guerillas up a side passage, up the stairs, through some old maintenance passage—all of them carrying GI backpacks, to fill with supplies stolen from one of the constabulary armories.
But this time, when the guards broke in on them, just as they finished their “harvest” of the ammo—and just as Sorenson got control of the Big Daddy—the chaos had been exhilarating and nightmarish at once. Firing her own pistols, one in each hand, her heart slamming with each shot, she’d watched a constable go down, shrieking, dying.
She’d cringed from blazing return fire, seen three of her comrades falling…
She decided, now, to record some of her impressions on her audio diary—she had decided she was going to be the historian of the revolution. She switched the recorder on with trembling hands, as she walked along. “We went on a raid outside the wire today. We snagged thirty-one rounds of buckshot, four frag grenades, a shotgun, and thirty-four ADAM. We lost McGee, Epstein, and Vallette.” She swallowed hard at that. She’d particularly liked Vallette. Too easy to reel off a list of the dead:
Diane stepped into Atlas’s office to let him know they’d gotten a Big Daddy—and stared in surprise at the stranger sitting at Atlas’s desk. He seemed to be recording an audio diary of his own. After a breathless moment, he was no longer a stranger. She hadn’t recognized him at first.
Something… the cold, cynical expression on his face and that sneering voice talking of long cons… made it seem impossible he could be anyone but Frank Fontaine.
He turned a look of angry shock at her—then put on Atlas’s expression. His voice became Atlas’s. “Miss McClintock… what are you doing here? Let me just…” He dropped the Atlas pretense, shaking his head—seeing in her face that she
He switched off the tape recorder. It occurred to her that she should run. She’d found out something he would kill to keep secret.
But her feet seemed frozen to the floor; she was barely able to speak. “They trusted you! How could you let them die… for a lie?”
Fontaine stalked toward her, drawing a buck knife, opening it with a practiced motion, the blade making a
Bill McDonagh paced up and down in the passageway outside Central Control. The constables at the entrance to the hall had been friendly, glad to see him. Not knowing his mission.
He had to make his move, and soon. Then signal Wallace to take the minisub up to the boat. Conditions were as good as they were ever going to be for escape. The city’s turbulence indicators showed the sea was fairly calm right now. Ryan’s men were dealing with a new disruption, concentrated in sealing off Apollo Square—there weren’t many of Ryan’s bunch between here and the lighthouse.
Roland Wallace wouldn’t take the minisub unless Bill gave him the signal. But there was something he’d have to do then. About Ryan. And Rapture. He had made up his mind that if he succeeded today, in Ryan’s office, he would send his family to safety but stay in Rapture, at least for a time, and try to create a new leadership, make a peace deal with Atlas. He had helped build this place—he felt an obligation to the survivors. Eventually he could rejoin Elaine and Sophie…
Bill let out a long, slow breath, reached into his pocket for the pistol. Checked the load for the fourth time. Put it back in his blazer. Could he do this? Then he remembered Sam and Mariska Lutz.
“Got to face it, old man,” he told himself. “Got to be done.” He put the pistol back, took out the little radio. He clicked it and murmured into it. “Wallace?”
A crackle. Then, “Yes, Bill.”
“It’s time.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. Going to take care of my business and then bring the family for the… picnic.”
“Okay. I’m ready. Meet you there.”
He put the radio away. Heart pounding, he straightened his tie and opened the door. A security camera swiveled to take him in as he stepped through. He had his ID flasher on, and it let him pass without releasing the security bots. Ryan still trusted him.
He strode past the crucified corpses, smelling them but steadfastly not looking at them, and went to the door of Ryan’s office. He was scanned by a turret—and it let him pass. He reached for the door just as Karlosky came out. Bill almost jumped out of his shoes.
Karlosky looked at him curiously. “Something making you nervous, Bill?”
“Me, no, it’s just them bodies out there—give me the willies.”
Karlosky nodded sympathetically. “Don’t like that decoration either. Sometimes necessary. I’m going to get sandwich for me and Mr. Ryan. You want something?”
“Me? No, I…” Christ, how could he eat sandwiches with these bodies stuck up out here? However… “Well, yes, Ivan. Whatever… whatever you’re having.” The longer Karlosky stayed away, the better.
Karlosky nodded and strolled out. Bill went into Ryan’s office.
Andrew Ryan was standing by the window, gazing out at the sea, leaning on his walking stick. He wore his tailored three-piece gray silk suit, and, in that moment, Bill felt his heart go out to him. Ryan had built this brave new world to match his dream. And it had become a nightmare.
But Bill reminded himself of those men and women crucified in the outer room. And he took a deep breath and pulled the pistol.
Ryan didn’t turn around. He seemed to know. “Go on, do it, Bill. If you’re man enough.”
Bill raised the gun—and it trembled in his hand.
Ryan smiled sadly. “What was it you said, Bill? You’d stay with me, ‘from A to Zed.’ Well, we’re not quite at Zed yet. But it seems you’re taking your leave.”
“No,” Bill said, his voice breaking. “I’m staying… for a while. Can’t desert all these people. I helped bring ’em here.”
Ryan turned toward him, hefting the gold-topped walking stick. “Bill, you’re a weak link on the Great Chain—and I cannot leave that weak link in place…”
Bill aimed the gun as Ryan stalked toward him.
Bill’s mouth was dry, his pulse thudding.
Ryan was almost in reach. “A man chooses, Bill—a slave obeys. Choose. Kill me or obey your cowardice and run away!”
Andrew Ryan, the man who’d plucked him from obscurity—who’d elevated Bill McDonagh in this great city—raised the walking stick to strike him down. It was in Ryan’s hardened eyes, his twisted mouth: the aging tycoon had every intention of using that gold-headed cane to crush Bill’s skull.
But Bill couldn’t do it. This man had reached down from Olympus and raised him up to Olympus Heights. Andrew Ryan had trusted him. He
The walking stick came whistling down—and Bill caught it, wincing at the impact as he grabbed it with his left hand. They struggled a moment, Ryan panting, his teeth bared—and then Bill acted instinctively. He struck down with the butt of the pistol like a club, cracking Andrew Ryan on the forehead.
