HOWLING, the man mountain turned on a pale and rattled Curt Connors. “You killed him! You killed the boss! And now you’re gonna die!”
A single stride put his long arms in reach of their target. Trying to avoid them, Connors lurched back and tripped. Before he could hit the ground, Marko caught his lab coat and held him. Suspended above the tiled floor, Connors thrashed. His panicked eyes danced wildly. All at once, he grew rigid.
“Let go of me—while you still can…”
Not understanding or caring what he meant, Marko pulled back, ready to smash the scientist’s head into the tiles.
A harsh voice cried out, “Stop!”
As if responding to a Pavlovian bell, Marko obeyed instantly. The voice was familiar—but too deep, too full-throated.
“Mr. Silvermane?”
Marko shook his head, then gasped at what he saw.
A 50-year-old man stood in the center of the lab. He was wearing the same tailored clothes as the boss, but his hair wasn’t white. It was gray, and his wrinkles had nearly disappeared.
“It’s some kind of trick! You…you can’t be him.”
Marko tried to look behind the man, to the spot on the floor where Mr. Silvermane’s body should have been.
“Look at me, Marko! Study my face. It’s the same, only younger. Listen to me! Isn’t this the voice of your master? This is the tablet’s secret: eternal youth. With it, I’ll run this town for another 60 years!”
Marko felt hypnotized. He was only vaguely aware of Connors scrambling along the floor toward the door.
“You tell me what happened to Mr. Silvermane, Doc, or I’ll take you apart!”
Ignoring them both, the man in Silvio Manfredi’s clothes stretched his arms, his muscles pressing against the fabric of the shirt. “Sixty years? Ha! With that nectar, I’ll be around forever!”
* * *
FRESHLY showered and dressed, Caesar Cicero rushed from his quarters to find the source of the ungodly shrieks. He hoped it was Silvermane. He hoped Silvermane was dying, or, with any luck, already dead. Halfway to the lab, he nearly banged into the fleeing Connors. The doctor shoved him aside without a word and kept going.
“What the…?”
Cicero thought of following, but he’d never been much of a runner. His men were with the family, anyway, so the doc wouldn’t get far.
Besides, if that nutty formula poisoned Manfredi, then Connors did me a huge favor.
He trotted up to the lab, stopping short at the open door.
Holy…!
Someone who could’ve been Silvermane’s kid was in the science-geek paradise, wearing Silvio’s outfit. He was barking orders at Man Mountain as if he was Silvermane. The resemblance was crazy—so perfect that Cicero must’ve gasped without realizing it, because whoever the hell it was turned his way.
“Come in, Caesar! Been waiting for you, just like you’ve been waiting for me to die!”
Poser or not, the man’s eyes burned with Manfredi’s predatory sheen.
Marko stepped up to explain. “He got younger, Big C, on accounta the tablet!”
Despite the shock, Cicero’s mind went to work, calculating his best move. Okay, so I don’t know for sure what the hell happened here—but, bottom line, do I care? If that is Silvermane, he’s going to kill me. If it’s not, Marko should be killing him. Get them to turn on each other, and I kill two birds without even throwing a stone.
“Marko, you stupid lug, it’s a trick! That can’t be Silvermane. He must be a plant, in league with the cops! They’re trying to trap us, make us tip our hand.”
“That’s what I thought, but he said—”
“And you believed him? It’s not like he’s going to confess! Get him, before it’s too late!”
Marko’s brow twisted so hard, it hurt just to see. He’d have to decide one way or another fast, if only to ease the tension. And he did.
“Don’t worry, Big C. I’ll take care of him!”
Looking proud that he hadn’t been fooled, Marko pivoted and punched.
Yes! Just one shot should do it!
But the fist didn’t connect. Instead of ducking, whoever-it-was pushed past Man Mountain’s long arms and clocked Marko in the jaw.
“You brainless mongrel! I beat my way to the top of the Maggia decades before you were born. You think you’re going to stop me now?”
The arrogant self-aggrandizing was so familiar, it made Cicero’s eye twitch. Maybe this was Silvermane. Silvermane on steroids.
Marko tried the same move again, only to walk his jaw into another blow.
“Ha! You’re a good dog, Marko, but you don’t know many tricks.”
Man Mountain paused. His eyes widened.
“The way you use your fists…it’s like the stories they used to tell.”
Marko went limp, letting his attacker grab his head and lift it so they were face to face. “Speak! Tell me you know who I am.”
“Yeah. It’s gotta be you, only younger. I see it in your eyes. It was the stuff you drank…and it’s still doing it. Your hair, it ain’t gray no more. You look younger than me!”
It was true. The salt and pepper was gone, leaving a lustrous brown. As Cicero watched, Silvermane’s hair thickened, and more wrinkles vanished. His muscles grew lithe, losing some of their bulk, the shirt and jacket loosening around him. Silvermane—and yes, somehow it was Silvermane—changed from a man in his 50s to one in his 40s.
Any hope Cicero had of turning Marko against his boss was gone. Even the best attorney in the world couldn’t have convinced Marko that what he saw and heard wasn’t true.
Neither of them was paying attention to him. Cicero backed toward the exit and sprinted down the hall, pressing his short legs to the max. The last thing he heard from the lab was Marko saying, “It’s like magic. Like watching a clock move backwards.”
As it turned out, Cicero was a pretty good runner after all.
* * *
SPIDER-MAN didn’t have to check the address. Even from blocks away, the 14-story Galby building, with its tan brick façade and clock-tower top, looked as if it had materialized right out of the roaring ’20s, back in the days of the mob.
And those tall narrow windows, bless ’em, make it easy to see inside.
He’d planned to start at the top and work his way down, but along the way a fancy lab behind some frosted glass caught his eye—mostly because of the two figures within.
The extra-large Frankenstein type looks like a man mountain to me! As far as the other one, the Bugle photo was black and white, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like Silvermane.
Spider-Man burst in through the window. As soon as he landed between them, his bruised body reminded him how unhappy it was.
Ow. Gotta make this fast, focus on what’s important, even if it means leaving the tablet behind for now.
“All right, kiddies. I’m here for Dr. Connors and his family. So if you’ll just tell me where…?”
He blinked at his first clear view of the man he’d thought was Silvermane.
“Wait,” Spider-Man said. “Whoa. What?”
This guy’s way too young. Is this some lower-echelon captain?
The man crossed his arms. “Time to prove your loyalty, Marko. Sic him!”
Either that, or Marko’s trainer.
“I was hoping you’d ask, Mr. Silvermane.”
The aptly nicknamed Man Mountain stomped toward the hero.
Spider-Man was waiting. “Silvermane? He looks Crypt-Keeper-old in the photos. Do cameras really age you that much?”
Marko looked stronger than the Kingpin, but he wasn’t nearly as fast. A simple straddle jump took Peter out of reach with time to spare. Missing, Man Mountain’s leaden fist shattered the console of what looked like a very expensive 3D-scanning system.
Guess what they say about big ships turning slowly is true. Broken ribs or not, this part should be easy.
Taking to the ceiling, Spider-Man grabbed Marko’s wide collar and pulled him into the air.
This is making my bruises hurt like hell, but no reason to tell him that.
Spider-Man let go. The man mountain let out a yelp. The drop was only 10 feet, but Marko’s broad back hit the tiles hard, his legs smashing into a beaker-filled table. Long before he could recover, Spider-Man was on him, fist raised for a knockout blow. But a triumphant, rough-throated shout made them both turn toward the man in the suit.
“I’m still getting younger, more powerful! I feel like I’m in my 20s!”
Spider-Man had to look twice before realizing it was the same man. His clothes were looser, his face that of someone in their prime. Obvious as the conclusion might be, it wasn’t easy to accept.
“That…that is Silvermane?” Spider-Man asked.
Marko nodded. “It was the drink they made from that tablet.”
Spider-Man’s fist was still poised for the punch. He slammed it into Marko, and the large body went limp. “Thanks.”
Silvermane tossed off his jacket and loosened his tie, as if he were getting ready for a street brawl. “Not even you can oppose me now.”
“If you say so, Peter Pan. But as much as I’d like to oppose you, I’ve got places to be, hostages to rescue.” He bounded for the door. “If you want to wait a bit, I’ll be happy to come back and oppose you in a few…”
His spider-sense pulled him back. A beaker smashed into the spot where he would have landed. Splashing acid bubbled through the paint and seared his costume, burning bits of skin on his already pained back. Writhing, he dropped to the floor.
The Maggia leader rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to make an example of you. Once words hits the streets that I beat Spider-Man, all of New York will fall in line.”
Is it the pain, or is his voice getting higher? Younger?
His spider-sense warned him again, but the agony made him sluggish. He felt Silvermane grab his head, then shove a knee into his chin. The force sent him sprawling backwards.
Ow. Okay, sure, he’s pretty strong—but he’s still human. Once I shake off this excruciating pain, I can—
Again his spider-sense fired, and again, he wasn’t fast enough. Silvermane slammed both fists into Spider-Man’s broken ribs. Peter felt the hard knuckles press the bones inward toward his lungs, then thought he heard the ribs crack again as Silvermane withdrew. His whole form flared in anguish.
He somehow sensed my weak spot. Did something about the way I moved give it away?
No longer quite so confident, Spider-Man rolled sideways, protecting his ribs. The young Manfredi stepped forward and kicked the burns on his back.
“I’ve got decades of experience,” Manfredi said. “A thousand brawls to draw on. And I always bring guns to a knife fight!”
Dizzy, finding it hard to move or think, Spider-Man folded into a fetal ball. Silvermane knelt at his back and pounded his knuckles into the burns.
“What are you? Just some smart-ass kid? Some freak?”
Spider-Man tried to rally—but one look into Manfredi’s eyes, brimming over with sadistic pleasure, and he froze. The driving rage Peter had carried since seeing Gwen with Thompson fled, taking its heated energy along with it.
All that remained was an old, overwhelming sense of helplessness.
He closed his eyes. Images of high-school bullies, the gloating Flash and his cronies, swirled in his mind. As the mobster continued to pummel him, the sharp sting of his blows mixed with a deep, inky pool of remembered shame. It felt all-encompassing, undefeatable, bottomless.
He’d been through this many times before: tussling in schoolyards, being attacked by Jameson, combating super villains far stronger than Manfredi— and sometimes, it seemed, fighting the whole of the world. It had all hurt, inside and out.
Then he realized: It had also never stopped him.
And I’m not some pitiful school kid anymore.
The inner dialogue of constant judgment paused, leaving him with only the present moment—the feel of the floor beneath him, the thudding fists at his back. The pain was only physical; the memories, only ghosts.
He lay still and waited, gathering his strength.
Silvermane’s blows seemed to grow softer.
“Why don’t you give up and die?”
Opening his eyes, Peter saw that the Maggia chief looked like a teenager now. Though fit, his muscles weren’t as fully developed as they’d been even a few minutes ago. He’d reached a point where his youth left him weaker, not stronger.
More than that, his punches were no longer focused on Spider-Man’s wounds.
He’s frustrated. The younger he gets, the more impatient he is, too.
When the time was right, Spider-Man straightened and slammed his shoulders into Silvermane. Manfredi flew back. He rose half the distance to the ceiling, then came crashing down.
The mobster lay on his back, eyes open, motionless save for a slight shivering in his limbs. He looked even younger now—so much so that, for a scant second, Silvermane reminded Peter of himself before he was Spider-Man. But there was a difference, a predatory gleam in his eyes that banished the thought of any similarity.
Peter wasn’t a bully. And Silvermane wasn’t a kid.
He glared at Maggia leader. “Where’s the Connors family?”
There was no response. Despite his open eyes, Silvio Manfredi seemed unconscious.
Cradling his rib, Spider-Man headed into a surprisingly empty hallway.
For that matter, where’s the rest of the Maggia?
The first few rooms he checked were vacant. In one, he found a landline and used it to place an anonymous call to the police.
Gunfire pops sent him bolting up the stairs and into a wide-open area that looked like a set from Scarface, complete with gaudy chandelier. At the far end, Maggia soldiers jostled for position, aiming down a corridor.
“The next one won’t be a warning shot, Connors! No one’s getting into that room until we hear from Silvermane. You’ve got to the count of three to get back here. One…”
A gooey bit of web slapped the man’s mouth closed. Another web snatched his gun.
The others, 10 in all, whirled to see Spider-Man suspended from the chandelier. Despite his aches, he was pretty sure he could take them, but not easily—and in the struggle, a stray bullet could strike Dr. Connors.
If he was still Dr. Connors.
“Listen up!” Spider-Man called. “You gave the doc a chance, so let me return the favor. Your creepy boss is upstairs sleeping like a…well, let’s just say he’s out cold. I’m not sure if he’s going to jail or reform school, but the police are on their way, and the exit’s behind me. Run for it, and maybe I’ll be too focused on freeing your captives to pay much attention. Start shooting, and—well, how many of you want a new attempted murder charge added to your rap street?”
Two raised their weapons to fire, but when his webs snagged them before they could squeeze off a shot, the rest raced for the door.
Spider-Man was headed for the corridor when he spotted Caesar Cicero crawling out from behind the enormous desk, trying to join the stampede. Using a web to snag his ankle, Spider-Man tugged. Cicero’s leg flew out from under him. He landed flat on his face, inches from the door.
“Sorry, this offer does not apply to management.”
“Let me go! I gotta get out of here. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Nah. I don’t see what could be worth more than watching you squirm, given all the lives you helped the Maggia ruin.”
He left Cicero and kept moving. In a room at the corridor’s end, he found them: Dr. Connors sitting on the floor, his single arm wrapped around Martha and Billy. All four of theirs were wrapped around him.
“Doc, are you…okay? Got things, you know, under control?”
Connors looked up, nodded briefly, and then went back to hugging his family. Their sobs soon mixed with muffled sirens.
Feeling a bit as if he were intruding on the reunion, Spider-Man took a few steps back. “So… that’ll be the police. You should be fine until they get up here, but if you like, I can hang around…”
An anguished, high-pitched wail rose. It sounded like some sort of small animal was being tortured on the floor below.
Then he realized it was human.
Silvermane?
Spider-Man sprinted back through the office. Cicero was gone, one polished shoe and silk sock still held fast by the web. Spidey figured he’d run off with the others until he found the Maggia attorney in the lower hallway. He was limping toward the lab, wincing at the cold floor against his bare foot.
“Senile idiota! You and that rock have destroyed us! If that elixir hasn’t killed you, I’ll put a bullet—”
His threat was cut short when what appeared to be Silvio Manfredi’s suit, crumpled into a disheveled mass, flew out of the lab and knocked an astonished Cicero out of the way. Huffing and puffing, the bundle threw itself into the nearest empty room, slammed the door, and locked it.
Dumbfounded, Cicero leaned into the wall and slid to the ground. As Spider-Man webbed up his ankles and shoulders, he asked, “Is there any other way out of there?”
Cicero numbly shook his head.
Spider-Man grabbed the knob and twisted. The lock broke; the door creaked open.
Somewhere within, a childlike voice warned, “Stay back! I’ll kill you! I’ll tear out your heart with my freaking fingernails!”
City light stretched in from the windows, but not far enough to eliminate every shadow. In the darkest corner of the room, Silvermane’s clothes lay in a bundle, quivering. As Spider-Man cautiously approached, the over-the-top threats gave way to infantile wailing.
An baby’s pink, oversized head peeked from the folds of the finely tailored suit. As Peter watched, Silvermane shrank, growing smaller and smaller, newer and newer. But with every step back along life’s path, his eyes retained that terrible gleam.
It’s like part of him refuses to change, no matter how old—or young—he gets.
It might have been a trick of the scant light skimming a diamond cufflink, but even when Silvio Manfredi finally disappeared, the gleam remained.
So, in a way, he got what he wanted.