Truth be told, Maya wasn't after their stuff. Take the printer—a new one ran only two or three hundred dollars, and one stroll out in the Coca-Cola logo netted her five hundred.
Her real aim was to muddy the waters—to get the hospital people to misjudge the whole thing. As for how much effect it'd actually have, she wasn't concerned. You do what you can; that's all there is to it.
With all that done, Maya ran back to Manhattan the way she'd come. Without Maya's "lift," Matt couldn't get up into the Chrysler Building—unlike Stick, his conditioning and experience weren't up to par.
Right now the top floor of the Chrysler Building held Maya alone. She set out the PC and the diesel generator and, running software she'd written herself, went through the footage she'd shot and the experiment records on the computer.
While Maya was busy at her old trade—editing, cutting figures out of backgrounds, all of it—Tony was sitting serene as ever in his top-floor office in Stark Tower. "Happy, how's our 'Everyone Is Spider-Man' operation going tonight?"
Happy didn't answer—more precisely, he hadn't heard his boss. Happy had headphones on, eyes locked on the monitor in front of him, listening to the reports from the front line and calling out at the same time: "Spider-Man 023, your gas is down to the yellow line—get to the base van at 8th Street, Brooklyn, for a refill, over. Spider-Man 141 in Queens, we've got an incident, corner of 23rd Street on your left, over... Holy shit, Manhattan 007's been shot—ambulance at the Central Park west exit, move in for rescue, now—007, how the hell did you end up on 39th Street? Hell's Kitchen over there is out of our league, we can't touch it—I don't recall telling you to go there!"
Seeing Happy really was swamped, Tony turned instead to Jarvis, stationed at the master supercomputer interface. "Jarvis, do we have any casualties yet? They don't have neural-pulse pistols, but I equipped them with neural-paralysis grenades and web guns, and failing that, my specially made advanced nanotech bulletproof suits. So how is it we've got casualties?"
Jarvis tapped a few keys, watched the feed coming through for a moment, and said, "Young master, though you've improved the gear's control program—simplified it into modular form so they no longer need the signal-collection helmet—the ODM gear itself asks a great deal of its user. Frankly, becoming an elite ODM trooper is no simpler than becoming an astronaut. First, the user needs an exceptional sense of space. These men are all marines, not pilots—and of course, pilots we couldn't afford. Second, our training method seems to be flawed; ordinary infantry drills don't suit this new arm of service. We'll need to gather experts and rework it from scratch."
(Author's note: A qualified pilot is worth no less than the fighter jet—large numbers of elite pilots are a nation-level strategic weapon, something even Tony's money can't just buy.)
Seeing the thoughtful look on Tony's face, Jarvis continued, "The truth is, young master, the weapons you've developed are individually no match for Spider-Man's, but they're more targeted, and used in combination they far surpass a neural-pulse pistol. It's only..."
Tony let out a long sigh. "It's only that the people using the weapons aren't up to it. Is that it?"
Jarvis nodded, then added, "Young master, I think tonight's operation is too showy. Keep it up a few more days and I'm afraid the government will be unhappy—we've overstepped, after all."
"Shit! How much do we donate to the NYPD every year? Besides, our Spider-Men are all on file with the precinct—they count as temporary hires. Whatever way you slice it, we're helping them. And they're still unhappy?" Tony said angrily.
"It's a matter of the authority and credibility of the justice system. Some people are even attacking us—saying Stark Industries has turned New York into a testing ground for new weapons," Jarvis explained.
Tony sneered twice, a glint sharpening in his eyes. "Heh—now there's a fine idea. Here's what we do, Jarvis. Tomorrow, in the name of Stark Industries, donate two hundred sets of ODM gear to the New York City Police Department. And tell them Stark will throw in the training free of charge."
Jarvis started. "Young master, one set of ODM gear costs us a hundred thousand dollars—two hundred sets is twenty million. That's an enormous—"
Tony cut him off. "Jarvis, I only said the equipment is free. Repairs, maintenance, parts, and—most important—the gas, all of that costs money. And a hundred thousand is only what it costs today; once output goes up, the cost drops by multiples. Besides—didn't you say our training method was wrong? Perfect: we use those officers as the experiment, and once we've developed a proper training regimen, we sell it to the military in Washington. When the brass see the results with the New York police, they'll reach for their wallets on their own!"
Even as the Stark family's steward of several decades, loyal through and through to father and son alike, Jarvis couldn't help cursing inwardly: This little bastard really is the old man's seed—every bit as shameless, every bit as brazen.
"Then—what about Spider-Man? Young master, are you giving up on buying his weapon schematics too?"
Tony thought about it. Jarvis was one of his own; no need to hide anything. "Jarvis, the truth is, I've already gotten what I wanted. Spider-Man's neural-pulse weapon is just the after-dinner dessert—I'm glad to have it, but I won't be crushed if I don't."
Seeing Jarvis's baffled look, Tony prompted, "Jarvis, our company doesn't only do the arms business. After this morning's press conference, Stark Industries stock rose 8.7 percent—which is to say, our total assets went up by tens of billions of dollars!"
(Author's note: How rich Tony actually is has never been pinned down; even in the real world there are plenty of companies with total output past a trillion. Marvel being this fantastical, is it really excessive to put Stark Industries at a trillion? Of course, the Stark family holds only a share—say fifty percent, which still leaves Tony with at least five hundred billion in total assets. Definitely less than Black Panther, but nothing to sneeze at.)
Tony was pleased with Jarvis's stunned expression and went on, "Take tonight's 'Everyone Is Spider-Man.' So what if a few people get hurt? So what if the government's unhappy? I'm telling you—tomorrow Stark Industries stock goes up at least another 5 percent. Without selling a single weapon, start to finish we'll have made a hundred, two hundred billion dollars. So what if I get the neural-pulse weapon? You know perfectly well what the government prepaid—under three hundred million, all told. The profit doesn't even come to a rounding error on the stock."
Tony was warming to it now. "Jarvis, ordinarily when the stock swings and throws off a hundred-some billion in paper gains, I don't care—it could just as easily drop back tomorrow. But this time is different. Spider-Man is a superhero—the only superhero in the real world—and the positive effect he brings the company is long-lasting. It's an intangible boost to our total assets!"
"But—but what if it's exposed one day? What then?" Jarvis asked, worried.