The Windup Girl

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  What if Mr. Lake were removed entirely? An anonymous knife in the gut as he walks down the street perhaps? It would be easy. Cheap, even. For fifteen baht Laughing Chan would do it willingly, and the foreign devil would trouble Hock Seng no more.

  A knock at the door startles him. Hock Seng straightens and shoves the newly forged ledger under the desk. "Yes?"

  It's Mai, the skinny girl from the production line, standing at the threshold. Hock Seng relaxes slightly as she wais. "Khun. There is a difficulty."

  He uses a cloth to wipe the ink from his hands. "Yes? What is it?"

  Her eyes flick around the room. "It would be better if you came. Yourself."

  She positively reeks of fear. The hairs on the back of Hock Seng's neck prickle. She's little more than a child. He has done her decent favors. She has even earned bonuses crawling down the tight passages of the drive trains, inspecting the links as they brought the factory back into working order. . . and yet, something in her demeanor reminds him of when the Malays turned on his people. When his workers, always so loyal and appreciative, suddenly could not look him in the eye. If he had been clever, he would have seen the turn of the tide. Seen that the days of the Malayan Chinese were numbered. That even a man of his stature—who gave freely to charities, who helped his employees' children as if they were his own—that even his head was slated to be stacked in a gutter.

  And now here is Mai, looking shifty. Is this the way they will come for him? Furtive? Sending a harmless-looking girl as bait? Is this the end of the yellow cards? Is it the Dung Lord, moving against him? Hock Seng feigns nonchalance and reclines slightly in his chair even as he watches her. "If you have something to say," he murmurs, "then say it now. Here."

  She hesitates. Her fear is obvious. "Is the farang near?"

  Hock Seng glances at the clock on the wall. Six o'clock. "He shouldn't be here for another hour or two. He is seldom early."

  "Please, if you could just come."

  So this is the way it will be. He nods shortly. "Yes, of course."

  He stands and crosses to her. Such a pretty girl. Of course they would send a pretty one. She looks so harmless. He scratches at his back, lifting the loose hem of his shirt and slips the knife out, holds it behind his back as he approaches. Waits until the last moment—

  He grabs her hair and yanks her close. Presses the knife against her throat.

  "Who sent you? The Dung Lord? White shirts? Who?"

  She gasps, unable to free herself without cutting her throat. "No one!"

  "Do you think I'm a fool?" He presses the knife home, breaking skin. "Who is it?"

  "No one! I swear!" She is shaking with fear but Hock Seng doesn't release her.

  "Is there something you wish to say? Some secret you must keep? Tell it now."

  She gasps at the pressure of his blade on her neck. "No! Khun! I swear! No secret! But. . . But. . ."

  "Yes?"

  She sags against him. "The white shirts," she whispers. "If the white shirts find out. . ."

  "I'm no white shirt."

  "It's Kit. Kit is ill. And Srimuang. Both of them. Please. I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose the job. I don't know what to do. Please don't tell the farang. Everyone knows the farang might close the factory. Please. My family needs. . .Please. Please." She is sobbing now, sagging against him, begging him as if he might be her savior, mindless of the knife.

  Hock Seng grimaces and pulls the knife away, suddenly feeling old. This is what it is to live in fear. To suspect thirteen-year-old girls, to think that daughter mouths intend your death. He feels sick. He can't meet her eyes. "You should have said so," he mutters gruffly. "Stupid girl. These are not matters to be coy about." He lifts his shirt and slides the knife back into its sheathe. "Show me your friends."

  She carefully wipes her tears away. She is not resentful. She is adaptable as young people often are. With the crisis past, she obediently leads him out of the office.

  Down on the factory floor, workers are beginning to arrive. The great doors rattle wide and sun pours into the huge hall. Dung and dust motes swirl in the light. Mai leads him through the fining room, kicking through pale dust residue and on into the cutting rooms.

  Overhead, the screens of algae fill the room with the sea reek of their drying. She leads him past the cutting presses, and ducks under the line. On the other side, the algae tanks sit in silent ranks, full of salt and life. More than half of the tanks show signs of reduced production. Algae barely covers their surfaces, even though the skim should be more than four inches thick after a night without harvesting.

  "There," Mai whispers, pointing. Kit and Srimuang both lie against a wall. The two men look up at Hock Seng with dull eyes. Hock Seng kneels close, but doesn't touch.

  "Have they eaten together?"

  "I don't think so. They are not friends."

  "It couldn't be cibiscosis? Blister rust? No." He shakes his head. "I'm a stupid old man. It is neither. There is no blood on their lips."

  Kit moans, tries to sit up. Hock Seng flinches away, fighting an urge to wipe his hands on his shirt. The other man, Srimuang, looks even worse.

  "What was this one's responsibility?"

  Mai hesitates. "I think he fed the tanks. Poured the sacks of fish meal for the algae."

  Hock Seng's skin crawls. Two bodies. Lying beside the tanks that Hock Seng himself brought back to full production for the benefit of Mr. Anderson, rushing to please him. Is it coincidence? He shivers, eyeing the room from a new perspective. Overflow from the vats dampens the floor and pools near the rusting drains. Blooms of algae decorate the damp surface, feeding on left-over nutrients. Vectors everywhere, if there is something wrong with the tanks.

  Hock Seng instinctively starts to wipe his hands, then stops short, skin crawling anew. The gray powders of the fining room cling to his palms, marking where he pushed the curtains aside as he passed through. He's surrounded by potential vectors. Overhead, the drying screens hang suspended, their racks filling the warehouse dimness, bank after bank, smeared with blackening skim. A drop of water falls from a screen. Spatters the floor beside his foot. And with it comes awareness of a new sound. He never heard it when the factory was full of people. But now, in this early morning quiet, it is all around: the gentle patter of rain from the screens above.

  Hock Seng stands abruptly, fighting rising panic.

  Don't be a fool. You don't know it is the algae. Death comes in many forms. It could be any sort of disease.

  Kit's breathing is strangely ragged in the stillness, a panting bellows as his chest rises and falls.

  "Do you think it is pandemic?" Mai asks.

  Hock Seng glares at her. "Don't say those words! Do you wish to bring demons down on us? White shirts? If news gets out, they'll shut down the factory. We'll be starving like yellow cards."

  "But—"

  Outside, in the main hall, voices echo.

  "Hush, child." Hock Seng motions her to silence, thinking furiously. A white shirt investigation would be disastrous. Just the excuse the foreign devil Mr. Lake would need to shut the place down, to fire Hock Seng. To send him back to the towers to starve. To die after coming so far, after coming so close.

  More morning greetings echo from the rest of the factory. A megodont groans. Doors rattle wide. The main flywheels rumble to life as someone runs a line test.

  "What should we do?" Mai asks.

  Hock Seng glances around at the vats and machinery. The still empty rooms. "You're the only one who knows they are sick?"

  Mai nods. "I found them when I came in."

  "You're sure? You didn't mention it to anyone else as you came to find me? No one else has been in here? No one was here with you and perhaps thought they would take the day off when they saw these two?"

  Mai shakes her head. "No. I came alone. I catch a ride with a farmer near the edge of the city. He brings me on his long-tail, up the khlongs. I always get here early."

  Hock Seng, looks down at the two sic
k men, then at the girl. Four of them in the room. Four. He winces at the thought. Such an unlucky number, four. Sz. Four. Sz. Death. A better number is three, or two. . .

  Or one.

  One is the ideal number for a secret. Unconsciously, Hock Seng's hand strays to his knife, considering the girl. Messy. But still, less messy than the number four.

  The girl's long black hair is tied up in a careful bun at the top of her head to keep it free of running line equipment. Her neck is exposed. Her eyes are trusting. Hock Seng looks away, evaluating the bodies again, calculating against inauspicious numbers. Four, four, four. Death. One is better. One is best. He takes a breath and makes a decision. He reaches for her. "Come here."

  She hesitates. He scowls at her, waves her closer. "You want to keep your job, yes?"

  She nods slowly.

  "Then come. These two need to go to a hospital, yes? We cannot help them here. And two sick men lying beside the algae baths will do none of us any good. Not if we want to keep on eating. Gather them and meet me at the side door. Not through the main room. The side one. Go under the line with them, through the service access. The side, you understand?"

  She nods uncertainly. He claps his hands together, spurring her to action. "Quickly now! Quickly! Drag them if you must!" He motions to the bodies. "People will be arriving. One person is already too many to keep a secret, and here we stand, four. Let us make this a secret of two, at least. Anything is better than four." Death.

  She takes a frightened breath, then her eyes narrow with determination. She crouches to wrestle with Kit's body. Hock Seng watches to make sure she is underway, then ducks out.

  In the main hall, people are still stowing their lunches and laughing. No one in a rush. The Thai are lazy. If they were Chinese yellow cards they would already be working and all would be lost. For once, Hock Seng is glad he works with Thais. He still has a little time. He ducks out the side door.

  Outside, the alley is empty. High factory walls pin the narrow way. Hock Seng jogs toward Phosri Street and its jumble of breakfast stalls, steaming noodles and ragged children. A cycle rickshaw flashes across the gap.

  "Wei!" He calls out. "Samloh! Samloh! Wait!" But he is too far away.

  He limps to the intersection favoring his bad knee, catches sight of another rickshaw. He flags the driver. The man glances behind to see if he is threatened by competition, then angles toward Hock Seng with a lackadaisical pedal, allowing the slight slope of the street to let him coast.

  "Faster!" Hock Seng shouts. "Kuai yidian, you dog fucker!"

  The man ignores the abuse, lets his cycle coast to a stop. "You called me, Khun?"

  Hock Seng climbs in and waves down the alley. "I have passengers for you, if you'll hurry up."

  The man grunts and steers down the narrow way. The cycle's chain clicks sedately. Hock Seng grits his teeth. "Double pay. Quickly, quickly!" He motions the man onward.

  The man leans on his pedals marginally more aggressively, but still he shambles like a megodont. Ahead, Mai appears. For a moment Hock Seng is afraid that she will be stupid and bring out the bodies before the rickshaw arrives, but Kit is nowhere in sight. It is only when the rickshaw comes close that she slips back inside and drags the first incoherent worker into view.

  The rickshaw man shies at the body, but Hock Seng leans over his shoulder and hisses, "Triple pay." He grabs Kit and wrestles him into the rickshaw's seat before the man can protest. Mai disappears back inside.

  The cycle-rickshaw man eyes Kit. "What's wrong with him?"

  "He's a drunk," Hock Seng says. "He and his friend. If the boss catches them, they're fired."

  "He doesn't look drunk."

  "You're mistaken."

  "No. That one looks like—"

  Hock Seng stares at the man. "The white shirts will cast their net over you as surely as they will me. He is on your seat, in your breathing presence."

  The rickshaw man's eyes widen. He draws back. Hock Seng nods confirmation, holding the man's gaze. "There's no point in making a complaint now. I say they are drunk. Triple pay to you, when you return."

  Mai reappears with the second worker and Hock Seng helps lever him into the seat. He ushers Mai into the rickshaw with the men. "Hospitals," he says. And then he leans close. "But different hospitals, yes?"

  Mai nods sharply.

  "Good. Clever girl." Hock Seng steps back. "Go on then! Go! Beat it!"

  The rickshaw man sets off, pedalling much faster than before. Hock Seng watches them ride away, the heads of the three passengers and the rickshaw man, rattling and bouncing as the bike's wheels chatter over cobbles. He grimaces. Four again. A bad number for certain. He pushes paranoia away, wondering if he is even capable of strategizing these days. An old man who jumps at shadows.

  Would he be better off if Mai and Kit and Srimuang were feeding red-fin plaa in the murky waters of the Chao Phraya River? If they were just a collection of anonymous parts bobbing amongst the roiling bodies of hungry carp, would he not be safer?

  Four. Sz. Death.

  His skin crawls at the proximity of sickness. He rubs his hands unconsciously against his trousers. He'll have to bathe. Rub down with a chlorine bleach scrub and hope it does the job. The rickshaw man turns out of sight, carrying his diseased cargo. Hock Seng heads back inside, to the factory floor where the lines rattle with test runs and voices call out to one another in morning greeting.

  Please let it be coincidence, he prays. Please don't let it be the line.

  17

  How many nights has he gone without sleep? One night? Ten nights? Ten thousand? Jaidee cannot remember anymore. Moons have passed awake and suns have passed in dream and everything is counting, numbers spinning out in a steady accumulation of days and hopes dashed. Propitiations and offerings unanswered. Fortune tellers with their predictions. Generals with their assurances. Tomorrow. Three days, for certain. There are indications of a softening, whispers of a woman's whereabouts.

  Patience.

  Jai yen.

  Cool heart.

  Nothing.

  Apologies and humiliations in the newspapers. A personal criticism, by his own hand. More false admissions of greed and corruption. 200,000 baht that he cannot repay. Editorials and condemnations in the whisper sheets. Stories spread by his enemies that he spent stolen money on whores, on a private stock of U-Tex rice against famines, that he squirrelled it away for personal benefit. The Tiger was nothing more than another corrupt white shirt.

  Fines are meted out. The last of his property confiscated. The family home burned, a funeral pyre, while his mother-in-law wails and his sons, already stripped of his name, watch somnolent.

  It has been decided that he will not serve his penance in a nearby monastery. Instead he will be banished to the forests of Phra Kritipong where ivory beetle has turned the land into waste and where blister rust rewrites waft across the border from Burma. Banished to the wastelands to contemplate the damma. His eyebrows are shaved, his head is a simple pate. If he happens to return from his penance alive, he looks forward to a lifetime of guarding yellow cards in their internments down in the south: the lowest work, for the lowest white shirt.

  And yet still no word of Chaya.

  Is she alive? Is she dead? Was it Trade? Was it another? A jao por, incensed at Jaidee's audacity? Was it someone within the Environment Ministry? Bhirom-bhakdi, irritated at Jaidee's disregard for protocol? Was it meant as a kidnapping, or murder? Did she die fighting to get free? Is she still in that concrete room of the photograph, somewhere in the city, sweating in an abandoned tower, waiting for him to rescue her? Does her corpse feed cheshires in an alley? Does she float in the Chao Phraya, food now for the Boddhi Carp rev 2.3 that the Ministry has bred with such success? He has nothing but questions. He shouts into the well, but no echo returns.

  And so now he sits in a barren monk's kuti on the temple grounds of Wat Bowonniwet, waiting to hear whether Phra Kritipong's monastery will actually accept the task of reforming him. H
e wears the white of a novice. He will not wear orange. Not ever. He is not a monk. He does a special penance. His eyes follow rusty water stains on the wall, the blooms of mold and rot.

  On one wall, a bo tree is painted, the Buddha sitting beneath it as he seeks enlightenment.

  Suffering. All is suffering. Jaidee stares at the bo tree. Just another relic of history. The Ministry has artificially preserved a few, ones that didn't burst to kindling under the internal pressure of the ivory beetles breeding, the beetles burrowing and hatching in the tangled trunks of the bo until they burst forth, flying, and spread to their next victim and their next and their next. . .

  All is transient. Even bo trees cannot last.

  Jaidee touches his eyebrows, fingering the pale half-moons above his eyes where hair once stood. He still hasn't gotten used to his shaven state. Everything changes. He stares up at the bo tree and the Buddha.

  I was asleep. All along, I was asleep and never understood.

  But now, as he stares at the relic bo tree, something shifts.

  Nothing lasts forever. A kuti is a cell. This cell is a prison. He sits in a prison, while the ones who took Chaya live and drink and whore and laugh. Nothing is permanent. This is the central teaching of the Buddha. Not a career, not an institution, not a wife, not a tree. . . All is change; change is the only truth.

  He stretches a hand toward the painting and traces the flaking paint, wondering if the man who painted it used a real living bo tree as model, if he was lucky enough to live when they lived, or if he modeled it from a photo. Copied from a copy.

  In a thousand years will they even know that bo trees existed? Will Niwat and Surat's great-grandchildren know that there were other fig trees, also all gone? Will they know that there were many many trees and that they were of many types? Not just a Gates teak, and a generipped PurCal banana, but many, many others as well?