The Last Starfighter

by Alan Dean Foster

  “No, your payment’s here.” Alex fought back the lump rising in his throat. “Full payment, and the bonus. Just like he said. All for you.”

  The old man relaxed a little. “Ahhh . . . at last. Alex, I want you to know that I brought you back for the good of the League. For civilization’s sake. It wasn’t just the money.” He coughed and his smile cracked. One of the medics broke something out of a thin plastic tube and jammed it against Centauri’s upper arm.

  “Of course,” the figure on the floor added in a whisper so weak Alex had to strain to make out the words. He fiddled with the translator, wondering if there was a hidden volume control somewhere. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt to be rich. Filthy, disgusting, obnoxiously rich. I always wanted to be rich, Alex. So rich that . . . that . . .”

  Grig waited until one of the medics gestured, then rose and stepped aside. The tired old body below was at rest at last, content.

  “You are rich, Centauri. Richer than ever you could imagine. ’Til the next existence, you old reprobate. I’m going to miss you.” He turned to face the young human standing nearby. “I’m sorry, Alex. How he held himself together long enough to get you both back here is a minor miracle.” He put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and urged him toward a doorway.

  Alex looked back over his shoulder. The medics had moved on to other work. Centauri lay quietly on the floor of the hangar.

  “Are they just going to leave him there?”

  “For the moment, yes. They have done what they could and there are wounded to save. It won’t bother Centauri. Very little bothered Centauri except missing the chance to strike a profitable, slightly questionable deal. He was an avaricious soul, but a benign one.”

  “He saved my life.”

  “Because he thought you could save others. We’re going to find out, Alex. No time for mourning. Our remaining orbital defenses won’t stop the Ko-Dan. You’ve seen what they can do to a mountain. Imagine what that same weapons system could do to a major city.”

  Alex allowed himself to be led through twisted passageways and down corridors with cracked floors and shattered ceilings.

  “We weren’t away from Rylos very long, Grig. What did happen here? I thought you were ready for the Ko-Dan. When I left, a whole roomful of Starfighters was preparing to go out and intercept the Ko-Dan armada.”

  “We were a few minutes too slow, Alex.” Grig struggled to explain the disaster. “We went from the heights of confidence to the depths of despair in a moment. The Ko-Dan attacked from long range. Simultaneously, our defensive shield was sabotaged by Xur’s fanatics. So was Starfighter Control. None of the gunstars had a chance to get out before the mountain was hit. All were destroyed or damaged by the first strike. The main gunstar hangar is solid with shattered rock.

  “In one stroke we had been rendered helpless. That Xur knew exactly when and how to attack suggests careful intelligence work by his agents. It’s too late to do anything about that now. You’ve come back none too soon.”

  “Fat lot of good I’ll be able to do now,” Alex murmured, appalled at the destruction around him. Centauri’s death had brought home to him the issues at stake in this conflict far more forcefully than his words ever had. The growing conviction that he had to do whatever he could to help was reinforced by everything he saw around him.

  The last thing he wanted to do was insult Centauri’s memory by lying to protect himself. “Yeah, well, there’s nothing noble about my coming back, Grig. I didn’t have much choice. Xur detected Centauri’s ship leaving Rylos just before he attacked, I guess. It’s a small ship. Maybe it looked like a gunstar on their radar, or whatever kind of tracking devices the Ko-Dan use. Centauri said it would look suspicious to them, and I guess it did.

  “So Xur plotted our course, tracked us somehow, found me and tried to have me killed. If it wasn’t for Centauri and a Beta Unit he’d left behind to replace me I wouldn’t be talking about it now.”

  “But you are here,” Grig pointed out quietly, “and it seems you’ve changed your mind about . . . certain things.”

  “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. I still think Centauri picked the wrong guy. But now I understand why he was so anxious to try and recruit any help he could find.”

  “Then you are willing to give it a go?”

  “Huh?” Alex threw him a sideways look.

  “Here we are,” Grig said. He ducked beneath a beam that was leaning at a crazy angle across the corridor, rummaged for a moment behind a shattered barrier, and returned with a handful of clothing.

  “Give what a go?” Alex pressed him.

  “Fight,” Grig said.

  9

  Alex stared at the uniform. It was identical to the one he’d been handed eons ago, in a similar room, by a different alien. It was more than familiar.

  Grig generated one of his stiff, thin smiles. “Yes, it’s the same one. I made a point of knowing where I could find it. In case you changed your mind.”

  Alex took it, blew dust off the shirt. “Do I have to? I mean, isn’t it silly?”

  “Not as silly as standing here arguing about it,” Grig told him, making Alex feel very immature indeed. “Besides, my people are sticklers for the proprieties. If you’re going to do battle on behalf of the League, you should feel and look the part. The uniform is a small concession to my sense of rightness. Don it for me.”

  Alex shrugged. “Okay. No big deal.”

  “Then you’re still ready to participate in the fight?”

  “Well, yeah, okay, sure.”

  “Perfectly splendid that is.”

  Alex turned to examine the destruction surrounding them. Two dazed Rylans were struggling to move small mountains of twisted metal.

  “But with what? You said yourself that the gunstar hangar was completely destroyed.”

  “I promise you this much; we will not have to fight with words. Come.”

  He followed Grig out of the devastated storage area and into a still functioning elevator. The alien ran his fingers over the controls. A brief spark flared and he drew his hand back quickly. A hidden motor hummed and sudden speed made Alex lurch to the side. They were moving, and far faster than during his first such journey.

  No point in wasting the time, he thought, as he climbed out of his jeans and shirt and into the uniform. Grig watched with some interest, always interested in such minutae as the peculiarities of a new lifeform.

  “You mentioned something about a Beta Unit. Am I to understand that one is taking your place back home?”

  Alex mulled that one over a moment before replying. “Well, he’s trying. I don’t think Centauri got all of his programming straight before assigning him.”

  “Any serious difficulties?”

  He thought of Maggie. “Maybe, but we can’t worry about that now.”

  “It is at least doing an adequate job of substituting for you, though?”

  “Yeah. Adequate.”

  Grig looked satisfied. “Then we may safely assume that Xur thinks you’re still on Earth. When his hireling does not file a success report, a second will be sent to make certain, then a third, and so on until your death is confirmed.”

  “That’s what Centauri told me,” Alex mumbled uncomfortably.

  “Don’t worry. A good Beta Unit will keep them fooled as well as occupied, and keep Xur’s attention away from here. That could work to our advantage. Theoretically.”

  The elevator finally began to slow and Alex had to brace himself as their speed diminished rapidly. Grig did not have to use his hands on the elevator walls. Practice, Alex mused.

  The doors opened onto a well-lit chamber. Instrumentation lined the far walls.

  On a second lower level a single ship sat gleaming in its docking bay. The walls enclosing it were cracked in several places and the floor underneath had buckled, but the ceiling was intact. To all outward appearances, so was the beautiful, sleek ship.

  “Some damage occurred even at this distance,” Grig commented, “but Xu
r’s people thought there was nothing out here except construction equipment and design facilities, so this place wasn’t hit as hard as the main base.”

  Alex stared at the untouched ship, scanned their surroundings as Grig led him downward. “Where are we?”

  “In the design silo, on the far side of the mountain range from the main base. A lot of experimental work was done out here, mostly with upgrading and refining the improvements made on the old gunstars. No one’s working here now because they’re desperately trying to make a portion of the command center functional.” He drew himself up proudly.

  “I worked here myself, helping with the hands-on aspect of new improvements. You need more than good theory to improve ship design.”

  They reached the cockpit level. It was open, waiting. Beckoning. Alex turned on his companion.

  “It’s a fine-looking ship. What n ow? We wait for instructions?”

  “What do you think we ought to do . . . Starfighter?”

  Alex hesitated. His gaze roved from the curving high-backed seat to the patient alien standing next to him.

  “This is my gunstar? You expect me to fly this?”

  “Only in combat. Why not? Everything is computer controlled. Space flight is too complex to leave entirely to us mere organics. We can only monitor the ship’s decisions and make a few important adjustments. The ship does everything else. What do you think of her?”

  “Like I said, she’s beautiful,” Alex admitted readily. He studied her lines. “Different from the ones I saw before, though.”

  Grig was pleased. “You are observant, but that is only to be expected. Starfighters excel at noticing details. Yes, this one is different. She’s a prototype, actually. Different internally as well as externally from her sister ships. The others were updated gunstars. You could say this one is the first entirely new gunstar.

  “She’s just been certified operational. It was intended that she be held in reserve, except in case of dire emergency.” He didn’t have to finish the thought.

  “How’s she different? Besides on the outside.”

  Grig considered a moment before replying. “She has much greater range, greater maneuverability, additional simplification of basic instrumentation, advanced fire control facilities, more power, and a slight weapons modification.”

  Alex nodded as he strolled over to the side of the ship. He leaned into the open cockpit. The instruments that stared back at him were more extensive and complex than those he’d mastered while standing at the control board of Centauri’s video test game.

  “I don’t recognize any of this stuff.”

  Grig stepped past him and eased himself into the seat facing the curving console. “That is not surprising, considering that this is the Navigator/Monitor’s station. My position. I’ll guide us from here, handle life support and drive, all the other little details. All a Starfighter has to do is . . . fight.”

  “Then where do I sit?”

  Grig finally relaxed inside. Alex had said “do” instead of “would.” The young human had finally committed himself. Now Grig could shift his thoughts from coercion to instruction. He turned and pointed.

  “In the gunnery chair, up there.”

  Alex followed directions, picked out a small, tightly curved seat located higher up in the body of the ship. He searched in vain for a ladder or walkway.

  “Great. How do I get to it?”

  “Like this.” Grig touched a button and the section of walkway under Alex’s feet began to rise. He balanced himself, was ready to step in when the lift stopped just outside the hatchway leading to the gunnery position. Grig let the lift retract as Alex snuggled into the chair.

  It enveloped him like a warm blanket, molding itself to his contours as hidden sensors noted his shape and made internal adjustments. For a different species it would have provided a different configuration. It took only a moment. The human form was not a complex one.

  Muted whines rose from within the body of the vessel. Glancing down and forward, Alex saw Grig’s fingers working busily at a line of controls. Simplified or not, there was plenty to check out, much to prepare. There was no ground crew standing by to help them.

  Alex had a sudden nasty thought. “Are you sure we’re supposed to be doing this, Grig?”

  “What an odd question. Do you think that someone of my experience would do anything against orders?”

  “Anyone ordered you not to take this ship up?”

  “We’re wasting time,” Grig said firmly, “and Rylos has precious little remaining to it. Pay attention. I’ll swing the display around for you.”

  Alex glanced nervously to his left, then his right, and missed the display console’s approach as it swung down to face him. His chair also moved.

  “Ouch! Whoa.” He leaned back from the display module and rubbed his forehead where he’d been bumped. Lights winked on all around him as the ship’s weaponry was activated. He tried to settle deeper into his seat. As he did so the display module vanished.

  “Hey, it’s gone!”

  “Don’t worry,” Grig told him. “It’s still there, but it’s suspended in a xenon-based mist designed to protect the systems from damage. Most of the ship’s vital instrumentation is shielded that way. Localized force fields lock the mist in place and all important internal connections are photic. Just don’t wave your hands around a lot. Lean forward and pick up the screen again.”

  Alex did so and was rewarded by a succession of soft clicks. “What was that?”

  “Retinal lock-in. Now the screen will follow your eyes whenever the ship’s weaponry is activated. Even if you’re wounded and fall sideways you’ll still be able to fight because the screen will stay that same distance from your eyes, no matter where you go. It’ll reflect all combat information back toward you.”

  Alex leaned to his left as far as the chair allowed, and he was fascinated to see the screen move with him. The grid image on the screen stayed in perfect focus the same preset distance from his face. He tried moving just his eyes, looking toward the floor, and it shifted lower to stay in sight. It was a lot simpler than pushing buttons.

  “Gotcha. Now what?”

  “Put your left arm into the left arm lock and grasp the combat flight controller. It overrides the ship’s guidance system as well as my own.”

  Alex slipped his left arm into a flexible sleeve and let his fingers feel of the indicated instrumentation. Several lights came alive off to his left.

  “Looks okay, but I didn’t push anything on.”

  “The system responds to your touch,” Grig informed him. “When it’s powered up all you have to do is make physical contact to activate everything, and let go of it to relinquish control.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now slip your right arm into the other arm lock.”

  Alex did as he was instructed. More lights sprang to life around him. He was sitting inside an electronic Christmas tree. It was quite pretty, so long as you didn’t think about what it represented.

  “Got it.”

  A small control panel slid into position beneath his right hand.

  “At your fingers now are the ship’s weapons systems.”

  Alex moved slightly to inspect the panel and was startled to see that he recognized it.

  “Hey, fan lasers, photon bolts, particle beams . . . just like on the game back home.”

  “Nothing so primitive,” Grig assured him. “Centauri’s test game would use terminology familiar to you. The weapons you actually control are far more advanced and much more deadly than anything your people have yet developed or even thought about.”

  “Oh,” said Alex, impressed.

  “However, you may refer to the weapons systems by familiar names if you wish. It doesn’t matter what you call them; only how you employ them. What did you call the first system?”

  “Fan lasers.”

  Grig managed to sound amused. “Toys. Kid stuff.”

  Alex swallowed. “What exactly can this ship
do?”

  “You’ll find out,” Grig assured him.

  “Well, at least the controls are familiar.” He moved his thumb toward a large red button protected by a flip-up bar set off to the far side of the panel. “Except for this . . .”

  “Careful, careful!” Grig shouted. Alex hastily withdrew the exploring thumb. “That is for the . . .” The alien hesitated. “How’s your knowledge of the theory of high-energy physics?”

  “Pretty shallow,” Alex confessed.

  “Let’s just call it the blossom, though there’s nothing so delicate about it. A defensive weapon of last resort. Hopefully we won’t have to use it.”

  “I’ll go along with that.” Alex studied the button warily. It looked like a big fat red spider now, hunkered down on its legs, just waiting for a chance to jump out and bite him on the back of his hand.

  Yet there was a morbid fascination to it. He tried to imagine what it might do. Grig had referred to it, at least for Alex’s benefit, as the “blossom.” He conjured up an image of a burning flower, discarded it as unsatisfactory. It did give him something to concentrate on, however, as Grig took the ship through final checkout. A steady whine was now coming from the stern, audible even though Grig had closed both hatches and sealed them in tight. Like bugs in a bottle.

  That image wasn’t very nice either. He turned his thoughts elsewhere. “How come you know so much about this ship when it wasn’t even included with the others?”

  “I told you. I helped with some of the final refinements. In fact, I was working here with the design staff when the main hangar went up.”

  When the main hangar went up, Alex echoed silently, trying and failing to imagine what that instant of shock and destruction must have been like.

  “You mean the whole hangar’s gone? I know it looked bad back there, but I didn’t think it was all gone.” He paused. “What about the other hangars, the other bases?”

  “What other bases?” Grig asked him.

  Alex’s thoughts were moving fast now, one right on the heels of the other. They collided with some rising, uncomfortable suppositions. “You mean all the gunstars were located in that one hangar?”