The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (23 page)

"Worst of all," Skinner continued, "in the dry dock beneath the fortress, I
saw M supervising laborers riveting hull plates in the diabolic heat and shadow.
The vessels are still under construction, but soon M will have a fleet of
armored submarine warships of his own."

"They've copied my
Nautilus
, "Nemo said, pained.

"
Nautili
, actually. Eight of them for now," Skinner said. "But, heh,
I'm sure he'll build more."

Even in the firelight, Sawyer's face was flushed with anger. "Nemo, can you
fire rockets from your own ship, like you did in Venice? Blow that whole place
to Hell?"

"We are out of range, Mr. Sawyer. And all those people inside… surely some of
them must be innocent slaves." Nemo turned to Skinner. "What of the kidnapped
scientists?"

"M holds their families hostage inside the fortress. The men are forced to
work, or the women and children die. Simple and straightforward."

Nemos face darkened with fury, and he shook his head. "Monstrous. I see M has
learned much from his barbaric predecessors."

The invisible man rubbed his unseen hands together. "Aheh! That isn't the
half of it. M isn't just mechanically inclined when he designs his new weapons.
He uses biology, as well. He's forcing the captive scientists to work night and
day—to make new versions of
us
. As if one of me wasn't quite
enough."

"What do you mean?" Quatermain said.

"You should see the chemicals and substances he is mass-producing. All
distilled from our best—aheh!— traits. He will create invisible spies, an army
of Hydes, vampiric assassins… and send them all off to wage war in a fleet of
unstoppable submersibles." Skinner turned the tinted lenses of his glasses
toward them. "Delightful, eh?"

Jekyll knotted his hands together, and his face sank in dismay. "I won't let
my evil infect the world."

"Think any of us feel differently?" Mina looked at her pale palm, where the
cut from the broken glass had long since healed, leaving no scar whatsoever. She
felt as if Dorian Gray had violated her again.

Sawyer was impatient. "I'm tired of just sitting here in the cold, when we
know M is just over there all cozy inside his fortress. What are we going to
do?"

"We put an end to him," Nemo said with quiet force.

The invisible man, at least, continued to think pleasant thoughts. "Chimney
pipes lace the buildings, factories, and foundries—so a few well-placed bombs in
the furnaces would make quite a bang. Heh!" As if in agreement, the wood in the
small campfire suddenly crackled and snapped. Skinner held his transparent hands
over the warmth. "I know the way down, and I'm least likely to be seen."

"Skinner, I didn't know you were such a barefaced liar." Quatermain surprised
the invisible man, then gave him a sly smile. "All this time, declaring you
weren't a hero."

"Shut up, or I'll come to my senses." The invisible thief actually seemed
embarrassed. "Besides, any more like me, and I lose the franchise."

Tom Sawyer, holding his Winchester rifle, cocked it suddenly with a loud
sound. Ready to go, he stood. "That man killed Huck Finn. I'm not gonna let that
pass. He's mine."

But Quatermain reluctantly touched the young agents rifle barrel, forced him
to lower it. "This cannot be a hunt to the death, lad. Mores the pity." Sawyer
looked as if the old adventurer had betrayed him, but Quatermain remained firm.
"We must take M alive, if his secrets are to be uncovered."

Mina's green eyes looked feral in the firelight. "Not Gray, though." She
stood, like a vengeful spirit rising from the grave. "He's lived long
enough."

"I'll handle him—" Sawyer said.

"No," said Mina. "Dorian is… my business."

Sawyer understood and nodded grimly.

The storm outside seemed to be lessening, but their work had just begun.
Quatermain said, "M decided that he could use our particular abilities to help
him wage war—its time we demonstrate just how right he is. Only
we'll
be waging war on
him."

"Right!" Sawyer shouldered his Winchester. "If we work together, getting into
that fortress of his should be a piece of cake."

Quatermain strode to the cave opening and led the way out. "The game is
on."

With the first light of morning dazzling on the fresh snow, a Mongolian guard
stood vigil at the foot of the black fortress. He had dark eyes, a long drooping
mustache, and stiff leather armor that kept out arrows and knife blades, but not
the cold. He carried a sleek new-design automatic weapon from the master's
arsenal.

When he stamped his feet, the iron nails of his boot soles rang on the stone
path. His toes were numb, his belly rumbled with queasy hunger, and his head
pounded from the effects of too much drink the night before. Though no enemy had
crossed the empty windswept wasteland in recent memory, he stood at his post and
kept guard.

He would rather face an onrushing horde alone than incur the Fantom's anger.
The masked man was a demon, the stuff of nightmares.

The guard was stationed at the opening to a roaring meltwater sluice. A canal
diverted part of the river channel into the foundry forges and the factories,
and dumped water into turbines and storage tanks. The air was bitterly cold, and
spray from the surging water rimed the fortress's dark stones with thick frost
and coated the walkway with treacherous ice.

One of his fellow guards took up a post deeper inside the sluice tunnel,
where the surging flow made the cold air clammy, the stone walls slick and
slimy. At least here, outside the fortress walls, the air was clear and
fresh.

The guard scanned the open, rocky landscape all around, dazzled by the white
glare. Then he saw two figures in the distance, black shapes: a woman and…
something massive. He frowned, stroking one end of his ice-crusted mustache,
then called out to his partner deeper inside the tunnel.

Oddly, he saw another set of footprints much closer in the fresh snow… coming
all the way up to the sluice gate. Made by naked feet.

Though the guard saw no one, he heard a noise. "Who's there?" He extended his
high-tech rifle, narrowing his eyes to scan for any target within range.

Suddenly, something yanked the long gun right out of his hand. The weapon
floated in midair for a second, while he stared at it in astonishment. He
snatched for the barrel, but the gun danced out of his reach, then turned itself
about.

With a resounding smash of bone and a spray of blood, the haunted weapon
clubbed him in the face. It struck again, battering the guard until he fell
unconscious.

Responding to the call, a second guard came running out of the dark tunnel.
When he saw his collapsed comrade, he skittered on the ice-slick walkway. Before
he understood what he was seeing, he let out a yell, but it was lost in the roar
of the meltwater sluice.

Then his warning cry shriveled to a squeak, and the guard stopped in his
tracks as he became aware of something…
huge
. There was a bloodcurdling
roar of challenge, a meaty arm covered with coarse black hair, a flash of jagged
teeth designed to bite off flesh in dripping, painful chunks.

Terrified, the guard scrambled back into the sluice and ran toward the end of
the tunnel until he reached a bolted gate. He dragged at a heavy iron pin,
struggling to open the barrier.

A moment later Edward Hyde loomed behind him and let out a low grumble that
sounded like boiling mud. He reached out to clench both the hapless guard and
the metal grating in one massive fist and wrenched the sluice open. The guard
broke before the latch did, and his screams abruptly ceased.

Hyde tore the gate free and tossed it aside along with the man's corpse. Then
he bellowed for the others to hurry up.

At the top of the sluice tubes deeper inside the fortress factory, a third
man, having heard the awful cries of his fellow guard, turned from his station.
He felt even greater uneasiness as the noises were cut off. With wide eyes
adjusted to the torchlit shadows of the deep tunnels, he peered down the sluice
hole.

He caught a frantic rustling, high-pitched squeaking and buzzing just beyond
the edge of his ability to hear. His breath caught in his throat as he realized
something was coming up toward him—coming fast.

The guard scrambled backward as a black storm of flying creatures erupted up
through the hole in a tornado of thin shrieks, sharp claws, and beating wings.
Bats. Thousands of them.

And in the center of the swarm, he saw a whirling
thing
with
piercing green eyes. He screamed, but he was trapped inside the crowded sluice
tunnel. There was no place to run.

The bats enveloped the guard.

When they dispersed, the man's skin was a chalky, cadaverous white, pricked
and punctured by scores of tiny teeth. And his throat had been torn out
entirely. An expression of horror had frozen on his face.

Mina Harker crouched and wiped blood from her mouth. Then she adjusted her
scarf and stood primly again, waiting for the others.

Even in the cold and uncivilized landscape of Mongolia, M had contrived to
create a fine private parlor, full of rich wood and velvet. He reclined his
gaunt body in a leather chair in front of a roaring fire. Here, the fortress's
stone walls were thick enough that he did not hear the pounding clamor of the
foundries and factories, though he could feel a reassuring industrial tremor
through the floor. He smiled. Everything was proceeding very nicely.

He poured a glass of the finest sherry from a cut-crystal decanter on the
table beside his chair, sniffed it, then enjoyed a long sip. "A woman's drink,
indeed!" He would let Allan Quatermain have his bathtub gin, or whiskey, or
whatever it was the old hunter preferred.

As he set the glass down, he winced, touching the tender pain of his dressed
wound. Though has battle with Quatermain in the Venice cemetery had occurred
several days earlier, he still nursed the injury. Luckily, his armored vest had
mostly deflected the deadly blade, but unlike some of his recent acquaintances,
he could not heal instantly.

The coffered wooden door opened quietly, and Dorian Gray, once again wearing
fine clothing, entered the private parlor. His cool expression was a bit too
tense to make a convincing show of his usual feigned boredom. In silence, he
looked expectantly at the evil leader.

"All right, then." M sighed without looking around. "Your precious paintings
in your room." It was pitiful how poorly Gray covered his relief.

"In return for the League. That was our deal, M, and I'm glad you honor
it."

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.

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.