by London Shah
Fishing is illegal for citizens. It causes too many traffic accidents. Only verified companies are allowed to fish, and stock is sold cheap so nobody is forced to place themselves in danger. But in the forest, anything goes.
The sea life is captivating. From the largest fish that glare through stony eyes, to the tiniest creatures darting around as they investigate the submarine’s lights. Oh my. I’ve never before skimmed the remains of an ancient forest. It’s another world.
I’ll stay hidden as low and for as long as possible, rising to cross the borders when I see my chance.
The sub plows over and through the dense landscape. Dimmed lights can be spotted as vessels lurk farther below for whatever reason. Creatures of all shapes and sizes dip and graze as they move across the swaying plains. Strange long, wormlike animals crawl around the growth, side by side with fish I could swear are ancient insects. More shrub production. Farmers cut at bulky-leaved plants, the razor-sharp contraptions spinning away beneath their subs.
We’re not too far from the northern end of the woodlands now. At last. We’ll maintain this speed at least until we’ve crossed the borders. I lift my shoulders and let them drop, allowing myself a small sigh of relief.
Almost immediately, a robust craft—one of the larger submersibles—rises out of the depths and hovers in the far distance. Directly in the Kabul’s path.
The submarine decelerates.
“No, we mustn’t slow down in the forest.” Ari screws his face up as he peers out.
“I know, but Oscar knows what he’s doing.”
“My dear lady, somebody wishes to communicate with the Kabul. A private vessel.”
A private sub wants to speak to us? What if they ask me what I’m doing here? How on earth would I explain driving this close to the forest? What if my plans are halted now when I’m finally so close to the borders?
Ari’s eyebrows meet, and he folds his arms, his face tight. “Don’t engage anyone. Don’t believe anything they say.”
“Huh?” I stare at him and shake my head. “This is my sub, remember.”
“You can’t trust anyone.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I snap. “Is everyone your enemy?”
“I want to be done with this and return to my family who need me,” he says through gritted teeth.
“At what cost, dammit? It might be a genuine emergency. If it isn’t, we’ll just move on.”
He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, his expression dark; then he swallows and looks away.
I take a deep breath. We must cross the borders tonight, while security forces have their hands full. My gaze wanders to the frameless picture of Papa and me.
I accept the communication request.
The screen fills with not one, but several faces all vying for monitor space.
A small, wild-haired woman at the front jumps up and down so she’ll be visible and a thin man at the back grins nonstop, his mostly toothless mouth all scabby and pus-infected. Shrub addiction.
A bald man clears his throat. “Welcome! Welcome, dear friends, to our simple dwelling in the woods. So nice of you to visit us like this.” He bows with a flourish.
I manage a small smile. “I’m sorry, are you in need of help? I’m in a hurry but stopped in case you need assistance of any kind.”
They all turn to one another, nodding and smiling.
“Must people need urgent help in order to interact, nowadays?” asks the bald man, with a hint of displeasure. “No emergency here. We just fancied a chinwag, that’s all.”
“Oh. I’m afraid I can’t stay. In fact, I have to be on my way right now, otherwise I’ll be late, but it was really kind of you to welcome me like this.” I smile.
They turn to one another, muttering.
“Little girl!” calls out the bald man, who seems to be their spokes-
person. “Come now, don’t be shy; we don’t bite.” They all shake their heads in protest. “We continue the peace-loving tradition of the Old World. We’re the hippies, the legendary ancient tree-huggers, and you’re now in our neighborhood. So follow us and let us all get to know one another.”
The others nod, and someone calls out for them to all have a cup of tea.
The jumping woman is beside herself with enthusiasm. “Put the kettle on! Have a biscuit!” she calls out each time her face fills the screen.
“I love tea,” I begin, and they cheer. “But I have to go now. Maybe another time?”
They pull long faces.
“She has to go? But where’s she going?” The toothless man turns to a round, red-haired woman at the back. “She’s not intending to cross the borders, is she? It’s suicide!”
The red-haired woman wags her finger at me. Her voice is firm, her accent broad. “You don’ wanna be doing that, love. There’s crazies out there. I’ve seen it meself. You wanna be careful.” She looks aghast and the bald man puts an arm around her.
“Our Laura knows what she’s talking about, she’s been to the other side,” he says. There’s a collective intake of breath as the group allows the fact to sink in. “Laura’s one of the lucky ones. Nobody else from our family ever came back.” His voice is loud and bitter now.
“The other side! The other side!” chants the small woman every time her face is visible.
“Thank you. I appreciate all the warnings, I really do.” I nod. “But I’ll be all right. I—”
“Oh, you’ll ‘be all right,’ will you?” the spokesman says with a slight sneer. “So you’ll ‘be all right’ when you meet one of the countless extremist groups—”
“Scary bunch,” the toothless one interrupts, shuddering and wiping some pus at the corner of his mouth. “We only just dodged those nutters, Flesh Forward, the other day. Can you believe that? Human beings sinking so low as to start worshipping those beasts? A ‘powerful and magnificent species,’ that woman called the Anthropoids. No point resisting them, she insisted—said we should all join them in acknowledging their superiority over us, become willing subjects. The world’s gone barking mad.” He starts muttering to himself.
“And there’s the escapees from Broadmoor.” Sadness breaks through the red-haired woman’s expression. “And believe me, love, you really don’t want to bump into one of them after what those poor folk have been put through in that excuse for a prison.”
“The Anthropoids! The Anthropoids!” the tiny woman chants with each bounce.
Everyone, including me, falls silent. I made a mistake; I shouldn’t have stopped for them. Tabs was right about the forest.
The jumping woman, who’s still now, so only a few disheveled hairs on her head are visible on-screen, mutters, “An abomination . . . abomination . . .”
I clear my throat. “They’re mostly only rumors. Like this ‘Broadmoor’; there isn’t really a top secret torture prison—” Ari turns to me, and the bald man also makes to speak, but I press on, forcing my voice to sound certain. “It’s a lot of scaremongering, that’s all. I do have to go now, but thank you for the invitation and your concerns. I’ll be seriously careful.”
The rest of the group looks sad, but they nod with understanding. The spokesman, however, tsk-tsks and his face tightens. “You think you’re too good for traditions, don’t you, missy? Getting all high ’n’ mighty and—”
Enough. I end communication and instruct Oscar to continue with our journey, and try my best to avoid Ari’s now irritated stare. Moving on proves difficult, though.
The group blocks our path. Whichever way the submarine turns, they drive right in front of it, preventing us from speeding off. The sub could simply continue, but these people might be hurt if they don’t move out of the way. And above us is border patrol.
Ari’s expression is unyielding. “Why not fire a warning shot?”
“Look, can you please just stop?”
Reluctantly, I contact the insistent craft again. The spokesman folds his arms and gives a slight smirk and knowing nod. “Changed your mind, love? Follow us
.”
I purse my mouth. “Do you think this is ‘peace-loving’?”
His eyes narrow. “Just maintaining traditions. Someone has to.”
“Don’t manipulate the memories of those gone before us. Stop using them like this.”
His face hardens. I stick my chin out. The others look uncertain and even shrug apologetically behind him.
The thin man wipes his mouth, his eyes wide. “Oh, you’ve gone and done it now, lassie. You best be off right away. No backchat allowed, I’m afraid, nope.” He glances hesitantly in the bald man’s direction.
The spokesman shoots him a seething look back, scanning the group questioningly, before folding his arms and sneering my way. “Listen. You can’t—”
“Enough. Be on your way.” Ari moves beside me. His breathing is fast, his nostrils flared. His voice is dangerously low as he bares his teeth at them. “You have exactly one minute, or we fire on you.”
I nod along with his words, though I’m not too sure about the firing bit.
Papa’s gaunt face flashes before me; the hunger he silently endured so I’d have enough to eat. Shame on me. Wasting time here when I should be moving forward. I take a deep breath. So close now. I check the time. Has it really only been hours since I left the hangar? I could’ve sworn it’s been several days.
The spokesman shakes his head. “Oh, you’re going to regret threatening us, missy! Prepare to—”
I instinctively end communication. “Oscar. Defense mode on and rise now.”
As I suspected, the water immediately fills with firepower. Thankfully it’s old and weak.
Ari’s beside me by the window. “Why aren’t we returning fire?” He shakes his head and places his hands on his hips. “And we’re rising? What about border police?”
“We’re far bigger and stronger; we can get away without hurting them or damaging their craft. Besides, apart from their spokesperson, the group is actually well-meaning. And we’ve no other choice now but to ascend. Down here we have all sorts of obstacles. At least up there we only have the one. It’s time to rise up out of this—this strangeness and risk border patrol in the clearer waters. Better what you know, always. And we’re very close now anyway, won’t be for too long. We should be all right.” I chew on my lip.
Ari watches me. His hooded gaze—fringed by long dark lashes—is conflicted. Seeking something. What? He swings his attention back to the water, running his fingers through his hair. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he asks quietly.
Huh? I blink at his question.
He waves his hand. “You could have ignored them. Forced them out of the way!”
“Why would I do such a thing?” I snap.
He shakes his head and clamps his jaw. I fold my arms as I peer into the water coursing around the viewport. The submersible is still doing its best to block the Kabul from rising. They risk everything hovering above in its path. I order the sub to keep ascending.
Reluctant to test the higher, turbulent waters, the craft eventually drops back. I scan for border patrol. Not only is Epping Forest not a designated
border-crossing point, but also no crossing is permitted for twenty-four hours. We press on.
We’re now at the forest’s northern tip. The Bell Common Tunnel will soon be beneath us and once we cross over it, we’ll be out of London. Finally.
I pace the floor. “Keep going, Oscar.”
Then, most frustratingly, my entire body trembles. I gulp for air, stumbling back.
Ari’s beside me in an instant.
My insides quiver. The room goes funny, moving around me. The space sucks me in.
His brow creases. “What is it?”
I gesture to indicate that I’m all right and make my way to the sofa. Slumping down, I concentrate on my breathing. He stands beside me, staring, his thick eyebrows drawn.
“I’m fine,” I insist, but he stays put. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine in a minute.” Except there’s such a weight on my chest, it will crush me, surely.
I’m leaving London.
Everything familiar, everything I’ve ever known, will be behind me. Everyone was right. I know nothing about what’s out there. Anthropoids on the rampage, random security checks, and strange people who at the very least could halt my search for Papa. Who the hell am I kidding, thinking I can do this?
My chest aches. I take deep breaths. “Oscar, maintain speed.”
I grab my bag and rummage through it before emptying the contents onto the floor: sweets, tiny gadgets of all kinds, the odd paper model, miniature emergency kits. And handmade maps. The few I made especially small so I could always carry them around. They comfort me when I need it. I open one up, staring at it.
I close my eyes. All the maps I’ve created over the years, far too many to recall. Papa always marveling at them, trying to provide whatever I need so I can indulge. The excitement of making one . . . The thrill of discovery and pinning the exact location down. I love making them.
I frown as I open my eyes. The idea of exploring is exciting. Definitely terrifying beyond belief, too, but there’s no doubt about it—I’ve also always found it thrilling.
Ari kneels beside me, his eyes narrowed as he checks the maps. “You made these?”
I nod.
“Why? Why would somebody who’s spent her life afraid of leaving London—”
My face burns. Why did Grandpa have to tell him that?
“Of ever crossing the borders,” he continues. “Why would she make maps? Maps not only of London, but the whole country?”
There are gold specks in his questioning eyes. Dark stubble covers his chiseled jaw; his face is quite perfect, really. . . .
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“You were right,” he continues. “You’re stronger than you look. Your grandfather asked me to keep you safe. But not because you are weak. It’s because they will do whatever they have to, to achieve what they desire. You are not safe around them.”
I straighten. “I won’t be safe again until I’m back with my papa.”
I suddenly realize the time and command the screen on. Prime Minister Gladstone’s making a statement. He looks as if he hasn’t slept for weeks.
“. . . And so despite the vicious and cowardly assault on the Brighton Pier resort, the traditional New Year celebrations and annual fireworks display in London will go ahead in defiance of the Anthropoids, and in memory of all those murdered today,” the PM says. “The twenty-second century will see humankind regain their rightful place on the surface, and as such, at this momentous point in time, Britons will not cower in the face of terror.”
The PM smiles, his face softening. “And now, a gift to all Britons, in honor of a new century dawning.” Edmund Gladstone clears his throat and looks straight at the camera. “My fellow Britons, I give you Operation Renaissance—my promise to you.”
The camera cuts to a huge mahogany table. A miniature model sits in its center. The PM’s voice carries over. “This really is the future. We are one step closer.”
The replica model is of 10 Downing Street—the headquarters of the government—but without its supporting titanium columns. Instead, Number 10 floats on the surface of the water. Facilities and transport infrastructure surround the miniature government building. The camera cuts back to the PM.
“Operation Renaissance is my belief in our brave and industrious Explorers who are working zealously to ensure we are close to returning home. Furthermore, a new batch of surface drones have been released; drones able to travel higher and farther than ever before. They’ll soon have a thorough understanding of the ever-changing climate above and what it holds in store for us. Operation Renaissance is top priority alongside the usual: historians, preservation, Explorers, defense. It will not be long before we are on our way to living once more like the species we were—magnificent, advanced, and civilized. Not some scavengers cowering in the abyss.”
“Marvelous, quite marvelous.” Lord Maxwell, t
he chief historian, is sitting beside him rubbing his hands together and nodding vigorously. “At long last a tremendous wrong shall be righted. And, as chief historian, might I add how this very moment right here shall one day go down in the annals of history.”
“Indeed, Lord Maxwell.” Prime Minister Gladstone nods, his eyes shining. “We are human beings—Britons to boot. Once upon a time we ruled these very same waves that now take countless British lives. We must never give up on what we were.”
If Explorers are really close to finding a way for us to survive on the surface, what would that mean for Papa?
The PM stands and walks over to a war table. “May I present the Battle of Trafalgar, 1805. A magnificent British naval victory of the Napoleonic Wars over France. That’s who we were, and that’s what we’ll return to. A species to behold. We were conquerors. We won’t be conquered by this deep darkness, and any evil that lurks within—not on my watch.”
A few more words, and finally the prime minister is done. “No past, no future.”
“No past, no future,” the officials around him echo, and the national crest ends the broadcast. Captain Sebastian wasn’t among them.
The countdown to the New Year starts on-screen.
I scoop Jojo up and stand by the tip of my submarine, staring into the liquid void. I rub my temples; instead of feeling soothed, I’m just irritated by the PM’s words. What have his men done with my papa? How can we enjoy returning to the surface when our loved ones are missing?
The submarine rises even higher. The Kabul begins crossing over the Bell Common Tunnel. At last.
I hug Jojo close as 2100 chimes in. A new era has arrived. The twenty-
second century. The future. It will bring change, inshallah. It has to.
The usual official laser light shows begin on-screen. Beams stretch and pulse through the water by the old Thames riverbank and in Edinburgh. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always watched the New Year’s firework display on the communications wall as it beams live around Great Britain.
