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Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
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rough, powerful, and slightly muffled.
As one, the members of the League whirled. At the top of the library's spiral
staircase, a thin man stepped forward dressed in a heavy overcoat and black
gloves. His hair was wild, and a silver mask concealed his upper face and part
of his cheeks, leaving only his chin and twisted lips exposed. Hideous scars
covered the visible portions of his face, implying terrible disfigurement
beneath the mask.
The Fantom looked even worse when he smiled, seeing them so helpless.
EIGHT
Dorian
Gray's Residence
No one dared exhale. The Fantom took a step down the metal stair. He moved
like a heavy shadow, powerful and completely confident in his control of the
situation.
Quatermain took half a step forward. "First meetings usually warrant
introductions." All the threatening rifles shifted slightly, tracking him. He
ignored them, concentrating on the real enemy. "Do you have a name, or just a
mask and a costume?"
"Fine. I am the Fantom. And you are the League of so-called Extraordinary
Gentlemen." Firelight shimmered like quicksilver on his mask. "There,
introductions made. Now we can be about our vital, and possibly deadly,
business." He continued down the spiral staircase. "And while I may be scarred,
Mr. Quatermain, I am not blind. Drop the gun."
Quatermain lifted his eyes to the numerous marksmen stationed all around the
library. Reluctantly, he dropped his Webley revolver.
All of the Fantoms' rifle bearers wore long leather coats, handkerchiefs tied
across their faces, and wide steel hats that made them look like drones. The
identical marksmen all had an anonymous quality, as if they had been stamped out
of a factory line—all except for one young man on the upper level.
He wore the same helmet and leather coat, but the young man didn't seem to
fit in with the other henchmen. Quatermains' hunter sense picked him out, and
the mysterious marksman raised his head so that light fell on his determined
blue eyes. His face was young, handsome, flushed with excitement. He had been
trying to catch Quatermains' attention; noticing that he had finally succeeded,
the marksman actually winked at him.
Suddenly, Quatermain recognized the suspicious-looking young man who had been
ineptly following and watching them all afternoon, slouching on doorsteps and
attempting nonchalance. He was not surprised to see the stranger among these
enemies. But something wasn't right. What was the young man doing here?
The Fantom, reveling in the moment, continued his grand entrance. "Your
mission is to stop me. That, of course, I cannot permit." He reached the bottom
of the staircase and faced them in the library. "So I give to you all a one-time
invitation.
Join me
."
Not wanting to draw attention to what might be a potential ally, Quatermain
did not look again at the mysterious young marksman. He met the Fantom's masked
gaze. "Join you—or die? I'm familiar with that ultimatum. Not very
original."
His revolver lay on the floor, but he would never be able to reach it before
all the marksmen riddled him with bullets.
The Fantom raised his arms and spread his black-gloved hands, "And I am
familiar with men such as you, Mr. Quatermain. You walk the knife-edge of law
and disorder. An individual, not a blind soldier to march empty-headed into
battle. What do you owe England? Come, undo the stuffy waistcoat of tyranny. Why
remain loyal to an empire that uses you, but can barely abide you? Bring
me
your talents and I'll—"
"—add us to your collection of lackeys and kidnapped scientists?" Mina
finished for him. "How appealing."
"Don't you see?" The Fantom stroked his silver mask, tantalizing them,
threatening—or promising—to yank it off and reveal his horribly disfigured face.
"We're all of us outcasts, society's dregs."
"Heh, he's not exactly wrong about that," said Skinner, still holding his
full glass of Scotch, as if about to propose a toast.
"As much as I despise
As one, the members of the League whirled. At the top of the library's spiral
staircase, a thin man stepped forward dressed in a heavy overcoat and black
gloves. His hair was wild, and a silver mask concealed his upper face and part
of his cheeks, leaving only his chin and twisted lips exposed. Hideous scars
covered the visible portions of his face, implying terrible disfigurement
beneath the mask.
The Fantom looked even worse when he smiled, seeing them so helpless.
EIGHT
Dorian
Gray's Residence
No one dared exhale. The Fantom took a step down the metal stair. He moved
like a heavy shadow, powerful and completely confident in his control of the
situation.
Quatermain took half a step forward. "First meetings usually warrant
introductions." All the threatening rifles shifted slightly, tracking him. He
ignored them, concentrating on the real enemy. "Do you have a name, or just a
mask and a costume?"
"Fine. I am the Fantom. And you are the League of so-called Extraordinary
Gentlemen." Firelight shimmered like quicksilver on his mask. "There,
introductions made. Now we can be about our vital, and possibly deadly,
business." He continued down the spiral staircase. "And while I may be scarred,
Mr. Quatermain, I am not blind. Drop the gun."
Quatermain lifted his eyes to the numerous marksmen stationed all around the
library. Reluctantly, he dropped his Webley revolver.
All of the Fantoms' rifle bearers wore long leather coats, handkerchiefs tied
across their faces, and wide steel hats that made them look like drones. The
identical marksmen all had an anonymous quality, as if they had been stamped out
of a factory line—all except for one young man on the upper level.
He wore the same helmet and leather coat, but the young man didn't seem to
fit in with the other henchmen. Quatermains' hunter sense picked him out, and
the mysterious marksman raised his head so that light fell on his determined
blue eyes. His face was young, handsome, flushed with excitement. He had been
trying to catch Quatermains' attention; noticing that he had finally succeeded,
the marksman actually winked at him.
Suddenly, Quatermain recognized the suspicious-looking young man who had been
ineptly following and watching them all afternoon, slouching on doorsteps and
attempting nonchalance. He was not surprised to see the stranger among these
enemies. But something wasn't right. What was the young man doing here?
The Fantom, reveling in the moment, continued his grand entrance. "Your
mission is to stop me. That, of course, I cannot permit." He reached the bottom
of the staircase and faced them in the library. "So I give to you all a one-time
invitation.
Join me
."
Not wanting to draw attention to what might be a potential ally, Quatermain
did not look again at the mysterious young marksman. He met the Fantom's masked
gaze. "Join you—or die? I'm familiar with that ultimatum. Not very
original."
His revolver lay on the floor, but he would never be able to reach it before
all the marksmen riddled him with bullets.
The Fantom raised his arms and spread his black-gloved hands, "And I am
familiar with men such as you, Mr. Quatermain. You walk the knife-edge of law
and disorder. An individual, not a blind soldier to march empty-headed into
battle. What do you owe England? Come, undo the stuffy waistcoat of tyranny. Why
remain loyal to an empire that uses you, but can barely abide you? Bring
me
your talents and I'll—"
"—add us to your collection of lackeys and kidnapped scientists?" Mina
finished for him. "How appealing."
"Don't you see?" The Fantom stroked his silver mask, tantalizing them,
threatening—or promising—to yank it off and reveal his horribly disfigured face.
"We're all of us outcasts, society's dregs."
"Heh, he's not exactly wrong about that," said Skinner, still holding his
full glass of Scotch, as if about to propose a toast.
"As much as I despise
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