BioShock Rapture

Ryan nodded and took a folded paper from his coat pocket. “I’ve brought something along I wanted to share with you.” He unfolded the paper and read aloud to them. “Letter of recruitment.” He cleared his throat and went on,

“Tired of taxes? Tired of bullying governments, business regulations, unions, people expecting a handout from you? Want a new start? Do you have a skill, an ambition to be a pioneer? If you’re receiving this notice, you’ve already been considered and selected to fill out an application for a life in Rapture. This amazing new enterprise will require emigration. But it will cost you nothing except sweat and determination to come and take part in a new world. If our vetting team has done its job, you are not a trade unionist; you are a believer in free enterprise, competition, and carving your own path through the wilderness of the world. There is room for up to twenty thousand pioneers to thrive in this new society. We ask that you show this letter to no one, whatever your decision. If you’re interested…”

Ryan shrugged and folded the letter. “Just one of our recruiting tools, discreetly distributed. An early draft … Of course, Rapture’s not quite ready for the bulk of its population.”

“Has Prentice Mill made any progress on his Express?” Ryan asked, turning to Wales.

Wales grunted. “Oh, that he has. Two stations completed, a good deal of rail laid down. He’s down in Sinclair Deluxe, supervising construction.” He sniffed and drew a pipe from his coat and then stuck it in his teeth but didn’t light it. “Complains he needs more workers, of course. They all do.”

“The Express is its own business,” Ryan pointed out. “Let him get busy and hire more workers himself. Those who are finished working on the outer shell can start on the rail.”

He turned to gaze out the window at Rapture again. Who knew how long it would take to grow—this almighty expression of his will that could continue proliferating in steel and glass and copper and Ryanium, long after Andrew Ryan himself had passed away …

PART TWO

The Second Age of Rapture

I believe in no God, no invisible man in the sky. But there is something more powerful than each of us, a combination of our efforts, a Great Chain of industry that unites us. But it is only when we struggle in our own interest that the chain pulls society in the right direction. The chain is too powerful and too mysterious for any government to guide. Any man who tells you different either has his hand in your pocket, or a pistol to your neck.

—Andrew Ryan

6

Apollo Square, Rapture

1948

Standing on the stage with Ryan, Bill McDonagh exulted in Ryan’s speech as it boomed through Apollo Square. Rapture rose in sturdy magnificence around them.

“To build a city at the bottom of the sea! Insanity! But look around you, my friends!” Andrew Ryan’s voice boomed, with only a little feedback squeal. Wearing a caramel-colored double-breasted suit, his freshly barbered hair slicked back, Ryan seemed to emanate personality from the podium. Bill could feel Ryan there, to his left—and the almost frighteningly deep conviction in his tone kept his listeners riveted. The crowd of more than two thousand seemed a bit stunned by their surroundings when they’d first come. Now Bill could see them nodding, the pride shining from their faces, as Ryan told them they were a unique people in a unique place—each one of them with a chance to make their own destiny within the walls of Rapture. Those at the front were mostly the moneyed patricians, eccentrics, and pioneering professionals Ryan had recruited. The determined blue-collar types milled at the back of the crowd.

Hands clasped in front of him, Bill stood to Ryan’s right and as close to Elaine as propriety allowed. Beside Bill and Elaine stood Greavy, Sullivan, Simon and Daniel Wales, Prentice Mill, Sander Cohen, and Ryan’s new “personal assistant,” the statuesque beauty Diane McClintock. She looked like she fancied herself a queen. Bill had heard she was originally some cigarette girl Ryan had picked up—and now she was putting on airs.