As strange as it may sound, there was a time in my life when I could honestly say I was the universe’s only 110-year-old boy.

In other words, I—Mark Alexander Starman—am almost certainly the only man in modern history whose ordinary lifetime of eighty years has stretched across one hundred and eighty. I spent the first ten years—from 1971 to 1981 A.D.—in the late twentieth century, and the next seventy after 2081. The hundred years between I passed in a kind of frozen limbo.

What happened after I woke up—what I saw and did in the twenty-first century, and far beyond—is what this book is about.

But before I tell you that story, I’d better explain how I got there in the first place. I remember it like it was yesterday. The date was Thursday, September 3, 1981. The place—a quiet suburb outside Los Angeles. More specifically, Bob’s Video Arcade, where I wasted most of my allowance every week feeding quarters into video machines. That afternoon, I was deep into yet another round of Space Invaders.

“Come on, Mark!” yelled my best friend Alex over the racket. “Get the bonus ship! Don’t blow it!”

I was hunched over the controls, fingertips sweating on the white LEFT and RIGHT buttons, eyes locked on the glowing screen. My green cannon zipped under the red saucer crawling across the top. I jabbed the red FIRE button again and again—but every shot missed. The saucer slipped offscreen.

“Ha!” my kid brother Jake crowed behind me. “Told you you’d miss it!”

“Shut up, Jake,” I muttered, not taking my eyes off the display.

The aliens kept coming—rows of little white crabs and squids marching down the curved glass, the electronic soundtrack pounding faster and faster, like a digital heartbeat. I fired wildly. Missed again. The last of my bunkers dissolved into glowing dust. A green alien dropped to the bottom, touched my cannon, and—blip!—that was it. Game Over.

Jake laughed so loud people turned to stare. “You can’t even beat the first level, loser!”

“Like you could,” I shot back. “You can’t even reach the fire button, shrimp.”

Jake stuck out his tongue—his idea of a comeback.

“Come on, Jake!” called his buddy Billy Baker from the door. “Let’s check out that cave I told you about!”

“I’m coming!” Jake yelled, bolting toward him. He turned back just long enough to blow a wet raspberry at me.

“Little creep,” I growled. “One of these days…”

Alex grinned. “Man, little brothers are the worst. I’m glad I don’t have any.”

“Yeah, well, even without Jake, I still stink at Space Invaders.”

Alex shrugged. “Keep at it. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll win the National Space Invaders Championship on TV.”

“Sure,” I said. “And maybe pigs’ll fly. I’ve been playing since it came out. Still can’t get past Level One. I’m hopeless. Asteroids, Missile Command, Breakout—same story.”

Alex elbowed me. “Hey, you never know. You might get better. Maybe you’ll end up flying a real ship someday—fighting real aliens.”

“Yeah, right. In your dreams. Nobody’s ever gonna fight battles in space.”

“You kidding?” he said. “Haven’t you heard what’s going on up there? NASA’s got the Space Shuttle flying now—an honest-to-God spaceship with wings. They send it up, it drops off a load, and then it lands in one piece! Not some dinky capsule, either—a full-blown orbiter!”

“Big deal,” I said.

“And get this—there’s a private company around here that says they’re building a ship as big as a football field. Nuclear engines and everything! Think about it, man! By the time we’re forty, there’ll be people living on the Moon, maybe Mars!”

“So what? Doesn’t mean I wanna go.”

“You’re missing the point! Space travel’s taking off. Colonies on the Moon, mines on asteroids, giant stations orbiting Earth. Then we’ll break the light barrier—boom!—and there’ll be people all over the galaxy: trading, exploring, fighting pirates! And you could be a space cadet, zapping bad guys in zero-G! Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

“Amazing? No way! I don’t wanna get vaporized over Mars or Vulcan or Tatooine or whatever. I’m fine right here playing Space Invaders, thanks.”

Alex grinned. “Fine by me. I’ll be first in line when Star Fleet starts recruiting.”

I checked my watch—5:45 P.M. “Gotta split,” I said. “Mom’ll kill me if I’m late for dinner. Catch you later, Alex.”

“Later, man.”

I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I’d ever see him.

The arcade doors swung shut behind me as I stepped outside, cutting off the bleeps and bloops. Warm air hit my face. The sky was gold and orange, the sun sinking behind the palms. I blinked a couple times, hopped on my bike, and started pedaling home.

As I rode, I looked around at the world I’d grown up in, my whole life in one snapshot. McDonald’s and Wendy’s side by side, Sears down the street, K-Mart’s red sign glowing in the dusk. Cars with square chrome grilles and blue-and-yellow California license plates, stereos blasting Journey and Styx. Little kids playing with G.I. Joes and Barbie dolls, teenagers cruising in Camaros with the windows down. The post office, the library, the police station, and my school with its sign that said BACK TO SCHOOL 9/8.

To the west, the towers of downtown Los Angeles shimmered in the smoggy haze. To the east, the Angeles National Forest turned purple in the fading light. It was the only world I’d ever known, and even with all its flaws, I liked it just the way it was. I had no way of knowing that the next time I closed my eyes and woke up, that world would be gone forever.

After pedaling a few more blocks, I turned right onto my street. Rows of colorful, nearly identical two-story houses stretched along both sides, their lawns clipped square, their driveways lined with station wagons and sedans. I coasted to a stop in front of Number 32—a cream-colored house with a two-car garage and a mailbox that read The Starmans in neat black letters.

The garage door stood open, revealing our red 1978 Ford Fairmont station wagon. I rolled my bike inside, shut the door, and stepped into the house.

“There you are, Mark,” said my mother. She was wearing a spotless apron over her dress and holding a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes. “How was the arcade?”

“Okay, I guess,” I said, giving a half-shrug.

“Well, dinner’s ready, so wash up and come sit,” she said, smiling—tired but trying.

I did as I was told. The dining room smelled of roast chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes—our usual Thursday night menu. The refrigerator hummed faintly in the kitchen, and from our TV set in the living room came the theme of the CBS Evening News.

Four chairs circled the oak table. My mother sat in the first, my father in the second—white shirt wrinkled, black tie loosened, reading glasses low on his nose as he buried himself in the Los Angeles Times. I took the third chair. The fourth, Jake’s, was empty.

“Isn’t Jake home yet?” Mom asked.

“No, he’s off with Billy Baker. Something about a cave,” I said. “He’ll be back by sundown.”

Dad didn’t look up. The headline above his folded paper read: REAGAN ADMINISTRATION INCREASES DEFENSE SPENDING—RENEWS ARMS RACE AGAINST RUSSIANS.

After saying grace, we started to eat. From the TV came Walter Cronkite’s calm, steady voice:

“…another General Motors plant in Detroit has closed its doors, leaving two thousand out of work. In other news, with inflation and unemployment both hovering near eight percent, President Ronald Reagan insists that his tax cuts and deregulation will bring renewed growth by 1983. Economists remain skeptical…”

Dad lowered the paper just enough to glare toward the set. “Renewed growth, huh? Sure. Maybe for Wall Street.”

“Oh, Tom,” Mom sighed. “You’ve been saying that since January. Give him time. The economy’s been a mess for years. Ford couldn’t fix it, Carter couldn’t fix it. Somebody had to try something.”

“He’s doing something, all right,” Dad said. “Selling the country to the highest bidder. Tax breaks for millionaires, cuts for schools and services. Big business makes a killing, and the rest of us pay the bill.”

Mom frowned. “You don’t understand. He’s trying to free up the economy, stop the inflation. Do you know what our last grocery bill was? It’s insane! Prices have doubled since we got married. We can’t go on like that.”

Dad snorted. “Our mortgage is fifteen percent. At this rate, we’ll be paying for the same house until Mark’s got grandkids.”

“That’s Volcker, not Reagan,” Mom said. “And they both say it’s the only way to stop prices from climbing. Along with having less government, of course.”

“Less government?” Dad said. “Keep it up and there won’t be a government left. The schools, the roads, Social Security—all privatized. Next they’ll sell off the police, the military—everything. You’ll have to pay every time your house gets robbed or the Russians decide to invade, and they’ll raise the rates every year. The rich’ll get richer, the poor’ll multiply, and the rest of us can go to hell in the meantime. Mark my words, Judy—that’s where we’re heading.”

A long silence followed. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator, the clink of silverware, and Cronkite’s measured voice drifting in from the other room.

At ten years old, I didn’t understand much of what they were arguing about, but I knew it was somehow important.

After dinner I went upstairs to my room. I can’t recall exactly what I planned to do—read a comic book, play with my action figures, maybe just daydream—but I remember every detail of that room.

The walls were papered with posters: Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and Disney’s The Black Hole. My Star Wars action figures—Hammerhead, Snaggletooth, Walrus Man—were scattered across the carpet in mid-battle. Under the bed was a cardboard box stuffed with comic books: Superman, Spider-Man, Swamp Thing, and a few others nobody’s heard of in more than a century.

A lamp sat on my desk. My digital clock blinked 7:58 in red numbers beside the bed, which was covered with a Darth Vader blanket and Captain Kirk sheets. Above the headboard, a wide window looked out onto the twilight sky.

The sun had slipped below the rooftops, and the first stars were coming out. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at them, thinking about what Alex had said at the arcade—the future, the spaceships, the colonies. I imagined thousands of starships streaking through the night at faster-than-light speed, each one carrying settlers to new worlds circling distant suns.

Then I remembered my father’s talk at the table and imagined all those stars with price tags dangling from them: a hundred trillion for the red one, two hundred for the blue one—buy one, get one at twenty percent off. Even as a boy, I understood that somehow, somewhere, someone would be selling the future.

I wasn’t sure which was worse—the Russians burning us to ash in a nuclear war, or the corporations buying the pieces afterward. Either way, I wanted no part of it.

I was perfectly happy where I was: suburban Los Angeles, 1981 A.D. Mom, Dad, Jake, and my friends. My comic books, my video games, and my action figures. I leaned back in my chair, listened to the distant drone of the TV downstairs, and silently thanked Whoever Was Up There that I hadn’t fallen asleep for a hundred years and woken in some brave new world.

It was around that time that Mom called from downstairs.

“Mark! Mark!”

“I’m coming, Mom!” I shouted, jumping to my feet and pounding down the stairs.

She was dusting the TV, her apron smudged with gray powder. “Mark, could you ride over to Mrs. Baker’s and see if Jake’s there? It’s past eight-thirty, and he hasn’t come home.”

“Okay, Mom!” I said, already halfway to the door.

“Don’t forget your flashlight!” she called after me.

In the garage, I grabbed the flashlight from the workbench, flicked it on, and swung onto my bike. The night air hit my face as I pedaled hard down the block, tires humming against the asphalt. Streetlights flashed past like silent metronomes.

The Bakers’ house was just five minutes away. I skidded to a stop at their curb, dropped the kickstand, and rang the doorbell.

After a short pause, Mrs. Baker opened the door. She looked worried, her hair pinned up in the same curlers she always wore at night.

“Hi, Mrs. Baker. Is Jake here?”

“I thought he was with you, Mark!” she said. “He and Billy went into the woods two hours ago, and I haven’t seen them since!”

The little brat, I thought. Now I’ll have to go drag him out myself. I kept my voice steady. “I can look for them, Mrs. Baker. Do you have a map of the woods?”

“Why, yes,” she said quickly. She reached into her apron pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. “Billy drew this one last week. He made another yesterday, but he took it with him. This is the best I’ve got.”

I took the map. It was a rough sketch in crayon—our streets, the edge of the woods, a wobbly trail leading to a spot marked with a big X and labeled wierd [sic] cave.

“Thanks, Mrs. Baker!” I said, hopping back on my bike.

The night was black and still as I tore down the empty streets, following the route by the beam of my flashlight. I knew I didn’t have much time. Those woods stretched for miles—who knew how deep Jake had gone?

At the trailhead I braked hard. Two small bikes lay in the grass—Jake’s and Billy’s. “So this is where he went,” I muttered, dropping my own beside them.

I started down the dirt path, running full speed, flashlight jerking in my hand. The beam bounced ahead, cutting through the trees. The woods loomed tall and black against a sky spattered with cold stars. I could hear my own breathing, quick and loud in the night.

After what felt like several football fields, the path forked. I checked the map and veered left. Another long stretch, another mile of shadows. Then I saw it: a cliff rising from the trees, and at its base, a dark mouth in the rock.

The cave.

I stopped and shined the light inside. The beam vanished after a few yards, swallowed by darkness. I took one step in, then another—and froze. What if I get lost? I thought. What if I hit my head? What if there’s a snake—

I clenched my jaw. Jake was in there somewhere. That was all that mattered.

I took a deep breath and walked in. The air grew cooler, heavier. The light bounced off damp stone walls. After a few minutes, the entrance had disappeared behind me.

Come on, Mark, don’t lose it. I kept moving. The tunnel sloped down, the air tasting faintly metallic. Then the passage opened into a wide chamber—bigger than our school gym.

I stopped and stared.

The walls glowed faint blue, like they were lit from the inside. The light shimmered, shifting like slow lightning trapped in stone. The air had that same metallic tang, sharp enough to taste. When I touched the rock, it was warm—almost alive.

I swept my flashlight across the room. The blue glow flared brighter under the beam. No sign of Jake. No footprints. No side passages. Just the chamber, the light, and the silence.

He must’ve gone somewhere else. I sighed and checked my watch—past nine. Mom would be frantic. I’d have to head home and call the police.

I turned toward the tunnel—

—and my foot caught on a rock. I fell hard, face-first, toward the wall. The flashlight clattered away, rolling across the floor. I threw out my hands to stop myself, hit the wall—

—and felt something give.

A low crack echoed through the chamber. A jagged line split the rock, spreading fast. I stumbled back just as a section of ceiling gave way. A roar, a cloud of dust—then the exit was gone, buried under tons of rubble.

I was trapped.

Panic hit me like a wave. My heart hammered. My hands shook. Sweat ran cold down my neck. No way out. Nobody knows I’m here. I’m going to die!

The air grew thicker by the second, heavy with that metallic taste. My head started to swim. My legs went weak. Green sparks danced before my eyes. I tried to yell, but no sound came out.

I staggered toward the rock pile, reaching for the last gap of light—but my knees buckled. The flashlight slipped from my hand, rolling into the dark.

The last thing I remember was the strange humming in the walls, low and steady, like something breathing in the stone.

Then the darkness folded over me, and I fell into it—

—ending my last night in the twentieth century.