Loud voices carry over from a group of teens, all Keep Great Britain Tidy volunteers, sitting a few booths down. A teenage girl with a map of the Old World tattooed on her head really doesn’t like the latest boy band; she’s “old school and proud,” she tells the rest, only listening to music from the ’60s–’80s.
On-screen, footage now switches to computerized graphics. I tense. The asteroid hits Earth. It’s as good as the end of the world. Billions die instantly. Continental shifts occur. All the water previously held in deep subterranean reservoirs is released at an alarming rate. Soon the entire planet is submerged. Only 10 percent of Britons survive the disaster.
It’s always very difficult to watch, no matter how many times you see it.
In the corner of the room, children listen, enthralled, as adults read them tales of magical outdoor adventures the Old World kids got up to. Elsewhere, there’s a kerfuffle and a disgruntled voice rises. I whirl to look as security moves in on a booth and shuffles an inebriated man away.
A passing woman shakes her head at the drunken man’s antics. “No manners anymore . . . Not like the good Old World days when they used to—”
An ominous sound, like a very loud and long foghorn, resonates around the pub. It repeats three times. The room hushes. A dart falls short of the board, hitting the floor.
I stand along with everyone else. All around Great Britain, everyone will be observing the three minutes of silence in honor of the billions of people who didn’t survive the global disaster. I watch the screens, the horrific pictures. Utter destruction that led to the catastrophic loss of human, animal, and plant life around the world.
Leaving an entirely different planet in its wake.
The silence ends with a repeat of the horn. There’s a shot of Prime Ministerial Sub One as it hovers beside the Memorial Tree at Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens in Regent’s Park.
King George VIII was the last royal to broadcast on the anniversary. Since his death, the royal family has become much quieter, issuing a commemorative statement instead.
The Prime Minister, Edmund Gladstone, his face heavy and shadows under his warm green eyes, addresses the nation. “The past must be remembered,” he expounds. “It must be kept alive. The past is the only torch guiding us forward out of this darkness. This hell.” His expression darkens. “You will have heard by now of the terrorist attack last week in the Faroe Islands. A particularly brutal onslaught that cost many lives. I won’t stand idly by and watch as our species dies out. I swore to protect you all, and by God I’m going to.” He looks distraught.
The official to the PM’s left shifts in his seat. His always stern expression hardens further. I shudder. Captain Sebastian, the principal private secretary to the prime minister—or his right-hand man—always appears as if there’s no escaping his scrutinizing gaze. He reminds me of the cunning seadevil—an anglerfish I once saw on Today’s Terrors of the Deep.
The PM’s face hardens. “This—this amphibian alien must be eradicated. Their creation remains one of the biggest mistakes in preparation for the floods. How shortsighted and irresponsible for the Old World scientists to expect two hundred unnaturally created beings to actually aid us post-disaster. Thirty-five. Thirty-five scientists and technicians lost their lives that day, brutally mutilated, tortured, and murdered, when those monsters freed themselves and escaped the laboratories. And we have been paying for their existence ever since. Far too many of us have lived through the same devastating loss at the hands of the Anthropoids. . . .”
The screen switches to footage of the Memorial Fountain in
Kensington Gardens. The inscription on the fountain’s plaque is distinct: In memory of Eva and Winston Gladstone, beloved sister and darling nephew, sleep peacefully, Edmund Gladstone 2087. They suffered considerably. Anthropoids never attack without causing maximum pain.
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.