by Mark Latham
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—Lon
don 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.’
I looked back at the sinking ship one last time as it turned onto its side and came to a final rest on the bottom of the river. As it did so, the ship’s name flashed up towards the rising sun, and I stood open-mouthed as I read it. It was the ship from my dreams.
It was the USS Helen B. Jackson.
SEVENTEEN
The weeks that followed were all a blur. I spent a period of time in hospital, and was subjected to the most thorough and tiresome series of interviews and ‘debriefs’ from Home Office officials, Her Majesty’s Army and, of course, Apollo Lycea. Occasionally I would see Jim wheeling along the hospital corridors in his invalid chair, though we were rarely permitted to speak to each other whilst the official reports of the Lazarus affair were being drawn up. When I was discharged from hospital, I spent a few days in barracks at Horse Guards, voluntarily; the offer had been extended by the major who had been sent to question me, and I felt as though a bit of military routine would help to discipline my mind before I returned to the more chaotic civilian life. My body healed quickly enough, to be sure, but I did not feel myself in my mind, and feared I never would after what I’d seen. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to get my affairs in order, pack up my things from Mrs. Whitinger’s house, and set off to find Rosanna, hoping that she would welcome me even though I had destroyed all hope of a reunion with Elsbet. I knew that her ultimatum had been delivered out of grief, and was certain that my absence would have sweetened her disposition.
On the morning of 28th May, Jim paid me a visit. This was not in itself unusual, for we had spent much time together since the battle on the Helen B. Jackson, but on this day he was uncommonly serious, and I knew that duty called.
‘It’s time,’ Jim said, simply.
I nodded. ‘Let me change into a suit,’ I said. ‘I doubt Sir Toby would appreciate seeing his agents in army uniform.’
Half an hour later, we were in a cab, heading towards the river.
* * *
The address that Jim had been given was on St Katharine Docks, opposite the Royal Mint. After walking fruitlessly back and forth along the crowded street, we finally noticed a narrow doorway sandwiched between two Port Authority buildings, anonymous but for a small stone cameo of Apollo above its lintel. I rapped on the door, showed my card to the porter, and we were led down a long flight of stairs, at once transported to a world of espionage away from the hustle and bustle of London’s streets.
The size of the facility was impressive, spanning far beneath the water level, with large corridors and service tunnels feeding storerooms directly from the docks. It was into one of these secure storerooms that we were led, although the description perhaps does not do it justice. A large, vaulted cellar stretched before us, with whitewashed walls and electric light illuminating the space. Smartly dressed scientists and their assistants marched along aisles between massive tables and rows of lockers, carrying out tests on bizarre-looking machinery and cataloguing recovered artefacts from the wreck of the Helen B. Jackson. Overseeing all of this were Sir Toby and Sir Arthur Furnival, and another man, who was introduced to me as Lord Cherleten. At last, we met.
His lordship was a lean man, with a stern face and a weak, clean-shaven chin. His unruly crop of red hair was fading to grey, and he held himself with such rigid and haughty bearing that he appeared always to tower over us, although he was little taller than Jim and me. He said little, merely nodding to me when we were introduced. Sir Arthur, on the other hand, shook my hand warmly, for we had not seen each other since that fateful meeting with William James, which seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘Here you have it,’ Sir Toby said. ‘This facility houses the salvage from the Lazarus Gate incident.’ The word ‘incident’ barely seemed to do the ordeal justice, but I said nothing. ‘There is more out there, we’re sure,’ Sir Toby continued, ‘but where it is now is anyone’s guess. We’ll be trawling the Thames for months to come, and we have agents sweeping every warehouse and fencing operation in London and beyond.’
‘What will be done with it all?’ I asked.
‘If there’s anything that our scientists deem safe to use, then it will be signed over to the armoury under Lord Cherleten’s care,’ Sir Toby replied gruffly. Anything else will either be destroyed, if possible, or else locked away in our most secure vaults and never spoken of again.’
Even now, Sir Toby was stressing that secrecy was the order of the day; as if that were lost on any of us.
‘And the Othersiders’ weapons?’ I asked. Sir Toby raised an eyebrow. ‘Those lightning guns would come in handy in a tight spot.’
I made a wry smile, and was surprised to see it returned by Lord Cherleten.
‘His Lordship is of a similar opinion,’ said Sir Toby. ‘However, it seems there are certain… side effects… to their use, which we have yet to fully investigate. Until then, they will be kept down here for further tests.’
‘Side effects?’ Jim asked.
‘It’s what—ahem—Sir Arthur here calls “psychic resonance”,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Perhaps you could explain it?’ he asked the other baronet.
‘I only wish I could do so satisfactorily,’ said Sir Arthur. ‘It seems that our scientists are struggling to ascertain quite how these weapons work. The construction is brilliant, but straightforward enough, and can be replicated… except that our versions do not function well, if at all. By all rights, the Othersiders’ weapons should not work, and yet they do. And this, I believe, is to do with the unique resonance of the other universe.’
‘A frequency,’ I said. ‘Like a tuning fork pitched to an off-key.’
Sir Arthur looked at me with surprise. ‘Precisely, my dear fellow. On the other side, this “frequency” allows psychic phenomena to flourish, often with deadly results, and appears to permit the creation of outlandish weaponry. Whatever… entities, shall we say… prey on the Othersiders, I believe they do so because they are attracted to this frequency.’
‘Like a beacon in the darkness,’ I muttered, feeling a coldness sweep over me.
Sir Arthur nodded gravely. ‘Each time our men have used the weapons, I have felt a strange sensation, as of a presence in the room, trying to enter our world. But this is only the half of it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Captain Hardwick, Captain Denny,’ Sir Toby interjected, ‘I think perhaps you had better accompany us.’