by John Shirley
Dedicated to the fans of BioShock and BioShock 2
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Eric Raab and Paula Guran.
Special thanks to Dustin Bond for additional game research.
Special thanks to everyone who put up with my bitching.
I am Andrew Ryan and I’m here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow? No, says the man in Washington. It belongs to the poor. No, says the man in the Vatican. It belongs to God. No, says the man in Moscow. It belongs to everyone. I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose … Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by Petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.
—Andrew Ryan in BioShock
Imagine if you could be smarter, stronger, healthier. What if you could even have amazing powers, light fires with your mind? That’s what plasmids do for a man.
—The man who calls himself Atlas in BioShock
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Prologue
Part One: The First Age of Rapture
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two: The Second Age of Rapture
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Three: The Third Age of Rapture
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Fifth Avenue, New York City
1945
Sullivan, chief of security, found the Great Man standing in front of the enormous window in his corporate office. The boss was silhouetted against city lights. The only other illumination was from a green-shaded lamp on the big glass-topped desk across the room, so that the Great Man was mostly in shadow, hands in the pockets of his crisply tailored suit jacket as he gazed broodingly out at the skyline.
It was eight o’clock, and Chief Sullivan, a tired middle-aged man in a rain-dampened suit, badly wanted to go home, kick off his shoes, and listen to the fight on the radio. But the Great Man often worked late, and he’d been waiting for these two reports. One report, in particular, Sullivan wanted to have done with—the one from Japan. It was a report that made him want a stiff drink, and fast. But he knew the Great Man wouldn’t offer him one.
“The Great Man” was how Sullivan thought of his boss—one of the richest, most powerful men in the world. The term was both sarcastic and serious, and Sullivan kept it to himself—the Great Man was vain and quick to sense the slightest disrespect. Yet sometimes it seemed the tycoon was casting about for a friend he could take to heart. Sullivan was not that man. People rarely liked him much. Something about ex-cops.
“Well, Sullivan?” the Great Man asked, not turning from the window. “Do you have them?”
“I have them both, sir.”
“Let’s have the report on the strikes first, get it out of the way. The other one…” He shook his head. “That’ll be like hiding from a hurricane in a cellar. We’ll have to dig the cellar first, so to speak…”
Sullivan wondered what he meant by that cellar remark, but he let it go. “The strikes—they’re still going on at the Kentucky mines and the Mississippi refinery.”
The Great Man grimaced. His shoulders, angularly padded in the current style, slumped ever so slightly. “We’ve got to be tougher about this, Sullivan. For the country’s good, as well as our own.”
“Sir—I have sent in strikebreakers. I have sent Pinkerton men to get names on the strike leaders, see if we can … get something on them. But—these people are persistent. A hard-nosed bunch.”
“Have you been out there in person? Did you go to Kentucky—or Mississippi, Chief? Hm? You need not await permission from me to take personal action—not on this! Unions … they had their own little army in Russia—they called them Workers Militias. Do you know who these strikers are? They are agents of the Reds, Sullivan! Soviet agents! And what is it they demand? Why, better wages and work conditions. What is that but Socialism? Leeches. I had no need of unions! I made my own way.”
Sullivan knew that the Great Man had the benefit of luck—he’d struck oil, as a young man—but it was true he’d invested brilliantly.
“I’ll … see to them myself, sir.”
The Great Man reached out and touched the glass wall, remembering. “I came here from Russia as a boy—the Bolshies had just taken the place over … We barely got out alive. I won’t see that sickness spread.”
“No sir.”
“And—the other report? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Both cities are almost entirely destroyed. One bomb apiece.”
The Great Man shook his head in wonder. “Just one bomb—for a whole city…”
Sullivan stepped closer, opened one of the envelopes, handed over the photographs. The Great Man held the glossy photographs to the window so he could make them out in the twinkling light of the skyline. They were fairly sharp black-and-white snaps of the devastation of Hiroshima, mostly seen from the air. The city lights were caught on their glossy surface, as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself destroyed Hiroshima.
“Our man in the State Department smuggled this out for us,” Sullivan went on. “Some in the target cities were … atomized. Blown to bits. Hundreds of thousands dead or dying in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A great many more dying from…” He read aloud from one of the reports he’d brought. “‘Flash burns, radiation burns and trauma … It is expected that an equal amount will be dead of radiation sickness and possibly cancer in another twelve months or so.’”
“Cancer? Caused by this weapon?”
“Yes sir. It’s not yet confirmed, but—based on past experiments … they say it’s likely.”
“I see. Are we indeed certain the Soviets are developing such weapons?”
“They’re working on it.”
The Great Man snorted ruefully. “Two gigantic empires, two great octopi struggling with one another—and equipped with monstrous weapons. Just one bomb to destroy an entire city! These bombs will only get bigger, and more powerful. What do you suppose will happen, in time, Sullivan?”
“Atomic war is what some are saying.”
“I feel certain of it! They’ll destroy us all! Still … there is another possibility. For some of us.”
“Yes sir?”
“I despise what this civilization is becoming, Sullivan. First the Bolsheviks and then—Roosevelt. Truman, carrying on much of what Roosevelt began. Little men on the backs of great ones. It will only stop when real men stand up and say ‘no more’!”
Sullivan nodded, shivering. At times the Great Man could convey the power of his inner conviction, almost like a lightning rod transmitting a mighty burst of electricity. There was an undeniable power around him …
After a moment the Great Man looked curiously at Sullivan, as if wondering how much he could be trusted. At last his employer said, “My mind is made up, Sullivan. I shall move ahead on a project I was toying with. It will no longer be a toy—it will be a glorious reality. It entails great risk—but it must be done. And you may as well know now: it will take, perhaps, every penny I have
to make it happen…”
Sullivan blinked. Every penny? What extreme was his boss going to now?
The Great Man chuckled, evidently enjoying Sullivan’s astonishment. “Oh yes! At first it was an experiment. Little more than a hypothesis—a game. I already have the drawings for a smaller version—but it could be bigger. Much bigger! It is the solution to a gigantic problem…”
“The union problem?” Sullivan asked, puzzled.
“No—well, yes, in the long run. Unions too! But I was thinking of a more pressing problem: the potential destruction of civilization! The problem, Sullivan, is the inevitability of Atomic war. That inevitability calls for a gigantic solution. I’ve sent out explorers—and I’ve picked the spot. But I wasn’t sure I would ever give it the go-ahead. Not until today.” He peered again at the photos of the devastation, turning them to catch the light better. “Not until this. We can escape, you and I—and certain others. We can escape from the mutual destruction of the mad little men who scuttle about the halls of government power. We are going to build a new world in the one place these madmen cannot touch…”
“Yes sir.” Sullivan decided not to ask for an explanation. Better to just hope that whatever overblown scheme the Great Man was caught up in, he’d drop it, in the end, when he faced the full cost. “Anything more, sir? I mean—tonight? If I’m going to break up those strikes, I’d better leave early in the morning…”
“Yes, yes go and get some rest. But there’ll be no rest for me tonight. I must plan…”
So saying, Andrew Ryan turned away from the window, crossed the room—and tossed the photos aside. The destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki skidded across the glass-topped desk.
* * *
Left alone in the shadowy office, Ryan slumped in the padded leather desk chair and reached for the telephone. It was time to call Simon Wales, give him the go-ahead for the next stage.
But his hand hovered over the phone—and then withdrew, trembling. He needed to calm himself before calling Wales. Something he’d said to Sullivan had sparked a painful, harshly vivid memory. “I came here from Russia as a boy in 1918—the Bolshies had just taken the place over … We barely got out alive…”
Andrew Ryan wasn’t his name, not then. Since coming to the USA he’d Americanized his name. His real name was Andrei Rianofski …
* * *
Andrei and his father are standing at the windswept train station, shivering in the cold. It is early morning, and both of them are staring down the tracks. His father, heavily bearded, his lined face grim, is holding their single bag in his left hand. His large right hand is resting on young Andrei’s shoulder.
The dawn sky, the colors of a deep bruise, is closed by clouds; the cutting wind is serrated by sleet. A few other travelers, huddled in long dark coats, stand in a group farther down the platform. They seem worried, though a woman with a round red face, her head in a fur wrap, is smiling, talking softly to cheer them up. Beside the door to the station, an old man in a tattered coat and fur hat tends a steaming samovar. Andrei wishes they could afford some of the old man’s hot tea.
Andrei listens to the wind hiss along the concrete platform and wonders why his father stands so far from the others. But he guesses the reason. Some from their village, on the outskirts of Minsk, know that father was against the Communists, that he spoke up against the Reds. Now many who’d once been their friends were beginning to denounce all such “betrayers of the People’s Revolution” …
His father had word from the priest the night before that the purge was to begin today. They were first in line when the station opened, Father and Andrei, purchasing a ticket to Constantinople. Father carries traveling papers, permissions to purchase Turkish rugs and other goods for import. The papers might be good enough to get them out of Russia …
Father fiddles with the money in his pocket he’d brought to bribe customs officials. They will probably need it all.
His father’s breath steams in the air … the train steams as it approaches, a big dark shape hulking toward them through the grayness, a single lantern above the cowcatcher projecting a rain-scratched cone into the mist.
Andrei glances toward the other travelers—and sees another man approaching. “Father,” Andrei whispers, in Russian, turning to look at a tall lean man in a long green coat with red epaulets, a black hat, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Is that man one of the Red Guard?”
“Andrei.” His father grips his shoulder, brusquely turns him so that he looks away from the soldier. “Don’t look at him.”
“Pyotr? Pyotr Rianofski!”
They turn to see his father’s cousin Dmetri standing with his arm around his wife, Vasilisa, a stocky, pale, blond woman in a yellow scarf, her nose red with the cold. She rubs wetness from her nose and looks at Andrei’s father imploringly.
“Please, Pyotr,” she whispers to Andrei’s father. “We have no more money. If you pay the soldiers…”
Dmetri licks his lips. “They are looking for us, Pyotr. Because I spoke at the meeting yesterday. We have train tickets, but nothing more. Not a ruble left! Perhaps a bribe will make them let us go.”
“Dmetri, Vasilisa—if I could help, I would. But we will need every kopek! I have to think of this boy. We have to pay our way to … our destination. A long journey.”
The train chugs into the station, looming up rather suddenly, reeking of coal smoke, making Andrei jump a little as the engine furiously sprays steam.
“Please,” Vasilisa says, wringing her hands. The militiaman is looking toward them … and another Red guardsman and then a third step onto the platform from the station door, all of them carrying rifles.
The train is grinding slowly past. It slows, but to Andrei it seems it will never completely stop. The militiaman is calling out to Cousin Dmetri, his voice a bark. “You! We wish to speak to you!” He takes his rifle off his shoulder.
“Dmetri,” Father hisses. “Keep your peace—do not make a sound!”
The train is still shuddering as it finally stops, and Andrei feels his father’s hand clamping the back of his neck—feels himself propelled up the metal stairs, onto the train. He almost falls on his face. His father clambers on after him.
They bang through a door into a smoky car, the windows greasy and steam-coated. They find a seat on the wooden benches, and, as father hands the scowling conductor their tickets, Andrei wipes the window enough to see Dmetri and Vasilisa talking to the militiamen. Vasilisa is weeping, waving her arms. Dmetri is standing stiffly, shaking his head, pushing his wife behind him.
The discussion goes on, as the armed men frown at the travel papers.
“Andrei,” Father mutters. “Don’t look…”
But Andrei cannot look away. The tall militiaman tucks Dmetri’s papers away somewhere and then gestures with his rifle.
Dmetri shakes his head, waving his train tickets. The train shudders, a whistle blasts …
Vasilisa tries to pull him toward the train. The soldiers wave their guns. Andrei remembers Dmetri coming to the feast for his tenth birthday, smiling, bringing with him a wooden saber carved as a gift.
The train whistle screams. The guards shout. One of them jabs at Vasilisa with his rifle, knocking her to her knees. Dmetri’s face goes white as he grabs at the rifle barrel—the man turns it toward him and fires.
The train lurches into motion—as Dmetri stumbles back. “Oh, Father!” Andrei cries out.
“Look away, boy!”
But Andrei can’t look away. He sees Vasilisa flailing at the soldiers, weeping—and two more guns fire. She spins and goes down in a heap atop Dmetri. The two of them lie there, dying together on the platform, as the steam from the train cloaks them, and the past cloaks them too. The train, like time, moving away …
* * *
Andrew Ryan shook his head. “Workers Militia,” he muttered bitterly now. “A revolution for the poor. To save us all … for a cold death on a train platform.”
And that had been just
the beginning. He’d seen far worse things traveling with his father.
Ryan shook his head and looked at the pictures of Hiroshima. Madness, but no worse than the devastation of Socialism.
His dream had always been to build something that would survive anything the little madmen could throw at him.
If only Father could be there to see it rise from the shadows, magnificent, unafraid, a fortress dedicated to freedom.
Rapture.
PART ONE
The First Age of Rapture
The parasite hates three things: free markets, free will, and free men.
—Andrew Ryan
1
Park Avenue, New York City
1946
Almost a year later …
Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms—but he felt like he was sinking under the sea. He was toting a box of pipe fittings in one hand, tool kit in the other. He’d been sent so hastily by the maintenance manager he didn’t even have the bloody name of his customer. But his mind was on earlier doings in another building, a small office building in lower Manhattan. He’d taken the morning off from his plumbing business to interview for an assistant engineer job. The pay would start low, but the job would take him in a more ambitious direction. They had looked at him with only the faintest interest when he’d walked into the Feeben, Leiber, and Quiffe Engineering Firm. The two interviewers were a couple of snotty wankers—one of them was Feeben Junior. They seemed bored by the time they called him in, and their faint flicker of interest evaporated completely when he started talking about his background. He had done his best to speak in American phraseology, to suppress his accent. But he knew it slipped out. They were looking for some snappy young chap out of New York University, not a cockney blighter who’d worked his way through the East London School of Engineering and Mechanical Vocation.
