BioShock Rapture

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 …

*   *   *