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!