He thought, What could be more fitting? But, winking at her, he said, “One thing I’m not dismissive of is a woman’s desires.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if thinking of bringing him up short. Then she gave way to a titter of laughter. “Oh gosh. That kinda remark, ‘a woman’s desires’—makes me feel like I was back working the club where Andrew and I met…” She glanced over her shoulder. “You haven’t seen him here, have you?”
“Afraid not.” Maybe he ought to let her know, obliquely, that he might be available to squire her if Ryan gave her the brush-off. She could be useful. “If he doesn’t show up, I’ll heroically offer you my arm, ma’am, and escort you from here—all the way to the moon and back.”
“It’s even farther to the moon than it used to be, down here,” she said. But she seemed pleased.
“Me, I kinda hope he doesn’t show up…”
She glanced back at the door again and then stepped on her cigarette as the curtains parted. “Show’s starting,” she sighed.
It took him a moment to recognize Sander Cohen, as made up as he was—and with another face entirely slung on the back of his head. Cohen was dressed in skintight Lincoln green, had an absurd mustache and beard, and a feeble little bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. He pranced to mandolin music in front of a painted forest backdrop and broke into a song about how he “loved to be in the Greenwood with my merry men, oh, my gay and merry men, my oh so happy men, and then came along that dreadful bitch known as Maid Marian, and OH how paradise has fallen…!”
His “merry men,” looking more like nearly naked Greek wrestlers, came dancing out of the wood, waving arrows and singing the chorus with him.
Oh Jesus wept, Fontaine thought.
Then the King of England came along, wearing a lion-blazoned cloak, a gold-painted crown, and a red beard that was coming loose from his chin. He brought Cohen to his castle and set him to be the new Sheriff of Nottingham; “Robin Hood” lost little time in assassinating the king—merrily stabbing him to the beat of a song—and then switching the face on the back of his head around to the front. The mask resembled the king; he dragged the body off and took the king’s place.
The one-act musical mercifully ended to a smattering of applause—although Dr. Steinman stood up, clapped lustily, and shouted, “Bravo! Bravissimo!”
Fontaine helped Diane into her wrap. Maybe he could get her to a bar. After a few drinks, she might remember her cigarette-girl origins.
But suddenly Ryan was coming down the aisle, shaking hands with people, nodding—waving to Diane. “Sorry I’m late, darling…”
So much for that. But the evening wasn’t a bust. Despite having to watch Cohen flounce about, the play had given Fontaine an idea.
On the way out of the theater, he paused to gaze at one of Ryan’s earliest propaganda posters. “Rapture is the hope of the world…” it declared—over a picture of Andrew Ryan holding the world on his shoulders. Andrew Ryan as Atlas?
Looking to see that no one was watching, Frank Fontaine tore the poster down.
Bill McDonagh’s Flat
1956
Sitting on his sofa near the big sea-view window, Bill McDonagh wondered if keeping records of his “thoughts and impressions of life in Rapture” was really a good idea. He’d tried it for a while, but it didn’t come naturally. Ryan was pushing for everyone to keep recordings of their problems, their plans, for some kind of planned historical retrospective, and it was becoming something of a fad. But Bill was starting to wonder exactly how it might be used against a man …
The tape recorder was sitting on the coffee table by a mug of greenish beer. Neither seemed appealing. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven. Elaine would be home from Arcadia with the little one soon enough. If he was going to do this, he’d better get to it. He reached for the tape recorder, but somehow his hand found his way to the mug of beer instead.
He sighed, put down the beer, pressed the Record button on the device, and began: “Rapture’s changing, but Ryan can’t see the wolves in the woods. This Fontaine fellow … he’s a crook and a proper tea leaf, but he’s got the ADAM and that makes him the guv’nor. He’s sinking the profits back into bigger and better plasmids and building them Fontaine poorhouses. More like Fontaine recruiting centers! ’Fore we know it, bloke’s gonna have an army of splicers, and we’re gonna have ourselves a whole heap of miseries.
He switched off the tape recorder. There was a lot more on his mind—but he was reluctant to make his doubts about Rapture a matter of record.
The phone on the coffee table rang. He answered the phone. “Right, Bill here.”
“McDonagh? It’s Sullivan. We’ve had another three killings in the Upper Atrium … and the council is calling an emergency meeting…”
Council Conference Room
1956
Andrew Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted this special meeting of the Rapture Council. But he was reassured to see Bill McDonagh and Sullivan come in. He still felt he could trust those two.
Only six people had shown up this time, and they were gathered around the oval conference table in the ornate, gold-trimmed little room near the top of the highest “air scraper” in Rapture. Anna, Bill, Sullivan, Anton Kinkaide, Ryan, Rizzo.
Ryan missed the presence of the late Ruben Greavy. And he could have done without Anna Culpepper, who liked to put her oar in without having anything useful to say. He should never have allowed her on the council.
Ryan toyed with an untasted cup of coffee, feeling his age. His role as Rapture’s guide and mentor was becoming a weight—he could almost feel it pinching his back, making his bones creak. And some on the council were making it worse, always prodding at him with their feeble little ideas. Meanwhile, Rapture’s problems had become Andrew Ryan’s: crime, subversives, foolish use of plasmids, constant maintenance problems … these required real vision to overcome. He was seeing that more and more clearly. A man needed a willingness to institute big solutions to big problems.
“We’re so close to the surface here,” Anna said, sitting down with a cup of tea. “It makes me think it wouldn’t be so bad to have a few … excursions to the surface world … just close by, on a boat, I mean…” She looked up at the glass ceiling, just a yard or two under the surface of the ocean. Moonlight penetrated the waves, came glimmering down to color the room’s electric illumination with a blue-white paleness, making Anna, gazing upward, look as if she’d put on whiteface. That made Ryan think about Sander Cohen—he was glad Cohen hadn’t come. The performer was getting ever more socially peculiar. He’d sent a Jet Postal note, begging off with some enigmatic excuse about being “caught up in the hunt for art, which must be captivated, bound to the stage, in preparation for the titanomachy.”
Titanomachy? Whatever was he talking about?
Ryan glanced up as a shadow passed over them: the silhouette of a large, sleek shark swam overhead, circling the lighted room in curiosity.
“In time,” Ryan said, “we may have an excursion, Anna. All in good time.”
Anna sighed and gave him that pitying look he’d found so infuriating lately. “Dare I point out—it has been ten years since Hiroshima; there have been no further uses of atomic weapons. The war, it appears, is a ‘cold’ one. That’s what our radio tells us.”
Rizzo sniffed disapprovingly at her skepticism. “Russkies have been stockpiling A-bombs just same as the US of A, Miss Culpepper. Why, it’s a tinderbox out there! The Commies are taking over China; the Soviets got their agents every goddamn place! Only a matter of time before the atomic war comes!”
“Exactly,” Ryan said. Good old Rizzo, a sensible man. “And that aside—we have to remain as hidden away here as we can. We don’t want anybody taking notice of anything out here. The lighthouse is risky enough. If it weren’t for the air draw…” Ryan changed the subject. “Let’s get to it—we have to decide on a policy about all this violence…”
“It’s simple, boss,” Sullivan said, leaning his elbows on the table, a pinched look on his face. “We got to ban plasmids. I know how you feel about banning products. But we got no choice! You’re talking about atomic power? I’m not sure these plasmids are any safer than that stuff…”
Sullivan’s words were slurring ever so slightly. He’d been drinking before the meeting. Ryan reached for patience. “Chief—I know it was hard for you to lose Harker that way. But the market has a life of its own, and we can’t choke that life off with bans or even”—he had difficulty actually saying the word—“regulations. The solution is simple. Ryan Enterprises is now in the plasmid business. A better product will draw people in—and they’ll buy one that doesn’t affect their minds.” He glanced at Bill, thinking he looked weary and troubled. “What do you think, Bill?”
“You’re seriously going into plasmids, guv?” Bill asked, seeming genuinely surprised. “It’ll take more time to develop a plasmid that doesn’t have side effects. Meanwhile…”
“Bill, it’s either we go into them or ban them—and how well did Prohibition work?”
“But—they’re addictive.”
“So is alcohol!”
Bill shook his head. “Look what happened to Mr. Greavy! If you’d seen it…”
“Yes.” Ruben Greavy’s death was a painful subject for Ryan. “Yes, that was a great loss to me. He was an artist, an entrepreneur, a scientist, a true Renaissance man. A great loss. I feel responsible—I should have sent security along with him. But he would insist on going wherever he liked in Rapture…”
“I was the one with him,” Bill said, looking very unhappy. “If anyone’s responsible…”
“The only one responsible,” growled Sullivan, “is that telekinetic bitch that killed him. But Mr. Ryan—if you want to continue allowing plasmid sales and get Ryan Industries into it…” He shook his head, wincing at the thought. “Then it’s got to be regulated.”
“We’ll consider restricting some plasmids,” Ryan said, though he had no intention of really restricting any plasmids. “This is a rough transitional period. To be expected. Part of the tumult of the market…”
“Do we even know for sure which plasmids are out there?” Kinkaide asked.
Sullivan shrugged. “Not for sure. I’ve got a partial list.” He searched his pockets, looking for it. “Got it here somewhere … Some are kinda black market; some Fontaine sells in shops. He’s selling EVE right next to it. Damned floors are littered with syringes … here it is…” He unfolded a wrinkled piece of paper.
Sullivan cleared his throat, squinted at the paper, and read out, “Electro Bolt—fires bolts of electricity. Can stun a man or kill him. Incinerate!—started with a plasmid you could use for cooking but now it’s sorta like a flamethrower that comes outta your hand. I have seen Teleport—not sure how we can control that one. It’s a big worry. I mean, Christ, how do you jail someone who can teleport? Telekinesis—that’s what killed Mr. Greavy. You’ve all seen that. There’s Winter Blast—sends out a current of supercold air. Freezes your enemy solid. And there’s that Spider thing they go up the walls with. Lots of those creeps around.”
“Ha, creeps,” Anna said, absently glancing at the transparent ceiling. “They do creep, don’t they? Good one, Chief.”
He looked at her in puzzlement. He hadn’t been joking.
“What about this Teleport?” Bill asked. “What do we do about the bloody Houdini Splicers? It can’t be legal.”
Ryan nodded. He didn’t trust it either. It weakened security—it might enable people to leave Rapture. He had security cameras and turrets set up at the only egresses to Rapture, to stop anyone unauthorized from leaving; he was in the process of installing more security bots. Some plasmids could make a joke of all those wonderfully engineered devices. “We’ll see what we can do to suppress that one.”
Kinkaide tried to straighten his tie and only made it more crooked. “I don’t understand the physics of these plasmids. Where are these new ADAM cells drawing all the energy from? If the splicer shoots out flame, does it come from his intestinal methane? Where does he get the raw materials? Does he lose a pound afterward?”
Bill looked at him. “You’re the boffin—no theories, then?”
Kinkaide shrugged. “I can only speculate that all this extra energy is being drawn from the splicer’s environment in some way. The air around us is charged, after all. That could account for the Electro Bolt. The mutagenic cells, once redesigned by ADAM, have a sort of secondary mitochondria that might provide specialized energy emissions. We don’t know what most of our genes do—some might be designed for these powers. Which might even account for tales of supernatural beings, genies and magicians and the like—but those mutations didn’t work out, you see. Perhaps because they tended to be burdened by negative side effects—like psychosis, facial excrescences, and so on…”
“Bit of a dodgy omen, that, innit, Kinkaide?” Bill pointed out. “I mean—if these mutations existed in the past, and they didn’t make it. Didn’t work out then, might not work out for Rapture, then.”
“Something in that,” Kinkaide allowed, nodding slightly. “But Mr. Ryan is right—if it’s possible to create plasmids, then it should be possible to perfect them. We can work out the bad parts. Just imagine having rational control of telekinesis or the ability to climb walls like a fly, to hurl electricity. To become … superhuman. It’s wonderful, in its way.”
“Maybe people could just learn to use ADAM without overindulging,” Anna suggested. “An education program.”
Finally, Ryan thought, Anna had said something useful. “Not a bad idea. We’ll look into that.”
“The side effects of plasmids,” Sullivan pointed out, “are the only thing keeping more people from buying ADAM. We fix the side effects, we’ll have superpowered people everywhere. We’ll all have to do it just to keep some kinda balance of power. I don’t want to cough fire every time I belch.”
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