousand, Alex.”

“That was yesterday. Would’ve too, if Louis hadn’t bumped my hand.”

“Did not! Wow!” Louis pointed toward the screen. “Seven hunnert and . . . and . . .” His face wrinkled up in confusion. The number was beyond him.

Alex eyed the screen with careful indifference. “Seven hundred eighty-two thousand. Almost as good as last night.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t hit your hand this time, neither,” Louis shot back.

“No, but you stuck your fat head in my way.”

“Did not!”

“I heard you were in the millions last week on Stargate in town,” Otis said.

Alex shrugged, concealing the pride he took in his accomplishment. “Yeah, but lots of guys do that around the country. Stargate’s easy compared to Starfighter.” He added casually, “Though I haven’t heard of anybody else breaking half a million besides me.”

“Maybe you’d win a national contest if they held one.”

“I guess I might have a chance. But only the big game companies run contests like that. Atari, Sega, Nintendo, Williams. I never heard of the company that makes this Starfighter game. Must be some new outfit.”

“Maybe so. Maybe they will have a contest if they get big enough.”

“Yeah. You going to pay my way to it, Otis?”

The older man chuckled. “Not on my social security I’m not, Alex. Tell you what, though. You keep practicing and if a Starfighter contest ever comes up, we’ll see about gettin’ you to it.”

Alex grinned. “It’s a deal.”

Otis nodded to his right. “Looks like somebody lookin’ for you, Alex.”

He turned, saw Maggie exiting the side gate carrying a picnic basket, towels and a small ice chest. The chest was sweating, suggesting inviting contents. At the same time a new pickup pulled in off the highway, rolled into the parking lot in front of the store. It was filled with kids Alex’s own age, all laughing and joking while fighting not to spill over the tailgate.

“Come on, Alex, they’re here!” Maggie broke into a trot, managing her awkward burden easily as she headed for the truck.

For an instant Alex wondered what the hell she was talking about. Then memories from real life came flooding in.

“Silver Lake! The picnic. I forgot.” He started to run after Maggie.

“Hey, Alex.” Louis pointed at the game. “You won a free credit.”

“What about it?”

“You just gonna waste it?”

Alex concealed a smile. The greed was as bright on his little brother’s face as a thousand-watt halogen lamp. He deepened his voice, trying to imitate the game.

“Starfighter Alex Rogan requesting permission to turn over gunstar controls to my little brother Louis, sirs.” A brief pause, then he added, “Telepathic communication confirms okay. She’s all yours, Louis.”

Unable to believe his luck, the ten-year-old hastily wrestled the chair he’d been standing on around until it fronted the console.

“Oh boy!” He hit the start button, his small fingers waiting tensely above the fire controls. Alien warships appeared on the glass, firing out at him. Grinning, Alex turned to follow Maggie while Otis just shook his head and started back toward his trailer. Louis’s excited voice followed both of them.

“Okay, alien dorks, you’re dead, cause it’s me, Louis Rogan flyin’ the gunstar now!” A bright red flare filled the screen and Louis’s expression immediately became one of inexpressible disgust. “Oh, crapola! Gimme a chance, willya?”

Everyone in the pickup was already wearing swimming gear. Well, he could borrow some, Alex knew, in case Maggie had forgotten his. Or he’d shock them all by swimming in the buff. Sure he would.

It was Jack Blake’s pickup. Not that he’d expected anything else, just as there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Besides owning the pickup, Blake had money for gas. Money for gas, money for beer, for movies, for concert tickets. Which was another way of saying that his parents had money.

What was it they’d learned from the Constitution? “All men are created equal.”

Bullshit. When did he get equality with Jack Blake? Somehow the writers of the Constitution had left that one out. He’d asked his mother about it.

“There are no guarantees in life, Alex, and it isn’t always fair.” That’s what she’d told him. Jane Rogan versus Thomas Jefferson, et al. From what he’d observed of life so far he’d long since decided he’d be better off listening to his mom than any of the founding fathers. Most of them had been rich, too.

The pickup was a big, fat, bright red Dodge Ramcharger, with a chrome towbar on the front and four big bright deer spotters mounted atop the cab. Even the damn rollbar was chromed. Conspicuous consumption.

Blake sat lazily behind the wheel, cowboy hat slightly askew, looking like something out of a sarcastic Way-

lon Jennings song, the kind Jennings used to sing back before he and Nelson got big, in west Texas towns like Breckenridge. In the back a couple of kids sipped cokes (the beer would emerge from hiding later, at the lake), leaning back in lawn chairs and soaking up the rays.

Just plain unfair, Alex mumbled to himself.

As he passed the row of rusty mailboxes mounted near the store he paused to peer inside the one labeled ROGAN in reflective plastic letters. A daddy longlegs scurried for cover as Alex’s fingers probed.

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