by London Shah
I bite back my disappointment; another exchange that hasn’t revealed anything new about Papa’s situation. “Will do, Gramps. See you soon.”
The room is small anyway, but sometimes, like now, the walls really close in. I unfold a large canvas screen beside the album wall. Hanging inside the screen are all my cherished hand-drawn maps from over the years, Papa always budgeting to buy me the paper. They’re of all the waters around Great Britain.
I trace a little note pinned to one of the maps. I fished it out of Papa’s bin when I searched his room, looking for answers after the arrest. It’s just a work memo containing a few everyday reminders for himself and coordinates for Cambridge—Papa traveled all over for his work—but it’s handwritten, and seeing Papa’s handwriting comforts me. Besides, the authorities took most of his belongings and I’m not throwing away what’s left.
Movement on my wall catches my eye as an avatar pops up in the corner with a company logo: Dickens & Sons, Purveyors of Legal Advice & Services. The solicitors—finally!
I wave the message open. “Play.”
“Miss McQueen. Thank you for your enquiry regarding legal representation for Hashem McQueen. Unfortunately, we are unable to take on your father’s case. We advise you to continue with your search for suitable representation. In this ongoing climate, where our numbers continue to drop and our very survival is at risk, the charges of exploiting the seasickness by aiding and abetting citizen suicides are indeed grave. Good luck, and good day to you.”
What . . . ? No way. No. I shake my head. “Reply.”
I fold my arms and glare at the wall. “Mr. Dickens, my papa is innocent. The police have made a terrible mistake. He never encouraged seasickness sufferers to take their own lives. He helped them wherever he could. There’s absolutely no evidence to back the accusations up—surely that counts for something? Please reconsider. You were my last hope. Whereabouts in London is my papa? Why won’t they let me visit him? Nobody’s arrested and then never heard from again. Please, help us.”
He never came home, I want to add. One day three months ago he went to work as usual but never returned. What’s going on? I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. My chest is suddenly constricted, my ribs like prison bars. I gulp for air. “Send.” The message disappears.
The grid of information on the communications wall dissolves. “Rule, Britannia” plays as the wall displays a picture of the Great Briton of the Day. The solemn voice begins:
“Today’s minute’s silence is in honor of the venerable William the Conqueror, who among other achievements compiled the Domesday Book. Inside its pages, time has been preserved forev—”
Oh, not now. “Sleep, Desktop.”
I rub my arms and then wrap them around me, staring into nothing. It’s true that the seasickness takes many lives. It’s a horrific disease the waters brought with them. It comes on slowly; you have to watch out for the signs. First, people stop talking about the future. It doesn’t seem to offer them anything anymore. Some will gladly go hungry just so they can spend the money buying Old World relics instead. Many start obsessively following the Explorers’ progress and can’t accept that an exact date for returning to the surface isn’t yet available. And then there’s the sadness that swallows sufferers whole. That’s when some take their own lives.
I know one thing for absolute certain, though: Papa helped any sufferers he encountered. He tried to give them hope. He knew hopelessness was at the core of the seasickness, and he always did everything he could do to instill optimism in everyone he ever knew.
I walk over to the window and gaze out at the shifting waters. How do I help Papa now? Dickens & Sons were my last legal hope.
A persistent shape, first far off and then drawing closer, teeters on the edge of my vision. I swing my gaze and gasp; Jojo leaps down from the hammock and darts over, straight into my arms. She remains still, totally transfixed.
A dolphin. It must be at least two meters long. I place my hand on the window. What does the creature feel like? If only I could touch it. It looks so happy and carefree.
Apparently most sea creatures had different natural habitats and patterns of migration before the disaster. Many are now attracted to the lights of vessels and buildings, but I’ve never known a dolphin to come this close before. It swims even closer. It’s a bottlenose, gliding effortlessly as if it is the water, as if a part of the ocean before us has taken form.
“Look, Jojo, it’s smiling at us,” I whisper.
The creature stops. It turns its head and follows whatever has caught its attention until it’s out of sight. I suck in a quick breath and slump against the window. The corners of my mouth lift and my insides flutter.
Hope is all I have right now; it’s as unending as the oceans—and I must hold on to it.
I just need a miracle.
The stars twinkle above us; a midnight-blue sky that every so often rewards us with a shooting star. A gentle breeze whispers through the greenery, the moonlight casting a subtle incandescent glow. Everything about the scene is utterly magical.
“Camping” is so cozy, definitely my favorite of the Holozone programs. Jojo stays alert, gazing upward with a low growl. An owl’s hoot breaks the silence.
I reach for dessert, despite having eaten too much already. It’s early evening; I’ve been at the twins’ for hours, and Christmas dinner seems like ages ago. Luckily one of our favorite restaurants was moving through the area, and the blanket spread before us now bears an assortment of scrumptious sights and smells. I pile the plate with some mango pudding, a coconut bun, ice cream, and a banana fritter. Mmm. Theo grins at my hoard.
I raise my eyebrows. “All I know is, Ramadan’s for fasting—and all other occasions are for feasting. Also, do you have any idea how much running I had to do during Ripper’s Revels earlier? Ripper himself was after me! I’ve never played so many back-to-back games.”
“Lightweight.” Tabby grins, chewing on a juicy rib.
Theo leans forward for some jelly and cookies. “Reckon anyone from London will win a place this year?” he asks.
We’ve been chatting about the London Marathon for an hour now.
I shrug. “You never know; we had a lot of northerners participating last year! Imagine . . . traveling through all that water to be here for the event.” I shudder.
Theo fixes his gaze on me. “Leyla, I was thinking . . . maybe you could join us next time we leave the city to—”
I shift, scowling. “Not this again, Theo.”
“Please,” he says. “Mum could make you papers in no time because you’d be traveling with us; no need to wait two years until you’re eighteen.”
I glare at him. “Why do you always have to bring this up? Crossing the borders can get stuffed. I’m not interested in the rest of the country, accept it.” They couldn’t pay me to venture out there in the wild. All the unknown spaces and creatures and endless dangers lurking everywhere. I wrap my arms around myself.
Tabby tilts her head to one side, her eyes narrow. “You can’t avoid leaving London forever, you know. And you’re missing out on so much, Leyla. You need to see all our hotels; the footage doesn’t do them justice. Theo’s got all kinds of tech wizardry going on.”
Vivian Campbell, the twins’ mother, took over the family hotel business after her husband’s untimely death two years ago, when the stretch of tunnel his train was traveling through collapsed. Each hotel is designed to mimic a specific Old World era, furnished in relics and memorabilia of the age. They’ve even become tourist spots in their own right. Theo’s only real interest in the family’s business is the high-tech illusions he lays on for the guests.
“And you’ve missed all my nationwide comps,” Tabby continues, lathering cream and jam onto a scone now. “I’ve another one in Wales, in the new year. Wish you could see me give them a good bashing.”
Tabs is gifted at several martial arts disciplines. I’ve watched her practice and I’m certain I developed sympathy bruis
es each time.
“She’s not kidding.” Theo holds his hands out in front of him as if to protect himself. “She’s been training in here with samurai and ninja warriors. Her opponents are in for a shock. Yesterday she had us battling on board a ship on the Aegean Sea. Apparently we were saving the Roman general Julius Caesar. Those pirates never saw her coming!”
Tabby smooths her hair. “Not one of those gormless gits had the balls to take me on.”
I finish eating and draw my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on them. My hair falls around my legs. “It’s just not my cup of tea.” Better to stick with what you know—always.
It goes quiet. Jojo chews on her tartan dress. She yelps and jumps when Müller, the Campbells’ latest Housekeeper, materializes beside her. He’s wearing only football shorts. He sticks his chest out, flicks back a golden ponytail, and acknowledges me with a wink. I can’t help giggling.
The twins take it in turns choosing a new Housekeeper every few months; all the programming remains the same, just the image and personality change. Tabby’s choices are always funny. Currently it’s a famous German footballer from the ’20s.
Tabby looks Müller up and down and blows him a kiss.
The Housekeeper returns it before addressing her. “Your Highness—”
Theo snorts and we all start giggling now.
“You requested an alert for the viewing of the marathon draw.”
“I did,” Tabby says. “Thank you, Müller, that will be all.”
He flickers out of sight.
“Cease Play,” orders Tabby, and in an instant the Old World vanishes before us.
We’re in the gleaming space of the Holozone, the largest room in the Campbells’ home. The virtual installment was a gift from the twins’ late father for their thirteenth birthdays.
We jump up and remove our sensors and lenses. The siblings tower over me despite only a year between us. As we head to the lounge I spot their mother, and Tabby and Theo go on ahead while I pause to speak to her.
Vivian, a carbon copy of Theo except with shorter hair, tilts her head at me. A sad smile lights up her kind blue eyes. “Stay over, Leyla. You could watch the anniversary commemorations here with us instead of going to that overcrowded pub tomorrow.”
“I’d love to, Viv. Except . . . Papa and I always watch the anniversary broadcast at the pub and even though he won’t be with me this year, I still need to do it. I’m not going home just yet, though. We’re all watching the marathon draw first.”
Vivian nods sympathetically and her eyes dim. “You want to be more careful than ever out there, love. Those beasts wreaked hell in the Faroe Islands last week.” She shakes her head.
I grimace. “I saw that. It was a horrific attack.”
A shadow passes over Vivian’s face. “I simply don’t understand how they dare get so close to our communities.” She shudders and wraps her arms around herself. “Sometimes it seems as if there’s just no hope for us. We were never made for this world. We were created for day and night. Not a perennial darkness. Is it any wonder”—she lowers her voice—“so many suffer from the seasickness. Such hopelessness . . . There’s no cure for that. Meanwhile those horrors are multiplying, breeding like sunfish.”
I tuck my curtain of hair back from my face so I can ensure Tabby is out of earshot. “Viv, please. What if Tabs heard? She’s still recovering. . . .”
Vivian bites her lip and throws a hesitant glance in the direction of the lounging area.
“We might survive that evil,” I continue. “There’s more to living down here than the Anthropoids. We’ve endured a massive change in the planet. And well, I know it’s obviously nothing like living up there, but . . . we’re still alive. I really think that should be the main thing, Viv—the fact that we still are, not where we are.”
Vivian looks at me, uncertainty in her gaze. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re young and so naive to still carry hope in the face of such dispiriting facts. But you mustn’t worry about Tabitha—Theo and I are committed to keeping her spirits up. Don’t take up that burden on top of your own, love. I would never reveal my worries in front of her.” She lets out a long sigh and her shoulders droop. “I’m well aware the seasickness could return any moment and reduce her once again to some shadow of what—”
“Come on, Leyla!” Tabby shouts, beckoning me from the open living space ahead.
Vivian and I turn to see Tabby and Müller dancing together rather suggestively.
“Tabitha!” Vivian admonishes and dismisses the Housekeeper, and we both let out a much-needed laugh.
“Oh, before I forget! Here you go, love.” The twins’ mother produces a tiny vial from her pocket. She leans over, opens the bottle, and pushes the tip to my nose. “Oh, just smell that. Real Old World earth! Not that replica rot they try and fob you off with down at the markets. Happy Christmas, sweetheart.”
I give Vivian her gift. I found a turn-of-the-century garden gnome at the markets several months back. The millennium baroque is her favorite Old World period—she was even recently awarded honorary member of the Millennium Baroque Committee. Despite all its cracks and glued parts, the gnome still cost a small fortune; thankfully I was allowed to pay in installments. I knew she’d love it.
“You know, just sometimes”—her eyes grow wistful and bright as she hugs the gnome—“when I’m able to ignore the waters, it kind of feels as if I’m part of the Old World, you know?” Her Bracelet flashes. “We’ll continue this later, love. It’s wonderful to have you around.” She kisses my forehead and moves to take the call.
I join the twins in the lounge. The Campbells’ home is a sleek and glossy space. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the open-plan living area that alone is larger than our entire boxy flat. Each mansion in the affluent neighborhood is uniquely designed. The pearly smooth sphere of a Maid-bot passes by me and gets to work polishing a cabinet displaying a host of Tabby’s martial arts trophies and awards. My heart flutters; Tabby’s placed her gift from me right in the center of the shelf. The detailed origami model is of a twelve-year-old Tabby dancing with her dad, capturing her most favorite moment with him.
A breath hitches in my throat every time I remember the twins will never see their dad again. I can’t even imagine how that must feel. An unbearable thought.
Theo’s face suddenly lights up. “Your present! I haven’t given it to you yet!”
“Another one? But we’ve already exchanged gifts and you spent hours creating the holographic scene for me.”
He frowns. “Fat lot of good the family scene did. Rotten luck that, the power cutting off when it did.”
I squeeze his arm. “I don’t need to have watched it all to know I loved it. Best present ever!”
Theo dashes off and returns in seconds. “Ta-da!” He holds up a long thin gift.
I unwrap it carefully, not wanting to ruin the lush paper; it would make a perfect origami model. “A brolly! Oh my gosh, thank you, it’s stunning!” The umbrella’s frame is bronze-colored and the fabric purple. “I’ve held one once before, all rusty and broken, when the Royal Preservation Society held an open day. But this is just beautiful.”
“Okay, it’s not a real brolly,” Theo says and winks at me. “It’s—”
“Only a flipping weapon!” Tabby announces, her face gleaming.
My mouth falls open. I’ve never carried a weapon before; I stare at it, shifting around in my seat. A secret weapon. Designed to look like an innocent umbrella. I’m kind of thrilled.
“You can’t be living on your own and not have some sort of self-
defense, Leyla,” Theo says. “I saw Miss Petrov come out of the Tax Office in Civic House twirling a parasol, and it came to me—I could design you a weapon disguised as an accessory! And I know you love the idea of rain. Oh, and that see-through tip is a brilliant light.” He puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s very safe when not activated, so don’t worry. But it’s either this or you move in with us. All right, let�
�s get you familiar with it.”
Within minutes the brolly is adapted to my unique handprint, and I know how to use it. It has an immobilizing spray that I can top up with the thinnest canisters I’ve ever seen, and a tase function that I’m sure I’ll never use. Tiny indented buttons along its length control the different parts. The brolly’s fantastic. Scary, but fantastic. I grin and Theo mirrors it.
I leap into an embrace. “I love it. You’re amazing, Theo. Thank you so much!”
He smiles and waves my words away.
“Marathon Draw!” Tabby shouts just as the screen switches to Elvis, and the corners of my mouth lift instantly.
We all cheer. He’s Papa’s favorite presenter, too. His attempts at the American accent alone are always hilarious. The Black impersonator is at the BBC Studios, wearing a white satin jumpsuit open down to the navel, where it’s cinched with a rhinestone-studded belt. Thick gold-rimmed glasses cover his eyes. He straightens his glittering collar, runs a hand over his glorious pompadour wig, and points at the camera with a brilliant smile.
“Well, hello there, y’all lovely people of Great Britain. Merry Christmas! Of course I’m Elvis, and I’ll be back hosting the 2099 London Submersible Marathon in just two days’ time. Tonight, I present the live draw. So let’s do this, folks. Only three minutes to go. You can watch the upcoming Today’s Terrors of the Deep”—he grimaces at the idea—“or nip to that loo, and grab those drinks and snacks!” He curls his lip to say, “Thank you very much,” and laughs heartily.
Today’s terrors flash on-screen: a cunning current near Ireland that will drag you halfway across the world where blind critters feast for days on your corpse, and a creature that looks like a cross between a mammoth eel and a demon. I shudder and jump up. Not today, thanks.
I make a dash for the loo, then grab a snack for Jojo. When I get back, the draw’s begun. A host of random numbers flash on a grid beside Elvis, changing too fast to read, and once he stops the screen, the highlighted number is matched against a register of all the entrants.
