Madeleine E. Robins - Marvel - Daredevil, page 1
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CONTENTS
P 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13
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MARVEL®
SPIDER-MAN: THE VENOM FACTOR by Diane Duane
THE ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN, Scan Lee, Editor
IRON MAN: THE ARMOR TRAP by Greg Cox
SPIDER-MAN: CARNAGE IN NEW YORK by David Miehelinic & Dean Wesley Smith
THE INCREDIBLE HULK: WHAT SAVAGE BEAST by Peter David
SPIDER-MAN: THE LIZARD SANCTION by Diane Duane
THE ULTIMATE SILVER SURFER, Stan Lee, Editor
FANTASTIC FOUR: TO FREE ATLANTIS by Nancy A. Collins
DAREDEVIL: PREDATOR’S SMILE by Christopher Golden
X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE Book 1: SIEGE by Christopher Golden
THE ULTIMATE SUPER-VILLAINS, Stan Lee, Editor
SPIDER-MAN & THE INCREDIBLE HULK:
RAMPAGE by Danny Fingeroth & Eric Fein
(Doom’s Day Book 1)
SPIDER-MAN: GOBLIN’S REVENGE by Dean Wesley Smith
THE ULTIMATE X-MEN, Stan Lee, Editor
SPIDER-MAN: THE OCTOPUS AGENDA by Diane Duane
X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE Book 2: SANCTUARY by Christopher Golden
IRON MAN: OPERATION A.I.M. by Greg Cox
SPIDER-MAN & IRON MAN: SABOTAGE
by Pierce Askegren & Danny Fingeroth
(Doom’s Day Book 2)
X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE
Book 3: SALVATION by Christopher Golden
GENERATION X by Scott Lobdell & Elliot S! Maggin
FANTASTIC FOUR: REDEMPTION OF THE SILVER SURFER by Michael Jan Friedman
THE INCREDIBLE HULK: ABOMINATIONS by Jason Henderson
X-MEN: SMOKE AND MIRRORS
by eluki bes shahar
UNTOLD TALES OF SPIDER-MAN. Stan Lee & Kurt Busiek. Editors
X-MEN: EMPIRE’S END by Diane Duane
SPIDER-MAN & FANTASTIC FOUR: WRECKAGE by Eric Fein & Pierce Askegren (Doom’s Day Book 3)
X-MEN: THE JEWELS OF CYTTORAK by Dean Wesley Smith
SPIDER-MAN: VALLEY OF THE LIZARD by John Vornholt
X-MEN: LAW OF THE JUNGLE by Dave Smeds
SPIDER-MAN: WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE by Craig Shaw Gardner
X-MEN: PRISONER X by Ann Nocenti FANTASTIC FOUR: COUNTDOWN TO CHAOS by Pierce Askegren
X-MEN & SPIDER-MAN: TIME’S ARROW
Book I: THE PAST
by Tom DeFaico & Jason Henderson
X-MEN & SPIDER-MAN: TIME’S ARROW
Book 2: THE PRESENT
by Tom DeFalco”& Adam-Troy Castro
X-MEN & SPIDER-MAN: TIME’S ARROW
Book 3: THE FUTURE
by Tom DeFaico & eluki bes shahar
SPIDER-MAN: VENOM’S WRATH
by Keith R.A. DeCandido & Jose R. Nieto
THE ULTIMATE HULK, Stan Lee & Peter David, Editors
X-MEN: CODENAME WOLVERINE by Christopher Golden
GENERATION X: CROSSROADS by J. Steven York
CAPTAIN AMERICA: LIBERTY’S TORCH by Tony Isabella & Bob Ingersoll
THE AVENGERS & THE THUNDERBOLTS by Pierce Askegren
X-MEN: SOUL KILLER by Richard Lee Byers
SPIDER-MAN: THE GATHERING OF THE SINISTER SIX by Adam-Troy Castro
DAREDEVIL: THE CUTTING EDGE by Madeleine E. Robins
COMING SOON:
SPIDER-MAN: GOBLIN MOON by Kurt Busiek & Nathan Archer
X-MEN AND THE AVENGERS: GAMMA QUEST: Book 1 by Greg Cox
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THE CUTTING EDGE
MADELEINE E. ROBINS
Illustrations by Max Douglas
MARVEL®
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Special thanks to Ginjer Buchanan, John Morgan, Ursula Ward, Steven A. Roman, Mike Thomas, and Steve Behling.
DAREDEVIL: THE CUTTING EDGE
A Berkley Boulevard Book
A Byron Preiss Multimedia Company, Inc. Book
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Boulevard paperback edition / June 1999
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 Marvel Characters, Inc.
Edited by Keith R.A. DeCandido of AIM-Shilah, Inc.
Cover design by Claude Goodwin.
Interior design by Dean Molten
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: Byron Preiss Multimedia Company, Inc.,
24 West 25th Street, New York, New York 10010.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
Check out the Byron Preiss Multimedia Co., Inc. site on the
World Wide Web: httpyAwvw.byTOnpreiss.com
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and much more, at Club PPI!
ISBN: 0-425-16938-3
BERKLEY BOULEVARD
Berkley Boulevard Books are published by
The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY BOULEVARD and its logo
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED SATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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For my brother,
Clem Robins,
fine hand letterer and brilliant portraitist,
With whom I spent many hours discussing the finer points of
comic book plot and art, and who, when I got into the comics
industry, introduced me around, told me the good gossip, and
treated me more like a colleague than a big sister.
Thanks, kid!
* * *
No One Does This Alone Dept.
The Author would like to thank a whole lot of people, without whom and so forth, including:
David Kogelman, for putting me through to Barry Goldstein, defense attorney, who told me all I could want to know about Riker’s (with an I) Island. All errors are mine; he was nowhere near the place, and I got witnesses to prove it.
My former colleagues at Acclaim Comics, especially Gregg Sanderson and Valerie D’Orazio, and all the terrific writers and artists I worked with there.
The Malibu Lunch Group, for gossip and cheerleading.
My friends at Tor Books, for more cheerleading, more gossip, and their friendship.
My editor at BPMC, Keith DeCandido, who came to me with an unavoidable opportunity and cheered me on until the book made its way from the everywhere into the here.
My agent, Valerie Smith, for dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, and for her patience with a slow-blooming author.
As always, my daughters, Juliana and Rebecca, because sometimes Mama has to write a book instead of going to the playground, and Lisa Chanicka, for taking them to die playground when Mama couldn’t.
And my husband, Danny Caccavo, ex officio, because he’s always done something to be thankful for.
The many writers and artists who have, over the decades, made Marvel’s New York a cool backyard to play in, and Daredevil a fascinating character to play with—particularly Joe Kelly, within whose run of issues this book is set.
Finally, thanks to Michael Marks, wherever he is, who gave his comic book collection to my brother and me, and can therefore be considered liable for the crimes that have sprung therefrom….
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January, Three Years Ago
The offices of Quayle-Partido Financial, Inc., were spread over two floors of very expensive Wall Street real estate, a twenty-two-story glass tower that overlooked the southernmost tip of Manhattan. Q-P’s back office functions—fulfillment, accounting, research and the like—quietly occupied the 17th floor; the 18th floor housed the “power” areas—trading, mortgage paper, new issues, and the partners’ offices. Both floors were richly neutral in their decor: beige linen walls, handsomely unchallenging modern art, thick chocolate carpets, brass fittings. The look implied success, stability, unobtrusive wealth. New clients visiting Quayle-Partido left the building with confidence that their financial business was in the hands of seasoned, conservative professionals.
Of course, new clients were rarely in the offices of Quayle-Partido long enough to detect the suppressed rush, the smell of adrenaline coursing through the veins of people who routinely juggled millions of dollars every day. And only the most astute of visitors caught a whiff of something else: the subtle stink of institutionalized fear that mingled with that adrenaline rush.
There was no such thing as a mistake at Quayle-Partido. Everyone—traders, secretaries, researchers, software specialists, securities managers—had seen what happened when something went wrong and the responsible party was called to a partner’s office. A trader whose split-second decisions could make or lose ten million dollars in two minutes’ time emerged from the office white-faced and shaking to clear out his desk and go home; a secretary reduced to hysterics after a five-minute meeting; the head of research, who had been with the firm for twenty years, gone without time to say good-bye to her co-workers. Anyone who made a mistake, regardless of who they were or how long they’d been there, did not stay long enough to m
But until that happened, the money was very good, and the high was even better. For some people, that was all that mattered.
The tall, slender blonde in the power suit walked past the secretary’s station as if she did not expect to be stopped.
“Don’t bother to buzz him, Mrs. Hampshire. I’ve been summoned,” the blonde said without breaking her stride. She was smiling slightly.
Perdita Hampshire, short, graying, and forty pounds away from slender on a good day, looked at the blonde’s retreating back with dislike and a moment of dawning hope. Perhaps Miss Belinda was going to get what Mrs. Hampshire privately called “the treatment.” Perhaps Miss Belinda, despite her looks and her money and her lineage, was going to be raked over the coals, chewed up by the monsters and spat out reeling. It couldn’t, Mrs. Hampshire thought, happen to a more deserving victim.
None of the rank-and-file at Quayle-Partido really liked Belinda Quayle. Certainly not Perdita Hampshire, Arthur Partido’s secretary—Quayle-Partido did not indulge in ego-building titles like “executive assistant”—who had seen more than she wanted of Miss Belinda since she joined the firm. Belinda Quayle was beautiful and expensively groomed; she was the senior partner’s granddaughter; and she was in line for a partnership someday. But these natural obstacles to popularity could have been forgiven … if Belinda Quayle had been able to forget them herself. Instead, from the first moment that she joined the firm almost a year before, she had delighted in playing the part of Boss’s Granddaughter to the hilt. She was routinely arrogant, manipulative, and casually cruel to the people who worked for her grandfather. She made it clear that she had no interest in being liked by her co-workers, and didn’t seem to see any advantage to it. She was the Heir Apparent, the Princess Royale. Someday all of this would be hers.
As Belinda vanished into Arthur Partido’s office, Mrs. Hampshire crossed her fingers, hoping that the Princess had finally done something wrong and was about to pay for it. She smiled in anticipation and returned to the deal memo she was typing.
“Arthur?” Belinda closed the door behind her, and smiled. “You wanted to see me?”
Arthur Partido’s long face lit up. “My goddaughter? Always.” He stood up, gestured to the green leather armchair nearest his desk.
The office was enormous, fit for a founding partner of one of Wall Street’s most successful small investment firms. It was decorated in what one of the mail-room clerks referred to as “late-early bank”: big, maroon leather chairs, dark velvet drapes, heavy dark wood, brass fittings. On one side of the room a group of monitors displayed financial markets at a dizzying rate, tracking stocks, bonds, funds, commodities, currencies, metals markets rising and falling like the breath of a monster. A television with the sound muted was set on the Finance Channel; as a carefully coifed talking head explained about a dip currently occurring in the silver market, her close-captioned words scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The drapes were drawn across a set of picture windows, which made the line of monitors glow in the dimness. Despite central air conditioning the big room was stuffy, cave-like. Arthur Partido liked it that way.
“I’ve been looking over the financials for this company you’re interested in,” Partido said. He ran a meaty hand over his forehead. “This genetic engineering thing? How much do you know about that stuff?”
“I know that Genentech and some of the others are poised to be the big moneymakers in the next decade,” Belinda said firmly.
“Ah-huh.” Partido frowned. “Why’s that?”
Belinda flashed her beautiful smile at her godfather. She ticked off points on the tips of her manicured fingers. “They’re manufacturing drugs and feed for agricultural and medical uses. They’re coming up with cosmetic uses—and RenanTech is working on using nanotechnology to attack genetic problems. They’re—”
Partido shook his head. “I haven’t talked to Bernard about this yet, but I think we have to say no to their financing request. The capital they need isn’t much in the larger scale of things, but I see nothing here to persuade me that RenanTech is a good investment. Their prior financers are withdrawing, their product development has hit snags—”
“The product is ninety percent there,” Belinda protested. “It’s only some last minute problems, and then they can file for FDA testing, and—”
“Belinda, I don’t believe in fairy tales. If I really understood what this stuff was all about, maybe I’d feel differently, but this isn’t like investing in a Microsoft or an Intel. It’s too nebulous, too pie-in-the-sky. There are ethical issues that could come back to bite RenanTech later. What if Congress decides that this something or other they’re developing is hazardous or unethical or something? Our investment is lost, without apology. Not to mention the company is run by a bunch of scientists.” He grimaced in disgust. “Not one of ‘em understands the bottom line, I’ll bet. We’ve never gone in for anything like this, and—”
“Arthur, I’ve researched—”
“Belinda, every time we talk about RenanTech, you tell me all the markets that are waiting for their products, but you can’t explain to me exactly what these people are doing with their DNA and their little germ-sized computers.”
“But—” Belinda protested.
“I’m sorry. We’re going to pass.”
The room filled with silence. Belinda stared at the TV monitors unseeing, lost in thought. When Partido spoke again, she started slightly.
“Can I have Mrs. Hampshire bring you a cup of coffee?” he asked. “I’m already on number seven or eight … I forget which.”
Belinda shook her head. Her shoulder-length blonde hair stirred slightly with the motion. “Arthur, that stuff is going to kill you.”
Partido smiled. “Hasn’t yet. I’m doing pretty well for sixty-eight.”
Belinda returned the smile, but her tone was sober. “Actually, can you give me an extra minute? There is something else we need to discuss.” Partido nodded and watched as Belinda called her own secretary and asked her to bring something to his office.
“Another opportunity?” he asked mildly. He rang for another cup of coffee. “You’re sure you don’t want some, Belinda?”
She shook her head. The coffee, and a manila envelope tightly sealed with a sticker marked confidential, arrived at the same time. They waited until Mrs. Hampshire had left.
“So, what’s this new opportunity?” Partido took a long, satisfying sip of coffee.
“You really should cut down on that stuff,” she said, wrinkling her nose disapprovingly.
Partido settled himself into his chair. He was a big, blocky man; over the years, gravity had accentuated the jowls and the pouches under his eyes until he began to look like a particularly mournful basset hound. His shoulders were stooped from years of poring over ticker tape machines and computer monitors, and he had a sizable paunch that even excellent tailoring could not disguise. His forty-three years on Wall Street had been spent building a financial empire—not going to the gym. Outside of making money, rumor was that the only other activity Arthur Partido was passionate about was painting, another extremely non-aerobic pastime.
“So, now we talk about my coffee consumption?” he asked.
“We do need to talk to about your health, Arthur,” Belinda insisted.
His dark, square eyebrows rose. “My health? Never better.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what the doctor says, Arthur. Your blood pressure’s high, your cholesterol level’s dangerously high, and you drink too much.”
Partido’s face went dark with anger. “Who the hell’s been telling you these lies?” he barked. “I had my insurance physical last month—I’m healthy as hell for a man my age.”
