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Photo by Elisa Nobe

Invaders

by Mari Ness

The space invaders were really coming. Tommy knew it. From the moment he'd first seen the Atari, he'd known what it really was: not just a gaming system, not just something to share with his friends. But a training exercise. A secret government sponsored training exercise. The space invaders were coming, and the government and Tommy knew it. He had to be prepared.

He trained.

He trained endlessly, despite the cries and complaints of his mother. "Tommy! You get off that thing right now and do some homework! Or take out the trash!" He ignored the cracks from his no-longer-living at home father about boys that did nothing but sit at home playing video games all long, and about how fat his butt was getting. His father was stupid; Tommy's mother had always said so, and now he had proof.

Tommy was training.

When he realized that Space Invaders was appearing in other systems besides Atari, allowing him to train outside the house, he carefully saved up his money, traded in as many cans and bottles as he could rescue, and invested in these new gaming systems—the miniaturized arcade sets, the handheld models that appeared later. His fingers itched when he was not near them.

Tommy was training.

His friends, and indeed the rest of the neighborhood, soon learned not to try to compete with him on Space Invaders. Other games, sure—anyone could beat Tommy in PacMan or Asteroids or Centipede. Anyone, despite Tommy's exquisite thumb action and unbeatable focus. The truth was, even while playing Centipede, Tommy could not stop thinking about Space Invaders, could not stop the haunting fear that by spending time on any other game—even if it kept his thumbs and hands and concentration in shape, even if the competition was good for him—that time was damaging his training, making him less ready, letting his country down.

He rapidly learned the tricks to gaining extra points in the game, including the trick of counting 22 shots, then firing at the saucer, then counting another 14 shots – and just as rapidly ignored them. After all, when the invaders showed up, they would not care if Tommy earned 100 points or 300 points for shooting down that saucer. The point system was nothing more than an incentive to get players to improve, to train, to be ready for the day when the invaders would come and every player on earth would need to have thumbs at the ready.

He trained in other ways as well. It had not, of course, taken Tommy long to realize the chief flaw with the Space Invaders game – no matter what system he used, it always took too long between shots. He hoped the government was right about the slow speed of the alien invasion – it didn't match the movies Tommy saw, but he knew those were only fake anyway. But clearly, the slow shooting of the government guns was going to be a problem. Tommy wondered precisely why players were forced to shoot so slowly, no matter what the space invaders did or what their speed was. The players were stuck.

It must be, Tommy thought, as his thumbs twisted on the controls, related to the weapons the government planned to use on the invaders. But surely, that sort of technology could be improved and sped up? Unless, of course, it had something to do with the very nature of the laser weapon best able to destroy a space invader with a single shot—perhaps something related to its innate physical nature. He began to study chemistry and physics intensely, to understand the government's weaponry.

He might have gone into the Army. Both his absentee father and his mother, for once agreeing on something, thought he should: Money for college, said his mother. The Army will make him normal, said his father. When the temptation of the Army proved futile, the Air Force was offered instead. Tommy remained immune. He could not have explained why, but somehow he knew: all of the U.S. Armed Forces – even Tommy's beloved Air Force – were nothing more than a smokescreen as other forces prepared for the invasion. No, the real invasion preparation wouldn't be with the army. It would be with computers. Otherwise, why create an Atari system to train earth's defenders? And computers were where Tommy intended to be.

"The Army would give you tuition money to learn about computers," wailed his mother, but Tommy was deaf to her cries. He took out loans and headed to a nearby state college, learning coding with his brain while keeping his fingers occupied with Space Invaders. He did not talk to many girls, and his rare friends were video game addicts with little time for socializing.

He could have been lonely. But he had his training to prepare for.

Yet even Tommy's strident convictions were put to the test as the world and computers moved on, and ever better and faster and improved video games—implying improved training—appeared. Tommy worried: did this somehow mean that behind the initial space invaders, the small white or purple or blue or green inexorably moving things creeping down from the sky, that something more would be coming? Something that would require more skilled gameplay? Tommy couldn't be sure, but he could tell, unquestionably, that the mere thought made his task that much more important. The space invaders would be bad enough: what came beyond…

He began searching newspapers and magazines and later websites and blogs for evidence of the conspiracy. He took a special trip to Japan—his mother hoped it was evidence of a new interest in Asian girls—to visit the very places where Space Invaders had been created. He saw nothing, which only increased his admiration for the conspirators. He saw X-Files, and quietly laughed at the incompetence displayed there. He took a second trip to Japan, and while there, asleep in the Tokyo Palace hotel (he spent his money on nothing but video game players and hotel rooms) dreamed: dreamed of the space invaders coming, raining slowly down through the sky, dreamed that he had received instructions of what to do.

It would be soon, he knew. Soon.

But even Tommy was caught by surprise when it happened, just outside a Panera Bread where he was munching on a salad and soup. (He had recently realized that the alien invasion would require him to be in improved physical shape, so had taken to hunting down various salads, with plentiful high caloric dressing, in various areas.) His Gameboy was naturally at his side, in use between his mouthfuls of soup. (He had figured out how to hold the Gameboy and practice while eating, but he found that this ability attracted some odd looks, and he preferred to keep a lower profile.) The salad made him sad, and to keep himself from looking at it, he glanced up at the sky.

At first glance, the sky seemed a normal: the greyness that sometimes hits right before rain, covered with clouds. But as Tommy looked up, he realized that these were not stormclouds pulsing with rain, but rather—his eyes narrowed. He stood, and felt the breath catch in his throat.

They were there.

Millions—no, he corrected himself hastily—billions, trillions of the things, tiny creatures barely larger than his thumb, in all kinds of colors, just the way Atari had displayed them. Well, not quite—the forms of some of them were decidedly different, and some of the colors were wrong with some of the tiny forms. But they were falling just as they had in the game, in slow, careful formation, moving from side to side. The beeping noises filled his brain.

He had known.

His stomach clenched.

And he had no weapon. His carefully trained thumbs, his exquisitely developed reflexes, his inherent sense of aim – it was all useless, useless. He had nothing in his hands except for a plastic fork and a drinking cup. His stomach clenched again. Maybe he should have gone to the army. He howled and ran inside screaming, scattering the startled people waiting for sandwiches and drinks.

"I need my laser cannon! I need the laser cannon! I need the laser cannon that you can operate with your thumbs! It should be ready for me! I should be there! They were supposed to warn me!"

If he'd expected a reaction, he was disappointed; the others simply turned to their friends or cell phones, ignoring him. He would find no laser cannons here. Perhaps a few of them might call 911, if he kept yelling, which would alert Them to the news that the space invaders were here. Perhaps. In the meantime, he could do nothing in here. But Tommy was needed. He rushed back out, to stare at the sky, to see if he had imagined it.

But no, the invaders were still there, rolling slowly and inexorably down through the sky, and now other people were pausing in their path to look up and stare and shout. They were here. They were really here at last. Tommy's eyes looked about wildly, and lit on the Gameboy. Maybe, just maybe… He grabbed it, and picked it up, and aimed it at the invaders. Nothing. Nothing. His stomach clenched again. Perhaps—just perhaps—the Gameboy could be used as some sort of interface with the government's weapons systems. If he could shoot the aliens on the screen, perhaps, just perhaps, he could—He pulled up the screen. His thumbs trembled. He stared at the screen and began to shoot, unhesitatingly, letting the instinct of practice take over. He was trained. He was needed. He could do this.

The space invaders on the Gameboy screen began to vanish under Tommy's skilled thumbs, one by one vanishing with a little pop. Tommy hardly dared to look up, but he gave himself a few precious seconds between levels —he could regain a few extra laser cannon lives if needed —to look up. His heart sank. If his efforts were doing anything to halt the rain of space invaders, he could not see it. Too little, too late, and no one else had Gameboys around him. And now, about him,other people were coming out, to stare up into the sky and point and scream, and Tommy could do nothing, nothing, except tap uselessly away at the Gameboy that someplace might be aiming a real laser cannon, but here and now, was not.

They were coming. He was trained, and they were coming, and he did not have his laser cannon. And Tommy stood there in the bright sunlight while hordes of alien invaders slowly rained down through the sky, set their sights on him, and scored.

Mari Ness lives in central Florida, just a few feet away from a lake filled with lurking alligators.  Her work has previously appeared in Fantasy, Susurrus, and Dog Versus Sandwich, among many other publications. She keeps a disorganized blog at mariness.livejournal.com.