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, the 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.
“Happy New Year, Papa,” I whisper to the outside. Hold on. “Happy New Year, baby.” I kiss and hug Jojo.
I turn to Ari, who’s joined me in the viewport. “Happy New Year, Ari.”
A glimmer of warmth flickers across his face. His eyes shimmer briefly, before fading. Pity. He looked so different just then, so much softer.
He stares into space, a grim twist to his mouth. “Your father’s missing,” he says. “Up in the Faroe Islands, in Eysturoy, we’re not free. Death clouds everything we do. We live like prey in hiding. Dodging and defending, never knowing if the day will bring the murderers our way. We’re not protected as you are down here. Tell me, when the people you love are tortured, lost, when their lives are taken by such inhumane means and there’s nothing you can do about it—where’s the happiness in that?”
His voice drips with unmistakable sadness, and I feel a heaviness in my chest. It’s the most he’s revealed about himself since hiding on board. He buries his thoughts and feelings so much. . . . I recall Grandpa’s words: His community was the one attacked. He lost someone close to him during the onslaught.
“Who—who did you lose? Grandpa said you recently lost someone?”
His eyes flit across the water. His gaze grows dark, his voice hesitant, barely audible. “Lance. A friend. He lost his family in an attack last year. He . . . He never hurt anyone in his life. They attacked two weeks ago. Lance died.” There’s an ache in his eyes and voice.
I swallow. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Poor Lance. We will defeat those beasts, you know. The Anthro—”
“There’s no hope.” He swings his gaze back in my direction, his expression unreadable. “For any of us.”
The sheer bitterness and resentment in his voice is hard and uncompromising.
I shake my head. “There’s always hope,” I say quietly. “We can always change things. I’ll finally know the truth when Papa’s with me, what’s really going on. We can fix things and clear his name. And then maybe he can help you somehow? The authorities shouldn’t get away with abandoning you like this. You should have as much protection as we have down here.”
Jojo jumps down from my arms and heads for the Bliss-Pod. Time for bed. I follow to settle her in. “Auld Lang Syne” begins playing on-screen.
“No,” Ari whispers under his breath, his voice deep and rueful as he gazes out. Is he speaking to me? Even blessed with the sharpest hearing, I have to strain to hear him. “No, the truth won’t set you free, Leyla McQueen.”
The certainty in his voice is startling. My insides sink. The sub may as well be descending into the deepest, darkest trench.
He’s wrong.
The truth is always better.
I return to the window. There’s an immovable weight inside threatening to engulf me, drag me down. Somewhere just beneath it is the daring to hope.
I’m on my way. Hopefully one step closer to Papa. I stand still and hold my breath as the M25 passes by below and the craft speeds over the London borders. I blow my cheeks out slowly. We’ve just left the protection and reassurance of the only home I’ve ever known.
The Kabul powers on, beyond.