Spiderman 1 (10 page)

"No," the guide said firmly, "there's fifteen." And then, a
little less firmly, she asked, "Aren't there?"

The smallest of the small didn't have the strongest of
memories when it came to events. The things that it did, it
did as a result of instinct, hardwired into it by century upon century of evolution.

So the smallest, having departed the case that had been its home, had no recollection of ever having resided there. The only home it now knew was the web that it had delicately spun for itself, up among the recesses of the ceiling.

Nor did it have a clear recollection that, once upon a
time, it had been given food by a mysterious benefactor that

was the closest to the concept of God that the creature could
come to. All it knew now was that food was no longer forth
coming, and that it had to forage for itself. The craving in its
belly was growing by the hour, and it hadn't been able to spin its web fast enough to gather sustenance for itself.

The gossamer web it had spun was indeed quite a beauty,
and the smallest of the small was now waiting in the middle
of it. Waiting for the unwary, waiting for its prey, waiting for
something it could trap and cocoon and drain dry. Unfortu
nately nothing seemed to be cooperating. No flies or insects
of any kind were presenting themselves as an entree, and the
smallest was beginning to go mad with hunger.

And something else was disrupting the poor creature
—
thunderous vibrations from the—from the whatever they
were
—
a far distance below, which were no doubt serving to drive any potential meals away from the web.

The creature did not know, could not experience such emotions as anger. But as it became more and more fam
ished, its frustration level built and built....

The picture, and the opportunity, could not have pre
sented itself more perfectly.

There was Mary Jane, looking into the glass case, check
ing out her makeup. It was hard for Peter to believe that she
saw any need to take such measures. She was perfect; how
could she conceivably improve upon herself? But he didn't
question it too closely, because he was busy seizing the
chance that had been tossed his way.

A few quick steps and he was by her side. He said, "Can
I take your picture? I need one with a student in it."

Mary Jane turned to look at him, and Peter felt as if he
was being pulled completely out of the depressing, frustrating world inhabited by Peter "Big Brain Loser" Parker and
into the sphere where dwelt the magnificence that was Mary

Jane. It was a happy, glorious place, and he was pleased just
to be the most transient of tourists there.

In response, she immediately struck a pose, hiding a
small smile behind the practiced pout of a model. She
flipped her hair back, eyed the camera as she would a lover,
and said in a playfully sulky voice, "Don't make me ugly!"

"Impossible," Peter scoffed, gazing at her through the
viewfinder. He could have remained that way all day, but he
felt he had to be thoroughly professional. "Right there ...
good!" He snapped a picture, and the autowind shot for
ward. "And one more—!"

Except she had vanished from his viewfinder. She had moved out of frame, drifting toward a group of her friends. "Thanks," Peter called after her. He'd gotten her to smile at him, even if only for a photo. This was turning into a mem
orable day.

The spider had lost its mind.

It wasn't as if it had a large mind to begin with, but
hunger had overridden its desire for caution.
Eat eat eat
was
the imperative hammering through it, and it decided to go on
a hunt, rather than wait for something unwary to come to it.

There was a target just below it. Its spinnerets lowered it
gracefully down, closer to its prey. Had the spider been
thinking properly, it would have gotten nowhere near this . . .
this monster. This gigantic thing. But the spider was only concerned about making a last ditch effort to fill its belly,
and when it lunged at its prey, it had no clue that it was the last conscious effort it would ever make. . . .

"Ow!" Peter yelped.

He had just been turning to look at a huge display of elec
tron microscopes when a sharp pain had gotten him in the
right hand. Instinctively he'd snapped his wrist, and he

caught out of the corner of his eye some sort of
. . .
of bug.
An insect. A mosquito, perhaps?

Peter held up the back of his hand and saw two tiny red
marks flaring up on it. There was a moment of morbid amuse
ment as he wondered if he'd been assaulted by the world's tini
est vampire, and then he saw a brief movement on the floor.
He looked down, his eyes narrowing, as he watched what ap
peared to be a spider flip over onto its back, its legs curling up
like something out of a commercial for Raid.

A spider . . .

Peter Parker felt a surge of momentary panic as he looked back in the direction of the spider tank. There had seemed to
be some confusion as to whether there were fourteen or fif
teen spiders. Could one of them have escaped? And ... and
could this be it? If he'd been bitten by some sort of geneti
cally mutated spider
. . .
it could make him sick as anything.

Thoughts of blood poisoning tumbled through his head,
and he moaned softly.
Great. Just great.
Everyone else goes on a nice, ordinary class trip, and good old Peter Parker gets bitten by a toxic spider.

But even as the possibility occurred to him, he was in
clined to dismiss it. How in the world could a spider have es
caped from there, anyway? It's not as if one of its relatives
could smuggle in a teeny tiny hacksaw. The spiders weren't
about to start punching their way through the thick glass.
No
...
despite Peter's tendency to ascribe a worst-case sce
nario to everything in the world, even he had to admit that
the chances were that this was a normal, garden-variety spi
der. Heck, it didn't even look as big as the others had been.
The others had been huge, relatively speaking. This one just
looked like ... well, like a dead arachnid.

It was kind of puny, really.

And the kids—Flash, in particular—did tend to refer to
him as Puny Parker. So if he had to be bitten by a spider, it was probably appropriate that it was this one.

Peter stood there, rubbing his hand, as the array of elec
tron microscope display screens flashed around him, images
of DNA strands dancing over him. He didn't consider it to
be particularly ironic in any way.

That would change.

IV.

THE MEETING

Norman Osborn could remember clearly the day that the proud OsCorp Industries factory in Commack, Long Island, had first opened. He had stopped going home in those final
days, as they rushed to make certain everything was ready for the opening day. He ate, slept, and breathed that build
ing, checking every rivet, every switchplate, every window
seal.

The first time he saw the neon letters of the huge OsCorp logo flicker to life, he felt a swelling of pride. The first time
he beheld a black, noxious cloud belching out of the tower
ing smokestacks, he knew that everything for which he'd
been striving all these years had finally been attained.

So here he was, years later, and if driving a wrecking ma
chine through the place—leveling it, reducing it to nothing
but a pile of rubble—had been an option, he would have grabbed it in a heartbeat.

Explosives would serve just as well.

"General Slocum and the others have already started the
inspection," said his somewhat high-strung assistant, Simkins.
"Mr. Balkan and Mr. Fargas are with them."

Above the elevator door, the square that read
research
and development
lit up. R&D was situated a fifth of a mile
underground, which was a compromise as far as Osborn was
concerned. For his full comfort level to be reached, he'd
much rather have had it situated somewhere near the earth's
core. Industrial theft was his number-one concern, and he

was prepared to do whatever it took to avoid having enemies
swoop in and steal that which he had labored so long to
achieve.

There was a soft ping as the elevator doors slid open. Os
born stepped out onto a dizzyingly high catwalk, and his
hard green eyes, while appearing to be focused straight
ahead, took in everything around him, with peripheral vision that would have rivaled the capabilities of security cameras.
Simkins gulped audibly, fighting off a momentary flash of
vertigo before gripping the rail and moving behind her boss.
She had to pick up speed, because Osborn wasn't slowing
down.

"Why wasn't I told about this?" Osborn growled.

"I
. . .
don't think they wanted you to know, sir," admitted
Simkins.

Osborn moved quickly down a narrow flight of steps, tak
ing two at a time. He hoped Simkins could keep up but was too focused on his destination to be concerned if she didn't. He practically vaulted down to the polished floor, ignoring
the greeting of "Morning, Mr. Osborn" he got from every employee he passed. As if there was anything good about
this morning. As if any of them were remotely happy to see him. Every single one of them was a security risk, no matter
how many nondisclosure forms they signed.

On the other hand, there was nothing to be done when the enemy strolled right into your lair. Or, for that matter, rolled right in.

That certainly described Mr. Fargas, sitting imperiously
in his wheelchair, his eyebrows thick, his head bald, making
him evocative of the professor character from that mutant
movie. Mr. Balkan, as always standing beside Fargas, was tall and distinguished looking, but no less irascible.

There were other people in suits standing nearby.
Dammit, how many people was the Pentagon going to dis
patch whenever they wanted to
 
look in
 
on
 
OsCorp's