The Light at the Bottom of the World

by London Shah

  “Nobody we know!” Theo says, just as I’m about to ask.

  Only one hundred names will be drawn. The odds of knowing a contender personally are tiny, but there was Jack Taylor two years ago. I try not to think about what happened to him.

  The Campbells’ Butler comes in with drinks. The robot’s red “eyes” take in my presence, and he greets me with a nod. I relax as I sip my drink and get swept up in the draw.

  Elvis calls out name after name, impersonating the original twentieth-

  century artist when he can. Before we know it, we’re almost done. He checks his latest number against the register, and we see the name just before he announces. “Entrant number ninety-four, Camilla Maxwell!”

  The room erupts. “We know her!” we all shout at once.

  We cheer the place down and message Camilla to congratulate her as Elvis draws the remaining names until finally, all one hundred contestants have been selected. The presenter breaks into song and dance, swiveling his hips. We turn to each other in celebration, drinking and analyzing the results.

  I try not to let the disappointment get the better of me. It was always a small shot anyway.

  “Can’t believe Camilla will be taking part!” Theo says.

  Tabby waggles her eyebrows. “Amazing how the chief historian’s daughter’s name is drawn the first year she ever enters, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, grinning. “Anyway, the media’s going to go absolutely barmy! Camilla will be the marathon’s perfect, shining star this year, just you watch. She’ll hate the attention, poor thing. Argh, so exciting! Only two days—”

  “Well, y’all are the luckiest folk around because everyone’s back in the game!” Elvis’s voice suddenly booms over our own, though with less verve than it normally carries.

  We pause and turn to the screen.

  “That’s right, folks, the final draw will be repeated!” His expression then turns uncharacteristically somber. “Fellow Britons, in the true spirit of the Marathon Committee’s pledge for full transparency, I can explain the disregard for the previous draw for hundredth place. It transpires the entrant has, in the time since applying for this most prestigious of Great Britain’s sporting events, been identified as an Anthropoid—and dealt with accordingly. There is no cause for alarm, and today is a day for national celebration, y’all!”

  My stomach churns, heavy, and from the looks on the twins’ faces they feel the same way. If an Anthropoid managed to dupe the registration process, then we’re not as safe as we think. . . . We’re still vastly underestimating their cunning.

  Anticipating viewers’ concerns and a dip in excitement, Elvis cuts to a live statement from the committee’s director, Mariam Khan, who reassures everyone this situation will never be repeated. The broadcast then replays several of the marathon’s promotional clips. The presenter returns and with much flourish is soon preparing to once more select the final lucky entrant.

  Tabby folds her arms. “How dare those beasts try it, though.”

  “Bloody hell.” Theo shakes his head. “But at least they caught its identity in time! And Elvis is spot on—let’s not give them the satisfaction of ruining the draw for us.”

  “True,” Tabby says. “And, Leyla, you absolutely have to watch the marathon here with us!”

  “Promise I will. Least we’ll all be rooting for the same person this year!” I say, checking the time. Jojo’s looking a little tired; it’s late and her Bliss-Pod’s at home, too large to fit into the sub. “Tabs, I’ll need to start thinking about heading back soon.”

  “Aw, stay longer, Leyla. And at least let Jojo stay over if you’re not going to. You’ll be back around here tomorrow anyway. There’s a—”

  “Leyla Fairoza McQueen!” Elvis says.

  We all look at one another. Silence. I shake my head, frowning.

  Theo’s mouth falls open. He turns to the screen. “Rewind. Stop. Play.”

  Elvis grins as he plays out the now much-hyped redraw for the last, coveted place. “And last of all, folks—it’s now or never—entrant number one hundred is . . . Leyla Fairoza McQueen!”

  The silence in the room continues for another three seconds.

  And then we scream. It can’t be! We jump up and down. And shout. I feel hot. The twins’ pale faces are flushed with color. I can’t believe it. I can’t think clearly.

  It was my first ever entry as I only turned sixteen a few months ago. Nobody ever really expects to win a place!

  Elvis is reading out instructions to the chosen contenders, but I’ll have to rewatch it later. My Bracelet flashes: congrats from an ecstatic Camilla, and then a message from the Marathon Committee. I must register with them at Westminster in the morning. They’ll need to carry out further health and vehicle checks, in order to complete the full registration.

  Contenders always talk about this moment, and it’s true—it’s so utterly surreal. The mere two days between the draw and the race itself is meant to add to the thrill, but I can’t even think straight! With the odds against getting picked, many entrants hardly practice once they’ve entered. Others have a whole timetable for training, though—even enlisting professional help. Thank goodness for my weekly sprints. But still, we’re talking a whole obstacle course. . . .

  Oh my God, I’ll finally be able to pay some bills and come up to date with my installments toward the Explorers Fund!

  “Tabs,” I whisper. “Erm, your car. Is it all right to—”

  Tabby rolls her eyes. “Don’t be daft! I’d be honored if you drove it in the marathon! Good job you’ve had some practice in it, you need something you’re really familiar with.”

  “Thank you so much. Oh my God . . .”

  We all scream and jump up and down again. My Bracelet won’t stop flashing now—congratulatory messages from acquaintances and distant family members in Tokyo, Pretoria, Berlin, Kabul, and New York.

  Grandpa’s left a very worried message, his voice small. I move to a quieter corner and message him back. “Please try and not worry, Gramps. I know it will be hard, and that it’s a challenging and difficult course. But there’ll be tons of safety measures in place, and I’ll be all right. Speak to you soon. Please stop worrying!”

  Tabby beckons me over, her eyes and mouth wide. “Don’t forget, the prizes are mega! I know it’s a tough one—the toughest, but if you could somehow rank in the top five, you’d nab yourself a brilliant prize, Leyla! They’re always—” She stops as the screen catches her eye, and she lights up. Theo and I both turn to see and groan.

  It’s Finlay Scott, the last London Marathon champion, drinking champagne, surrounded by adoring fans. He congratulates the contenders and wishes them well.

  “Remember,” he says, tipping his glass. “Whatever your heart desires . . .”

  I catch my breath. Suddenly every sound around me is drowned out and heat spreads from my chest to my face. Just like that, there’s a shifting of the tides.

  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 compl
eted 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!”

  Loud voices carry over from a group of teens, all Keep Great Britain Tidy volunteers, sitting a few booths down. A teenage girl with a map of the Old World tattooed on her head really doesn’t like the latest boy band; she’s “old school and proud,” she tells the rest, only listening to music from the ’60s–’80s.

  On-screen, footage now switches to computerized graphics. I tense. The asteroid hits Earth. It’s as good as the end of the world. Billions die instantly. Continental shifts occur. All the water previously held in deep subterranean reservoirs is released at an alarming rate. Soon the entire planet is submerged. Only 10 percent of Britons survive the disaster.

  It’s always very difficult to watch, no matter how many times you see it.

  In the corner of the room, children listen, enthralled, as adults read them tales of magical outdoor adventures the Old World kids got up to. Elsewhere, there’s a kerfuffle and a disgruntled voice rises. I whirl to look as security moves in on a booth and shuffles an inebriated man away.

  A passing woman shakes her head at the drunken man’s antics. “No manners anymore . . . Not like the good Old World days when they used to—”

  An ominous sound, like a very loud and long foghorn, resonates around the pub. It repeats three times. The room hushes. A dart falls short of the board, hitting the floor.

  I stand along with everyone else. All around Great Britain, everyone will be observing the three minutes of silence in honor of the billions of people who didn’t survive the global disaster. I watch the screens, the horrific pictures. Utter destruction that led to the catastrophic loss of human, animal, and plant life around the world.

  Leaving an entirely different
planet in its wake.

  The silence ends with a repeat of the horn. There’s a shot of Prime Ministerial Sub One as it hovers beside the Memorial Tree at Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens in Regent’s Park.

  King George VIII was the last royal to broadcast on the anniversary. Since his death, the royal family has become much quieter, issuing a commemorative statement instead.

  The Prime Minister, Edmund Gladstone, his face heavy and shadows under his warm green eyes, addresses the nation. “The past must be remembered,” he expounds. “It must be kept alive. The past is the only torch guiding us forward out of this darkness. This hell.” His expression darkens. “You will have heard by now of the terrorist attack last week in the Faroe Islands. A particularly brutal onslaught that cost many lives. I won’t stand idly by and watch as our species dies out. I swore to protect you all, and by God I’m going to.” He looks distraught.

  The official to the PM’s left shifts in his seat. His always stern expression hardens further. I shudder. Captain Sebastian, the principal private secretary to the prime minister—or his right-hand man—always appears as if there’s no escaping his scrutinizing gaze. He reminds me of the cunning seadevil—an anglerfish I once saw on Today’s Terrors of the Deep.

  The PM’s face hardens. “This—this amphibian alien must be eradicated. Their creation remains one of the biggest mistakes in preparation for the floods. How shortsighted and irresponsible for the Old World scientists to expect two hundred unnaturally created beings to actually aid us post-disaster. Thirty-five. Thirty-five scientists and technicians lost their lives that day, brutally mutilated, tortured, and murdered, when those monsters freed themselves and escaped the laboratories. And we have been paying for their existence ever since. Far too many of us have lived through the same devastating loss at the hands of the Anthropoids. . . .”

  The screen switches to footage of the Memorial Fountain in

  Kensington Gardens. The inscription on the fountain’s plaque is distinct: In memory of Eva and Winston Gladstone, beloved sister and darling nephew, sleep peacefully, Edmund Gladstone 2087. They suffered considerably. Anthropoids never attack without causing maximum pain.