BioShock Rapture

As they strode up to the door, Sullivan hoped the denizen of cell number 29 was ready to talk. Herve Manuela wasn’t a splicer—he was quite sane. They’d caught him carrying a large box of contraband. He’d worked closely with Fontaine’s man Peach Wilkins at the fisheries. He was finally ready to make a plea deal, but he was still scared of crossing Fontaine.

“Hey, Manuela!” Sullivan called as Cavendish unlocked the door. Redgrave was standing to one side, using his white handkerchief to polish his chrome-plated revolver, whistling to himself.

As they stepped through the open door, Sullivan could smell the putrefied blood …

Herve Manuela was lying facedown in blood-splashed prison blues. He was missing most of his head. Strands of dark hair were glued to the wall by dried blood. It looked to Sullivan—his stomach lurching as he contemplated the mess—as if someone had grabbed Manuela and smashed his head so hard against the wall it had simply exploded. Only splicers had the strength to do that.

“Son of a bitch,” Cavendish said. “Hey, Redgrave, look at this shit!”

Redgrave looked through the door and made a gagging face. “Lord, that’s one bad mess, sure is! Who done that, boss?”

Sullivan turned away in disgust. “You didn’t do this, Cavendish?”

Cavendish was capable of something like that. He was strong and brutal. He might be pretending to be surprised.

“Me? Hell no!”

“You definitely had the door locked?”

“Goddamn right it was locked! Hey—there’s something else…” He pointed at the opposite wall.

Sullivan looked—and saw words written in blood:

THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB WILL CLEANSE US ALL … HER TIME WILL COME … LOVE TO ALL!

“Lamb!” Sullivan muttered. Ryan could jail the woman, but she was still a thorn in his side.

He snorted, shaking his head. “Love to all!”

Olympus Heights

1956

Jasmine Jolene had a very comfortable apartment in Olympus Heights, almost as close to the surface of the sea as the council’s conference room. Sipping his martini, Ryan felt a certain pride. A chandelier gleamed; a picture window and the intricately framed skylight offered views into the sea. Turning to gaze out the broad window, Ryan could just make out the red of sunset, the setting sun adding a muted crimson to the iridescent scales of a school of big blue-fin tuna sweeping by.

He glanced at the bedroom door, wondering what was keeping Jasmine. He’d left her lolling on the enormous pink-plush bed, with its pink-satin headboard.

There was a kitchen, a Frigidaire stocked with food, and a liquor cabinet with the best brandies and wines. Andrew Ryan had given Jasmine all this. He had provided for her. The small salary Sander Cohen gave her for her rather clumsy, poorly attended performances in the Fleet Hall would not have paid for much more than Artemis Suites. But she earned her luxuries—Andrew Ryan saw to that, once or twice a month, and with some vigor for a man his age.

He tightened his red silk bathrobe and sipped his martini. Feeling the alcohol, he frowned and put the drink down on the flamboyantly carved side table. That would have been his third martini. He hadn’t been much of a drinker before coming to Rapture. He’d kept it to a minimum until recently. But it seemed to be creeping up on him.

The complainers had opportunities to make a good life in Rapture. They simply did not have the will to make use of them. Work two jobs, three if necessary. Cut rations in half. Squandering their Rapture dollars on ADAM just to have an electrical joust with some drunk. What do you expect? But they always blamed him when they failed.

The graffiti was still out there: Andrew Ryan doesn’t own me.

And, Organize Artemis! The Collective Lives! Trust Lamb! And the enigmatic: WHO IS ATLAS?

Slogans. It started with slogans. Then it became Communist revolution. Mass murder of real workingmen by parasites.

And indeed—who was Atlas? Sullivan’s intel suggested the name was a pseudonym for some Red organizer. Some would-be Stalin …

Something was going out of balance. The top was spinning, left, right, left, right, wobbling, about to fall …

“Um, Andrew darling, there’s something I need to tell you…”

He turned to see Jasmine, looking rather more full-figured than usual in a pink negligee. She wore pink slippers with little gold puffs on the toes. She patted her golden hair nervously, though she’d already spent some considerable time brushing and grooming after their lovemaking. “What is it, my dear?”

“I…” She licked her lips, and her gaze wandered restlessly to the big window. Her thick black eyelashes batted. She’d always blinked rather too much. “Um…”

There was something she wanted to tell him. She was afraid to, he realized. “Come, come, Jasmine, I won’t bite, what is it? Out with it!”