The Windup Girl

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  "There will be riots if I'm right."

  "There will be worse than that." Kanya turns for the door, feeling sick. "When your tests are done and your data is ready for him to examine, I'll meet your devil." She makes a face of distaste. "You'll have your confirmations."

  "Kanya?"

  She turns.

  "I'm truly sorry about Jaidee," Ratana says. "I know you were close."

  Kanya grimaces. "He was a tiger." She pulls open the door, leaving Ratana to her demon's lair. An entire facility dedicated to the Kingdom's survival, kilowatts of power burning all day and all night, and none of it of any real use.

  25

  Anderson-sama appears without warning, sitting down on a bar stool beside her, ordering water with ice for her and a whiskey for himself. He doesn't smile at her, hardly acknowledges her at all but still Emiko feels a rush of gratitude.

  For the last several days she has hidden in the bar, waiting for the moment when the white shirts will decide to mulch her. She exists on sufferance and astronomical bribes and now she knows as Raleigh looks at her that it is unlikely he will let her go. He has too much invested in her now to allow her departure.

  And then Anderson-sama appears, and for a moment, she feels safe, feels as though she is back in the arms of Gendo-sama. She knows it is her training that does this and yet she cannot help it. She smiles when she sees him sitting beside her, under the phosphorescent light of glow worms, his gaijin features so strange amongst the sea of Thais and the few Japanese men who know of her existence.

  As is proper, he does not acknowledge her existence, but he stands and goes over to Raleigh and she knows that as soon as her performance is done, that she will sleep safe tonight. For once since the crackdown, she will not live in fear of the white shirts.

  She is surprised when Raleigh comes over immediately. "Looks like you're doing something right. The farang wants to fine you out early."

  "No show tonight?"

  Raleigh shrugs. "He paid."

  Emiko feels a rush of relief. She hurries to ready herself and then she's slipping down the stairs. Raleigh has arranged that the white shirts will only come and raid at specific times, and so she has assurance that within the confines of Ploenchit she can do as she likes. Nevertheless she is cautious. There were three raids early on, before the new patterns were settled. A number of owners spat blood before a new detente was agreed upon. Not Raleigh though. Raleigh seems to have a supernatural understanding of the workings of enforcement and bureaucracy.

  Outside Ploenchit, Anderson is waiting in his rickshaw, smelling of whiskey and tobacco, his face rough with evening stubble. She leans against him. "I hoped you would come."

  "I'm sorry it took so long. Things are a bit unsettled for me."

  "I missed you." She is surprised to find that it is true.

  They ease through the night traffic, past shambling shadow megodonts and cheshire flickers, past burning candles and sleeping families. They pass white shirt uniforms patrolling, but the officers are busy checking a vegetable stall. The green illumination of the gas lights flickers over them.

  "Are you all right?" He nods at the white shirts. "Is the Ministry raiding?"

  "It was bad at first. But now it is better."

  There was panic during the first raids, as the white shirts stormed up the stairwells rousting mama-sans, shutting off pirate methane taps, swinging their batons. Ladyboys screaming, owners rushing to find more cash and then falling under the clubs when they failed to bribe their way free. Emiko had huddled amongst the other girls, still as a statue as the white shirts stalked the bar, pointing out problems, threatening to beat them all until they couldn't earn. Not a trace of good humor in them, only anger at the loss of their Tiger, only an urge to teach lessons to everyone who had ever laughed at white shirt rules.

  Terror. Nearly pissing herself as she held still amongst the girls, sure that Kannika would shove her out and reveal her, that she would choose this moment to effect Emiko's demise.

  Raleigh, performing careful obeisances to all of them, a farce for some of the regular takers of his bribes, some of them even looking directly at her—Suttipong and Addilek and Thanachai—all of them fully aware of her and her role in the place, having gone so far as to sample her even, and all of them staring at her, trying to decide if they would "discover" her. Everyone playing their roles, and Emiko waiting for Kannika to break the charade, to force everyone to look at the windup girl that had been so lucrative a source for bribes.

  Emiko shivers at the memory. "It is better now," she says again.

  Anderson-sama nods.

  Their rickshaw stops in front of his building. He climbs down first, checks to ensure that no white shirts are about, then ushers her inside. The paired security guards scrupulously ignore her existence. When she leaves, she will tip them to make sure that they forget entirely. She may disgust them, but they will play along if she is respectful, and if she pays. With the white shirts on edge, she will have to pay more. But it can be done.

  She and Anderson-sama enter the elevator, and the elevator woman calls out the estimated weight, her face carefully expressionless.

  Safely inside his flat, they come together. Emiko is surprised at how happy she is that he delights in her, that he runs his hands over her skin, that he wishes to touch her. She has forgotten what it is to look almost human, to be nearly respected. In Japan, there was no such compunction about looking upon her. But here she feels as if she is an animal every day.

  It is a relief to be loved, even if it is only for her physicality.

  His hands run over her breasts, down across her stomach, slip between her legs, burrow deeper. She is relieved that it is easy, that he will know her pleasure. Emiko presses herself to him, and their mouths find one another, and for a time she forgets entirely that people call her windup and heechy-keechy. For a moment she feels entirely human, and she loses herself in the touching. In Anderson-sama's skin. In the security of pleasure and duty.

  But after their union, her depression returns.

  Anderson-sama brings her cool water, solicitous of her exertion. He lies down beside her, naked, careful not to touch, not to add to the heat she has built up. "What's the matter?" he asks.

  Emiko shrugs, tries to make herself into a smiling New Person. "It is nothing. Nothing that can be changed." It's almost impossible to speak her needs. It goes against all her nature. Mizumi-sensei would strike her for it.

  Anderson-sama watches her, his eyes surprisingly tender for a man with scars that crisscross his body. She can catalogue those scars. Each one a mystery of violence on his pale skin. Perhaps the puckered scars on his chest came from spring gun attacks. Perhaps the one on his shoulder came from a machete. The ones on his back look like whip marks, almost certainly. The only one she's certain about is the neck scar, from his factory.

  He reaches out to touch her gently. "What's wrong?"

  Emiko rolls away from him. She can barely speak through her embarrassment. "The white shirts. . . they will never let me out of the city. And now Raleigh-san has paid more bribes to keep me. He will never let me go, I think."

  Anderson-sama doesn't respond. She can hear his breathing, slow and steady, but nothing else. Her shame is all encompassing.

  Stupid greedy windup girl. You should be grateful for what he is willing to provide.

  The silence stretches. Finally, Anderson-sama asks, "You're sure Raleigh can't be convinced? He's a businessman."

  Emiko listens to the sound of his breathing. Is he offering to buy her free? If he were Japanese, it would be an offer, carefully couched. But with Anderson-sama, it is hard to tell.

  "I do not know. Raleigh-san likes money. But I think also that he likes to see me suffer."

  She waits, straining for a clue as to what he is thinking. Anderson-sama doesn't ask for more information. Leaves her hint dangling. She can feel his body though, close to her, the heat of his skin. Is he listening still? If he were civilized, she would take
this lack of response as a definitive slap. But gaijin are not subtle.

  Emiko steels herself. Presses again, almost gagging with humiliation as she overcomes her training and genetic imperatives. Fighting to keep herself from cowering like a dog, she tries again.

  "I am living in the bar, now. Raleigh-san pays the bribes to keep the white shirts away, triple bribes now, some to the other bars, and some to the white shirts, to allow me to be there. I do not know how much longer I can last. My niche is vanishing, I think."

  "Do you. . ." Anderson-sama breaks off, hesitating. Then says, "You could stay here."

  Emiko's heart skips. "Raleigh-san would follow, I think."

  "There are ways to handle people like Raleigh."

  "You can free me from him?"

  "I doubt I have the funds to buy you out."

  Emiko's heart crashes as Anderson-sama continues, "With tension so high, I can't provoke him by just taking you away. Not when he could just send the white shirts hunting here. It would be too risky. But I think I can arrange for you to sleep here at least. Raleigh might even appreciate the lessened exposure."

  "But would this not create problems for you? The white shirts do not like farang, either. You are very precarious now." Help me fly from this place. Help me find the New People villages. Help me, please. "If I were to pay Raleigh-san's fines. . . I could go north."

  Anderson-sama tugs her shoulder gently. Emiko lets herself be pulled back to him. "You hope for too little," he says. His hand traces across her stomach. Idle. Thoughtful. "A lot of things may be changing soon. Maybe even for windups." He favors her with a small secretive smile. "The white shirts and their rules won't be here forever."

  She is begging for survival, and he speaks of fantasy.

  Emiko tries to keep her disappointment hidden. You should be content, greedy girl. Grateful for what you have. But she can't keep the bitterness from her voice. "I am a windup. Nothing will change. We will always be despised."

  He laughs at that, pulls her close. "Don't be so sure." His lips brush her ear, whispering. Conspiratorial. "If you pray to that bakeneko cheshire god of yours, I might be able to give you something better than a village in the jungle. With a little luck, you might end up with a whole city."

  Emiko pushes away, looks at him sadly. "I understand if you cannot change my lot. But you should not tease me."

  Anderson-sama only laughs again.

  26

  Hock Seng crouches in an alley just outside the farang manufacturing district. It's night, but still there are white shirts everywhere. Everywhere he goes, he finds cordons of uniforms. On the quays, clipper ships sit isolated, waiting for permission to unload cargo. In the factory district, Ministry officers stand on every corner, preventing access for workers and owners and shopkeepers alike. Only a few people are allowed in and out, ones who show residence cards. Locals.

  With only a yellow card for identification, it took Hock Seng half the evening to traverse the city, avoiding checkpoints. He misses Mai. Those young eyes and ears made him feel safe. Now he crouches with cheshires and the stink of urine, watching white shirts check another man's identification and cursing that he is cut off from the SpringLife factory. He should have been brave. Should have simply robbed the safe when he had the chance. Should have risked everything. And now it's too late. Now the white shirts own every inch of the city, and their favorite target is yellow cards. They like to test their batons on yellow card skulls, like to teach them lessons. If the Dung Lord didn't have so much influence, Hock Seng is sure that the ones in the towers would already be slaughtered. The Environment Ministry sees yellow cards the same way it sees the other invasive species and plagues it manages. Given a choice, the white shirts would slaughter every yellow card Chinese and then make a khrab of apology for their over-enthusiasm to the Child Queen. But only after the fact.

  A young woman shows her pass and clears the cordon. She disappears down the street, deeper into the manufacturing district. Everything is so tantalizingly close, and yet so impossibly out of reach.

  Looked at objectively, it is probably best that the factory is closed. Safer for everyone. If he weren't so dependent on the contents of the safe, he would just report the line's infections and be done with the tamade thing entirely. And yet, in the midst of all that illness, ensconced above the miasma of the algae baths, the blueprints and specifications still beckon.

  Hock Seng wants to tear out the last of his hair with frustration.

  He glares at the checkpoint, willing the white shirts to go away, to look somewhere else. Wishing, praying to the goddess Kuan Yin, begging to fat gold Budai for a little luck. With those manufacturing plans and the support of the Dung Lord, so much would be possible. So much future. So much life. Offerings for his ancestors again. Perhaps a wife. Perhaps a son to carry on his name. Perhaps. . .

  A patrol stalks past. Hock Seng eases deeper into shadow. The enforcers remind him of when the Green Headbands began patrolling at night. They started out looking for couples holding hands in the evening, displaying immorality.

  At the time, he told his children to watch themselves, to understand that the tides of conservatism came and went and if they could not live as freely and openly as their parents had, well then, what of it? Didn't they have food in their bellies and family and friends whose company they enjoyed? And within their high-walled compounds, it was irrelevant what the Green Headbands thought.

  Another patrol. Hock Seng turns and slips back down the alley. There is no way to sneak into the manufacturing district. The white shirts are determined to shut down Trade and hurt the farang. He grimaces and begins the long circuitous route back through the sois toward his hovel.

  Others in the Ministry were corrupt, but not Jaidee. Not if anyone is honest about the man. Even Sawatdee Krung Thep!, the whisper sheet which loved him most, and then denigrated him so completely during his disgrace, has printed pages and pages in praise of the hero of the country. Captain Jaidee was too well-loved to be cut into pieces, to be treated like offal that is dumped in methane composters. Someone must be punished.

  And if Trade is to blame, then trade must be punished. So the factories are closed along with anchor pads and roads and docks, and Hock Seng cannot squeeze out. He cannot book passage on a clipper, cannot ride upriver to the ruined Ayutthaya, cannot flee on a dirigible to Kolkata or Japan.

  He makes his way past the docks and, sure enough, the white shirts are still there, along with small knots of workers, squatting on the ground, idled by the blockade. A beautiful clipper ship lies anchored a hundred meters offshore, rocking gently in the water. As beautiful a clipper as he ever owned. Latest generation, switch hulls and hydrofoils, palm oil polymer, wind wings. Fast. Capable of hauling plenty of cargo. It sits out there, gleaming. And he stands on the dock, staring at it. It might as well be docked in India.

  He spies a food cart, a vendor frying generipped tilapia in a deep wok. Hock Seng steels himself. He has to ask, even if he reveals himself as a yellow card. He is blind without information. With the white shirts at the other end of the dock, if the man calls out, he should still have time to flee.

  Hock Seng eases close. "Is there any way of passengers crossing?" he murmurs. He tilts his head toward the clipper. "Over there?"

  "No transit for anyone," the vendor mutters.

  "Not even a single man?"

  The man scowls, nods at the others in the shadows, squatting and smoking cigarettes, playing at cards. Huddled around the hand-crank radio of a shop keeper. "Those ones have been there for the last week. You'll have to wait, yellow card. Just like everyone else."

  Hock Seng fights the urge to flinch at being identified. Forces himself to pretend as if they are all equals in this, to create a hopeful fiction that the man will see him as a person, and not as some unwelcome cheshire. "You haven't heard of small boats, further down the coast? Away from the city? For money?"

  The fish vendor shakes his head. "No one's going either way. They've caught t
wo different groups of passengers trying to make their way ashore from the ships, too. The white shirts won't even allow a resupply boat to go out. We're betting on whether the captain will weigh anchor or the white shirts will open up first."

  "What are the odds?" Hock Seng asks.

  "I'll give you eleven to one that the clipper leaves first."

  Hock Seng makes a face. "I don't think I'll risk it."

  "Twenty to one, then."

  A few others seem to have been listening to the exchange. They laugh quietly. "Don't bet unless he gives you fifty to one," one of them says. "The white shirts aren't going to bend. Not this time. Not with the Tiger dead."

  Hock Seng makes himself laugh with them. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, offers more to the people around him. A small gift of good will for these Thais, for this moment of shared brotherhood. If he were not a yellow card with a yellow card accent, he might even try a gift of goodwill for the white shirts, but on a night like tonight it will earn him nothing but a baton on the skull. He has no interest in seeing his head splintered against paving stones. He smokes and studies the blockade.

  Time is passing.

  The idea of a sealed city makes his hands shake. This isn't about yellow cards, he tells himself. We are not the reason for this. But he has a hard time believing a noose isn't tightening. It might be about Trade right now, but there are too many yellow cards in the city and if trade is cut off for long, even these friendly people will begin to notice the lack of work, and then they will drink, and then they will think of the yellow cards in the towers.

  The Tiger is dead. His face is on every gaslight pole. Pasted to every building. Three images of Jaidee in a fighting pose stare out from a warehouse wall even now. Hock Seng smokes his cigarette and scowls at that face. The hero of the people. The man who could not be bought, who faced down ministers and farang companies and petty businessmen. The man who was willing to fight even his own ministry. Sent to a desk job when he became too troublesome, and then put back on the street when he became even more so. The man who laughed at death threats, and survived three assassinations before the fourth felled him.