Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  BY THE clock, there were 10 minutes remaining, but when Blanton spotted Peter attempting to tiptoe back in, he abruptly dismissed the class. As the students exited, he stared at Peter, not speaking, not really moving at all. Peter didn’t move, either. Only his shoulders sagged lower and lower.

  Once the other students were gone, Peter walked up, the scrawled memo from Dr. Connors in his outstretched hand. He felt like a little boy in grade school instead of a brilliant physics student speaking to an erudite instructor.

  “I have a note.”

  Blanton took the sheet and read it. “You had to assist Dr. Connors in preserving some valuable specimens. That makes at least one faculty member at ESU grateful for being able to rely on your presence.”

  He crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it toward the wastebasket. Neither of them noticed whether it went in.

  “Mr. Parker, do you have any idea how many of my classes you’ve missed this semester?”

  Peter shrugged helplessly.

  “I sympathize. Neither do I. But it’s far, far easier to recall exactly how many times you have been here. Three. Three times.”

  “I’m so sorry, Professor Blanton, but my aunt—”

  He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “I don’t doubt there are reasons. As physics teaches us, nothing occurs without them. But there comes a point where the very idea that anyone can somehow complete this department’s rigorous requirements in absentia is no longer viable.”

  “I understand. I’ll try harder. I swear. I’m happy to do any makeup assignments or extra work—”

  Blanton waved his raised palm dismissively. “I’ve brought your case up with the disciplinary committee. When they convene tomorrow at 3:15, I’ll be recommending a year-long academic suspension. That should provide you some time to examine your priorities.”

  Blanton turned to leave. Stunned, Peter followed him into the hall.

  “Sir, please! I’ll have to reapply for my scholarship. I’ll never get the same level of aid with my current GPA. I won’t be able to finish school!”

  “Mr. Parker, there are a lot of equally qualified applicants who could use that money, and I can’t help but think most of them would actually be sitting in that very expensive seat currently reserved for you.”

  “But—”

  Blanton snapped. “For pity’s sake, man! Save your breath. You’re going to need it for the review committee. If you manage to attend.”

  * * *

  FOR ABOUT 15 minutes, Silvermane’s eyes twitched between Connors at work and the borrowed computer. Then he settled down, enraptured by whatever he’d found. That made it easier for the biochemist to focus on the task at hand.

  Sooner than expected, Connors had gone as far as his limited linguistics background could take him. Rather than announce that fact, he took the opportunity to study his abductor. While the scientist within him sought a fuller understanding of the elixir’s effects, the creature hunted for a sign of weakness.

  Manfredi seemed to understand the computer well enough. But unlike a modern youth, whose fingers might fly across a keyboard, Silvermane hunted and pecked with one hand.

  Curious, Connors crept closer, barely aware of how silently he moved. On the screen were a series of articles and photos from the Bugle, the Times, CNN, and more. Some were as recent as a year old; others went back to World War II. All shared the same subject: Silvio Manfredi, from his birth in Corleone, Sicily, through his career as a racketeer, his bloody rise in the Maggia, and his disappearance.

  He’s trying to rediscover his own history. Not having that connection must make someone so egocentric feel… vulnerable. But, like any animal, that only makes him more dangerous.

  The tommy gun was on the table. Silvermane’s free hand covered the fore-grip as if it were a computer mouse. Still certain that he hadn’t been noticed, Connors turned his attention from the screen to the youth. It’d been over an hour, but the acne wasn’t quite clear yet, and Silvermane didn’t appear much older.

  I should eat him now while he’s still tender.

  Either Connors’ shock at his own thought gave away his presence, or Silvermane had known he was there all along. Without moving his eyes from the screen, the gangster leisurely raised the gun and tucked the long barrel under Connors’ chin.

  “Got something for me yet?”

  Knock it away. He won’t expect it. Protect the nest.

  Connors fought to bury the urge. “Yes. You know how the legends believe it contained the formula for a fountain of youth?”

  Silvermane indicated his own face. “And the legends were true. Duh.”

  “No, they weren’t. Not exactly. From what I can gather, the ancients who created the tablet had loftier goals in mind. Their belief system is similar enough to Hindu and other Eastern religions to make me think it may have been an antecedent. Basically, they believed the soul not only reincarnates, it has to experience multiple incarnations in order to perfect itself. The elixir’s goal is to speed that process, to take a soul through as many lifetimes as necessary to remove its impurities and achieve what they considered life’s ultimate state: a transcendent, omniscient, omnipotent form.”

  Silvermane’s scrunched-up face reminded Connors of a high-school student trying to grasp calculus. “Omnipotent, like a god? I like the sound of that. But why is my memory all jiggedy? Don’t I have to remember stuff, if I’m supposed to learn?”

  Connors struggled to put it in simple terms. “I’m no philosopher, but to their way of thinking, the self and all its attachments are an illusion. Ideally, the ego has to be lost to reach perfection.”

  “An illusion? You mean like ‘Merrily, merrily, life’s but a dream’?”

  “Sort of. More like the self is made up of desire, and desire is the dream. Nirvana is understanding that everything is already as it should be, and nothing need be changed. In that supreme state, all desire— including any desire to wield power—is gone.” He pointed to the screen. “From what I’ve read, these efforts to cling to your history could keep you trapped in the cycle forever.”

  Disappointment and resentment mixed with the confusion on the teen’s face. It made him look older, more like the Silvio Manfredi that Connors recalled with dread.

  “What, so to get what I want I have to stop wanting it? That don’t make no sense. It’s a lousy cheat. A lie. There’s got to be a way to stop it, a cure.”

  As a teacher, Connors knew that simply telling Silvermane he was wrong would only create more resistance. But he’d always been better at research than dealing with students.

  “You’re not thinking about it correctly.”

  The reaction was more extreme than expected. Silvermane hopped off his stool. Swinging the gun barrel, jutting his head forward, he spat as he spoke. “I’m not what? You think it’s smart to tell me how I should be thinking?”

  The scientist backed up, trying to keep Manfredi from invading the creature’s personal space. “Please. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m only trying to explain their way of thinking. They didn’t see what you’re going through as a curse or disease. They saw it as a cure, the cure for all the pains of our impermanent lives.”

  “Nah. Nah. Nah! That’s like saying death’s a cure for life. I’ve cured more than enough people that way to know it ain’t for me. Those ancients were freaking crazy.”

  If it had been an academic argument, that might’ve been the end of it. But for an ego that already took disagreement as disobedience, there was so much more at stake. Silvermane turned his head left and right, as if trying to physically dislodge Connor’s explanation.

  I can almost see the wheels turning. If the facts don’t give him what he wants, then the facts must be wrong.

  Sure enough, inner conviction seemed to force the confusion from Silvermane’s face. “You must’ve missed something, or that hunk of rubber ain’t got the whole story. There’s got to be more on that tablet. I got to get it back.” He advanced on Connors. “And you�
��re not going anywhere until I do.”

  Backed into a wall, there was nowhere for the scientist, or the creature, to go. Silvermane was so close, so threatening, that before Connors could censor it, the thing inside him answered.

  “There is nothing else, you fool!”

  Silvermane cracked the gun into Connor’s jaw, smacking his head into the wall. His body sank to the floor.

  “Think you’re better than me, huh? Think you’ve outgrown your personal attachments?” Silvermane strutted back to the monitor and clicked a browser tab. “Like your wife and kid?”

  Pictures of Billy and Martha came up on the screen.

  “That’s right, Connors, I might be a slow typist, but I tracked their freaking hotel reservations. I know exactly where they are.”

  Curt Connors wanted to stay down, but his body began rising just the same. “If you harm them—”

  Silvermane came at him again. “If? There’s no if about it. But let’s get even more personal. How’s your leg? Think you’ve outgrown that?”

  He kicked Connors just below the knee. Pain roared through Connors’ body. If he went prone, acted submissive again, Silvermane might back off—but the Lizard wasn’t a pack animal and didn’t understand. Refusing to fall, to show any sign of weakness, it remained half-standing, infuriating the mobster all the more.

  “How about your head? Still attached to that?”

  Again the gun whipped forward. Connors used his single arm to block the blow. The still-human part of him pleaded, “Stop! You don’t understand the danger…”

  Silvermane’s face turned red. “Still won’t go down? Fine—you learned to live without one arm, how about I take care of the other? Maybe then you’ll STOP GIVING ME ORDERS!”

  He grabbed Connors’ arm and twisted. Again, the pain roared through his body. This time, something roared back. Connors howled, bucked, and buckled— but not because of the mammal holding his arm.

  “Finally! Now tell me how to contact that Parker kid you were talking to. He can lead me to Spider-Man.”

  Silvermane didn’t seem to notice the new limb erupting from Connors’ stump. It wasn’t until the scales started rippling along Connors’ good arm that the fool realized what was happening.

  It felt so very good, like shedding a tight dry shell and feeling air against fresh, new skin.

  “I’d…be happy to give you…his number,” Connors hissed. “In fact, I’ll write it down…in your blood!”

  Before the reptilian snout could finish growing, the Lizard tried to snap it shut on Silvermane’s face. But the youth was too fast. He pulled back, barely in time.

  “Holy…”

  Only slightly disappointed, the Lizard hissed again. Its spine was now fully extended, ending in the thick tail that provided its powerful form with uncanny balance as well as the equivalent of a fifth limb.

  Its prey would not escape again.

  “Little mouse, little mouse, so full of its feeble little hungers. Let’s see how you fare with mine!”

  “Stay away from me!” Manfredi fired, but the spray didn’t last long, and the bullets bounced off the creature’s thick hide.

  “No.” It snatched the tommy gun and threw it away. “I won’t.”

  Silvermane scrambled to escape. The Lizard took its time, tilting its head left and then right, first sizing him up, then hunching forward and gliding toward him. The Lizard was surprised that anger still remained on the mammal’s face, rather than fear. But at least the food wasn’t talking anymore.

  Manfredi kept backing away, throwing whatever he could—specimen tanks, computer terminals, chemical vials—in the creature’s path.

  It’d been so long since the Lizard had hunted, it considered opening the door and letting the prey out, so it could have the pleasure of chasing him through the sewers. But no—this warm-blooded lump of protein had not only threatened the nest, he’d threatened the boy and the woman.

  Silvermane had just about run out of things to throw when his eye went to the big red button on the wall.

  Recalling the precautions that the fool Connors had prepared, the creature shouted, “No!”

  Hearing the panic in the Lizard’s voice, Silvermane slammed the button so hard, he cracked the plastic surface in half. In an instant, hissing white clouds streamed down from nozzles hidden in the ceiling. The temperature dropped precipitously.

  Silvermane dove beneath a table, but the Lizard was no longer interested in hunting. It tried to raise itself up on its tail to stop the freezing gas. Its claws reached the nozzles, but they were so cold—their very touch burned its skin, making it flake a dull gray. In preparing this safeguard against his own transformation, Connors had installed no off-switch. All the Lizard could do was flail and pound the walls as the clouds of liquid nitrogen forced it down to the floor. It curled into a ball as the air grew colder and colder, until it had to close its eyes. As darkness overtook the Lizard-mind, it feared Connors would reassert himself.

  But when the creature woke, it was still in its reptile form. There were chains on it, though, clasping its arms and legs. Its tail remained free, but the youth who should have been a meal stood just out of reach, chuckling.

  “Wow, people got all kinds of secrets, huh? Found those chains in a drawer here, and there were hooks in the wall, so I figured they were meant for times like this.”

  The boy looked a little older, a little stronger— but not nearly strong enough. “Connors may have wanted to protect his warm-blooded associates, but the Lizard has no such compunctions,” the Lizard hissed. “Peter Parker’s number is on Connors’ phone. It’s right here, in the pocket of his lab coat. Why don’t you reach in to get it?”

  “And lose a finger? No thanks, I think I’ll just look it up. How many Peter Parkers attending ESU could there be? Meantime, you can stay put. From what I read about myself, I was a dog lover. Never had a lizard before, but we’ll see how it goes.”

  Seeing himself reflected in the glass of one of the few unbroken terrariums, Manfredi slicked back his hair and adjusted his jacket.

  “Speaking of dogs, I think it’s time I reintroduced myself to some of my old associates. Starting with…” He struggled to recall the name. “Molehill? Nah. Mountain? That’s it. Man Mountain Marko. I bet that dog misses his master.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  LOVELY as the Brooklyn Bridge looked with the early morning sun glinting through its web of steel cables, it held painful memories. As Spider-Man sat on the base of the Manhattan-side tower foundation, he wondered why on Earth he’d chosen this spot.

  I used to come here with my scooter, just to think. I miss that scooter.

  I miss Gwen.

  He used his web-shooters to fashion an air sack, the sort he’d seen diving bell spiders on documentaries use to stay underwater for long periods. He rolled his mask halfway up, covered his nose and mouth with the air sack, and dove. He swam deeper and deeper, keeping an eye on the cement foundation to guide him through the murky darkness.

  The cold didn’t bother him as much as the oily feeling of the river water; he’d probably never get the grime out of his costume. Luckily, the air sack held, all the way down to the riverbed. He removed the protective case from his back and lodged it in the mud at the massive pillar’s southwest corner. Lastly, he rolled a heavy stone atop it to secure it against the current.

  I’d like to see someone find it down here.

  He pushed against the muddy bottom. Unsettled muck swirled around him. As he swam back up, he corrected himself. Actually, no. I wouldn’t like to see anyone try to find it. I’m hoping no one even looks. But if Silvermane is after it, I can’t have him somehow tracing it back to Peter Parker’s apartment. My identity, and the safety of my friends, are the last things I need to be worrying about now.

  When his head pierced the surface, he pulled off the web sack and took a breath of what he’d hoped would be fresh air. The smell was appalling. The water, if you could call it that, felt like a gross second ski
n.

  Great. I’m going to need a shower—or two—before I show up for my disciplinary hearing.

  At least he’d thought far enough ahead to leave a heavy-duty garbage bag on his roof. But even after he peeled off the costume and sealed the bag, he reeked. He climbed through the window in his underpants, dropped the bag, ran for the bathroom, and soaked himself for as long as he could.

  His hair was the biggest problem. When he started lathering, the shampoo bottle was nearly full. By the time he was done, it was empty, and he still had a certain odor about him.

  Maybe I’ll just leave the tablet down there forever.

  It was early enough that the building’s laundry room was empty. He sat there as his uniform sloshed through two cycles, using the time to read up on academic suspensions in the ESU handbook.

  Everything he read only depressed him more. He’d hoped he was wrong about having to reapply for the scholarship, but he wasn’t. Peter had always been grateful to receive the aid, but when he saw the number of applicants and the total budget, he realized exactly how much more grateful he should’ve been. Oscorp had a new scholarship that would be perfect for him, but somehow he didn’t think Harry was in the mood to put in a good word.

  Maybe he’ll come around by the time my suspension’s over…in a year.

  After two washings, he was out of quarters, detergent, and time. A few greasy black blotches remained, but most of the red-and-blue suit was clean.

  It’s not like I’m up for best-dressed wall-crawler this year, anyway.

  Donning his best shirt and tie, he combed his hair, hoping it didn’t smell as bad as he thought it did. He gave himself a last long look in the bathroom mirror. He didn’t have the heart to give the poor schlemiel looking back a dressing-down for letting things get so bad—or the energy to give him a pep talk, either.

  A call to the hospital confirmed there was no change. Anna Watson was still sitting with Aunt May. He felt terrible for not being there.

  Maybe I do need the time off. A normal person dealing with half this stuff would. If they find a donor, I could be around more to help with her recovery, dote on her for a change.