The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

TWENTY NINE The Ruins of Venice

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.