by John Shirley
A voice was crackling from Sullivan’s handheld radio. “Ready to go, Chief!”
“Okay, Grogan, we’re coming down,” Sullivan said, speaking into the radio. “Soon as we’re there—we hit ’em!” He stuck the radio in a coat pocket, hefted his shotgun, and said, “Let’s go!”
Sullivan led the way; they followed him down a series of stairs, through hatches and doors, past the wharfs—and into a passage that led to the sub bay.
Six constables, heavily armed, were waiting at the rusting door to the sub bay. Sullivan trotted toward them, signaling “go ahead” with his gun hand.
Constable Grogan raised a pistol in acknowledgment. He was a stocky, freckle-faced man with sandy hair and a bushy, rust-colored mustache. A badge glinted on the lapel of his suit. He threw the latch, opened the metal door with a shove of his shoulder, and he and the others rushed in. Sullivan, Cavendish, Karlosky, and Bill were close on their heels. Cavendish was grinning like a wolf; Karlosky, smiling grimly, pistol in hand; Sullivan, pale and grave. Bill started to move past Cavendish.
“Hang back, McDonagh,” Cavendish said. “Leave this to the real officers. We’ll call you to the front line if we need to.”
Bill had a mind to hand Cavendish his badge and tell him where to shove it, but he silently dropped back to the rear. He wasn’t eager to pull the trigger on anyone.
They ran across a bank of carved-out rock into a great, echoing metal room with its own ocean-water lake. The room smelled of diesel and ocean brine. A converted 312-foot Balao-class submarine, without the deck guns, rocked in a flat calm. Lit by electric lights on steel rafters, the hangarlike room was just big enough to contain the submarine and enough water for it to submerge in. To the left, through the translucent water, Bill saw underwater steel doors that led into the air lock and the open sea. Purportedly there was another, smaller side channel, along the way, for the bathysphere to take to Smuggler’s Hideout. A big yellow fishing net was folded up on the afterdeck of the floating submarine. A pontoon gangway ran from the stony verge just inside the door out to the rust-streaked vessel. On the side of the conning tower was stenciled:
RAPTURE 5
The constables were already running along the gangway. Bill was at the rear, looking nervously around. There was no sign of life, not much noise—maybe a slight purr of an idling motor from the sub. Then Bill caught a flicker of movement up in the rafters, beyond the glare of the lights. He leaned back, craning his neck to look, shading his eyes with a hand. He just made out a face up there, someone on a catwalk near the ceiling. Bill had seen the man with Fontaine before. Reggie, his name was, and he seemed to be speaking into a handheld radio.
“Sullivan, Cavendish—wait!” Bill shouted, stopping on the gangway. “There’s something wrong—someone’s up there.”
Sullivan hesitated just before the sub, looking around as if he suspected something himself. Cavendish and Karlosky stopped to look back at him in puzzlement.
Grogan was already on the submarine’s top deck with two other men. Others were scrambling onto the metal grating, rushing toward the hatch.
“Get that hatch open!” Grogan yelled.
“In the rafters, up there, Sullivan!” Bill shouted. But there was a groaning, a churning at the submarine’s aft. Vapor bubbled up, reeking of diesel; the water moiled and seethed …
The submarine began to descend. It eased forward as it sank, heading toward the underwater doors opening in the submerged wall. The unattached gangway rocked in the waves of the submarine’s descent. Water surged up over the vessel’s bow, rushing over the shouting men on the deck. The submarine picked up speed, suddenly spurting forward and down, as the conning tower dipped under the surface. The men on the deck were swept into the water, then sucked downward in the vessel’s wake, their screams quickly drowned out. The submarine angled sharply down, completely submerged now, sailing swiftly through the opened steel doors into the shadowy undersea tunnel. Several men struggled in the sub’s wake, deep underwater, silhouettes seen dimly in the water. They were like children’s toys going down a drain, drawn by the suction of the closing doors.
Bill squinted up at the ceiling again, raising his tommy gun for a shot at Reggie, but he was gone.
They fished the survivors from the water. Grogan hadn’t made it. He had drowned, in that tunnel somewhere.
Standing together on the stone verge just inside the door to the now strangely empty room—the sodden Sullivan, Bill, Karlosky, and Cavendish stared at the water, now calm, the gangway rocking gently on its pontoons.
“They had ’er ready to go,” Bill observed. “Just threw a switch, and she’s off. The bastards went out of their way to take the bloody sub down fast. They wanted to drown as many of us as they could.”
“We’re lucky more didn’t go down with it,” Sullivan said. “Goddammit … Grogan was a good man.”
“I reckon I saw Fontaine’s man Reggie, up in the rafters,” Bill said. “Didn’t have a chance to tell you. It was him. Whoever it was, they were using a radio.”
Sullivan looked up. “Yeah? Giving the signal to submerge…”
“That’s what I figure. They were waiting for us. Hard to keep this raid a secret—hard to keep anything a secret long in Rapture, Chief. We’re too crowded and becoming too bloody incestuous.”
“Of course, you know what the bastards will say,” Sullivan growled. “Fontaine will say that the sub was about to depart to do a job—and we just picked a bad time to go aboard. They’ll claim they had no idea we were there. But there’s one thing. I’ve still got a witness. Herve Manuela. He can point us to more evidence.”
Bill nodded. He looked toward the closed, submerged steel doors. And wondered where Grogan’s body was floating now …
Andrew Ryan’s Office
1956
“Andrew?”
Annoyed, Ryan looked up from his paperwork to see Diane in the doorway of his office. She had a you’ll-never-guess-what expression on her face. “Well?”
“Frank Fontaine is here to see you!”
Ryan sat back in his chair. He picked up a pencil and flipped it through his fingers thoughtfully. “Is he now? He has no appointment.”
“So should I tell him to go away?”
“No. Is Karlosky out there?”
“He’s the one who stopped Fontaine coming in. They’re kind of having a big-boy pissing contest of some kind—I mean, Karlosky and that man Reggie. He’s here with Fontaine.”
“Tell Karlosky to come in—and then bring Fontaine and his man in. This is overdue. It may prove interesting…”
“Very well. Can I—”
“No. You’ll wait outside.”
She pouted but went out to the entry room. Ryan wished he hadn’t given Elaine the day off. He was seriously tired of Diane’s airs, her possessiveness. He felt less and less like spending time with Diane; he needed one of his little intervals with Jasmine Jolene. A womanly woman, that Jasmine. A childbearer, with beauty and talent.
Karlosky came in, taking a pistol from a shoulder holster. He held it down by his side and stood to Ryan’s left, watching the door as Reggie came in. Reggie didn’t show a gun—but Ryan knew he had one.
Reggie glanced at Karlosky. “Tell him to put that heat away, Mr. Ryan.”
Ryan shrugged. “Holster the gun, if you please.”
Karlosky glared at Reggie before he holstered the pistol. Reggie looked like that wasn’t going to be good enough—but Frank Fontaine himself walked in then, long overcoat unbuttoned, hands in his pants pockets. He looked like a guy out for a walk on Broadway. His three-piece, light-blue suit was exquisitely tailored and pressed. Immaculate spats adorned his shoes, and a watch fob gleamed at his vest.
Fontaine looked relaxed, pleased with himself. The arrogant rascal, Ryan thought—almost admiringly.
“Normally,” Ryan said, “I require an appointment. But I’ve been wanting to talk to you in person. We lost a good man trying to inspect your sub.”
&nbs
p; Fontaine grinned. “You wanted to inspect the subs, Mr. Ryan, well, you should have made an appointment.” Fontaine spread his hands in mock regret. “If you don’t tell us in advance … you might end up with your constables floating about facedown again.”
Ryan leaned forward, letting the anger show on his face. “You knew damn well we were coming!”
“You did another inspection the very next day, and one after that. You found nothing. I’m not smuggling anything, Ryan. That’s why I’ve come here. To set the record straight.”
“I don’t expect you to admit it, Fontaine. I understand that you and the truth are not on speaking terms. You were authorized to bring fish and fish only into Rapture. Unauthorized contact with the outside world is dangerous! We will put a stop to it— within the laws of Rapture…”
Fontaine looked at Ryan almost pityingly. “You guys are imagining things. The only outside world I’m in touch with are a lot of fish. You can’t call ’em close-mouthed, but they’re not telling tales about Rapture to anyone. I’m the one with a bone to pick, Ryan. I’ve heard rumors you’re planning to ban plasmids. They’re Rapture’s most sought-after product. The people won’t tolerate being deprived…”
“Deprived of their addictions?”
Fontaine shrugged. “Power is addictive. What do you know about that, Ryan?”
Ryan felt his hands clenching, blood rushing to his face. Then he forced himself to relax and lean back. He shook his head and chuckled. Fontaine was smart. He’d hit a nerve. “We’re not going to ban all plasmids. But there are some I won’t tolerate…”
“Such as?”
“Such as Teleport.”
“Too hard to keep people in Rapture? They can’t teleport that far!”
“Maybe just to a passing ship … and if Rapture is invaded—you’ll lose all your assets. You know they’ll find some excuse to seize everything.”
“Now there you’ve got a point, Ryan.” Fontaine lowered his voice and looked at Ryan earnestly. “I’m not risking Rapture—just know that much. I’m not letting anyone know we’re here. I’m making a living. So I don’t have to lean on plasmids too much…”
He said it like he was making an offer. Ryan figured Fontaine was indirectly telling him: I’m smuggling but I’m not putting us at risk—stop worrying about my smuggling, and I’ll go easy on marketing forbidden plasmids …
That was a deal Ryan wasn’t making. Ryan wondered if this was the moment to deal with Fontaine another way entirely—maybe it wasn’t in line with Rapture philosophy to simply have Karlosky shoot him dead. But it’d save a damn lot of trouble. He was tempted. Still—there was the risk of what Reggie might do if Fontaine went down. And Fontaine’s other men. He settled for an implied ultimatum. “No smuggling, Fontaine—and no Teleport.”
Fontaine’s smile went crooked on his face. “I’m finding Teleport problematic too. People who use it get extra crazy—they’re giving me problems. I’ve got my own security issues…”
“Security issues? You act as if you have your own little fiefdom here in Rapture.”
“If I do—you gave it to me, Ryan. By deceiving people about what they’d find in your pretty undersea ‘utopia.’ By not providing for them once they got here.”
“Everyone has a chance to earn their way,” Ryan snapped back. “Only parasites and slaves remain in their little dilemmas.”
“Is that right?”
Their gazes locked.
“What exactly are you up to, in that Little Sisters Orphanage, Fontaine?” Ryan asked. “You barely take care of the boys in the other wing of the orphanage. It all seems to be about the girls. If you’re using them for your personal little playthings…”
Fontaine’s eyes flashed. “What do you take me for? I’m like you. I like full-grown women. As for the orphanage,” Fontaine went on blandly, “we’re just trying to give back to the community.”
He managed to say it with a straight face.
Ryan snorted. “I’ll figure it out eventually. One thing I’m sure of—you’re using that ‘food for the poor’ charity to recruit people into your little syndicate. I’ve known mobsters to do the same thing.”
“Mobsters?” Fontaine took a step toward the desk. “I don’t have to stand for that.”
Ryan moved near the security-alert button on the edge of his desk. Maybe this was the moment after all …
“What I’m here for really,” Fontaine said sharply, “is to tell you that if you leave me alone—I’ll leave you alone. All that recruiting you’re guessing about won’t come and bite you in the ass. If. You back. The fuck. Off! You respect strength, Ryan. Well, respect mine. I’ve got six more armed men out in the corridor. And I’m leaving here now, so don’t interfere with me. I won’t distribute any new Teleport. But there just might be some other new plasmids. And you people are going to live with them. Because I’m changing everything, Ryan. I’m changing it from the inside out. And no one can stop me. We can do this easy—or the hard way…”
Fontaine beckoned to Reggie and they stalked out of the room.
Rapture Detention
1956
They walked under the dimming-glowing-dimming lights of the cellblock, Sullivan following Redgrave and Cavendish, their footsteps reverberating. Constable Redgrave was a medium-sized, wiry black man with a Southern accent. He was vain of his white linen suit. Cavendish spun a police truncheon on a thong as he walked along.
The overhead lights spat a few sparks and guttered again. Water dripped down. There were shallow puddles in the metal hallway.
“We’re gonna get fucking electrocuted in here,” Sullivan said.
“Always a possibility,” Cavendish said. “Tell your friend McDonagh. Got a lot of leaks now. Can’t afford to lose any more men.”
Sullivan grunted to himself. “Lot of our best men transferred over to keep order in Persephone. I hear that Lamb woman is still up to some rabble-rousing … how she does it from jail, we don’t know.”
“Subversion’s easier to deal with than getting electrocuted…”
A splicer just ahead of Cavendish reached out from the barred windows of his cell, screeching, “Electrocuted? Did I hear ya say you want to be electrocuted? To be punished for your crimes? Here you are, you bastards!”
Electricity flickered along the splicer’s arm—and sputtered out.
“Don’t worry about that one,” Cavendish said. “He’s got no EVE left in him. Can’t do anything with his ADAM…” And Cavendish cracked the splicer’s elbow hard with his truncheon. The impact made an ugly crunching sound, and the man jerked his arm back in, shrieking in pain.
“You broke it!”
“You deserved it,” Cavendish said, yawning, as they passed onward. “Ah, there it is. Number twenty-nine.”
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.