The prequel story to the award-winning and bestselling BioShock video game franchise: how the majesty of Rapture, the shining city below the sea, became an instant dystopia It's the end of World War II. FDR's New Deal has redefined American politics. Taxes are at an all-time high. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki has brought a fear of total annihilation. The rise of secret government agencies and sanctions on business has many watching their backs. America's sense of freedom is diminishing . . . and many are desperate to take there freedom back. Among them is a great dreamer, an immigrant who pulled himself from the depths of poverty to become one of the wealthiest and admired men in the world. That man is Andrew Ryan, and he believed that great men and women deserve better. And so he set out to create the impossible, a utopia free from government, censorship, and moral restrictions on science--where what you give is what you get. He created Rapture---the shining city below the sea. But as we all know, this utopia suffered a great tragedy. This is the story of how it all came to be . . .and how it all ended. I am Andrew Ryan and I'm here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow? No, says the man in Washington. It belongs to the poor. No, says the man in the Vatican. It belongs to God. No, says the man in Moscow. It belongs to everyone. I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose....Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by Petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brown, Rapture can become your city as well. "I am Andrew Ryan and I'm here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow? No, says the man in Washington. It belongs to the poor. No, says the man in the Vatican. It belongs to God. No, says the man in Moscow. It belongs to everyone. I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose....Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by Petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brown, Rapture can become your city as well." John Shirley won the Bram Stoker Award for his book Black Butterflies . He was co-screenwriter of The Crow and television writer for Fox, and Paramount Television. His novels include City Come A-Walkin' , Eclipse , Crawlers , Demons , and Bleak History . Bioshock Rapture By John Shirley Tom Doherty Associates Copyright © 2011 Take-Two Interactive Software, Inc. All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7653-2485-6 CHAPTER 1 Park Avenue, New York City 1946 Almost a year later ... Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms — but he felt like he was sinking under the sea. He was toting a box of pipe fittings in one hand, tool kit in the other. He'd been sent so hastily by the maintenance manager he didn't even have the bloody name of his customer. But his mind was on earlier doings in another building, a small office building in lower Manhattan. He'd taken the morning off from his plumbing business to interview for an assistant engineer job. The pay would start low, but the job would take him in a more ambitious direction. They had looked at him with only the faintest interest when he'd walked into the Feeben, Leiber, and Quiffe Engineering Firm. The two interviewers were a couple of snotty wankers — one of them was Feeben Junior. They seemed bored by the time they called him in, and their faint flicker of interest evaporated completely when he started talking about his background. He had done his best to speak in American phraseology, to suppress his accent. But he knew it slipped out. They were looking for some snappy young chap out of New York University, not a cockney blighter who'd worked his way through the East London School of Engineering and Mechanical Vocation. Bill heard them say it, through the door, after they'd dismissed him: "Another limey grease monkey ..." All right then. So he was a grease monkey. Just a mechanic and, lately, a freelance plumbing contractor. A dirty little job screwin' pipes for the nobs. Heading up to some rich bloke's penthouse. There was no shame in it. But there wasn't much money in it either, working on assignment for Chinowski's Maintenance. It'd be a long time before he could save up enough to start a big contracting outfit of his own. He had a couple of lads hired on, from time to time, but not the big contracting and engineering company he'd always envisioned. And Mary Louise had made it clear as polished glass she was not really interested in marrying a glorified plumber. "I had enough of fellas that think they're the cat's meow because they can fix the terlet," she said. A pretty girl from the Bronx was