The Windup Girl

  "The Environment Ministry, as quickly as you can."

  She waves Akkarat's bribe money at the rickshaw man, encouraging greater effort, but even as she does, she wonders on whose behalf she waves it.

  33

  At noon, an army truck arrives. It's a huge thing, gouting exhaust, astonishingly loud, like something out of the old Expansion. She can hear it coming from a block away, but even with so much warning, she almost cries out when she sees the thing. So fast. So awfully loud. Once in Japan, Emiko saw a similar vehicle. Gendo-sama explained that it was powered by liquefied coal. Astonishingly dirty and terrible for carbon limits, but almost magically powerful. As if a dozen megodonts were chained within. Perfect for military applications, even if civilians could not justify either the power or the taxation.

  Exhaust clouds swirl blue around it as it comes to a halt. A small fleet of kink-spring scooters sweep up behind, ridden by men wearing the black of the palace's Panthers and the green of the Army. Men begin to pour from the truck and charge for Anderson-sama's tower entrance.

  Emiko crouches lower in her alley hiding place. At first she thought to flee, but before she had gone a block she realized there was no place left to run. Anderson-sama was her only raft left in the raging ocean.

  And so she remains close by, watching the hive of ants that is Anderson-sama's tower. Trying to understand. She's still astounded that the people who came crashing through the door were not in fact white shirts. They should have been. In Kyoto, the police would have already hunted her down with sniffer dogs, and she would have already been compassionately put down. She has never heard of a New Person so completely failing to show obedience. Certainly not anything like her own ugly bloodletting and flight. She burns with shame and hatred at the same time. She cannot stay, and yet it is more than apparent that the gaijin's apartment, invaded though it is, is her last place of safety. The city around her is no friend.

  More men pour from the military truck. Emiko slips deeper into the alley as they approach, expecting them to widen their search, preparing herself for a burst of heat and motion to escape. If she runs she can reach the khlong, and cool herself before fleeing again.

  But they only post themselves along the major thoroughfares and do not seem to care to search for her.

  Another flurry of motion. Panthers dragging out a pair of burlap-hooded men with pale hands. Gaijin for certain. One of them is Anderson-sama, she thinks. The clothes are his. They shove him forward, making him stumble. He slams into the back of the truck.

  Cursing, two of the Panthers drag him aboard. They cuff him beside the other gaijin. More troops swarm inside, surrounding them.

  A limousine sweeps up to the curb, purring with its own coal-diesel engine. It's strange and silent in comparison to the roar of the troop carrier, but the exhaust is the same. A rich man's vehicle. Almost unimaginable that someone could be so wealthy—

  Emiko gasps. It's Trade Minister Akkarat, being hustled by bodyguards into the car. Onlookers pause and stare. Emiko gawks with them. Then the limousine is moving and the troop carrier as well, its massive engine roaring. The two vehicles tear down the street trailing clouds of smoke and disappear around the corner.

  Silence rushes into the void, almost physical after the rumble of the truck engine. She hears people murmuring, "Political . . . Akkarat . . . farang? . . . General Pracha . . ."

  But even with her excellent hearing, it makes no sense. She stares after the truck. With determination, she might follow. . . She gives up the idea. It is impossible. Wherever Anderson-sama has gone, she cannot involve herself. Whatever political problem he has become entangled in will end with the ugliness of all such conflicts.

  Emiko wonders if she can simply slip back inside the apartment now that everyone is gone. Near the building's entrance, a pair of men have begun handing out fliers to everyone they can reach. Another pair coast past on a cargo bike, its bin stacked with more fliers. One man jumps down and sticks a flier to a lamp post before hopping back up on the slowly moving bike.

  Emiko starts toward the bike to collect a flier herself, but a prickle of paranoia stops her. Instead, she lets them rattle past, then cautiously approaches the light pole to read what they have posted. She moves carefully, all her energy focused on making her movement appear natural, trying not to draw undue attention. She pushes gently into a gathering crowd, bumping against them, craning for a view over the sea of black hair and straining bodies.

  An angry murmur rises. Someone sobs. A man turns away, his eyes wide with grief and terror. He shoves past her. Emiko slips forward into the gap. The murmur grows. Emiko eases closer, careful, careful, slow, slow. . . Her breath catches.

  The Somdet Chaopraya. The Protector of Her Majesty the Queen. And words. . . she forces her brain to work, to translate from Thai to Japanese and as she does, she becomes aware of the people all around her, the people who press in on every side, all of them reading about a windup girl who walks amongst them, a windup who slaughters the Queen's own protector, an agent of the Environment Ministry, a creature of deadly power.

  People jostle around her as they try to read, shoving closer, squeezing past, all of them thinking she is one of them. All of them allowing her to live only because they do not yet see.

  34

  "Will you sit down? Your pacing makes me nervous."

  Hock Seng pauses in the perambulation of his hovel to glare at Laughing Chan. "I pay for your calories, not the other way around."

  Laughing Chan shrugs and goes back to playing cards. They've all been huddled in the room for the last several days. Laughing Chan is a congenial companion along with Pak Eng and Peter Kuok. But even the most congenial company. . .

  Hock Seng shakes his head. It doesn't matter. The storm is coming. Bloodshed and mayhem on the horizon. It's the same feeling he had before the Incident, before his sons were beheaded and his daughters raped senseless. And he sat in the middle of that brewing storm, willfully ignorant, telling anyone who would listen that the men in K.L. would never let what had happened down in Jakarta happen to the good Chinese here. After all, were they not loyal? Did they not contribute? Did he not have friends at every level of government who assured him that the Green Headbands were but a bit of political posturing?

  The storm was surging all around him, and he had refused to accept it. . . but not this time. This time, he is prepared. The air is electric with what is about to occur. Ever since the white shirts closed down the factories it was apparent. And now it is about to break. And this time, he is ready. Hock Seng smiles to himself, examines his little bunker with its stores of money and gems and food.

  "Is there any more word on the radio?" he asks.

  The three men exchange glances. Laughing Chan nods at Pak Eng. "It's your turn to wind it."

  Pak Eng scowls and goes over to the radio. It's an expensive device, and Hock Seng is regretting that he purchased it at all. There are other radios in the slums, but lurking beside them draws attention and so he spent money on this one, unsure if it would even carry anything other than rumor, and yet unable to deny himself another source of information.

  Pak Eng kneels beside the thing and starts to wind it. Its speaker crackles to life, barely loud enough over the whine of the crank.

  "You know, if you fitted this with a decent gear system, it would be a lot more efficient."

  Everyone ignores him, their attention entirely focused on the tiny speaker: Music, saw duang. . .

  Hock Seng crouches by the radio, listening intently. Changes the dial. Pak Eng is starting to sweat. He winds for another thirty seconds and stops, puffing. "There. That should last a little while."

  Hock Seng works the dial on the machine, listening to the divining winds of radio waves. Twirls across stations. Nothing but entertainments. Music.

  Laughing Chan looks up. "What time is it?"

  "Four, perhaps?" Hock Seng shrugs.

  "There should be muay thai. They should be doing the opening rituals by now."
>
  Everyone exchanges glances. Hock Seng moves through more stations. Music only. No news. Nothing. . . And then a voice. Filling all the stations, speaking as one voice and one station. They all crouch round, listing.

  "Akkarat, I think." Hock Seng pauses. "The Somdet Chaopraya has died. Akkarat is blaming the white shirts." He looks at them all. "It is beginning."

  Pak Eng and Laughing Chan and Peter all look at Hock Seng with respect. "You were right."

  Hock Seng nods impatiently. "I learn."

  The storm is gathering. The megodonts must do battle. It is their fate. The power sharing of the last coup could never last. The beasts must clash and one will establish final dominance. Hock Seng murmurs a prayer to his ancestors that he will come out of this maelstrom alive.

  Laughing Chan stands. "I guess we'll have to earn this bodyguard money after all."

  Hock Seng nods seriously. "It will not be pretty, not for anyone who is not prepared."

  Pak Eng begins pumping his spring gun. "It reminds me of Penang."

  "Not this time," Hock Seng says. "This time, we are ready." He waves to them. "Come. It's time we saw to whatever else we can—"

  A banging on the door makes them all straighten.

  "Hock Seng! Hock Seng!" A hysterical voice, more pounding from outside.

  "It's Lao Gu." Hock Seng pulls open the door and Lao Gu stumbles in.

  "They've taken Mr. Lake. The foreign devil and all his friends."

  Hock Seng stares at the rickshaw man. "The white shirts are moving against him?"

  "No. The Trade Ministry. I saw Akkarat himself do the deed."

  Hock Seng frowns. "It makes no sense."

  Lao Gu shoves a flier into his hands. "It's the windup. The one that he kept bringing to his flat. She's the one that killed the Somdet Chaopraya."

  Hock Seng reads quickly. Nods to himself. "You're sure about this windup creature? Our foreign devil was working with an assassin?"

  "I only know what it says on the whisper sheet, but that's the heechy-keechy for sure, from the way it describes her. He brought her from Ploenchit many times. Let her sleep there, even."

  "Is it a problem?" Laughing Chan asks.

  "No." Hock Seng shakes his head, allows himself a smile. He goes and digs a ring of keys out from under his mattress. "An opportunity. A better one than I expected." He turns to them all. "We won't be hiding here after all."

  "No?"

  Hock Seng grins. "There's one last place we must go before we depart the city. One last thing to collect. Something from my old offices. Gather up the weapons."

  To his credit, Laughing Chan does not question. Simply nods and holsters his pistols, slings a machete across his back. The rest do the same. Together, they file out through the door. Hock Seng closes it behind him.

  Hock Seng jogs down the alley after his people, the keys to the factory jingling in his hand. For the first time in a long time, fate moves in his favor. Now all he needs is a little luck and a little more time.

  Up ahead, people are shouting about white shirts and the death of their Queen's protector. Angry voices, ready for a riot. The storm is brewing. The battle pieces are being aligned. A little girl hurries past, pressing whisper sheets into each of their hands before dashing on. The political parties are already at work. Soon the godfather of the slum will have his own people down in the alleys inciting violence.

  Hock Seng and his men make their way out of the squeezeways and pour out into the street. Nothing is moving. Even the freelance rickshaw men have gone to ground. A group of shopkeepers huddle around a hand-crank radio. Hock Seng waves at his men to wait, goes over to the listeners. "What news?"

  A woman looks up. "National Radio says the Protector. . ."

  "Yes, I know that. What else does it say?"

  "Minister Akkarat has denounced General Pracha."

  It's happening even faster than he expected. Hock Seng straightens and calls to Laughing Chan and the others. "Come on. We're going to run out of time if we don't hurry."

  As he calls to them, a huge truck comes around the corner, engine revving. It is astonishingly noisy. Exhaust trails behind it like an illegal dung fire. Dozens of hard-faced troops stare out from the back as it roars by. Hock Seng and his men duck back into the alley, coughing. Laughing Chan peers out, following the truck's progress. "Its running on coal diesel," he says wonderingly. "It's the army."

  Hock Seng wonders if it is December 12 loyalists, some component of the Northeastern generals coming to aid General Pracha and retake the National Radio Tower. Or perhaps they are Akkarat's allies, rushing to secure the sea locks or the docks or the anchor pads. Or perhaps they are simply opportunists, getting ready to take advantage of the coming chaos. Hock Seng watches as they disappear around a corner. Harbingers of the storm, regardless.

  The last pedestrians are disappearing into their homes. Shop keepers are barring their storefronts from within. The clank and rattle of locks fills the street. The city knows what is going to happen.

  Memories peck and swirl at Hock Seng. Alleys running thick with blood. The scent of green bamboo, smoking and burning. He reaches for the reassurance of his spring gun and machete. The city may be a jungle full of tigers, but this time he is not some little deer, running from Malaya. At last, he has learned. It is possible to prepare for chaos.

  He motions to his men. "Come. This is our time."

  35

  "It was not Pracha! He's not involved in this!"

  Kanya shouts into the crank phone, but she might as well be raving through the bars of a jail cell for all the impact it makes. Narong hardly seems to be listening. The line crackles with jumbled voices and the hum of machinery, and Narong, apparently, speaking to someone nearby, his words unintelligible.

  Suddenly Narong's voice crackles loud, blotting out the background sounds. "I'm sorry, we have our own information."

  Kanya scowls at the whisper sheets on her desk, the ones that Pai brought in with a grim smile. Some speak of the fallen Somdet Chaopraya, others of General Pracha. They all talk of the assassin windup girl. Fast-copies of Sawatdee Krung Thep! are already pouring into the city. Kanya scans the words. It's full of impassioned complaints against the white shirts who shut down harbors and anchor pads but cannot protect the Somdet Chaopraya from a single invasive.

  "These whisper sheets are yours then?" she asks.

  Narong's silence is answer enough.

  "Why did you even ask me to investigate?" She can't keep the bitterness from her voice. "You were already moving."

  Narong's cold voice crackles on the line. "It's not your place to question."

  His tone brings her up short. "Did Akkarat do it?" she whispers fearfully. "Was he the one responsible? Pracha says that Akkarat was involved somehow. Did he do it?"

  Another pause. Is it a thoughtful one? She can't tell. Finally Narong says, "No. I swear this. We are not the ones responsible."

  "So you guess it must be Pracha then?" She shuffles through the licenses and permits on her desk. "I'm telling you he is not the one! I have all the windup's records here. Pracha himself wanted me to investigate. To find every trace of her. I have her arrival papers with the Mishimoto people. I have disposal papers. I have visas. Everything."

  "Who signed the disposal papers?"

  She fights her frustration. "I can't read the signature. I need more time to cross-reference who was on duty around that time."

  "And by the time you do, they will inevitably be dead."

  "Then why did Pracha set me to the task of finding this information? It doesn't make sense! I talked to the officers who took the bribes at that bar. They were nothing but silly boys, making a little extra money."

  "He's clever then. He's covered his tracks."

  "Why do you hate Pracha so much?"

  "Why do you love him? Did he not order your village razed?"

  "Not from malice."

  "No? Did he not sell the fish farming permits to another village the next season? Sell them a
nd line his pockets with the profits?"

  She falls silent. Narong moderates his tone. "I'm sorry, Kanya. There's nothing we can do. We are certain of his crime. We have authorization from the palace to resolve this."

  "With riots?" She shoves the whisper sheets off her desk. "With a burning of the city? Please. I can stop this. It's not necessary. I can find the proof that we need. I can prove that the windup is not Pracha's. I can prove it."

  "You're too close to this. Your loyalties are divided."

  "I'm loyal to our Queen. Just give me a chance to stop this madness."

  Another pause. "I can give you three hours. If you have nothing by sunset, I can do nothing more."

  "But you'll wait until then?"

  She can almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. "I will." And then the line is closed. And she is alone in her office.

  Jaidee settles himself on her desk. "I'm curious. How will you prove Pracha's innocence? It's obvious that he's the one who placed her."

  "Why can't you leave me alone?" Kanya asks.

  Jaidee smiles. "Because it's sanuk. Very fun to watch you flail around and try to run for two masters." He pauses, studying her. "Why do you care what happens to General Pracha? He's not your real patron."

  Kanya looks at him with hatred. She waves at the whisper sheets strewn about her office. "It's just like it was five years ago."

  "With Pracha and Prime Minister Surawong. With the December 12 gatherings." Jaidee studies the whisper sheets. "Akkarat moving against us, this time, though. So it's not entirely the same."

  Outside the window of her office, a megodont bellows. Jaidee smiles. "You hear that? We're arming. There's no way you can keep these two old bulls from clashing. I don't know why you would even try. Pracha and Akkarat have been bellowing and snorting at each other for years. It's time we had a good fight."

  "This isn't muay thai, Jaidee."

  "No. You're right about that." For a moment his smile turns sad.

  Kanya stares at the whisper sheets, the collected paperwork on the windup's import. The windup is missing. But still, it came from the Japanese. Kanya studies the notes: she was brought across on a dirigible flight from Japan. An executive assistant—