Marvel Classic Novels--Spider-Man, page 49
“What?”
“Yeah, the Avengers just showed up in Times Square, a few of ’em, anyway. They’re mopping up now. And the Thing and the Torch just saved St. Pat’s. Oh,” she added proudly, “and the boys in blue just took out the one heading for Grand Central. We get our licks in sometimes, too.” She shook her head. “It’s a real mess, though. Lots of damage, dozens heading for the hospital. I’d hate to be the one who gets sued for this.”
Spidey’s head was reeling, and not from the fights. “Electro,” he remembered. “Max Dillon, Electro. He started this. I have to find him—”
The cop smiled. “Don’t worry. I hear She-Hulk caught him just north of Times Square. Knocked him out with one finger. Talk about the night the lights went out on Broadway, huh?” She stared. “Hey, what’s the matter? I thought you were a guy who appreciated a good joke.”
Spider-Man gazed at the blood covering the library steps. “This is no joke, Officer.”
FOUR
WHEREVER THERE’S A HANG-UP
JEWEL-THIEF ROBOTS
BUILT FOR VENUS
by Ben Urich
NEW YORK—Visitors and patrons in the Forty-seventh Street Diamond District could not be blamed for wondering if they were being invaded from outer space when a horde of six-legged metallic monsters ram paged through the block late this morning. The Daily Bugle has learned that the ten robotic devices unleashed upon the block by Maxwell Dillon, a costumed metahuman known by the nom de guerre Electro, were actually designed as interplanetary travelers.
The robotic probes were stolen from Cyberstellar Technologies, a private aerospace firm commissioned by NASA to construct the devices for an extensive survey of the planet Venus. The second planet from the Sun, Venus is much hotter than Earth and possesses a dense atmosphere bearing thick clouds of sulfuric, hydrofluoric, and other potent acids, with a surface pressure close to a hundred times that of Earth’s atmosphere. To date, of the landers that have reached the surface of Venus, none has lasted longer than 127 minutes.
The Cyberstellar probes were designed for a more ambitious survey, one that involved traveling across Venus’s rocky surface and taking mineral samples for return to Earth. They were thus equipped with versatile legs for maintaining balance on unpredictable terrain, powerful grippers and cutting lasers for the taking of samples, and extremely strong durable shells to withstand the crushing and intensely corrosive atmosphere. All these features combined to make them extremely effective adversaries for the police and other crimefighters who took them on. Spider-Man, the first costumed adventurer to arrive on the scene, was unable to contain them on his own. Some witnesses claim that his confrontation with Mr. Dillon caused Mr. Dillon to lose control of the probes, precipitating their subsequent rampage through Midtown and requiring the intervention of members of the Avengers and Fantastic Four. However, sources within the police department have stated that the means by which Mr. Dillon controlled the probes has not yet been determined, so that the role Spider-Man’s actions may have played in the rampage remains unclear. Mr. Dillon is a former electrical lineman, able to manipulate electric fields and currents directly through paranormal means, but is not known to have any training in computer programming or robotics.
The theft of the probes from Cyberstellar’s Westchester facility occurred early last Thursday. This afternoon, District Attorney Blake Tower announced his intention to file indictments against Mr. Dillon for the Cyberstellar theft as well as the attack on the Diamond District. A source in the District Attorney’s Office indicates that Mr. Dillon is also being investigated in connection with last Saturday’s burglary of industrial equipment from an Oscorp facility in Nassau County, since damage inflicted on the facility in that theft appears to match the damage in the Diamond District. Upon being reminded that Mr. Dillon’s conventional modus operandi tends toward simple larceny and large-scale vandalism, often as an employee of more powerful underworld figures, Mr. Tower declined to speculate on the reason for Mr. Dillon’s change of tactics . . .
“It’s not your fault.”
Peter had been hearing those words from Mary Jane all afternoon, even as the news channels continued to broadcast the footage of his failure. Or so it seemed to him. True, there was some footage of Spider-Man battling Electro while the robots rampaged outward from the Diamond District, but most of the news coverage was dominated by action footage of the Avengers defeating the robots and Electro, shot from a hundred different angles. There was never a shortage of cameras in Times Square, and it had been quite a spectacle. After all, there was probably nowhere else in the city where so much electricity was in use all at once—at least not so visibly. Electro had been in his element, siphoning up power from the clutter of garish, flashing signs and video screens that made Times Square into a cross between a Blade Runner cityscape and a giant pinball game. He had briefly rivaled those displays for intensity, firing gouts of lightning at his pursuers, while three of his robots had been causing serious property damage and sending shoppers and tourists screaming for cover. It had been a dramatic and exciting battle, but Spider-Man had been conspicuous only by his absence. Overall, the media were treating him as a sidebar to the story.
But J. Jonah Jameson, in his Bugle editorial column (and no doubt his new blog as well), was being as loud-mouthed as usual about Spider-Man’s role in triggering the disaster. Of course, JJJ would blame Spider-Man for the Hindenburg and the fall of Pompeii if he could find a way. But this time, Peter thought, he had a far more legitimate basis for his accusations. “I’m the one who started it,” he told MJ. “I distracted Electro, made him lose control of them.”
‘‘You can’t think that way,” she insisted. MJ was taking time out of her busy rehearsal schedule to help him through this, but it made him guilty to feel good about it; he didn’t want to be a distraction from her career at a time when it was so critical to her. “Electro was the one who stole the robots and used them. He was the one who decided to send them rampaging around the city.”
“But only after I caused him to lose control. He took advantage of my blunder.”
“How do you know he didn’t plan to send them on a rampage anyway to cover his escape?”
“Then how would he have gotten away with the diamonds?”
MJ studied him. “All that staring at the news, and you’re not really listening, are you? The Torch found sample canisters full of diamonds ejected from the robots, sitting on top of a nearby building. Electro must’ve planned to collect them later.”
“Oh yeah.” Peter vaguely remembered hearing that. The canisters must have been intended for returning the samples to Earth. Electro would have had to reduce the thrust of their rockets significantly to keep the swag from blasting into space. “But that was a backup plan at most. He wouldn’t have gone to the trouble if I hadn’t forced the issue.”
‘‘And if you hadn’t, he would’ve gotten away with gazillions’ worth of diamonds, and a lot more people could’ve been hurt or killed. You did what you had to do, Peter.”
“Not well enough.”
Before MJ could argue further, the phone rang. When Peter answered, Aunt May’s kindly voice replied. “Peter, dear, I just got back from shopping, and I heard what happened. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Aunt May, I’m fine. Well, physically, anyway.” The smile gave way to a sigh.
“I understand, dear,” May said after a pause. “But don’t you go punishing yourself for this. I know it’s hard not to, you’re such a sensitive young man, but I know you, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that you did everything you possibly could for—well, for everybody involved,” she finished, trying to remain cryptic about the details while on an open phone line.
In spite of himself, Peter smiled at her awkward at tempt to cope with the reality of his life. Aunt May’s recent discovery that he was Spider-Man had turned out to be one of the best things that had ever happened to him. For years, he had assumed the shock would be too much for her weak heart to bear, though in retrospect he realized he should’ve known better. May had been strong enough to bear the loss of his parents and later her beloved Ben, to nurture and inspire him through a lonely childhood, and to weather the ongoing madness that seemed to affect everyone in Peter’s life in the wake of that spider bite, whether through deliberate manipulation by foes who knew his identity or simply through the lunatic fortune that seemed to be his lot. Her discovery had been a grave shock to her—she had learned it in the worst possible way, letting herself into his apartment and coming upon a battered and bloody Peter asleep in half of his uniform after a particularly rough battle—but the effects had been more emotional than physical, and she had wisely taken time to think it over before confronting him and working it through. Until then, she had feared and loathed Spider-Man, but now she was striving to accept what he did, still disturbed by his vigilantism but believing unswervingly in her nephew’s basic goodness.
Still, although it was usually refreshing to be able to talk to May about his problems as Spider-Man after years of hiding them from her, today her reassurances stung more than they healed. “You did the right thing looking out for your students,” she told him. “You should be glad that you have so many— er—like-minded friends who were able to take care of the other . . . aspects of the problem. You really should consider teaming up with them more often.”
“You know I’ve never been much of a team player, Aunt May,” he replied. It was odd—somehow, over the course of his career as Spidey, he seemed to have teamed up with virtually every other superhero on the planet (and some from beyond), yet despite that he was still a habitual loner, rarely following through on those opportunities to forge closer bonds with the hero community. He’d tried to join the Fantastic Four at the start of his career, but had handled it badly and alienated them, leading to an ongoing rivalry with the Human Torch. He’d later been able to turn to the FF for help when he’d really needed it, but had still kept his distance behind the mask. He’d actually been a reserve Avenger for a little while, but that status had been lost in one of their periodic disbandings, and he’d never tried to regain it.
Is May right? he wondered. If he’d been part of a team from the start, would they have taken care of the robots before they’d gotten out of hand? Before they’d sent his students to the hospital?
The truth was, when he looked at the news footage of She-Hulk taking Electro down and her fellow Avengers trashing the robots, he didn’t feel gratitude for their assistance. He felt embarrassed at his failure to defeat one of “his” villains on his own, at needing other super heroes to clean up a mess he’d caused—particularly in such a public way. But he was too embarrassed by that embarrassment to admit it to May or MJ. He didn’t want to sound like he cared more about his wounded pride than the safety of the citizenry.
If anything, he felt oppressed by their efforts to talk him out of feeling guilty. Because Peter knew that it was hollow comfort, that ultimately they knew as well as he did that he had failed in his responsibility to protect the innocent. To protect his students. So after a while he said his goodbyes to May and made an excuse to get out of the apartment.
Unfortunately, the excuse he made on the spur of the moment was: “I promised I’d go downstairs and check on Flash.” Once he was out the door, he belatedly realized that was the last thing that could distract him from his guilt.
Eugene “Flash” Thompson had been Peter’s greatest rival in high school and college, the football jock and BMOC who’d relentlessly picked on “Puny Parker,” but in later years they’d mended their differences and become fast friends. More recently they’d drifted apart, but that hadn’t kept Norman Osborn from targeting him. Osborn had been Spider-Man’s greatest foe for years, both as the masked berserker called the Green Goblin and as a devious manipulator working behind the scenes—in large part because he knew Spider -Man’s true identity. He had kept that secret to himself due to the rules of whatever mad game he thought he was playing, but had not been above striking at Peter’s friends to hurt him. Flash Thompson had been the latest victim, framed in a drunk-driving accident that had left him in a vegetative state. Aunt May had arranged for him and a full-time nurse to be moved to the vacant apartment below Peter’s, and Peter’s friends and fellow tenants had taken it upon themselves to look in on Flash regularly, trying to engage his dormant mind in the faint hope of stimulating it back to some level of activity.
That’s the thing about being Peter Parker, he thought as he knocked on the door to Flash’s apartment. I never have to travel very far for a guilt trip.
The door opened, but instead of Flash’s nurse, Peter found Jill Stacy standing there. “Hi, Pete!” the pretty young brunette said, smiling. “Come on in! Hey, Liz, Pete’s here!”
“Hey, Pete!”
Oh, great, Peter thought. Two more reminders. Jill was the younger cousin of Gwen Stacy, the first great love of Peter’s life, whom the Green Goblin had murdered years ago. Liz Allan, meanwhile, was the widow of Osborn’s son Harry, who had fallen victim to his father’s legacy of madness and ultimately left Liz a widow and single mother. Despite her own problems and responsibilities, Liz had shown unfailing loyalty to her old high -school flame Flash Thompson since his injury, coming to visit him almost every day.
Everyone in this room has suffered terribly from Osborn’s feud with me, Peter thought as he came in. Everyone in my life seems to get hurt sooner or later, even if they have nothing to do with Spider-Man. Why do I keep letting this happen?
Outwardly, he tried to keep his expression cheerful, but with limited success. Liz and Jill saw his melancholy but didn’t divine the full reason for it. “Aww, Peter, we heard about what happened to your students,” Liz said, drawing him into a hug that Jill joined in on. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Well, I’m certainly feeling better now,” he replied, keeping his tone breezy.
“Hey, don’t forget you’re a married man there, Mr. Watson-Parker,” she teased as she pulled away.
“Trust me, MJ would never let me forget that. Nor would I wish to.”
“On pain of a horrible death, I’m sure,” Jill added, then cleared her throat when the joke fell flat. “Sorry. Bad taste.”
“That’s okay,” Peter told her. “The doctors think all the kids will pull through.”
“I hope so,” Liz said, suddenly turning toward Flash. ‘‘And I hope they all get . . . back to normal.” She gave a nervous, breathy laugh, wiped a bit of drool from Flash’s chin, and took his hand. “Like you’ll be anytime now, right, Flash? It just takes time to heal, is all.” Peter winced.
Just as he was trying to think of a way to change the subject, Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He grinned sheepishly as he pulled it out. “Don’t be alarmed, ladies. I have my phone set on ‘vibrate my bottom.’” After an embarrassing and life-threatening incident or two, he’d gotten into the habit of keeping his phone in silent mode when he was out as Spidey, and sometimes he carried that over into civilian life.
Reading the caller ID, he answered the phone. “Dawn? Hi, what’s up?”
His fellow teacher sounded angry. “Peter, have you seen Jameson’s blog today?”
“Uhh, no, why?”
“That son of a—he—I don’t even know if I can talk about it. Just . . . I think you need to see this.”
“Okay, hold on.” He lowered the phone, noticing Liz’s laptop sitting on Flash’s coffee table. “Liz, can I borrow your laptop?”
“Sure.”
The laptop was in standby mode, coming on automatically when he opened it. Checking with Dawn for the address, he browsed to Jameson’s Wake-Up Call blog and started skimming the latest entry. It started out with the expected Jameson boilerplate: Spider-Man is a menace, started the rampage, glory hound, no respect for public safety, yada yada yada . . .
Then he scrolled down and saw the pictures. “No,” he breathed. But looking closer, there was no doubt. The first image was an embedded YouTube clip, home video footage of the attack on the library. Reluctant to watch but having to know, Peter clicked on the image. It was shaky low-resolution footage, but it showed the robot attacking, the urn toppling, the students falling under the debris as Spider-Man arrived seconds too late. That was horrifying enough, but below it were a number of still photos apparently taken at the hospital afterward: photos of his students, battered and bloodied as they were rushed to the emergency room. Susan, Bobby, Angela, all of them. Their faces were visible. Their names were named. Below them, Jameson had written:
Some may question the taste of showing these images in public, but they are already out there, thanks to the anonymous hospital employee who took these photos and posted them online. The ethics of it are a debate for another time, but if this kind of total exposure is the nature of our culture today, then maybe in this case that can serve a positive purpose. The public needs to be shown the true horrors that Spider-Man and his ilk inflict on the innocents of the world in their never-ending testosterone contests. People need to see that despite their flashy, flamboyant personalities and wisecracking antics, at the end of the day theirs is a legacy of blood. These are the faces of Spider-Man’s victims. Angela Campanella, Koji Furuya, Susan Labyorteaux, Roberto Ribeiro, Joan Rubinoff. Say if you like that the hospital worker violated their rights by taking these photos, or that I violated good taste by posting them. But never forget that it was Spider-Man who violated them most of all. Look well on what his reckless vigilantism did to these fragile innocents and remember. Yes, it is shocking to show you these images. But sometimes we must be shocked, must be angered and offended, before we can be inspired to take action.
But Peter barely saw those last sentences through the red haze filling his vision. “Jameson! How dare he!”
