Spiderman 3 (4 page)

Mary Jane paused, and then, her voice dropping low and becoming filled with intense need, she said, "Tell me you love me. I like to hear it. It makes me feel safe."

He turned slightly so that he was looking into her eyes, their faces only a few inches apart. "I will always love you, Mary Jane. I always have."

Their lips came together. "Mmm… strawberry," he murmured.

For a second, Peter noticed something flashing high in the sky. Another meteor, this one very close. Shooting stars. Heralds of great changes to come for anyone who witnessed them. Then he put such unscientific thoughts out of his mind and focused his attention instead on the woman he loved.

The shooting star that Peter had observed, speculated about, and then given no further thought to, thudded to earth in a nearby field. A small, smoking crater provided evidence of where precisely it had struck.

Had Peter endeavored to turn his analytical eye upon the aftermath of the space rock's fall, he would have seen something that defied any manner of scientific explanation.

It was a thick, black gooey substance, which oozed from the meteorite's porous surface as if the space rock were a car and the hard landing had caused an oil leak.

To describe the behavior of something from space as "unearthly" would certainly seem, on the face of it, to be belaboring the obvious. Nevertheless, it would have been warranted in the case of the black substance, for it now wasn't merely oozing from the rock. Instead
it
was as if it was pulling itself—extracting itself—consciously from the meteorite.

The black goo separated from the meteorite entirely and sat there for a moment, an animated puddle getting its bearings. Then it started across the field, propelling itself a few feet, halting as if trying to orient itself and acquire a sense of its surroundings, then undulating forward once more.

Then it reacted to something, some sort of growling noise. Even though it was a newcomer to the planet, it could still differentiate between a sound made in nature and something that was technological. It sped toward the source, eager to see what this world had to offer. It was impossible to determine whether the black goo was some sort of higher species of individual with a refined thought process, or some sort of animalistic thing operating purely on instinct. Either way, the result was the same. Its rapid slither brought it within distance of what appeared to be two biological forms, possibly native to the sphere, perched atop something perhaps designed to transport them. It scrutinized the both of them and was immediately drawn to one over the other: the one on the front of the vehicle. The one who radiated power and energy.

The creature was no more than a few inches in diameter, so it wasn't noticed at all as it slithered up onto Peter Parker's shoe when his foot shoved down on the starter once more. This time the engine caught and the bike rolled forward. The abrupt movement gave the creature a brief moment of disorientation. It clung fiercely to the underside of Peter's shoe and settled in, basking in the power that Peter's molecular structure was generating.

With Mary Jane holding tight, her hair whipping about in the wind, Peter maneuvered the motorbike down onto the road toward New York City, unaware that the city was under alien invasion, and equally unaware that he was the means by which it was happening.

FATHERS

When Harry Osborn had seen the desperate face of Peter Parker peering in through the window of the town car, something about the intensity of his sincerity had almost prompted Harry to listen.

For a moment, he saw Peter not as the enemy who had destroyed his father or the rival who had snatched Mary Jane away from him. Instead he was the whiz kid who had taken a young Harry under his wing and had helped him succeed in high school science classes, an accomplishment that at least half a dozen tutors had sworn to Harry's father was an impossibility. Peter had seen hope when others had declared Harry to be hopeless. Unlike just about everyone else in Harry's life, Peter had been under no obligation to do so. Norman Osborn didn't own him, didn't pay him, couldn't compel him. Peter had just done it out of the goodness of his heart because he thought Harry was a decent guy who could use a friend.

That was the man who was standing there at curbside, begging Harry to listen to him.

What would it hurt? Really? Giving him five minutes to explain his side of the story? Harry was pretty sharp and could usually tell when someone was lying to him. If Peter tried to feed Harry some sort of bull, Harry would know. Harry would—

Don't weaken.

Harry couldn't tell if the voice was sounding in his head or was in the car with him, but the identity of the speaker was unmistakable. Harry was staring at the window, but it was not his own reflection he saw, or even Peter's image through the glass.

Instead it was the face of his father, Norman Osborn, glowering at him.

Don't weaken.

Norman Osborn, who had thought so little of Harry during much of his life, was now counting on Harry to be strong. To remain focused and not lose sight of what had to be done… and to whom it had to be done.

Lowering the window slightly, feeling as if an invisible hand were laid upon his throat, Harry said, "Tell it to my father. Raise him from the dead."

He rolled the window back up, ignoring everything else Peter was saying, then leaned forward and rapped on the privacy partition that sepatated him from the driver. The car rolled away from the curb, leaving a frustrated Peter Parker in its wake.

Good job, Harry. You had me going there. For a minute I thought you were going to listen to my murderer.

Harry said nothing. Instead he put his hands to the side of his head as if battling a migraine.

His father continued speaking to him, whispering into his ear, inside his brain. He saw Norman's image in the privacy partition.

Harry had spent months wondering if he was going out of his mind. Then, one day, he'd stopped caring. He'd simply accepted this condition as his new status quo. He was to spend the rest of his life being haunted, like Hamlet, urged by the ghost of his father to exact revenge on those who were responsible for his death.

There were two problems with that: First, he didn't know how to go about it. And second, he knew
exactly
how to go about it… and was simply daunted by the prospect.

Bernard, the stately family retainer, came to Harry unbidden as the young Osborn sat in his study, staring at the wall. Bernard was carrying a glass of warm milk and said gently, "I thought this might help you sleep, Mr. Osborn. You've been up until all hours lately, and I was becoming concerned."

Harry barely afforded him a glance. "No thanks. Could you go now, please?"

"I thought there might be something el—"

A sudden burst of rage seized Harry. "I'm not a child, all right, Bernard? I don't need your concern! I don't need your damned milk!" With a sweep of his hand, he knocked the glass off the table, sending it clattering to the floor. The milk splattered and the glass shattered.

Harry's immediate impulse was to apologize, to offer to clean it up. But instead he closed his eyes and let his head sag back against the chair. He didn't know how much time passed. All he knew was that, when he opened his eyes once more, Bernard was gone and so were any traces of the mess he'd just made.

Harry began to wonder if Bernard had even been there at all.

Maybe Harry's father wasn't there either.

Hell, perhaps even Harry wasn't really there. That would explain everything, wouldn't it?

The night that he had learned Peter Parker's other identity—the night that he'd discovered his best friend was responsible for the death of his father—Harry had stood upon his balcony and contemplated throwing himself to the street below, rather than live with the unwanted knowledge. His recollection was that he had not done so. But perhaps he had. Perhaps all of this was just a wild fantasy, a last burst of synapses firing before his body struck the sidewalk and his tormented existence was terminated.

Don't think that way, Harry. You have a destiny. You have a job to do.

"Aw, God," moaned Harry, rubbing his temples. He didn't want to see his father's reflection again. Sometimes days would go by during which he'd see and hear nothing untoward, and he'd think that finally—oh, thank God—it was over. Then his father would show up unexpectedly, and it was off to the races once more. He'd never forget the time that Norman had appeared in his mirror one morning while he was shaving. Harry had almost slit his own throat. Perhaps that might have been a blessing.

Harry… it's time. Look at me, son.

Slowly, Harry forced his eyes to open. For the life of him, he couldn't have said whether he was dreaming. Norman Osborn was standing in front of him, no longer reflected in a surface but instead as big as life. He might well have strolled through the door and sat down, ready for a chat.

His mouth was moving, but his voice was slightly out of sync, like a badly dubbed film.
I've been waiting for you to be ready. I now believe you are
.

"Ready for what?" Harry whispered.

To avenge me
, Norman said with a trace of surprise, as if it were stunningly self-evident.
Against Parker. Against all of them that took me away from you
.

"But… Peter is—"

Peter is the sickness
, Norman told him heatedly,
and you are the cure for that sickness
. Then his tone shifted, becoming more cajoling, even sympathetic.
Don't you remember, Harry? I'd finally come to appreciate you for the loving, loyal son that you were. It could have been a new chapter in our relationship. But it was cut short by your friend
.

"It was cut short because you were the Goblin," Harry snapped back at him. "You threatened Mary Jane—"

To get to Spider-Man. To get to the man who had declared himself to be my enemy. The Goblin existed only to destroy my enemies
… your
enemies as well. The ones who would have taken all this
—Norman gestured around the mansion—
away from you. They would have reduced us to poverty because they were jealous of us, Harry. They were jealous and seized with a sick need to destroy us. I was defending myself… defending you. No father could have done less. And Spider-Man sided with our

enemies, and I died because of him. I died fighting for your future. Are you going to take that lying down?

"I…"

Norman drew closer, his voice more intense, his eyes almost hypnotic.
See him in your mind's eye. That smug bastard. He took your girl. Took your father. Took your peace of mind. He keeps taking and taking, and haven't you had enough? For God's sake
, haven't you had enough?

Harry saw Mary Jane on a field of stars, singing of love… singing to Peter right there in the front row. He felt an acid taste in the back of his throat, and a thudding in his head, and a buzzing in his ears.

He had thought he could live with it. He had thought he could keep himself from acting upon this terrible knowledge, because the knowledge of what he would have to become to combat it was almost as terrible. But seeing her tonight… seeing him… knowing what they were likely off doing now… Peter enjoying the life that should have been his…