Just a note, I have reworked the previous chapters, I hope that now they are easier to read
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Hm. What happens if I add some of that powder to this liquid?
Two seconds before the explosion.
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I was exultant and awarding myself an Oscar for Best Performance. Everything had worked even better than I had intended. How better? Very simply. Connors had shaken my hand, which meant particles of his skin and traces of sweat and oil remained on me. Not much, but enough for an initial analysis. No, I would not acquire his abilities or knowledge from that. According to the understanding of my nature I had developed so far, knowledge required either a partial Bonding, as with Parker, or the complete devouring of a personality, as with the homeless man.
But I was in no hurry.
The important thing was that I now possessed his genetic material and therefore the key to the Lizard's abilities. Even so, that was merely a pleasant bonus beside a far more significant victory. The doctor had agreed to help, not only with studying me but with certain ordinary needs as well. I needed somewhere to live, something to eat, and some method of becoming legal. Unfortunately, we lived in a world where without a piece of paper you were an insect, and with a piece of paper you were a person.
Creating documents and a cover story for a citizen who had appeared from nowhere was more a distant objective than an immediate one. Providing a roof and daily bread, however, was something Connors—who turned out to be a genuinely good man—could manage right away. Naturally, he had no intention of inviting me into his home. But the laboratories under his control were spacious enough for me to sleep there temporarily without being seen. Bringing a little more food than he needed for his own lunch was no great problem either.
My happiness lasted only one day—until Curt started with me seriously. That scientific maniac shoved me into every variety of apparatus imaginable. I was listened to, illuminated, scanned, and examined. As for the amount of blood that... unpleasant man drained from me, any vampire would have tied itself in a knot from envy. Then he decided to test how sounds of various frequencies and volumes affected me.
No. I allowed him to do that once. At every later hint on the subject, I sent him immediately along an exceptionally winding route. But even that was not enough for him. The good doctor caught me on my own promise. Had I agreed to help with research? I had. What did I know about genetics and molecular biology? That cells had membranes and were mostly filled with liquid? Excellent. Here were reference books and teaching manuals from our university. Could I read? Wonderful. Read.
So I read.
Gods, if overloaded brains truly began to smoke, the laboratory fire-suppression system would have operated continuously. Fortunately, I did not have to begin entirely from zero. Despite every effort of our government, education in my much-suffering homeland remained among the best in the world. Our rector in particular held an interesting view: an engineer, he said, should know everything about something and something about everything. How we had cursed him in our early years when we were forced to memorize chemistry, for example. Now I was ready to kiss the man. Though his granddaughter would be preferable.
However well my recent sleepless nights preparing for tests and examinations—and writing an entire year's term papers in three days, an experience every true student must endure at least once or they have smelled nothing of life—had hardened me, I could not sit permanently and cram mind-breaking chemical compounds and still more incomprehensible descriptions of biological processes. Sometimes, therefore, I escaped the institute at night and wandered through the city, learning its layout and general situation.
For all his virtues, Doctor Connors knew nothing about New York's darker side—which was a good thing for a normal person. I naturally walked through the less prosperous neighborhoods. After about a week, guided by the slogan dear to my heart, 'Rob the robbers,' I increased my savings by another five thousand dollars and added the legend of a hunter-vampire to the city's collection of urban myths.
Then I had to reduce my walks sharply. Ordinary street criminals became much more cautious, and strange individuals began appearing whom I had no desire to meet. Along the way, Doc solved Symbiote-me's hunger. I simply told him what had caused my first loss of control, and the next day he obtained a selection of hormonal preparations. Adrenaline was the 'tastiest.' No, not tastiest exactly. It was the most... approved. From then on, every three days I received a couple of cubic centimeters of the hormone.
To be honest, Curt and I were both slightly stunned when we realized that an organism that had drifted through deep space for no one knew how many years depended on a fairly complex chemical compound that was effectively impossible to find in that space. The questions began to resolve themselves when the host-me's blood analysis was ready and Symbiote-me's structure had been studied to some degree.
The host's blood contained an almost absurd concentration of norepinephrine—the hormone of aggression. Curt was astonished that I was not foaming at the mouth and trying to murder someone. I was simply grateful that the host's brain remained in a deep shutdown.
The Symbiote's structure, meanwhile, was something else entirely.
As is generally known, the DNA required for cell division is stored in the cell's nucleus, and there is only one version of that DNA. My nuclei contained several dozen versions. And they were not intended to alter my own structure. They were templates for possible offspring. An extremely interesting picture emerged.
Here was an organism capable of merging with almost any organic creature and raising its characteristics or granting entirely new abilities. It had a bad habit of collecting genetic material and increasing its host's aggression. At the same time, it received a certain 'marker' whenever the host entered an extreme situation—and what sort of situation might an aggressive adrenaline addict encounter? A rhetorical question.
The organism possessed limited intelligence, specialized in combat and collecting 'material.' The biological-weapon theory made more and more sense. It also explained why I had not experienced hunger in puddle form. The organism considered that the 'mission' had not yet begun. But then how did one explain the weakness to sound? We thought about that carefully and eventually arrived at a theory.
Suppose I had created a collector-scout-saboteur like this and sent it to clear a particular territory, spaceship, station, or—why not?—an entire planet. How would I later extract the acquired information if it viewed every living being as prey? Very easily. Remove the suit from its host, switch it into a passive state, and download the necessary data. Acoustic vibrations were perfectly suited to the purpose—cheap and effective.
Yes, yes, but what if the locals were clever enough to hit it with something loud?
So what? They would hardly be capable of extracting the data correctly. In that case, one could implement a simple algorithm: 'I have been removed from the host—wait for a certain period while data is retrieved—if no retrieval occurs, the locals have discovered the weakness and countermeasures are required.'
What countermeasure?
Naturally, create an organism designed to cleanse the territory without that weakness, but either completely subordinate to its 'parent' or equipped with a weakness of its own. At that moment, something clicked in my head and the mosaic became complete. Carnage, the offspring Venom produced, fit the description perfectly. It had been spawned after Venom suffered acoustic defeat, and it possessed only one objective: 'Let everything living die.'
I told Doc my theories, prudently omitting the story about the shuttle and the red psychotic symbiote that might exist in the future. Connors grew grim.
"If that is truly what you are, we can only pray the Symbiote reached Earth by accident. Otherwise, we're doomed."
That was his concise and meaningful verdict. The realization that I might inhabit a biological weapon had no effect on the rhythm of our lives. Curt continued trying to dismantle me into my component parts with the same fanatical light in his eyes—occasionally in the literal sense. I continued gnawing the granite of science twenty-four hours a day. Doc managed to lecture me on genetics even during experiments. That was what a level-eighty professor looked like.
Sometimes I escaped him for a while and relaxed, though on my return I faced a stern stare and found the genetics lecture replaced by one about the dangers of a dissolute lifestyle and the value of the light of knowledge, which the unfortunate professor poured upon an uneducated individual such as me. Reasoned objections of the form, 'Boss, you went home and slept soundly during that time,' were dismissed as irrelevant. They were followed by another lecture concerning how much I still needed to learn for normal adaptation to the world and society.
Judging by the scientist's expression, he understood perfectly well how futile his attempts to guide me onto the 'true path' were. He did not stop trying, and for that I respected him sincerely. Connors adapted quickly and no longer recoiled from me. At first, he had—especially when I crawled out of his 'acoustic-perception test' with a clear desire to rid the world of one particular lizard-man. We developed an easy, almost friendly relationship.
Two weeks passed in this manner. At the end of them, Curt approached and handed me a bundle of documents. They bore the name Walter Mayer and my photograph in the proper place. To put it mildly, I had not expected that. It forced me to consider that Doc might be a worldly, ordinary man and 'just a teacher,' but he was also a Brilliant Scientist of the Marvel Universe. By definition, that meant he was far less simple than he appeared.
"Here. If you want to live normally in our world, you'll need documents. I asked a couple of old acquaintances from my army days to assist. You're holding the result."
Thus the 'quiet, peaceful scientist' answered my questioning look.
"Thank you. I don't even know how to repay you," I finally managed to say something appropriate, while realizing that I now owed him a great deal.
I disliked being in debt.
"I had an assistant once—Peter Parker—but he's already graduated, and the position is still vacant," the scientist hinted with a slight smile. "Besides, we haven't completely understood your organism yet."
No. He was not a geneticist. He was the kindly wizard in the blue helicopter. I glanced quickly at the place where Connors's arm should have been. I believed I knew how to repay the debt. I would have preferred not to remove such a powerful source of motivation from the professor... but I was not a complete bastard. Naturally, the leverage provided by his inner Lizard had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
"I'd be happy to accept your offer, Doctor, but you know as well as I do that I lack the knowledge to assist you, and I'm not enrolled at the institute."
I spread my hands and smiled apologetically, fully aware that he had already planned something.
"Don't worry. The rector is an old friend. I think we can resolve the enrollment issue. As for knowledge..."
For one second, I thought the Lizard had awakened inside Connors. The smile was painfully unkind. Sadistic, even.
"It's the middle of summer. That gives you a month and a half to reach bachelor's level. And believe me, you will reach it, or my name isn't Curt Connors!"
No. I had not imagined it. The mild and fluffy scientist had decided to take possession of an alien monster and harness it for the benefit of science. Truly, still waters run deep. Not that I objected. I was strongly in favor, in fact. But looking into his eyes, I suddenly wanted to swallow. Every fiber of my student soul delivered an inhumanly powerful intuition that the coming month and a half would be exceptionally eventful.