The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘Where is your father?’ I growled.

  ‘You mean our father, John. He’s through that door,’ she replied, nodding her head towards the bulkhead door on the other side of the table. ‘But of course, you won’t get an audience with the great man this time. You’ll just have to settle for me.’

  I kept my pistol trained on her.

  ‘You make a poor substitute, I’m afraid. Both for him, and for Lillian.’

  Her eyes narrowed and her face lost its mocking smirk. Her eyes were strange—almost shining in the darkness.

  ‘John, you wound me so,’ she said, but this time with malice dripping from her words. ‘To compare me so unfavourably to a sickly, simpering, dead thing like her… How cruel boys can be.’

  I swallowed my anger, and began to edge around the table, taking the route furthest away from her and keeping my pistol trained on her at all times.

  ‘The eye-patch is so dashing,’ Lillian said. ‘Such a clever affectation; but then, you always were one for appearances. A nice suit, money in your pocket, a dusky maiden on your arm. Did you even know your gypsy whore’s name? Or are you as shallow as you as look?’

  ‘Enough!’ I snapped. I had reached the door, and had one hand on the lever to unlock it. ‘I should have killed you back in Kent, but be assured I will not hesitate out of feelings for my real sister, nor because you are a woman. I am here to find Lazarus, and you will not stop me.’

  ‘It’s funny, John,’ she giggled. ‘That’s almost exactly what he said.’

  She looked to her right, and I followed her gaze to a dark shape on the floor. James Denny lay in the corner, a few feet from Lillian’s chair, in a puddle of dark liquid that crept slowly along the chequered tiles.

  ‘Damn you!’ I cursed, but as I turned back, thrusting the gun towards her with murderous intent, Lillian had already darted from her seat. My shot rang out, striking the back of the oaken chair where Lillian had been.

  She moved with cat-like grace and uncanny speed, and I fired twice more at shadows before she vaulted across the table and kicked the gun from my hand. Her boots were capped and studded, and pain shot along my arm. She was supremely confident in her own speed and agility, so much so that she was willing to pit them against my bullets, and rightly so, it appeared. She struck out at me with bare hands, again and again, in much the same way that those Chinese soldiers had taught me back in Hong Kong. I took satisfaction from the look of surprise on her unblemished face when I blocked her strikes once, twice, three times, before striking back and forcing her on the defensive. She was incredibly fast, but she struggled to turn aside my blows, instead using her agility to dance away from me as well as she could in such a confined space. Lillian hopped backwards, seating herself on the tabletop almost daintily, before sending a kick my way that struck me hard on the side of the face. I reeled backwards, and then she was at me again, this time kicking out at me with those wickedly heeled boots. I had not realised what a detriment one eye could be until that moment; her feet seemed to slide out of view before reappearing again so quickly that I could barely move in time. The metal points scratched at my cheek; ever backwards she drove me, until I almost tripped over the prone body of Jim Denny. As I stumbled, I was driven insensible with rage at the sight of my stricken friend, and when the next kick hurtled through the gloom, this time aimed at my good eye, I caught it in my right hand and twisted Lillian’s ankle with all my might, before throwing her off balance into the wall.

  We both paused, panting for breath. Lillian wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth with dainty gloved fingers, and looked at it with distaste. She was dressed outlandishly, as always, but I realised then that her attire was practical rather than immodest. She was a fighter, not a lady, and her tight-fitting britches and severely tailored bodice were designed to afford her freer movement, and probably also to distract any male opponents who challenged her. But not me; I was her brother, in spite of it all, and how I hated her.

  She screamed like a banshee and hurled herself at me. I caught sight of a flash of steel in her hand, though where it had come from I knew not. She slashed across at me in a feint, before spinning at me with a vicious heel-kick which I struggled to avoid. My rudimentary knowledge of the Eastern arts had given me the edge in my fight on the docks, but against this trained killer I was a novice, and I was tiring. I stumbled to the chair where Lillian had been sitting, where I stooped and feigned fatigue; predictably, she did not stop, but arced another kick at me, intending to crash her foot down upon the back of my head. I twisted aside, pushing the chair towards her. Her leg crashed onto the headrest and she grunted in pain as her ankle hit the sturdy wood. I ploughed forwards, putting my weight behind a punch, which connected with her jaw and crumpled the harridan to the ground beside Jim. It was the most unnatural thing in the world for me to strike a woman, but in that moment all I could picture was her mocking smile as she stood next to Tsun Pen in his torture chamber, and how she had snarled as she stood over the body of poor Elsbet.

  I caught sight of my revolver near the wainscoted wall and picked it up, cocking the hammer and aiming it at Lillian as I stepped over her. It was then that Vickers entered the room, looking worse for wear but still fighting fit. He sealed the hatch behind him and moved around the table towards us.

  ‘You been fighting a girl, sir?’ he asked, almost laughing, but then he stopped short. ‘Blimey, is that Captain Denny?’

  ‘It is,’ I said, my eyes still fixed on Lillian. ‘Vickers, this business is almost over. I want you to stay here and watch this woman like a hawk until I return. She is a killer, and undoubtedly has more concealed weapons on her person. Do you have a weapon?’

  ‘That I do,’ he replied, and my stomach lurched as I felt the cold steel of a blade at my throat, and a powerful arm wrenching at my injured shoulder. ‘Drop the gun, guv.’

  Lillian’s eyes gleamed, almost violet in the gloom, and her callous smile returned. Now I knew what those eyes reminded me of: a snake, cold and calculating, devoid of human empathy.

  She stood up, almost slipping in Jim’s blood as she did so. Her face was no longer unblemished; a single ringlet of dark hair had come unpinned, and was hanging loose over her smooth, milk-white forehead.

  ‘Hold him, Mr. Vickers; I want to end this my way,’ she said. She stood poised, ready to kick out at me. I struggled against the big man’s strength, but it was folly—he was as strong as Gregor. ‘These boots are of my own design,’ Lillian continued. ‘One kick is as much a surety of death as a bullet wound, and just as quick. I will make it quick, brother—I owe you that much at least.’

  She put one hand on the table to steady herself, and raised her long, slender leg from the floor, aiming the spike at my forehead with consummate grace and a morbid sense of theatrics. But what happened next took us all by surprise. Her eyes widened as she lost her balance, and I saw that Jim was not dead. He had grasped Lillian’s standing leg and yanked at her ankle with the last of his strength. Again, she found herself toppling to the floor, no longer the balletic assassin. Vickers loosened his grip for a moment in surprise, and I half managed to pull free, driving my elbow into his gut to complete the job, before turning around to kick him hard in the groin. The big man went down easily enough after that, and I spun back to Lillian, stooping to pick up the gun once more, but it was not there. I looked up to see Lillian already on her feet, and heard Jim groan in agony. She had impaled his hand upon the floor, the tiles cracking and the blood pooling beneath her heel. She had my gun in her hands, and was pointing it at me. I held my hands out towards her.

  ‘Do not bother to plead for your life, John. We both know it’s gone beyond that. Just know this: when you are dead, every man, woman and child from this world will cross through the Lazarus Gate, and everyone you ever knew or cared about will be replaced by their superiors. Take that with you to the gr—’

  I did not let her finish speaking. With a flick of my wrist, the Derringer concealed up my coat-sleeve was in m
y hand, and I pulled the trigger. The small-calibre bullet was enough for the task, and struck her high, between her ivory throat and the lace ruffs of her bodice. Blood oozed from the small wound, like a ruby pendant, and her reptilian eyes rolled back into her head as she dropped to the floor for the third and final time.

  I saw Jim’s hand as Lillian’s stiletto tore out of it, but then he succumbed again to unconsciousness. I had no time to check on him with Vickers nearby, and indeed the big soldier had already heaved himself to his feet. I did not pause, but used every ounce of strength to pick up a chair from my side of the table and smash it over Vickers’ head.

  I turned to retrieve my gun yet again, staring into Lillian’s cold, dead eyes as I did so. I felt something strange in that moment—remorse perhaps—for the girl she could have been rather than the woman she had been. Whatever fleeting emotion it was, it soon gave way to anger; I was in no mood for mercy or for niceties. I marched over to Vickers, who was dragging himself towards the exit, blood trickling from his ear down his neck. I pressed the cold barrel of the gun up against his head and pulled back the hammer. He flinched at the click.

  ‘When did you turn?’ I demanded. ‘Or are you one of them?’

  He looked at me defiantly. ‘I’m not one o’ them. I’m Hardwick’s man—your pa’s, like—always have been. I figured if this was what he wanted, then it must be right. Said he’d look out for me and mine when the revolution come. I volunteered for this duty on the Brigadier’s orders, like. Proper gentleman he is. I’d follow the Brigadier to hell and back, and you should too, if you’re any kind of son.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I growled, and struck the man hard on the temple. He crumpled to the floor, just as the ship’s captain had.

  I made sure that the door was secure, then checked on Jim. He had a nasty gash to the back of his head, and a gouge in his hand, but he was still breathing. Satisfied, I turned to the door to the captain’s cabin. I muttered an oath under my breath to come back for Captain Denny, pressed the metal lever, and stepped through the bulkhead door.

  * * *

  The spacious cabin was empty, as devoid of furnishing and finery as it was of people. The affectations of imperialist quarters—plush fabrics, shelves of books, leather chairs and comfortable beds seen in most of the warships I had travelled on—were here eschewed in favour of a desk, stowage trunk and simple hammock. Marcus Hardwick had never been a man for home comforts.

  In the endmost wall was a row of small, circular windows, crusted with sea-salt and grime. I peered through one, and saw movement outside on the ‘captain’s walk’, a rather outdated balcony, more suited to a pirate galleon than a modern warship. There were two dark figures outside, but I could not make out who they were. I reloaded my pistol, took a deep breath, and stepped out onto the platform.

  A cold breeze hit me as I stepped outside, and I had to squint to save being dazzled by the orange light from the burning sky above King Albert’s England. A star-spangled American flag fluttered overhead, casting a snaking shadow across the walkway. I was standing on the captain’s walk—a platform barely two yards wide—and above me a system of winches and pulleys jutted out over the stern of the ship. These held a small steam launch, which hung over the water next to the platform’s railing. My father was no more than six feet away from me, operating the winch that was lowering the launch to the river. On the launch itself, struggling with the pulleys, was Hanlocke. Ambrose saw me first, and did not seem terribly surprised. I pointed my gun first at him, then at Lazarus.

  ‘You really do have the lives of a cat Ambrose,’ I said. ‘How the devil did you get here?’

  ‘Same way as you, old chap,’ he replied with an air of nonchalance, ‘though with more style, naturally. Did you really leave me with a single guard? And one who could be easily bought? Tut tut.’

  Lazarus had seen me, and was already reaching into his coat.

  ‘That’s enough. It’s over, Lazarus,’ I said, trying hard not to sound as weary as I felt. Lazarus stopped and glared at me.

  ‘Can you not call me father? You know the truth of it now, surely.’ His voice brought back a host of memories, of childlike fears and longings, and of standing by a grave at a rain-sodden churchyard where I swore an oath to do my father proud. I steadied myself with the simple thought that this man was so far removed from the Marcus Hardwick I remembered that he may as well be an Othersider by birth. ‘I’m surprised your sister didn’t stop you,’ he continued. ‘What have you done with her?’

  ‘She was not my sister. She was a crazed animal—a murderess—and I did the only thing that could be done with such a creature.’ I surprised myself with the venom in my words, and it certainly seemed to move Lazarus.

  ‘Was? So, you have killed her. You really are a wretched boy, to have taken from me all that I have worked to regain. And I suppose you think you have it in you to kill me, too? Do you think you can slay your own father?’

  ‘The Marcus Hardwick I knew would never turn his back on his country; whatever you are, you are not my father!’

  ‘My country? What do I owe a world that took my daughter from me? That drove my wife into an early grave, and left me with a weakling poet for a son? You are half the man I ever was. I was fighting in India when Dora hanged herself; and I was fighting for a cause that was unjust and petty. Can you understand what it is to lose everything dear to you, for nothing?’

  ‘Bastard!’ I roared, his words stinging me and driving me into a rage. ‘She was my mother! You left us to fend for ourselves after Lillian died; you left me to pick up the pieces alone. I never stopped thinking you were a great man; I joined the army for you. When I was tortured, the only thing that got me through it was thinking about what the great Brigadier Hardwick would have done.’

  ‘You were captured because you were a poor soldier,’ Lazarus retorted. ‘Never promoted above captain, at your age? You’re a disgrace. I heard you’d been assigned to a security detail in Burma? To get you out of the way, most like. If you’d had the courage of your convictions, rather than following in my shadow, you could have been a man. Instead, you stand before me like a savage before Caesar. You cannot stop me, and when I have delivered these people—this entire world—to safety, I will retire home and be with my darling wife, my Dora. She has lost both her children now, but this time I’ll be there for her. The knowledge of their bravery and sacrifice will give her strength. We will live in a world united rather than one divided by petty squabbling and warring.’

  ‘You plan to kill untold millions of people, and claim it is for love? Is that what you tell yourself?’

  ‘I tell myself that this world had everything I desired. Everything! My dear wife, alive and well; a daughter beautiful and fierce; a son who was strong and courageous, killed for trying to save the world…’

  ‘His world! Not yours.’

  ‘He did his duty! I respect that more than your pitiful attempts to earn redemption.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me about duty!’ I snapped. ‘You abandoned your own quickly enough; to your country, your regiment, and your family. I never thought I would see the day when the great Marcus Hardwick would be revealed as a traitor. You say you’re ashamed of me? Then we make a pretty pair.’

  ‘This is a charming family reunion, but unless you really are planning to kill your father, I’m afraid we must get on.’ It was Ambrose, making light of a dire situation as always. I turned the gun on him again.

  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 launc
h, 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.