Spider-Man 2

by Peter David

  She got the door open and staggered in just as she heard, “Uhhh, hi, M.J. I’m… this is Peter and I, uh…”

  Her first impulse was to drop the bags, go to the phone, and pick it up. Instead, she crossed slowly to the kitchen, holding the bags tightly. Peter’s voice continued, “I was on the way and I… uh… I was… uh… I was coming around a corner and… uh… are you there?”

  “Uh, uh, uh,” she said in annoyance toward the machine.

  He couldn’t hear her, of course. “I really was planning on it all day,” he continued, “and I know you predicted I’d disappoint you…”

  “Bingo,” she said. She was standing at the kitchen table, the bags set down and leaning against each other. She made no effort to unpack them, instead listening to Peter’s stumbling message.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it, how complicated a simple thing, being someplace at eight o’clock can… uh… become… uh…”

  “Shut up, Peter, just shut up!” she cried out.

  Oblivious, he continued, “Actually, there was this snooty usher, somebody has to talk to that usher, Mary Ja—”

  And suddenly Peter’s voice was replaced by a recording of an operator saying, “Your time has expired, please insert fifty cents for the next five minutes.”

  “I want to tell you the truth, Mary Jane,” Peter’s voice came all in a rush. “Ready? Here it is. I…”

  The line went dead.

  “Oh, thank God,” M.J. breathed.

  At the university student center, Peter clutched the pay phone tightly and said, as fast as he could, “I want to tell you the truth, Mary Jane. Ready? Here it is. I, Peter Parker, am Spider-Man.” He stopped, gulped, tried to laugh. “Weird, huh?” Then his tone became serious again. “I think about you day after day, Mary Jane. But if the people I have to fight knew how I felt, you’d be in danger.”

  Then he slammed down the receiver and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “I tried to get there, Mary Jane!”

  He knew the message hadn’t been left. He’d heard the line click off before he could say it. He had spoken into the blissful safety of a dead line.

  Peter walked out of the student center and stood at the top of the steps leading out to the main campus. He watched people coming and going. Students laughing or conversing seriously. Sitting under trees eating slices of pizza or studying.

  He felt as if he were looking across an alien landscape. As if he were a visitor from a far-off world who had as much in common with these life-forms as they did with amoebas.

  He had to get a life.

  He just wasn’t sure whose to get.

  VIII

  Otto Octavius tried to imagine what his life would be like without Rosie. He couldn’t. For that matter, he tried to recollect what his life had been like before her. Still no luck. He knew on some level that it was ridiculous. Except, it wasn’t. For even in the first twenty-or-so years of his life when she hadn’t been there, she had been. He’d known her before he knew her, felt her presence without knowing her name or even what she looked like. As a result, when they’d first encountered each other, it hadn’t been a matter of “Nice to meet you” so much as it was, “Oh, there you are! What kept you?”

  It seemed as if no time had passed between that moment and this, when she was adjusting his tie and smoothing his collar. They were standing in a small room outside the main lab. It was ten in the morning, but Otto—normally a late riser, really not much of a morning person—had been lying awake, wide-eyed since before 5 A.M. He had listened to Rosie’s soft snoring next to him as he ran equation after equation through his head, trying to detect some flaw, something he might have overlooked.

  That Parker lad. The boy kept preying on his mind. Parker obviously had so much on the ball, was seeing things with a fresh eye, had no self-serving reasons to dismiss or berate Otto’s work. Yet even Parker had expressed concerns about containing the power…

  “You’re slouching,” she said reprovingly as she adjusted the shoulders of his jacket. “That means you’re doubting yourself.”

  “Oh, good. You can add ‘mind reader’ to your resume,” he replied, but even as he straightened up, he banished his concerns about Peter Parker. In the final analysis, Parker was just a student. A gifted one, but still learning. Experience would always prevail over youthful enthusiasm, and Otto had experience, and dammit, he knew what he was doing.

  “It’s your day, Otto,” Rosie said, as if sensing lingering doubts despite his more rigid posture.

  “It’s our day, Rosie,” he corrected her. “Without you, there is no day.” He took a deep breath. “Ready, baby?”

  “Ready!” said Rosie enthusiastically. “Let’s give them a show!”

  They walked out into the lab. The moment they did, Otto’s assistant, Raymond, opened the main doors, and between twenty-five and thirty people filed in. They did so in relative quiet, speaking in murmurs at most. That was certainly preferable to their stomping into his lab and making all kinds of racket. Obviously, they were showing the proper deference to the importance of what they were about to witness.

  As if he had a zoom lens in his head, he zeroed in on young Parker, who had entered alongside Harry Osborn. Octavius could not for the life of him understand why Parker would associate with Osborn. Osborn was at best barely adequate when it came to his comprehension of science. Not even close to that of Norman, his father, much less the brilliant Peter Parker. Well, perhaps Peter regarded Harry as some sort of charity case.

  Osborn was speaking loudly and Otto could easily hear him. “Glad you’re here, Pete. I’ve got a lot riding on this. Big day for OsCorp.”

  “An amazing day if he can pull it off,” replied Parker.

  Otto was stung. Here he would have thought Parker would defend his work to Osborn, and instead he was once again expressing doubts. The scientifically inept Osborn had more confidence than did the far wiser Parker. Again there was that faint whiff of doubt, and once again Otto shoved it aside. Parker had a little knowledge, true, but a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing. It was leading Peter Parker to question things that there was no need to question. That was all there was to it. Octavius had everything under control.

  “May I have your attention, please,” Raymond called. “We are about to begin.”

  Octavius stepped forward, and Harry Osborn promptly broke into applause. Operating on the herd instinct, everyone else applauded, as well. Octavius was grateful for the support, even if the man whose future depended on it was the one instigating the reception.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” He cleared his throat. “Before we start, did anyone lose a green wallet with a rubber band around it? We found the rubber band. You can claim it after the demonstration, from my wife, Rosie, who is assisting me today.”

  There were, at most, a couple of very polite guffaws. He glanced in annoyance toward Rosie, who shrugged. Start with a joke, she’d said. So much for that idea. Then again, maybe if it had been a funny joke…

  He shrugged it off. He was a scientist, not a comedian. “Seriously,” he said, brushing past it, “I thank you all for coming here this afternoon. You will witness the birth of a new fusion-based energy souce: safe, renewable power and cheap electricity for everyone. I call it the Bartok Project because I admire that guy’s crazy music.” He backed up toward the covered rig at one end of the lab and called out, like a magician, “Now let me introduce my other assistant.”

  Continuing that magical air, he whipped off a drape revealing the rig and its contents: four long metal arms attached to a wide, lightweight harness. At the end of each of the arms was a set of pincers serving as that arm’s “hand.”

  Watching from the audience, it was everything Peter Parker could do not to laugh.

  Arms. Actual mechanical arms. That was what Jack All had been talking about.

  Peter couldn’t believe what a fool he’d been. It hadn’t been arms as in “munitions” at all. Doctor Octavius had created some sort of labora
tory aid to extend his reach and enable him to physically multitask with greater efficiency. Whatever Jack All had heard on the grapevine, it was completely wrongheaded. Obviously these things were no more weapons than a Bunsen burner was a flamethrower.

  With that last, nagging detail settled, Peter leaned back in his chair to enjoy the presentation.

  Octavius loved the design he had created for the arms. It had come to him one day after a visit to the Coney Island Aquarium: the answer to the endless frustration of trying to perform experiments and wishing one had more hands at one’s disposal. Thanks to the four actuators—which, he had to admit, sounded like the name of a singing group—a scientist could have all the hands he reasonably needed. And they weren’t even the main invention he’d developed. They were merely tools he would use to help get the fusion generator started up.

  Removing his jacket, Octavius stepped into the harness. It whirred to life and snapped itself around him. He heard several people in the audience gasp. Good. Let them be nervous. This was the realm of hard science, not something designed for the faint of heart. “These four actuators were developed and programmed for the sole purpose of creating successful fusion,” he explained. The harness drew tighter around him, making it snug as a corset. He was beginning to sympathize with women from centuries past.

  He touched a keypad and a metal spine unfurled from the harness, attaching itself to Octavius through a series of tiny needles embedding themselves in his spinal column. He heard gasps from the audience, and he himself winced slightly from the pain. He took a deep breath and let it out, since that was far preferable either to crying out or, even worse, passing out.

  “My ‘smart’ arms,” he continued, “are controlled by my brain through a neural link. Nanowires feed directly into my cerebellum, allowing me to use the arms to control the fusion reaction in an environment no human hand can enter.”

  A blond-haired man stood up, and Octavius recognized him instantly. He was Doctor Henry Pym, and he had been doing some breakthrough research in cybernetics. Pym was, in fact, a giant in a field where everyone else was an ant. Octavius nodded in a way that indicated he recognized Pym for who he was, and Pym did likewise.

  “Doctor Octavius,” he said, “if the artificial intelligence in the arms is as advanced as you suggest, couldn’t that make you vulnerable to them?”

  “Right you are,” said Otto readily. “That’s why I developed this inhibitor chip,” and he tapped the base of his skull, “to protect my higher brain function. It makes sure I maintain control of the arms, instead of them controlling me.” He heard more gasps from the audience at that, and a sweep of murmurs. Even Pym raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Problem, Doctor Pym?” he asked solicitously.

  “Well, I just wish I’d known, Doctor,” said Pym. “I’ve developed a cybernetic helmet that may well have accomplished the same thing for you without requiring invasive surgery.”

  “Hardly anything as dramatic as that, Doctor,” replied Otto. “A simple microchip, about as invasive as getting a tattoo. Frankly, I think everyone should have one. Considering all the garbage thrust upon us from all directions by the media, I think most of us are in danger of losing our higher brain functions, if we haven’t already.”

  This actually prompted a round of laughter, and Pym, grinning, nodded once and took his seat again. Octavius felt a sweep of relief. He was in full command of the situation, which was exactly where he wanted to be.

  The rear section of his lab was dark. As he strode toward it, he had to admit he was developing a truly showmanlike quality. Most of the trappings were Rosie’s suggestions and he had lovingly indulged her, but he was really starting to like the theatrics in spite of himself. Perhaps he should develop a “science spectacular” and move the whole thing to Las Vegas. Mystery, fun, and education, three shows a night. “Now on with the main event,” he called out. “Give me the blue light, Rosie!”

  A moment later, azure lighting bathed the rear of the lab, revealing his magnificent creation. The light, coming in from three different angles, showed a fusion machine consisting of four scythelike towers with cables and hoses attached, suspended over a tank of water. Once more there were murmurs, this time of appreciation for the elegant, streamlined design. He could just imagine a number of people in the audience thinking, “Of course! It’s so simple! How could we not have thought of it first!”

  Working at a keyboard, Octavius tapped in computer commands and the fusion reactor hummed to life. He entered a security code and turned to a metal canister that was anchored to a podium with so many alarms attached to it that any attempt to steal the contents would have set off Klaxons in the Pentagon. The canister opened with a faint hiss and a small, metallic tablet—about the size of a Tylenol capsule—presented itself, rising from within.

  The arms came to life, and one of them moved sinuously forward. Maneuvering the pincer with remarkable dexterity, Octavius used it to pick up the capsule. “This precious tritium target is the fuel that makes this project go,” he said as he deftly placed the capsule in the center of the fusion machine. “There are only twenty-five pounds on the planet. I want to thank Harry Osborn and OsCorp industries for providing it.” There, I acknowledged him. Now please let the young fool keep his mouth shut and appreciate the—

  “Happy to pay the bills, Otto!” Harry Osborn called from his seat.

  For an instant Otto considered the many pleasures that would be involved in throttling Harry Osborn, but quickly shut down that line of reasoning. He didn’t think the arms would respond to such a passing, subconscious thought, but he wasn’t inclined to test it out. He certainly didn’t need his demonstration devolving into a free-for-all as his arms attacked Osborn just because he had annoyed Otto Octavius.

  As one pincer continued to hold the capsule in the machine, Otto moved another tentacle into place and used it to punch a button, igniting the inductance field inside the towers. The field wasn’t visible to the naked eye, but it hummed like a throbbing turbine engine.

  Slowly, but with growing confidence, the tentacle released the capsule and it hung there, suspended. Then it began to spin, slowly at first but then faster, gaining momentum until it was whirling at blinding speed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Otto’s voice rose above the noise, “fasten your seat belts!”

  The plasma igniters on each of the four towers simultaneously fired on the tritium capsule in a continuous blast, exciting the core. A fine circular beam of plasma formed. Then spokes like a wheel extended and—after a few more seconds—a bright glowing sphere of energy about fourteen inches in diameter flared into existence in the center of the array. It enlarged, and tiny solar prominences flared from the outer edges, like a miniature sun.

  Octavius realized he wasn’t breathing. It was like being God, watching a solar system coming into existence. No wonder the biblical creator had required a day of rest. The heart-pounding excitement alone—of watching a project of this majesty come to fruition—was exhausting.

  Raymond, watching the readouts carefully, told Octavius what he already knew. Nevertheless, when Raymond spoke, it was with a hushed reverence, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words he was saying. “Doctor… we have a successful fusion reaction.”

  The crowd gasped collectively, and several people burst into spontaneous applause. As well they should. This was something they would tell their grandchildren about.

  Octavius brought an arm up and began to manipulate the field, like a conductor guiding his orchestra. As the prominences shot out from the ball, he moved the arms to intercept them at the points along the inductance field where each one struck. At each point, the flare would disperse across the field as the arms kept them contained with almost precognitive skill. It was like watching a master fencer countering the thrusts of a far lesser opponent.

  “The brain is nature’s perfect computer,” Octavius said, his casualness of tone a contrast to the complexity of the job at hand. “My ‘smart’ arms can manipulat
e the fusion until it reaches stability, because my mind can react much more intuitively than any computer to changes in the inductance field.”

  Again the crowd applauded, this time far more resoundingly. If this were Vegas, now would be the perfect time for the showgirls to bound out in a kick line.

  The pitch of the generator’s whine increased, the light becoming more intense. Raymond, monitoring the output carefully, called over, “We have the equivalent of one thousand megawatts.”

  Otto glanced at Osborn. Someone was patting him on the back and mouthing, “Congratulations.” It irked Otto slightly, but then he looked over at Rosie, who was beaming at him with a smile that put out ten times the megawatts of the reactor. She blew him a kiss, and suddenly Osborn didn’t mean a damn thing to him. He winked at Rosie. The work and his wife were all that mattered, and not necessarily in that order.

  The speed and brightness of the light formed dazzling sparkles in the air. They oscillated and surged, but stayed contained within the four towers. However, they were starting to become more difficult for the smart arms to contain. Octavius was moving faster than before, and he wasn’t staying quite so much ahead of them anymore. Instead, in several instances he was barely there in time.

  He began to sweat as solar flares from the center core swept almost to the towers themselves, which was exactly the kind of potential calamity he needed to avoid. Like a mad conductor in the middle of a lightning storm, he kept the arms in constant motion, almost flailing instead of guiding.

  The audience members were no longer looking on in awe. Now there was concern, mixed with fear, many of them flinching back and shielding their eyes from the glare.

  Octavius didn’t quite know where to concentrate first. He felt as if he was losing his hold upon the audience, but he didn’t dare shift so much as a scintilla of his attention away from the reactor. “The power of the sun in the palm of my hand!” he called out, adopting his best showman’s voice. Yet in his mind’s eye he could see the showgirls scattering, running away in terror.