vision. So many who’ve betrayed Rapture. Who’ve
Bill knew he’d better turn this around, fast, if he hoped to ever see Elaine again. He could see that in Andrew Ryan’s eyes. Ryan had only to call Karlosky or one of his other men and give the order, and he’d be in a cell. They might have lost control of Persephone, but there was always a lockup to be found, or an air lock to be thrown out of.
He let out a long, slow breath—and then nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Ryan. I reckon I did lose faith. I’ll…” He licked his lips. Hoped he was playing this right. “I’ll give it a lot of thought. We’ll find a way.” He almost believed it himself.
Ryan leaned back in his chair and frowned, looking at him closely. But Bill could see Ryan wanted to believe him. He was a lonely man. He trusted few people.
“Very well, Bill. I need you. But you need to understand— we’re
Anna was standing on the street corner, singing to the frantic crowd, acoustic guitar in her hands. The overhead lamp flashed a golden glint from her earrings and played across her curly black hair.
“While Rome burns, she fiddles,” Ryan growled, as Bill followed him down the passageway to within a few yards of the crowd surging around the First Bank of Rapture. Karlosky and two other bodyguards, big men in long coats, carrying Thompsons, were walking a couple of paces in front of Ryan. Two others followed. The memory of the New Year’s Eve attack was still fresh.
Each wall along the passageway had its line of muttering, scowling customers, most of them men in work clothes or rumpled suits, clutching paperwork and shifting from foot to foot as if they were in a long line for a urinal. A wispy-haired man in frayed seersucker was peering over the shoulders of the people in front of him, trying to see into the bank, shouting past a cupped hand through the open door. “Come on, come on, we want our money; stop stalling in there!”
There were murmurs when Ryan walked up. A few glared his way and elbowed one another, but no one wanted to be the first to confront him.
“You could shut the bank down, just temporary-like, Mr. Ryan,” Bill suggested in a whispered aside. “I mean—just for now, for a few days, till the hysteria’s over, and we can reassure people…”
“No,” Ryan said firmly as the bodyguards encircled him, facing outward, guns pointed at the ceiling—but ready to drop their gun muzzles on the crowd should it rush Andrew Ryan. “No, Bill—that would be interfering with the market. The fools have the right to withdraw their money.”
“But a run on banks, guv—could be disastrous…”
“It already is. And they’ll pay the price. The resulting market correction will send them scuttling for cover like rats from a hailstorm. I just wanted to know if it was true—see it with my own eyes. I can’t interfere.”
“We could try and talk to them right here…”
Ryan snorted. “Useless. I’ll address them on radio, try and talk sense. But there’s no use reasoning with a mob.”
Karlosky turned and spoke in low tones with Ryan, out the side of his mouth. “Let’s get you out of here, Mr. Ryan…”
“Yes, yes, we’ll go…” But Ryan lingered, staring at the gathering crowd, people stalking from the banks counting fistfuls of Rapture dollars as they went, more men rushing up the street, eager to withdraw their money. Word had gotten out that the war with Atlas and the splicers was going to destroy the banks, somehow—that they’d be targeted by the subversives. Bill wondered if Atlas himself had spread that rumor, deliberately sparking the run on the banks. A depression gave him a propaganda victory.
Ryan’s presence had quieted the crowd a little—the shouting and muttering had dropped to a droning murmur, and Bill could hear Anna Culpepper singing now. Something about Cohen—how “Ryan’s songbird” was really “Ryan’s stableboy.”
“I’ve heard about this Communist versifying,” Ryan said to Bill, with acid quietness, glowering at Culpepper. “Union songs, organizers singing ‘folk music’ about the workingman. As if a Red had even a passing acquaintance with working!”
Anna had spotted Ryan now—and Bill could see she was nervous. Her voice faltered as she looked at the armed bodyguards. But she licked her lips and resumed singing. Bill had to admire her courage.
“So Anna’s turned against me,” Ryan said. “I’d heard something of the sort. But to go this far… singing a musical score for a run on the banks! I suppose she thought she’d find sheep for Atlas’s flock here. Or perhaps she’s gone over to the other sheep—the Lamb cult…” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here. I’ll see to it the little Red bird stops singing…”
The little girl watched, big eyed, as the enormous metal man lumbered clankingly around the room, the sensors on its round metal head glowing. It was only a remote-controlled model, really—there was no man inside it. Brigid Tenenbaum puppeted the clanking caricature of a deep-sea diver around the room from a control panel overlooking the training area. She had to be careful not to misdirect the Big Daddy model—it could run over the little girl like a freight train.
Subject 13 was a small blond child in a pink pinafore, her large azure eyes fixed on the Big Daddy. It was all part of the conditioning process—the girl had been treated with a drug that made her more susceptible to bonding with the creature that would be her guardian in the dangerous urban wilderness Rapture had become.
“He’s big and strong,” the little girl chirped. “He’s
“Yes,” Brigid said. “He is your big funny friend.”
“Can I play with him?” The child’s voice was a little fuzzy from the drug.
“Certainly…” Brigid made the Big Daddy model come to a sudden stop.
Then she moved a lever, causing its right arm to lift, its hand to outstretch—reaching out to the little girl.
There was something about the sight that stabbed Brigid Tenenbaum to the core…
18
