Spider-Man: The Venom Factor

by Diane Duane

  What the heck are they up to in here?

  That booming noise came again. Might be the police, he thought. Might be a good time to excuse myself. But that hole in the floor, the size of it, the look of it, drew him.

  He stepped carefully to its edge and looked down. It gave directly into a big brick-lined sewer tunnel which ran beneath this building. A faint smell of sewage floated up out of it. Radiation, he thought, could definitely cause a hole like this—if it was tremendously intense, tremendously confined—causing the material to come apart out of sheer fatigue. A good push would break it at after such treatment.

  Boom.

  It is the police, I bet. Well, I'm going to get out of here. He went hurriedly to the hole in the wall, looked hastily up and down the alley. The yellow police tapes fluttered a bit down at the far end. Being inside them, he had no one impeding him. The coast was clear, so he slipped hurriedly across the alley, through the hole in the far wall, and into the warehouse where the homeless man had died.

  The place stank of blood. It was drying, but not fast enough in this humidity, and the place had a dark, desolate feel, very much like the lower level of the next building over. There was nothing to see here.

  Boom.

  Not in the other building: in this one. Possibly a door opening and shutting in the wind? He turned—and saw the dark shape loom out of the shadows, almost directly behind him. There would have been no warning from his spider-sense even if it had been working at the moment. The dark shape, tall, broad-shouldered, fangs like a shark's dream of heaven, splitting in a grin of unholy glee, and the white stylized spider-shape splashed across the chest.

  Spider-Man launched himself at Venom and was astounded a second later when Venom merely backhanded him away. The backhand by itself was more than powerful enough to slam Spider-Man into the wall near the big hole, and leave him reeling for a moment.

  "We might have thought," said the low, menacing voice, angry but also oddly amused, "that you at least might have learned never to judge by appearances."

  Spider-Man leapt again, and this time Venom's dreadful fangs parted in a smile that went so far around the back of his head, the top should have fallen off. Two-handed, he clubbed Spider-Man sideways again, and this time he stepped back. Spidey flew ten feet or so through the air, came down hard on the concrete floor, but rolled and sprang up again. There he crouched, taking a breath to get his composure back.

  "I don't care about the smooth talk, Eddie," Spider-Man said, looking for the best place to attack. "Whatever else may be going on, you're a fugitive—"

  "Whatever else," Venom said softly. "Then you have some odd suspicions, too."

  "Suspicions? About what?"

  "That we would never be involved in such as what happened—here." Some of the awful grin faded as Venom looked around him with distaste. "Someone," he said, "did murder here, in our name." He looked sideways at Spider-Man. "And we are not amused."

  "Now why should I believe you?" Spidey said.

  Venom simply looked at him, folding his arms. "Because you know us?"

  Spider-Man breathed in, breathed out. "You've got me there," he said.

  "So," said Venom, "you will forgive us for the moment if we choose not to permit your infantile attempts to apprehend us." He chuckled nastily, and the symbiote for its part took the opportunity to wave that horrendous slime-laden tongue at Spider-Man, wuggawuggawugga, in straightforward mockery. "Later on we'll have leisure to joint you and nibble the bones. But right now, we have other matters to attend to."

  "Is 'we' you or is 'we' us?"

  Venom paused a moment, then chuckled again. "A college education just isn't what it used to be, is it? 'We' is us—I think. At least, any information you can share with us will be welcome. Someone here," Venom said, looking darkly around at the spattered walls, "someone here is trying to frame us for the deaths of these innocents—and when I catch them, both for the attempted framing, and for the murders, we shall certainly eat their spleen."

  Spider-Man sighed in brief annoyance. "Listen," he said, "hearts, livers, even lungs I could see. But spleens? Have you ever even seen a spleen? I bet you don't even know where it is."

  "We could find out," Venom said, looking at him speculatively, and that grin went right around his head again. "It would be fun."

  "I thought you said you didn't want to do that right now."

  "Don't tempt us. Part of us still desires to make peace with you in the most final manner. But that's going to have to wait. We have done some preliminary research on the firm which owns this property and the one next door. Its clandestine associations make us very uneasy."

  "The smuggling, you mean," Spidey said.

  "You deduced that? Very good."

  "Nothing as fancy as deduction," Spider-Man said. "I just went through their files. Their paperwork is lousy with deutschemark and ruble transfers."

  "Yes," Venom said. "That would seem to argue a busy trade across the former East German border. Possibly also the hiring of old East German scientific talent for some purpose. There is a lot of that going very cheap now, I hear. Russian as well."

  "And Ukrainian," Spider-Man said.

  Venom nodded. "The owners." He glowered back at the hole in the wall. "A sordid business, but one with which we would not normally concern ourselves. In our normal haunts, we have other concerns these days."

  "You mean that cave under San Francisco?" Spidey said.

  Venom eyed him. "It is an underworld," he said, "though not the kind that's usually meant by the term. People who've taken refuge in a part of the city buried and abandoned in the earthquake eighty years ago. We protect them." For a moment there was just a tinge of pride in the voice.

  "It's always nice to have a purpose," Spider-Man said, "besides eating people's spleens."

  Venom sighed. "You are an insolent puppy," he said. "But you're right about the purpose. There is worthwhile work to be done, down where the innocents have taken refuge from a world too cruel for them. Noble work, building them a better world than the one they've fled."

  "I won't argue that," Spider-Man said.

  "You'll understand, then," Venom said, gazing around him coldly at the spattered walls, "that all this—" he gestured around with several tendrils "—will sully our image. Whoever is masquerading as us will be unmasked, swiftly, and will pay terribly for the crime."

  "Look," Spider-Man said, inching closer, "I understand that this makes a sort of image problem for you. But a lot of other people have had problems with you and that suit. A lot of them haven't survived them. So you'll understand if I have to cut short the chat, and at least try to take you in—"

  That was when they heard the voice from outside. "Charley? Charley, is that you down there, or Rod?"

  "Nope, Rod's down here," came another voice.

  "Then who's in the building?"

  Spider-Man and Venom looked at each other, shocked. It was the police this time.

  "You'll forgive us," Venom said, "if we don't wait around for whatever it is you're planning to try now. If you cross our path again, Spider-Man—don't cross us. We're on business." And he leaped out the hole in the wall and upward into the darkness.

  "Rod, you see that?" came the voice from down the alley. The sound of running footsteps followed it almost immediately.

  Yeesh, Spider-Man thought, and shot a webline to expedite his departure and chase down Venom.

  "There's another one!" the cry went up. "Get him!"

  In the alley, Spider-Man looked and saw cops coming at him from both left and right. He shot a line of web up and out, and went up it just as fast as he could, shooting another line across to the CCRC building and then swinging out past it, around a corner and away, just as fast as he could. As he went, he scanned desperately for any sign of Venom, but there was none to see. Of course, Spider-Man thought, he's immune to my spider-sense—even when it is working—and he can make himself look like anyone. I could be staring right at him and not even know it.<
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  Reluctantly, he started making his way home. The lights were on in the apartment when he got there. He found MJ just dropping her purse on the front table, and bending over the answering machine to get the messages. She looked up with delight at him as he swung in one of the windows which she had just thrown open. "Hey, tiger," she said, "how was your day?"

  He pulled off his mask and shook his head, went to her and hugged her. "Not like yours, I bet."

  "I bet," she said, stroking his hair. "Listen—get changed and get something to eat inside you. We've got to talk."

  He was tired enough at the moment not to argue with her. He changed, and made a sandwich, and ate it—and made another, and ate it. Then they sat down and she told him about her day.

  When she was finished, Peter was still blinking from the news that radiation sickness was being reported in the city. While trying to put this together with other facts, he told her about his day, in some detail. MJ's eyes widened considerably when he told her about his conversation with Captain LoBuono, and they widened more yet when he told her about the hole in the sub's wall. Afterwards, his tale of meeting Venom in the warehouse seemed almost anti-climactic.

  "Wow," MJ breathed when he had finished. She looked at him, shaking her head. "There's our riddle for today, then. What goes through walls, and likes radioactive stuff, and isn't Venom . . . and is loose in New York? And comes from another planet."

  "It's the first stuff that's our problem," Peter said, leaning back on the couch. "In this town, who cares if you're local? But now we have to figure out what to do next."

  They stayed up late that night talking. There was a lot to be gone over; a lot more news than a few minutes' worth of conversation could hope to deal with. And additionally, just because of business, they hadn't had a lot of time to see each other over the past few days. So there was a prolonged period of hugging, snuggling, smooching, and general touchy-feely before they got back on the subject again.

  "Slow down with the sandwiches, tiger," MJ muttered, amused, "save some for me." She headed into the kitchen, Peter close behind her. His stomach growled. "You've been eating!" she said. "I can't believe you can still be hungry!"

  "You haven't had the day I've had," Peter said again and smiled slightly.

  "Oh, haven't I? I may not have been swinging all over the city, but boy, do I feel grateful for food right now. And a place to sleep." She cocked an eye at him as she started rummaging in the refrigerator. "Which is something you should start thinking about fairly soon. Look at the bags under your eyes!"

  "Bags or no bags, I couldn't sleep right now if you hit me with a hammer. I've got too much on my mind."

  "That's the problem with you," said MJ. "You wouldn't know what to do if you didn't have something on your mind. Just imagine it for a moment." She shut the refrigerator door and looked at him challengingly. "Imagine a twenty-four-hour period when everything's working. When the rent's paid, and the phone bill's paid, the electricity's paid, and you've got a credit balance in your checking account, and no checks have bounced, and the credit card company is happy—"

  Peter opened his mouth.

  "Hush," she said, "I'm on a roll." He shut it again. "Where was I. . . ? Oh yes. And there are no super-villains tearing the joint up, and no crime—"

  "Are you sure this is Earth you're talking about?" said Peter, raising his eyebrows at her. "Gimme that mayonnaise."

  "Nothing for you until I'm finished," she said, standing with her back to the refrigerator door, blocking his way. "Think about it. Just—" She put out one hand and pushed him back, then waved a finger under his nose. "Go on, try it. Stand still for a moment and imagine it. One whole day, just one, when everything's all right."

  He stood still, and tried, and found it a bit of a strain. "All right," he said. "So?"

  "Well, don't just imagine the events. Imagine how you'd feel."

  Peter looked at her and shook his head. "I have to confess," he said, "that I don't have a clue. I don't believe that it's ever going to happen."

  MJ sighed and moved away from the refrigerator. "You'll never get there," she said, "because you can't—or won't—see all of that as something worth imagining. My money says that if it ever actually got that quiet, you'd go nuts. I'd give it about an hour, and then you'd go out into the street and shanghai the first super-villain you saw and beg him to start a fight with you."

  "I'd do no such thing," Peter said. "I'd sleep. For about a week, and not get up. I presume this wonderful world we're imagining means I don't have to go into work?"

  MJ shook her head. "Oh, no. I know you better than that. Work? If you didn't have to do it, if money didn't drive you to it, you'd dance into it. You'd be all over this town, taking pictures of everything that moved—and everything that didn't. The film bill alone—"

  "A-ha!" Peter said triumphantly. "Something to worry about. Now give me the mayonnnaise."

  "Here," MJ said in a lordly manner, stepping away from the fridge and getting a loaf of bread. "Take your mayonnaise." She handed him the jar, which hadn't been in the refrigerator after all. "Listen to me, tiger. You're missing my point. I really think sometimes that the way you keep yourself busy, the way there's always something or somebody to run after, always something important to do, is just that. A way to keep yourself busy so you don't have to stop and think about things."

  "Like what?" Peter laughed. "Is that bologna still in there?"

  "Forget the bologna. ... it looks like a science experiment."

  "Let me see."

  "I wouldn't, if I were you," said MJ. "Certainly not just before you eat."

  "All right then. What is else is there?"

  "No more salami. We've finished that. Some sliced chicken?"

  "Okay." He rooted around for it, noted the bologna in passing, rolled his eyes, and shut the fridge again. Then he went over to the counter and started constructing his sandwich. MJ got out a cup, filled it with water, and put it in the microwave to boil. She spent a silent moment rummaging in the cupboard and then said, "I'm thinking about the creature on the sub."

  Peter nodded, spreading mayo on the bread. "So am I."

  "They wouldn't tell you where they found it?"

  "Nope. The captain said it wasn't dangerous." Peter laughed. "Well, not in so many words. He implied it, or at least let it be implied. I don't know about you, but I would normally call something that could go straight through the hull of a nuclear submarine close enough to 'dangerous' to make no difference. I think they're worried. And if it was in that warehouse, and if it killed that homeless guy, then it's already meeting my usual definition."

  MJ paced in front of the microwave. "He did say that the thing wasn't radioactive."

  "So he said."

  "Then how did it make that hole in the hull? And in the wall of the warehouse, and in the floor there."

  Peter had been chasing around those questions as well. "I don't know," he admitted. "Radiation alone can crumble concrete like that after a few years."

  "But how can this—whatever it is—do that without being radioactive?"

  Peter shook his head. "I'm thinking that Captain LoBuono's higher-ups were economical with the truth when they briefed him on what he was carrying. It may not be radioactive all the time, just under certain circumstances—and I can't even begin to guess what those might be." Peter's voice trailed off as he tried to put the jumble of theories into a coherent form. "Maybe it's immune to radiation, the way snakes are supposed to be immune to their own venom."

  MJ raised her eyebrows. "Not my favorite word just at the moment," she said. "He is here, then?"

  "Oh, he's here, all right. Though he didn't seem particularly interested in me."

  MJ sniffed. "I suppose we should be grateful for small favors." The microwave went off. MJ got her cup, put it on the counter and started hunting through one of the cupboards for a teabag. "What gets me," she said, dunking the teabag up and down and watching the way the hot water darkened, "is this thing look
ing like Venom. If it really is the same thing that got out of the sub."

  Peter made a wry face as he took a bite of his sandwich. The face had nothing to do with the way it tasted. "It gets Venom, too, from the sound of it. But I suppose it's not entirely unlikely. From what the others tell me, there's an awful lot of bipedal, more-or-less humanoid life in this arm of the galaxy."

  The others was his blanket term for the various super heroes, super-powerful beings, and all the other oddities in and out of costumes that he ran into during the course of his work as Spider-Man. One theory was that one species, many, many millions of years ago, seeded this part of the galaxy with similar genetic material. All the carbon-based planets, anyway. Some others, among them Reed Richards, said that there was no need to postulate a species ex machina—that for carbon-based life, the bipedal pattern was merely logical and tended to recur. Whatever the reason, the approximately upright bipedal form with bilateral symmetry was common enough that he had grown used to seeing it in the most unlikely places. And maybe he was growing used to seeing what he expected to see.

  "My problem is, I need to know what this thing wants. And what to do about it."

  "If it's the same thing that came out of the sub," MJ said, "then what it wants seems to be radiation. But why would something that wasn't radioactive itself be attracted to a radioactive source?"

  "I'm not sure," Peter said. He took another bite from his sandwich. "I keep thinking of the train worker who said the first thing it tried to do was gnaw the canister open. Then there was the homeless guy from the warehouse, who claimed he saw it licking the stuff up off the floor." He caught an escaping dribble of mayonnaise with his finger and popped it in his mouth, then looked at his finger as if it held the secrets to the universe. "Biting and licking—like I'm doing with this sandwich! Maybe it wants this radioactive material to eat." He looked at the chicken sandwich, still dripping mayo from the two big semicircular bites he had taken out of it, and felt his appetite suddenly disappear. He put the remnants down and wiped his fingers on a paper towel, then folded his arms and leaned back in the chair so that its front legs left the floor. "It's an interesting question," he said. "What kind of creature eats radioactive material, but doesn't hold any detectable trace of radiation in its body?" He thought a moment. "If it doesn't. Captain LoBuono said that it had to be kept sealed away with radiation because of its habits." He looked sideways at MJ.