BioShock: Rapture Read online

  The bar in Staten Island was almost deserted tonight. But Captain Fontaine was there, as arranged, sitting in a booth in the dim corner, frowning at his beer. Just waiting for Frank Gorland.

  Captain Fontaine did look a lot like the man who called himself Frank Gorland—but he was more weather beaten, a little older. He wore a red watch cap and a long green corduroy double-breasted coat. His calloused red hands showed the life he’d led at sea—first as a smuggler, now as the head of a small fishing fleet.

  Gorland ordered a bottled beer from the stout barmaid, who seemed to be flirting with a drunken marine, and carried it over to Captain Fontaine’s table.

  Fontaine didn’t look up from brooding on his beer as Gorland sat across from him. “Gorland, seems to me that every time I run into you, something goes wrong.”

  “How’s that? What about all that cash you made from what I did for you on your last cargo?”

  “Your cut was near as big as mine, and all you did for it was run your mouth.”

  “Well, running my mouth is how I live, friend. Now look, Fontaine. You want the information I have or not? I’m offering it for free. I’m hoping we can work together again, and we can’t do it if you’re in jail. So you’d better cock one of those shell-like ears—I’ve got word they’re going to wait till you head out— and raid you on the way back.”

  Fontaine slurped at his brew. “They … who?”

  “Why the…” Gorland leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Just the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that’s who. Agent Voss is chewing at your rump!”

  Fontaine sat up straight. Gorland looked at him calmly, believing it himself, almost, as he said, “I got it from my sister’s best friend—she’s a secretary for them. Keeps an eye on things for me.” That was the secret to being a good liar—believing it when you said it. “So she’s typing up some kind of warrant, and there you are. Captain Frank Fontaine. Smuggling, it says. Drugs, it says.”

  “Keep your voice down. Anyhow it don’t signify—I gave up smuggling that stuff. Company I work for now is bringing me crazy money to bring my catch over by Iceland … long ways, but it’s big money. Safe and legal!”

  “You mean your deal with Andrew Ryan’s operation out there?”

  Fontaine shrugged. “Nothin’ you need to know about.”

  So he took the fish out there himself. Interesting. The exact whereabouts of the North Atlantic project would be on the charts in one of those boats.

  Gorland sighed and shook his head. “You don’t get it. Voss is out to get you. He’s going to look down in your hold, first time you set to sea, and plant the dope down there! You gave him the slip one too many times.”

  “I … I don’t believe it!”

  “They’re raiding you all right. And suppose they don’t set you up—they know that Ryan’s trying to hide something out there. So they’ll take you in for questioning. How’ll Ryan feel about that? You want to go to jail for standing in the way of an investigation?”

  “What proof is there a raid’s coming, Gorland?”

  “Proof? Just a carbon from the raiding order.” Gorland passed it over. Every good con man knows a good forger. “You can sell your boats to me and slip off to Cuba…”

  Fontaine looked at the order—and his shoulders slumped. “Hmmf … maybe. It’s true I’m sick of being on those boats. Like to retire to Cuba. But I want a good price.”

  “Sure, I’ll give you top money.”

  Fontaine looked at him narrowly. “And why would you be so goddamn helpful, Gorland? It don’t add up.”

  “It’s you they’re looking for, not me—I’ll play fisherman till things cool off. Make some money from Ryan. And have the trawlers for when it’s safe to smuggle again.”

  Fontaine expelled a long, slow breath. Gorland knew that meant he was giving in. He felt the physical thrill, an almost sexually delicious inward shiver, that always came when a mark surrendered.

  * * *

  Two nights later, Frank Gorland was waiting in the pilothouse of a fishing trawler, trying to get used to the smell of old codfish, and drinking coffee. The trawler was called Happydrift. Christ, but it was chilly on this old tub.

  He heard a hail from the dock and smiled. Captain Fontaine was here for his money.

  Gorland nodded to his grizzled gray-haired helmsman and said, “When I give you the signal, head due East.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Call me captain. I’m about to be one…”

  “Aye aye, cap’n.”

  Gorland went down the ladder to the main deck, where he found Fontaine stalking back and forth, scowling.

  “Gorland—I hear you fired my crew! You’re up to something! This whole thing is starting to stink.”

  “Surprised you can smell a stink at this point. But come on down to the galley and I’ll explain—I’ve got a parcel of money for you.”

  Gorland turned and went belowdecks, humming to himself. Fontaine hesitated—then followed.

  There was no crew staying warm in Happydrift’s little galley. Gorland planned to pick up the rest of the crew later.

  On a small foldout table near the stove was a small brown suitcase. “There you are, Fontaine—open it up and count it.”

  Fontaine looked at him—and he looked at the suitcase. Then he licked his lips, went to the suitcase, opened it—and stared. It was filled with dead fish. Red snapper.

  “I’m thinking,” Gorland said, taking a blackjack from his coat pocket, “of changing the name of this boat to Happygrift. What do you think?”

  Captain Fontaine turned angrily to Gorland—who hit him hard with the blackjack, crack, right on the forehead. Fontaine went down like a sack of bricks.

  Gorland put the blackjack away and went to the ladder, climbed to the deck, turned, and waved up at the pilothouse, where the helmsman, Bergman, was watching for his signal. The helmsman pointed at the dock—and Gorland remembered he had to cast off. That much he knew how to do. He cast the ropes off, and the boat roared to life, swinging out from the dock toward the open sea.

  Humming “My Wild Irish Rose,” Gorland descended to the galley. Captain Fontaine, facedown, was still out cold. Gorland went through the man’s pockets, removing his identification, money, personal effects. Might need them.

  He considered Captain Fontaine, now stirring slightly on the deck—and then he muttered to himself, “Do it. Go all the way, Frank.”

  He took a deep breath—then pulled off his shirt and pants. He dragged Fontaine’s outer clothing off him, then switched clothes with him, wincing at the smell of Fontaine’s unwashed trousers. Just a little too large. Had to tighten the belt.

  Then he used his old clothing to tie Fontaine’s hands behind him. “Whuh yuh doing?” Fontaine asked, starting to come to. “Lemme go…”

  “I will let you go, right now, Captain,” Gorland said. “But you got to climb that ladder. I’ll help you.”

  “I need clothes, it’s freezing out here.”

  “You’ll be all taken care of. Up the ladder…”

  He got the bleary Fontaine up, at last, and out on the tilting deck. Fog streamed by and wreathed the sea. He glanced at the pilothouse. Bergman was facing out to sea. Not that he would probably have cared. The man had done five years in prison not so long ago. He was being well paid—he’d go along with whatever his new boss wanted.

  Fontaine was swaying on deck, goggling blearily about him. “We’re … we’re out tuh sea … why are … we…”

  “I’ll show you why,” Gorland said, escorting him to the side. “You ever notice how much you and I look alike … Frank? We even have the same first name! Possibilities, Frank—possibilities! I’ve got a whole new concept here—I call it, ‘Identity theft.’ What do you think?” Then he bent, grabbed the vessel’s former captain by the ankles, and tilted him over the side, headfirst down into the cold sea. A yell, a splash or two—and Captain Fontaine went down … He didn’t come up.

  Captain Fontaine was
dead. Long live … Captain Frank Fontaine.

  5

  The North Atlantic

  1946

  The Andrew Ryan was pitching at sea-anchor that gray morning, and Bill was queasy. The cigarette helped a little.

  He tried to ignore the steward throwing up over the starboard rail. Gazing into the sea, he watched the frothing bathysphere bob to the surface …

  “These are no ordinary bathyspheres,” Ryan said proudly, joining him at the taffrail, his hair so slicked down the considerable wind didn’t budge it. “Some of the men call them slinkers because they get around with such agility.”

  “Never seen the like. Almost elegant, it is.”

  Ryan looked at him closely. “Feeling seasick? I have a pill…”

  “No,” said Bill, stepping back from a burst of spray. The spray put his cigarette out, and he flicked the butt overboard. “I’ll take this rust bucket over your bucketing palace in the sky any day, guv’nor.” He grabbed the rail as the deck pitched under him.

  “Now then, Bill—” Ryan took a good grip on the rail himself and looked at Bill closely. “Are you ready to go down? I’m informed that the wind’s dropping; in an hour the sea will be just calm enough for the launching.”

  Bill swallowed. He looked out to sea at the other two platform ships and the retreating shape of the Olympian as it headed back to New York for supplies. The platform ships were modified barges, linked by chains and buoys, marking out a square half mile of sea. It was an enormous enterprise. He had to do his part and accept going down in the bathysphere. He had been expecting this, but he wasn’t eager. “Ready, Mr. Ryan. Always ready, me.”

  He expected to change into a diving suit or something aquatic, but an hour later they went as they were, both of them in overcoats—Ryan’s cut of the best material, precisely tailored. The bathysphere was hoisted onto the deck, steadied by the stoic crewmen in their rubber slickers and sou’westers as Ryan and Bill got in. It was roomy enough for two inside, with a window in the hatch and small ports on the sides. The smell was a bit like a locker room, but it was comfortably padded and equipped with handholds. Between them was a bank of controls and gauges. Ryan didn’t seem concerned with them as the bathysphere was hoisted up, lowered over the side, and released.

  A light switched on inside as the sea closed over them …

  Bill, licking his lips, waited for Ryan to somehow pilot the vessel. But he didn’t. He simply sat back, smiling mischievously, seeming amused by Bill’s transparent attempt at appearing unworried. They sank deeper and deeper.

  Then the bathysphere stopped with a slight jolt and began to move horizontally of its own accord.

  “It’s radio controlled,” Ryan explained, at last, “we don’t have to do a thing. It follows an underwater radio signal to the entrance shaft, uses turbine props. You will experience no discomfort from increased air pressure—there isn’t any increased air pressure needed. The same will hold true in Rapture itself. There is no danger of the bends. We have a new method for constantly equalizing air pressure at any depth with no special gasses. It will be almost always exactly the same as on the surface, with only minor variations.”

  Bill looked at him skeptically. “Air pressure always the same—at any depth?”

  Ryan gave him a mysterious smile, leveraging the opportunity to brag a bit. “We have gone to great lengths to keep our discoveries to ourselves. I have found some of the most unusual, extraordinarily talented scientists in the world, Bill—and in some very difficult spots.” He peered through a porthole, smiling absently. “The hardest one to get at was this quite peculiar but brilliant fellow, name of Suchong—he was stuck in Korea during the Japanese occupation. The Japs had accused him of selling their men opium to pay for his experiments. Imperialists have such a narrow view of things. Ah, speaking of marvels, you can just see the foundations of Rapture there, before we go into the dome shaft … And let us have some appropriate music…”

  Bill bent and peered through the port. Below them, electric lights glowed through the blue gloom along the rocky bottom of the sea—lines of lights like landing markers for a plane on a foggy night. He saw the rugged outlines of what might be a decayed volcanic crater, like a miniature mountain range, around a mysterious electrical glow. The music kicked in: Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, the Grofé arrangement for piano and symphony flowing from hidden speakers in the bathysphere. As the rhapsodic music swelled, Bill made out structures looming through the dark blue water beyond the stony natural ramparts: the frameworks of elegant buildings, the panels of unfinished walls, the silhouette of what might be a statue, tilting as it waited to be craned into place.

  “The genius of the Wales brothers,” Ryan said, as more mighty, soaring structures came into view. “Simon and Daniel. Ironic, really, their starting with cathedrals and coming to build Rapture. But Simon says that Rapture will be a great cathedral—but not to God. To man’s will!”

  “How’d you get the foundations done?” Bill asked, peering through the viewport. “That had to be a great challenge.”

  “We retrofitted my steamer the Olympian, fixed it up to take cargo—and we brought the sinker out here and put it together. It’s a big submersible platform. We’d lower it to the bottom with the deep-sea team and everything they needed. It’s there permanently—absorbs vibration, offers insulation, for the biggest central section of Rapture … Brought in the platform ships for the next stages…”

  A small submarine equipped with mechanical arms glided by the construction site …

  “You can see the remains of a very ancient volcanic cone,” Ryan went on, pointing. “That’s a clue about Rapture’s energy source. You see that dark spot there, to one side—that’s the opening of a deep crevice, a real abyss—but the city’s foundations rest on solid rock. It’s quite secure.”

  And then the panorama vanished, swallowed up in shadow. The music continued as they dipped into the dark, vertical entrance shaft leading down to the dome. It was as if they were going down a chimney. The descent was sickeningly fast and smooth until they bumped against the concrete and steel sides of the water-filled shaft with an alarming clang. A metallic squeal came as a hatch in the shaft shut above them. A shivering clunk—and they came to a complete halt. They were in an air lock, Bill reckoned, as the water drained away. A mechanical grating sound and another metallic screech—and the hatch of the bathysphere opened.

  “Come along, Bill!” Ryan switched off the music and climbed out through the hatch.

  Bill followed and found himself in a short metal-ribbed passage of rough concrete. Electric lights burned overhead. The smell of the sea mingled with the smell of new cement.

  Two strides along the short passage, then a metal door swung open for them and there was Dr. Greavy, in a long work coat and metal construction helmet. Greavy’s mouth trembled as he gazed at Ryan. He backed away, to let Ryan enter the sizable hemispherical room, like a courtier backing away from a sovereign.

  “This is an honor, sir,” Greavy sputtered, “but really, it’s a bit too risky—”

  “Risky!” Ryan said, looking around. “Nonsense! Bill, he’s trying to keep me out of here!” But Ryan was chuckling as he looked around at the equipment in the dome.

  “Only until we have more safety structures in place—McDonagh understands.”

  “I’m here now, Greavy,” Ryan said, “and I mean to have a look around. I am sinking my life into this project, and I need to see it flourishing. Is Simon here?”

  “Not here, sir, he’s in sub three.”

  “Let him do his work. You can show us around.” The dome was about two hundred feet in diameter, about thirty-five feet to the ceiling in the center, which was supported by a grid of metal girders. To Bill the girders looked like steel, but he knew if they were only steel they’d all be buried under a mountain of saltwater. He supposed they must be made of some special alloy.

  Bill recognized some of the big, wheeled machines crowded into the room: routers as big a
s small cars, mining drills, scoops and cranes, many of them still dripping water; some, adapted for deep-sea use, looked strange to him. One machine was about twenty feet long, with enormous pincers at the ends of the jointed arms, like the ones on the submarine.

  “What’s that thing do?” Bill asked, pointing to it.

  “The mechanical gripper?” Greavy said. “That’s one of our basic workhorses. Remote controlled. It’s a concept that came out of weapons development in the war.”

  “Right—like the teletanks the Russians use. Didn’t work out so well, them things.”

  “Our remote control is reliable—like the bathysphere you came in. Remote-controlled machines speed up construction. Very difficult to set up the foundations of Rapture in this deep cold water otherwise. We have a good deal of the Hephaestus level set up already—and indeed geological energy is already flowing into the finished units…”

  Greavy glanced at Ryan for approval before continuing. Ryan nodded, and Greavy went on: “It’s heat-driven electrical energy drawn from volcanic sources under the sea floor—hot springs and fumaroles, sulfur chimneys, and the like. ‘Geothermal’ some call it. A virtually endless source of power. Wonderful, isn’t it? No coal needed, no oil!” Greavy said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Once the supply line is set up, the energy flow goes on as long as the earth retains its heat!”

  “We have twelve domes like this one arrayed around the site,” Ryan added proudly. “We sank them, pumped them out. Pipe in clean air. The domes are all connected by tunnels we’ve built right on top of the seabed.”

  “Not sure I believe it, guv,” Bill said, staring at the big gripper, “and here I am looking at it!”

  Ryan chuckled. “Then you shall see it up close! Greavy—ask Wallace to take us in for a closer look!”

  * * *

  Roland Wallace was a bearded, dour man of about forty with deep-set eyes and a furrowed brow. Ryan introduced him. “This is a man you can count on to get things done in tough conditions.”