The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The mastermind took another relaxed sip of his sherry. "On the subject of honor — did it bother you at all? Betraying them."

  "A little. I'd be lying if—" Gray cut himself off and paused to reconsider. "No, I'm lying now. It didn't bother me at all. Frankly, I found it amusing, all of them wrestling with past wrongs…" He caught himself gloating. "I, on the other hand, am an unabashed villain. I need no justifications or rationalization."

  "So what now for you?" M asked. "A man of your many years must have long-standing plans."

  "London." Gray shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I've had my fill of violence. Now I'm in the mood for vice." He turned to leave.

  "You could stay. Share my dream," M called to Grays back. "You have many extra years to invest. Why not take a chance?"

  M reached quietly for a pistol on his desk, laid his hand over it. He could snatch it up and fire in an instant. Though normal bullets had been harmless against Dorian Gray, this sophisticated projectile design — with higher velocity and marvelously explosive tips — might not prove quite so ineffective. Either way, he was curious to test his new toy.

  Stopped at the door, Gray never turned, though he sensed the threat behind him. "It holds no interest for me." With a pale manicured hand, he gripped the end of his cane-sword and pulled the slim silver blade an inch from its sheath. His voice was dry. "I've lived long enough to see the future become history, Professor. Empires crumble. There are no exceptions."

  M remained silent, pursing his lips, and finally he took his hand off the augmented pistol. Gray opened the door and took a step out into the hall without looking back. He seemed self-satisfied, superior.

  "You think you're better than me," M said.

  Gray paused to form a sarcastic retort, then thought better of it. "No, M. We're merely different men. Different goals, different personalities."

  "Oh, you forget, Dorian Gray. I have seen your painting." M smiled coldly, raising his sherry glass again. "We're more alike than you know."

  The observation stung. Gray hesitated for a long moment, then finally walked away with long, swift strides.

  FOURTY ONE

  M's Fortress

  Now that Skinner, Hyde, and Mina had breached the fortress's outer defenses and passed the guards, the rest of the League entered a vast hallway with silent granite walls. The place spoke of brute-force grandeur, majesty without finesse. Brooding statues of Cossack warriors stood along the corridor, petrified gurdians carved full of intimidation.

  Tom Sawyer stared around, open-mouthed. He almost whistled in admiration, but caught himself in time. He and his companions moved quietly ahead, backed up by armed crewmen from the Nautilus.

  Quatermain once again fit his role of great white hunter, carrying Matilda over one shoulder, a Winchester over the other, and a Bowie knife in his belt. When they reached an intersection of large corridors, he stopped for a moment to listen down the halls. Without a word, he gestured to Skinner, asking for directions.

  The invisible man indicated that Hyde, Nemo, and his crewmen should take the main artery, Mina a side corridor, and Quatermain and Sawyer a third hall. Quatermain nodded, and the three groups separated.

  Before they could move away, though, the League members all paused and turned back briefly to look at each other, as if fearing it might be the last time they would ever be together. They suddenly seemed to be of one mind.

  Breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, Hyde extended his massive hairy hand. Quatermain, without hesitation, placed his hand on top. Mina, Sawyer, Nemo, and finally Skinner, all did the same.

  When they gazed at each other, determined smiles shone on their faces. Although the Fantom's gigantic fortress loomed all around them, it no longer seemed impregnable.

  They had been a League before; now they were truly a team.

  Reaching an echoing mezzanine on whisper-quiet footsteps, Quatermain and Sawyer crept past roughly shaped pillars. Beyond them, an expansive laboratory was filled with chemistry apparatus, crackling electrical devices, bubbling flasks and beakers. There, the miserable kidnapped scientists worked under armed guard.

  The laboratory walls were covered with chalkboards which were, in turn, covered with furiously scribbled, and often erased, sketches and equations. Surly-looking guards holding the Fantom's sophisticated firearms kept watch over their charges, though the guards did not seem to have any interest in the science itself.

  As they crept forward to get a better look, Sawyer pointed to the other side of the mezzanine, from which the loudest sounds and thickest smoke emanated. The factory floor below was filled with hundreds of Mongolian workers, either slaves or sluggish laborers, who operated machines, presses, and pistons. Hissing steam boiled out of jets, drenching the sulfur-smelling air with its moisture. Sparks flew from grinders that shaped components to fit his diabolical machines.

  A swarthy foreman, high up in a caged control room, barked orders in Mongolian over a tinny-sounding electronic loudspeaker. "Team Ten, move those parts to the assembly area, now!"

  "Do you understand what he's saying?" Sawyer asked.

  The old adventurer shook his head. "At least he's not raising the alarm. Come on, this way." He moved out.

  "You lead, I'll follow." Sawyer crept after him in a stealthy crouch. They moved on together, unnoticed.

  The prison passage was silent and empty. The guards were bored and sleepy; they did not realize the emergency until it was much too late.

  Before they could call for help, Hyde had punched them both and hurled the men against a far wall. They could barely muster a whimpering groan while slumping unconscious to the floor.

  Hyde strode forward with a lurching, stalking gait, forced to duck his massive head beneath a low ceiling. In the beast-man's wake, Captain Nemo and several armed crewmen entered the passage and approached the heavy iron floor grates.

  Nemo motioned the fearsome Hyde back as he crouched on the grate and peered into the dungeons below. He saw the hopeful faces of hostages turned up to look at him. "These must be the scientists' wives and children."

  In a flash of memory, he thought of his own wife and son, both tragically killed. His fingers clenched, and he had to force the thoughts away. Nemo called upon his philosophy and his prayers, just to make his heart go numb again, his past go blank.

  He put a finger to his lips, and the hostages inside fell quiet, stifling their confusion and joy. "We will rescue you. Do not be frightened." He signaled for Hyde to come forward, and as the brutish mans shadow fell over the grate, Nemo held out a hand to calm the captives. "Do not be frightened of him."

  He and his crewmen gave Hyde room to work. Jekyll's monstrous alter ego bent over the grates and wrapped both of his hands around them. His back muscles strained, his biceps bulged, the cords in his neck stood out as taut as piano strings.

  Then with a screeching groan, the metal grate tore free, ripping mortar and stones loose. Snarling at his own strength, Hyde lifted the heavy set of bars over his head and made as if to hurl them down the tunnel, but Nemo stepped in front of him, fearless, and gestured for silence. Disappointed, Hyde set the grate down with a thud on the tunnel floor.

  Nemo extended a hand, and the first hostage reached out to take it. He helped her out of the cell, and the rest of the terrified captives began to stream out. "You are free now, but you are not yet safe."

  He and Hyde kept watch as the Nautilus crewmen guided the escaping prisoners down the echoing tunnels. One by one, the captives climbed out of the cell chamber, blinking and frightened.

  Karl Draper, disheveled and desperate, emerged from the pit and clutched the sleeve of Nemo's uniform. "Please, sir — he has my daughter. That horrible Fantom… he took Eva!" His voice cracked with despair, as if he had already imagined endless nightmares of what M might be doing with her.

  Beside him, Hyde growled.

  "If she's here in the fortress, we shall bring her to you," Nemo said. He could see the anguish on the structural engineer'
s face. "Now go with the others. Get away from this place."

  Though the group was large, they moved like phantoms down the narrow passage back toward the sluice gate — and their escape. Glancing over his shoulder for reassurance, bald and mousy Karl Draper scuttled after them. Hyde looked at the German scientist and sniffed, as if Draper reminded him of Henry Jekyll.

  Neither the brutish man nor Nemo noted one of the two stunned guards recovering. Slumped against the passage wall where Hyde had hurled him, the guard stifled a groan. His head hurt, his jaw felt as if it had been knocked halfway around his head… not so different from a typical hangover.

  But when he opened his eyes he was confused by all the people and the noise outside the prison pit. Next to him, his partner still lay crumpled, out cold. Then he saw Hyde, a misshapen anthropoid monster standing next to the torn metal grate while the last of the prisoners fled down the corridor.

  Even before his focus and balance returned, the guard let out a yelping scream, stumbled to his feet, and turned to run.

  Hyde grunted with surprise and turned his coal-black eyes to see the man running away. Nemo, also startled, gave chase, but the frantic guard raced down the halls in absolute panic. He bleated for help like a terrified sheep. His wailing shouts echoed back through the passages, calling out a warning; Nemo didn't need to translate the Mongolian words to understand the message.

  The captain came back, panting from the effort, adjusting the turban on his head. "We have trouble."

  "Trouble?" Hyde said with a twisted grin. His eyes lit with anticipation. "I'd call it… sport." He cracked his hairy knuckles.

  Inside the foundry, workers and guards labored under the intense heat and spraying sparks. Despite the flaring light of molten metal and furnace fires, there were still enough shadows to offer hiding places, if necessary.

  Not that an invisible man needed the shadows.

  A hot spark flicked through the air and settled on his bare skin. Skinner snuffed it out, restraining his reaction to no more than a hiss. It gave him all the more incentive to blow this whole place to Hell.

  His invisible hands held three bombs that glided through the smoky air. He made his way behind the largest furnace and planted the first bomb at the base of the hot brick structure. Skinner hid the explosive and set the timer, already thinking of the best places to install the other two bombs.

  One of the guards looked up, thinking he heard an amused chuckle and skipping footsteps that moved out of the foundry at a rapid pace. But he saw nothing, so he turned back to shout orders at his workers again.

  FOURTY TWO

  M's Private Parlor

  Moving with all the stealth they could manage, Quatermain and Sawyer left the dirty, industrial floors of the fortress and entered brighter, well-lit corridors with fine furnishings and clean white walls. It was in this area that the two men expected to find M.

  They approached a set of opulent doors. The daring young American tested the scrolled golden handles and found the doors unlocked. With barely a click, they opened and quietly swung inward. Sawyer poked his head inside and stared in astonishment.

  His sumptuous boudoir contained a vast bed, paintings, vases, a red crushed-velvet divan, and fresh flowers and fruit that must have been worth more than gold here in this isolated winter landscape. In the boudoir's adjoining templelike bathing area, a warm-flowing fountain bath spilled a steaming cascade into a marble tub.

  Quatermain waved his companion to utter silence as the two men entered, guns leading, alert for anything. The young man wrinkled his nose at the perfumes in the air. The hideous masked "Fantom" had not seemed like a man to enjoy a long scented bath....

  A human-shaped shadow flitted behind a painted silk screen in an adjacent side chamber. Quatermain froze, but the figure did not come closer. The two men hadn't been seen, and the sloshing of the waterfall bath muffled the sound of their approach. Together, they advanced toward the chamber door.

  As the old adventurer reached for the door of the side chamber, the handle turned before he could touch it. He and Sawyer ducked into an alcove and flattened themselves against the wall.

  The door opened, and a lovely young woman stepped out, her gaze fixed forward. She had long straw-blond hair that hung straight and limp, as if she no longer cared for it. Her loose gown was pale blue and should have been beautiful, but she wore it like a burial shroud. Like a wraith or a sleepwalker, she drifted wide-eyed and dazed past the two men in the alcove.

  Quatermain recognized her from a sepia-toned photograph in the files M himself had provided, ostensibly to help them track down the heinous Fantom. How arrogant of the man! But Quatermain did not doubt the truth of the information. He knew who this young woman was: Eva Draper, the daughter of kidnapped architectural engineer, who had been abducted from the Valkyrie Zeppelin Works near Hamburg.

  When she had gone, the two men slipped out of their hiding place and ducked into his parlor to look around, ready for anything. Sawyer held his Winchester in a tight grip, eager to start shooting.

  The Fantom's silver mask lay on a table, reflecting the candlelight.

  Quatermain heard a noise, low conversation, movement from across the room in an antechamber. He hesitated, then crept forward so that he could see the angled reflection of an ornate dressing mirror. He got Sawyer's attention, and both of them watched.

  The mirror's image showed the antechamber, where a fastidiously dressed valet was calmly shaving the cadaverous M, who lounged back in a chair. M seemed completely relaxed as the fastidious man stroked his cheek and neck with the gleaming silver razor, removing white cream. The man scraped away another swath, knowing it would mean his death if he so much as nicked the leader's skin. The valet had already helped M into his clothing, leaving only the black jacket and gloves on the vanity. It looked as if the evil mastermind were preparing to go to the opera.

  The Fantom's lieutenant Dante strode into the parlor, carrying a bulky leather case similar to a doctor's satchel. Quatermain and Sawyer pressed themselves further into thfe shadows as the man walked past, but Dante was intent on M.

  As the valet continued his work, Dante set the leather satchel on a table. "James here's your box of tricks, as you asked. I think you'll find everything you need inside." He opened the case, tilting it to show M the contents.

  M sat up, his close-set eyes vulturelike in the flickering candlelight. The lieutenant displayed each item, like a snake-oil salesman demonstrating his wares. "The brutes potion, the vampires blood, the Indian's science, and mounted samples of invisible skin." He lifted liquid-filled vials, a scrap of bloodstained fabric, bits of ceramic, daguerreotypes, microscope slides, and rolled-up technical plans on thin paper. "No matter what else happens, you will have the most important components, sir."

  With quick, confident strokes, the valet finished shaving M's upper lip. Though it was none of his business, the valet mused, "So much, and yet it seems like nothing. You're expecting trouble, sir?"

  "Always." M regarded the kit with satisfaction. It amazed him that the future of the world could fit inside such a small bag. The valet wiped the last specks of cream from M's face and removed the moist towels. M ran a hand over his smooth chin and upper lip with pleasure, then sent the valet away with his shaving paraphernalia.

  Before Dante could depart as well, a ragged-looking guard burst in. "Intruders! An Indian and a monster!" He reeled, holding his head as if he had just awakened from a bad dream, or groggy unconsciousness. "The prisoners are escaping!"

  M groaned. "How many times must I kill these cretins?" He knew that if Nemo and Hyde were here causing trouble, the rest of the League would, in all likelihood, be inside the fortress, too. He turned to Dante, who could already see annoyance building to rage on the leaders face. The threat in his cold voice seemed directed as much at Dante as at the intended victims. "Make this the last time. Be certain of it."

  Leaving the leather satchel behind, Dante rushed out as the first shouts and sounds of battl
e echoed from the factory levels far below.

  Alone now, the freshly shaved M moved to the table, pulled on his jacket, and reached for his silver Fantoms' mask, ready for the show. He picked up the metal covering and glimpsed a distorted, moving reflection. He froze as a long gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.

  "Don't move, M," Quatermain said from behind him.

  Tom Sawyer stepped around the corner, also leveling his Winchester at the mastermind. He looked ready to use it. "You killed Huck Finn."

  Caught in the line of fire, M froze, looking at both men as if they were large sewer rats that had found their way into a garden party. "Huck? Who?"

  "Agent Huck Finn of the American Secret Service."

  M shrugged. "I've killed so many people. I can't be expected to remember them all."

  "Perhaps we can offer you a reminder, M." Quatermain stepped around, leaning closer and holding the cadaverous man in his hunters gaze. "Or would you prefer that we call you… Professor? Professor James Moriarty."

  Sawyer caught a breath, recognizing the name. "You mean… the man who killed Sherlock Holmes?"

  M was shocked and inwardly furious that Quatermain had figured out his real identity. "Holmes, yes — I suppose you would have wanted him as part of your League, as well. As if even Holmes could have helped you!"

  When he turned to look at them, the mastermind showed them a feral, calculating personality. Wanton. Spiteful. Professor James Moriarty.

  Moriarty thought back to the rush of water like deadly white hammers, pounding over the sheer rocky walls. Reichenbach Falls, in Switzerland. A narrow path, slippery with spray, wound up the side of a cliff to the edge of the thundering cascade.

  His archenemy Holmes had gotten there first — had been lured there — and stood just upslope wearing his dark green jacket, yellow vest, starched collar, and trademark deerstalker cap. He carried an alpenstock walking stick but no other weapon, though he must have known he would be in for the fight of his life. He seemed not at all surprised to see Moriarty there.