I turn to the twins, breathless. “He’s talking about the Ultimate Prize. . . . Don’t you see? I have to win the marathon. So I can ask for Papa’s freedom.”
I navigate the submersible through the blue-green waters around Westminster. The midday current is calm with normal visibility, despite the increase in traffic today. Jojo stayed at the twins’ last night because we ended up chatting way past her bedtime.
My Bracelet flashes now, and Tabby’s face pops up. I transfer her to the dashboard so I can see her as I steer toward Lambeth and the pub.
“Any nerves?” she asks. “We still can’t believe you’ll be taking part! Mum’s so worried. It’s both terrifying and so flipping exciting. It’s unreal!”
I nod away at her words. “Same. It still hasn’t sunk in! I awoke thinking it might’ve been a dream, until I checked my inbox; it’s full of interview requests from various media and potential sponsors and such.”
“Milk them for every penny! Are you done with the Marathon
Committee?”
“Yes, just completed my tests and registration with them, and on my way to the pub now. Ugh, it was so busy out here this morning. Contenders, organizers, and media all cluttered the water everywhere you turned.”
“Ha!” Tabby chuckles. “Oh, did you notice news stations aren’t as hyper as they usually are? I mean, normally on the day after the marathon draw the media’s focused solely on the race and contestants. But they’re obsessed with the Anthropoid entering this year’s draw, ugh.”
“I know! I saw Channel Three hysterically debating it nonstop. They were asking if we’re doing enough to protect ourselves. . . .” My voice trails off. “Tabs, do me a favor, please? I think a past champion asked for the freedom of a loved one, but I can’t be certain. I’m sure I read about it somewhere, though. See if you can find out?”
“Oh, I can do that right now!” Tabby says and disappears.
It’s entirely up to the champion. They can either accept first prize—for the past decade it’s been a home or submarine, both always seriously luxurious and impressive—or they can ask the PM for a personal request: the Ultimate Prize.
The water is calm and clear as I pass through Westminster. Papa could be in any one of these buildings. So close and yet so far. Why won’t they just tell me exactly where in the capital they’re holding him?
I pass over the regular ginormous wreckage on the seabed here. The looming frame of an ancient passenger jet wreaked havoc drifting through the area after an earthquake a few years ago, before becoming stuck in an ancient town square. Tiny fish dart in and out of its rust-and-seaweed shell now like shooting arrows.
Wireless Man’s dreary tones interrupt the mid-twenty-first-century crooning great The.Real.L.Cohen, as he informs us of a vehicle collision that has luckily ended in no fatalities.
Traffic accidents used to be the number one cause of death until they stopped designing vehicles with positive buoyancy. In the early days, anytime you got into trouble, your vessel climbed the water and you surfaced. Not only did the crafts usually climb too fast too soon, but safety was the last thing the troubled driver met up there.
The ominous voice goes on to remind us of the perils lurking in the depths. Like I need reminding. I drive on.
A huge shadow looms ahead as the giant concrete body of a tower block comes into view. A skin of algae wraps around its exterior, and random flickering scales from a shoal of cod illuminate the windowless black spaces that stare back through the water like soulless eyes. I shudder. Only the faintest trickle of natural sunlight penetrates these depths, and the interiors of old London are cloaked in darkness. Good job we have all the exterior lighting, which has now been intensified by the preparations for the marathon. Neon banners announcing the event flash on every structure and street corner.
Tomorrow, London will be crowded with dignitaries from all over Great Britain. Obstacles have to be in place and running smoothly, and cameras are dotted everywhere. The challenges are fierce and relentless. A single moment of distraction will cost the contestants dearly. God help me.
I cruise down a coral-covered former high street. Anemones cling to the slimy surface of a long-gone department store, and seaweed hangs from its windowsills. I put on a mellow soundtrack and continue toward the pub.
The streets below are truly antique. The Old World’s presence is vital to our existence, the chief historian always insists. The ancient sights are especially beneficial to those suffering the seasickness. They are our only link to the past—to who we were.
But maintaining Old London is proving increasingly difficult.
I dive low, hovering in a residential street. Tiny terraced cottages line the road, preserved in its crumbling state. I blink, staring. Are any of the children that might have lived and played here still living, breathing, somewhere?
The hazy shapes of several crafts charging past jolt me out of my thoughts as they all speed on far beyond the legal limit. I flinch and instinctively slow down.
Blackwatch vessels. I hold my breath.
The Blackwatch are the only people to regard themselves above traffic laws. Above all laws in fact. The all-knowing, all-powerful force is the pinnacle of the nation’s defense and security measures. Guarding the PM is just one of their duties; the rest are shrouded in secrecy.
Always remember to avoid any and all contact with the Blackwatch, Pickle, Papa always said, his voice heavy and his gaze far away. Never attract their attention.
I promise, Papa. I only breathe again once the menacing subs have passed. I straighten in my seat and hurtle through the green-blue currents toward the pub.
The soothingly familiar environment of the Moon Under Water relaxes me instantly.
It’s the first time I’ve visited the Victorian-styled pub since Papa’s arrest. We always popped in for Sunday brunch and sat by the warmth of one of its lush fireplaces, sipping our hot drinks. We played guess-the-song as Papa’s Bracelet played intros. The ache is immense now.
Several locals stop to congratulate me on my marathon selection and wish me luck as I tuck into hot twisted churros. Many pub goers are more subdued than usual. Though the anniversary always leaves everyone feeling their lowest, the incident with the Anthropoid almost infiltrating the marathon is also at the forefront of their minds now, and Anthropoid can frequently be heard whispered around the room.
Commentary from the footage on screens echoes around the space. There are repeated mentions of “Operation Ark” and “the Resurrection Council.” Low boos sound in the room as images of the asteroid approaching Earth flash on the screens. They still have several years before it hits, the prime minister at the time insists. Human beings will survive, no matter how much sea levels rise. The best scientists around the world are planning the most suitable course of action and preservation, the PM assures Old Worlders.
My gaze wanders around the room. The stuffed bull’s head above the mantelpiece stares out defiantly over the large, well-lit space. Not everyone’s focusing on the replays of the disaster. A boisterous local construction team share sea monster sightings as they play darts. A group of off-duty train drivers in the nearby booth discuss ancient transport over a pint. “I’m telling you,” a woman says, “Old World trains were spotless, and everyone chatted, knew one another. It was safe as houses. And they never broke down—not once. Zero delays!”