BioShock Rapture

Sullivan was finishing a third glass of Worley’s best wine. Sullivan was a bit of a stiff at any gathering; he was either stone-faced or got drunk and started leering at the women. After the leering phase he’d slip into the inevitable drinker’s glumness, glowering at the windows as if angry with the endless blue depths. Ryan could almost read his mind: Taking this nutty job and moving down here, I musta been crazy.

But sober, Sullivan did what needed to be done. Ryan knew he could trust his security chief. That was worth putting up with a great deal.

He wasn’t sure he trusted Garris Fisher as much. The urbane middle-aged Fisher, both a biochemist and an entrepreneur, had helped promote Fontaine’s plasmids.

“Any interesting new developments at Fontaine Futuristics, Garris?” Ryan asked carelessly.

Fisher smiled mysteriously, as Ryan had known he would. “Oh—” He tapped the champagne flute with his fingernail to make it ring. “Naturally. But nothing you need worry about, Andrew…”

“Your BruteMore is selling rather well, I understand. Others aren’t quite … panning out.”

Fisher shrugged. “These little potholes crop up in the road of commerce, do they not? We bump right through them, change the tires, and move on. Our SkinGlow is popular with the ladies … And Fontaine’s new one, Incinerate—quite flashy.”

“Ah, yes.” Ryan chuckled. “I watched the cook in the kitchen start the gas fire with it. Pointed his finger and whoof! A bit startling at first.”

“Startling is itself an advertisement, you know. Grabs attention.”

Ryan nodded. There was something to that—he’d been impressed, seeing the man shooting fire from his hand. A true sign of Rapture science at work. And according to Sullivan, Fontaine was raking in huge profits—overtaking Ryan’s own. Ryan Industries truly needed to find a way into plasmids …

Kinkaide was gawping at Diane again. Ryan found himself wondering if he could indeed fob Diane off on Anton. Of course, he could always simply tell her to go away. But somehow she’d wormed her way into his emotional life so that he knew just dismissing her would be painful, which was partly why he wanted to get rid of her. He didn’t want the distraction of a serious relationship. She’d been hinting of marriage lately. Detestable thought. Never again. But he would prefer Diane left him on her own, without having to be … propelled.

He felt her touch his arm, turned to see her smiling back at him with just a mild reproach. “Darling, my glass has been empty for ever so long.”

Ryan sighed inwardly. The former cigarette girl, at least publicly, was always putting on that stilted chic diction she’d picked up from the movies. Thought she was Myrna Loy.

“Yes, my dear, we do need another bottle of champagne.” He didn’t want to suggest any more wine for Sullivan. “Brenda!”

The woman who was ostensibly the owner of Kashmir—Ryan’s partner, really—came hurrying over, trotting around the heroic statue of powerful men lifting the world, beaming at Ryan. Brenda’s high forehead gleamed in the light from the window; her tight, low-cut silvery gown—rather much, Ryan thought, for a woman past thirty—forcing her to take small Geisha-like steps across the carpet. “Andrew!” she gasped, in an absurdly girlish voice. “What else can I get for you?”

“A bottle of our best champagne, if you please.”

“And,” Sullivan said, “bring a, uh…” He noticed Ryan watching him and sighed: “… a glass of water.”

“I’ll see to it personally,” Brenda fluted. “Personally per-son-ally! And then perhaps—the dessert cart!”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “That’ll be splendid; thank you, Brenda…”

He glanced around at the others. The smiles they’d put on for Brenda faded as she walked away—except, as always, Fisher, who seemed in his element in Rapture, still smiling confidently.

Maybe, Ryan thought, I’m imagining all this discontent.

But his reports from Sullivan, and other security sources, suggested that there was discontent at all levels of society—especially in Artemis Suites and “Pauper’s Drop,” both of which were growing dangerously crowded. He’d underestimated how many people were needed for basic maintenance work and hadn’t built enough housing for them. Rapture would soon exceed eighteen thousand souls. Not all of them came equipped with investment funds. He had hoped many of the maintenance and construction workers would earn their way out of their slummy squalor. Find a way to branch out, take a second job, invest—the way he would in their position. The rumors that Frank Fontaine and Sofia Lamb’s followers had been encouraging notions Andrew Ryan regarded as absolutely taboo—such as unions—were getting louder. Fontaine was slippery, however. Finding proof against him for Communist organizing was as hard as finding strong proof he was smuggling.