The twins are in their blue twin-seated craft, a joint seventeenth birthday present given to them earlier this year. I can just about make out their faces. Even in this murky environment, their platinum-blond hair is clearly visible, and the world is instantly that much brighter.
I peer at my competition. Eight subs of various sizes and models—all the usual contenders. I mustn’t underestimate Malik; he’s been paying me for lessons, and he’s getting faster every week. We each chip in with the money pot, and the winner takes it all. Losing always hurts, because I know the coming week will be tough minus my contribution to the prize pot. I used to sprint solely for the thrills, but things are different now. And this week’s festive pot is much bigger than usual.
“All right, let’s do this.” Keung, contender and organizer, addresses us all via group broadcast. “The check-in cars are ready and waiting. Stop points are: St. Paul’s, Clio House on Trafalgar Square, and finally, the Island Housing Project. Usual rules apply—anyone misses a single check-in and the sprint is forfeit for them, et cetera, et cetera. Theo’s monitored the route for Eyeballs, and we should be all right for traffic violations for the next hour. Any questions?”
None. We move to line up at the walkway of the bridge. I give everything the once-over.
“Okay . . . Ready?” Keung asks.
Here we go. As usual, I’m driving Tabby’s compact but powerful single-
seated scarlet number. The cockpit offers a 360-degree scope of my surroundings. Perfect. The more I can see, the safer I am. I hope. I scan once more for the telltale blip of an Eyeball hovering in the depths, despite Theo’s assurance. I can’t afford a traffic violation; three of those and my driving instructor’s permit is revoked. Thankfully he’s never wrong, though, and there’s no sign of the titanium spheres.
Theo’s a technical whiz kid and will happily spend entire weeks fiddling around with the bits on the huge table in his room. It’d drive me up the walls if I didn’t get out into the waters regularly. He’s studied and recorded the Eyeballs’ movements—the exact routes and shifts of the remote cameras.
“And in three . . . two . . . one . . . GO!”
The vessels move. The water churns and heaves, and my sub sways. Bismillah. I glance below, push forward on the joystick, and dive until I’m just above the enormous solar-fuel storage pipes. Phosphorous fibers are strewn over them, the celebratory illuminated strands mingling with the green algae worlds inhabiting their surfaces.
The music resumes with an album from the last decade, and I race toward St. Paul’s, climbing, falling, and swerving in time to the beat. My mood soars, my heart expands.
I hurtle over a colossal protein plant before whizzing above rows of obsolete rooftops jutting out from the ground like Old World gravestones. The brilliant white light of the tall streetlamps illuminates the shadowy grid of streets like ancient moonlight from forgotten skies.
St. Paul’s looms into view. The check-in car hovers above the cathedral, its lights on the antiquated landmark’s partial dome, and a humongous halibut descends inside via the open roof. The destruction was the result of an Anthropoid attack two decades ago—one of the terrorists’ most brutal. I flash until the car acknowledges my attendance. Lights appear in the block of flats next door, the cube-like resin-and-acrylic structure blinking into life. London’s waking up.
I tear away in the direction of Trafalgar Square and zoom through street after street, passing block after block, over all the ruin and decay and life of the city’s seabed.
My biggest weakness when racing is I’m easily distracted. It’s maddening. A sight here or there and my thoughts drift and I’m lost at sea, as Tabs puts it. Not good.
Traffic’s still at a bare minimum this early, only the odd craft around. I get to Clio House in record time. The giant construction is Great Britain’s largest historical-reenactment hall yet, but I prefer the twins’ Holozone; it’s more private and we never have to dress up! I check in and move on.
A quick glance and there’s a car way behind me, its lights low. It might not be a contender, but I’m not taking any chances, not today. There’s a flash of illumination below as the first Underground train of the day whooshes through the transparent tunnel, startling the nearby creatures as usual. I dip toward it, skimming the debris on the ocean floor. The corroded skeleton of a bus thickly carpeted with moss and a telephone box trapped under an enormous statue—a man riding some kind of animal—lie coated in breadcrumb sponge. Both have attracted a group of inquisitive herring. I press on.
Last check-in now. I head straight for the towering shadows of the Island Housing Project. The lofty housing looms ahead.
The towers were built to reach out above the waterline after the floods, part of another failed global initiative. Scientists hadn’t foreseen the devastating levels the water would finally settle at, and the housing was fully submerged—now with no connection whatsoever to the world above.
The check-in car’s waiting above one of the rooftops. The whole roof is witness to Old World hope, rigged with all manner of survival resources, including a helipad. I hurtle away, headed straight back for the twins at Tower Bridge. A glimmering shoal of salmon split and dart out of the sub’s way, flickering in unison. My eyes narrow as the water ahead clears. I stiffen.
It wasn’t the sub that caused the salmon to scatter.
A bulky shadow rises from the depths, pausing in front of me.
My pulse races. It’s oily black and as wide as the sub. I don’t recognize it, which means it could be anything. It turns its head and swims straight for me. Two narrow milky-white slits for eyes stare as it advances. What the—
I swerve, gripping the throttle and joystick tight, and luckily miss the animal by inches. But the turn is too sharp, and the sub lurches before spinning out of control. I take deep breaths as I counter the spinning by repositioning the wings.
I mustn’t let the panic win. I’m safe. I’m at home, in London. This isn’t the wild, and there’s nothing to fear.
At last the whirling slows down, enough for me to notice the creature’s shadow slinking away back into the depths. I shudder. Movement ahead catches my eye and a circular yellow sub speeds past me, toward Tower Bridge. Malik. No.
I push the throttle all the way forward, pull back on the joystick, and climb waves that have turned choppier. Come on. I see the bridge, its pulsing lights beckoning me. Malik is directly below me now, racing toward it. I head into a forty-five-degree dive at full speed. I hold my breath. Come on, come on . . . Malik is fast.
But I’m faster. I pass his sub and keep pushing forward as I level. Please let me be the first. My eyes scan the scene, spotting only the twins’ craft. I lean right, soaring over the bridge and working my lights like mad. My Bracelet flashes, the twins’ voices bursting into the sub.
“YOU DID IT!”
Yes. My shoulders relax. If the solicitor’s firm gets back with a yes—please, God—then the money’s as good as spent, and I’d have been in trouble without it.
I run a diagnostics and the sub’s fine. Phew. And I know I didn’t hit the creature, thank goodness. What even was that thing? I should spend more time on practicing stabilizing the sub when it whirlpools like that. Conquer that panic somehow. A freefall. It’s the only way.