by Peter David
“No, but I suspect you’re going to tell me,” Osborn said dryly.
“This whole Internet thing. With people having no respect for copyrights because they’re busy stealing entire printed works off downloads, or going around ranting and raving at each other, striking from hiding behind names like ‘Fuzzydice’ or ‘The Destroyer’ or ‘Bob1123’ or similar nonsense.” Jonah was waving his cigar around, ashes flying all over. One of the attendants, long used to Jameson when he went off on a rant, was busily sweeping the ash into a dustbin. “How much impact do you think the Declaration would have had, Norman, if it had been filled with signatures like ‘Deathscream’ or ‘Hoppybunny27’?”
“Not very much,” Osborn allowed. “But to be fair, Jonah … why should anyone want to be a hero, in this day and age fostered by your own media. Whenever someone does something heroic, the newspapers grab ahold of him and dig and dig until they find some sort of dirt, and then splash it all over the front pages. Why should anyone want to make themselves such a target?”
“If you’re a hero, you don’t think about what might happen if you take a risk. You just do what needs to be done,” Jonah retorted. “I’ve tried to live my life as scrupulously as possible, Norman. You can’t go around bringing down corruption if your own hands aren’t clean. People want to investigate me, let ’em. I have nothing to hide. But do people follow my example? They do not. No heroes anymore, as I said. Don’t blame the messenger for the message.”
Osborn kept telling himself that he shouldn’t be baiting Jonah this way, but he was apprehensive enough about the meeting he had to get to, and the old windbag was starting to grate on him. “So what is the message you’re getting out there that you shouldn’t be blamed for? That nobody’s good enough to withstand public scrutiny, no matter how well-meaning their actions may seem.”
“Exactly,” Jonah said with an emphatic wave of his cigar, sending more ashes tumbling. A couple danced on the lapels of Osborn’s jacket, and he brushed them away. Jonah didn’t seem to notice. “That’s exactly it.”
“Funny,” said Osborn, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he rose from his chair. “I seem to remember a man who lived about two thousand years ago who had a touch of the heroic about him. A lot of people looked up to him. A lot of people didn’t. So tell me, Jonah … if a man of that caliber of heroism showed up today, would you be listening and learning from him? Or would you be first in line to crucify him?”
A number of men had been listening to the exchange, and there was a collective guffaw when Osborn said that. Jameson fired looks around, and the laughter was quickly silenced as they went back to their own newspapers.
“That’s not funny, Norman,” Jameson said quietly.
“No. It’s not.” He patted Jameson on the shoulder. “Jonah, I hope—for your sake—you get your hero, and you get your story, and you get your circulation numbers back up. God knows we still need newspapers and heroes … and you need someone to tear down.”
“Or build up,” he added quickly.
“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”
And as he walked out of the men’s club, Jonah called after him, “Mark my words, Osborn: The closest we come to heroes these days is some schmuck with bad timing who falls into it by accident!”
“Jonah,” Osborn called over his shoulder, “I think you may just have defined ‘hero’ for the ages.”
III.
THE
ACCIDENT
It was the smallest of the small. It tended to stay away from the others, daunted by the disparity in size. While the others moved in leisurely groups, clumps of mandibles and black furred abdomens, the smallest—the runt—kept to itself. Food was plentiful, and the larger ones got most of it, simply because they were bigger and didn’t hesitate to hog it. The smallest of the small got the leftovers. As a result, in addition to its diminutive stature, it had a lean and hungry look about it.
So while all the others would sit around, fat and contented, the smallest of the small explored every nook and cranny of their home, endlessly and meticulously studying every centimeter. It did not do so out of any sort of plan or long-term strategy. It did so because it had nothing else to do to pass the time.
As a consequence, it was the only one that discovered the break in the seal.
It found the break purely by accident, as it moved around the edges of the grillwork that covered one of the air vents. It wasn’t a break that a normal creature its size would have been able to exploit . . . but this was not a normal creature.
The creature pulled experimentally on the edge of the seal, and its strength was sufficient to bend it ever so slightly, in the place where one of the screws hadn’t been driven in as tightly as it should. The others, fat and content as they were, did not notice what the smallest was up to. They did detect the slight vibration of the small metal grillwork overhead moving, but the vibration abruptly ceased and their attention immediately wandered. They gave no further thought to it, to its source, or to the smallest of the small . . . which was no longer there.
As he entered the Columbia Genetic Research Institute, Peter Parker didn’t know where to look first. The laboratory was cavernous, lined with instrumentation the nature of which he could only guess. He saw some stuff that looked vaguely familiar … even a bit similar to things that Peter had worked with. But the equipment he’d used was on a much smaller scale than what he was looking at now.
The domed ceiling was so tall it was hard to believe that the building contained it, and the equipment itself was shined to within an inch of its chrome life. Peter’s camera was hanging around his neck, the nice sturdy Konica his aunt and uncle had gotten him for Christmas. “Too bad we’re not Jewish. I could have gotten you a Konica for Chanukah!” Ben had said cheerfully, prompting a moan from Peter and an annoyed thump on his chest from May.
The tour guide, a thin, black-haired Asian woman, was guiding them past a large exhibit on spiders. “There are more than 32,000 known species of spider in the world,” she intoned, managing to sound both important and deathly bored at the same time. The thirty-three students on the trip responded to Mr. Sullivan’s get-over-here gestures by crowding into a circle around their guide, who didn’t even appear to notice that anyone was paying attention. “They are in the order Aranae, which is divided into three suborders: Mesothelea, Orthognatha, and Labidognatha. All spiders are carnivorous, ravenous eaters who feed on massive quantities of protein, in liquid form, usually the juices of their prey.”
Peter, however, was getting severely distracted from such riveting topics as spider juices. Instead he was keeping an eye on Mary Jane, who was joking around with some friends of hers. He was still stinging over the way he had fumbled the ball, yet again. He had fallen into a depressing routine: trying to talk to her, perhaps getting out a few words of no consequence, before folding faster than a tent without a center pole. It was a pretty crummy way to go through life, particularly when it concerned a girl as important to Peter as M. J. was.
But that could change. He could change. All he needed to do was make that resolution, and decide that he was going to start doing things differently. Yes, yes, that was it. That was all he had to do. And it was going to start with Mary Jane.
“Arachnids from each of the three groups possess varying strengths which help them in their constant search for food,” the tour guide informed them.
Yes, that was it: M. J. was a sort of food to him. Soul food. Food that could provide him emotional nourishment, if he could only get himself to try her. Well, he was going to do it, that’s all. Just do it, like they said in that stupid commercial.
He took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, then took two steps toward her. That was as far as he got before Flash Thompson, with a timing bordering on the supernatural, swept in while Peter was still a good two yards away, stepped in behind her, partly obscuring her from view. He put his arm around her, nuzzled her neck. Peter gulped deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Well
, that was certainly all he needed to see.
The guide was going on about the jumping spider, family Salticidae, genus Salticus. On and on, and Peter turned away from Mary Jane, from Flash, from that which was so upsetting to him that he couldn’t even articulate it. For a fraction of an instant, he thought he saw Mary Jane looking in his direction and then pulling away from Flash, looking embarrassed over his overt and clumsy attempts at affection. But no. He was certain that it was a product of his fevered imagination, a wish fulfillment that M. J. would realize that a guy like Flash wasn’t right for her, no matter what her father might say.
Her father …
Peter had been watching that time… .
He’d been daydreaming, staring out his window, when he’d seen Flash Thompson pull up to her house. Flash had walked up to the door, knocked, and M. J.’s father had opened the door. Seeing the two of them together, Peter was struck by the similarities, in terms of build and deportment. They’d laughed together, there on the stoop, and although Peter couldn’t hear what was being said, he had no doubt that it was bursting with enough machismo to grow hair on anything that didn’t normally sport hair.
When Flash had left with M. J. on his arm, he’d received a pat on the back from her dad, and even a few bucks that M. J.’s dad dug out of his jacket pocket. It was perfectly obvious: M. J.’s dad felt he had a lot in common with Flash, and had willingly “given” his daughter over to him.
And Mary Jane had gone along with it.
That struck him as unutterably sad, although he wasn’t entirely certain why.
Peter was abruptly jolted from his thoughts by Mr. Sullivan’s loud, pinched voice. He was bellowing at the other kids, who had been looking anywhere and everywhere except at the tour guide, and talking about anything and everything except spiders. Sullivan was standing so close to Peter when he shouted that Peter thought he was going to suffer permanent hearing loss.
“Excuse me! Is anyone paying attention to the genus Salticus?”
That brought everything screeching to a halt. Even the guide looked shaken. Mr. Sullivan nodded slightly in her direction and said, “I apologize. Go on.”
The tour guide started speaking again, but it was rather tentatively, and she wasn’t taking her eyes off Mr. Sullivan, as if concerned that there would be another outburst. “The … genus Salticus … can leap up to forty times its body length, thanks to a proportionate muscular strength vastly greater than that of a human being.” She was about to continue speaking when she noticed that Peter was trying to catch her eye. She raised her eyebrows in response, clearly inviting a question.
Peter held up his camera and gestured to it. “Okay to take a few pictures? For the school paper?”
The tour guide nodded, and Peter—to his chagrin—noticed that the guide looked more irked than anything. Obviously she hated being interrupted. But Peter didn’t have much time to dwell on any faux pas he might have committed, since he was immediately distracted by nearby snickering and mutterings of “geek.” These days it seemed like any words out of his mouth, no matter how innocuous, managed to attract snide commentary and disdain from either Flash or one of his cronies. It shouldn’t be getting to him; he knew that intellectually. All of Flash’s friends put together had the collective IQ of a dust bunny, and their opinions should have carried just as much weight. But it bothered him nevertheless … and worse, it bothered him that it bothered him.
He tried to put it out of his mind, concentrating instead on the nice shot that was set up at that moment, of the tour guide standing just in front of one of the spider displays. It was well framed, and would make a good accompanying piece of art for the article. But with remarkable timing, just as Peter pressed the shutter release, someone banged into his arm, jostling the camera and giving Peter a superb photograph of Harry Osborn’s elbow.
Peter fired a glance over his shoulder and saw one of Flash’s pals—a guy who’d picked up the nickname “Hoops,” due to the number of small rings he had adorning his various piercings—backing away and snickering.
The tour guide, unaware of the struggle touched off by the mere act of Peter’s trying to take her picture, droned on as if anyone cared. “The funnel-web spider—family Hexathelidae, genus Atrax—one of the deadliest spiders in the world, spins an intricate, funnel-shaped web whose strands have a tensile strength proportionately equal to the type of high-tension wire used in bridge building.”
Hoping to salvage the moment, Peter started to aim his camera, and once again his elbow was shoved. Hoops wasn’t even bothering to be coy about it this time. He shoved Peter’s arm deliberately, challengingly.
Even though he knew that Hoops could probably break him in half, Peter whirled to face him. Seeing the anger twisting Peter’s features, and probably welcoming an opportunity to tap dance on Peter’s face, Hoops took a step forward in a threatening manner. But then a voice, low and commanding, said, “Leave him alone.”
Hoops and Peter turned to see the speaker, Harry Osborn. As opposed to both Peter and Hoops, who were wearing their respective outrages openly on their faces, Harry’s mien was one of utter calm. Obviously he wasn’t going to give Hoops the satisfaction of seeing him angry, as if Hoops wasn’t worthy of the privilege.
Nevertheless, Hoops said defiantly, “Or what?”
Flash, without batting an eye, replied, “Or his father will fire your father.”
Hoops blanched at that, and several kids standing around, who had overheard the exchange, laughed loudly. Harry didn’t seem perturbed by the attention, although Peter flushed a bit.
But Mr. Sullivan had clearly had it. In a loud, clear voice he called out, “The next person who talks is going to fail this course. I kid you not.”
Peter didn’t think that should be much of a threat to Hoops, Flash, or any of their ilk; he was reasonably sure the only time they ever saw a D, C, B, or A coming their way was if they were standing on a subway platform. Nevertheless, Hoops backed off, although he did spare a fairly nasty glare for Harry.
Harry, for his part, didn’t seem to notice or care.
Continuing along the display the tour guide said, “The crab spider—family Thomisidae, genus Misumena—spins a web to catch its prey, but hunts instead, using a set of reflexes with nerve conduction velocities so fast, some researchers believe it almost borders on precognition … an early awareness of danger … a,” and she dropped her voice and waggled her fingers to make it sound mysterious, “… spider sense.”
They reached the center of the rotunda floor, where researchers were working at computers surrounding an electron microscope. Large video screens around the room displayed giant images of what was obviously the microscope’s area of scrutiny: spider DNA. Peter found the entire thing incredibly fascinating and could tell from a quick glance at his classmates that he was the only one. Was there something wrong with him, or with the rest of them?
“Over five painstaking years, Columbia’s genetic research facility has fully mapped the genetic codes of each of these spiders.” The guide walked with measured strides around the rotunda, speaking with such pride that one would have thought she personally was in charge of designing a map to track every strand of every chromosome. “Armed with these DNA blueprints,” she continued, “we have now begun what was once thought impossible: interspecies genetic transmutation.”
Flash had drifted just within Peter’s earshot, and just outside of Mary Jane’s, and he said very softly, “I thought they managed that when you were born, Parker.” He guffawed to himself and stepped back just before M. J. noticed that he’d said anything. Once again Peter felt a sharp stinging in his face as the blood rushed to it. He didn’t know which was worse: Flash making jokes at his expense, or the knowledge that Mary Jane was Flash’s and Peter was left with nothing.
“In this recombination lab,” the guide said, gesturing with one hand to take in the entirety of the amazing complex, “we use synthesized transfer RNA to encode an entirely new genome combining genetic
information from all three spiders into these fifteen genetically designed superspiders, the first mankind has ever produced.”
Just ahead of them was a glass tank. The aforementioned mutated spiders were crawling along the walls. Peter noted with wry amusement that something had finally presented itself which fully captured the students’ attention. They were staring with fascination at the disgusting creatures creeping along the glass.
They seemed to be congregating in one area. Peter decided that if he could manage to get a shot with all fifteen of them in it at once, that would be extraordinarily cool. Mary Jane had already positioned herself near “spider central.” If he could get her in the shot, so much the better. Harry was also drawing near, but Peter held back a bit in order to get the wider angle and make sure that the fifteen were in the shot.
“Disgusting,” said Mary Jane, but she didn’t sound especially repulsed. Indeed she seemed almost enthused, as if they were beautiful in their sheer nauseating appearance.
Harry, however, misread her tone of voice. “Hateful little things,” he said, thinking he was agreeing with her.
“I love it,” said M. J.
Quickly realizing his error, Harry amended, “Really? Me, too.”
It was all Peter could do not to laugh. Certainly the last thing he wanted to do was start enjoying himself at his friend’s expense. He didn’t exactly have an abundance of friends, and he sure didn’t want to alienate the very few he had.
“Just imagine,” said the tour guide, “if one day we can isolate the strengths, powers, and immunities in human beings, and transfer that DNA code among ourselves. All known disease could be wiped out. Of course we’re nowhere near ready to start experimenting with humans, so for the moment we’re concentrating on these fifteen spiders. Any questions?”