The Lazarus Gate (48 page)

At this, Lazarus took a step towards me, and I swung the gun back onto him. I knew I should have just pulled the trigger, but I felt I was waiting for… something; some sign to affirm my actions perhaps.

‘Not another step, Lazarus. You will not set foot through that gateway, even if it means consigning you to hell.’

‘We’re already in hell, John,’ Lazarus replied. ‘Have you not looked up at the sky? There are worse things than death, as I’m sure you now realise. So here’s what is going to happen: I am going to board this launch, and pass through the gate unnoticed whilst your pathetic little soldiers swarm all over this ship. You’ll probably go down with the ship, but that will prove no great loss, and as you drown in the Thames for a second time, you will see our glorious fleet sailing up the river. Once I’m safely on the other side, the passage will be much smoother for our comrades.’

He turned his back on me, utterly certain of himself, and started to climb aboard the launch. Even then, he was overconfident, overbearing and cantankerous, and as I realised that his plan was to simply ignore me, my anger boiled over. I pulled the trigger: the bullet hit his shoulder. He fell to the deck, trying to grab at the rail to steady himself.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ I said, coolly. ‘I can’t allow that.’

I took one pace forward, but quick as a flash Ambrose made a move, pulling a lever on the pulley system. I did not see exactly what he was doing, and snapped off a shot, only hitting the launch’s steam-funnel. Too late, I realised what Ambrose had done. A bundle of chains with a large iron hook on the end came loose behind me, and swung at me with some force. I was alerted by the rattling of the chains, and ducked instinctively, though the heavy hook caught my injured shoulder. As the pain coursed through me, Lazarus turned over, still on the walkway, but now with a gun in his hand. I leapt back as he fired, and was half-blinded by the flash of blue light that burst from the gun. The arc of lightning fizzed, hitting the bundle of chains and lighting them up with crackling energy and showers of sparks. The energised mass of metal swung back towards me, and I backed away as far as I could go, firing off another shot blindly to keep Lazarus pinned down. But by then Ambrose had leapt from the boat, and he struck down at me with the weighted silver handle of his cane, driving the metal knob down onto my weak shoulder. I cried out in pain and was forced to drop to one knee. As I raised the gun to shoot at him, he struck me again, this time on the right wrist, and I dropped the revolver. Ambrose kicked it along the deck towards Lazarus.

I flailed at Ambrose wildly and fought to my feet, leaning against the rail at the end of the captain’s walk, but the game was up. I had not taken my chance; I had tried to find answers to the questions I had been asking ever since I had learned of my father’s involvement, and that delay had cost me, and the whole world. As the chains stopped swinging and the electricity within them died away, Lazarus and Ambrose stood side by side. My father pointed his lightning gun at me.

‘Agent Hanlocke,’ he said to Ambrose, ‘this man is of my own blood, for all of his faults. Please be kind enough to finish him quickly, and then get the launch ready. We’re wasting time.’

Ambrose said nothing, only drew his cane-sword and pressed the point to my chest. I held my breath—I had no more tricks up my sleeve, only an inexorable wait for my end to come. And then Ambrose lowered his sword, and stepped back behind my father, shaking his head.

‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve become rather fond of John during our time together. I just can’t do it. Perhaps I should just get the boat ready?’

Lazarus gave him such a look of disgust—the look long reserved for disobedient servants and his disappointing son—that I half expected Ambrose to wither away under the gaze. Lazarus then turned his gun onto me again, and with a complete lack of emotion in his voice said: ‘Don’t worry about the weapon; it’s surprisingly humane. Your heart will stop long before you burn to death… goodbye John.’

But he did not pull the trigger. Instead he let out a small whine, and his eyes widened so far I thought they would pop out of his skull. A long, red spike pushed its way from his chest towards me, like the probing tongue of a snake, before withdrawing again just as rapidly. Lazarus dropped his gun and staggered to the railing, looking every bit as bewildered as I did. Ambrose took out a handkerchief and casually wiped the blood from his sword.

‘What…?’ I could not form any more words, so surprising was this latest lucky escape from certain death.

‘Couldn’t let him kill you, old chap,’ said Ambrose. ‘Just like I couldn’t let you kill your old dad, no matter how much of a tyrant he was. Now you can go home without that hanging over you.’

I stepped towards him, flabbergasted.

‘Ambrose…’

‘Bet you wish you’d stayed in the country now, eh?’ he said. ‘Told that bloody gypsy to keep you there, come what may. Willem, wasn’t it? Paid him up front, too.’

‘But what about you? What happens now?’ I asked, still too stunned to take in what he was saying.

‘Oh, I suppose I’ll be—’ But that was all he managed. A shot rang out, and Ambrose clutched at his ribs as his shirt became a red rag. Lazarus clutched a derringer of his own, which he’d concealed the whole time—he’d had the better of me all along, but hadn’t needed to show his hand. He gurgled blood from his throat, laughing even in his final moments.

As Ambrose stumbled to the wall and slid down it onto the planked walkway, I stepped towards Lazarus, but could not reach him in time.

‘Goodbye, son,’ he whispered, hoarsely, and pushed himself over the rail with the last of his strength. I rushed to the edge of the captain’s walk and looked over, just in time to see an arm vanishing beneath the choppy water. He was gone.

I turned back to Ambrose, who was slumped in a heap by the cabin door.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘You never do, you silly sod,’ gasped Ambrose, grunting in pain and holding his wound. ‘But Lazarus is dead, or as good as. Look, the gate won’t hold for long now; you have to go, old chap.’

‘Come with me. Whatever happened before, your actions have set it right. Even Sir Toby wouldn’t hang you!’

‘He bloody might! And prison certainly doesn’t suit me. Besides, this thing in my ticker won’t let me leave,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘Most of the portals were closed to power this one. The gate will close soon, and when it does we’ll all be summoned back, dead or alive; dragged back to hell.’

‘I… I don’t know what to say.’

‘You were right,’ he said, his voice breaking, ‘I was too deep in the mire. We… we had no right.’ Ambrose fumbled around on the floor and took up his cane. ‘Take this… call it a parting gift. I’ve got five more back home anyway. My real home, that is. It’s saved your life twice already; maybe the third time will be the charm.’

I took the cane-sword from him, and noticed for the first time that its silver knob was engraved with an elegant, swirling ‘H’.
For Hanlocke, or for Hardwick… fate, again
, I thought. I stood up, but felt bitterly sad at leaving Ambrose behind. For all he had done, I thought that perhaps he had been my friend, at least for a short time. He pushed at my leg feebly, and I saw that the blood was gushing from him. I could do nothing; Ambrose Hanlocke’s sudden turn of heroism had been his final act.

‘Now go!’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be stuck here, believe me.’

I opened the door to the captain’s cabin, and turned back once more—looking first to Ambrose, then to the hellish skyline behind us—before taking my leave.

* * *

Gunfire sounded all around us and the entire ship shook and rolled as it began to sink into the blood-red Thames. Jim was a dead weight, and no one was in any state to help me carry him. Men from both sides ran for their lives as the five amber portals began to gutter like dying candles. The enemy sailors had launched their lifeboats and were even leaping overboard in panic. In desperation, or perhaps one last fit of defiance, the other ships waiting to launch their invasion had turned their broadsides on Lazarus’ vessel, determined to at least take down the soldiers who had foiled their plans. Either that, or the tenuous pacts that had held all those foreign powers together had died with my father. The ship burned beneath a scarlet sky, as in my dreams.

With every step we took, the Lazarus Gate seemed to grow dimmer, flickering in and out of existence. Sometimes Jim managed a few steps, whilst at others I was dragging him along, leaving a trail of slick crimson behind us. My shoulder burned, and I thought perhaps it would be easier just to stay there, on the wrong side of the gate, and accept whatever punishment the Otherside forces threw at me. But then I remembered the shadowy Thing at my back, and the horror of it spurred me onwards.

At least half the ship had pushed through the gate, and it was still moving forwards, inertia carrying it. The thick cables lining the arches of London Bridge were damaged; burning, and showering the deck with great cascades of orange sparks. The ship had scraped the side of the bridge, and dragged across the cables, grinding the infernal machinery and causing untold damage to my father’s masterwork.

We were close—maybe ten yards from the gate—when the boat heeled abruptly. The deck rose up to meet us as we tumbled over, and we almost fell into one of the raging deck-fires, but somehow I managed to roll us away from it. I looked up and saw the gateway begin to close in on itself. The edges of the portal grew dark, roiling and undulating like thick black smoke, before shrinking inwards inch by inch towards the centre, leaving shimmering, hot air in its wake.

The amber window grew smaller by the second, as did our chance of escape. I dragged Jim to his feet once more and began to move towards salvation. When I looked up again, I could see the rest of the Othersiders’ world beyond the portal rather than our own—an endless red sky above a dark, hopeless city. The portal began to close around the ship’s hull, and as it did so there rose up the most awful metallic groan, as if the ironclad would be crushed by some gigantic, unseen hand. At this terrible sound, I roared my defiance, and lifted Jim fully onto my shoulders. The wound burned, and my legs almost gave way, but some inner strength drove me on, one step at a time. Even as we were wreathed in coruscating light from the portal, I could not be sure we would make it. Ahead, I could see first the strange, gelatinous amber mass of the portal, then it seemed to flicker for an instant to reveal that fell red sky, then again to reveal the pale sky of home. Then I saw other things, too—London in ruins, then a city of towering steel and glass palaces, then a humid jungle with the Thames twisting through its verdant heart, followed by a world submerged beneath the ocean, with London a floating city. Other, even more indescribable and fantastic places came and went in swift succession, shimmering into focus for brief moments before dissipating, snatched away like the vestige of a dream. It was maddening, dizzying, but I knew then I was seeing the places between worlds—the infinite possibilities of William James’ multiverse, finally brought into focus by the energies of the Lazarus Gate. Other worlds, other times, perhaps, any of which could have provided safe haven for the Othersiders, had they eyes to see.

But such wonders were secondary to the fear I felt at being left in an even more alien world. I was almost grateful, then, when I found myself wading through the thick, amber air once more, with its muffled whispers and strange, predatory shadows that seemed to stalk us on the periphery of my vision. And how sweet the air was when finally I forced my way through the portal, and both Jim and I fell onto the foredeck, looking up at a sky where the last of the stars were blinking out of sight as the morning light chased them from the heavens.

* * *

I do not recall how Jim and I came to be on the north bank of the Thames. I was told later that we had been spotted leaving the portal by the rearguard of our soldiers, and one of them had recognised Captain Denny and bundled us onto a launch. All I remember is sitting on the river wall with a blanket over my shoulders, watching as the front half of Lazarus’ ship upended and began to sink into the river. When the portal had closed, it had cut the ship clean in two, and the exposed decks jutted almost vertically from the water like ribs sawn in a cross-section by a butcher’s hand. It burned like a beacon while its prow thrust into the silt bed of the Thames.

There was chaos all about us, of course. Dozens of Otherside sailors, common men with no strange devices implanted into their hearts, swam to the banks or clung to wreckage, perhaps stranded for ever in a foreign land, if nature itself did not reject them first; who knew? I supposed that even prison in our world would be preferable to liberty in their own. The soldiers Jim had hired had blocked the streets and the bridge, not even letting the police through until we were sure that every Otherside agent who may have been lurking in our midst had been dragged back whence they had come via their implants. If any still remained after that, only time would tell what would become of them. When the police finally did arrive, they in turn had to contend with crowds of onlookers who had started to gather when the first howitzers had sounded. Even the Metropolitan Police, however, had not been able to stop the mudlarks from scurrying through the blockades to the riverbanks. Ruddy-faced children began to pick through the mud for any valuables they could find in the wreckage; it was their living. How else could they and their families survive? If there was any important evidence amongst the debris, it would likely never be found.

A crowd had gathered on the bridge, unperturbed by the efforts of the policemen to hold them back. At their arrival, the gypsies slipped away, abandoning their rifles and vanishing into the throng which now looked down on the burning ship with morbid curiosity. I wondered how on earth anyone could explain these events to the public.

I clambered to my feet, and checked back on Jim. The ambulance had arrived, and he was being loaded aboard it.

‘Take care of him,’ I said. ‘He’s a war hero.’