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 fire 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.