Spider-Man

  Something.

  But what?

  XII.

  THE

  GREMLIN

  General Slocum was extremely impressed by the setup at Quest Aerospace, and with every passing moment he was feeling better and better about the prospect of dumping OsCorp.

  The facility itself was about as advanced as they came. Indeed, Slocum was almost looking forward to returning to the Pentagon and telling them that Quest was working on things that made current military technology look sickly. There was no doubt in his mind that Quest—and not OsCorp—was the outfit with which they should be doing heavy-duty business.

  The night air was stiff and exhilarating as Slocum and the project coordinator, Dr. Maddux, walked along the back of a concrete bunker at the Quest testing facility, moving past a sign that proclaimed in bold letters, BUNKER 6 QUEST AEROSPACE PROVING GROUNDS.

  Maddux was a remarkably personable man, devoid of Osborn’s irritating intensity and arrogance. Instead, Maddux wore his confidence like comfortable shoes. “Our exoskeleton’s got real firepower, General Slocum,” he was saying proudly.

  “If it does what you say it can,” Slocum assured him, “I’ll sign the contract tomorrow.” But he wasn’t looking at Maddux; instead his attention was focused on the war machine standing out on the test area.

  The project’s name was B.A.D.G.E.R.: Ballistic All Defense Guerrilla Explorer/Recon. However, some of the guys in the development team had claimed—rather tongue-in-cheek—that it really stood for BADass GEaR. The metal exoskeleton was situated on the tarmac, crouched like an oversized cross between a praying mantis and the ferocious little animal that it was named for. It glistened in the moonlight, and Slocum felt a chill of anticipation as he and Maddux stepped into the protective bunker. “I think I’m in love,” Slocum said.

  Maddux peered at him over a small pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I’m afraid I’m married, General.”

  Slocum laughed heartily at this. “Sorry, Doctor. I believe the object of my affections outweighs you just a bit.” He peered through the slits of the bunker, admiring the B.A.D.G.E.R. as it awaited the test procedure.

  “Now under ordinary circumstances,” Maddux said, making some last minute checks via his handheld computer, “the B.A.D.G.E.R. would naturally be controlled by an on-board human operator.”

  “Like the fellow there,” said Slocum. Sure enough, a test pilot was climbing into the unit, strapping himself in, and running a series of last minute checks on the control panels.

  “Exactly right, General. That is, after all, the entire purpose of an exoskeleton: to be a sort of second skin to both protect a soldier and augment his strength.” When Slocum nodded, he continued, “however, there is an auto-program built into the unit, which is designed to kick in should the human operator be rendered inoperative through a fluke or by an enemy. That’s what we’re going to be testing this evening. The human pilot will simply be along for the ride; everything else is going to be preprogrammed.”

  “Let ’er rip. Let’s see the soldier of the future.”

  Cautiously, Maddux said, “And … what about your commitment to OsCorp?”

  At that, Slocum chortled. “Nothing would please me more than to put Norman Osborn out of business.” And he absolutely meant it. He’d endured Osborn’s smug, insufferable manner for years now. It was one thing to have that attitude when you were producing things that made you irreplaceable. But Osborn was talking the talk without walking the walk, and Slocum’s extremely limited patience had finally run dry. “Let’s just hope no gremlins spoil the test.”

  “Gremlins?” asked Maddux, looking blank.

  Slocum smiled in recollection. “In the old days, during World War II … something went wrong with the planes, the pilots always claimed a gremlin had gotten into the works.”

  “Well, General,” laughed Maddux. “I assure you, the only gremlins that exist these days are odd-looking used cars. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

  The only equipment in the bunker was a radio unit that would enable them to hear communiqués from the test pilot in the B.A.D.G.E.R. “Jacobs. Can you hear me? Over.”

  “On line, over,” came back Jacobs, the test pilot.

  Maddux glanced toward Slocum, who gave him an encouraging thumbs up. “Bring mission profile on line, Jacobs,” ordered Maddux.

  “Beginning mission profile,” replied Jacobs, “and … mark.”

  The B.A.D.G.E.R. trembled slightly as a roaring filled the air. The bunker did not vibrate in response, indicating that the walls were sufficiently sturdy and they would be safe enough should any unfortunate mishap occur. Not that Slocum was expecting any. It was clear that Quest had its act together.

  Then the B.A.D.G.E.R. began to lift off, spewing a cloud of exhaust, rotating ninety degrees as its onboard jets prepared to send it at an angle across the tarmac.

  Maddux was all smiles, about to issue another order, and suddenly the alarmed voice of the pilot came over the speaker system. “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

  For a moment, Slocum thought this might be part of the test, but then he watched as the expression on Maddux’s face moved from confusion to barely controlled alarm, and he knew something was wrong.

  “Jacobs,” Maddux started to say, “Jacobs, come in, what is …”

  And suddenly the pilot’s voice went up an octave as he screamed, “Oh my God! What is that?!? Nooooo!!!”

  “Maddux,” Slocum said warningly, not liking the way this test was going.

  “I’m … sure it’s just a glitch—”

  That was when the B.A.D.G.E.R. exploded.

  It happened utterly without warning. There was no sign of anything going wrong with any of the onboard mechanics. One moment the unit was there, hovering a few feet in the air, and the next it was a fireball of burning and twisted metal, the sound so deafening that Slocum was moaning as he held his ears. Pieces of the unit flamed toward them and ricocheted off the bunker. Maddux was gaping uncomprehendingly through the slit. The smell of burning metal wafted through the air.

  Then something loomed out of the sizzling and smoky ruins. Some sort of … of creature, it appeared to be … a mechanical demon spat up from a techno hell, limber and tinted green, with a metal crest on its head, glowing yellow eyes, and a wide-open mouth filled with jagged teeth. It was flying, hovering on what appeared to be a … a glider … a glider that looked familiar, it looked …

  … it looked …

  Oh . . . God . . . thought Slocum, realizing where he had seen it before. And in doing so, he knew the true identity of the beast hovering twenty feet away, inspecting its handiwork. Oh . . . my dear God . . .

  The green-tinted creature, looking like an oversized, monstrous gremlin, glanced right and left as if searching for new enemies. Then its attention fell upon the bunker, and if its mouth hadn’t already been frozen into a grin, it would have split wide with mirth.

  And the general reasoned that it couldn’t be, simply couldn’t be him. Couldn’t be the man with the hard expression and the self-satisfied, smug air. Couldn’t be the man whom the general had been gleefully planning to put out of business.

  He started to shout, “Osborn, what do you think you’re doing!?” and it was at that moment—when the high-powered missile detached itself from its holder beneath the flying platform and hurtled toward the slit in the bunker as if it had eyes—that Slocum realized Osborn in fact knew precisely what he was doing.

  The missile struck the bunker, and although the structure had been designed to withstand a significant amount of punishment, the damage it sustained from the missile was far more than it was able to take. The bunker erupted in flames. Maddux barely had enough time for a scream; Slocum, not even that. Within seconds the conflagration had consumed the bunker and its inhabitants.

  And with a demented cackle of glee, the gremlin spun joyfully in the air and bellowed, “B.A.D.G.E.R? B.A.D.G.E.R.? We don’t need no steenkeeng B.A.D.G.E.R.!
” Then he threw his arms around himself in a joyful expression of self-adoration, and jetted away into the night sky, his laughter drifting behind him.

  XIII.

  THE

  TRANSITIONS

  Peter wanted to feel good about it.

  As he looked up at the clear blue sky, his view of which was suddenly interrupted by hundreds of mortarboards spiraling into the air, he wanted to do nothing but rejoice over the fact that he was about to leave high school behind. That his life was, in effect, about to begin, with everything up until now serving as a sort of lengthy preamble. But as the overjoyed cheers of his fellow graduates rang in his ears, all he could do was dwell on the fact that Uncle Ben wasn’t there to see it, and he should have been. And it was Peter’s fault that he wasn’t.

  But he knew he had to push such grim and depressing musings far, far away from him. Aunt May was like a bloodhound. If she scented the guilt that he was carrying, she would immediately start asking him what was wrong. So he forced a stiff-upper-lip grin, determined that no one would see the heaviness in his heart, and looked around for her.

  Instead he spotted Harry, who was grinning with absolutely delirious joy. Peter couldn’t blame him. Harry had, with Peter’s aid, studied his butt off for the regents exams, and he’d nailed them. Harry war-whooped when he saw Peter and threw his arms around him. “We made it, buddy!” Peter said, smile plastered on his face. Truth to tell, with the infectious joy that Harry was giving off, it was hard not to share in the happiness.

  Harry nodded, and then gripped Peter’s upper arms in excitement. “Good news! My father owns a building downtown with an empty loft he said we could have. Why not move in with me when you get to the city?”

  Peter blinked. He’d been wrestling with the notion of how he could possibly support himself in the face of Manhattan prices, and had almost resigned himself to having to stay living with Aunt May. Still, it wasn’t that easy. “I’m … not sure I can afford the rent,” he admitted.

  “We’ll work something out!” said Harry with assurance.

  Peter crossed his fingers. “Gotta get a job, first.” Then he looked around, trying to spot Aunt May in the surging mass of parents and students surrounding one another.

  Then he spotted her, standing much closer than he would have thought. And he was stunned when he saw to whom she was speaking. “Harry, look!” and he pointed.

  Harry looked where Peter indicated, and his jaw dropped. “What’re the odds?” he wondered as they pushed their way through the crowd.

  They drew within range of Aunt May, and Peter caught the tail end of what she was saying. “… thought you might be Harry’s father. He’s the spitting image of you.” Then she spotted Harry, who was in front of Peter, and called, “There’s Harry!”

  Harry made it over to his dad, Peter right behind him, and held up his diploma in his left hand as if it were the Olympic torch. “Hey, Dad!”

  “You made it,” Osborn said. “It’s not the first time I’ve been proven wrong. Congratulations.”

  Jeez, I wonder if this guy plays tennis the way he compliments his son, because he’s got a hell of a backhand, thought Peter, feeling irritated on Harry’s behalf. But for Harry, apparently, it had the impact of a feather on a rock face, because when his father held out a hand, Harry shook it firmly. “Thanks,” Harry said.

  Obviously looking to bring some genuine warmth to the moment, Aunt May embraced Harry and said, “Congratulations, Harry.”

  Suddenly Osborn’s eyes focused on Peter, spotting him over Harry’s shoulder. For no reason that he could determine, Peter felt a slight chill, as if his spider sense was making a vague attempt to stir to life. But Osborn certainly wasn’t saying anything threatening. In fact, he looked happier to see Peter than he was to receive his own son. “Ah, hah! The winner of the science award!”

  It was certainly hard to miss. It was a plaque about the size of Peter’s forearm. He almost felt embarrassed to be hauling such an ostentatious thing around. He bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment as Aunt May hugged him and said, “Here’s our graduate!” She draped an arm around Peter. “You two looked so handsome up there!”

  Osborn stepped forward and, to Harry’s obvious annoyance and Peter’s discomfort, put his arm—not around Harry—but around Peter from the other direction. “I know this has been a hard time for you, but try to enjoy this day. Commencement: the end of something. The start of something new.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Osborn.”

  “And if you ever need anything, you just call. And if and when you do, I’ll be there to pick up the phone and say—”

  “—you gotta be kidding me!”

  Mary Jane’s gaze darted back and forth in mild self-consciousness. She was holding her mortarboard under her arm, shaking out her hair, and she was doing everything she could to look nonchalant in the face of Flash’s obvious fury. “No, Flash, I’m not kidding you… .”

  “But we had everything planned out! About what we were gonna do when we got out of school!”

  “Flash, you had everything planned out. Not me.” There was still no sign of her parents. She couldn’t have been more relieved. Having her folks there might have made this more difficult, if not impossible. She’d planned to tell Flash that evening when they went out, but she suddenly found that she simply couldn’t wait. That even one more date with him would be giving more encouragement than she felt comfortable with. She brushed her hair back again; she tended to do that a lot when she was nervous. “I have a career I want to pursue … acting …”

  “Acting? How about this, M. J.: You start acting like my steady girlfriend, which is what you’re supposed to be… .”

  “You know what the problem is, Flash?” she said, her green eyes burning with anger. “You were too busy listening to yourself to listen to me.”

  “You are being totally unfair!”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Flash. Look,” she said, “I just … I feel like I want to explore options.”

  He bristled, his face getting red with fury. “And what about how I feel? Isn’t that at all important?”

  “Flash, it’s been nothing but your feelings for years now. You don’t give a damn about my hopes, my dreams… .”

  “You?” He snorted. “You dream of partying, and you hope there’s another party after that. What, there’s more?”

  Something in his Neanderthal intelligence obviously warned him that he’d made a mistake just then. But it was too late to repair it, as Mary Jane yanked the steady ring off her finger and shoved it in Flash’s hand. Without a word, an infuriated Flash cocked his arm, and for a moment Mary Jane flinched, thinking he was going to belt her. Instead he swept his arm around and let fly with the ring, sending it hurtling over the crowd. Then he turned back to Mary Jane, trembling, facing her with … rage? Embarrassment? Frustrated love? Any, all of the above?

  And he growled, “There’s gonna be payback for this. You won’t know when or where … but definite payback.” Then he spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Mary Jane took in a deep breath, then let it out. She thought she should feel good … but all she felt was empty. For the first time in ages, she was alone. Totally, completely alone. All around her were her classmates, laughing, joyful, and almost all of them with their families. And here was M. J. with nothing. She knew her parents. They were probably fighting, and when they fought, they tended to lose track of time. When they started in on each other, nothing else mattered … least of all their daughter.

  Her chin quivered as she fought to hold back tears, and suddenly there was someone standing next to her. She thought it might be her father; she feared it was Flash. She turned and reacted with surprise.

  “You okay?” asked Harry Osborn. “I couldn’t help but notice … Flash looked kind of pissed off. Is everything okay with—?”

  And Mary Jane let out a soft cry and buried her face on the arm of a very surprised, but not the least bit displeased, Harry Osborn.
r />   Peter let out a low whistle. “So they broke up, huh?”

  They were standing outside the Parker home. Norman Osborn had given Peter and his aunt a lift home, and Harry was standing at the curbside next to the Bentley. Although Harry’s father had made a point of saying that they couldn’t stay, he relented to May’s urging and was now inside the house, looking at the long and proud collection of Peter’s various science awards. Peter was so mortified by the whole thing that he was staying out on the sidewalk with Harry, waiting for the ordeal to be over. Peter had his gown draped over his hands. “You’re positive?”

  Harry nodded. “She told me. I would have let you know, but you were busy talking to my dad… .”

  “Yeah, I hope that doesn’t bother you, him making a fuss over me—”

  Harry shrugged. “Hey … if he likes you, and you like me, then maybe he’ll like me better.” Then he laughed. “Man, I wish you could have seen Flash’s face. He looked like the guy from that movie poster for Scanners … you know, the one where his head looks like it’s about to blow up. That’s some timing, huh? On graduation day?”

  “Well,” sighed Peter, “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Look,” and Peter shifted uncomfortably, glancing around as if concerned he was going to be overheard. “Just between us … ?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m pretty sure M. J.’s father has been giving her all kinds of crap about … well, about everything.”

  “Her?” Harry obviously could scarcely believe it. “You mean some guy’s got a terrific daughter like M. J. and he rags on her?”

  “More than you can believe.” Peter lowered his voice even more, though there was no one around. “But as near as I can tell, he really liked Flash. So I think she stayed with Flash as … well … kind of protection, y’know? To survive. And also to feel a little bit less lonely in a family where love was hard to come by.”

  “Wow,” Harry breathed, leaning against the lamppost.