The Windup Girl

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  General Pracha strides toward him. Jaidee drops again to his knees and makes a khrab of submission before him. General Pracha ignores, him, walks past his bowing face, his feet within inches of Jaidee's head. Speaks to the assembly.

  "An independent investigating tribunal has determined that Captain Jaidee is guilty of accepting bribes, of corruption and the abuse of his powers." He glances down at Jaidee. "It has further been determined that he is no longer fit for service with the Ministry. He will become a monk, and perform a penance of nine years. His possessions will be disposed of. His sons will be adopted into the care of the Ministry, but their family name will be erased."

  He looks down at Jaidee. "If the Buddha is merciful, you will eventually come to understand that your pride and avarice has brought this upon you. We hope that if you do not attain understanding in this life, that your next one will provide you with hope of improvement." He turns away, leaving Jaidee still in his bow.

  Akkarat speaks, "We accept the apologies of the Environment Ministry and the failures of General Pracha. We look forward to an improved working relationship in the future. Now that this snake has had its fangs pulled."

  The Somdet Chaopraya motions to the two great powers of the government that they should show one another respect. Jaidee remains crouched. A sigh runs through the crowd. And then people are streaming out, to tell of what they have seen.

  Only once the Somdet Chaopraya is gone is Jaidee invited to stand by a pair of monks. Their aspect is serious, their heads shaven, their saffron robes aged and faded. They indicate to him where they will take him next. He is theirs now. Nine years of penance, for doing the right thing.

  Akkarat steps before him. "Well, Khun Jaidee. It seems that you have at last discovered limits. It's a pity you didn't listen to warnings. All of this was so unnecessary."

  Jaidee forces himself to wai. "You have what you wanted," he mutters. "Now let Chaya go."

  "So sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."

  Jaidee searches the man's eyes, hunting for the lie, but he can't tell.

  Are you my enemy? Or is it another? Is she dead already? Is she still alive, trapped in one of your friends' prison cells, an unnamed prisoner? Alive or dead?

  He forces down his worries. "Bring her back, or I'll hunt you down and kill you like a mongoose killing a cobra."

  Akkarat doesn't flinch. "Careful with the threats, Jaidee. I'd hate to see you lose anything else." His eyes stray toward Niwat and Surat.

  A chill runs through Jaidee. "Stay away from my children."

  "Your children?" Akkarat laughs. "You have no children now. You have nothing at all. You're lucky that General Pracha is your friend. If I were him, I would have turned those two boys of yours out into the street to beg for blister rust scraps. That would have been a true lesson."

  14

  Crushing the Tiger of Bangkok should be more satisfying. But frankly, without a cue card of the various names involved, the ceremony looks like any number of impenetrable Thai religious and social events. In fact, the man's actual demotion is surprisingly quick.

  Within twenty minutes of being ushered into the Environment Ministry's temple, Anderson finds himself watching silently as the vaunted Jaidee Rojjanasukchai makes khrabs of humility to Trade Minister Akkarat. The golden statues of the Buddha and Seub Nakhasathien gleam dully, overseeing the solemn moment. None of the participants show any expression at all. Not even a smile of triumph from Akkarat. And then a few minutes, later the chanting monks end their droning, and everyone is standing to leave.

  That's it.

  And so now Anderson finds himself cooling his heels outside the Phra Seub Temple bot, waiting to be escorted out of the compound. After enduring the astonishing series of security checks and body searches to get into the Environment Ministry campus, he had begun to fantasize that he might glean some useful bit of intelligence about the place, perhaps get some better sense of where their lovely seedbank might be tucked away. It was foolish, and he knew it, but after the fourth patdown he was almost convinced that he was about to run into Gibbons himself, perhaps cradling a newly engineered ngaw like a proud father.

  Instead, he encountered grim cordons of white shirts and was whisked by cycle rickshaw directly to the temple steps where he was required to remove his shoes and stand in bare feet under tight supervision before being led inside with all the other witnesses.

  Around the temple, a thicket of rain trees prevents much view of the place at all. AgriGen-arranged "accidental" dirigible overflights have given him more information about the compound than he's got right now, standing dead in the heart of the thing.

  "I see you got your shoes back."

  Carlyle, sauntering over, grinning.

  "The way they inspected," Anderson says, "I thought they were going to lock them in quarantine."

  "They just don't like your farang smell." Carlyle pulls out a cigarette and offers Anderson one as well. Under the close gaze of their white shirt guards, they light up. "Enjoy the ceremony?" Carlyle asks.

  "I thought there might be more pomp and circumstance."

  "They don't need it. Everyone knows what this means. General Pracha has lost his face." Carlyle shakes his head. "For a second I was sure we were going to look up and see their Phra Seub statue crack in half with the shame. You can feel the Kingdom changing. It's in the air."

  Anderson thinks of the few buildings he glimpsed as he was escorted to the temple. They were all dilapidated. Water stained and covered with vines. If the Tiger's fall isn't proof enough, the fallen trees and unkempt grounds are fine indicators. "You must be very proud of what you've accomplished."

  Carlyle draws on his cigarette and exhales slowly. "Let's just say it's a satisfying step."

  "You've impressed them." Anderson nods toward the Farang Phalanx, who seem to be already drunk on their reparation money. Lucy is trying to convince Otto to sing the Pacific Anthem under the stern gazes of the armed white shirts. The trader catches sight of Carlyle and lurches over. His breath stinks with laolao.

  "Are you drunk?" Carlyle asks.

  "Completely." Otto smiles dreamily. "I had to finish everything at the gate. Bastards wouldn't let me bring the celebration bottles inside. Took Lucy's opium, too."

  He drapes an arm over Carlyle's shoulder. "You were right, you bastard. Right as rain. Look at all these damn white shirts' expressions. They've been eating bitter melon all day!" He gropes for Carlyle's hand, tries to shake it. "God damn it's good to see them taken down a notch. Them and their thieving 'gifts of goodwill.' You're a good man, Carlyle. Good man."

  His grins blearily. "I'm going to be rich because of you. Rich!" He laughs and paws for Carlyle's hand again. "Good man," he says as he gets a grip. "Good man."

  Lucy shouts for him to get back in line. "Rickshaw's here, you drunk bastard!"

  Otto stumbles away and with Lucy's help tries to crawl into the rickshaw. The white shirts watch coldly. A woman in an officer's uniform studies them all from the top of the temple steps, her face expressionless.

  Anderson watches her. "What do you think she's thinking?" he asks, nodding up at the woman officer. "All these drunk farang crawling through her compound? What does she see?"

  Carlyle draws on his cigarette and lets out smoke in a slow stream. "The dawn of a new era."

  "Back to the future," Anderson murmurs.

  "Sorry?"

  "Nothing." Anderson shakes his head. "Something Yates used to say. We're in the sweet spot, now. The world's shrinking."

  Lucy and Otto finally manage to climb into the rickshaw. They roll out with Otto shouting blessings on all the honorable white shirts who have made him so rich with their reparation money. Carlyle quirks an eyebrow at Anderson, the question unspoken. Anderson draws on his cigarette, considering the branches of possibility that underlie Carlyle's question.

  "I want to talk to Akkarat directly."

  Carlyle snorts. "Children want all sorts of things."

  "Childr
en don't play this game."

  "You think you can twist him around your finger? Turn him into a good little administrator, like in India?"

  Anderson favors him with a cold eye. "More like Burma." He smiles at Carlyle's stricken expression. "Don't worry. We're not in the nation-breaking business anymore. All we're interested in is a free market. I'm sure we can work toward that common goal, at least. But I want the meet."

  "So cautious." Carlyle drops his cigarette on the ground, grinds it out with his foot. "I would have thought you'd have a more adventurous spirit."

  Anderson laughs. "I'm not here for the adventure. That's for all of those drunks over there. . ." He trails off, stunned.

  Emiko is in the crowd, standing with the Japanese delegation. He catches a glimpse of her movement in the knot of business people and political officers as they cluster around Akkarat, talking and smiling.

  "My god." Carlyle sucks in his breath. "Is that a windup? In the compound?"

  Anderson's tries to say something, but can't make his throat work.

  No, he's wrong. It's not Emiko. The movement is the same, but the girl is not. This one is richly dressed, with gold glimmering around her throat. A slightly different face. She lifts her hand, stutter-stop motion, tucks black silk hair behind an ear. Similar, but not the same.

  Anderson's heart starts beating again.

  The windup girl smiles graciously at whatever story Akkarat is telling. She turns to make introductions for a man Anderson recognizes from intelligence photos as a general manager of Mishimoto. Her patron says something to her and she ducks her head to him, then hurries away to the rickshaws, odd and graceful.

  She's so much like Emiko. So stylized, so deliberate. Everything about the windup before him reminds him of that other, so much more desperate girl. He swallows, remembering Emiko in his bed, small and alone. Starving for information about windup villages. What are they like? Who lives within them? Do they really live without patrons? So desperate for hope. So different from this glittering windup that threads gracefully between white shirts and officials.

  "I don't think she was allowed in the temple," Anderson finally says. "They couldn't have gone that far. The white shirts must have made her wait outside."

  "Still, they must be seething." Carlyle cocks his head, watching the Japanese delegation. "You know, Raleigh has one of those, too. Uses it for a freak show in the back of his place."

  Anderson swallows. "Oh? I hadn't heard."

  "Sure. It'll fuck anything. You should see it. Truly bizarre." Carlyle laughs low. "Look, she's catching attention. I think the Queen's Protector is actually smitten."

  The Somdet Chaopraya is staring at the windup, wide-eyed like a cow struck on the side of the head before slaughter.

  Anderson frowns, shocked despite himself. "He wouldn't risk his status. Not with a windup."

  "Who knows? The man doesn't exactly have a clean reputation. Positively debauched, from what I've heard. He was better when the old king was alive. Kept himself under control. But now. . ." Carlyle trails off. He nods at the windup girl. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Japanese end up making a gift of goodwill in the near future. No one refuses the Somdet Chaopraya."

  "More bribes."

  "Always. But the Somdet Chaopraya would be worth it. From everything I've heard, he's taken over most of the palace functions. Accumulated a lot of power. And that would give you a lot of insurance when the next coup happens." Carlyle observes. "Everyone looks calm, but below the surface things are boiling. Pracha and Akkarat can't go on like this. They've been circling each other ever since the December 12 coup." He pauses. "With the right pressure, we help decide who comes out on top."

  "Sounds expensive."

  "Not to your people. A bit of gold and jade. Some opium." He lowers his voice. "Might even be cheap, by your standards."

  "Stop selling me. Am I going to meet Akkarat or not?"

  Carlyle claps Anderson on the back and laughs. "God, I love working with farang. At least you're direct. Don't worry. It's already arranged." And then he's striding back toward the Japanese delegation and hailing Akkarat. And Akkarat is looking at Anderson with bright appraising eyes. Anderson wais a greeting. Akkarat, as befits his high rank, favors Anderson with the barest nod of acknowledgement.

  * * *

  Outside the gates of the Environment Ministry, as Anderson hails Lao Gu for a ride back to the factory, a pair of Thais sweep up on either side.

  "This way, Khun."

  They take Anderson by the elbows and guide him down the street. For a moment, Anderson thinks he's being grabbed by the white shirts, but then he sees a coal-diesel limo. He fights down paranoia as he's guided inside.

  If they wanted to kill you, they could wait for any number of better times.

  The door slams closed. Trade Minister Akkarat sits across from him.

  "Khun Anderson." Akkarat smiles. "Thank you for joining me."

  Anderson scans the vehicle, wondering if he can break out or if the locks are controlled up front. The worst part of any job is the moment of exposure, when too many people suddenly know too many things. Finland went that way: Peters and Lei, with nooses around their necks and their feet kicking air as they were raised above the crowds.

  "Khun Richard tells me that you have a proposal," Akkarat prompts.

  Anderson hesitates. "I understand we have mutual interests."

  "No." Akkarat shakes his head. "Your people have tried to destroy mine for the last five hundred years. We have nothing in common."

  Anderson smiles tentatively. "Of course, we see some things differently."

  The car starts to roll. Akkarat says, "This is not a question of perspective. Ever since your first missionaries landed on our shores, you have always sought to destroy us. During the old Expansion your kind tried to take every part of us. Chopping off the arms and legs of our country. It was only through our Kings' wisdom and leadership that we avoided your worst. And yet still you weren't done with us. With the Contraction, your worshipped global economy left us starving and over-specialized." He looks pointedly at Anderson. "And then your calorie plagues came. You very nearly took rice from us entirely."

  "I didn't know the Minister of Trade was a conspiracy theorist."

  "Which are you?" Akkarat studies him. "AgriGen? PurCal? Total Nutrient Holdings?"

  Anderson spreads his hands. "I understand that you would like help in arranging a more stable government. I have resources to offer, provided that we can come to an agreement."

  "What is it you want?"

  Anderson looks him in the eye, serious. "Access to your seedbank."

  Akkarat jerks back. "Impossible." The car turns and begins to accelerate down Thanon Rama XII. Bangkok streams by in a blur of images as Akkarat's retinue clears the avenue ahead of them.

  "Not to own." Anderson puts out a calming hand. "Only to sample from."

  "The seedbank has kept us independent of your kind. When blister rust and genehack weevil swept the globe, it was only the seedbank that allowed us to stave off the worst of the plagues, and even so, our people died in droves. When India and Burma and Vietnam all fell to you, we stood strong. And now you come asking for our finest weapon." Akkarat laughs. "I may want to see General Pracha with his hair and eyebrows shaved off, living in a forest monastery and despised by all, but on this, at least, he and I agree. No farang should ever touch the heart of us. You may take an arm or a leg from our country, but not the head, and certainly not the heart."

  "We need new genetic material," Anderson says. "We've exhausted many of our options and the plagues keep mutating. We don't have a problem sharing our research results. Profits, even."

  "I'm sure you offered the same to the Finns."

  Anderson leans forward. "Finland was a tragedy, and not just for us. If the world is going to keep eating, we need to stay ahead of cibiscosis and blister rust and Nippon genehack weevil. It's the only way."

  "You're saying that you yoked the world to your patente
d grains and seeds, happily enslaved us all—and now you finally realize that you are dragging us all to hell."

  "That's what the Grahamites like to say." Anderson shrugs. "The reality is that weevils and blister rust don't wait. And we're the only ones with the scientific resources to hack our way out of this mess. We're hoping that somewhere in your seedbank we'll find a key."

  "And if you don't?"

  "Then it won't really matter who runs the Kingdom; we'll all be coughing blood from the next mutation of cibiscosis."

  "It's impossible. The Environment Ministry controls the seed stock."

  "I was under the impression that we were discussing a change in administration."

  Akkarat frowns. "You want samples, this is all? You're offering weapons, equipment, payoffs, and this is all you want?"

  Anderson nods. "And one other thing. A man. Gibbons." He watches Akkarat for a reaction.

  "Gibbons?" Akkarat shrugs. "I have never heard of him."

  "A farang. One of ours. We'd like him back. He's been infringing on our intellectual property."

  "And that bothers you a great deal, I'm sure." Akkarat laughs. "It's very interesting to actually meet one of your kind. Of course we all talk about the calorie men crouching on Koh Angrit, like demons or phii krasue, plotting to swallow the Kingdom, but you. . ." He studies Anderson. "I could have you executed by megodont if I chose, ripped apart and left for kites and crows. And no one would raise a finger. In the past, if even a whisper of a calorie man amongst us touched the streets it was enough to trigger protests and riots. And yet here you sit. So confident."

  "Times have changed."

  "Not as much as you suggest. Are you brave, or simply foolish?"

  "I could ask the same question," Anderson says. "Not many people poke the white shirts in the eye and expect to get away with it."