Authors: Peter David
start a career as a high-priced wrestler. He'd run past me with a bun
dle of cash that he'd taken off some guy who I figured deserved it. Be
cause I figured, you know, this guy, this promoter, he'd stiffed me, so
the way I added it up, one bad turn deserved another. I kept thinking,
karma, you know? Karma. And what I didn't stop to think about for a second was that by letting the guy go when it was in my power to stop him . . . by letting him commit a criminal act and laughing up my sleeve
about it . . . I was performing my own bad turn. I was turning my back
on the needs of society, a society that should be protected from
creeps like that.
So the karma came back at me, and why couldn't it have come right
for me, huh? Why couldn't it have bitten just me on the ass? but no,
no...
it went straight past me and nailed your brother, Dad, just... just nailed Uncle Ben.
It was the same guy. The thief from the arena was the same guy I
was gaping at, up in that warehouse.
I dropped him, just staring at him, lights from outside flashing all
over. He stood up and aimed a gun straight at me, and I didn't care. No,
I take that back. I cared. Because at that second all the anger I'd been
feeling, that I'd been turning outward, was turning inward. I started toward him, not more than ten feet away, and all I could think in my
blind rage was, "C'mon, c'mon! Shoot me! Put a bullet in my chest! In
my brain! Send me to be with Uncle Ben, because that's what I de
serve!" At that moment I was in so much pain that the thought of liv
ing with it was unbearable.
He aimed at me point blank, grabbing up the canvas sack with his
money in it, the blood money that Uncle Ben had died for. He
squeezed the trigger and for a second I flinched in anticipation. Ex
cept nothing came. His eyes went wide and he fired again and again.
Click click click, nothing, just . . . nothing. I couldn't believe it. He was
out of bullets.
I let out a scream, then, and I have no idea what it must've sounded
like to him. But the next thing I knew, he'd backed up too far, and he
tripped over a piece of rotting paneling and smashed into a window. Unlike the previous one that had kept him from falling, this one didn't.
There wasn't time for me to get a web shot off to snag him, so I
lunged forward, trying to catch him barehanded. I missed . . . .
I missed because I was too slow.
Or I missed because I didn't want to be fast enough.
I'll never know.
And then he was gone, out the window and down, down. The side of the warehouse faced out onto the river, so there was no sidewalk there.
There was, however, a wooden dock below . . . fifty feet below. He hit it
with a thud that sounded like a watermelon exploding. Money from his
canvas bag fluttered all around, some of it landing on his dead body, the
rest of it landing on the water and washing away. He'd lost his money.
He'd lost his life. Uncle Ben had lost his. The scales didn't seem bal
anced because ...the one who'd started it off... was still there.
A police patrol boat was roaring down the river, and its spotlight
picked up the shooter's body. Then it swung up toward the window
where I was standing. I flinched back, throwing my arm over my face,
as much from the brightness of the light as from wanting to keep my
features obscured. One of the cops on the boat shouted, "There's the
other one! I told you there were two of 'em!" They didn't give me any
chance to surrender, to come out with my hands up, no matter how
much you hear that they're supposed to. They just raised their guns
and got ready to start shooting, probably figuring that I had the ad
vantage since I had the altitude. They didn't want to take any chances
with a "cold-blooded murderer" like me.
They came pouring into the building as quickly as they could. Like it did them any good.
Like they could keep up with me. By the time they were all running around on the first floor, I was already out and gone.
None of them saw me. None of them knew me. No one knows me. No,
while they were trying to find me, I was blocks away, crouched on a
rooftop next to a stone gargoyle, and I was sobbing like a baby. Say
ing "Uncle Ben . . . oh God . .
.
I'm so sorry . . ."
Like God was listening.
Like God cared.
You're with God, Mom and Dad. Next time you see him . . . you ask
him if he's satisfied. Is he pleased I got the lesson?
He gave me these powers, and I tried to cash in on them, and I became selfish and self-centered. And I have to carry that with me every
time I see, in my minds eye, the body of Uncle Ben lying there in the
gutter. And every time I see, in my minds eye, the putrid face of that
shooter, the one who got away. Who I let getaway.
And I had to carry that with me when I saw Aunt May's face, when I had to share with her that her husband was never coming back, that he'd been taken away from her because of a violent world... a world
that I did nothing to improve, except try and get into show business.
I'm like . . . like Scrooge, being told by the Ghost of Christmas
Present that mankind should have been my business. I spat on gifts
and ignored those who loved me, all for a power trip and the hope of
making some fast money, and I can never, ever tell Aunt May about it
because she would hate me forever.
If anyone should have died, it was me. I'm the one who had the op
portunity to do something great with this power. Instead I'm left with
the only father I've ever really known, lying in the cemetery. And the only mother I've ever really known mourning his passing.
You tell God . . . you tell him that I get it, okay? I get it. It's what
Uncle Ben said... that with great power comes great responsibility.
But responsibility for who? For what? It's sure not to my pocketbook,
or to a life of fame and fortune. I saw what happened when I made
those things important.
I have to look inward and outward, all at the same time.
I have to do something . . . before I go crazy with grief.
Something.
But what?
XII.
THE GREMLIN
General Slocum was extremely impressed by the setup at
Quest Aerospace, and with every passing moment he was
feeling better and better about the prospect of dumping OsCorp
.
The facility itself was about as advanced as they came. Indeed, Slocum was almost looking forward to returning to the Pentagon and telling them that Quest was working on things that made current military technology look sickly.
There was no doubt in his mind that Quest—and not OsCorp—was
the outfit with which they should be doing
heavy-duty business.
The night air was stiff and exhilarating as Slocum and the
project coordinator, Dr. Maddux, walked along the back of a
concrete bunker at the Quest testing facility, moving past a
sign that proclaimed in bold letters,
bunker
6
quest aero
space
PROVING GROUNDS.
Maddux was a remarkably personable man, devoid of Osborn's
irritating intensity and arrogance. Instead, Maddux
wore his confidence like comfortable shoes. "Our exoskeleton's got real firepower, General Slocum," he was saying
proudly.
"If it does what you say it can," Slocum assured him, "I'll
sign the contract tomorrow." But he wasn't looking at Mad
dux; instead his attention was focused on the war machine
standing out on the test area.
The project's name was B.A.D.G.E.R.: Ballistic All De-
fense Guerrilla Explorer/Recon. However, some of the guys
in the development team had claimed—rather tongue-in-
cheek—that it really stood for BADass GEaR. The metal exoskeleton
was situated on the tarmac, crouched like an
oversized cross between a praying mantis and the ferocious little animal that it was named for. It glistened in the moon
light, and Slocum felt a chill of anticipation as he and Mad
dux stepped into the protective bunker. "I think I'm in love," Slocum said.
Maddux peered at him over a small pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. "I'm afraid I'm mar
ried, General."
Slocum laughed heartily at this. "Sorry, Doctor. I believe
the object of my affections outweighs you just a bit." He
peered through the slits of the bunker, admiring the
B.A.D.G.E.R. as it awaited the test procedure.
"Now under ordinary circumstances," Maddux said, mak
ing some last minute checks via his handheld computer, "the B.A.D.G.E.R. would naturally be controlled by an on-board
human operator."
"Like the fellow there," said Slocum. Sure enough, a test
pilot was climbing into the unit, strapping himself in, and
running a series of last minute checks on the control panels.
"Exactly right, General. That is, after all, the entire pur
pose of an exoskeleton: to be a sort of second skin to both protect a soldier and augment his strength." When Slocum
nodded, he continued, "however, there is an auto-program
built into the unit, which is designed to kick in should the human operator be rendered inoperative through a fluke or
by an enemy. That's what we're going to be testing this
evening. The human pilot will simply be along for the ride;
everything else is going to be preprogrammed."
"Let 'er rip. Let's see the soldier of the future."