BioShock Rapture

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.

Gorland climbed down from the truck and stalked over to the loading dock, acting like he was in a hurry to get a delivery over with. He went up the steps like he owned the place. Big steel doors into the warehouse were wide open, and inside a whole separate crew bustled and grunted about crates and palettes supporting intricate steel equipment, the likes of which he’d never seen before.