The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (18 page)

"I see that you've failed. It's obvious enough."

"This was merely one objective," said the Fantom.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quatermain saw a flitting shadow as the Fantom
continued his taunting. "Other schemes proceed as planned. There's nothing you
can do to stop them."

Quatermain spun, aimed his Winchester—but could see nothing. "I know your big
secret." The hunter's shadow passed over thick foliage, like a cloud across the
moon. For a moment, he thought he saw a glint of silver metal—the Fantom's mask
drawing deeper into hiding? He couldn't tell. "I know all about your spy among
us."

The Fantom's voice carried no surprise, only a condescending lilt. "Ah, do
you?"

Quatermain took a shot toward the voice. He thought for a moment he had hit
the Fantom, but the shotgun pellets merely sprayed chipped white marble from the
statue of a sorrowful stone angel.

The hunt continued, and the Fantom moved noiselessly through his domain of
darkness, dressed all in black. He chose when to speak, casting his voice like a
ventriloquist. "You see yourself as the brave John Bull— but I know you're a
coward, Quatermain. Hiding from the memory of your son's death."

As the hunter desperately searched for another target to shoot, the Fantom
laughed, taunting. "You should have trained him better. I am not the only
failure here, Allan Quatermain. Your mistake was much larger, wasn't it? You may
have as well put the gun to the lad's head and pulled the trigger yourself."

Quatermain started to react, then stopped and gritted his teeth. He refused
to open fire indiscriminately. He waited for a good shot, the right target.

"Oh, yes. I know all about you—" Then the Fantom froze as his black shoe
stepped on a dry branch, cracking it. The sound echoed through the cemetery, as
loud as a gunshot.

Quatermain searched for where it came from. "It's you who fears the mirror,
sir—and not, I think, because of scars."

His eye caught another flicker of movement off to his right. Quatermain
whirled, but saw that the movement was merely a swaying branch. He did however
see a subtle flash of motion to his left, vanishing behind a tree. He eased
forward, rifle extended. "It's because you are neither extraordinary—"

Quatermain lunged around the trunk. "—nor a gentleman!"

The shadow leaped back, and Quatermain drove in for the kill. The Fantom
lashed out, knocking the gun aside. Quatermain shot, a fraction too late. The
Winchesters blast rang out, sending debris flying.

The Fantom collided with Quatermain, a long silver stiletto flashing in the
moonlight. The blade came down like a cobra striking, and he stabbed Quatermain
deep in the shoulder.

With a roar, the old adventurer backhanded the villain and landed a blow that
should have felled a water buffalo. The Fantom reeled away, and his mask went
skittering across the ground. Quatermain glimpsed the hidden visage, expecting
to see a disfigured horror. Instead, it was a shockingly familiar face.

The Fantom was M!

Quatermain's blow had scraped loose some of the half-hidden "scars" on the
Fantom's face—merely lumps of wax and flesh-colored paste. Stage show makeup now
hung half off the face.

"You? What the hell!"

"You don't know the half of it," M said. "Fool."

He spun with catlike agility, and kicked Quatermains' legs out from under
him. As the old hunter fell against a hard block of stone, the knife injury in
his back pulsing with agony, M grabbed his fallen silver mask from the ground
and scrambled away.

Despite the deep stab wound, Quatermain was quick to recover. He ripped the
stiletto from his shoulder, ignoring the hot gush of blood. Out of reflex and
long years of practice, he hurled the knife at the receding villain.

The blade flew true and found its mark. The point sank into his back as he
fled. He howled, staggered, then sprinted away into the darkness. He must have
been wearing the same damned body armor his henchmen used.

Quatermain collapsed on the cemetary grounds— quite an appropriate place
after all, he thought—as the strength flowed out of him…

The world leaders looked like drowned rats, expecting to die trapped within
the sinking chamber. They clung together on the drifting tabletop as if it were
a life raft. The air smelled of fish and mud and far less pleasant things.

As the shuddering explosions rattled into silence and the buildings stopped
falling all around them, the representatives of the most powerful countries of
Europe sat in silence and wonder.

"Someone has stopped the disaster!" the representative from Italy said
proudly. "No doubt it was one of our brilliant Italian engineers."

"Perhaps your engineers should have designed a better escape route for us in
the first place," the Spanish ambassador grumbled. "Or a city that wouldn't fall
apart so easily."

"Venetia is over a thousand years old, signore! She has survived a hundred
armies—"

"We will live," the German interrupted. "Now we must find a way to get out of
here."

"I wish we had kept some of that wine." The Frenchman drew his skinny knees
up to his chest and looked miserable.

The Portuguese ambassador vomited over the edge of the swaying table.

"Perhaps we should simply swim under the water and out through the halls."
The British representative cracked his knuckles and practiced keeping a stiff
upper lip. "I was on the swim team back at Oxford—"

Like a walrus diving off an iceberg, the Russian plunged into the water and
began to stroke with surprising grace and power. He spat foul water out of his
mouth. "Tastes like a sewer."

"Those, signore, are our canals," the Italian answered indignantly. He felt
as if he was being insulted from all sides.

But the gathered men understood that they were safe now, and it would be only
a matter of time before they were rescued. "I say, perhaps we should finish our
discussions and come to an agreement?" the Englishman suggested. "That way, in
the end, we'll be able to call this little gathering an unqualified
success."

Inside the
Nautilus
rocket room, Ishmael and the crew cleaned up the
aftermath of the destruction. The air smelled of smoke from burned circuits and
control panels. Puddles of water lay on the deck where they had splashed. A few
small trickles had made their way through stressed hull plates, like trails of
teardrops, but the loyal first mate and his men had already fixed the most vital
problems.

Ishmael sighed and continued his inspection, marking necessary repairs on a
clipboard. The
Nautilus
could still move, but she was a far cry from
being "as good as new." The falling bridge had caused the most damage, much of
it merely cosmetic on the beautiful exterior of the Sword of the Ocean.

The two crewmen assisting him were covered with soot and grease. One man
climbed back out of the rocket launcher. "All secure, Ishmael."

The first mate nodded and blew out a long sigh. "Let me handle the rest from
here, men. Go report to Captain Nemo and then check the engine room. I want to
be away from here as soon as our comrades return."

The two men departed, closing the bulkhead door and leaving Ishmael to sigh
over all the work that remained to be done. "She hasn't been battered so badly
since our bout with that giant squid."

An outside hatch opened, and Dorian Gray entered from the night. He looked
uncharacteristically battered and bedraggled.

"Mister Gray!" The first mate stared in shock at his condition. "What
happened to you?"

Though he showed no sign of physical injury, Gray's clothes were riddled with
bullet holes and deep slashes from his battles against the Fantom's henchmen.
Self-satisfied and struggling to retain his shreds of dignity, he slipped his
sticky cane-sword back into its case. "Mere misadventure. It was somewhat
amusing, actually." Gray brushed dust and blood from his jacket. He looked
raround, seeing Ishmael alone in the mess of the rocket room. "Have the others
returned?"

"You're the first, sir, but hopefully not the last." Ishmael turned back to
work. He picked up a wrench and began to remove a cover plate from one of the
consoles.

"All this because of a damned traitor. That invisible bastard has a lot to
answer for."

"Skinner? No," Gray said, smiling gently. "Not Skinner."

The first mate glanced up, confused by his comment. Dorian Gray had drawn a
pistol from his tattered jacket. "Me," he said, and fired.

Ishmael fell, clutching the mortal wound on his chest.

Over the next hour, the League members returned from the streets one at a
time, picking their way through the rubble, finding a safe path along ruined
towpaths and raised walkways. The
Nautilus
rested among flotsam, her
ceramic shell woefully scarred and cracked in many places.

The buildings tilted drunkenly; large walls had fractured or slumped. The
ruins of the fallen bridge filled part of the narrow canal ahead of the
submarine vessel. She would have to reverse and back out of the channel.

Nemo's medics helped the wounded crewmen, assisted by Mina Harker and Henry
Jekyll, both of whom had some surgical experience. The turbaned captain directed
operations while several crew members in wet suits cleared debris from around
the shell of the vessel.

Quatermain finally staggered back, clutching a blood-soaked rag against the
stiletto wound in his shoulder. Mina saw him and shouted, but the old adventurer
called directly to Nemo in a hoarse voice, "Mobilize your men, Captain. The
hunt's still on."

"You've found the Fantom?" Minas lip twitched, as if she could hardly
restrain herself from baring her fangs.

"Worse. The Fantom… is
M
himself
."Quatermain slumped down on a pile of rubble and took a hip flask
of whiskey from his grimy jacket. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth, then
tilted the flask to pour the alcohol on his shoulder injury, wincing as he did
so.

"M? What… what are you saying?" Jekyll said. The mousy doctor handed him a
long strip of cloth, and the hunter expertly field-dressed his own wound.

Nemo and Mina both moved closer. Quatermain explained. "M—the very man who
recruited us to fight the Fantom. We'll get our answers later." He looked all
around. "Where are the others?"

"Dorian is missing in action," Mina said, "and that invisible bastard must
have fled when he realized we knew about him."

"No one has seen Mr. Skinner since we arrived in Venice. He and M were
probably working together." Nemo stroked his long beard. "Actually, no one has
ever seen him, for that matter. Who knows who the man could have been,
originally?"

"And what about… Tom Sawyer?" Quatermain asked, trying not to show any
special interest.

The young agent called from out of sight in a happy, American-accented drawl.
"Aww, he'll live to fight another day." He stepped out of the shadows between
damaged buildings, bloodied but triumphant. "And I sure do intend to."

Quatermain nodded his approval, while gritting his teeth against the
throbbing pain. "We will see that you get the chance. As soon as possible."

Mina went to Sawyer, but the American hesitated as she paid altogether too
much attention to the fresh blood of his wounds. She chuckled at his
discomfiture. "Don't worry. I've had my fill of throats for tonight."

"Cap'n… Cap—" Ishmael lurched to one of the hatches, clutching the frame with
a bloody hand and standing there weakly. Crimson soaked his chest, and he drew
on the last of his life's strength just to remain upright.

Quatermain and Mina ran toward the first mate, but Nemo arrived first, taking
Ishmael's shoulders just as his knees turned to water. "It was Gray…"

Ishmael collapsed, and Nemo took his old friend in his arms. Blood stained
the captains impeccable blue uniform, but he didn't care. "Rest now, Ishmael."
He glared up at the cringing English doctor on the dock. "Jekyll—tend to him!
Now!"

Jekyll scurried forward, but the first mate refused to let himself be
doctored. He had kept himself alive through the urgent need to explain the
treachery to his captain. "Not… Skinner.
Gray."
He clutched at Nemo's
uniform blouse, and the captain took his hand, squeezing it, as his eyebrows
drew together and his dark eyes kindled with angry flames.

"Gray's… tricked us all, Cap'n." His mission complete, Ishmael died from the
terrible gunshot wound.

"Another fallen friend, another lost soul." Nemo's voice sounded hollow and
deeply forlorn. "After all the amazing exploits we shared, under the polar
icecaps, through the Suez Canal, finding Atlantis, and undersea volcanoes… we
have just shared our last."

Ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder, Quatermain held Jekyll back,
allowing Nemo a moment to grieve. "I understand, Captain."

Mina stared disbelieving at the dead first mate. "But Dorian… ? How
could—"

Suddenly, from within the submarine vessel, they heard the thrumming sound of
machinery grinding away, small engines shuddering to life. Angered, Nemo stood
and looked around at his crewmen, but none of his workers were operating any of
the
Nautiluss
systems.

"What is it?" Sawyer said. "All that noise?" The aquatic vessel
shuddered.

"That is the sound of treachery!" Nemo rushed up the gangplank with the
others at his heels. The crewmen shouted, calling themselves to arms. Together,
the League members dashed across the
Nautiluss
hold, following the
captain.

When they reached the far side of the vessel, Nemo leaned out of an
observation hatch.

From the aft, a massive section of the vessel's hull separated from the rest
of the submarine. A hemispherical craft detached itself from the main vessel,
lifted up, and floated free after uncoupling from the
Nautilus
.