Hope had abandoned them to the wrath of all the waters.
The great Old World floods had done more than exile humanity to the depths of the oceanic abyss. They had also ravaged humankind of all faith and, like expiring pockets of air, sucked out any belief they would ever again live in peace.
How else could it be explained?
Ari sat deadly still, copper-skinned knuckles frozen around the submersible’s controls. The air had left his lungs; a rock, more jagged and leaden than the surrounding submerged mountains, formed inside his chest and thrust up into his throat. His eyes flickered as he absorbed the shifting deep around him.
The ocean was on fire.
They faced a tsunami of mighty vessels. Savage. More ferocious than a battery of starving barracuda. Powerful current producers, lasers, and explosives shot and rippled in every direction from the vessels’ stocky underbellies. All around, the water wrinkled as merciless weaponry pinned his people’s crafts in spheres of contained pressure. The vessels exploded before his eyes. Waves unfurled and rocked his sub. And still, he could not move.
Here, where harsh winds ravaged the ocean’s surface hundreds of feet above them, where the North Atlantic Ocean skirmished with the winding Norwegian Sea, the hostile environment had mostly protected the people of Eysturoy from them. The location had been chosen for the surrounding high ridges that shielded his community from the most perilous elements. Its wild and rugged terrain, always reduced to a dense darkness at the first sign of trouble, was often enough to deter the predatory fiends who’d annihilate his people in a fierce heartbeat.
But the adverse surroundings had proven no obstacle for the beasts today.
Huge beams floodlit the area as the hostile intruders highlighted the precipitous landscape. The revealing light accentuated every cliff, and lower down it snuck behind rooftops sitting on the submerged plateau, exposing the inhabitants. Family, friends, neighbors.
Ari peered into the vast and seething swells of the sea where the unbearable cost of the human and Anthropoid clash already drifted aimlessly within its rolling waves. Bodies. People he knew. Lance—the gentlest of all his friends. Gone.
His father’s words were merely an echo now: Trust in the community’s defenses, son. Do not leave the home—never let anger get the better of you. And his recent threat: This is your final warning, Ari. Put yourself at risk again and I will send you to Gideon’s in London.
So he was supposed to let matters continue as they were? Accept the losses?
Lance. His insides lurched. He bared his teeth and his nostrils flared.
Why must they hide? Always they were cowering in the dark hoping they weren’t discovered. Why not blow the enemy’s crafts apart, feed their bodies to the great whites?
He blinked and swallowed, his breathing raspy now. A heat burned its way through his insides, inflaming his loss. His desperation. His hands shifted on the controls.
Ari charged headlong into hell.
The Old World Heritage Society demands a respectful distance be kept from all revered ancient London sites. This respect can take a deep dive into one of those endless chasms in the wild because honestly, I just don’t understand what’s so sacred about ruins.
I turn down the blaring punk rock music ricocheting off the
submersible’s interior and peer into the murky green-gray depths once more for any hint of a watchful Eyeball; the tiny spherical cameras could be anywhere. The current looks clear. I steer past the fluorescent face of Big Ben and edge closer to the center of the former Houses of Parliament, toward the soft illumination of the Memorial Candle. A small number of patterned rabbitfish remain transfixed by the commemorative shaft of light. A traditional reminder of the looming anniversary, the lilac ray beams up through the city’s waters as far as the eye can see.
God, how I love staring at it every year.
Sometimes the Memorial Candle is all of humankind echoing up through layer after layer of current and wave and pressure, breaking through the liquid skin of the surface and reminding the universe: Hey, we’re still alive, still going down here! Other times the glow is a greeting across forever, a trillion Old World hugs and laughter and memories and dreams reaching down through the ages, lighting our way.
Sixty-five years tomorrow. Only sixty-five years ago all of this was air, not water. Like, there was nothing all around. Nothing in between structures, below people, or above their heads. Humanity carried on outside as if they were safely inside. Imagine being out in the open without the security of the water, exposed to the whole universe like that? Surreal!
My Bracelet flashes. I check the caller ID on the plain flexi-band around my wrist. “Accept.”
Theo’s holographic face materializes above my Bracelet, his smile reaching his pale-blue eyes. “You on your way, Leyla? There’s a money pot with your name on it. We have a clear window—pair of Eyeballs passed by not ten minutes ago, so we’re good for another hour. You’d think they’d take Christmas Day off, but nope.”
The money pot. I straighten, pushing my shoulders back. I really, really need it. Being a driving instructor doesn’t pay nearly enough, and if I get the reply I’m waiting on, then I’ll need every penny of the pot. I have to win today’s sprint.
As if he’s guessed what I’m thinking, Theo nods. “You’ve got this, I know it. And I know you don’t want to borrow, but—”
“Hey, I’m fine, really I am. But thanks. On my way now.”
“Great, we’re all gathered by the bridge. Everyone’s here. And, erm, Tabby’s getting, you know, ‘impatient.’ Ouch, Tabs!”
His twin sister’s face squeezes into the frame, with Tabby rolling her piercing blue eyes. “Ignore him, Leyla. Hmm, bet you’re out by the Memorial Candle, all lost at sea again and—”
“Oi,” Theo says. “Just cos you’re a bot, doesn’t mean everyone is. Ouch!”
Every time Theo says “Ouch” I actually flinch as I grin; Tabby’s nails are always pointy and red, as if she’s drawn blood in the jab.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say. “And, Tabs, leave Theo alone!”
The Clash’s guitar riff resumes its rightful place at full decibel as I rise. The current is calm. I push the throttle all the way forward and hurtle toward Tower Bridge and my friends.
Light from the countless solar spheres a thousand feet up on the ocean’s surface highlights the watery depths. Beneath me, early morning London is a giant interlocking puzzle of domed titanium buildings interspersed with acrylic transport tunnels—all shadowy shapes and misty lights. The inky body of the Thames passes by, the memory of a river. Londoners feel attached to the legendary trail of deeper water, and its former banks are kept perennially lit. The city glimmers around me. Festive and commemorative signs are everywhere. I approach Tower Bridge where the sprint will begin.
The sight of the bridge always lifts my spirits. I’ve spent more time hanging out here with the twins than any other location in London, our grouped subs giving the adults plenty to moan about.
Rapid movement near the Tower of London to my left catches my eye and I squint: Is someone watching me? But it’s just a glistening oarfish slipping out of one of the upper windows of the White Tower. The creature panics, heading straight into the crab-like machines laboring on the tower’s moss-ridden walls, before its flat silver body dives out of sight. I dip and zoom through the construction’s middle, seaweed hanging off every remaining part of the smashed-up bridge deck, and spot the other subs waiting for me.