Anger mounted inside Damona like steam in a boiler. She seethed. She climbed the shaft that connected the pumping station to a disused railway spur. The Immortals wanted the creations of the True People! She cursed. It echoed from the bricks.

She should have asked Soames for more details. What exactly were the Immortals after? Was it the phlogiston extractor? Or was it the air interchange mechanism?

She punched the wall of the shaft. She was so angry she could hardly walk straight.

She stopped. Her jaw sagged. Could they be after the time machine?

No! Her fury redoubled. She had trouble breathing. She steadied herself against the side of the tunnel. It was cool under her cheek. Soothing.

Soames. Loathsome, cunning but necessary Soames. She would rather tear him to pieces but he had his uses. Perhaps in the future his usefulness would diminish. Then she would see how he’d taste.

Rolf and Magnus were waiting for her. They stood at a collapsed archway. ‘Your armoury is well stocked?’ she asked.

Magnus beamed. ‘It’s in prime shape, Eldest.’

‘How many of your kin can you assemble for a raid?’

‘A raid?’ Rolf gaped. ‘We haven’t raided for years!’

‘Two dozen, immediately.’ Magnus nudged his brother in the ribs. ‘Twice that by the end of the day.’

‘Bring them all to my workshop. And any others you can find.’

‘We shall, Eldest.’ Magnus paused. ‘Who are we raiding?’

‘Leave that to me.’ Damona swung around. ‘Go.’

Magnus lit two lanterns. He handed one to Damona. Then Rolf and he hurried off. They leaped over rubble from the ceiling of the tunnel, joy in every bound.

Damona trudged after them.

True People had once been great raiders. Raids were now few. With their dwindling numbers, the Assembly had voted that raiding was dangerous and needless. Damona had agreed but it hurt. Even when they were so few, what of the warrior spirit? What of their martial skills?

Battle was one of the few times the True People worked well together. A raid might let them know the value of such cooperation. It could help in the project to come.

Damona spat on the floor of the tunnel. The True People today were passive. Lost. Drowning in gloom. She would right this. She would restore their spirit.

Damona climbed a rough stairway. Ruins of an ancient Roman temple. Damona liked the idea of the Romans. She liked their engineering, their building. She also liked Invaders invading Invaders. Any harm they could do to each other was good.

Her grand plan needed warriors. A raid now would help her select a team. Many young people were engineering in the workshop, but not all. Raiding would occupy the others.

Her plan would work. A time machine could be built. Her people were capable. The only uncertainty was the timing. How far back should they go? When did the True People and the Invaders diverge from the common ancestor? A mistake could wipe out the True People as well as their hated foe. Determine the right time. When the numbers of Invaders would be small. Crushing them would be easy. The True People would dominate.

Damona was close to finding the answer. Dr Malcolm Ward was stubborn but he would crack. She would have it.

Damona laughed. It was wheezy, creaky. She put a hand to her chest. If she could find Ward’s son she would have the answer sooner. Much sooner.

Damona slogged through knee-deep water. Cold in the tunnel. Dark. Old. Then she lifted herself up by a rope through a hole in the ruin. Awkward. She lost some skin from an elbow. Finally she wrenched herself into a short tunnel.

It led to the workshops.

Drilling. Clamour. Smoke. Activity. True People crowded into one large space together. A sight unseen for decades. Damona was impressed. She clapped but couldn’t hear it over the din.

Gustave straightened from tightening a bolt. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. He waved to her. He had grease on one sleeve of his green overalls.

The east wall was gone. The space was three times what it had been. No signs of hastiness in the work. The pillars that supported the ceiling were solid, patterned, as if they’d been there forever.

Three separate work areas. The gantry crane had been extended, covering all of them. Cables snaked in and around the girders. Large machines were taking shape in each of the work bays. Each had a dozen or more True People swarming over them. Sparks. Haze. Steam.

Damona wandered about the giant workshop. Inspecting. She was heartened by what she saw.

The pace of construction was remarkable. A single one of her kind could build faster than three Invaders. A team of True People was an elemental force. Machines grew while she watched. Brass, steel, glass. Shaped, welded, moulded.

What made Damona even more satisfied was the demeanour of the workers. Gone was the listlessness, the gloom, the resignation. Faces beamed. Backs were slapped. Good-natured chaffing while two young women heaved at a bar of steel large enough to anchor an Invader battleship. Arguments, of course, over designs, functions, but not harsh, not violent.

And laughter. She hadn’t heard so much laughter for years. Good spirits as the True People dedicated themselves to reclaiming their future.

Damona passed a hand over her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. Not yet. Not until the job was done.

The remains of her unfortunate phlogiston extractor had disappeared. Damona squeezed between a half-constructed sheet metal mill and an electrical transformer. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of ozone, shook her head at the two youngsters who flailed away at the transformers with hammers.

‘Eldest?’

Gustave approached, wiped his forehead. His beard dripped with sweat.

‘The phlogiston supply?’ she asked immediately.

‘We have a new machine already. Over there.’ He pointed at the far wall. ‘Prospects are much better than the old ways, already. Your plans were good.’

Damona nodded. Her grand plan. First, build a better phlogiston extractor. The True People had four of them. Old, slow, inefficient. They produced barely enough to power their subterranean life. A time machine would need much more phlogiston than they could process.

‘The time machine?’

‘Much work done already. Great progress.’ Gustave looked at his hands. He rubbed them together. ‘Hilda has taken your plans. She’s improving them.’

‘Improving?’

Gustave shrugged. ‘She’s very good. Looks at things differently.’

Damona was pleased. She’d always thought Hilda the brightest of the youngest True People. Hilda saw things others didn’t.

‘She is also moving the phlogiston stockpile. The time machine will need it most.’

It made good sense, but Damona was nervous. The stockpile was the work of years. ‘If she thinks it best.’

She looked around the giant workshop. Her throat tightened with emotion. Her dying people weren’t going to slip quietly into the darkness.

Good, she thought. Fight. Struggle. Refuse to surrender.

A huge burst of steam billowed across the workshop. Hoots and catcalls. Someone rang a bell that was decidedly derisory. Every single one of the workers cheered. A white-coated figure threw his hands up and then bowed. I take responsibility for this embarrassing error, his bow said, and I revel in it in front of you all!

Damona was grateful for the cloak of steam. It gave her time to compose herself.