Extraordinaires 1 (10 page)

J
abez Soames sat at his desk, shredded one corner of his blotter and wondered how to detach the stink of failure. Higgs, the lift operator, had been positively surly. Such an attitude could be contagious, especially in the Demimonde. If he gained a reputation for ineptness, the taint could linger forever.

He hadn't been able to find the boy for the Immortals.

Shredding slightly faster, and creating a veritable snowstorm, he decided that immediate action was called for. A demonstration of his worth, something showy – something that would make the Immortals sit up and take notice instead of ordering that he be snuffed out. His efforts in arranging a troop of hirelings to find the children for the Immortals, and to secrete a collection of devices about the new Olympic Games stadium simply wouldn't be good enough. The Immortals, he knew, weren't in the habit of overlooking deficiencies.

Jabez, it's time for one of your remarkable plans.

His fingers shredded at a blur as he stared at the window, hardly seeing the grey clouds scudding across the sky. Rain was about, but hadn't fallen seriously since the night before.

In the tide of affairs in which any middleman found himself, sometimes there came an opportunity so unlikely that it took a special mind to apprehend it. Soames liked to think that he possessed that kind of mind. To do otherwise would be to assume the sort of false modesty that he found puzzling.

What if instead of being on the verge of disaster, this was the time for him to advance his plans to usurp the Immortals? They would hardly think that he would be plotting such a thing, since he was so incompetent as to fail to present them with the boy Kipling was interested in. After going to all the trouble of locating this scamp and using some seconded Spawn to abduct him; losing him didn't just smack of incompetence, it was the sort of thing to make the notoriously touchy Immortals extremely irritated.

Especially if they heard – as he had – that the leader of the Neanderthals was after the boy as well.

Absently, Soames made a pile of blotting paper shreds and he stroked through it, arranging and re-arranging as he sifted through possible courses of action.

Soames was aware of the movements and alliances in the world of the Demimonde. He made it his job. With such knowledge, he could do something about inconveniencing the Immortals, at the very least. It would divert any attention from him, for a start. Of course, this could be a very dangerous game. He shuddered as he contemplated what would happen if the Immortals found out, or the Neanderthals found out. Or both.

An idea struck him. Soames swept his arm across the desk and sent paper shreds whirling. He rushed to his pigeon holes. He remembered something, a recent report, something one of his informants had noted about increased activity among the Neanderthals . . .

He whipped slips of paper from pigeonholes, glanced at them, and rammed them home again until, finally, he found what he was looking for. He gave a crow of triumph and, certain no-one could see him, performed a little jig, his patent leather shoes winking in the morning light that spilled through the window.

Jabez, no-one senses an opportunity like you!

Feverishly, he returned to the desk, found a pencil and a sheaf of foolscap in the top drawer and began to make a list.

Soames sat on a chair that was meant for hips much broader than his, and legs slightly shorter, but he hid his discomfort in the way that business people and diplomats had done forever, willing to sit in uncomfortable chairs until the end of time if it helped them advance their position.

The location he'd been directed to, after requesting the meeting by convoluted methods, was in a room deep underneath the Abbey Mills pumping station. The rumbling of the giant steam engines made the green tiles vibrate on the floor, and the tiny room seemed even smaller. The room smelled of mildew, and Soames pursed his lips at the rankness. And was that a rat peering down at them from the cobwebbed rafters? He shuddered.

The sooner he'd finished his business with the Neanderthal woman, the better.

‘You know that I have been of service in the past,' he said to her. She showed no sign of discomfort, but the chairs were meant for such as she. ‘And that I have dealt fairly with you.'

The Neanderthal woman had her elbows on her knees. She wore peculiar canvas overalls that had pockets and loops right down each leg. She grunted. ‘Means nothing. If you deal false with us . . .'

She bared her teeth at him. When she snapped them together, twice, hard, Soames swallowed at the narrow joy in her eyes, as if she couldn't wait to lunch upon him if he crossed her.

‘Perish the thought.' He spread his hands quickly. ‘Trust, that's the ticket. I'm glad we understand each other, Damona. You desire certain items. I procure them for you.'

‘At a price.'

‘Of course.' Soames coughed into a fist. ‘This time, I have some information, something that might be of interest to you.'

Damona grunted again, but the way she looked at him made Soames uneasy. He eyed the distance between them and cursed himself for having been manoeuvred so the Neanderthal woman was sitting between him and the door. He had his trusty Bulldog, but he had doubts about how effective it would be on the massive woman. He'd seen Neanderthals shot before. A single bullet often made them angry, and it took a number of rounds from a significantly larger calibre firearm than the Bulldog to inconvenience them.

Soames wanted to pat his forehead dry but knew it was a poor move in a negotiation. ‘With respect – and please do not become agitated – I understand that you have some antipathy for the group known as the Immortals.'

Damona stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You heard this? Where?'

‘You know what they say about the Demimonde, madam. No-one has any secrets.'

‘Go on.'

‘I understand how independent your people are,' Soames paused, then rolled out the lie he'd prepared, ‘but what if you knew that the Immortals were interested in moving on you?'

‘What?'

‘Information has come into my possession to indicate that the Immortals are keen to possess some of your machines.'

Damona put her fists together, one on top of the other. Massive fists. Soames wasn't heartened to see the scabs on the knuckles. ‘Of course,' she said softly.

Soames was relieved. Paranoia was useful in others, especially when it could be manipulated. The Immortals had indicated no such thing, but the Neanderthal was more than willing to believe it. ‘Quite interested in machines, the Immortals are. They've brought a number of interesting devices back from India. Manipulators, they call them, blending magic and mechanics.' He chuckled. ‘They say they can change matter, move things about without any visible means, even propel people through time.'

‘Hah?' Damona put a hand to her mouth and rubbed it while frowning furiously. ‘Time?'

Jabez, you are a master!
He'd planted multiple hooks, and now it was time to reel in his prize. ‘As a trusted customer,' he said, ‘I didn't like to consider your people being wiped out.'

‘Wiped out?'

‘This is what the Immortals are planning, in order to put their hands on your machines. Or so I understand.'

Damona stood. For a heartbeat, Soames thought she was going to advance on him and his hand went to his pocket. His Bulldog might be useless, but he was prepared to give it a chance to bite.

The Neanderthal, however, stalked to the door before turning. ‘Where are they?'

‘The Immortals? Currently?' The lie came easily to his lips. ‘I don't know.'

‘You can find out?'

‘I can.'

‘Price?'

This was the nub of the nub of the negotiation. ‘I'd like to suggest an arrangement. If I can facilitate your – how shall we put it? –
access
to the Immortals, I want to take possession of the real estate where we find them.'

‘You have it.'

She slammed the door behind her.

Soames mopped his brow with a handkerchief, allowed himself a small level of satisfaction as he ticked one item from his list, and grinned up at the rat in the rafters.

A
nger 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.