The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘So that… they… are people.’ I remembered William James’ warning about dabbling with the portals, but I could barely comprehend the terrible thing that Tsun Pen had wrought on these women. Though I was still afraid of those repugnant forms, my heart was full of pity for them. ‘And what of the other? There are two.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Two of my men passed fully through the portal to claim another prize, unaware of their fate should they return. One of them did not make it, for he was killed or captured by the Othersiders. The second did return, in a manner of speaking. He heaved his prisoner through the portal, and must have seen her change before he realised that he was even then undergoing the same process. Before he could comprehend his situation, the portal blinked out of existence. It closed, Captain, cutting what was left of my man in twain like a hot knife through butter. I think it was better for him that way.’

  That last remark was the first thing the Artist had said to me that made any sense. There was a pained whimper behind me, as if the two creatures understood the story he had just related. I winced, hoping to God that they did not understand, that they were not still rational and lucid human beings behind those grotesque, corpulent forms.

  ‘Why did they not kill you for what you did?’ I asked. Already my own anger at this madman was festering, lending me strength—I knew I would kill him given half the chance, and I could not fathom why the Othersiders had not done the same.

  ‘I was too valuable to them. I still am. But they decided to punish me – you must have realised that much. I am not sure if they knew I would survive the experience, and I doubt that they cared overmuch, but they must have been grateful afterwards, for we have since resumed our business relationship. No, they exacted their revenge in a most unexpected way. I thought I knew of all of their technological marvels, but I was ill-prepared for this vengeance. It was beautiful really—quite biblical in a sense.

  ‘They utilised the same devices that open their portals, and activated them on the Isle of Dogs. Rather than focus their attentions on a small point in order to create a gateway, they targeted the House of Zhengming in its entirety. At the same time, agents on this side opened a portal within my home. A small, weak one—for the conditions are not right to perform this miraculous process just anywhere—but enough to establish the link between worlds in a very tangible and violent way.

  ‘I was in my studio, painting, when I heard the sound of distant explosions. The next thing I knew, the room was filled with a whining noise that grew to fever pitch. The whole building shook, and then my vision became blurred—yes, Captain, I could see back then. I realised that the very building was twisting, contorting before my eyes. It appeared as though the high-pitched cacophony was vibrating the two realities together as one. Then I was wracked by pain, the likes of which no man has ever experienced. My counterpart appeared as if from nowhere, standing directly before me, but partly conjoined to me. We were locked in an embrace, and I imagine I looked as terrified as he did. As the vibrations intensified, we drew closer, until we were one… until we were almost one. Our screams became one scream, and that is all I remember before Hu woke me. I was blind, of course, and hideous to behold, but my loyal servant never left my side.’

  Tsun Pen turned from me, and unwrapped the silk scarf from around his head. I knew he was about to show me what the Othersiders had wrought, and I did not want to see, but he turned back to me all the same. I remember recoiling from his hideous face. Bulging sockets, filled with too many eyes, completed the arachnoid appearance of the ‘man’ before me.

  ‘I frighten you? But of course, what was I thinking?’ chuckled the Artist. ‘Although what do you expect when four eyes are pushed into the physical space of two? I suppose I am lucky, for although my eyes do not work in the literal sense, I can see so much more than before.’ Tsun Pen seemed to look upon me regardless, before—apparently satisfied—he tied the blindfold back around his hideous, sightless eyes. ‘This is the power that the Othersiders wield,’ he continued, ‘and you would be wise to pray for a quick death at their hand, lest you meet a similar fate.

  ‘That is my story, Captain. A cautionary tale, I’m sure you’ll agree. Of course, the leader of the Othersiders was quite relieved when he discovered that I lived—though his anger had prompted such drastic measures, he still needed my abilities to complete his invasion of this universe. In fact, it turned out rather nicely for him—my powers are amplified, my knowledge of both worlds consummate, and my counterpart is no longer on their side of the veil; any risk posed to their world by such a powerful psychic has thus been nullified. There were even some benefits for me. My humble opium den, though unchanged from an outside perspective, has increased in size considerably. Some of the rooms, however, are quite inaccessible, due to the unstable effect of sharing space and time with another universe entirely, but that is a small price to pay for real estate, you understand. And so we have an uneasy alliance, the Othersiders and I. They dare not take my pets from me, for fear of further bloodshed, and truth be told I do not believe they really want them back, not in their present condition. But I want them, Captain. They inspire me to greater artistic endeavours. Without them, I would be… half the man.’ He smiled, pleased with his jest.

  ‘I understand,’ I said. My words stuck in my throat—I felt as though I had swallowed a pint of sand. The Artist offered up more water, which I accepted. I could feel blood trickling down my arm as the bonds bit into my wrists. ‘I must know the identity of the… dynamiters. The Othersiders who wreak havoc on London,’ I said at last. ‘Who is the leader that you spoke of? And how many of them live among us?’

  ‘Oh, my dear boy,’ said the Artist, with as much condescension as he could muster, ‘you still trust to hope? You still believe, after all I have told you, that such information will be of any use to you whatever? You are single-minded, I’ll grant you that.’

  ‘You promised to answer my questions,’ I said firmly. ‘I must know.’

  ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘I will tell you, but the answer will offer you no comfort in your final hours. Their ultimate leader is a man named Lazarus—a government agent, quite senior, I believe. He serves King Albert directly, and is the most uncompromising man I have ever encountered. Next to myself, of course.’ He chuckled. I did not ask about Albert—I was already coming to the conclusion that everything on the other side was the same and yet somehow different, and that to interrupt the Artist with irrelevant questions would only lead to more of his endless diatribe. He plainly liked the sound of his own voice a little too much.

  ‘Lazarus,’ I muttered. ‘Who is he, really?’

  ‘Oh, that is his name now, I believe; who he was is of little consequence to those on the other side. They say he died and came back; they say he will lead his cursed people to liberty, in a world that has not been assailed by the legions of hell. Your world. This rhetoric has made him a saviour in the eyes of his people, and a maniac in yours. You know him, of course. And there are others in his group with whom you have rubbed shoulders.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah, you wish to know the identities of the infiltrators here in London, of course. Captain Hardwick, they are everywhere; dozens of them. You’ve probably met them and don’t even know it. They infiltrate positions of power just as easily as they pose as municipal workers and vagrants. They do what they must, and they do it with ease, because they are us. They are exactly like us in appearance and character. Of course, some unforeseen circumstance may get in the way of their plans; an agent’s counterpart may be dead already on our side, or perhaps never have been born due to some quirk in the strands of fate. Without a double, they are of limited use as spies—but on the whole, they walk among us unnoticed.’

  ‘But there cannot be two identical people walking about London at the same time,’ I interjected. ‘Especially not well-known or important people. What do they do with their counterpart from our side?’ I realised as I was speaking that I had become true believer of the multive
rse theory as proposed by William James. It crossed my mind that, after all I had seen and heard in the last few days, I had gone mad, and was indulging in the same lunatic fantasy as James, Sir Arthur Furnival and even Sir Toby.

  ‘Usually they are assassinated to pave the way for their doppelgänger. Sometimes they will be captured and tortured for information; anything to make the agent taking their place more believable in the role. Oftentimes even their closest friends could not tell that they have been replaced by an imposter.’

  ‘And how long do they maintain these charades?’ I asked, uncomfortable now I realised that even members of Apollo Lycea could have been compromised.

  ‘As long as it takes, Captain Hardwick; weeks, months… even years. They have been crossing over for a long time, gathering intelligence. As their situation worsened, so they became more fixated on our world. Lazarus is a military man, and when he was put in charge of the operation, it stopped being a reconnaissance mission and became an invasion. Their field agents come through from the other side and pass messages to their fellows who have been living here all along. At the allotted hour they do what they need to do—steal some plans, assassinate some key target, whatever their mission is, and then plant the bombs that generate their escape route. They can keep their entryways open indefinitely, provided they can generate enough power, and they have to do so if they wish to stay for any length of time, otherwise the universe itself will push them back to where they came from. Still, it’s complicated—they need one way in, and one way out. It’s a feat that we on this side cannot replicate, but one that they perform with alarming regularity. But of course, even with all their resources, they do not yet have the means to stay here for ever—for that they’ll need a rather large portal, open all the time, I suppose.’

  ‘All the time? Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not pretend to know the science of it. All I know is that the portal by which they enter must remain open until the agent leaves, at great expense. If the entrance portal is closed early, then the strange device that the agents carry within their bodies will pull them back to the other side. Likewise if the agent is killed. I considered, for a time, operating on my pets, to inspect the devices within them for myself. After all, the accident must have rendered them inert, otherwise my darling muses would have been snatched from me by now. But I couldn’t bring myself to harm them… further.’

  ‘If the Othersiders mean to launch a full-scale invasion then they’ll need this portal that you spoke of? This large portal… Can it be done?’

  ‘Oh yes, and soon,’ the Artist said. ‘I hear Lazarus has found a brilliant young scientist who has all but completed his work on a new kind of doorway between worlds. They are imprisoning mediums every day, using hundreds of them to thin the veil, heedless of the inherent danger, and creating electrical machines to generate vast quantities of energy. This new portal will supposedly be free of the limitations of the others, allowing passage freely to and fro, and in great numbers. The people of the other side are lauding the great Lazarus as their saviour. They call his portal the “Lazarus Gate” in his honour, and once it is active… well, I suppose I don’t have to explain to you what that will mean.’ He smiled, but it was rueful.

  ‘One more… question,’ I said, through a fit of coughing. ‘Where will they strike next?’

  ‘Ah, that is clever, Captain, for it is really several questions in one, is it not? Do you mean to ask where they plan to enter our universe? Or where will they detonate their bombs? Or where will their agents attempt to complete some other nefarious assignment? A pity you do not have the time—nor the necessary funds—to view my paintings, for the answers you seek are there, if you had eyes to see. You’ll be pleased to know that you’ve at least set the Othersiders back, just a little—it is clear that you have deciphered their coded instructions, which they adopted from my own system. I am sure they are working to overcome this irritation as we speak.’

  The guard, Hu, cleared his throat—the first sound he had made since we had met—and Tsun Pen took this as some kind of signal.

  ‘I am afraid the time for questions is over, Captain. Much as it pains me, it seems we have visitors, and it would be rude to keep them waiting. Your fate will soon become clear, but for now I will leave you my pets for company. They are really quite affectionate.’

  My skin crawled at the suggestion, and the muculent sound of the two creatures drew nearer. As Hu opened the door and let in some light, I set eyes on them properly for the first time as they lurched towards their master and his manservant on lethargic, bloated limbs. I realised that their chains were no longer anchored, and that they now had freedom to roam the cell, a thought which filled me with disgust. They clambered bodily up the two men, groping and probing with flabby fingers, tongues lolling out of their mouths, acting for all the world like a pair of languid hounds. Hu looked at Tsun Pen imploringly, and the Artist shooed the creatures away, cooing with affection. I could not bear the thought of them touching me, and became terrified of being abandoned in the darkness. But that is what happened—the door closed, and I was alone with the monsters.

  * * *

  I do not know how much time elapsed, but evidently I had passed out at some point from the after-effects of the drugs in my system, and the horror of my situation. I felt more alert than I had earlier, and quickly oriented myself. The room was the same, and my position was the same. I heard the muffled movement in the corner once more, and I felt sick at the sound. There were voices outside now, too, beyond the door, and I strained to hear what was being said. I recognised the sound of Tsun Pen’s voice, but he was agitated, though I could not make out the words. Presently the door was opened, and three people stepped inside.

  The light stung my eyes, but I took in as many details as I could of my captors before the door was closed and we were all plunged into darkness. Tsun Pen and Hu were present again, but the third inquisitor was a surprise indeed. It was a woman, probably in her late twenties. Her face was pale and pretty, but emotionless. Her hair was pinned back tightly, and her garb was entirely black. Her clothes were strangely out of style, close-fitting and trimmed with lace. Her skirts stopped scandalously at the knee, revealing dark stockings and high boots. Even in the dark that followed, her eyes seemed almost to gleam, so that they were all I could see for a time. There was something strangely familiar about her, though I felt sure she was no ordinary Englishwoman; I knew at once that she was one of Them.

  ‘I know you,’ I said, without thinking.

  ‘We have not actually met, Captain Hardwick,’ she said, icily. ‘Though I had hoped when I saw you on Commercial Road that you would be out of our way for good. And yet here we are.’

  Commercial Road—the woman in the window! It all became clear, and yet I still felt an uncanny connection to this woman. There was something else… something oddly familiar about her bearing, but I could not place it.

  ‘Captain,’ said Tsun Pen, his unctuous tones fair slithering in my ears, ‘this good woman is here to question you.’

  ‘I will answer no questions. I consider myself a prisoner of war, and will not betray my country… no matter the price.’

  ‘Brave words, Captain,’ said Tsun Pen, ‘but you will not find resistance so easy. We have our ways.’

  I laughed in his face. I think he was shocked. The woman displayed no emotion of any kind.

  ‘You know, I was once put to torture,’ she said, running the back of her gloved hand across my cheek. ‘The experience was the making of me. I fear, however, it will be the breaking of you.’

  ‘This isn’t my first time,’ I growled, defiantly.

  ‘Oh, of course… Burma, wasn’t it? What a delicious coincidence; that you should break Lazarus’ code as a result of your suffering. I suppose you felt that it was all worth it? That it had all been for some greater purpose? But sadly no—you simply traded one hell for another, and this time there will be no salvation.’

  I narrowed my eyes and prepared m
yself. ‘I have been interrogated by worse than you,’ I said. ‘Do your worst.’

  * * *

  It began as it always begins. Quiet, persuasive. The questions seeming innocuous at first, then becoming more pointed. The woman wanted to know the names of influential men in Rangoon and Hong Kong, and, of course, in London—in Apollo Lycea specifically. She wanted to know how many people had read my notes on the Othersiders’ secret codes, and who my chief accomplices were. Strangely, she interspersed these questions with further queries about my own life, military service and even childhood. This line of irrelevant questioning was doubtless designed to throw me, to break my concentration; but it did not work.

  Then it started in earnest. The clubbing blows from Hu’s hook hand, the whip, the burns, the cutting. More drugs. I was spun round and round, lights shining in my eyes. Hu used a little pen knife in the shape of a silver fish with an inch-long blade—such an understated weapon, the kind of thing that a child might have, and yet it was razor sharp and when it was slid beneath the flesh, or under a thumbnail, it had the required effect.

  Through it all, I stayed true, I answered only thus: ‘Hardwick, John. Captain, Sixteenth Lancers.’ I said it as the blood ran. I screamed it as the poker seared my flesh. And, by God, I sobbed it when they took my eye. It was Hu, the guard-turned-torturer, who did the deed. On a nod from the Artist he blinded my left eye with the knife and tossed the orb to his master. I screamed obscenities until I became insensible, and could feel nothing, no pain, but for the hot blood running down my face. When the pain became at least tolerable, and I came to terms with what they had done, I knew then that I had been wrong. The bastards in Burma were not as evil as those who confronted me now. It was this—this rage that had always burned within me, deep down—that kept me from turning. I clung to some small sense of duty, not out of bravery, but out of hate.