BioShock: Rapture

make ’em brisker, I always say. And what’s brisker than the jitterbug?”

She looked at him innocently. “Jitterbug?”

“Yeah. Fancy a jitterbug sometime?”

“You mean—you’d like to go dancing…?” She glanced at the door to Ryan’s inner office, and lowered her voice. “Well, I might… I mean, if Mr. Ryan doesn’t… I’m not sure how he feels about employees who…”

“Employees who cut a rug?” Bill grinned. “All quite ’armless…” He cleared his throat again. “Harmless.”

“Ah Bill, you’re here—!”Andrew Ryan was at the door to the inner office. He seemed cheerful, almost ebullient.

“Right you are, sir,” Bill mumbled. He got up, trying to catch Elaine’s eye as he went. She was studiously back at work.

“I expect you’ve brought the report,” Ryan said, looking at Bill’s manila envelope. “Good man. But I already know how it’s going. Tell you what: let’s skip the office meeting. You and I, Bill, if you are up for it, are going on a trip. Couple of stops. One in town, and one—far beyond town… we’ll talk about it on the way…”

* * *

It was Bill’s first ride in a limousine. A smooth, quiet ride, a world away from the traffic outside. But Bill felt out of his social depth.

He’d only had a few meetings with Ryan since being hired. He’d been working mostly with contractors, and sometimes with Greavy when the engineer was back from the North Atlantic. Only it had seemed to Bill like Greavy came out to the site mostly to watch him. Like the boffin was trying to guess his weight. One time Greavy had brought a couple of bearded, scowling Irishmen in fancy suits to look him over—brothers by the name of Daniel and Simon Wales. Greavy never did bother to explain what that was about.

“When you get a chance to take a dekko at the figures, sir,” Bill said, “you’ll see we’re caught up on the schedule and just about done—”

Ryan held up a hand to stop him. But he was smiling—faintly. “I’m not surprised that you’re almost finished, Bill. In fact the crew can finish without you, at this point. That’s why I hired you—I knew that you’d do a good job. Greavy was testing you on this tunnel assignment. But I had you figured right all along. There’s something else I need to know. Something far more important, Bill.”

“Yes sir?” Bill waited, fascinated by the electric charge of sheer certainty that seemed to shimmer around Andrew Ryan.

Ryan looked at him seriously. “I need to know if you’re ready to meet the greatest challenge of your life.”

“I…” Bill swallowed. Whatever Ryan had in mind, he had to be equal to it. “Anything you want to throw at me, sir—I’ll take it on.”

“Bill—” Ryan leaned forward, glancing at the chauffeur to make sure the window to the front seat was closed, and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Have you heard of something called the North Atlantic project?”

Bill couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Heard those four words and not a word more. They’re all like monks with a vow of silence when I ask what it is.”

“Yes. Yes, and for several good reasons. Reasons like the United States government—the OSS. British intelligence, Soviet intelligence.”

“OSS—that’s American spies, yeah? When I was with the RAF we’d get a report from those blokes from time to time…”

“Right. Office of Strategic Services.” He snorted. “We run rings around them and the FBI, I can tell you.” The bonhomie faded from his eyes, replaced by a hard glitter as he looked sharply at Bill. “You fought in the war—tell me a little about it.”

It wasn’t something Bill liked to talk about any more than he had to. “Not so much the fighting end. More like support. Onboard radioman for the RAF. Never had to kill a man personally. Eleven bombing missions over Germany—after I was wounded, they found me a place in the Royal Engineers. Liked that better. Got my schooling.”

“Did you feel a great loyalty to the government you fought for?”

Bill sensed this was a key question. “Wouldn’t put it that way, sir. Wasn’t loyal to the government. Never liked ’em. It wasn’t who I was for—it was who I was against. I was against the bloody Nazis—the bastards bunging flyin’ bombs at London.”

Ryan nodded gravely. He made eye contact—and Bill felt the voltage of it.

“My feelings about loyalty,” Ryan said carefully, “are very… particularized. I believe a man must be loyal to himself first. But I also look for men who believe what I believe—men who believe it enough that they know that being loyal to me is being loyal to themselves! Men like you, I hope.”

Bill was moved. This man, one of the world’s most powerful, was opening yet another door to him—and at the same time acknowledging him as an individual. “Yes sir—I believe I understand.”

“Do you? Of course I run a corporation, and I ask for cooperation from people under me. But self-interest is at the root of cooperation, Bill. I intend to prove that self-interest oils the wheels of business—and that freedom from the… the tentacles of government, from the usual social shackles on science and technology and growth, will produce unstinting prosperity. I have envisioned a great social experiment. But Bill, ask yourself, where can a social experiment on a large scale take place? Where in this world is there a place for men like us? My father and I fled the Bolsheviks—and where did we end up? This isn’t the ‘land of the free’ it pretends to be. It’s the land of the taxed. And it was his reluctance to pay taxes that put my father in jail. Every society is the same on the face of the earth these days. But Bill—suppose it were possible…,” his voice pitched low, breathless, “… to leave the face of the earth? Just for a time. Just for a century or two. Until the fools have destroyed themselves with their Hiroshima bombs.”

Bill was flummoxed. “Leave it sir?”

Ryan chuckled. “Don’t look so astonished. I don’t mean we’re going to the moon. We’re not going up. We’re going down! Bill—I have something to show you. Will you take a trip with me… to Iceland?”

“Iceland!”

“Just the first leg. A plane to Iceland—then, immediately, a boat to the North Atlantic. To see the foundation, the beginning, of the North Atlantic project. I’m going to have to trust you—and you’re going to have to trust me…”

“Sir…” Bill swallowed. He was not usually so open with people. But he was moved by Ryan’s passion—and his trust. “You trusted me, guv’nor. Right out of the Christmas cracker. And I’ll trust you.”

“Good—but you’ll be giving me your point of view, Bill. Because I feel you’re trustworthy. Ah—we’ve reached our first stop. We’ll have a few words with one of our resident artists here, and then we’re taking a very late plane to see the North Atlantic project. I’m going to show you a marvel taking shape southwest of Iceland. And I promise that you will be… enraptured.”

* * *

Driving a delivery truck later that night, Gorland spotted the small, discreet sign on the warehouse front: SEAWORTHY CONSTRUCTION. He drove around the corner and pulled up near the loading dock. Even this time of night the place was a hive of activity. One shift clocking out, another one clocking in.

Gorland turned off the engine and adjusted his stomach padding. Hiring a delivery truck was easy. Coming up with a new disguise had used up another hour. He got the delivery service coveralls, stuffed a pillow in them for a big belly, gave himself a scar, and rearranged the toupee. Most of all he rearranged his facial expression—made it the expression of a bored wiseacre.

“Hey how ya doin’,” Gorland said to himself, in the rearview mirror. He made the voice a little higher. He didn’t want anyone recognizing “Frank Gorland.” He was now Bill Foster, delivery driver—because Bill Foster happened to be the name sewn onto the overalls.

He looked over the clipboard that the driver of his borrowed truck had left on the dash. Heinz canned goods, it said. That’d work. The truck was empty—the stuff had already been delivered somewhere—but the warehouse didn’t need to know that.