Only You Can Save Mankind
Terry Pratchett
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1: The Hero With A Thousand Extra Lives
Chapter 2: Operate Controls To Play Game
Chapter 3: Cereal Killers
Chapter 4: 'No one Really Dies'
Chapter 5: If Not You, Who Else?
Chapter 6: Chicken Lumps In Space
Chapter 7: The Dark Tower
Chapter 8: Peace Talks, Peace Shouts
Chapter 9: On Earth, No one Can Hear You Say 'Um'
Chapter 10: In Space, no one Is Listening Anyway
Chapter 11: Humans!
Chapter 12: Just Like The Real Thing
Read On
About the Author
Also by Terry Pratchett
Copyright
About the Book
As the mighty alien fleet from the latest computer game thunders across the screen, Johnny prepares to blow them into the usual million pieces. And they send him a message: We surrender.
They’re not supposed to do that! They’re supposed to die. And computer joysticks don’t have ‘Don’t Fire’ buttons...
But it’s only a game, isn’t it. Isn’t it?
TERRY
PRATCHETT
A JOHNNY MAXWELL Story
ONLY YOU
CAN SAVE
MANKIND
Yet another one
for Rhianna
Author’s Note
Should an author change a book that was published years ago? It’s not usual; a book’s a done and finished thing, a sort of picture of the time in which it was written. No one expects Tom Sawyer to have a skateboard (sigh... but I expect he’ll be given one, one day...) So I haven’t made very many alterations to this book. There’s no point in giving your dad a pair of New Rocks, pushing him into the mosh pit and trying to pretend he’s 14.1
But maybe there are one or two things I should point out. Only You Can Save Mankind was written during the Gulf War – not the one we had in 2003, which was the sequel, but the one more than ten years before. I hope no one intends to make it a trilogy.
Computers were just getting powerful enough to run realistic-looking games. At the same time, people were watching the first ‘video war’. Every night the news showed the views from bomb-sight cameras, in what looked like live action, often presented by General ‘Storming Norman’ Schwartzkopf, who was in charge.
On your computer: games that looked like war. On your TV: a war that looked like a game. If you weren’t careful, you could get confused...
Oh, and mobile phones weren’t that common, at least for kids. If you were away from home you had to use a phone attached by a wire to the wall. It was terrible.
Terry Pratchett
2004, updated 2013
1 For anyone reading this in 2024: New Rocks were a cool boot that was a cross between footwear and an armoured car, cool in 2004 (and maybe they still are); the mosh pit was that bit right up close to the stage at a punk or heavy metal concert where all the stomping goes on. Heavy metal was... oh, go and look it up...
The Mighty ScreeWeeTM EmpireTM is poised to attack Earth!
Our battleships have been destroyed in a sneak raid!
Nothing can stand between Earth and the terrible vengeance of the ScreeWeeTM!
But there is one starship left . . . and out of the mists of time comes one warrior, one fighter who is the Last Hope of Civilization!
YOU!
YOU are the Saviour of Civilization. You are all that stands between your world and Certain Oblivion. You are the Last Hope.
Only You Can Save Mankind!TM
Action-Packed with New Features! Just like the Real Thing! Full-Color Sound and Slam-VectorTM Graphics!
Suitable for IBM PC, Atari, Amiga, Pineapple, Amstrad, Nintendo. Actual games shots taken from a version you haven’t bought.
Copyright 1992 Gobi Software, 17834 W., Agharta Drive, Shambala, Tibet. All Rights Reserved. All company names and product names are registered trademarks or trademarks of their respective companies.
The names ScreeWee, Empire and Mankind are trademarks of Gobi Software 1992.
Chapter 1
The Hero With A Thousand
Extra Lives
Johnny bit his lip, and concentrated.
Right. Come in quick, let a missile target itself – beep beep beep beebeebeebeeb – on the first fighter, fire the missile – thwump – empty the guns at the fighter – fplat fplat fplat fplat – hit fighter No.2 and take out its shields with the laser – bwizzle – while the missile –pwwosh – takes out fighter No.1, dive, switch guns, rake fighter No.3 as it turns – fplat fplat fplat – pick up fighter No.2 in the sights again up the upcurve, let go a missile – thwump – and rake it with –
Fwit fwit fwit.
Fighter No.4! It always came in last, but if you went after it first the others would have time to turn and you’d end up in the sights of three of them.
He’d died six times already. And it was only five o’clock.
His hands flew over the keyboard. Stars roared past as he accelerated out of the mêlée. It’d leave him short of fuel, but by the time they caught up the shields would be back and he’d be ready, and two of them would already have taken damage, and . . . here they come . . . missiles away, wow, lucky hit on the first one, die die die!, red fireball – swsssh – take shield loss while concentrating fire on the next one – swsssh – and now the last one was running, but he could outrun it, hit the accelerator – ggrrRRRSSHHH – and just keep it in his sights while he poured shot after shot into – swssh.
Ah!
The huge bulk of their capital ship was in the corner of the screen. Level 10, here we come . . . careful, careful . . . there were no more ships now, so all he had to do was keep out of its range and then sweep in and We wish to talk.
Johnny blinked at the message on the screen.
We wish to talk.
The ship roared by – eeeyooowwwnn. He reached out for the throttle key and slowed himself down, and then turned and got the big red shape in his sights again.
We wish to talk.
His finger hovered on the Fire button. Then, without really looking, he moved it over to the keyboard and pressed Pause.
Then he read the manual.
Only You Can Save Mankind, it said on the cover. ‘Full Sound and Graphics. The Ultimate Game.’
A ScreeWee heavy cruiser, it said on page 17, could be taken out with seventy-six laser shots. Once you’d cleared the fighter escort and found a handy spot where the Scree Wee’s guns couldn’t get you, it was just a matter of time.
We wish to talk.
Even with the Pause on, the message still flashed on the screen.
There was nothing in the manual about messages. Johnny riffled through the pages. It must be one of the New Features the game was Packed With.
He put down the book, put his hands on the keys and cautiously tapped out: Die, alein scum/
No! We do not wish to die! We wish to talk!
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it?
Wobbler Johnson, who’d given him the disc and photocopied the manual on his dad’s copier, had said that once you’d completed level 10 you got given an extra 10,000 points and the Scroll of Valour and moved on to the Arcturus Sector, where there were different ships and more of them.
Johnny wanted the Scroll of Valour.
Johnny fired the laser one more time. Swsssh. He didn’t really know why. It was just because you had the joystick and there was the Fire button and that was what it was for.
After all, there wasn’t a Don’t Fire button.
We Surrender! PLEASE!
He reached over and, very carefully, pressed the Save Game button. The computer whirred and clicked, and then was silent.
He didn’t play again the whole evening. He did his homework.
It was Geography. You had to colour in Great Britain and put a dot on the map of the world where you thought it was.
The ScreeWee captain thumped her desk with one of her forelegs.
‘What?’
The First Officer swallowed, and tried to keep her tail held at a respectful angle.
‘He just vanished again, ma’am,’ she said.
‘But did he accept?’
‘No, ma’am.’
The Captain drummed the fingers of three hands on the table. She looked slightly like a newt but mainly like an alligator.
‘But we didn’t fire on him!’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘And you sent my message?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And every time we’ve killed him, he comes back . . .’
He caught up with Wobbler in Break.
Wobbler was the kind of boy who’s always picked last when you had to pick teams, although that was all right at the moment as the PE teacher didn’t believe in teams because they encouraged competition.
He wobbled. It was glandular, he said. He wobbled especially when he ran. Bits of Wobbler headed in various directions; it was only on average that he was running in any particular direction.
But he was good at games. They just weren’t the ones that people thought you ought to be good at. If ever there was an Inter-Schools First-One-To-Break-The-Unbreakable-Copy-Protection-on-Galactic-Thrusters, Wobbler wouldn’t just be in the team, he’d be picking the team.
‘Yo, Wobbler,’ said Johnny.
‘It’s not cool to say Yo any more,’ said Wobbler.
‘Is it rad to say cool?’ said Johnny.
‘Cool’s always cool. And no one says rad any more, either.’
Wobbler looked around conspiratorially and then fished a package from his bag.
‘This is cool. Have a go at this.’
‘What is it?’ said Johnny.
‘I cracked Fighter Star TeraBomber,’ said Wobbler. ‘Only don’t tell anyone, right? Just type FSB. It’s not much good, really. The space bar drops the bombs, and . . . well . . . just press the keys, you’ll see what they do . . .’
‘Listen . . . you know Only You Can Save Mankind?’
‘Still playing that, are you?’
‘You didn’t, you know, do anything to it, did you? Um? Before you gave me a copy?’
‘No. It wasn’t even protected. Didn’t have to do anything except copy the manual. Why?’
‘You did play it, didn’t you?’
‘A bit.’ Wobbler only played games once. Wobbler could watch a game for a couple of minutes, and then pick up the joystick and get top score. And then never play it again.
‘Nothing . . . funny . . . happened?’
‘Like what?’ said Wobbler.
‘Like . . .’ Johnny hesitated. He could tell Wobbler, and then Wobbler would laugh, or not believe him, or say it was just some bug or something, some kind of trick. Or a virus. Wobbler had discs full of computer viruses. He didn’t do anything with them. He just collected them, like stamps or something.
He could tell Wobbler, and then somehow it wouldn’t be real.
‘Oh, you know . . . funny.’
‘Like what?’
‘Weird. Um. Lifelike, I suppose.’
‘It’s sposed to be. Just like the real thing, it says. I hope you’ve read the manual properly. My dad spent a whole coffee break copying that.’
Johnny gave a sickly grin.
‘Yes. Right. Better read it, then. Thanks for Star Fighter Pilot—’
‘TeraBomber. My dad brought me back Alabama Smith and the Jewels of Fate from the States. You can have a copy if you give me the disc back.’
‘Right,’ said Johnny.
‘It’s OK.’
‘Right,’ said Johnny.
He never had the heart to tell Wobbler that he didn’t play half the games Wobbler passed on. You couldn’t. Not if you wanted time to sleep and eat meals. But that was all right because Wobbler never asked. As far as Wobbler was concerned, computer games weren’t there for playing. They were for breaking into, rewriting so that you got extra lives or whatever, and then copying and giving away to everyone.
Basically, there were two sides to the world. There was the entire computer games software industry engaged in a tremendous effort to stamp out piracy, and there was Wobbler. Currently, Wobbler was in front.
‘Did you do my History?’ said Wobbler.
‘Here,’ said Johnny. ‘ “What it was like to be a peasant during the English Civil War.” Three pages.’
‘Thanks,’ said Wobbler. ‘That was quick.’
‘Oh, in Geog last term we had to do one about What it’s like being a peasant in Bolivia. I just got rid of the llamas and put in stuff about kings having their heads chopped off. You have to bung in that kind of stuff, and then you just have to keep complaining about the weather and the crops and you can’t go wrong, in peasant essays.’
Johnny lay on his bed reading Only You Can Save Mankind.
He could just about remember the days when you could still get games where the instructions consisted of something that said, ‘Press < for left and > for right and Fire for fire.’
But now you had to read a whole little book which was all about the game. It was really the manual, but they called it ‘The Novel’.
Partly it was an anti-Wobbler thing. Someone in America or somewhere thought it was dead clever to make the game ask you little questions, like ‘What’s the first word on line 23 on page 19 of the manual?’ and then reset the machine if you didn’t answer them right, so they’d obviously never heard of Wobbler’s dad’s office’s photocopier.
So there was this book. The ScreeWee had turned up out of nowhere and bombed some planets with humans on them. Nearly all the starships had been blown up. So there was only this one left, the experimental one. It was all that stood against the ScreeWee hordes. And only you . . . that is to say John Maxwell, aged twelve, in between the time you get home from school and get something to eat and do your homework . . . can save mankind.
Nowhere did it say what you were supposed to do if the ScreeWee hordes didn’t want to fight.
He switched on the computer, and pressed the Load Game key.
There was the ship again, right in the middle of his sights.
He picked up the joystick thoughtfully.
There was an immediate message on the screen. Well, not exactly a message. More a picture. Half a dozen little egg-shaped blobs, with tails. They didn’t move.
What kind of message is that? he thought.
Perhaps there was a special message he ought to send. ‘Die, Creep’ didn’t seem to fit properly at the moment.
He typed: Whats hpaening?
Immediately a reply appeared on the screen, in yellow letters.
We surrender. Do not shoot. See, we show you pictures of our children.
He typed: Is this a trick WObbler?
It took a little while before the reply came.
Am not trick wobbler. We give in. No more war.
Johnny thought for a while, and then typed: Youre not supoosed to give ni.
Want to go home.
Johnny typed: It says in the book you blue up a lot of planets.
Lies!
Johnny stared at the screen. What he wanted to type was: No, I mean, this cant happen, youre Aliens, you cant not want to be shot at, no other game aliens have ever stopped aliening across the screen, they never said We DonT Want to Go.
And then he thought: they never had the chance. They couldn’t.
But games are a lot better now.
They never made things like the old MegaZoids seem real, with stories about them and Full-Colour Graphics.
This is pr
obably that Virtual Reality they’re always talking about on the television.
He typed: It is only a game, after all.
What is a game?
He typed: Who ARE you?
The screen flickered. Something a bit like a newt but more like an alligator looked back at him.
I am the Captain, said the yellow letters. Do not shoot!
Johnny typed: I shoot at you and you shoto at me. That is the game.
But we die.
Johnny typed: Sometimes I die. I die a lot.
But YOU live again.
Johnny stared at the words for a moment. Then he typed: Dont you?
No. How could this be? When we die, we die. For ever.
Johnny typed desperately: No, thats not right because, in the first mission, theres three ships you have to blow up before the first planet. I@ve played it lots of times and there@s always three ships there—
Different ships.
Johnny thought for a while and then typed: What happens if I switch of tthe machine?
We do not understand the question.
This is daft, thought Johnny. It’s just a very unusual game. It’s a special mission or something.
He typed: Why should I trust you?
LOOK BEHIND YOU.
Johnny sat bolt upright in his chair. Then he let himself swivel around, very cautiously.
Of course, there was no one there. Why should there be anyone there? It was a game.
The newt face had disappeared from the screen, leaving the familiar picture of the inside of the starfighter. And there was the radar screen—
– covered in yellow dots.
Yellow for the enemy.
Johnny picked up the joystick and turned the starfighter around. The entire ScreeWee fleet was there. Ship after ship was hanging in space behind him.
Little fighters, big cruisers, massive battleships.
If they all had him in their sights, and if they fired . . .
He didn’t want to die.
Hang on, hang on. You don’t die. You just play the game again.
This was nuts. It was time to stop it.
He typed: All right what happens now?
