The Light at the Bottom of the World

by London Shah

  Copyright © 2019 by London Shah

  Designed by Marci Senders

  Cover art © 2019 by Mike Heath

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Lettering by Russ Gray

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04453-0

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  For my fellow Pathans.

  We too are worthy of taking the helm.

  CONTENTS

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Eysturoy, The Faroe Islands, North Atlantic Ocean

  Chapter One: London, Christmas Day, 2099

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty- Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hope had abandoned them to the wrath of all the waters.

  The great Old World floods had done more than exile humanity to the depths of the oceanic abyss. They had also ravaged humankind of all faith and, like expiring pockets of air, sucked out any belief they would ever again live in peace.

  How else could it be explained?

  Ari sat deadly still, copper-skinned knuckles frozen around the submersible’s controls. The air had left his lungs; a rock, more jagged and leaden than the surrounding submerged mountains, formed inside his chest and thrust up into his throat. His eyes flickered as he absorbed the shifting deep around him.

  The ocean was on fire.

  They faced a tsunami of mighty vessels. Savage. More ferocious than a battery of starving barracuda. Powerful current producers, lasers, and explosives shot and rippled in every direction from the vessels’ stocky underbellies. All around, the water wrinkled as merciless weaponry pinned his people’s crafts in spheres of contained pressure. The vessels exploded before his eyes. Waves unfurled and rocked his sub. And still, he could not move.

  Here, where harsh winds ravaged the ocean’s surface hundreds of feet above them, where the North Atlantic Ocean skirmished with the winding Norwegian Sea, the hostile environment had mostly protected the people of Eysturoy from them. The location had been chosen for the surrounding high ridges that shielded his community from the most perilous elements. Its wild and rugged terrain, always reduced to a dense darkness at the first sign of trouble, was often enough to deter the predatory fiends who’d annihilate his people in a fierce heartbeat.

  But the adverse surroundings had proven no obstacle for the beasts today.

  Huge beams floodlit the area as the hostile intruders highlighted the precipitous landscape. The revealing light accentuated every cliff, and lower down it snuck behind rooftops sitting on the submerged plateau, exposing the inhabitants. Family, friends, neighbors.

  Ari peered into the vast and seething swells of the sea where the unbearable cost of the human and Anthropoid clash already drifted aimlessly within its rolling waves. Bodies. People he knew. Lance—the gentlest of all his friends. Gone.

  His father’s words were merely an echo now: Trust in the community’s defenses, son. Do not leave the home—never let anger get the better of you. And his recent threat: This is your final warning, Ari. Put yourself at risk again and I will send you to Gideon’s in London.

  So he was supposed to let matters continue as they were? Accept the losses?

  Lance. His insides lurched. He bared his teeth and his nostrils flared.

  Why must they hide? Always they were cowering in the dark hoping they weren’t discovered. Why not blow the enemy’s crafts apart, feed their bodies to the great whites?

  He blinked and swallowed, his breathing raspy now. A heat burned its way through his insides, inflaming his loss. His desperation. His hands shifted on the controls.

  Ari charged headlong into hell.

  The Old World Heritage Society demands a respectful distance be kept from all revered ancient London sites. This respect can take a deep dive into one of those endless chasms in the wild because honestly, I just don’t understand what’s so sacred about ruins.

  I turn down the blaring punk rock music ricocheting off the

  submersible’s interior and peer into the murky green-gray depths once more for any hint of a watchful Eyeball; the tiny spherical cameras could be anywhere. The current looks clear. I steer past the fluorescent face of Big Ben and edge closer to the center of the former Houses of Parliament, toward the soft illumination of the Memorial Candle. A small number of patterned rabbitfish remain transfixed by the commemorative shaft of light. A traditional reminder of the looming anniversary, the lilac ray beams up through the city’s waters as far as the eye can see.

  God, how I love staring at it every year.

  Sometimes the Memorial Candle is all of humankind echoing up through layer after layer of current and wave and pressure, breaking through the liquid skin of the surface and reminding the universe: Hey, we’re still alive, still going down here! Other times the glow is a greeting across forever, a trillion Old World hugs and laughter and memories and dreams reaching down through the ages, lighting our way.

  Sixty-five years tomorrow. Only sixty-five years ago all of this was air, not water. Like, there was nothing all around. Nothing in between structures, below people, or above their heads. Humanity carried on outside as if they were safely inside. Imagine being out in the open without the security of the water, exposed to the whole universe like that? Surreal!

  My Bracelet flashes. I check the caller ID on the plain flexi-band around my wrist. “Accept.”

  Theo’s holographic face materializes above my Bracelet, his smile reaching his pale-blue eyes. “You on your way, Leyla? There’s a money pot with your name on it. We have a clear window—pair of Eyeballs passed by not ten minutes ago, so we’re good for another hour. You’d think they’d take Christmas Day off, but nope.”

  The money pot. I straighten, pushing my shoulders back. I really, really need it. Being a driving instructor doesn’t pay nearly enough, and if I get the reply I’m waiting on, then I’ll need every penny of the pot. I have to win today’s sprint.

  As if he’s guessed what I’m thinking, Theo nods. “You’ve got this, I know it. And I know you don’t want to borrow, but—”

  “Hey, I’m fine, really I am. But thanks. On my way now.”


  “Great, we’re all gathered by the bridge. Everyone’s here. And, erm, Tabby’s getting, you know, ‘impatient.’ Ouch, Tabs!”

  His twin sister’s face squeezes into the frame, with Tabby rolling her piercing blue eyes. “Ignore him, Leyla. Hmm, bet you’re out by the Memorial Candle, all lost at sea again and—”

  “Oi,” Theo says. “Just cos you’re a bot, doesn’t mean everyone is. Ouch!”

  Every time Theo says “Ouch” I actually flinch as I grin; Tabby’s nails are always pointy and red, as if she’s drawn blood in the jab.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I say. “And, Tabs, leave Theo alone!”

  The Clash’s guitar riff resumes its rightful place at full decibel as I rise. The current is calm. I push the throttle all the way forward and hurtle toward Tower Bridge and my friends.

  Light from the countless solar spheres a thousand feet up on the ocean’s surface highlights the watery depths. Beneath me, early morning London is a giant interlocking puzzle of domed titanium buildings interspersed with acrylic transport tunnels—all shadowy shapes and misty lights. The inky body of the Thames passes by, the memory of a river. Londoners feel attached to the legendary trail of deeper water, and its former banks are kept perennially lit. The city glimmers around me. Festive and commemorative signs are everywhere. I approach Tower Bridge where the sprint will begin.

  The sight of the bridge always lifts my spirits. I’ve spent more time hanging out here with the twins than any other location in London, our grouped subs giving the adults plenty to moan about.

  Rapid movement near the Tower of London to my left catches my eye and I squint: Is someone watching me? But it’s just a glistening oarfish slipping out of one of the upper windows of the White Tower. The creature panics, heading straight into the crab-like machines laboring on the tower’s moss-ridden walls, before its flat silver body dives out of sight. I dip and zoom through the construction’s middle, seaweed hanging off every remaining part of the smashed-up bridge deck, and spot the other subs waiting for me.

  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, i
n 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.

  No. I’m never, ever trying a freefall again. One terminated attempt months ago was enough terror for a lifetime.

  As we wait for everyone to finish, the twins and I finalize plans for when I join them later this morning. The idea is mostly to feast, play endless games in the Holozone, and watch the live draw for the London Submersible Marathon—the annual obstacle race through the capital.

  The arduous course is a big deal—huge. But there are only a hundred places, so nobody really expects to land one. Imagine having the chance to race an obstacle course as big and dramatic as the London Marathon! To ensure the actual route itself remains a secret, additional race boundaries are randomly installed throughout the city, and every year the exact obstacles and challenges are always concealed, too. It’s an incredibly tough undertaking. Thrilling, but seriously demanding. And always perilous.