Authors: Peter David
activities? It seemed there were more and more each time,
and each one—as far as Osborn was concerned—represented
a potential security leak.
There was General Slocum, in the middle of the lab,
doing a slow, measured tread around the project that they
had all come to see and, very likely, criticize. Slocum was
square-jawed, steely-eyed, beetle-browed, and pea-brained.
As for the project itself . . .
It was breathtaking.
For all the anger he was feeling toward this intrusion, Os
born was still able to take pleasure in his achievements,
when his vision was combined with the talents of his people.
He remembered the time he had gone to the beach, at
Harry's pleading. Harry had just gotten a boogie board for
his thirteenth birthday and was thanking his father profusely for his thoughtfulness. It seemed silly to Osborn, but the boy
really
did
seem to be trying lately in school, and it seemed
the least Osborn could do.
Well, off they'd gone to the beach. At first Osborn had felt
self-conscious splashing about in the surf, but he was mak
ing the effort for Harry. It wasn't easy; it was contrary to
Osborn's business-first nature and his own upbringing. But no one seemed to be paying attention to him, and he started to relax a bit.
But then he started watching Harry and other kids with
the boards, skimming the tops of waves, controlling the
things with remarkable dexterity.
And as they did so, Osborn took a mental snapshot of
their actions, and found himself transporting the concept in
his mind. Instead of skimming waves, they were hurtling
over battlefields, deftly maneuvering around enemy troops. In his imaginings, they were wearing armor—tight-fitting,
lightweight suits, designed for protection but more than that:
They had a cybernetic link to the board. Yes, that was it—
they could take it to the next level. It wouldn't be all that
much of a jump, really. Rather than depending upon the reflexes of the rider, the board would respond to their very
thoughts.
When Harry had emerged from the water, his father had been grinning and nodding and clapping his hands with de
light. Harry couldn't have been more thrilled at his father's
support. Osborn, for his part, was looking right through his son, seeing a vast army of armored boogie board-riding sol
diers.
It had taken four years, a government contract, and two
breakthroughs in cybernetics to bring them to the point
where they were now. There, in the lab at OsCorp, was the the result, mounted atop a servo pole. Since this board was
designed for air, rather than water, adjustments had been
made to make it aerodynamically stable. Fins had been
added, and footholds for a more sure grip, and naturally
there was the jet tubing down the middle that would propel
the thing.
Next to the device, a technician was outfitted in the armored suit, moving his legs and arms while the board obe
diently responded to every change in his posture.
By rights it should have been eliciting ooooh's and
aaaahhhh's from the onlookers. Instead they just stood there
and scowled. They were bereft of imagination, nor did they
possess the slightest vision, and yet they were coming here
and standing in judgment of Osborn's work.
He was entering the lab just in time to hear Dr. Mendel
Stromm, his head of R&D, embark on a detailed explanation of everything that made the glider work. There may not have
been a more personally annoying individual on the planet than Stromm, with his affectations and slightly mincing
manner. But when it came to quantum leaps in cybernetic
breakthroughs, the only scientist who had better chops than
Stromm was probably Dr. Henry Pym, and Pym simply
wasn't for sale.
"Individual Personnel Transports are moving along
splendidly," Stromm was saying, clearly about to go into de
tail on the program's progress.
"I've seen your glider," General Slocum said, pausing
momentarily over the word "glider" with such faint disdain
that Osborn wanted to throttle him. "That's not why I'm
here."
Osborn forced pleasantries. "General Slocum," he said
convivially. "Good to see you again. Mr. Balkan, Mr. Far-
gas," he continued, acknowledging each of them in turn.
They didn't respond. Just glowered.
"Always a pleasure to have our board of directors pay us
a visit."
Slocum didn't seem impressed by Osborn's greetings. "I want a progress report on Human Performance Enhancers."
Doctor Stromm paused a moment, glancing at Osborn,
who simply nodded. Gesturing toward a glass-walled isola
tion chamber on the other side of the lab, Stromm started
toward it, speaking as he went. "We tried vapor inhalation
with rodent subjects. They showed an eight hundred percent increase in strength."
Fargas rolled his chair forward. "Eight hundred percent.
That's excellent."
That gave Osborn a momentary surprise; he didn't think
Fargas was capable of praising anyone or anything. Slocum, however, was naturally looking for the downside. "Any side
effects?" he asked.
"In one trial," Stromm began to reply, "yes, the—"
Osborn quickly interrupted. "It was an aberration. All the
tests since then have been successful."
But Slocum continued to pointedly ignore Osborn as he addressed Stromm. "In the test that went wrong, what hap
pened? What were the side effects?"
Stromm didn't hesitate. It was clear that he was extremely
concerned about the situation, and was welcoming the op-
portunity to make that concern known. "Violence. Aggres
sion. And eventually, insanity."
A silence fell over the group for a moment, and then
Slocum said, "What's your recommendation?"
Before Stromm could say anything else that could possibly sink OsCorp lower than the R&D level, Osborn stepped
in, physically interposing himself between Stromm and
Slocum. Meeting the general's gaze, he assured him, "With
the exception of Dr. Stromm, our entire staff has certified the
product ready for human testing."
And then the human submarine known as Dr. Stromm
fired his torpedo, striking the good ship OsCorp across the
bow. "We need to take the whole line back to formula."
Feeling betrayed, Osborn whirled to face Stromm.
"Back
to formula? "
"Mr. Osborn," Slocum said stiffly, "this department has missed seven consecutive delivery dates. After five-and-a-
half years of R&D, the United States government has a right
to expect the supersoldier you were contracted to deliver."
This was madness! The formula was safe! Stromm was
just being paranoid!
Trying to sound reasonable and assured, Osborn said,
"These are quantum leaps in science, gentlemen. We are unlocking the secrets of human evolution. I never said it would
be cheap or fast, only groundbreaking."
Slocum drew himself up so that he towered over Osborn,
and fixed a cold stare upon him. "I'll be frank with you. I
never supported your program. We have my predecessor to
thank for that." There was another word that he spoke with dripping contempt: predecessor.
Osborn sensed that the other shoe was going to drop, and
it was Balkan who dropped it. "The General has given the go-ahead to Quest Aerospace to build a prototype of their
exoskeleton design. They test in two weeks."
My God . . . they 're that far along?
Osborn fought to
keep any look of panic off his face, even as General Slocum,
twisting the knife, said, "If your so-called performance enhancers haven't had a successful human trial by that time, I
will pull your funding and give it to them."
"Norman," Fargas said, very slowly and very danger
ously, "we are
not
going to lose this contract."
All eyes were now on Osborn, obviously waiting for him
to say or do something. At that point, all he could manage
was a nod and a forced smile. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the armor and the glider, and instead of a foreign
battlefield with enemy soldiers strewn around, he was pic
turing sailing it over a ground littered with the bodies of Slocum, Stromm, and the entire board of directors.
It gave him some momentary comfort.
V.
THE SIDE EFFECTS
May Parker thought she was going to have a heart attack.
She had just walked into the living room to discover her
brilliant husband standing precariously on a chair, stretching
his arm as far as he could to try to change a light bulb in the
overhead fixture. Ben was grunting, his full concentration on
the job at hand. Pale sunlight was filtering through the just-
vacuumed Venetian blinds, causing him to squint as the chair
tilted ever so slightly on the carpeted floor.
For a moment all May could think about was that he
would fall forward, crack his head open, and blood would
permanently stain her couch, making her wistful for the
plastic coverings that they'd removed years ago to keep Peter
happy. Then she decided she really had to reorder her prior
ities and instead prevent Ben from getting himself killed.
"Why aren't you using a ladder? You'll fall and break
your neck," she admonished him. Indicating the bulb, she
continued, "Wait for Peter to do that."
Ben ignored her as he was wont to do. Instead, with a
final triumphant twist, he got the bulb in and it illuminated.
"God said let there be light," he intoned. "Voila. Seventy-
five soft glowing watts of it."
He started to step down off the chair, clutching the
burned out bulb with one hand, and Aunt May stood just be
hind him to break his fall should it come to that. Not that she'd do him all that much good; if he landed on her he'd
likely kill her. But she felt as if she had to do something.
"Good boy," she said sarcastically. "God'll be thrilled. Just don't fall on your ass."
The moment his foot was on solid ground, she headed
into the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. As she went
about doing so, Ben called after her, "I'm already on my ass.
When the plant senior electrician is laid off after thirty-five
years, what else would you call it? Of course I'm on my
ass!"