The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

FIVE London, Albion Museum Tottenham Court Road

Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was proof against the downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and down his trouser legs into his shoes.

Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as he called down into the cab at his fare. "Nice day for doing, eh sir?" As if anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.

"Yes… absolutely idyllic," said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing on the whole street.

The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.

But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.

The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened the cab's door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. "You made good time getting here, Mr. Quatermain."

"Not as good as Phileas Fogg." The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and stood in the rain, taller than Reed's umbrella. "Fellow went round the world in eighty days."

He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity, cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour simply turned the grime into muck.

"No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir." Reed paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella's protection for himself, even if Quatermain didn't want it. "This way, please. Your contact is waiting."

Quatermain had the impression he was being watched, a sense he'd developed from long years as a hunter and explorer. A glance over his shoulder showed him a young man across the street who wore an overcoat and cap to keep the rain off him. The clothing also succeeded in hiding the young mans face, making him seem up to no good; he was clearly enduring a soaking just to catch a glimpse of Allan Quatermain.

Alas, he no longer had Nigel's playacting to cover him.

"If you please, Mr. Quatermain?" Reed said, urging him along.

They ascended the steps toward the museum. Passing between the museums stone columns, under the ornate arches, and through the door into blessed dryness, the two men walked with echoing, squeaking footsteps on the polished floor. Reed snapped the umbrella shut and shook it. Rainwater running off their clothes made the marble tiles treacherously slippery.

Quatermain looked around the Albion's dim displays illuminated by gas lamps that had been lit early this afternoon because of the rains gloom. He saw proudly displayed antiquities, statues, and assorted treasures. He felt a pang, reminded somewhat of the dreary trophies hanging in the Britannia Club.

Brisk and officious, Reed led him directly to a wooden doorway marked NO ADMITTANCE TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. Fumbling with a fistfull of keys, he unlocked the door and swung it open on groaning hinges. "This way, please. It's down just a few levels."

The two men descended staircase after staircase into the bowels of the stodgy museum. It was like stumbling through the prison caves of Ayesha, and with each new level, Quatermain lost a bit more of his patience. "How deep are we going? Has one of your explorers found a passage to the center of the Earth?"

The winding stairs finally terminated in a low brick corridor that looked as if it had been modeled on the Paris sewers. A closed wooden door at the far end blocked the hall. "I have done my part, Mr. Quatermain, and I will take my leave of you now. Perhaps we will meet again." He motioned for the old adventurer to enter through the door. "My employer will explain the rest."

The old hunter felt a prickle of hairs on the back of his neck similar to what he experienced the times he'd entered the rank-smelling den of a lion. Perhaps he would find predators even here, though of a different sort. He hesitated, suddenly wary.

Reed stood at the door and waited, then cleared his throat impatiently. Quatermain finally stepped inside, and the bureaucrat closed the door, plunging the hidden private room into shadow.

To most men, this darkness would have disguised the rooms secrets, but Allan Quatermain knew how to make full use of all his senses. He sniffed the air. "I've come a long way to be playing childrens' games. Who are you?"

The red dot of a glowing cigarette gave the smoker away on the far side of the room. His chuckle sounded like desiccated, rattling bones. "After Africa's dry and sunny veldts, London's weather isn't improving your mood, I see."

With the turn of one knob on a small panel, blue-orange gaslight flickered up close to a fiftyish man so gaunt that the shadows turned him into a skeleton. His head seemed overly large for his thin neck, his brow heavy and solid. His cigarette holder angled jauntily upward.

Quatermain was not impressed. "I asked for your name, not speculations on my mood."

Slim and self-assured, the man sucked on the black end of his cigarette holder and blew a long, gray breath. "I am known by many names, Mr. Quatermain. My underlings call me sir. My superiors call me… M."

"M?"

"Just M."

"Not very adept at spelling, I suppose," Quatermain grumbled. "I hope your superiors don't boast diplomas from Oxford."

"Charming." M was neither particularly annoyed nor amused. "I must say, the delight is mine — meeting so notable a recruit to this newest generation of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Thank you for joining us."

"League of… what?" Quatermain asked.

M turned more gas knobs, and the isolated chamber was fully illuminated in dramatic pools of flickering gaslight. A long table was surrounded by sumptuous leather chairs. "This is a most exclusive society, Mr. Quatermain. Membership is rather difficult to come by."

The old adventurer was not enamored with the honor. He had just left the destroyed Britannia Club and had wasted many days and nights in travel; he had no intention of coming all this way to London just to become part of another gentlemens' society. "I believe I've made a mistake in coming here."

"You will make a bigger mistake if you leave." M did not rise from his chair. "Come, look around. It will give me a chance to explain."

The meeting room of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was filled with exquisite sculptures, priceless paintings, the finest furniture. The paraphernalia seemed more mysterious and intriguing than the pompous relics in the main halls of the museum above.

"You see, Mr. Quatermain," M said, "there have been many times when a danger upon the world required the service of singular individuals." With a cadaverous smile, he gestured to group portraits of various adventurers from history lumped together in their approximate eras. Quatermain recognized many of them, and saw that he was in distinguished company indeed.

"The task has fallen to me to assemble another group of heroes for our modern age. I am pleased to count you among them."

"It's like a shrine," the adventurer said, not liking the idea. He looked up at a portrait of swarthy Richard Burton dressed as an Arab. "How very curious."

"In its main exhibit halls and here in the private chambers, this museum is full of the curious." M looked over Quatermain's shoulder, suddenly smiling as another man entered. "And the extraordinary. Allan Quatermain, please meet Captain Nemo."

Quatermain turned to see a thin and shadowy man quietly closing the door. He moved with the silent grace of a cat, and his face wore the hard expression of an age-wearied man, though he looked to be only about fifty years old. Nemo was very distinguished in a blue uniform that combined elements of naval captain and Indian nabob, with a sash tied at his waist. His skin was dark tan, and his full dark beard extended to his heart. The blue turban on his head further marked his Indian heritage.

"I know of Mr. Quatermain," Nemo said, without giving further details. His voice was deep and smooth, like cool molasses.

"And I know of you, Captain," Quatermain countered. "Rumor has it that you are a pirate."

Nemo turned a set of black eyes on him. He crossed his arms over his uniformed chest. "I'd prefer a less provocative title."

"I'm sure you would."

M watched the two men, bemused, as if he saw visible lines of tension in the air. He smiled.

"From one such as you, certainly, who stands as a symbol of the British Empires domination of foreign lands—" Nemo began.

"I am neither a symbol, nor a slaver," Quatermain interrupted. His nostrils flared. He himself had seen the excesses of colonial oppression, downtrodden natives, cultures and societies railroaded into conformity "for their own good" by the White Man's Burden.

Nemo noted his reaction with approval and reconsidered his initial assessment. "Perhaps I have made a premature assumption. I have sufficient enemies in the world. I do not need to make more."

Quatermain backed off and turned his attention to another portrait. "I'm rather surprised, Nemo — knowing your history — that you agreed to this enterprise. You struck me as being an… independent sort."

"Independence? Yes. I seek my peoples release from the British Empire."

From his overstuffed chair, M explained, "In return for Captain Nemo's aid, we'll open a dialogue with the Indian government."

"That is reason enough, I suppose," Quatermain said.

"One reason," corrected Nemo.

"And the other?" Quatermain asked.

"Is my concern." Nemo stood rigid, clearly not intending to volunteer any further information.

M stubbed out his cigarette in a terracotta ashtray. "Gentlemen, shall we get started?" He tossed a large manila folder in front of Quatermain. It slid across the polished table, and the adventurer picked it up, flipping through the papers. Inside were pictures and dossiers of three people.

"What did Reed tell you, Mr. Quatermain? How much do you know?"

"He spoke of unrest." The old hunter paced back and forth beneath the impressive portraits of his League predecessors as he perused the dossiers. "I recommended laudanum."

M folded his bony, long-fingered hands together. "This trouble can't be medicated, I'm afraid. Nations are striking at nations. England is on the brink of declaring war against the Kaiser. Germany has vowed revenge against the British Empire. France, Italy, Belgium, they all have swords drawn and armies rallied. The slightest spark will set them off. It will be like a street brawl on a global scale."

The dossier held intelligence illustrations of heavily armored land ironclads, streamlined cannons, rocket launchers, and countless other machines of war. Quatermain flipped through the pictures, his frown deepening.

M explained. "Many of the recent attacks were marked by the use of highly advanced weaponry, amazing technological breakthroughs that have caused unprecedented destruction. Each country denies its actions, despite clear evidence to the contrary and many witnesses that firmly place the blame on other governments." He cracked his bony knuckles with a sound like gunshots. "Europe is a tinderbox. A world at war is a genuine possibility." Then M calmly remembered his duties as host. "Sherry?"

"Always thought it a woman's drink," Quatermain said.

M poured himself a sherry, despite the other man's deprecations. "I'll alert the servants they should begin brewing gin in the bath for you, shall I?"

"One doesn't brew gin. One distills it," Quatermain muttered.

Captain Nemo stood straight and silent, watching and listening. M took the folder from Quatermain's hands and spread the pages on the table so they all could see. "Our boys abroad have been hard at work to obtain all this information."

"You mean your spies," Quatermain said.

"They've discovered that, despite the accounts of witnesses, these widely separated attacks are all the work of one man who calls himself the 'Fantom.'"

"Very operatic. Does he wear a mask? Have a scarred face?" Quatermain asked.

"As a matter of fact, he does."

The old adventurer's surprise and sarcasm deflated. He took one of the leather seats around the table. "What's in it for him?"

"Profit. Sheer profit." M pointed to the illustrations. "Those ingenious machines are the Fantom's creations, the work of experts he holds imprisoned. He has captured the greatest scientists and engineers from various countries, forcing them to develop new methods of absolute destruction — and his sham attacks may be little more than extravagant demonstrations of his wares."

"Worse, the Fantoms' provocative strikes have every nation clamoring to acquire the very weapons that assail them. England demands to possess them before the Germans do. Portugal wants them before Spain. The French insist on having them before the British. An endless circle."

"Then it is a race for arms." said Quatermain.

"While millions perish," Nemo said with an angry, resigned sigh. "My struggle against War itself has accomplished little, after all these years."

"There's one last chance to avert war. The leaders of Europe will meet secretly in Venice. They will expose the Fantoms' plans and reach an accord against him. This summit meeting must remain hidden from all the patriots and local warmongers who are ready to go to war. The greatest threat, though, comes from the Fantom himself."

"Then you believe this Fantom will attack the conference?" Quatermain said.

"If he can find it — and I would not doubt his ability to obtain such information. By striking the secret meeting and assassinating the leaders of the anxious nations, he will surely trigger the world-scale war he desires so much."

"The I-types don't trust us, gentlemen, so we can't send in conventional forces. We need a team to get to Venice and stop the Fantom." He closed the dossier. "You have four days."

"Four days to reach Venice? From London? Impossible!" Quatermain cried.

"Let me worry about that," Nemo said.

Quatermain glanced at Nemo's file and understood. "Well now, four days it is." He looked at the Indian captain with new respect. "Extraordinary gentlemen, indeed."

"And in that four days you must also assemble the rest of your team." M removed a pocket watch, flipped it open, and glanced at the time. "One of them is late: Harker, the chemist."

"Well, he'd better learn how to tell time," said an unseen man, a new voice that seemed to come from the air itself. "Its not so much to ask."

Quatermain looked about, mystified. The gaslight was bright, and he saw no convenient shadows or alcoves in which a man might hide. "My eyesight must be worse than I thought."

A new dossier dropped out of the air onto the others strewn across the tabletop. "Your eyesight's fine. Heh!"

"No games, M," Quatermain warned.

"I told you our members were extraordinary, Mr. Quatermain," M said. "A while ago a talented — albeit misguided — man of science discovered the means to become invisible. A Mr. Hawley Griffin. Perhaps you've heard of him, even in Kenya?"

"Yes, I recall the tale. But… didn't he die? Something about a mob reaction?"

The unseen man continued. "He died, but his invisibility process didn't. I stole the formula… and here I stand for all to see."

"Is this some parlor trick, M?" Quatermain, scowled, then abruptly flinched as something invisible slapped him in the head.

"Boo!" said the unseen man. "Believe it."

"Enough, Ghost," Nemo said.

"Oooh, he speaks!" the invisible man chortled. "I thought for a moment the nefarious captain had been stuffed. Pleased to meet you both. I'm Rodney Skinner, gentleman thief."

M frowned in the direction of the voice. "Skinner, make yourself presentable."

The invisible thief's coat, draped on the back of a chair, started to move by itself. It took shape as the man got dressed, tugging arms through the sleeves. Next, a pot of white greasepaint rose into the air.

Skinner continued to chat as he dressed. "You see, I thought invisibility would be a boon to my work, being a thief and all. Heh! You can imagine." His grease-painted lips blew out a sigh. "My undoing — once you're invisible, it's bloody hard to turn back."

The transparent hand continued to dab greasepaint on his face, distributing smears so that his physiognomy took shape eerily as he spoke. "And it's bloody hard to spend your money if no one can see you."

"In the end, we finally caught him," M said. "He'll be a valuable member of your team."

"And they'll provide the antidote if I'm a good boy," Skinner said, explaining the real reason for his cooperation.

"And are you a good boy?" Quatermain asked.

"I guess you'll find out, won't you?"

The door quickly opened again, and all eyes turned toward the voice. "Am I late?" A beautiful woman stood at the door, carefully pushing it shut.

Quatermain blinked at her stunning appearance. She was slender and fit-looking, dressed in a stylish but not gaudy dress. She appeared to be in her early thirties with startlingly green eyes and dark hair; a white silken scarf was chastely tied around her throat. Her skin was ivory pale, as perfect as milk.

"Why, being late is a woman's prerogative, Mrs. Harker." M showed no trace of annoyance at all.

Quatermain groaned quietly. This meeting had grown worse with each new revelation. "Please, M, tell me this is Harker's wife with a sick note."

Her green eyes flashed at him with a surprisingly feral light." 'Sick' would be a mild understatement, sir. My husband's been dead for years. At the moment, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker," M said. "Please welcome her to our League."

"And you couldn't find a chemist with—" Quatermain began, remembering all the times and all the adventures where women had caused him trouble.

"With the right to vote? Alas, no," Mina said.

M was unruffled. He sucked on the end of his cigarette holder again. "In addition to her chemical abilities, Mina's… prior acquaintance with a reluctant team member may also be of use to us."

Mina grimaced slightly, as if she didn't look forward to meeting her "prior acquaintance" again.

"And that's it? Chemistry and an old friendship?" Quatermain raised his eyebrows. "Come on, I'm waiting to be impressed." Many lives would depend upon the abilities of the members of this team.

"Patience… is a virtue," Mina said, then added in a sultry, eerily hypnotic voice, "Are you virtuous?"

"The clock hands turn, gentlemen," said M, gathering all the dossiers. "As I said earlier, we have very little time. You have other members to recruit before you depart for Venice."

"Kicking us out, already?" the now greasepainted Skinner asked. "A moment ago it was all sherry and giggles."