Spider-Man

by Peter David

  “It took us all by surprise,” Balkan said, having the nerve to sound as if he were commiserating. “But Quest Aerospace is recapitalizing in the wake of the bombing.”

  Osborn’s head snapped around to the nearest board member. “Fargas, what’s going on here?”

  Fargas didn’t respond. Instead he simply glowered at Osborn, as if Osborn were some lower form of life. It was Balkan who replied. “Quest is expanding, and they’ve made a tender offer we can’t ignore.”

  “Why wasn’t I told about this?!” thundered Osborn.

  “The last thing they want is a power struggle with an entrenched management,” Balkan said, still trying to sound reasonable.

  That was when Fargas stepped in, and if they were consciously doing good cop/bad cop, they couldn’t have done a better job of it. “They want you out, Norman. The deal is off if you come with it. The board expects your resignation in thirty days.”

  “You … can’t do this to me,” stammered Osborn. “I built this company… .”

  He couldn’t understand how this could be happening. It was like some sort of surreal, demented joke, or a dream from which he would be awakening at any moment. Why, he and Fargas went back decades … he’d been the first to believe in him. “Max, please …” Osborn said, hating himself for feeling weak and sniveling.

  As if tolling a death knell, Fargas said, “The board is unanimous. I’m sorry,” he added, not sounding sorry at all. “We’re announcing the sale right after the World Unity Festival.”

  Well, of course. Why have a cloud hanging over that? Why risk reporters turning out in droves, asking about Osborn’s ouster, instead of focusing on the relentlessly cheerful and upbeat promotional spirit that was the festival’s theme?

  Norman Osborn felt as if a dark cloud was settling over his eyes, over his mind. He glanced outside, and although the sun was out, it no longer seemed bright. Instead it was overcast and threatening.

  “You’re out, Norman,” Balkan said, driving the stake home.

  And when Norman Osborn turned and looked back at the board of directors, there was something else in his eyes, that hadn’t been there before. A quiet, deadly madness, that no one saw, and even if they had seen it, they would not have believed it.

  “Am I,” he said, and it was not a question. And in the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights, his eyes had taken on a distinctly green cast.

  Peter hated crowds.

  Not that he’d ever been wild about them, but the feeling had become more pronounced in recent months. The only thing he could figure was that it was because of his newfound freedom. Leaping among rooftops, hurtling among the spires of New York, it was as if he had the entire city to himself. When people surrounded him, all he could think about was leaping above them, clinging to a wall, webbing away with abandon, leaving gravity behind.

  But he didn’t have a lot of choice. His assignment was to take pictures of people enjoying themselves at the World Unity Festival in the heart of Times Square, not crowds of people pointing upward at the amazing webbed individual swinging over their heads. So he took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then snapped some pictures of the enormous multicolored globe that loomed over Times Square, trying not to get elbowed in the ribs in the process.

  Behind him, on a stage, a singer was doing a soulful rendition of some pop tune. Getting a shot of that wouldn’t be a bad idea, so Peter started wending his way through the crowd, putting his spider sense to good use by deftly moving his feet so he didn’t get stepped on. As he did so, he continued to take pictures of the crowd, although he lowered his camera when he inadvertently focused on a young man reading a typically anti–Spider-Man headline in the Bugle.

  Well, there were certainly plenty of other things he could shoot. There were booths set up with displays from various countries, and colorfully costumed people of all different nationalities were moving among the crowd, serving samples of their native cuisine. There were oversized balloons, there were floats celebrating global togetherness. Children were holding small balloon versions of the globe, or wearing T-shirts with the symbol on it … and with the OsCorp logo on the back. Yup, old Stormin’ Norman never missed a trick.

  Peter had no clue how many people were in attendance. It had to be thousands, and amazingly, no one else seemed annoyed or claustrophobic. The atmosphere was one of sweetness and light. That made a certain degree of sense to Peter. In the world itself there existed strife, war, poverty, genocide … but in a representation of the world, one got to pretend that everything was great. Then again, he figured, perhaps he was just getting cynical in his old age.

  He spotted the reviewing stand, a converted balcony five stories up, which had a huge banner that read OSBORN INDUSTRIES WELCOMES YOU TO THE THIRD ANNUAL WORLD UNITY FESTIVAL. Huge twin statues of Hercules—according to the press packet that Peter had received—stood on either side of the reviewing stand, appearing to support it. That seemed a little odd to Peter, considering it was Atlas who—according to legend—bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he remembered that Hercules had once been tricked for a short time into shouldering the burden himself, and decided he could forgive the apparent misuse.

  Peter got as close to the reviewing stand as he could, figuring that a shot of the people in the stand would be a good one to have. He scanned across the balloons, past the floating streamers, up the torso of the Hercules statue, and discovered an assortment of men in dark suits engaged in intense conversation with one another. He looked for a familiar face. Maybe having Norman Osborn’s mug in the Daily Bugle might put a smile on his typically surly demeanor. No … there was no Norman in sight, although he did see Harry and …

  “Mary Jane,” breathed Peter.

  Mary Jane couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so nervous.

  She wasn’t the world’s greatest seamstress, but she wasn’t terrible at it, and she had put a ton of man-hours into sewing the dress she was wearing. In terms of design it hadn’t been that difficult: It was a simple Chinese cheongsam, made of red silk with a floral print. The neck was high, the collar closed, with short sleeves, a loose chest, a fitted waist, and slits up the sides to a modest height. All in all, it set off her shape rather nicely, she thought.

  She desperately wanted Harry to like it. She looked for some hint of approval as he carefully attached a unity pin to her bosom. He was visibly nervous, his hands shaking. She had a feeling that it had nothing to do with proximity to her, and his next words bore out her suspicions.

  “Perfect,” he said, once the unity pin was attached. “Except … how come you didn’t wear the black dress? I wanted to impress my father. He loves black.”

  Mary Jane was instantly crestfallen. She knew the black dress he meant; it was slinky and sexy but not at all the thing she wanted to be wearing when trying to make a good first impression. The cheongsam had seemed the perfect idea; it was attractive and shapely, but didn’t make her come across as … as low class. That’s what she was the most concerned about. Norman Osborn, Harry … they were high society. And she … wasn’t.

  Rallying, she said, “Maybe he’ll be impressed, no matter what? I mean, you think I’m pretty.”

  Perhaps realizing he had said the absolute wrong thing, Harry took her by the shoulders and smiled warmly. “Of course I do. You’re beautiful.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her …

  … and reflexively, for no reason she could readily understand herself, she averted her lips at the last moment, so that he kissed her on the cheek. Harry seemed slightly surprised, even a bit startled.

  And then Harry looked even more startled. He seemed to be staring at something in the crowd, but when Mary Jane endeavored to follow his sight line, he quickly put an arm around her shoulder, turning her away, making forced conversation which only served to underscore how awkward the moment had been. She was still so flustered over her gut reaction that she didn’t even bother to think about what it was in the crowd that had so thrown Harry f
or a loop.

  Maybe it was his father, actually smiling, M. J. thought dourly. That would be enough to confuse the hell out of anybody.

  Peter watched through his viewfinder, feeling sick to his stomach as Harry leaned forward to kiss Mary Jane, who in turn looked more ravishing than Peter had ever seen.

  And then, to his astonishment, Mary Jane averted her face so that Harry kissed her on the cheek rather than the lips.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  There was hope!

  There was hope!

  Jubilantly, Peter pumped the air, and something about the gesture caught Harry Osborn’s attention. He looked down just as Peter had his arm raised, and they locked eyes.

  Don’t tell Harry, Mary Jane’s warning sounded in his head, and he hadn’t, except Harry had obviously gone and found out anyway. Because Harry saw Peter looking right up at them, and he was probably thinking, Crap, Peter knows! Except Peter had already known, so it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, except maybe that made it worse.

  It was making Peter’s head whirl. How could there be this much confusion over love when Peter didn’t even have a girlfriend and, by the looks of things, Harry didn’t either?

  Then Peter realized that his head wasn’t just whirling. It was his spider sense, kicking into high gear, practically screaming at him that something was wrong, something was very very wrong.

  Mary Jane felt as if she was being pulled along like a rolling suitcase as Harry made his way through the crowd on the balcony.

  “Ah,” Harry said, clearly having recognized a familiar face, and he brought Mary Jane over to two elderly men, one of them in a wheelchair. Quickly he introduced them as Messrs. Fargas and Balkan, although it happened so quickly that she wasn’t entirely sure which one was which. “Have you seen my father?” Harry asked.

  Balkan and Fargas exchanged uncomfortable looks. Immediately M. J. was cued to the fact that something was wrong. She knew that look all too well, because she’d seen it on her mother’s face countless times: There was something to be said which no one wanted to say.

  “I’m … not sure he’ll be joining us,” Fargas said in a slightly withering voice. And he gave Harry another look that Mary Jane again recognized, this time from her father. The look that said, You are of no consequence. You don’t matter. It wasn’t the way someone regarded the son of a valued company head.

  She had no idea whether the same things were running through Harry’s head, but at that moment their collective attention was diverted by a high-pitched whining sound. Looking for the source of the sound, Harry and M. J. made their way to the edge of the balcony.

  It seemed to be coming from overhead. There was only a handful of clouds in the sky, but whatever it was, the sound originated from there. M. J. craned her neck, shielding her eyes against the glare of the midday sun. There seemed to be something …

  “It’s a bird,” said Harry.

  “No. I don’t think so … kind of big,” Mary Jane said.

  Fargas and Balkan, along with the other members of the board, were also gazing heavenward. “A plane?” suggested Balkan.

  “Too small,” M. J. said.

  The whining of the object was getting louder, as if … as if it was powering up somehow. “What is that?” Fargas demanded impatiently.

  “Must be new this year,” said Balkan. There had been some binoculars lying around the reviewing stand, for getting a better view of the crowd, and Balkan peered through one of them. Then he let out a gasp of amazement. “What the devil—? Is that our wing?”

  Mary Jane had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. A wing? A wing of what? Like a building wing?

  And then a demented cackle floated above the whining sound. With a rush of air and what sounded like a jet turbine, the object that was so high up suddenly got much closer, much faster. It dropped like a rock, but it wasn’t in freefall. Instead it was moving with confidence and assurance. Quickly it was almost at street level, zigzagging through the floats and oversized balloons so deftly that the crowd automatically assumed it was part of the show. They started applauding.

  But M. J. knew from the looks of the others in the reviewing box that this wasn’t remotely intended to be part of anything.

  The flying thing curled back up into the sky, banked and hovered, pausing to make a dramatic entrance, apparently. Then it moved right toward the reviewing stand, and Mary Jane couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  It was some sort of large flying platform, crescent shaped, almost like a bat. Red lights were glowing on the front of it, with an array of cabling and armature underneath, running between the two wings and connecting to what appeared to be some sort of control sphere. Turbines were powering it from behind. But even the outlandishness of the device floating in front of them was as nothing compared to the rider.

  He wore some sort of scaled green armor, glistening in the sun. It had a ribbed flexible look; in some ways it reminded her of the skin of an alligator. But it was layered with all manner of complicated circuitry that M. J. couldn’t even begin to figure out. When he turned, even ever so slightly, at the arms or waist, there were little whispers of sound from servos or devices that seemed to be powering it.

  But the armor itself was nothing compared to the face. It was more than a face: It was some sort of mask or helmet. With its glowing yellow eyes, the pointed ears that swept back, and the mouth that was permanently frozen into a demented grin with pointed teeth running along the top and bottom, it was the single most horrifying sight Mary Jane had ever seen.

  Down on the stage below, the singer had stopped singing. The crowd, meantime, was still cheering. They had no idea that this—person, this creature—wasn’t part of the show.

  The creature was pulling something from a buckle on his belt. It was round, small, orange … a … pumpkin? Mary Jane wanted to laugh. Maybe this whole thing was some sort of gag, some sort of lively stunt, after all. Maybe he was some sort of juggler, planning to keep a bunch of pumpkins aloft at once… .

  Suddenly the creature angled down and hurled the pumpkin toward one of the statues of Hercules. And Mary Jane’s momentary laughter disappeared, along with the lower half of the Hercules statue. One minute it was there, but when the pumpkin struck it, the legs blew up.

  The crowd’s cheering and applause abruptly ceased, and an eerie silence filled the air. It was as if people were trying to figure out whether they’d actually seen what they thought they saw. For a moment frozen in time, the statue remained as it was, and then with a crack of stone the damaged monument gave way.

  The reviewing stand, five stories up, began to collapse. The members of the OsCorp board of directors were shrieking and screaming in confusion, tumbling over one another. Mary Jane was thrown forward, grasping at air, trying to find something to hold on to. She called Harry’s name, but he was pitched in the opposite direction.

  The crowd’s uncertainty was replaced with screams of panic as debris showered down upon them, nearly crushing several terrorized citizens.

  The reviewing stand lurched another few feet, and Mary Jane slammed into the dangling balcony balustrade, barely holding on. She saw Harry trying to get to his feet, to get over to her and pull her back from the brink. Suddenly realizing the danger, she tried to shout for him to get back, but it was too late; his additional weight caused the balcony to shift. The shift caused the remaining sections of the Hercules statue to crumble into themselves even more, and the reviewing stand tilted further, flipping M. J. over the balustrade. Harry let out a terrified wail, and a five-story drop yawned beneath Mary Jane’s feet. But she hadn’t fallen, not yet; instead she was clinging, batlike, to the edge, dangling, her legs pumping the air as she tried to find purchase to haul herself back up.

  The armored monster swung back around, his demented laughter ringing in Mary Jane’s ears with such force that she felt as if the entire world consisted of nothing but his crazed cackling. She bit back her fear, didn’t succeed, cried out in pan
ic, and then saw him coming in fast as he hurled another pumpkin bomb.

  This is it, I’m going to die, she thought, because another explosion would finish them off for sure.

  Except it didn’t explode.

  Instead the bomb landed with a thunk right in front of the members of the OsCorp board. She heard it whirring, making a metallic sound, and she pulled herself up enough to see it rising into the air as they stared at it in confusion. None of them made a move to help her. Taking a deep breath, M. J. gave it everything she had and started to haul herself up.

  Suddenly the bomb exploded, but not like the other one had. This one erupted in a flash of brilliant orange, so bright and searing that it irradiated half a dozen members of the board. Just as it went off, Mary Jane looked away. Being mostly blocked by the balcony itself, she was preserved from harm, but she was nearly flash blinded. And she caught a quick impression of those board members closest to it being literally turned into X-ray images of themselves.

  The concussion of the blast caused the balcony to separate even further, and Mary Jane slid back, almost skidding off the edge completely. Harry was blinking furiously, apparently trying to get his eyes cleared from whatever damage the bomb had done to him. He was crawling across the balcony, trying not to cause it to tilt even further, and he was reaching out to Mary Jane to try and snag her hand. M. J. stretched her arm as far as she could, her fingers almost touching his.

  Then she heard the roar of an engine, and a blast of heat from it enveloped her, the air rippling around her. She twisted and looked over her shoulder, and let out a scream as she saw the madman rising up on the glider behind her. His wide grin was solidly in place, his fingers twitching with anticipation of doing God-knew-what to her.

  The creature mimicked her scream, then let out a blood- curdling cackle that sounded as if it was emerging from the bowels of hell… .

  XVIII.