Spiderman 1 (27 page)

Cautiously, Maddux said, "And ... what about your com
mitment 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, insuffer
able manner for years now. It was one thing to have that attitude when you were producing things that made you ir
replaceable. But Osborn was talking the talk without walk
ing 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 communiques 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 en
couraging thumbs up. "Bring mission profile on line, Ja
cobs," 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 pre
pared 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 mechan
ics. 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 handi
work.
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 expres
sion 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 pun
ishment, 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 expres
sion 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 blood
hound. 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 ab
solutely 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 down
town 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 liv
ing 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 compli
ments 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, be
cause 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 deter
mine, Peter felt a slight chill, as if his spider sense was mak
ing a vague attempt to stir to life. But Osborn certainly
wasn't saying anything threatening. In fact, he looked hap
pier 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 annoy
ance 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 some
thing 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...."