by Peter David
She shrugged. “So I’m a little behind. Everyone is.”
As if that settled the matter, she moved toward her purse on the counter, situated between the birthday candles and a quart container of milk that was sitting open and mostly empty. As she put the remains of the milk away, her hand darted into the purse at the same time, sneaking something from it. She probably thought Peter didn’t see the movement. She was mistaken. Then again, she couldn’t know the difficulties of trying to elude the notice of someone with spider-sense.
“Anyway, I don’t wish to talk about it. I’m tired now and you’d better start for home.”
Then she turned to him and stuffed into his palm what she’d taken out of the purse: a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Here,” she said, “you need this more than I do. Happy birthday.”
“Aunt May, I can’t—”
And with a ferocity that startled Peter, she shot back, “Yes, you can! You take this money for me! For God’s sake, it’s not much, it’s a measly twenty dollars, now take it! Don’t you dare leave it here!”
Her anger was akin to an intense downpour. It wasn’t capable of sustaining itself for long. She seemed to shrink at the end of the outburst and said, in a much lower voice, “Sorry. Lost my temper.”
She was clearly fighting tears. Peter wanted to reach out to her, embrace her, but he sensed she would consider it… patronizing, somehow. Thin tears worked their way down the crags of her face as she said, “It’s just that I miss your uncle so much sometimes. Can you believe it will be two years next month that he was taken?” She didn’t wipe away the tears then. She just appeared to shut them off through willpower alone. “I think to myself at times, were I to face the one responsible for what happened, I… I don’t know what I would do. I hate to think what I might be capable of.”
Peter tried to keep the guilt from his eyes. Aunt May had found no closure at all for the death of Uncle Ben. The frustrating thing was, he knew perfectly well that the man responsible was dead. He had seen him fall to his death from the window of that warehouse down by the docks. But there had been no eyewitness to the carjacking that had cost Ben Parker his life. And when the police had arrived, they’d seen two distinct individuals moving in the windows of the warehouse that night. They didn’t know for sure that the man who ended up a crumpled heap on the dock was the perpetrator of the crime. They suspected it, but couldn’t prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. There was always the possibility that the man whom they had spotted, but who had escaped, might have been the actual robber and killer.
And Peter was hardly in a position to say, “No, that was me, dressed in my wrestling costume. I avenged my uncle’s death. You can close the books on this one.”
So the books remained open. And May Parker continued to suffer.
He was about to say something to her, something to alleviate her pain. What it was, he didn’t know. It might have been the last thing she needed to hear. As it turned out, he didn’t get to say anything, because Aunt May intercepted it. “Oh!” she exclaimed as she wiped her eyes with a birthday napkin. “You’d better take some cake home.”
There was always room for cake.
It was late at night and Peter was feeling completely drained. He felt as if he’d started the day a hundred hours ago. He locked up his bike and trudged up the stairs to the apartment he rented above a television repair shop.
He walked past the slightly open door of his landlord, Mr. Ditkovitch. Had he chosen to do so, he could have moved with such stealth that Ditkovitch would never have detected his passing. But considering the array of ups and downs—mostly downs—he’d experienced on this, the crappiest birthday ever, he simply strode in knowing that he would hear exactly what he did:
“Rent!” Ditkovitch’s voiced thundered down the corridor. Peter stopped in his tracks as Ditkovitch kicked the door open wider. His TV was playing some reality programming involving sex-crazed couples. Ditkovitch’s young daughter, Ursula, was visible behind him. Whereas her father was heavyset and jowly, Ursula—who was in her mid-twenties—must have taken after her mother. She was tall, lanky, and rail thin, and when she looked at Peter, it was with an open interest that always served to make him feel uncomfortable.
“Hi,” muttered Peter.
“Hi? What’s hi? Can I spend it?”
“I have a paycheck due this week,” Peter lied.
Ditkovitch didn’t appear impressed. “You’re a month late again. Again.”
“I promise to—”
His landlord blew air dismissively between his cracked lips. “If promises were crackers, I’d be fat!”
You are fat, you slob. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Ditkovitch.” Reasoning that it was just another case of easy come, easy go, Peter pulled out the twenty dollars from Aunt May and proferred it. “I can give you twenty until next week.”
With the speed of a striking lizard, Ditkovitch snatched it from his hand. “Sorry doesn’t pay the rent. And don’t try to sneak past me. I have ears like a cat, eyes like a rodent.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ditkovitch,” said Peter, even though he didn’t know what he was thanking the man for, and closed the door of his apartment behind him.
He flopped onto the bed in the one-room dump, looking around at the still-packed boxes, the radiator, the secondhand desk. The starkness of the place was spruced up only by the array of photographs on his dresser. He missed the far nicer digs he’d shared with Harry, and would have continued to share had Harry not moved back into the town house now that his father was gone. It was a huge place, and Harry had invited Peter to move in, as well. But Peter had declined. Harry’s obsession with Spider-Man was already making things uncomfortable. Being subjected to it every day was more than he could stand.
The pictures on the dresser represented some of his happiest memories. There were Aunt May and Uncle Ben smiling out at him. And there was a shot of Mary Jane that he’d taken at the spider display, mere minutes before his life would be permanently altered by the bite of a stray mutated spider. His last moments of innocence, represented by M.J.’s glowing smile, frozen forever.
He pulled the pillow over his head and fell into a restless slumber.
V
Otto Octavius had been described in various magazine articles as energetic, vibrant, healthy and—as People magazine had once said—possessed of a touch of charming madness.
He was touched with madness this day, but there wasn’t much charm in it. Instead, the madness related to the incessant interruptions he was receiving as he moved briskly about his lab, trying to attend to Extremely Important Matters that kept getting sidetracked by phone calls and visitors. His wife had told him it was smart to try to “play nicely,” but Octavius was not one to suffer fools gladly. And lately it seemed as if nothing but fools were being marched in to throw him off his stride. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have been certain there was a concerted effort being mustered by some person or persons unknown, expressly to keep him from his work.
His favorite Latin motto, “Nosce te Ipsum,” meaning “Know thyself,” was carved above the main entranceway to the building that housed his lab. It had been his one personal indulgence. The rest of the time his priorities were 110 percent on the work. But now, as he searched through stacks of papers, trying to locate some notes, he was busy dealing with the latest interruption—in the form of a phone call from some damned senator or other.
The man spoke in a deep southern drawl that Octavius was convinced was an artificial affectation. “You say this brand-new idea of yours will reduce our gas and electric bills?” The senator’s voice came over a speakerphone, asking the same question for the third time. It was just phrased ever-so-slightly differently.
Otto Octavius gave the same response he had just given three times previously. “I said it would eliminate them, Senator. Come tomorrow and you can see for youself. Bring your friends.” He tapped the disconnect button on the speakerphone and was pleased to hear the senator’s voice cut off in mid-follow-up
question.
“Mr. Osborn’s here.”
Octavius hadn’t even noticed that his assistant, Raymond, who had just made the pronouncement, was in the room. Either Osborn was tiptoeing around the place or Octavius simply wasn’t paying attention. He swiveled in Raymond’s direction, knowing Osborn was going to be standing there next to him. He found young Harry Osborn marginally more tolerable than his late father, whose loss Octavius wasn’t mourning in the least.
Octavius was unprepared, however, to see a third young man, standing next to Osborn. A skinny, brown-haired kid who probably didn’t know a particle beam from particle board. He was looking around the laboratory with an expression of wonderment. As if he could possibly understand the complexities or even the basic functions of the things he was gaping at. Even better, to fill out the entire tourist “vibe,” the kid had a camera slung over his shoulder, and he seemed rather curious about the thin blue curtain that was poised at the far end of the lab.
Harry walked forward, the newcomer staying respectfully back a few paces. Extending his hand, Osborn said, “Nobel Prize, Otto, Nobel Prize.” He shook Otto’s hand and continued, “We’ll all be rich.”
“It’s not about prizes, Harry,” Otto reminded him. “It’s not about money.”
“But you need money, Otto. You need OsCorp.”
“And OsCorp needs me,” Otto said with confidence. Bowing to the inevitable, he prompted, “And who do we have here?”
“This is my good friend I called you about. The one who got me through high school science.”
“Peter Parker, sir,” said the brown-haired youth, reaching forward to shake Otto’s hand, as well.
“Parker.” Now that Osborn had mentioned it, Otto did indeed remember the phone conversation he’d had with him about this meeting. He’d considered it of such little consequence that it hadn’t stayed in his memory. But the name “Parker” was sounding familiar for some reason…
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, sir. I’m doing a paper on you for—”
“Yes, I know why you’re here. I don’t have much time.” He cast a glance at Osborn. “But OsCorp pays the bills, so…”
“That’s why I have to take off,” said Osborn, as if picking up a cue. “Meeting with the board. My job’s done here; brought you two geniuses together.” He gave a laugh that sounded overly hearty. “Good luck tomorrow, Otto.” He pointed at him as he walked out. “Nobel Prize! See you in Sweden!”
When Osborn was gone, Octavius said tactfully, “Interesting fellow, your friend.”
“I won’t take much of your time, sir.”
That was when the name clicked into place for him. “Parker. I remember you,” said Octavius. “Connors told me about you. Says you’re brilliant, but he says you’re lazy.”
Parker visibly winced at that. “I’m trying to do better.”
Without even looking at Parker, Octavius busied himself around the lab. “Let me tell you something. Being brilliant isn’t enough. You have to work hard. Intelligence isn’t a privilege, it’s a gift. It’s not yours to waste. We’ve been given the power of intelligence for a purpose: to use it for the good of mankind.”
“Otto, your lunch is ready.”
The unexpected announcement came from a smiling, lovely young woman. Otto’s glance fell upon her and instantly the world seemed brighter. She had just entered the lab and she was carrying a vase of daffodils.
Minding his manners, he turned to Parker and said, by way of introduction, “This is my wife, Rosie.”
“Hello.” She smiled at Peter.
“Hello.” Peter Parker bobbed his head with an almost charming shyness, as if slightly awed by Rosie’s beauty. That alone caused Parker to move up a couple of notches in Otto’s estimation.
“This is Peter Parker. He’s Connors’ student. Falls asleep in class.”
Without missing a beat, Rosie replied, “I always fell asleep in class.” Peter decided he was in love.
“I get a little tired,” he said. “I have a… night job. Nice to meet you.”
Octavius was unimpressed. “You better make a choice about what’s important to you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve thought about that,” agreed Parker. “Doctor Octavius, for my paper… You spoke at school last semester about a design to initiate and sustain fusion…”
“That I did,” said Otto. He pointed proudly to a large machine at the far end of the room.
“So that’s it,” Parker said with obvious rising interest. “I understand you use harmonics of atomic frequencies—”
“Sympathetic frequencies,” Otto corrected him.
“Like an opera singer shattering a wineglass with her voice.”
Octavius was impressed in spite of himself. “Precisely. Harmonic reinforcement—”
“An exponential increase in energy output.”
“Huge amounts of energy,” Otto assured him, “like a perpetual sun providing renewable power to the world.”
“Mind-boggling,” said Parker.
“That’s my business!”
“But… how will you contain it? No one’s been able to.”
That brought Octavius up short. He looked at Parker as if seeing him for the first time, and realized that he’d just been conversing with this student as if he were a colleague. Connors had been right in his estimation of the boy’s potential.
“Otto, come and eat,” urged Rosie.
“But I’ve found a willing victim! I’m just getting started.”
“Finish your lecture over lunch,” Rosie said firmly. “Peter, would you like to join us?”
“That would be wonderful,” said Parker.
He followed Rosie out of the room, but Octavius noticed him glancing in the direction of the curtain at the other end of the room. The lad displayed a healthy degree of scientific curiosity.
Oh, yes. Definitely a willing victim.
The home of Otto and Rosie Octavius had seen a goodly number of people come and go through the years. Often they possessed great minds. Many of them were immortalized in photos, including an assortment of scientific luminaries, each of whom Peter recognized instantly. Octavius was extremely impressed by that, because he had a relatively low opinion of today’s young people and Peter Parker was flying in the face of that preconception. It was almost enough to give him hope for American youth.
Lunch had been extraordinarily relaxed, with Peter displaying a fine, sharp mind. Not only was he able to keep up with Octavius with facility, there were one or two points where he actually leaped ahead of where Octavius was going. Octavius didn’t let on that he was pleased by the boy’s obvious gifts, but he knew that Rosie noticed, and he tried to ignore her little smirk. Many had been the time when he’d spoken scathingly of young people, and Rosie had always been in there defending the next generation of scientific minds. Here was proof on two legs that she may well have been right. Otto had a feeling he was going to be hearing about this one for some time, but he had to admit that occasionally it was worth being wrong about something.
Octavius was bringing a tray of coffee over to the table where Peter was sitting and said, “So what do you think?”
“It’s all so amazing. If it works, it’ll change the way we live.”
“It is amazing,” Octavius said firmly, “and it will work.”
“Are you sure you can stabilize the fusion reaction?”
Otto felt a flash of disappointment as he set the coffee down. “Peter,” he said scoldingly, “what have we been talking about for the last hour and a half? It’s my life’s work! I certainly know the consequences of the slightest miscalculation.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be questioning you, sir.”
Rosie was coming toward the table, having removed the lunch plates to the kitchen, and Octavius said to her, “Rosie, tell our new friend I’m not going to blow up the city.” He turned back to Peter. “You can sleep soundly tonight.”
“Otto’s done his homework,” Rosie assur
ed Peter, pouring coffee. “And you need to sleep soundly tonight, Otto.”
He patted her on the hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d broached his sleeping habits. “Yes, yes, sleep, sleep, I know. Did Edison sleep before he turned on the light? Did Marconi sleep before he turned on the radio?”
“Did Bernoulli sleep before he found the curves of quickest descent?”
Dead silence. Then an uncharacteristically wide grin split Octavius’ face. “Rosie, I love this boy!”
“And here I was just going to point out that Edison and Marconi probably wished they had gotten some sleep,” said Rosie, “since afterward they were kept awake by all the neighbors with the lights on and the radio blaring. But I don’t know what to say about Bernoulli.” She regarded Peter with interest. “So, Peter. Tell us about yourself. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Peter suddenly looked very interested in the coffee cup. “Uh, well… uh… I don’t really know.”
“Shouldn’t you know?” asked Octavius. “Who would know?”
“Leave him alone,” Rosie told him. “Maybe it’s a secret love.”
“Love should never be kept a secret,” Otto said. “You keep something as complicated as love stored up, you can get sick. We had no secrets, did we, Rosie?” He smiled at her. “It was perfect.”
“Hardly perfect, Otto,” She leaned in toward Parker, speaking in a confidential manner even though Octavius was right there. “I met him on the college steps and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. He was studying science, I was studying English literature.”
“I didn’t say it was easy, I said perfect,” he reminded her.
“He tried to explain the Theory of Relativity and I tried to explain T. S. Eliot.”
Otto brought back an arm, narrowly missing knocking over the coffeepot, declaiming, “ ‘Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future.’ ” He shook his head. “I still don’t know what that fellow was getting at. Eliot’s harder than advanced science.” Now he leaned in toward Peter, as well, and it was his turn to sound conspiratorial. “Want to get a woman to love you? Feed her poetry. But I recommend Elizabeth Barrett Browning.” He turned to Rosie and, as if wooing her, said, “ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways… ’ ”
