The Light at the Bottom of the World

by London Shah

  The screen returns to the PM and his cabinet. The shifty Captain Sebastian glowers as he traces the lengthy scar running across his left cheek. An encounter with Anthropoids, some say.

  Prime Minister Gladstone’s voice drops low and flat. “Not a day goes by where I don’t think of Eva, my sister. And my dear nephew.”

  Everyone listens to the PM in silence, nodding away and dabbing their eyes. Like so many, Edmund Gladstone has suffered personal loss at the hands of the Anthropoids.

  The PM’s expression shifts to a defiant one. “We were not born on this earth in order to slink away in its bladder like bottom feeders.”

  Pub goers clap heartily; many punch the air. The official to the PM’s right, Lord Maxwell, Great Britain’s impeccably dressed chief historian, straightens, proud. I imagine he must have celebrated his daughter

  Camilla’s entry into the marathon with so much pomp and ceremony. My Bracelet flashes; it’s Tabby again. As her face materializes above my wrist, I gesture for her to stay silent until I’m in an empty corner of the pub.

  “You were right, Leyla!” She nods energetically while also trying to peek around me to see what’s going on at the pub. “The ’87 Birmingham Champion requested the freedom of her cousin and the prime minister granted it instantly!”

  Yesss. “If I can just win the Ultimate Prize, Tabs, it’d solve everything. With a pardon, Papa would be out straightaway. No trial, no more waiting and not knowing. He’d be free!”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Leyla. Wait, is that the Taylors?” Tabby’s brow furrows.

  I turn to catch the distinctive bright red hair of the Taylors—family friends—in the background behind me. It’s Mrs. Taylor and little Rebecca Taylor, whose brother Jack died in the ’97 London Marathon.

  “Oh, God . . .” Tabby lowers her voice. “Just don’t let your guard down during the race.”

  Jack Taylor’s vehicle malfunctioned after he crashed into a building during the marathon two years ago. All around Great Britain, people watched as the flame-haired boy’s submersible spun out of control, cracking and crushing under the pressure before sinking out of sight. It took several days to locate all the wreckage. Jack’s body was never recovered, most likely dragged away by some predator. Rebecca couldn’t accept her brother’s absence, and Jack’s been her imaginary friend ever since.

  I do what I can to reassure Tabby I’ll stay alert throughout and won’t take any risks.

  It’s impossible to avoid the risks, though.

  And yet I can’t fail tomorrow.

  I just can’t.

  The observatory stands in the heart of Berkeley Square—a long white structure elevated several meters off the seabed. Inside the stately building’s banquet hall, crystal chandeliers dazzle against the rich burgundy of the room, and paintings of past Britons adorn the walls. The London Marathon contestants sit at round tables for the traditional breakfast, while dignitaries sit at the front on two long tables running the length of the entire room.

  I dip my head and my hair shields me from a nearby remote camera. Scores of the smooth, spinning eyes hover in every space around the hall, darting between the contestants. All around Great Britain, every moment of today is being beamed live into homes, public buildings, hotels, pubs—everyone’s watching.

  My plate remains untouched. I shove it to one side. In its place I fold and crease one of the Order of the Day documents into a new origami shape.

  I yawn. No matter what I tried last night, I couldn’t sleep. In the end I gave up trying and got up, and after praying and reading the Qur’an, I went over the rules. The same thought played on a loop throughout the night: I have to win, I have to win, I have to win. I’m this close to helping Papa. Finally within reach of seeing him again.

  Camilla Maxwell, sitting beside me, offers me a weak smile that looks more like a grimace. As Tabs predicted, Camilla’s entry into the race has added glamour to the event. The morning news was full with debate over what the chief historian’s only child, his “pampered princess,” might wear and how she’ll cope. I follow her gaze to her father, Lord Maxwell.

  Dressed impeccably as always, the chief historian’s dark coat is decorated with a timepiece on the breast pocket. A bow tie hugs his long neck and a top hat adorns his head. His brow creases as his gaze moves from Camilla to me.

  Camilla used to regularly hang out with the twins and me. Before Theo and Tabby had their own Holozone installed, we’d visit Clio House, the massive historical-reenactment hall. Camilla’s dad’s a patron there, and she was nearly always around, eager to discuss the scripting with anyone who shared her passion for writing. Since Papa’s arrest, it’s clear her dad doesn’t want her to have anything to do with me. He narrows his eyes as he watches us now. Stuff him.

  Camilla looks pale. I lean over and squeeze her arm. “Written anything lately?” I whisper.

  “A short story about a little girl whose submersible malfunctions and falls down a deep trench; she soon realizes the ‘trench’ is actually the mouth of a monster.” Her shoulders droop. “But it was declined. They’re dead serious about the ‘retellings only’ bit.”

  “Ooh, monsters. Wait, you submitted an original . . . ?”

  She nods slowly, chewing on her lip.

  Warmth spreads in my chest. I’ve no idea why. I mean, it’s sad news—her manuscript was rejected. But she wants to tell her own unique story. And now I love her. And pity her a little, because this means at some point she’ll be receiving an origami gift from me.

  I lean over again. “Queen.”

  A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

  Finlay Scott, the last London Marathon champion, makes his way to the podium. Amid loud cheering and admiring glances from the contestants, he elaborates on how his life changed exponentially when he won the marathon last year. He pats his golden quiff—combed to perfection—and pauses for reaction. Cameras and microphones hover in the space around him. Tabs practically worships him and has a poster of him beside her bed, winking away and stroking his hair as he looks down at her. Ugh.

  I stare at him now. The plonker could have asked for anything.

  Keys to the nation with the freedom to travel anywhere in Great Britain and special access to the forbidden Old World heritage sights are just some of the things past champions have requested. But Finlay Scott declined a spacious and incredibly sturdy home to request superior citizen status as his Ultimate Prize. He’s now treated as a VIP at all times, sitting among the dignitaries at every national event.

  Up next is Prime Minister Gladstone. His gentle face brightens now, his green eyes shining as he mentions a special announcement.

  “My fellow Britons, it brings me great pleasure in announcing there will be a referendum on the renaming of the country and capital city,” he declares. “Returning to the rightful former titles of Britannia and Londinium will open up a direct verbal link to the past. It will remind us all of our heritage, and fortify a sense of never giving up on who we once were.”

  The room breaks out into cheers and enthusiastic clapping.

  I shift around in my seat. Will renaming cities and countries reduce the seasickness numbers? Will it help us against the Anthropoids? The referendum doesn’t make any sense at all. Another one of the chief historian’s odd ideas, no doubt. As if on cue, Lord Maxwell dabs his eyes, nodding energetically.

  All too soon, the PM instructs the contestants to say their goodbyes to the family and friends in the drawing room adjacent to the hall. “No past, no future,” says Prime Minister Gladstone, and everyone echoes his personal motto.

  I make my way across the room, playing with Mama’s antique kara wrapped around my arm. The silver cuff had been one of her favorite pieces of jewelry. Today feels like the right day to wear it. I take a deep breath as all competing contestants enter the drawing room.

  A sea of faces and infinite voices meet us. Family, friends, trainers, sponsors—everybody cheers, claps, and rushes to greet us, all sp
eaking at once. Cameras and Bracelets capture the moment, and everywhere you turn last-minute advice is being doled out.

  Jojo jumps out of Tabby’s arms and darts into mine soon as she spots me. Tabs points a red nail at me, listing off everything I must and mustn’t do. Theo winks surreptitiously.

  I grin. “I’ve no idea what I’d do without you two. I’m so lucky to have you, and I love you both tons!”

  Tabby hugs me before she’s distracted elsewhere. I place the paper model I was making into Theo’s palm.

  His eyes widen as he stares at the Jedi. “Bloody brilliant. Ei-Shin Kenobi?”

  “Yes. Theo, thank you for everything, especially since Papa’s arrest. Honestly.”

  His eyes light up and he wraps me in a comforting embrace. “Your papa will be home one day; I can feel it. It’s not the end if you don’t win today, okay? We’ll think of something else, another way to help him, promise. Remember, this isn’t a sprint. Watch your back out there, Leyla.” He turns his head and groans. “Neptune help us, look who’s walked in.”

  Finlay Scott has graced the drawing room with an appearance, taking pictures with the contestants and their families. Tabs hurries over to us, her eyes sparkling and narrowed in contemplation. “He’s even more lush in person. Oh how I want to play with him.” She moves toward him.

  Theo turns to me, his voice low. “I swear this isn’t envy talking, but he’s such a tosser. I don’t get how everyone worships him. Have they gone bonkers? Who wears a fake military uniform covered in medals and a cape?”

  “I think he’s a bit of a dick, really.” I grimace. “I heard he charges fans to stroke his quiff, but if he thinks you’re ‘hot enough,’ he lets you do it for free. It’s awful, I know, but whenever I see him I really want to hurt him a little bit. There’s just something about him, you know?”

  “I think that’s what he brings out in Tabs as well,” he whispers. “Only she has very specific punishments in mind—and they always include a dungeon. Like, what the hell.” Color floods his face, and he shakes his head. We both grin, and I move on around the room.

  A tall, willowy girl bursts into tears in her parents’ arms, the nerves proving too much.

  Newsbots hover around a woman in a silver jumpsuit as her fitness team stands by, checking her vitals. She jogs on the spot at an alarming speed before offering the cameras a dazzling smile and wink, and pointing at her nametag: Sal. I gulp; hopefully her reflexes are a lot slower when she’s driving, or I’ll have my work cut out. She catches me watching and wrinkles her nose, whispering something to her team. They all stare at me, shaking their heads and muttering. I hear Papa’s name and “seasickness.”

  I raise my eyebrows and move away, scanning the room for Grandpa. His friend’s son has extended his stay, and we’ve still not met up since. My heart lifts when I spot him sitting in a quieter corner on the far side; his face is heavy as he embraces me.

  “Queenie, it’s okay if you get wet feet and withdraw. You know that, don’t you? All those obstacles . . . It really doesn’t bear thinking about. The contestants will do anything to win the Ultimate Prize. I wish you’d told me you had entered for this madness.”

  “Sorry, Gramps. I didn’t want to worry you; the chances of winning a place are tiny! And . . . I want to do it. More than ever. It could mean having Papa back. Please don’t worry.”

  He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead. “If things don’t work out the way you’re hoping they will, you mustn’t be downhearted, child. We’re never giving up on your father, understood? Concentrate on the challenge ahead, keep your wits about you, and throughout the race you must put your own safety above winning, Queenie.”

  I wring my hands and nod. We embrace again. Holding Jojo close, I take a walk around the room.

  Camilla Maxwell sits on one of the regal chairs, staring into the space and nodding in acknowledgment at her father’s words as Lord Maxwell whispers in her ear.

  Across the country, Britons will be trying to guess who’ll succeed and fail, which distractions will prove most successful, who might try and cheat—all manner of bets are always placed.

  What the— I stumble forward. It’s the annoying silver-clad Sal who sneered at me. The fitness fanatic shoves me aside as she poses for the cameras.

  “Hey!” I scowl. Jojo stiffens and growls.

  The woman leans in, baring her teeth. “You’re ruining my pictures. Now stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you. And that goes for the marathon route, too.”

  “Huh? Not bloody likely. I’m free to stand wherever. And are you really threatening me already? That’s not very nice, Sal. You must be feeling intimidated by me.”

  “You?” She twists her mouth into an ugly shape. “You’re the daughter of a wicked, murdering wretch. You shouldn’t have even been allowed to take part. How dare you?” She looks me up and down.

  Wicked, murdering wretch? Don’t people get bored with repeating the same cursed thing over and over, dammit? My fingers itch. If only I’d been allowed to bring my new brolly. Sodding security rules. This would’ve been a rather fab opportunity to test out the brolly’s tase function.

  The woman glares at Jojo and shakes her head. “And why is this beast allowed in here?”

  “You say one more word to me, or so much as even look at my puppy again, and Jojo here will bite your rotten silver tongue right out of your rotten silver mouth. It makes her happy, and she’s really good at it, too.”

  The woman screws her face up. Jojo growls again, and silver Sal backs away.

  There’s an announcement: All contestants are to leave the observatory in their racing cars and follow the convoy escorting them to the starting point at Regent’s Park.

  Everyone moves at once. The twins rush over, wishing me luck one last time. Tabs takes Jojo. I gulp. Here we go.

  The journey to Regent’s Park is somber. The legion of vehicles moves at a slow pace as everyone follows the official subs, which gives me time to think. Hopefully the prison guards know Hashem McQueen’s daughter is taking part in the marathon and have allowed Papa to watch. He’ll see I’m all right and it might comfort him. What might my parents say to me if they were here now?

  Love you, Mama. Be at peace. Love you, Papa. So much. Wish me luck.

  I focus on the route straight ahead of me.

  We arrive at Regent’s Park, where there’ll be a short opening ceremony followed by a prompt start. I twist and turn in the cockpit. Illumination glimmers all around, as if some massive bioluminescent army from the deep has invaded London.

  A bright orange vertical boundary encircles all observation areas, ensuring they remain clearly visible to contestants. Watching on screens at home is never going to be enough for some, and the spectators are out in force in vehicles of all kinds. Their subs hover above expansive rooftops or rest on specially made structures, all safely behind the vivid fencing.

  Last-minute checks are being carried out, and everywhere I look, banners hang, bearing welcoming messages, sponsors, coats-of-arms, various Latin phrases. Security subs hover around the space. I count sixteen

  Eyeballs alone in the space of a few minutes, despite their varying guises as they bob around in the depths. The larger Newsbots are frenzied, darting in every direction. My pulse beats faster the more I see.

  Contestants are ordered to gather in a huge circle, giving us a clear view of the opening ceremony in its center. We’re asked to perform a last-minute systems check.

  Tabby’s single-seated craft is compact, with the cockpit sitting in the middle at the top of the twin-winged vehicle, and the robust exterior is a pearly scarlet. Bright identifying stickers have been attached to our vessels. I’m number one hundred. Everything looks shipshape, and all systems are running perfectly. As I tie my hair back, movement in the depths captures my eye.

  Thanks to Theo’s fascination with technology, I recognize the large “Pike” swimming beneath us. They’re actually biomechanical contraptions that can open fi
re from a league away. You’re safer behind them where they can’t “see” you. Last year a small fishing craft accidentally caught several during an illegal trawling operation. None of the fishermen were identifiable afterward. The Pike are just one of many heightened security measures today, as Anthropoids always attempt an attack on marathon day. Several arrests have already been made throughout the city.

  Despite my nerves, the opening ceremony is spellbinding.

  A fountain appears in the water as if out of nowhere. You’d never guess it was a hologram! Vibrant ribbons pour from its mouth, swaying to piano sounds. As the music soars, more ribbons flow out of the top, like a rainbow flame. My mouth curves into a wide smile, and I turn the volume up in the sub.

  Next, violins and harps play as compact submersibles, visible only as multicolored light specks, perform a synchronized swim. The captivating lights twinkle as if bioluminescent Noctiluca are performing a precise dance in the center.

  Circular bots enter the arena to the sound of flutes. They emit spurts of every color throughout the water. The assorted shades intermingle and change into new colors and patterns like a drifting, mingling paint palette. The accompanying music is soft and bewitching.

  At last, the area clears. There’s a drumroll. The sleek submersibles of the country’s leading hydrobotics display team, the Red Arrows, shoot by overhead, leaving lengthy trails of red, white, and blue in the water. Oh crikey. I shift in my seat. Any second now. Wait for it. . . .

  Trumpets sound, and all manner of lights flash everywhere. Once all contestants are ready, they’ll sound again to indicate the start of the race.

  A clearing of the throat, and then the familiar voice takes over the waves. Elvis.

  “And hello there, you awesome Britons, and of course our viewers around the world. Welcome to the 2099 London Submersible Marathon! I’m Elvis, your host for today’s event. It’s an honor to be asked back again. What can I say, thank you very much. Last chance to put those kettles on, nip to that loo, and grab yourself some grub, because it is all about to kick off. All right!” Elvis laughs his deep laugh as he welcomes viewers. As well as commentating, he’ll inform us of any emergencies and potential rule changes.