Spectators flash their lights and spin their vehicles around, having a smashing time. Several queue by submarines that hover far above us where refreshments and sub-battery top-ups are available throughout the event. I hurtle through the route as fast as I dare, speeding over the enormous pile of debris and ruin lying opposite the old Royal Opera House. One of its algae-covered columns buckled recently, the familiar fluorescent warning beams flashing away.
A sub on my tail is getting too close. Ugh. It’s the annoying Sal in her silver vessel again. And the vehicles directly ahead mean I can’t yet move out of her way. She swerves alongside me, and this time she’s far more determined to cause trouble. She tilts her craft’s wing, and her vessel edges toward mine, forcing me closer and closer to the sharp blue lasers of the marathon boundaries. Oh hell. If I set them off, I’ll incur the gravest penalty of the race, and at this stage I’d never recover time-wise. I try to call her bluff and move closer to her myself but only make matters worse. She’s not budging. It’s impossible to overtake the vessel in front; there’s just not enough room now, and I could hit the boundaries trying. Argh! What to do?
A group of bots appears out of nowhere, firing at us.
I instinctively duck down in reverse until I’m out of firing range, then pause to check the situation. I managed to dodge them! As I peer up at Sal’s sub, it takes a hit. Immediately a net snares the silver vehicle. They will let it go, eventually. But instead of waiting it out, Sal fires on the bots. A bright neon substance shoots from her car. As soon as it hits the contraptions, they’re useless. One by one the bots release the net as they succumb to the liquid. Uh-oh.
Despite the inspections for any illegal modifications to racing cars, someone always tries getting away with something. Within seconds, security submersibles are at the scene, escorting her away—an instant disqualification. I pass by and Sal is furious. She beats her fists against the cockpit. The nearest spectators love it, flashing their lights with joy.
Elvis tsk-tsks. “You sure as hell won’t succeed if you can’t conquer that water-rage, y’all. No destroying the distractions, folks. Don’t be cruel. . . .”
Leicester Square, with its array of vast domes providing entertainment and escape, proves largely obstacle-free. An army of tiny spirally bots is on the warpath, but there are many targets. I remember them from the last marathon and dip lower. The closer to the seabed you are, the less likely these particular bots are to follow you, preferring to remain in the chaotic heart of the race. I rise again, focusing straight ahead of me, my mouth pursed. I dodge and swerve my way through the old junction of Piccadilly Circus.
Westminster is cloaked in shadows caused by the naval submarines overhead. I speed around 10 Downing Street—the headquarters of the government—as passing above the sprawling dome is strictly forbidden, and zoom past the desolate but lit-up Houses of Parliament. As I approach Westminster Abbey I have to dodge several increasingly agitated contestants near the ancient church.
Flares and irritating mechanical traps swarm the area around
Buckingham Palace. Camouflaged bots hide among the plant life and rusted metal of the former royal palace gates that twist in every direction, clinging to the stone-and-seaweed walls of the palace itself. I hold my nerve, evading the challenges and zooming over and onward.
Past the old moss-carpeted Harrods store in Knightsbridge now.
I zoom over the ancient Victoria and Albert Museum, pressing on until at last I enter Kensington Gardens.
After some shoving and scrambling with another contestant who tries and fails to intimidate me into letting him overtake me, I arrive at the Peter Pan statue. Ghostly holograms appear in the water. My mouth curves into a smile.
The children are having fun. Several are playing cricket, some hold hands in a circle as they sing, and others skip or sit smiling as they pick flowers. The children appear so happy and at home in the water. It’s heartening. Careful. It’s a cunningly placed diversion, meant for those easily distracted. Like me. I move on past the projections, over Hyde Park, and on to the once-triumphal structure of Marble Arch. My palms are getting sweaty, my pulse quickening.
Crowds watch on Oxford Street to my right. Teams of flatfish are visible in the lights of the observing vehicles as they forage among the boulders and stone.
“All riiight, people, and we arrive at the spot where Finlay Scott came into his own last year, refusing to be intimidated. Many contestants have made it this far, only to panic here. Who will shine, who will crumble? Time to see exactly what our contestants are made of. Oh, the wonder of youuuuu.” He sings and laughs heartily.
I gulp greedily for air. I need to relax. The first few vehicles to make it this far are now seriously aggressive. I swerve as a circular golden-colored sub passes way too close to me, determined to get ahead at all cost. The route is narrower here than at any other point in the race. This is where I’d intended on breaking away. I jerk the sub left and right, but the contestants block one another’s every attempt to outdistance the rest. The water above me is just as busy. I eye the traffic. Can I do it?
I flip over and dive low—very low. Moving forward, I peer through the dome to ensure enough distance between the seabed and myself. Keep going. Skimming the floor by a hairbreadth, I dart past the cars, before turning the vehicle right again. Yes. Running the thruster at full speed, I catapult the sub onward.
“What a maneuver from Miss McQueen!” Elvis exclaims. “Aaaand several more messages of support coming in for Leyla McQueen now, including ‘We love you’ and ‘You go, raven rocket!’ Well, the contestants are sure gonna need all the good vibes you can muster—things are really heating up out there now, folks!”
Baker Street. The end is so close now. From here on it’s a straight race to the finishing line back at Regent’s Park. I wipe my palms on my legs and take longer, deeper breaths. I can’t make any mistakes.
Within seconds I pull ahead of the gold car that surpassed me earlier. At last I’m in the park, approaching the Memorial Tree that stands right in the center of the boundaries. The board in the distance has a huge zero lit up; nobody’s passed the finishing line yet. . . .
Contestants are forbidden from passing over the symbolic Memorial Tree. I crane my neck to plan the best route around it and notice the car beside me. Damn. The number fifty-seven sub is plain at the front, with its rear resembling a Roman chariot. Two decorative wheels cling to its sides. It aims to approach the tree from the left. Fine, I’ll pass it from the right. Oh hell. Several heavyweight bots lie in wait to the tree’s right. I recognize their design and function from the last race. They trap you in unforgiving time-costly nets. Left it is, then.
As I race on, aiming for between the tree and the other car, number fifty-seven also speeds up, leaning in sharply now.
If it continues to tilt at the current angle, it will hit me.
“Well, folks, what’s gonna happen? Is number fifty-seven—a Mr. Paul Martin—really willing to risk a potentially fatal collision? At that angle a hit would damage their chances more than number one hundred’s. In fact it would be disastrous for number fifty-seven. Reckless! Exactly what are these two willing to do to win the London Submersible Marathon?”
I keep a constant watch out for the car racing on my left. I thrust forward with everything I have, startling a shoal of glimmering sardines that split around the vehicle. Hurtling through the weighty current, my gaze constantly switches between the path ahead and the car careening in my direction from the left. The chariot sub needs to fall back. Or alter their angle. There’s no escape. The car speeding toward my own is guaranteeing a horrific crash. On the edge of my vision, somewhere to my right, I register movement in the distant water—a bulky fish, drawing near, I think—but thankfully Elvis’s voice keeps me focused on my immediate danger.