BioShock Rapture

“And this great megalith of a man,” said Cohen, tilting his head rakishly at the big guy on his right, “is Mister Martin Finnegan.” Finnegan was a mustached, surly-looking man, his height accentuated by the hair piled on top of his head. He seemed both grimly masculine and vaguely effeminate at once. “Martin worked backstage at the theater on Broadway where I performed my Young Dandies … if you needed a stout heart to pull a curtain rope, he was your man. Has quite a grip. But he’s an actor himself. The next Errol Flynn, eh Martin?”

“And why the hell not?” Finnegan growled. “I can act as well as that bastard from … Where the hell is Flynn from—he’s no Irishman, is he?”

Cohen waved dismissively. “Errol’s from Australia or Tasmania, some such place. Oh, few successful actors can act. They’re simply lit well and have nice muscle tone. A lovely profile. Oh! What was that!” Cohen ducked his head as a bee flew by. “Was that an insect? An insect here in Rapture! I thought I was free of insects here!”

“Just a harmless little bee,” Julie said. “Need ’em for the flowers.”

“Shuddersome things. Vile. Might walk on me. Might sting me. I detest nature. It won’t obey! It cannot be … organized. Can one stage nature? No! Nature should be conquered, forced to submit! How ruggedly handsome you look today, Bill. Won’t you come to the Kashmir with us, split a few bottles of wine, eh?”

“Bill! Bill!”

Bill turned to see Roland Wallace trotting up, face red, all out of breath.

“What’s afoot, Roland? Twice today I had a chance to say that. Love to say it.”

Wallace came to a stop, bent over, hands on his knees, puffing. “Bill—emergency! In Hephaestus—flooding! Looks like it might’ve been sabotage. Someone did this on purpose, Bill. Someone’s trying to kill us all…”

Kashmir Restaurant, Rapture

1955

Ryan held court over the dinner table. Joining him this evening were Diane McClintock; the engineer Anton Kinkaide; Anna Culpepper, thinking herself arty in a blue beret; Garris Fisher—a top executive working for Fontaine Futuristics—and Sullivan. Karlosky was about thirty paces away, keeping security watch in the restaurant’s anteroom. Karlosky was fed, as part of the job—but no vodka, not here. The Russian could sometimes be trigger happy, especially after a vodka or three. Once in New York, Karlosky had shot a cab driver who’d had the temerity to scrape the limousine’s shiny fender. Ryan had to pay a pretty bribe to keep Karlosky out of jail.

Picking at the remains of his sea bass with the elegant sterling fork, Andrew Ryan reminded himself to keep smiling. He didn’t much feel like it, but he was hosting this meal at the Kashmir and felt an obligation to keep up appearances. He sat quietly with his talkative guests, Anna rambling about a new song she’d written; Diane about a painting she was engaged in, having just recently gotten the notion she might be an artist. Kinkaide was making feeble efforts at witticisms. All quite tedious to Ryan. He sensed that everyone was trying to think of some way to talk about anything but their feelings about Rapture. Which made him wonder what people said about life here behind his back. Of course the grumbling was becoming louder. The treacherous Sofia Lamb was stoking that smoldering fire …

He watched his guests put on their little acts, striving to seem cheerfully amused, happily involved in Rapture, but starting to fray around the edges in the confinement—like so many of the weaklings he’d allowed into the city. They had every manner of comfort: even now they sat in the most luxurious corner booth of the restaurant, by the tiered, gurgling marble fountain, under a big window that looked out on an undersea garden where purple and red flabelliform plants waved in shafts of blue light. Chopin played softly from hidden speakers. Life here for the moneyed should be enchanting. But it never seemed to be enough.

Ryan noticed Anton Kinkaide staring goofily at Diane. Kinkaide was a man with little social sophistication but a brilliant engineering mind. His ratty sweater, crooked bowtie, and nervous nursing from a beer glass contrasted with Fisher’s easy champagne sophistication. Ryan wondered if Diane would like Anton Kinkaide. The engineer could be impressive—he had designed the Rapture Metro—and he was a man who loved ideas. Diane pretended to be an intellectual at times, though really she was quite a naïf.

The only other diners in the restaurant, at a table across the big room, were the smirking Pierre Gobbi and Marianne Dellahunt. The young Frenchman, a winemaker, was visibly bored as he listened to the superficial Marianne, whose taut features seemed empty of character and age. She’d made one too many visits to Dr. Steinman.

Ryan wished Bill and Elaine had come to dinner. Bill McDonagh was damn good company. Levelheaded too.