John Shirley - BioShock - Rapture

“The union problem?” Sullivan asked, puzzled.

“No—well, yes, in the long run. Unions too! But I was thinking of a more pressing problem: the potential destruction of civilization! The problem, Sullivan, is the inevitability of Atomic war. That inevitability calls for a gigantic solution. I’ve sent out explorers—and I’ve picked the spot. But I wasn’t sure I would ever give it the go-ahead. Not until today.” He peered again at the photos of the devastation, turning them to catch the light better. “Not until this. We can escape, you and I—and certain others. We can escape from the mutual destruction of the mad little men who scuttle about the halls of government power. We are going to build a new world in the one place these madmen cannot touch…”

“Yes sir.” Sullivan decided not to ask for an explanation. Better to just hope that whatever overblown scheme the Great Man was caught up in, he’d drop it, in the end, when he faced the full cost. “Anything more, sir? I mean—tonight? If I’m going to break up those strikes, I’d better leave early in the morning…”

“Yes, yes go and get some rest. But there’ll be no rest for me tonight. I must plan…”

So saying, Andrew Ryan turned away from the window, crossed the room—and tossed the photos aside. The destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki skidded across the glass-topped desk.

Left alone in the shadowy office, Ryan slumped in the padded leather desk chair and reached for the telephone. It was time to call Simon Wales, give him the go-ahead for the next stage.

But his hand hovered over the phone—and then withdrew, trembling. He needed to calm himself before calling Wales. Something he’d said to Sullivan had sparked a painful, harshly vivid memory. “I came here from Russia as a boy in 1918—the Bolshies had just taken the place over… We barely got out alive…”

Andrew Ryan wasn’t his name, not then. Since coming to the USA he’d Americanized his name. His real name was Andrei Rianofski…

Andrei and his father are standing at the windswept train station, shivering in the cold. It is early morning, and both of them are staring down the tracks. His father, heavily bearded, his lined face grim, is holding their single bag in his left hand. His large right hand is resting on young Andrei’s shoulder.

The dawn sky, the colors of a deep bruise, is closed by clouds; the cutting wind is serrated by sleet. A few other travelers, huddled in long dark coats, stand in a group farther down the platform. They seem worried, though a woman with a round red face, her head in a fur wrap, is smiling, talking softly to cheer them up. Beside the door to the station, an old man in a tattered coat and fur hat tends a steaming samovar. Andrei wishes they could afford some of the old man’s hot tea.

Andrei listens to the wind hiss along the concrete platform and wonders why his father stands so far from the others. But he guesses the reason. Some from their village, on the outskirts of Minsk, know that father was against the Communists, that he spoke up against the Reds. Now many who’d once been their friends were beginning to denounce all such “betrayers of the People’s Revolution”…

His father had word from the priest the night before that the purge was to begin today. They were first in line when the station opened, Father and Andrei, purchasing a ticket to Constantinople. Father carries traveling papers, permissions to purchase Turkish rugs and other goods for import. The papers might be good enough to get them out of Russia…

Father fiddles with the money in his pocket he’d brought to bribe customs officials. They will probably need it all.

His father’s breath steams in the air… the train steams as it approaches, a big dark shape hulking toward them through the grayness, a single lantern above the cowcatcher projecting a rain-scratched cone into the mist.

Andrei glances toward the other travelers—and sees another man approaching. “Father,” Andrei whispers, in Russian, turning to look at a tall lean man in a long green coat with red epaulets, a black hat, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Is that man one of the Red Guard?”

“Andrei.” His father grips his shoulder, brusquely turns him so that he looks away from the soldier. “Don’t look at him.”

“Pyotr? Pyotr Rianofski!”

They turn to see his father’s cousin Dmetri standing with his arm around his wife, Vasilisa, a stocky, pale, blond woman in a yellow scarf, her nose red with the cold. She rubs wetness from her nose and looks at Andrei’s father imploringly.

“Please, Pyotr,” she whispers to Andrei’s father. “We have no more money. If you pay the soldiers…”

Dmetri licks his lips. “They are looking for us, Pyotr. Because I spoke at the meeting yesterday. We have train tickets, but nothing more. Not a ruble left! Perhaps a bribe will make them let us go.”

“Dmetri, Vasilisa—if I could help, I would. But we will need every kopek! I have to think of this boy. We have to pay our way to… our destination. A long journey.”

The train chugs into the station, looming up rather suddenly, reeking of coal smoke, making Andrei jump a little as the engine furiously sprays steam.

“Please,” Vasilisa says, wringing her hands. The militiaman is looking toward them… and another Red guardsman and then a third step onto the platform from the station door, all of them carrying rifles.

The train is grinding slowly past. It slows, but to Andrei it seems it will never completely stop. The militiaman is calling out to Cousin Dmetri, his voice a bark. “You! We wish to speak to you!” He takes his rifle off his shoulder.

“Dmetri,” Father hisses. “Keep your peace—do not make a sound!”

The train is still shuddering as it finally stops, and Andrei feels his father’s hand clamping the back of his neck—feels himself propelled up the metal stairs, onto the train. He almost falls on his face. His father clambers on after him.

They bang through a door into a smoky car, the windows greasy and steam-coated. They find a seat on the wooden benches, and, as father hands the scowling conductor their tickets, Andrei wipes the window enough to see Dmetri and Vasilisa talking to the militiamen. Vasilisa is weeping, waving her arms. Dmetri is standing stiffly, shaking his head, pushing his wife behind him.

The discussion goes on, as the armed men frown at the travel papers.

“Andrei,” Father mutters. “Don’t look…”

But Andrei cannot look away. The tall militiaman tucks Dmetri’s papers away somewhere and then gestures with his rifle.

Dmetri shakes his head, waving his train tickets. The train shudders, a whistle blasts…

Vasilisa tries to pull him toward the train. The soldiers wave their guns. Andrei remembers Dmetri coming to the feast for his tenth birthday, smiling, bringing with him a wooden saber carved as a gift.

The train whistle screams. The guards shout. One of them jabs at Vasilisa with his rifle, knocking her to her knees. Dmetri’s face goes white as he grabs at the rifle barrel—the man turns it toward him and fires.

The train lurches into motion—as Dmetri stumbles back. “Oh, Father!” Andrei cries out.

“Look away, boy!”

But Andrei can’t look away. He sees Vasilisa flailing at the soldiers, weeping—and two more guns fire. She spins and goes down in a heap atop Dmetri. The two of them lie there, dying together on the platform, as the steam from the train cloaks them, and the past cloaks them too. The train, like time, moving away…

Andrew Ryan shook his head. “Workers Militia,” he muttered bitterly now. “A revolution for the poor. To save us all… for a cold death on a train platform.”