The Windup Girl

  Now he looks at Emiko through bleary vision and thinks about debts he owes, and wonders if he will live long enough to pay them.

  "We're going to get you out," he whispers.

  A new wave of shivering takes him. All through the night, he was hot, and now, abruptly he is cold, shaking with the freezing feel, as if he has returned to the Upper Midwest and freezes in those still cold winters, as if he looks out at snow. Now he is cold, and not thirsty at all, and even a windup girl's fingers feel icy against his face.

  He pushes weakly at her hand. "Is Hock Seng here yet?"

  "You're burning up." Emiko's face is full of concern.

  "Has he come?" Anderson asks. It is intensely important that the man come. That Hock Seng be here, in the room with him. Though he can barely remember why. It is important.

  "I think he will not come." she says. "He has all the letters he needed from you. The introductions. He is already busy with your people. With the new representative. The Boudry woman."

  A cheshire appears on the balcony. It yowls low and slips inside. Emiko doesn't seem to notice or care, but then, she and it are siblings. Sympathetic creatures, manufactured by the same flawed gods.

  Anderson watches dully as the cat makes its way across his bedroom and molts through the door. If he weren't so weak, he would throw something at it. He sighs. He's past that, now. Too tired to complain about a cat. He lets his gaze roll up to the ceiling and the slow whirl of the crank fan.

  He wants to still be angry. But even that has gone. At first, when he discovered that he was sick, when Hock Seng and the girl had pulled back, alarmed, he had thought they were crazy. That he hadn't been exposed to any vectors, but then, looking at them, at their fear and certainty, he had understood.

  "The factory?" he'd whispered, repeating the girl Mai's words, and Hock Seng had nodded, keeping his hand over his face.

  "The fining rooms, or the algae baths," he murmured.

  Anderson had wanted to be angry then, but the sickness was already sapping his strength. All he could summon was a dull rage that quickly burned away. "Has anyone survived?"

  "One," the girl had whispered.

  And he had nodded, and they had slunk away. Hock Seng. Always with his secrets. Always with his angles and his planning. Always waiting. . .

  "Is he coming?" He has a hard time forcing the words out.

  "He will not come," Emiko murmurs.

  "You're here."

  She shrugs. "I am New People. Your sicknesses do not frighten me. That one will not come. Not the Carlyle man either."

  "At least they're leaving you alone. Kept their word, there."

  "Maybe," she says, but she lacks conviction.

  Anderson wonders if she's right. Wonders if he is wrong about Hock Seng as he was wrong about so many things. Wonders if his every understanding of the place was wrong. He forces away the fear. "He'll keep faith. He's a businessman."

  Emiko doesn't answer. The cheshire jumps onto the bed. She shoos it away, but it jumps up again, seemingly sensing the carrion opportunity he represents.

  Anderson tries to raise a hand. "No," he croaks. "Let it stay."

  49

  AgriGen people march off the docks. Kanya and her men stand at attention, an honor guard for demons. The farang all stand and squint at the tropic sun, taking in the land they have never before seen. They point rudely at young girls walking down the street, talk and laugh loudly. They are an uncouth race. So confident.

  "They're very self-satisfied," Pai mutters.

  Kanya startles at hearing her own thoughts voiced aloud, but doesn't respond. Simply waits while Akkarat meets these new creatures. A blond, scowling woman called Elizabeth Boudry is at their head, an AgriGen creature through and through.

  She has a long sweeping black cloak as do others of the AgriGen people, all of them with their red wheat crest logos shining in the sun. The only satisfying thing about seeing these people in their hated uniforms is that the tropic heat must be awful for them. Their faces shine with sweat.

  Akkarat says to Kanya. "These are the ones who will be going to the seedbank."

  "Are you sure about this?" she asks.

  He shrugs. "They only want samples. Genetic diversity for their generipping. The Kingdom will benefit as well."

  Kanya studies the people who used to be called calorie demons and who now walk so brazenly in Krung Thep, the City of Divine Beings. Crates of grain are coming off the ship and being stacked on megodont wagons, the AgriGen logo prominent on every one.

  Seeming to sense her thoughts, Akkarat says, "We've passed the time when we can hide behind our walls and hope to survive. We must engage with this outside world."

  "But the seedbank," Kanya protests quietly. "King Rama's legacy."

  Akkarat nods shortly. "They will only be taking samples. Do not concern yourself." He turns to another farang and shakes hands with him in the foreign style. Speaks with him using the Angrit language and sends him on his way.

  "Richard Carlyle," Akkarat comments as he returns to Kanya's side. "We'll have our pumps, finally. He's sending out a dirigible this afternoon. With luck we'll beat the rainy season." He looks at her significantly. "You understand all this? You understand what I'm doing here? It is better to lose a little of the Kingdom than everything. There are times to fight and times to negotiate. We cannot survive if we are entirely isolated. History tells us we must engage with the outside world."

  Kanya nods stiffly.

  Jaidee leans over her shoulder. "At least they never got Gi Bu Sen."

  "I would rather give them Gi Bu Sen than the seedbank," Kanya mutters.

  "Yes, but I think that losing the man was even more irritating to them." He nods at the Boudry woman. "She was quite enraged. Shouted, even. Lost all her face. Paced back and forth waving her arms." He demonstrates.

  Kanya grimaces. "Akkarat was angry, too. He was after me all day, demanding to know how we could have allowed the old man to escape."

  "A clever man, that one."

  Kanya laughs. "Akkarat?"

  "The generipper."

  Before Kanya can plumb more of Jaidee's thoughts, the Boudry woman and her seed scientists approach. An ancient yellow card Chinese man approaches with her. He stands ramrod straight, nods to Kanya. "I will be translating for Khun Elizabeth Boudry."

  Kanya makes herself smile politely as she studies the people before her. This is what it comes to. Yellow cards and farang.

  "Everything is change." Jaidee sighs. "It would be good for you to remember it. Clinging to the past, worrying about the future. . ." He shrugs. "It's all suffering."

  The farang are waiting for her. Impatient. She guides them down into the war-damaged streets. Somewhere in the distance, off near the anchor pads, a tank booms. Perhaps a cell of holdout students, people not under her control. People beholden to different sorts of honor than she. She waves to two of her new underlings, Malivalaya and Yuthakon, if she remembers correctly.

  "General," one of them starts, but Kanya scowls at him.

  "I told you, no more generals. No more of that nonsense. I am a captain. If captain was good enough for Jaidee, then I won't name myself higher."

  Malivalaya wais apology. Kanya orders the farang into the comfort of the coal-diesel car, and then they are whispering through the streets. It is a luxury that she has never experienced, but she forces herself not to exclaim at Akkarat's suddenly exposed wealth. The car slides through the empty streets, making its way toward the City Pillar Shrine.

  Fifteen minutes later, they emerge from the car into burning sun. Monks lower their heads in courtesy to her, acknowledging her authority. She nods back, feeling sick. In this, King Rama XII placed the Environment Ministry above even monks.

  The monks throw open gates and lead her and the rest of the entourage down below, down into the cool deeps. Airtight doors swing up, filtered air under negative pressure wafts out. Perfectly humid air, chilly. She forces herself not to clutch her arms to her as the cool i
ncreases. More vault doors open, revealing interior corridors, powered by coal-burning systems, triple fail-safed.

  Monks in saffron wait politely, stepping away from her to ensure that she doesn't come in contact with them. She turns to the Boudry woman. "Don't touch the monks. They have taken vows not to touch women."

  The yellow card translates into the farang's squawking language. Kanya hears a snort of laughter behind her but forces herself not to react. The Boudry woman and her generipper scientists all chatter excitedly as they work their way deeper into the seedbank. The yellow card translator doesn't bother to explain their weird exclamations, but Kanya can guess most of it from the delighted expressions.

  She leads them deeper into the vaults, to the cataloging rooms, all the time thinking on the nature of loyalty. Better to give up a limb than to give up the head. The Kingdom survives when other countries fall because of Thai practicality.

  Kanya glances back at the farang. Their greedy pale eyes scan the shelves, the vacuum-sealed containers of thousands of seeds, each one a potential line of defense against their kind. The true treasure of a kingdom, laid out before them. The spoils of war.

  When the Burmese toppled Ayutthaya, the city fell without a fight. And now, again, it is the same. In the end, after all the blood and sweat and deaths and toil, after the struggles of seed saints and martyrs like Phra Seub, after the sale of girls like Kip to Gi Bu Sen and all the rest, it comes down to this. Farang standing triumphant at the heart of a kingdom betrayed once again by ministers uncaring for the crown.

  "Don't take it so badly." Jaidee touches her on her shoulder. "We all must come to terms with our failures, Kanya."

  "I am sorry. For everything."

  "I forgave you a long time ago. We all have our patrons and our loyalties. It was kamma that brought you to Akkarat before you came to me."

  "I never thought it would come to this."

  "It is a great loss." Jaidee agrees. Then he shrugs. "But even now, it doesn't have to be this way."

  Kanya glances over at the farang. One of the scientists catches her eye, says something to the woman. Kanya can't tell if it is mocking or thoughtful. Their wheat crest logos gleam in the flicker of electric lighting.

  Jaidee raises an eyebrow. "There is always Her Majesty the Queen, yes?"

  "And what can that accomplish?"

  "Would you not prefer to be remembered as a villager of Bang Rajan who fought when all was lost, and held the Burmese at bay for a little while, than as one of the cowardly courtiers of Ayutthaya who sacrificed a kingdom?"

  "It's all ego," Kanya mutters.

  "Maybe." Jaidee shrugs. "But I'll tell you true: Ayutthaya was nothing in our history. Did the Thai not survive the sack of it? Have we not survived the Burmese? The Khmers? The French? The Japanese? The Americans? The Chinese? The calorie companies? Have we not held them all at bay when others fell? It is our people who carry the lifeblood of this country, not this city. Our people carry the names that the Chakri gave us, and it is our people who are everything. And it is this seedbank that sustains us."

  "But His Majesty declared that we would always defend—"

  "King Rama did not care an ounce for Krung Thep; he cared for us, and so he made a symbol for us to protect. But it is not the city, it is the people that matter. What good is a city if the people are enslaved?"

  Kanya's breathing has become rapid. Icy air saws in and out of her lungs. The Boudry woman says something. The generippers yawp in their awful tongue. Kanya turns to Pai.

  "Follow my lead."

  She draws her spring gun and fires it point blank into the farang woman's head.

  50

  Elizabeth Boudry's head jerks back. Blood sprays Hock Seng in fine mist, spattering his skin and newly tailored clothes. The white shirt general turns and Hock Seng immediately drops to his knees, making a khrab of obeisance beside the collapsed body of the foreign devil.

  The blond creature's surprised dead eyes stare out at him as he prostrates himself. Spring gun disks chatter across the walls, people are screaming. Suddenly there is silence.

  The white shirt general yanks him to his feet and shoves her spring gun into his face.

  "Please," Hock Seng whispers in Thai. "I am not their kind."

  The general's hard eyes study him. She nods sharply, and shoves him aside. He huddles against a wall as she begins barking orders to her men. They quickly drag the AgriGen bodies aside, then coalesce around her. Hock Seng is surprised at how quickly the unsmiling woman musters her troops. She goes to the monks of the seedbank. Makes her own khrab of respect and begins speaking quickly. Even though she performs a khrab to their spiritual authority, there can be no doubt that she is the one who is the master of the place.

  Hock Seng's eyes widen as he hears what she is planning. It's terrifying. An act of destruction that cannot be allowed. . . and yet, the monks are nodding and now people are streaming out of the seedbank, all of them working quickly. The general and her men begin throwing open doors, revealing rack after rack of weaponry. She begins assigning teams: the Grand Palace, Korakot Pump, Khlong Toey Seawall Lock. . .

  The general spares a glance at Hock Seng as she finishes dispatching her people. The monks are already taking seeds down from the shelves. Hock Seng cringes at her attention. After what he has heard, she cannot intend to let him live. The bustle of activity increases. More and more monks stream in. They stack the seeds cases carefully. Rank after rank of seeds coming down from the shelves. Seeds from more than a hundred years ago, seeds that every so often are cultured in the strictest of isolation chambers and then carried back to this underground safe, to be stored again. The heritage of millennia in the boxes, the heritage of the world.

  And then the monks are streaming out of the seedbank, carrying the boxes on their shoulders, a river of shaven-headed men in saffron robes, bearing forth their nation's treasure. Hock Seng watches, breathless at the sight of so much genetic material disappearing into the wilds. Somewhere outside, he thinks he hears monks chanting, blessing this project of renewal and destruction, and then the white shirt general is looking at him again. He forces himself not to duck his head. Not to grovel. She will kill him. She must. He will not grovel and piss himself. At least he will die with dignity.

  The general purses her lips, then simply jerks her head toward the open doors. "Run, yellow card. This city is no longer a refuge for you."

  He stares at her, surprised. She jerks her head again and the shadow of a smile touches her lips. Hock Seng wais quickly and climbs off his knees. He hurries through the tunnels and out into hot open air, the river of saffron-robed men all around him. Once they reach the temple grounds, the monks disperse through various gates, separating into smaller and smaller groups, a diaspora bound eventually for some pre-arranged place of distant safety. A secret place, far from calorie company reach, watched over by Phra Seub and all the spirits of the nation.

  Hock Seng watches for a moment longer as the monks continue to pour from the seedbank, and then he runs for the street.

  A rickshaw man sees him and slows to a stop. Hock Seng leaps in.

  "Where to?" the man asks.

  Hock Seng hesitates, thinking furiously. The anchor pads. It is the only certain way to escape the coming chaos. The yang guizi Richard Carlyle is probably still there. The man and his dirigible, preparing to fly for Kolkata to retrieve the Kingdom's coal pumps. There will be safety in the air. But only if Hock Seng is fast enough to the catch the foreign devil before he untethers the last anchor.

  "Where to?"

  Mai.

  Hock Seng shakes his head. Why does she torment him now? He owes her nothing. She is nothing, in truth. Just some fishing girl. And yet against his better judgment he allowed her to stay with him, told her he would hire her as a servant of some sort. Would keep her safe. It was the least he could do. . . But that was before. He was going to be flush with money from the calorie companies. It was a different sort of promise, then. She will forgive hi
m.

  "The anchor pads," Hock Seng says. "Quickly. I don't have much time."

  The rickshaw man nods and the bike accelerates.

  Mai.

  Hock Seng curses himself. He is a fool. Why does he never focus on the most important goal? Always he is distracted. Always he fails to do what would keep him alive and safe.

  He leans forward, angry with himself. Angry at Mai. "No. Wait. I have another address. First to Krungthon Bridge, then to the anchor pads."

  "That's in the opposite direction."

  Hock Seng grimaces. "You think I don't know it?"

  The rickshaw man nods and slows. He turns his bike and aims it back the way he came. He stands on his pedals, getting up to speed. The city slides past, colorful and busy with cleanup activity. A city completely unaware of its impending doom. The cycle weaves through the sunshine, shifting smoothly through its gears, faster and faster toward the girl.

  If he is very lucky there will be enough time. Hock Seng prays that he will be lucky. Prays that there will be enough time to collect Mai and still make the dirigible. If he were smart, he would simply run.

  Instead, he prays for luck.

  Epilogue

  The destroyed locks and sabotaged pumps take six days to kill the City of Divine Beings. Emiko watches from the balcony of the finest apartment tower in Bangkok as water rushes in. Anderson-sama is nothing but a husk. Emiko squeezed water into his mouth from a cloth and he sucked at it like a baby before he finally expired, whispering apologies to ghosts that only he could see.