BioShock Rapture

The sounds of metal creaking were becoming ominously loud …

Bill took a deep breath and then manipulated the arms so that they bent at the nearest joints, angling sharply upward. He forced them hard against the ceiling, just where the water was spraying through. And the leak slackened. It was still coming, but not so fast.

He noted a switch marked Hold and flicked it. The gripper’s arms went rigid, holding in place, but already he could see the mechanical arms shivering, starting to buckle …

Heart thudding, he clambered quickly out, knocking his head against the metal cockpit in his hurry. “Bloody buggerin’ fuck!” Bill grabbed a spanner from a toolbox at the back of the gripper and hurried down the tunnel, splashing through shadow toward the lights, the saltwater above his knees now.

Another squealing sound from behind … the sea was going to crash through and flood the tunnel—damn quick too. But he might have the leak slowed down just enough to see to it Mr. Ryan got to safety. He wasn’t optimistic about his own chances.

Then he was in a lighted area of the tunnel, sloshing as fast as he could around a curve—and seeing a steel doorway up ahead in the recessed arch of a dome entrance. He splashed up to it, almost falling again. No window in this door, no intercom grid. The door was equipped with a wheel that could be used to open it—but he didn’t dare unless they judged it safe. They’d have water-pressure gauges. They’d know better than he would. He couldn’t risk all those lives for his own. He’d brought the spanner to let them know he was here—and used it to bang hard on the door. He heard faint voices on the other side, but couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying. It sounded like an argument.

He looked over his shoulder and saw a wave rushing toward him along the tunnel. That was it, then. He was done for. He’d be toes-up in no time.

But then the door grated within itself and swung open. Water rushed past his knees into the dome. “No!” he shouted. “Close it! No time! Don’t let the water in!”

But strong arms were circling him, Ryan dragging him into the bright lights and human smells of the dome. Bill turned and, with Ryan and Wallace, took hold of the handle on the door, and pulled. The water flow was with them, helping them slam the big metal door shut. They got it closed only a moment before the big wave rushing down the tunnel struck it with a dull booming …

“Good lord but that was close,” Wallace said, panting, as the water receded about their ankles. “Thank God you’re safe, Mr. Ryan!”

Ryan turned to Bill—and then they spontaneously shook hands, grinning at each other. “Don’t thank God, Wallace,” Ryan said. “Thank a man. Thank Bill McDonagh.”

The Lighthouse, Rapture

1947

It was a chilly, breezy early evening as Andrew Ryan stepped off the launch. Ryan gestured for his bodyguards and coxswain to wait in the boat, then turned and climbed the steps of the great lighthouse structure. It was modeled on ancient descriptions of the lighthouse of Alexandria, and it radiated that classical majesty. He paused partway up to take it all in, entranced by the tower, the surface entrance to Rapture.

He had ordained this … This was the manifestation of his will …

WELCOME TO RAPTURE, read the metal letters over the great, round copper-plated Securis door. To either side of the art deco entrance rose streamlined chromium figures of men, statues built into the walls, looking as if they were supporting the building, their elongated, upraised arms straining for the heights.

The door opened as he approached, and Chief Sullivan, smiling, emerged to shake his hand; along with a beaming Greavy; a wryly glum, bearded Simon Wales—and Bill McDonagh, looking a bit stunned. Ryan was glad Bill was here to see this. He had sensed doubts in Bill sometimes—now Bill would see, they’d all see, that the “impossible” was possible.

Wales nodded to Ryan, barely managing a smile. “I think you’ll be pleased, Andrew.” He had a mild Dublin accent. “Sure, we’re nearly there…” The architect wore a pea jacket, a black turtleneck sweater, and black trousers, his round, balding head shiny with perspiration, his bruised-looking eyes gleaming.

They entered the high-ceilinged, hexagonal chamber, like the interior of a particularly grand observatory, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Intricately trimmed, picked out in precious metals, the entryway to Rapture had the spacious marble-and-gold gravitas of a capitol building’s rotunda—exactly as planned. Ryan felt a certain awe, gazing up at himself—at the giant gold bust of Andrew Ryan looking gravely down at whoever entered this place. The expression was stern but not angry. It expressed authority but also objectivity. It gave notice: Rapture would tolerate only the worthy.