The Windup Girl

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  Kanya burns at the shame of it. She starts up the stairs. Her heart thuds in her chest as she climbs. Why couldn't that damn honorable Jaidee keep his nose out of Trade? Take the warning? And now she must visit herself on the sons. Must tell the warrior boys that their father was a good fighter, and had a pure heart. And now I must have his equipment. Thank you so much. It is, after all, the Ministry's.

  Kanya raps on the door. Goes back down the steps to give the family time to arrange itself. One of the boys, Surat she thinks, opens the door, wais deeply to her, calls back inside. "It's Elder Sister Kanya." Soon Jaidee's mother-in-law is at the door. Kanya wais and the old woman wais even more in return and lets her in.

  "I'm sorry to bother you."

  "No bother." Her eyes are red. The two boys regard her solemnly. Everyone stands uncertainly together. The old woman finally says, "You'll want to collect his things."

  Kanya is almost too embarrassed to answer, but she manages to nod. The mother-in-law guides her inside to a sleeping room. It is a sign of the old woman's grief that nothing is in order. The boys watch. The old woman points to a small desk jammed into a corner, a box of his belongings. Files that Jaidee was reading. "That's everything?" Kanya asks.

  The old woman shrugs dully. "It's what he kept with him after the house was burned. I haven't touched it. He brought it here before he went to the wat."

  Kanya smiles her embarrassment. "Kha. Yes. Sorry. Of course."

  "Why did they do this to him? Hadn't they done enough?"

  Kanya shrugs helplessly. "I don't know."

  "Will you find them? Will you get revenge on them?"

  She hesitates. Niwat and Surat watch her solemnly. Their playfulness is entirely gone. They have nothing. Kanya ducks her head, wais. "I will find them. I swear it. If it takes me all my life."

  "Do you have to take his things?"

  Kanya smiles uncertainly. "It's protocol. I should have come before. But. . ." She trails off helplessly. "We hoped that the tides would turn. That he would be back on the job. If there are private effects or mementos, I will return them. But I need his equipment."

  "Of course. It's valuable."

  Kanya nods. She kneels beside the WeatherAll box of files and gear. It is a careless mangle of files and papers and envelopes and Ministry gear. A spare clip of blades for a spring gun. A baton. His zip cuffs. Files. All piled together.

  Kanya imagines Jaidee filling this box, Chaya already lost to him, everything else soon to be lost. No wonder he didn't bother being careful with any of it. She sifts through the stuff. Finds a photograph of Jaidee during his cadet days, standing next to Pracha, both of them looking young and confident. She takes it out, thoughtful, and sets it on the desk.

  She looks up. The old woman has left the room but Niwat and Surat are still there, watching her like a pair of crows. She holds out the photo. Finally, Niwat reaches out and takes it, shows it to his brother.

  Kanya goes through the rest of the box quickly. Everything else seems to be the Ministry's. She's obscurely relieved; she won't have to return, then. A small teak box catches her attention. She opens it. Medals from Jaidee's muay thai championships gleam. Kanya hands them over to the silent boys. They cluster around the evidence of their father's triumphs as Kanya finishes going through the papers.

  "There's something in here," Niwat says. He holds up an envelope. "Is this for us, as well?"

  "It was with the medals?" Kanya shrugs, continuing to go through the box. "What's in it?"

  "Pictures."

  Kanya looks up, puzzled. "Let me see."

  Niwat passes them across. Kanya shuffles through them. They seem to be a record of suspicious people that Jaidee was interested in. Akkarat figures in many. Farang. Many photos of farang. Smiling photos of men and women around the Minister like ghosts, hungry to suck at his blood. Akkarat, unaware, smiling with them, happy to be standing with them. Kanya shuffles more photos. Men she doesn't recognize. Trader farang, presumably. Here a fat one, glutted on calories from abroad, some PurCal or AgriGen representative visiting from Koh Angrit perhaps, looking to curry favor in the newly opening kingdom where Trade is in ascendancy. There another, the Carlyle man who lost his dirigible. Kanya smiles slightly. How that one must have hurt. She flips past the photo and sucks in her breath, stunned.

  "What is it?" Niwat asks. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," Kanya forces herself to say. "It's nothing."

  The photo is of herself, drinking with Akkarat on his pleasure barge. A long lens, a bad image, but herself, clearly.

  Jaidee knew.

  Kanya stares at the photo for a long time, forcing herself to breathe. Staring at the photo. Meditating on kamma and duty, while Jaidee's sons watch her, solemn. Meditating on her patron who never spoke of this photo. Meditating on what a man of Jaidee's stature knows, and what he does not reveal, and what secrets can cost a person. She studies the photo, debating. Finally she pulls it and puts it in her pocket. The rest she shoves back into the envelope.

  "Was it a clue?"

  Kanya nods solemnly. The boys nod back. They do not ask for more. They are good boys.

  She goes over the rest of the room carefully, looking for other evidence that she might have missed, but finds nothing. Finally she bends down to pick up the box of equipment and files. It's heavy but none of it weighs as heavily as the photo that now sits in her breast pocket like a coiled cobra.

  Outside, in the open air, she forces herself to breathe deeply. The stink of shame is strong in her nostrils. She can't make herself look back at the boys in the doorway. The orphans who pay the price for their father's unbending bravery. They suffer because their father chose an opponent worthy of him. Instead of shaking down noodle carts and night markets, he chose a true enemy, an implacable and relentless one. Kanya closes her eyes.

  I tried to tell you. You shouldn't have gone. I tried.

  She straps the box of belongings to her cycle's cargo rack and pedals across the compound. By the time she arrives at the main administrative building, she has recovered.

  General Pracha stands under the shade of a banana tree, smoking a Gold Leaf cigarette. She is surprised that she can meet the man's eyes. She approaches and wais.

  The general nods, accepting Kanya's greeting. "You have his belongings?"

  Kanya nods.

  "And you've seen his sons?"

  She nods again.

  He scowls. "They piss in our house. On our own doorstep they leave his body. It should not be possible, and yet here, within our own Ministry, they throw down their challenge." He grinds out the cigarette.

  "You're in charge now, Captain Kanya. Jaidee's men are yours. It's time that we fought as Jaidee always wished. Make the Trade Ministry bleed, Captain. Get our face back."

  21

  On the crumbling tower's precipice, Emiko stares north.

  She has done it every day since Raleigh confirmed the windup land. Ever since Anderson-sama hinted that it was possible. She cannot help herself. Even when she lies in Anderson-sama's arms, even when he sometimes invites her to stay with him, paying her bar fines for days at a time, she cannot help dreaming of that place without patrons.

  North.

  She breathes deep, taking in the scents of sea and burning dung and the bloom of orchid creepers. Down below, the wide delta of the Chao Phraya laps at Bangkok's levees and dikes. On the far side, Thonburi floats as best it can on bamboo rafts and stilt houses. The Temple of the Dawn's prang rise from the water, surrounded by the rubble of the drowned city.

  North.

  Shouts come from below, breaking her reverie. It takes a moment for her brain to translate the noise filtering up, but then her mind shifts from Japanese to Thai and the sounds become words. The words become screams.

  "Be quiet!

  "Mai ao! No! No nonono!"

  "Down! Map lohng dieow nee! On your face!"

  "Please pleaseplease!"

  "Get down!"

  She cocks her head, listening to t
he altercation. She has good hearing, another thing the scientists gave her along with her smooth skin and her doglike urge to obey. She listens. More screams. The thud of footsteps and something breaking. Her nape prickles. She wears nothing but slim pants and a string halter. Her other clothing lies below, awaiting her change into street clothes.

  More shouts filter up. The scream of someone in pain. Primal, animal pain.

  White shirts. A raid. Adrenaline surges through her. She has to get off the roof before they arrive. Emiko turns and runs for the stairs but stops short at the stairwell. The tramp of feet echoes up.

  "Squad Three. Clear!"

  "Wing Clear?"

  "Secure!"

  She shoves the door closed and presses her back to it, trapped. Already they clog the stairwells. She casts about the rooftop, looking for another escape route.

  "Check the roof!"

  Emiko sprints for the edge of the tower. Thirty feet below, the first of the tower's balconies extends. A penthouse balcony from a time when the tower must have been luxurious. She stares down at the tiny balcony, dizzy. Below it, there is nothing but the plunge to the street and the people who fill it like black spider mites.

  Wind gusts, tugging her toward the edge. Emiko sways and barely catches her balance. It's as if the spirits of the air are trying to kill her. She stares down at the balcony. No. It's impossible.

  She turns and runs back to the door, searching for something to wedge it shut. Chips of brick and tile litter the rooftop along with the clothing draped on drying lines, but nothing—she spies a piece of an old broom. Scrambles for it and jams it against the door frame.

  The door's hinges are so rusted that it sags with the pressure she applies. She shoves the broom handle tighter against it, grimacing. The WeatherAll of the broom is stronger than the metal of the door.

  Emiko casts about for another solution. She's already boiling from running back and forth like a frantic rat. The sun is a thick red ball, sinking for the horizon. Long shadows stretch across the broken surface of the building's roof. She turns in a panicked circle. Her eyes fall on the clothing and the lines. Perhaps she can use the rope to climb down. She runs to the clotheslines and tries to yank one off but it's tough and well-tied. It won't come free. She yanks again.

  Behind her, the door shudders. A voice on the other side curses. "Open up!" The door jumps in its frame as someone slams against it, trying to force past her improvised brace.

  Inexplicably, she hears Gendo-sama in her head, telling her she is perfect. Optimal. Delightful. She grimaces at the old bastard's voice as she yanks again on the line, hating him, hating the old snake who loved her and discarded her. The line cuts into her hands but refuses to give way. Gendo-sama. Such a traitor. She will die because she is optimal, but not optimal enough for a return ticket.

  I'm burning up.

  Optimal.

  Another thud from behind her. The door cracks. She gives up on the line. Turns in another circle, searching desperately for a solution. There is nothing except rubble and the open air all around. She might as well be a thousand miles high. Optimally high.

  A hinge shatters, throwing bits of metal. The door sags. With a final glance at the door, Emiko sprints again for the edge of the building, still hoping for a solution. A way to climb down.

  She stops, windmilling at the edge. The precipice yawns. The wind gusts. There is nothing. No handholds. No way to climb. She looks back at the clotheslines. If only—

  The door breaks from its hinges. A pair of white shirts spill through, stumbling, waving spring guns. They catch sight of her and charge across the roof. "You! Come here!"

  She peers over the edge. The people are dots far below; the balcony is as small as a postage envelope.

  "Stop! Yoot dieow nee! Halt!"

  The white shirts are running for her—running full bore—and yet somehow, strangely, they suddenly seem slow. Slow as honey on a cold day.

  Emiko watches them, puzzled. They are halfway across the roof, but they are so very very slow. They seem to be running through rice porridge. Their every motion drags. So slow. As slow as the man who chased her in the alleys and tried to knife her. So slow. . .

  Emiko smiles. Optimal. She steps up onto the roof ledge.

  The white shirts' mouths open to shout again. Their spring guns rise, seeking her. Emiko watches their slit barrels zero in on her. Wonders absently if perhaps she is actually the slow one. If gravity itself will be too slow.

  The wind gusts around her, beckoning. The spirits of the air tug at her, blow the black net of her hair across her eyes. She pushes it aside. Smiles calmly at the white shirts—still running, still pointing their spring guns—and steps backward into open air. The white shirts' eyes widen. Their guns glint red. Disks spit toward her. One, two, three. . . she counts them as they fly. . . four, five—

  Gravity yanks her down. The men and their projectiles disappear. She smashes into the balcony. Her knees slam into her chin. Her ankle twists as metal shrieks. She rolls, crashing into the balcony's railing. It shatters and peels away and she plunges into open air. Emiko grabs for a broken copper balustrade as she goes over. Yanks to a stop, dangling above an abyss.

  Empty air yawns all around, beckoning free-fall. Hot wind gusts. Tugs at her. Emiko pulls herself up to the listing balcony, gasping. Her whole body is shaking, feels bruised, and yet all her limbs still work. She has not broken a single bone in the fall. Optimal. She swings a leg up onto the balcony, and hauls herself to safety. Metal grinds. The balcony sags under her weight, its ancient bolts loosening. She's burning up. She wants to collapse. To let herself slide from her precarious ledge and pour into the open air. . .

  Shouts from above.

  Emiko looks up. White shirts peer over the edge, aiming their spring guns at her. Disks pour down like silver rain. They ricochet, slash her skin, spark on metal. Fear gives her strength. She lunges for the safety of the balcony's glass doors. Optimal. The doors shatter. Glass slices her palms. Sparkling shards envelope her and then she's through the glass and in the apartment and she's running fast, blurringly fast. People are staring at her, shocked, impossibly slow—

  Frozen.

  Emiko smashes through another door and out into the hall. White shirts surround her. She plunges through them. Their surprised shouts are leaden as she streaks past. Down the stairwells. Down, down, down the stairs, leaving the white shirts far behind. Shouts from high above.

  Her blood is on fire. The stairwells burn. She stumbles. Leans against a wall. Even the heat of the concrete is better than her skin. She's becoming dizzy, but still she stumbles on. Men shout from above, chasing after her. Their boots thump on the stairs.

  Around and around and down she goes. She shoves through obstructing knots of people, jams herself between dwellers rousted by the raid. She is delirious with the furnace inside her.

  Tiny beads of sweat speckle her skin, forcing their way out through her absurdly designed pores, but in the heat and humidity, it does nothing to cool her. She has never felt moisture on her skin before. Always she is dry—

  She brushes against a man. He recoils in surprise from her blazing skin. She's burning up. She cannot blend amongst these people. Her limbs move like the flash-frame pages of a child's animation book, fast, fast, fast, but choppy. Everyone is staring.

  She turns from the stairwell and jams through a door, stumbles down a hall, leans against a wall, panting. She can hardly keep her eyes open with the fire that burns within.

  I jumped, she thinks.

  I jumped.

  Adrenaline and shock. Cocktail terror, giddy amphetamine high. She's shaking. A windup's jitters. She's boiling. Faint with heat. She presses herself against the wall, trying to absorb its cool.

  I need water. Ice.

  Emiko tries to control her breathing, to listen, to know where the exterminators come from, but her mind is dizzy and clouded. How far down is she? How many flights?

  Keep moving. Keep going.

 
Instead, she collapses.

  The floor is cool. Her breath saws in and out of her lungs. Her halter is torn. There is blood on her arms and hands where she went through the glass. She stretches out, fingers wide, palms pressed to tile, trying to absorb the coolness of the floor. Her eyes close.

  Get up!

  But she can't. She tries to control her beating heart and listen for her pursuers, but she can barely breathe. She's so hot, and the floor is so cool.

  Hands seize her. Voices exclaim and drop her. Grab her again. Then the white shirts are all around, dragging her down the stairs, and she's grateful, thankful that they're at least dragging her down and out into the blessed evening air, even as they scream at her and slap her.

  Their words wash over her. She can't understand any of it. It's all just sounds, dark and dizzy heat. They do not speak Japanese, they are not even civilized. None of them are optimal—

  Water splashes over her. She gags and chokes. Another deluge, in her mouth, her nose, drowning her.

  People are shaking her. They yell into her face. Slap her. Ask questions. Demand answers.

  They grab her hair and jam her face down into a bucket of water, trying to drown her, to punish her, to kill her and all she can think is thank you thank you thank you thank you because some scientist made her optimal, and in another minute this slip of a windup girl that they shout at and slap will be cool.

  22

  The white shirts are everywhere: inspecting passes, stalking through food markets, confiscating methane. It's taken hours for Hock Seng to cross the city. Rumors say that all the Malayan Chinese have been interned in the yellow card towers. That they're about to be shipped south, back across the border to the mercy of the Green Headbands. Hock Seng listens to every whisper as he scuttles through alleys on his way back to his cash and gems, sending native Mai ahead of him, using her local's accent to scout.