BioShock Rapture

A sign over the doors, bigger than the business sign out front, read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

A grumpy-looking man in a long coat, horn-rimmed glasses, and a patch of a mustache was supervising a crew of eight men offloading a truck backed to the loading dock—maybe the biggest truck Gorland had ever seen. Gorland watched for a minute as a hefty wooden crate was swung with a block and tackle, several men wrestling it into place on a wheeled pallet. Some of the other crates in the back of the truck looked big enough to hold a small car. Stenciled on one of the crates was DESIGN FACING BLDG FOUR.

“You!” barked the man in the horn-rims. He scowled, not seeming happy to find Gorland staring into the back of the big truck. “What do you want here?”

Gorland meditatively chewed a wooden match and considered the question. Then he hooked a thumb at the truck he’d driven here in. “Got a delivery for a Ryan.” He flashed the clipboard he’d brought along. “Canned goods.”

The man turned to shout, “Careful with that!” at two burly workmen, then turned back to Gorland. “Canned goods? They’ll be glad to hear that out at the site. Second we get this truck unloaded, you back yours up here…”

“Hold on now!” Gorland said, furiously chewing his toothpick. “This here delivery is for a man named Ryan! You him?”

The man snorted in contempt. “Don’t be a fool. Mr. Ryan doesn’t come here in person! I’m Harry Brown; I sign for everything!”

Gorland shrugged and turned away. “Says here Mr. Ryan. I don’t have no other instructions.”

“Now wait a minute, hold on!” Brown stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “They go through food out there like there’s no tomorrow! We got the word from Rizzo yesterday that we had to step up on the canned goods!”

“Fine,” Gorland said, chewing his match. “Then get Mr.…” He paused to squint at his clipboard as if it was written on there. “Mr. Andrew Ryan out here to sign for it.”

“Look—” Brown seemed to be working hard to hold onto his temper. “You know who Andrew Ryan is?”

“I heard of him. Some big muckety-muck. I don’t care if he’s Harry Truman; my instructions say he’s got to sign or no delivery. Hell, I’ll come back tomorrow, it’s just a truckload of canned food.”

“We’ve got a ship coming in tonight—and they need those goods! They’ve got an army of men out there to feed!”

“So why don’t they buy ’em something to eat local, wherever that is, till we get this straightened out?” Gorland asked, as if innocently amused. “They don’t have a corner grocery there?”

“No, you tubby fool—it’s off the coast of Iceland! And if he buys in Iceland…” He broke off, frowning.

Gorland scratched his head, as if trying to puzzle it out. “Well, maybe I can let you have this one truckload. How many men’s he got out there—one truckload going to be enough? Maybe you want us to send out another?”

“Hell, we could probably use three more!”

“Cost more to get it out here that quick. He give you guys enough budget for that?”

“Enough budget!” Brown snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you only knew what we spent on the air pumps already … Money’s … what they call it … no object. You get it? Now back that truck up here!”

“I dunno. This whole thing—how do I know it’s on the up-and-up if the guy who ordered ain’t here to sign? Who’s in charge at Seaworthy if it isn’t Ryan?”

“Ryan’s the owner, you damned…” He took a deep breath, removed his glasses, polished them with a handkerchief. That seemed to calm him. “Ryan’s the owner. Man named Rizzo, over at the administration office, he’s in charge.”

Brown turned to sign a manifest held up for him by a thickset black man in overalls. Gorland leaned over, trying to make out what was on it. All he could gather was Air purification system bldg 32, 33. And the cost of that system added up to well over a million dollars …

Brown saw Gorland trying to see the manifest and stepped to block his view. “Mister, you sure are a nosy sort…”

Gorland shrugged. “Just as curious as anybody else. Well, I can’t let you sign for this stuff. Where’s this Rizzo’s office at? Maybe I better talk to him…”

Brown hesitated, looking at him suspiciously. Then he shrugged and told him, and Gorland wrote it down on the clipboard. He turned to peer inside the warehouse. “Hey—that one of those bathysphere things?”

Brown stared at him. “What delivery company you say you were with?”

“Me? Acme. Name’s Foster.”

“Yeah? Let me have another look at that clipboard of yours…”

“Now who’s the nosy one? See you when I get the signature, pal.” Gorland turned and hurried down the stairs. He felt the men on the loading dock staring at him. He glanced back and saw one big fist-faced palooka take a sap out of his pocket, and slap it in his palm.

He hurried to the truck, forcing himself not to run, and got out of there as fast as he could. Smiling to himself as he drove away. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a blackmail operation. Maybe it’d be something much bigger …