My vehicle spins. I grit my teeth and focus on controlling the wings to counter the force. At last the craft is stabilized. I blow my cheeks out and peer at the other sub.
It’s a regal-looking car, an ornate cream affair resembling a Victorian carriage. It hovers in the water, not going anywhere.
Camilla Maxwell sits still inside her stately submersible. I squint; why isn’t she racing? Why is she hovering here? And right on the corner, too. Someone will be hurt if she doesn’t move! I flash my lights. Well, go on then, quick as you can. The chief historian’s daughter shakes her head. I peer closer, taking in her expression. Oh.
When the fear takes over, it paralyzes you. I know this feeling.
Camilla’s moment of dread could lead to something terrible if she doesn’t move out of the way, though. I check the time, stamping my feet. Sod it—there’s only one thing to do. I turn to face the carriage-like craft from the side and tuck the wings away. Look lively.
I charge forward and ram the horrified girl’s car.
“You have to move, and make it dead quick. I need to get going!”
I hit the decorative sub again and Camilla reacts, throwing her hands up. She turns her ornate sub around. A Newsbot is ecstatic, darting around as it catches it all.
“All right,” Elvis says. “There’s no giving up around number one hundred—Miss McQueen’s having none of that. Thanks to her swift actions there, number ninety-four seems to have overcome her wet feet and is back in the race. The daughter of our esteemed chief historian, y’all.”
I race on, shooting past Camilla. Hopefully she’ll be all right for the rest of the race. Damn the fear to hell. I know that cursed dread so well.
Focus. I speed through Holborn’s wide streets and above empty squares. Better to risk further menaces down here than to rise again. I narrow my eyes at the commotion ahead as I pass a group of subs. A rescue mission is taking place. Emergency teams are at the scene, the Newsbots buzzing around in the flashing lights. A hefty breakdown submersible pulls the impaired vehicle along. It’s the large, eel-like sub that nose-dived into the race right at the start. The devastated driver sits weeping inside.
“And that’s the third of the many planned disruptions, folks, and as you know, a favorite staple of the race—as number eighteen just found out. And number seventy-one is now struggling at the back. Watch out for those system flares, y’all, they’ll stall ya!”
Lights flash to my left. The congregation of residents from Chancery Lane observes from the roof of their lengthy apartment block, the bright barriers glimmering all around them.
Ahead, two submersibles block each other’s progress. The translucent Underground tunnel beneath them stands several meters off the floor. I suck in my breath and dive below it. Soaring back up, I race over the dome of the legendary Old Bailey.
A silver submersible beside me flashes its lights. Inside is the irritating Sal, indicating I drop behind. Nice try. I continue on. The vessel comes threateningly near; any closer and I’ll have to fall behind, simply to avoid contact. I hold my position, though, as we both race on and give no indication of letting up. A Newsbot loves it. The tiny 360-degree eye on top of the sphere whirls and spins away, a red light on its body flashing as it captures our every move. Just when I’m considering giving in so I can avoid a mishap, two more Newsbots drift close to capture the action and Sal immediately checks herself. After offering a menacing stare and offensive gesture she swiftly moves away, the news stations on her tail.
Residents of homes along the route are pressed to their windows in the hopes of seeing some of the action. Colorful lights flash inside the rooms, and figures move around the spaces—marathon parties. I rise higher.
“There goes the devilishly scarlet number one hundred. What do you reckon, folks, will the glossy red prove its driver her good luck charm?” Elvis sings, then chuckles. “Send in those thoughts, now!”
Other cars are visible here and there, each contestant battling the route. The Bank of England, a ruin of crumbling stone walls and columns, whooshes past beneath.
The route winds through Whitechapel. Playing Ripper’s Revels in the Holozone with the twins on Christmas Day seems like ages ago.
“And that’s another two contestants out of the race, numbers three and forty-four. Don’t underestimate those challenges, y’all! Well, folks, we’re being inundated with special mentions and requests to hear me sing.” Elvis sounds ecstatic. “But it’s the London Marathon, people—priorities! Oh, okay, perhaps a very quick line for all you fine folk out there, but then that’s it, y’all.” The commentator clears his throat to offer a short chorus, sighing afterward. “And that was straight from my heart to yours, know what I’m saying?”
I can’t help but grin; he’s totally barmy and utterly ace.
The water is murkier now. I race through as fast as I dare, and traffic decreases as I pass car after car.
Tower Bridge—finally. I allow myself a tiny sense of relief. I’ve made it this far, and from here on the route heads back west again.
I check the HUD as I begin crossing the length of the bridge. Within seconds a huge pressure materializes behind me, startling me. What the hell? It pushes me in all directions, trying to force me out of the boundary lines. A car in front swerves all over the place until the driver loses control, spinning into the boundaries.
It’s some kind of wave simulator. I’ve felt a similar force before, at Brighton Pier. The beach resort has a wave machine, generating waves in all directions, allowing the fake sea to appear more realistic.
The waves on the bridge lash at the screen, making it almost impossible to see. I have to stay in control. The onboard computer will come through for me. Halfway along the bridge now. Bots appear on both sides, firing the dreaded flares. I focus on keeping my balance as I dodge the challenges. Careening off course is costly. Steady. Another car hits the boundaries. Almost there. The waves are strong. The craft lurches with the force. My neck aches. At last, I reach the other side.
“All riiight. And in record time!” Elvis’s voice is full of admiration. He reads messages of support coming in, including “I want that raven-haired rocket’s number!” The commentator breaks off to focus on an altercation between several cars that have crashed out of the barriers near the back.
At London Bridge, contenders whiz by way too close to each other, really taking risks now. A pearly-bronze car, designed to resemble some kind of wildcat and complete with raised paws, veers perilously close to me to avoid a conger eel caught in its path. I cry out, swerving to avoid it, when out of nowhere, a system flare hits me full on. I freeze.
How can anything be so red? The color floods the car as it holds the vehicle in its grip. I twist in the seat, blinking rapidly, before taking a deep breath and gathering my thoughts.
I shouldn’t panic. It’s only a flare and it’ll soon wear off. While it’s active, though, it will render the onboard equipment almost useless. I’m basically stuck here until its effects fade, and the most I can do is hover. I groan, hitting the seat. Several cars race by.
After what seems like an age, the effects of the flare clear. I check the controls to confirm: All systems are back online. I thrust the sub forward and continue on to London Bridge before anything else slows me down. Finally. I speed through the route, careening past faint rail tracks before rising another fifty feet and heading toward Covent Garden. Steering through a group of contestants, I zoom over Somerset House and the rustic cages of ancient transport settled in its square below.