He swung around to follow the starship, which had slowed down. It was pouring shot after shot into the command ship . . .

. . . which wasn’t firing back.

Johnny stared in horror.

The ship rocked under the hail of fire. The Gunnery Officer crawled across the shaking floor and pulled himself up beside the Captain’s chair.

‘Fool! Fool! I told you this would happen! I demand that we return fire!’

The Captain was watching the Chosen One’s ship. It hadn’t moved.

‘No,’ she said. ‘We have to give him a chance. We must not fire on human ships.’

‘A chance? How much of a chance do we have? I shall give the order to—’

The Captain moved very fast. When her hand stopped she was holding a gun very close to the Gunnery Officer’s head. It was really only a ceremonial weapon; normally ScreeWee fought only with their claws. But its shape said very clearly that things came out of the hole in the front end with the very definite purpose of travelling fast through the air and then killing people.

‘No,’ she said.

The Gunnery Officer’s face went blue, a sure sign of terror. But he had enough courage left to say: ‘You would not dare fire!’

It’s a game, thought Johnny. There’s not a real person in that ship. It’s someone playing a game. It’s all a game. It’s just things happening on a screen somewhere.

No.

I mean, yes.

But . . .

. . . at the same time . . .

. . . it’s all happening here . . .

His own ship leapt forward.

It was easy. It was so easy. Just line up circles on the screen, binkabinkabinka, and then press the Fire button until every weapon on the ship was empty. He’d done it many times before.

The invader hadn’t even seen him. It launched some missiles – and then blew up in an impressive display of graphics.

That’s all it is, Johnny told himself. Just things on a screen. It’s not real. There’s no arms and feet spinning away through the wreckage. It’s all a game.

The missiles arrived . . .

The whole cockpit went blinding white.

He was aware, just for a moment, of cold space around him, with things in it . . .

A bookcase. A chair. A bed.

He was sitting in front of the computer. The screen was blank. He was holding the joystick so hard that he had to concentrate to let go of it.

The clock by his bed said 6:3 ≡ , because it was broken. But it meant he’d have to get up in another hour or so.

He sat with his quilt around him watching the television until the alarm went off.

There were some more pictures of missiles and bullets streaking over a city. They looked pretty much the same as the ones he’d seen last night, but were probably back by popular demand.

He felt sick.