Kevin Anderson - The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

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.