Julian Vance hit the flooded terrazzo tile of Sub-Level 1 at a dead run.
The paper raft disintegrated behind them with a sharp tearing sound, its laminated fibers shredded by the iron teeth of the upper elevator hoist. Freezing seawater, black and smelling of 1924 harbor mud, was pouring through cracks in the ceiling vaults fifty feet above. The subterranean membrane holding back the bay was splitting wide open, dumping tons of saltwater down the marble stairwells in thunderous cascades.
“Keep moving!” Mac roared, waving his vanadium blade toward the center rotunda.
“The harbor is coming down! If that roof gives, we’ll be drowned rats in thirty seconds!”
Elena and Dr. Corvo were flanking Clara, guiding her across the slick floor as the water rose past their boot laces.
Ten yards ahead, through the curtains of falling ocean spray, the brass cage of Lift #00 stood waiting. Its dual counterweights hung motionless in their steel guide tracks, and its heavy safety lanterns flickered with faint, dying amber light.
Julian didn’t head for the elevator.
He cut hard to the left, his work boots kicking up sheets of brackish foam as he skidded across the marble toward the wreckage of Roto-Gate Turnstile Bank #1.
