BioShock Rapture

“No, guv—a lot of these blokes worked for Fontaine. The others just want the ADAM. Crave it. Let’s hand over Fontaine Futuristics to Atlas’s lot. It’s not right to go against our principles—to nationalize, Mr. Ryan. We can take the high road, show ’em we stand for something! We can go back to the way we were and give up Fontaine Futuristics!”

“Give them…?” Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “Bill—men died to take over the plasmids industry! They will not have died in vain.”

Bill didn’t believe for a moment that Ryan was concerned about who’d died in vain. That was just an excuse. Andrew Ryan wanted the plasmids industry. It was in his nature. He was a tycoon. And the plasmids industry was the biggest prize in this toy store.

“Ryan Industries owns Fontaine Futuristics now,” Ryan went on. “For the good of the city. In due time, I’ll break it up. But I’m not going to give it to that murdering parasite Atlas!”

“Mr. Ryan—we’ve got to stop this war. It’ll destroy us all … there’s no place to retreat to! If we won’t make peace with them—well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to submit my resignation from the council.”

Ryan looked at him sadly. “So you’re walking out on me too. The one man I trusted … betraying me!”

“I’ve got to show you how strongly I feel about this—we’ve got to make peace! It’s not just Atlas—suppose he makes a deal with Sofia Lamb? Her people are fanatics. Now she’s broken out, she’s twice as dangerous! Her mad little cult’ll have a go at us too! We have to stop this war, Mr. Ryan!”

Ryan slammed a fist onto the desk so hard the room echoed with it. “The war can be stopped by winning it! It can be won with superior might, Bill! We can do more and better splicing, use pheromones, keep control of our splicers … and have an unstoppable army of superhuman beings! We have the labs—oh yes, we’re short on ADAM now, it’s true.” He cracked his knuckles. “The Little Sisters we have left can’t produce enough ADAM. But there’s ADAM out there—in all those bodies. It lives on after the splicer dies! It can be harvested, Bill! And the Little Sisters are ideal for harvesting it. We can make this war work for us! War can be opportunity as well as catastrophe!”

Bill stared at him.

Ryan flapped his hand in dismissal. “It’s written on your face, Bill. You’ve left me. You’ve always been loyal. But I’m afraid you will be a disappointment—like so many others. So many who’ve turned their backs on the grand vision. So many who’ve betrayed Rapture. Who’ve soiled the glorious thing I’ve built with my two hands.” He shook his head. “The future of the world … betrayed!”

Bill knew he’d better turn this around, fast, if he hoped to ever see Elaine again. He could see that in Andrew Ryan’s eyes. Ryan had only to call Karlosky or one of his other men and give the order, and he’d be in a cell. They might have lost control of Persephone, but there was always a lockup to be found, or an air lock to be thrown out of.

He let out a long, slow breath—and then nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Ryan. I reckon I did lose faith. I’ll…” He licked his lips. Hoped he was playing this right. “I’ll give it a lot of thought. We’ll find a way.” He almost believed it himself.

Ryan leaned back in his chair and frowned, looking at him closely. But Bill could see Ryan wanted to believe him. He was a lonely man. He trusted few people.

“Very well, Bill. I need you. But you need to understand— we’re here now, in Rapture, and we’re committed. And we’re going to do this my way. I built Rapture. I’ll do whatever I have to—but I will not let the parasites tear down what I have built.”

Banker’s Row, near Apollo Square

1959

Oh bloody hell, thought Bill McDonagh, seeing Anna Culpepper standing near the largest of Rapture’s banks, up ahead. Bill was walking along beside Andrew Ryan that frightened morning—and he knew what Mr. Ryan would think when he heard her singing. He’d heard her, once, himself, warbling in her new role as protest songstress—amazed that she’d gone from taking part in the council to condemning Ryan Enterprises for the new economic depression gnawing at Rapture’s soul …

Anna was standing on the street corner, singing to the frantic crowd, acoustic guitar in her hands. The overhead lamp flashed a golden glint from her earrings and played across her curly black hair.

“While Rome burns, she fiddles,” Ryan growled, as Bill followed him down the passageway to within a few yards of the crowd surging around the First Bank of Rapture. Karlosky and two other bodyguards, big men in long coats, carrying Thompsons, were walking a couple of paces in front of Ryan. Two others followed. The memory of the New Year’s Eve attack was still fresh.