The Impossible Fortress

“Holy shit,” I whispered.


My mother smacked my shoulder.

“Move the hero,” Mary said. “See if the ogres chase him.”

The hero was crouched at the bottom of the screen, ready to storm the fortress. I reached for the joystick, and he sprinted forward, racing up the side of the mountain, suddenly evading ogres that swarmed from all directions. It was all a hundred times, maybe a thousand times faster than before. I pressed the fire button, and the hero swung his sword, neutralizing an ogre with a satisfying swish. The game looked and played almost exactly as I’d first imagined it.

“Does it work?” Mom asked.

I turned and hugged her, and she gasped with surprise. It had been many months since I last hugged my mother. But I had to do something. I worried that if I kept looking at the screen, I might start to cry.





1900 REM *** VICTORY SCREEN ***

1910 PRINT "{CLR}{12 CSR DWN}"

1920 PRINT "YOU ESCAPED THE FORTRESS!"

1930 IF LIVES>3 THEN SCORE=SCORE+500

1940 IF LIVES=3 THEN SCORE=SCORE+300

1950 IF LIVES=2 THEN SCORE=SCORE+200

1960 IF LIVES=1 THEN SCORE=SCORE+100

1970 PRINT "YOUR SCORE IS";SCORE

1980 PRINT "YOUR RANK IS";RANK$





1990 RETURN




THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Mary and I worked nonstop. Having fixed the main loop of the game, we started cramming in all of the little design details that made gameplay enjoyable. We created a victory screen for players who rescued the princess before the timer ran out; the hero and the princess hopped up and down, dancing to the chorus of Wang Chung’s “Everybody Have Fun Tonight.” There was even a bonus round where players could boost their scores.

All of this was tremendously difficult, but it felt like play. The finish line was in sight; now that we were close, nothing could dampen our spirits. We talked, we laughed, and we no longer cared when a customer interrupted our progress, asking where we kept the binder clips. I even sold my first typewriter, to a desperate Rutgers student scrambling to finish a term paper.

In the mornings I biked to school alone. At lunch I worked in the school library, because I knew Alf and Clark wanted nothing to do with me. I’d only seen them once since the fight in Alf’s basement. We’d passed each other in the hallway outside the music room, and the guys didn’t even look at me. I might as well have been invisible. And that was fine with me.

The night before the contest deadline, Zelinsky kept the store open until ten so Mary and I could work late. He kept busy stocking shelves and polishing the vintage cigarette lighters, but eventually he ran out of things to do. Finally he carried a Wall Street Journal to the back of the store, sat down at one of the showroom desks, and smoked a pipe while he read. The mixtape kept cycling its endless loop—Hall and Oates and Howard Jones and Joe Cocker—and sometimes I’d hear Zelinsky from behind the newspaper, mouthing along to the lyrics. It seemed to happen involuntarily—and as soon as he realized it, he’d silence himself. But a few minutes later, he’d start singing again.

Sometime around nine o’clock, Mary got up to use the restroom (she was constantly going to the restroom; she had the weakest bladder of anyone I’d ever met), and Zelinsky spoke to me from behind his newspaper.

“Mary has a trip coming up. One of these summer study programs. She’ll be in DC for most of July.”

“Right,” I said. “She’ll be back August first.”

I already knew this because Rutgers was announcing the contest winners on August 5, and Mary insisted that we both attend the ceremony to collect our prize.

The newspaper rustled as Zelinsky turned its pages. He continued reading as he spoke to me. “I could use some help while she’s gone. Mostly with the computers. In case people have questions. Plus some stocking shelves and cleaning up. I’m thinking four bucks an hour.”

I realized he was offering me a job. My classmates would be lucky to find work at Burger King or Roy Rogers, and Zelinsky was willing to pay me to work with computers. A real job with air-conditioning, and well above minimum wage.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why not?”

It was that stupid Cosmex internship. There was no getting out of it, not if I wanted to advance to tenth grade. But I couldn’t explain this to Zelinsky. He and Mary had no idea I was one of the dumbest kids in my class, that I was failing Rocks and Streams, and I sure wasn’t going to tell them.

“I just can’t.”

Zelinsky didn’t set down the newspaper, so I couldn’t read his expression. But I knew I’d offended him. “Suit yourself.”

“I wish I could,” I added, a little too late. “But I have this other thing.”

He cleared his throat and turned another page. “Finish your game, Will. I want to go home soon.”





2000 REM *** VICTORY THEME MUSIC ***

2010 READ Q1:READ Q2:READ Q3:READ Q4

2020 READ Q5:IF Q1=0 THEN 4500

2030 POKE W1,17:POKE W2,17:POKE W3,21

2040 POKE H1,Q1:POKE L1,Q2:POKE H2,Q3

2050 POKE L2,Q4:POKE H3,Q1/4

2060 POKE L3,Q2/4

2070 FOR J=1 TO Q5:NEXT J

2080 POKE W1,16:POKE W2,16:POKE W3,16





2090 RETURN




AT FOUR O’CLOCK FRIDAY afternoon, Mary declared the game complete, but I insisted on making one last change to the title screen. I tweaked the code so the game began with the following message: THE IMPOSSIBLE FORTRESS

A Game by Will Marvin and Mary Zelinsky

? 1987 Radical Planet

“Aw, come on,” Mary said. “I don’t need any credit.”

“You deserve all the credit,” I said. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know machine language.”

“What’s Radical Planet?”

“Our new company,” I explained. “I took Radical Music and Planet Will and mashed them up.”

“Radical Planet,” she repeated, testing the name. “It’s not bad.”

The store carried all different kinds of padded envelopes, packing peanuts, and shipping supplies, and Zelinsky encouraged us to use whatever we needed—on the house. “After all this work,” he said, “you don’t want your disk getting mangled by a post office machine.”

By the time Mary finished, the package looked ready to survive a nuclear blast, and we stuck on enough postage to send it around the world. We left the store and walked three blocks along Market Street, arriving at the post office with just minutes to spare. The blue mailbox out front had a sign reading LAST PICKUP 5:00.

I reached for the handle. “Here goes nothing.”

“Wait,” Mary said. “Don’t move.”

“What’s wrong?”

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