The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The tank man paused at the front of Dante's cadre, and the beleaguered henchmen backed away in awe. The Fantom's lieutenant grinned in anticipation at the fate of his cornered prey.

  The ironclad tank man raised a titanic steel-plated arm, showing a circular cluster of long tubes — heavy-caliber gun barrels that rotated around a central axis. Captain Nemo would have recognized the design as an extension of the horrifically destructive Gatling gun introduced decades before in the American Civil War. Edward Hyde knew only that it was dangerous.

  With a blast of steam and a crackle of power from thrumming electrical motors, the rotating Gatling launcher locked into position. Explosive artillery shells thunked into launching tubes.

  Hyde had just enough time to pick up the thick iron shield again before the tank man opened fire.

  Nemo fought his way to the guarded laboratory where captive scientists were being forced to develop ever-more sophisticated weapons for M's war against the entire world. Though he had reached his destination, the Nautilus captains struggle was just beginning.

  The Fantoms' guards shouted, and Nemo crouched, keeping his limbs loose in his blue-sleeved uniform, his hands extended as weapons. The scientists watched the strange turbaned man, not daring to hope. Outside the laboratory prison, they could hear the clamor of continuing battles.

  Nemo moved farther into the room. Seeing only one opponent, the guards drew their thick Mongolian swords and strode toward him. He gave them a welcoming smile.

  In a flash, Nemo waded into the group of armed men, kicked a guard squarely in the chin with his left foot, and used his right fist to crush the larynx of a second. The bellowing guards swung their swords, but he moved too fast. Their curved blades swept like threatening whispers through empty air; some struck sparks from the stone wall.

  Surging into the laboratory, the captain grabbed up a stool vacated by a scrambling scientist and punched a charging guard in the stomach with the long hard legs, then swung the seat around in a smooth lightning strike to his head. The guard crumpled to the floor, his skull split open.

  Seven guards remained, but at the moment Nemo wasn't counting.

  To a certain extent, he let his body act and react on a subconscious level, flying in an ecstatic release of blows and moves. He had seen the wild gyrations of the true Sufi dervishes in India, enlightened ascetics who threw themselves into a state of complete abandon. It was more than just dancing, it was a possession — like the berserkers on Viking battlefields. Nemo had incorporated elements of this approach into his fighting.

  But he also prized his sharp and insightful mind. Even as the captain flung himself into a whirlwind of battle, he remained aware of himself and his goal. All the Fantom's henchmen together could not possibly withstand the onslaught of this lone man.

  Nemo used tools and laboratory instruments to deadly effect, proving that a long metal T square from a blueprint table could be as dangerous as a sword. He smashed beakers, threw boiling acid into another man's eyes. A blackboard full of equations crashed down onto a guards shoulders, and Nemo knocked him senseless with a sharp elbow blow to the temple.

  Everything in his grasp became a weapon, and when he held nothing, his bare hands served him well enough. Before long, he had taken out every guard.

  Catching his balance and his breath, Nemo turned to the stunned scientists who had watched him in awe. All around him the laboratory lay in ruins: tables splintered, chalk-scrawled blackboards shattered, notes and plans strewn on the floor.

  The captive engineers and scientists stared, as speechless with fear of this stranger as they were of the masked Fantom — until he told them what they needed to hear.

  "You are free."

  Hyde struggled to hold the thick iron door steady against the coming attack. With a whistling cry in flight, the first of the large-caliber shells from the tank man's Gading gun slammed into the heavy shield. Hyde staggered backward. The sound of the impact was deafening.

  "Get back!" he snarled to the Nautilus crewmen, who still held their weapons ready, still hoping to take shots at Dante's cadre, though the remaining henchmen had taken shelter, leaving the battle to the armored colossus. "Go!"

  Another artillery shell struck the iron shield like a meteor, making it shudder in Hyde's grasp. Two impact craters now bent the barrier inward, but the shield held. The high-caliber projectile ricocheted off to the side, striking high on a wall. A stone arch crumbled.

  Hyde got the glimmer of an idea. It was enough.

  The ironclad tank man took two heavy steps forward. The Gatling cylinder rotated, bringing the next shell into position. He fired a third heavy projectile, then another, and another.

  The shells flew at him in rapid succession, and each time Hyde used the heavy iron shield to deflect them. One shell struck the ceiling, bringing part of it down. He tilted the door in a crude attempt at aiming the ricocheting shells.

  The second caromed off toward Dante's huddled henchmen, detonated, and sent screaming bodies flying.

  Hyde's third attempt flew true, blasting the ironclad titan in the armored torso and exploding with spectacular results.

  Shrapnel showered everywhere. The remains of the ironclad tank man toppled backward like a fallen Goliath. Armor plates, weapons, and jointed metal lay collapsed in a pile of wreckage.

  When the smoke and dust cleared sufficiendy, Hyde surveyed the mess with pride and satisfaction.

  The rest of Dante's cadre turned and fled.

  FOURTY SEVEN

  M's Fortress

  Sawyer scrambled backward as Sanderson Reed's dagger came down and slashed repeatedly on all sides. Reed's accompanying thin laughter sounded like breaking glass.

  The young agent swayed, bent, and twisted like a willow tree, evading the deadly point. His Winchester lay across the hall, where it had fallen after the unseen killer sent him sprawling.

  Seeing no other choice, intent on avenging his murdered friend Huck, the American lunged forward and grabbed the sharp dancing blade itself — the only part of his assailant he could see. Although his hand stung and bled, Sawyer never wavered. It was like teasing snapping turtles on the Mississippi.

  Sawyer struggled with the invisible bureaucrat in a savage pantomime. Blood streamed from his slashed hand. He kicked out at thin air and sent Reed stumbling backward into the wall, stunning him for long enough that he could scramble over to snatch up his rifle.

  Holding the Winchester out in front of him, he backed away from the invisible Reed. He shot in the direction of the unseen killer, striking the wall, shredding the tapestries. The invisible bureaucrat's footsteps pattered down the hall toward a closed door. Sawyer ran after him, firing repeatedly. The murderous Reed already provided an uncertain enough target; judging by the sounds, Sawyer knew he had missed each time.

  His rifle clicked empty.

  The moment he stopped firing, he heard slapping footsteps and saw the floating dagger streak back toward him, gripped in Reed's invisible hand. Sawyer swung his Winchester around to block the main force of the knife as it slashed him once, twice, laying open his arm.

  Hissing with the pain, the young agent swung wildly with all his strength, as if the long rifle were nothing more than a tree branch he had fashioned into a club. The Winchester made a loud and very gratifying sound as it connected with the invisible attacker. Sawyer drove him backward.

  Reed's invisible body crashed through the door into a chamber filled with documents, parchments, and ancient writing supplies. Still reeling, Reed staggered backward, senseless, into a low shelf of ink powders.

  Bottles and containers broke open and spilled around him, dumping lampblack and dried tints on Reed's transparent head and upper body. Groggy and injured, his assistant struggled back to his feet. But now that he was smeared and dusted back to partial visibility, his advantage was gone.

  Sawyer stood at the parchment room door with a look of determination. No scrawny little bureaucrat was a match for him. Even without bullets for
his Winchester, he could take Sanderson Reed.

  Suddenly a fireball erupted, splashing heat and flames like a wave of lava crashing against the wall next to the parchment room. With a yelp, Sawyer hurled himself to the side, barely avoiding another gush of fire. A few loose documents in the room ignited, and Reed himself scuttled out of the way like a half-dissolved shadow.

  Sawyer glanced up, spluttering. "Now what?"

  With heavy clanking footsteps, a second one of Moriarty's ironclad tank men advanced toward him down the corridor like an angry dragon. Instead of a Gatling launcher, though, this one had been rigged with a flamethrower.

  Sawyer dove out of the way as another fiery river exploded toward him.

  Circling and slashing, round and round, Dorian Gray and Mina Harker fought on wearily, like an old married couple — but with knives and swords. Each blow, each slash had only a temporary effect, but still they kept cutting.

  Eyes flashing, fangs exposed as she grimaced with the effort, Mina managed to back Gray into the bedroom, much to his apparent delight. "The bedroom, Mina— does it give you memories?" He smiled as he swung his cane-sword again. "Or ideas?"

  She leaped at him, whirled, and pushed off the wall with spiderlike agility. In a flowing movement, she ducked Gray's slash with his rapier and plunged her knife directly into his groin.

  Screaming, he hunched over, backing away from her with his free hand pressed against his crotch. His fingers came away covered with already-vanishing blood. His pale face trembled with an unsettled expression. "If that had been permanent, my dear, I'd have been very upset."

  A substantial explosion from the lower factory levels shook the whole room. The floor bucked and heaved, and dust showered down from the ceiling. Shouts and screams reverberated through the fortress.

  Minas momentary distraction gave Gray the perfect opportunity to skewer her in the chest. His long cane-sword thrust through her bodice, under the perfect milky breasts he had so thoroughly enjoyed, and straight through her vampire heart.

  Mina gasped for air, her green eyes bulging with disbelief. She clutched ineffectually at the sword that had sprouted from her chest and out her back. Choking on words, she gave Gray one final glare of anger, then fell dead upon the bed.

  Gray frowned down at her lying there. His expression was almost a pout. "I hoped I'd get to nail you one more time, dear Mina. Didn't think it'd be literally."

  Inside the cluttered high keep, Quatermain and Moriarty continued their battle to the death. M clumsily swung his rusty makeshift sword, making up for any lack of finesse with unbridled violence. He slashed and parried against the old hunter's Bowie knife.

  Moriarty poked viciously at his opponents gut, but Quatermain blocked and twisted the flat iron bar aside. His move, however, gave M the opening to kidney-punch Quatermain repeatedly. With his bony knuckles, Moriarty hammered his opponent in any vulnerable place.

  Fortunately, Quatermain was tougher than that. Grinding his teeth together with a wordless roar, he backhanded the gaunt mastermind with his Bowie knife, slashing at his face. "I'll give you a real scar or two. Make you want to wear that mask again."

  But Moriarty's crude metal bar blocked the knife with a resounding clang, and the impact sent both weapons clattering off into the darkness among the ancient torture paraphernalia.

  M lunged after him like a madman, and Quatermain found himself on the defensive. Tripping through the clutter as he retreated, he used anything he could get his hands on, grabbing at books, lamps, iron tongs. But Moriarty was unrelenting and drove him back.

  Finally Quatermain saw an opening. He managed to grab Moriarty's wrist and wrapped his other arm around his thin, sinewy throat. Pressing closer, he squeezed, trying to choke the life out of his enemy.

  "I hope I have your fire when I'm your age," Moriarty said, wheezing the words through a constricted windpipe.

  "You won't live beyond today. That's a promise." Quatermain pressed his angry face so close he could have bitten off M's ear.

  Then from outside the chamber came a challenging roar — a voice that sounded like Hyde's. The impacts of a furious battle shook the whole room, giving Moriarty the chance to twist free again and suck in a huge gulp of air.

  He head-butted Quatermain, who shook it off and head-butted Moriarty back. Moriarty staggered briefly, stunned and reeling.

  Then they were both at it again.

  FOURTY EIGHT

  M's Fortress

  After the armored colossus was defeated, Dante shouted for the rest of his fleeing cadre to turn around and redouble their attack against Mr. Hyde. "Use your bare hands if you have to! Would you rather face the Fantom?"

  Many of the men clearly would, but they hesitated and came back. Then, gathering courage, they swept together, yelling as they charged forward in a concentrated offensive against the brutish man.

  Now straining with the effort, Hyde protected the surviving Nautilus crewmen as best he could, using the battered iron shield to deflect a few frantic potshots. "Go find Nemo," he roared, and the crewmen ran to aid their captain in freeing the hostage scientists.

  M's henchmen careened forward, stupidly attempting hand-to-hand combat with their monstrous opponent, but Hyde was brutal. He had no patience for the squirming annoyances that raced toward him.

  Now that he no longer needed to protect the crewmen, he met their foolish charge by stomping forward and swinging the iron door like a ton-weight cricket bat.

  He swatted away the first wave of henchmen, sending them flying like rag dolls over the mezzanines edge and down into the ruined lab area.

  Nemo had gathered the terrified hostage scientists and pushed them out the barred laboratory door, where they were met by his surviving crewmen. Behind him, Hyde's victims crashed spectacularly into the shattered glassware, destroying the last few scientific implements that had survived Nemos battle with the guards.

  Hyde hurled the metal door in front of him, crushing two of his henchmen, then stalked toward the remaining few. His heavy feet trod on the fallen iron plate, under which the dying henchmen stopped squirming and started oozing. When he reached the last scrambling henchmen, his punches and blows sent battered victims flying in every direction.

  Finally he faced Dante: the final man standing.

  Seeing his doom approach, the Fantom's lieutenant scrambled backward, trying to find shelter as Hyde stormed in for the killing blow. Dante fumbled in his pockets, frantically searching… He found it: an unbroken vial of Jekyll's potion, which he had kept for himself from the leather satchel he'd delivered to M. It was a desperate chance.

  With Hyde's swollen form looming over him, Dante pried off the stopper and gulped down all the liquid.

  "God, no!" Hyde howled, realizing what the man had done. "Not the whole thing!" Not even Jekyll in his weakest moments had ever consumed so much of the elixir at once.

  Too late. Dante glared hatefully at him and wiped the last drops from his lips. Suddenly he writhed and screamed as the transfigurative chemical took hold.

  A jet of curling flame rolled down the hall toward him, and Tom Sawyer dove headlong into the parchment room. He sprawled on the floor among rolled parchments and documents that Sanderson Reed had knocked from the shelves. But hundreds of ancient — and flammable — documents remained stored in the chamber.

  The towering flamethrower man clanked to the doorway and raised a reinforced metal arm. With a whoosh, he unleashed another flood of incinerating fire, blasting the whole room while Sawyer scrambled for cover. A wall of parchments caught instantaneously.

  Like a cornered river rat, Sawyer cast around for an escape route, but fireballs cut him off in every direction. The ironclad colossus closed in on him, raising the flame-throwing arm again.

  From inside the armored walker suit, the voice of the Fantoms' man sounded surprisingly thin and small. "You left your luck on the doorstep, boy."

  Sawyer found himself trapped in a corner with nowhere left to go. The flamethrower man loom
ed through the burgeoning smoke and took aim with his jet arm. Just as he shot a spurt of flames, something knocked the reinforced arm aside, and the fiery blast went wide.

  The walking ironclad roared in confusion, and his fire jet petered out after incinerating a wall of empty shelves. Sawyer opened his eyes and saw the armored titan struggling with an invisible assailant. A long knife protruded from between the walkers iron plates, shoved deep to reach the man's vulnerable organs. Rising smoke delineated the outline of the newcomer.

  "Skinner!" Sawyer cried. "The real one this time, I hope."

  "I thought you Yanks were supposed to be the cavalry," Skinner said. A grin was barely visible on his smoke-stained face.

  The wounded flamethrower man spun his armored body and knocked Skinner aside with an ironclad arm. He turned his fiery nozzle in the direction of his unexpected opponent and blasted at the invisible man, who skittered away.

  Skinner didn't move quickly enough, and the leading edge of fire scorched him. Large areas of his transparent skin were burned visible: a patch of his back and part of one buttock, now bubbling and blistered. He yowled and cursed in a drawn-out, incomprehensible wail.

  Tom Sawyer acted without thinking. He grabbed a piece of shattered shelving and charged the armored flamethrower man from behind, rammed into him, and knocked him spinning. He whacked against the tank on the ironclads back until he pierced the fuel reservoir. Sparks flying from the inferno in the room caught the flammable liquid and ignited the tank, causing it to spew fire like a Catherine wheel.

  Sawyer rushed to where Skinner lay on the floor, burned and suffering. "Are you hurt bad?"

  "Oh, no, it's really quite pleasant," the invisible man said sarcastically. "I can't wait to do it again."

  Then Sawyer froze as another knife blade was suddenly pressed against his throat, drawing him up. He lifted his chin and swallowed hard.