by London Shah
I edge to the starting line with caution. I glance into the cockpit of the surrounding subs. Big mistake. The contestants eye one another nervously, menacingly. They jostle in the space, all eager to secure a pole starting position and shoot off the second they can. The charity subs will be at the back, behind the serious contenders. The starting line is indicated by a row of yellow lights that beam up through the waters so all contestants can spot them.
Several minor altercations are already taking place near the front as contestants aggressively guard their positions. I pinch my lips together; the start will be slow with a ton of stop-starts. Not my cup of tea. A sharp blue light flashes inside one of the cars.
“Oh my Gawd.” Elvis tsk-tsks. “It’s already getting wild out there, folks. And that there is today’s first penalty! A twenty-second delay for number twenty-four for crossing the starting line early. And we now have an ecstatic office junior here at the BBC who predicted the first penalty would occur before the race had even begun. Courtney, you done good, girl!”
Behind the yellow beams of the starting line, the acute blue lasers of the marathon boundaries are just visible. The route winds around the city, going as far east as Tower Bridge before making its way back to Regent’s Park.
This is it. I have to stay within the parameters, evade all distractions, conquer all obstacles, dodge any rogue drivers, and maintain a constant speed throughout—all the time ensuring I remain near the front.
I must come through for Papa. Finally I can do something concrete about his situation. There’s nothing to fear. I can do this. I was born to race. I’m ready.
I rotate my shoulders, ignoring the tight sensation in my stomach. I offer a prayer as I squeeze my palms open and closed to steady my trembling hands. Relax.
The observing groups, who’d all been flashing their lights and spinning around in their submersibles with excitement, now remain still. The trumpeting sound repeats, and the yellow beams flash. Elvis’s velvety tones barely contain his excitement.
“Aaaaaaaaaand they’re off!”
It’s pandemonium.
I suck in my breath as the competing submersibles all move at once. Damn. We vie for position in a frenzied rush that leaves a million bubbles in its wake. The rest shove, squeeze, and force their way forward through the flashing yellow beams of the starting line.
A few collide in the initial scrum, bouncing off each other and spinning wildly. A couple become entangled in each other’s wings and roll together off the race path, crashing through the sharp blue boundary lines, incurring penalties. Some manage to move forward, frantically blocking potential overtakers at the first bend. The remaining racers are busy dodging those insistent on making their first moves at any cost.
I crane my neck in every direction and edge forward, groaning at the influx of vehicles all struggling at once for space and direction. Sod all the churning; it’s affecting local visibility. The water above is clearer. The observing crowds and ton of distractions are all lower down, so there’s a time limit on the higher depths. But I’m not joining the barmy crush in front of me now. I thrust upward.
“What do you reckon, folks? I’m thinking some of these high-risers are sure gonna incur that penalty!” The commentator’s voice fills the space. “Keep sending in those thoughts now, y’all.”
I gradually rise above the battle. Phew. With only a handful of vehicles around at this level, visibility is vastly improved, the current calmer. All right, then. Bismillah.
I hurtle through the yellow beams. The blue of the boundary parameters farther down is now weak, only just visible through the blue-green waters. Throwing a glance at the Heads-Up Display, I set the timer and press on.
A huge sub dives ahead of me. The ginormous streamlined vehicle, resembling a colossal eel, causes rolling waves that rock my craft. I push the throttle forward and speed through the surge it leaves behind, zooming on as fast as the vessel allows. This is my best chance of making some distance before I run out of time as well and have to join the others.
All I can spot below is the lighting. Everything else is a shadowy blur as the city whooshes past beneath me. The sub tears through the water. Loud bleeping: the timer! I tilt the craft’s nose at a forty-five-degree angle and continue forward. Can I make the depth limit in time without having to head into a straight dive? Five, four, three—yes. The HUD confirms I’m now within the required depths.
I frown, taking the scene in. The boundaries might be clearer down here, but everything else is chaotic. Stay calm.
Easier said than done. I’m at Euston Square. At street level, the structures and distractions are seriously jarring. My sub rocks in the choppier current. Lights blink in my face. Newsbots dart through the chaos, spinning away as they battle for the best footage, rising and diving to wherever the action takes them.
An observation post built on a specially made tower flashes all manner of lights as spectating submersibles greet passing contestants. I nod as I scan the route; rising higher paid off. Though it’s far busier down here, not many racing cars are this far along yet. I speed up and make some headway, only to slow down upon taking my first corner; the circuit ahead is busy with a vehicle-rescue team. All too soon other contestants catch up, forcing the vessels into a crawl. The emergency team leaves and I peer into the water to determine why we’re still barely moving. Oh great. The novelty subs also caught up with everyone—and I’m stuck right behind them.
The group, often sponsored by companies and wealthy patrons, moves together, showing no intention of overtaking one another. The driver of the car in front—a charity entry designed like a ’50s hippie camper sub, decorated in bright flowers and illuminated PEACE and LOVE signs—is busy displaying hydrobotics all over the place, trying to garner as much publicity as possible. The observers love it.
I jostle and maneuver forward through the colorful throng. Several drivers aren’t having it and try to block me. I focus and push on until at last I’ve squeezed past the bulk of the traffic. Enough dilly-dallying.
I dart past a red dragon-shaped sub, swerving sharply so as not to hit a bulky polka-dotted vehicle by its side. I dive beneath it. A plaice swims out of the aperture of a rust- and moss-ridden pillar-box, straight past me and into the chaos of the route. Stay focused. I press on.
Brilliant—the novelty subs are gone. I rise and shoot forward. A quick glance over my shoulder and I see another craft has also come through, hot on my tail.
Full throttle, I charge through the water. My mouth curves into a smile. This is more like it. After all the frustration, the unhindered speed is exhilarating.
“Well, dip me in the ocean and hang me out to dry, folks, number one hundred sure can fly. Just look at that sub tearing through the route. It’s now or never . . .” Elvis breaks into song, and then my details are relayed for viewers. He reads out messages of support and adulation that are coming in for all the contestants, including “Wow, you go, Leyla!”
The route is narrow, the traffic heavy in places. I focus, forcing a course for myself at each turn, my frustration with the initial delay lessening as I pass the others. Music plays in my head as the misty shadows of buildings whoosh by. Nothing else matters. Onward, full speed ahead through clearer waters.
Around a tight corner now and I’m soon at Bloomsbury. I speed above the ancient British Museum, around another corner, and jolt. Swerving sharply, I cry out, before dipping to avoid a headlong crash with another car. Blimey!
My vehicle spins. I grit my teeth and focus on controlling the wings to counter the force. At last the craft is stabilized. I blow my cheeks out and peer at the other sub.
It’s a regal-looking car, an ornate cream affair resembling a Victorian carriage. It hovers in the water, not going anywhere.
Camilla Maxwell sits still inside her stately submersible. I squint; why isn’t she racing? Why is she hovering here? And right on the corner, too. Someone will be hurt if she doesn’t move! I flash my lights. Well, go on then, quick as
you can. The chief historian’s daughter shakes her head. I peer closer, taking in her expression. Oh.
When the fear takes over, it paralyzes you. I know this feeling.
Camilla’s moment of dread could lead to something terrible if she doesn’t move out of the way, though. I check the time, stamping my feet. Sod it—there’s only one thing to do. I turn to face the carriage-like craft from the side and tuck the wings away. Look lively.
I charge forward and ram the horrified girl’s car.
“You have to move, and make it dead quick. I need to get going!”
I hit the decorative sub again and Camilla reacts, throwing her hands up. She turns her ornate sub around. A Newsbot is ecstatic, darting around as it catches it all.
“All right,” Elvis says. “There’s no giving up around number one hundred—Miss McQueen’s having none of that. Thanks to her swift actions there, number ninety-four seems to have overcome her wet feet and is back in the race. The daughter of our esteemed chief historian, y’all.”
I race on, shooting past Camilla. Hopefully she’ll be all right for the rest of the race. Damn the fear to hell. I know that cursed dread so well.
Focus. I speed through Holborn’s wide streets and above empty squares. Better to risk further menaces down here than to rise again. I narrow my eyes at the commotion ahead as I pass a group of subs. A rescue mission is taking place. Emergency teams are at the scene, the Newsbots buzzing around in the flashing lights. A hefty breakdown submersible pulls the impaired vehicle along. It’s the large, eel-like sub that nose-dived into the race right at the start. The devastated driver sits weeping inside.
“And that’s the third of the many planned disruptions, folks, and as you know, a favorite staple of the race—as number eighteen just found out. And number seventy-one is now struggling at the back. Watch out for those system flares, y’all, they’ll stall ya!”
Lights flash to my left. The congregation of residents from Chancery Lane observes from the roof of their lengthy apartment block, the bright barriers glimmering all around them.
Ahead, two submersibles block each other’s progress. The translucent Underground tunnel beneath them stands several meters off the floor. I suck in my breath and dive below it. Soaring back up, I race over the dome of the legendary Old Bailey.
A silver submersible beside me flashes its lights. Inside is the irritating Sal, indicating I drop behind. Nice try. I continue on. The vessel comes threateningly near; any closer and I’ll have to fall behind, simply to avoid contact. I hold my position, though, as we both race on and give no indication of letting up. A Newsbot loves it. The tiny 360-degree eye on top of the sphere whirls and spins away, a red light on its body flashing as it captures our every move. Just when I’m considering giving in so I can avoid a mishap, two more Newsbots drift close to capture the action and Sal immediately checks herself. After offering a menacing stare and offensive gesture she swiftly moves away, the news stations on her tail.
Residents of homes along the route are pressed to their windows in the hopes of seeing some of the action. Colorful lights flash inside the rooms, and figures move around the spaces—marathon parties. I rise higher.
“There goes the devilishly scarlet number one hundred. What do you reckon, folks, will the glossy red prove its driver her good luck charm?” Elvis sings, then chuckles. “Send in those thoughts, now!”
Other cars are visible here and there, each contestant battling the route. The Bank of England, a ruin of crumbling stone walls and columns, whooshes past beneath.
The route winds through Whitechapel. Playing Ripper’s Revels in the Holozone with the twins on Christmas Day seems like ages ago.
“And that’s another two contestants out of the race, numbers three and forty-four. Don’t underestimate those challenges, y’all! Well, folks, we’re being inundated with special mentions and requests to hear me sing.” Elvis sounds ecstatic. “But it’s the London Marathon, people—priorities! Oh, okay, perhaps a very quick line for all you fine folk out there, but then that’s it, y’all.” The commentator clears his throat to offer a short chorus, sighing afterward. “And that was straight from my heart to yours, know what I’m saying?”
I can’t help but grin; he’s totally barmy and utterly ace.
The water is murkier now. I race through as fast as I dare, and traffic decreases as I pass car after car.
Tower Bridge—finally. I allow myself a tiny sense of relief. I’ve made it this far, and from here on the route heads back west again.
I check the HUD as I begin crossing the length of the bridge. Within seconds a huge pressure materializes behind me, startling me. What the hell? It pushes me in all directions, trying to force me out of the boundary lines. A car in front swerves all over the place until the driver loses control, spinning into the boundaries.
It’s some kind of wave simulator. I’ve felt a similar force before, at Brighton Pier. The beach resort has a wave machine, generating waves in all directions, allowing the fake sea to appear more realistic.
The waves on the bridge lash at the screen, making it almost impossible to see. I have to stay in control. The onboard computer will come through for me. Halfway along the bridge now. Bots appear on both sides, firing the dreaded flares. I focus on keeping my balance as I dodge the challenges. Careening off course is costly. Steady. Another car hits the boundaries. Almost there. The waves are strong. The craft lurches with the force. My neck aches. At last, I reach the other side.
“All riiight. And in record time!” Elvis’s voice is full of admiration. He reads messages of support coming in, including “I want that raven-haired rocket’s number!” The commentator breaks off to focus on an altercation between several cars that have crashed out of the barriers near the back.
At London Bridge, contenders whiz by way too close to each other, really taking risks now. A pearly-bronze car, designed to resemble some kind of wildcat and complete with raised paws, veers perilously close to me to avoid a conger eel caught in its path. I cry out, swerving to avoid it, when out of nowhere, a system flare hits me full on. I freeze.
How can anything be so red? The color floods the car as it holds the vehicle in its grip. I twist in the seat, blinking rapidly, before taking a deep breath and gathering my thoughts.
I shouldn’t panic. It’s only a flare and it’ll soon wear off. While it’s active, though, it will render the onboard equipment almost useless. I’m basically stuck here until its effects fade, and the most I can do is hover. I groan, hitting the seat. Several cars race by.
After what seems like an age, the effects of the flare clear. I check the controls to confirm: All systems are back online. I thrust the sub forward and continue on to London Bridge before anything else slows me down. Finally. I speed through the route, careening past faint rail tracks before rising another fifty feet and heading toward Covent Garden. Steering through a group of contestants, I zoom over Somerset House and the rustic cages of ancient transport settled in its square below.
Spectators flash their lights and spin their vehicles around, having a smashing time. Several queue by submarines that hover far above us where refreshments and sub-battery top-ups are available throughout the event. I hurtle through the route as fast as I dare, speeding over the enormous pile of debris and ruin lying opposite the old Royal Opera House. One of its algae-covered columns buckled recently, the familiar fluorescent warning beams flashing away.
A sub on my tail is getting too close. Ugh. It’s the annoying Sal in her silver vessel again. And the vehicles directly ahead mean I can’t yet move out of her way. She swerves alongside me, and this time she’s far more determined to cause trouble. She tilts her craft’s wing, and her vessel edges toward mine, forcing me closer and closer to the sharp blue lasers of the marathon boundaries. Oh hell. If I set them off, I’ll incur the gravest penalty of the race, and at this stage I’d never recover time-wise. I try to call her bluff and move closer to her myself but only make matters worse. She’s not b
udging. It’s impossible to overtake the vessel in front; there’s just not enough room now, and I could hit the boundaries trying. Argh! What to do?
A group of bots appears out of nowhere, firing at us.
I instinctively duck down in reverse until I’m out of firing range, then pause to check the situation. I managed to dodge them! As I peer up at Sal’s sub, it takes a hit. Immediately a net snares the silver vehicle. They will let it go, eventually. But instead of waiting it out, Sal fires on the bots. A bright neon substance shoots from her car. As soon as it hits the contraptions, they’re useless. One by one the bots release the net as they succumb to the liquid. Uh-oh.
Despite the inspections for any illegal modifications to racing cars, someone always tries getting away with something. Within seconds, security submersibles are at the scene, escorting her away—an instant disqualification. I pass by and Sal is furious. She beats her fists against the cockpit. The nearest spectators love it, flashing their lights with joy.
Elvis tsk-tsks. “You sure as hell won’t succeed if you can’t conquer that water-rage, y’all. No destroying the distractions, folks. Don’t be cruel. . . .”
Leicester Square, with its array of vast domes providing entertainment and escape, proves largely obstacle-free. An army of tiny spirally bots is on the warpath, but there are many targets. I remember them from the last marathon and dip lower. The closer to the seabed you are, the less likely these particular bots are to follow you, preferring to remain in the chaotic heart of the race. I rise again, focusing straight ahead of me, my mouth pursed. I dodge and swerve my way through the old junction of Piccadilly Circus.