The Windup Girl

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  A voice interrupts his thoughts. "Well, well. Tan Hock Seng. How nice to see you here."

  Hock Seng turns. Dog Fucker and Old Bones, along with six others, are standing in the doorway. All of them carrying spring guns. They're scratched and sooted from the warfare of the streets, but smiling and confident.

  "We all seem to have been thinking along the same lines," Dog Fucker observes.

  An explosion lights the sky, casting orange across the office. The rumble of destruction trembles through Hock Seng's soles. It's hard to tell how far away it was. The shells seem to fall randomly. If there is intelligence guiding them, it's not for them to understand. Another rumble, this one closer. The white shirts, defending the levees, most likely. Hock Seng fights an urge to flee. The cracking of the iron-digesting bacteria continues. Leaves of metal waft to the floor.

  Hock Seng tests the waters. "I'm glad you're here. Help me, then. Come on."

  Old Bones smiles. "I think not."

  The men shoulder past Hock Seng. All of them larger than he. All of them armed. All of them uncaring of his and Mai's presence. Hock Seng staggers as they bump him aside.

  "But it's mine," he protests. "You can't take it! I told you where it was!"

  The men ignore him.

  "You can't take it!" Hock Seng fumbles for his gun. Suddenly a pistol presses against his skull. Old Bones, smiling.

  Dog Fucker watches with interest. "Another killing will make little difference on my rebirth. Don't test me."

  Hock Seng can barely control his rage. A part of him wants to fire anyway, to steal away the man's smug expression. The safe's metal continues to bubble and hiss, falling away, slowly revealing his last object of hope. The nak leng all watch Hock Seng and Old Bones. They're loose, smiling. Unafraid. They haven't even lifted their pistols. They simply watch, interested, as Hock Seng points his pistol at them.

  Dog Fucker grins. "Go away, yellow card. Before I change my mind."

  Mai tugs at Hock Seng's hand. "Whatever it is, it isn't worth your life."

  "She's right, yellow card," Old Bones says. "This is not a fight you can win."

  Hock Seng lowers his pistol and allows Mai to pull him away. They back out of the office. The Dung Lord's men watch with small smiles, and then Hock Seng and Mai are going down the stairs and out into the factory, and from there into the rubbled streets.

  In the distance, a megodont screams in pain. The wind gusts, carrying ash and political pamphlets and the scent of burning WeatherAll. Hock Seng feels old. Too old to still be striving against a fate that clearly wishes him destroyed. Another whisper sheet tumbles past. The headline screams of windup girls and murder. Amazing that Mr. Lake's windup could cause so much trouble. And now everyone in the city is hunting for her. He almost smiles. Even if he's a yellow card, he's not as disadvantaged as that sorry creature. He probably owes her thanks. If it hadn't been for her and the news of Mr. Lake's arrest, he supposes he would be dead by now, burned in the slums with all his jade and cash and diamonds.

  I should be grateful.

  Instead, he feels the weight of his ancestors pressing down upon him, crushing him with their judgments. He took what his father and grandfather before him had built in Malaya and turned it to ash.

  The failure is overwhelming.

  Another whisper sheet flutters up against the factory wall. The windup girl again, along with accusations against General Pracha. Mr. Lake was obsessed with that windup girl. Couldn't stop fucking her. Couldn't resist bringing her to his bed at every opportunity. Hock Seng picks up the whisper sheet, suddenly thoughtful.

  "What is it?" Mai asks.

  I am too old for this.

  But still, Hock Seng feels his heart beating faster. "I have an idea," he says. "A possibility."

  A new absurd flicker of hope. He cannot help it. Even when he has nothing, he must strive.

  43

  A tank round explodes. Dirt and woody debris showers Kanya's head. They've abandoned the Ministry buildings—giving ground is what Kanya has called it, but in truth it's a rout—running as fast as they can from the oncoming tanks and megodonts.

  The only thing that has saved them so far is that the army seems intent on securing the main campus of the Ministry, and so its strength remains gathered there. Still, she and her men have encountered three commando units coming over the south walls of the compound and they have cut Kanya's platoon in half. And now another tank, just as they were about to slip out a secondary exit. The tank smashed through the gate and blocked their escape.

  She has ordered her men into the forest groves near Phra Seub's temple. It is in shambles. The carefully tended garden has been trampled by war megodonts. Its main columns have been burnt by a fire bomb attack that swept through the dry teak of the forest like a raging demon, shrieking and roaring, so now they shelter in ash and stumps and smolder.

  Another tank shell drops into their hillside position. More commandos slip around the tank, break into teams and dash across the compound. It looks as though they're heading for the biological laboratories. Kanya wonders if Ratana is working there, if she even knows of the warfare above ground. A tree shatters beside her as another tank round explodes.

  "They know we're up here, even if they can't see us," Pai says. As if to emphasize his words, a hail of disks whines overhead, embedding themselves in the burnt forest trunks, gleaming silver in the black wood. Kanya motions to her men that they should pull back. The other white shirts, all their uniforms carefully smeared now with soot and ash, scamper deeper into the guttering forest.

  Another shell drops below them. Burning teak splinters whine through the air.

  "This is too close." She gets up and runs, Pai dogging her. Hiroko streaks past, takes cover behind a black fallen log and waits for them to catch up.

  "Can you imagine fighting that?" Pai gasps.

  Kanya shakes her head. Already the windup has saved them twice. Once by spying out the shadow movement of commandos coming toward them, the second time pushing Kanya down a moment before a rain of spring disks shredded the air above her head. The windup's eyes are sharp where Kanya's are not, and she is blisteringly fast. Already, though, she is flushed, her skin dry and scalding to the touch. Hiroko is not built for this tropic warfare, and even though they pour water on her and try to keep her cool, she is fading.

  When Kanya catches up, Hiroko looks up at her with fever-bright eyes. "I will have to drink something soon. Ice."

  "We don't have any."

  "The river then. Anything. I must return to Yashimoto-sama."

  "There's fighting all along the river." Kanya has heard from others that General Pracha is at the levees, trying to repel the landing Navy boats. Fighting his old ally, Admiral Noi.

  Hiroko reaches out with a scalding hand. "I cannot last."

  Kanya searches around her, seeking an answer. Bodies are everywhere. It's worse than a plague, the men and women ripped by high explosives. The carnage is immense. Arms and legs, a foot separated and flung into a tree branch. Bodies piled and burning. Napalm hissing. The clank of tanks rumbling through the compounds, the burn of coal exhaust. "I need the radio," she says.

  "Pichai had it last."

  But Pichai is dead and they aren't sure where the radio has gone.

  We aren't trained for this sort of thing. We were supposed to stop blister rust and influenza, not tanks and megodonts.

  When she finally finds a radio, it is from a dead hand that she takes it. She cranks the handset. Tests the codes that the Ministry uses for discussing plagues, not warfare. Nothing. Finally she speaks in the clear. "This is Captain Kanya. Is there anyone else out there? Over?"

  A long pause. The crackle and static. She repeats herself. Again she repeats. Nothing.

  And then, "Captain? This is Lieutenant Apichart."

  She recognizes the assistant's voice. "Yes? Where is General Pracha?"

  More silence. "We don't know."

  "You aren't with him?"

  Another pa
use. "We think he's dead." He coughs. "They used a gas."

  "Who is our ranking officer?"

  Another long pause. "I believe it is you, ma'am."

  She pauses, shocked. "It can't be. What about the fifth?"

  "We haven't heard."

  "General Som?"

  "He was found in his home, assassinated. Also Karmatha, and Phailin."

  "It's not possible."

  "It is rumor. But they have not been seen, and General Pracha believed it when we received word."

  "No other captains?"

  "Bhirombhakdi was at the anchor pads, but all we see is fire from there."

  "Where are you?"

  "An Expansion tower, near Phraram Road.

  "How many do you have with you?"

  "Maybe thirty."

  She surveys her people with dismay. Wounded men and women. Hiroko lying against a dead shorn banana tree, face flushed like a Chinese paper lantern, eyes closed. Perhaps dead already. Fleetingly she wonders if she cares about the creature or. . . Her men are all around her, watching. Kanya takes in their pathetic ammunition. Their wounds. So few of them.

  The radio crackles. "What should we do, Captain? " Lieutenant Apichart asks. "Our guns don't do anything against tanks. There's no way for us—" The channel crackles with static.

  From the direction of the river, a deep explosion rumbles.

  Private Sarawut climbs down from a tree. "They stopped shelling the docks."

  "We're alone," Pai murmurs.

  44

  It's the silence that wakes her. Emiko has passed the night in a blurry sprawl, periods of sleep broken by the rumble of high explosives and the whine of high-capacity springs unleashing. Tanks clank down the streets burning coal, but much of it is distant, battles fought in other districts. On the streets bodies lie abandoned, casualties of the riot, now forgotten in the larger conflict.

  A strange silence has settled over the city. A few candles twinkle in windows where people keep midnight watch on the ravaged city, but nothing else is lit. No gas lights in the buildings or on the streets. Total blackness. It seems that either the city's methane has run out, or someone has finally shut off the mains.

  Emiko pulls herself out of the garbage, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the discarded melon rinds and banana peels. Against the flame-orange sky, she can see a few columns of smoke, but nothing else. The streets are empty. There is no better time for what she plans.

  She turns her attention to the tower. Six stories above, Anderson-sama's apartment waits. If only she can get to it. At first, she had hoped to simply speed through the lobby and find her way higher, but the doors are locked and guards patrol within. And she is now too well-known to risk an attempt at direct entrance. But she has an alternative.

  She is hot. Terribly hot. A green coconut that she found and smashed early in the night is a wistful memory now. She counts the balconies again, one after the other, rising above her. Water is up there. Breezes. Survival and a temporary hiding place, if she can make it.

  A rumble comes from the distance, then a crackle like fireworks. She listens. Best not to wait any longer. She scrambles for the lowest balcony. It is cased in iron bars, as is the one above. She pulls herself up the face of the first and second balconies, using the easy handholds of the bars to climb.

  She stands at last on the open third balcony, panting with the effort. She feels dizzy with the heat building within her. Below her, the alley cobbles beckon. She looks up at the balcony lip of the fourth floor. She gathers herself and jumps. . . and is rewarded with a good handhold. She pulls herself up.

  On the fourth balcony, she perches on its railing, staring up at the fifth. The heat of her exertion is building. She takes a breath and jumps. Her fingers catch. She dangles in the open air. She looks down and immediately regrets it. The alley is far below, now. She slowly pulls herself up, gasping.

  The apartment within is dark. No one stirs. Emiko tests the iron lattice of the security gate, hoping for a lucky entrance, but it is locked. She would give anything to drink water now, to pour it over her face and body. She studies the security gate's construction, but there is no way for her to break in.

  One more jump.

  She returns to the balcony's edge. Her hands are the only part of her that seem to sweat like a normal creature's, and now they are as slick as oil with her body's moisture. She wipes them again and again, trying to make them dry. The intense flush of too much exertion is swallowing her. She scrambles up onto the balcony's lip, balances. Dizzy. She crouches, steadying herself.

  She leaps.

  Her fingers scrabble at the balcony rim, then slip. She crashes back, slamming across the lower railing. Her ribs explode with pain as she flips over and smashes into potted jasmine vines. Another blossom of pain flares in her elbow.

  She lies whimpering amongst shattered pottery and night jasmine perfume. Blood gleams black on her hands. She can't stop whimpering. Her whole body is shaking. She's burning up with the exertion of climbing and jumping.

  She pushes herself up awkwardly, cradling her damaged arm, expecting people to come charging out at her, but the apartment beyond the gate remains dark.

  Emiko staggers to her feet and leans against the balcony rail, looking up at her goal.

  You foolish girl. Why do you try so hard to survive? Why not just jump and die? It would be so much simpler.

  She peers down into the black alley below. She doesn't have an answer. It is something in her genetics, as deeply ingrained as her urge to please. She hauls herself up again onto the railing, balancing awkwardly, cradling her throbbing arm. She looks upward, praying to Mizuko Jizo the windup bodhisattva to give her mercy.

  She jumps, reaching one-handed for salvation.

  Her fingers catch. . . then slip away.

  Emiko lashes out with her bad hand and catches hold. Her elbow's ligaments tear away. She yelps as the bones separate, then crack wide. Sobbing, breath sawing in and out of her throat, she scrabbles for the railing with her good hand. Seizes a handhold. She lets her broken arm fall and hang limp.

  Emiko dangles one-handed, high above the street. Her arm is nothing but flame. She whimpers quietly, preparing to wound herself once again. She lets out a ragged sob and then reaches up once again with her ruined arm. Her hand closes on the railing.

  Please. Please. Just a little more.

  She lets her weight settle onto the arm. White pain. Emiko's breath saws ragged in her throat. She hauls a leg up, feeling with her foot, scrabbling for a toehold, finally it hooks on the iron. She pulls herself up, teeth gritted, sobbing, refusing to let go.

  Only a bit more.

  The barrel of a spring gun presses against her forehead.

  Emiko opens her eyes. A young girl grips the pistol in trembling hands. She stares at Emiko, terror-stricken. "You were right," she whispers.

  An old Chinese man looms behind her, his expression shadowed. They peer over the balcony precipice, watching Emiko as she dangles. Emiko's hands begin to slip. The pain is almost unbearable now.

  "Please," Emiko whispers. "Help me."

  45

  The gas lights in Akkarat's operations center gutter out. Anderson straightens in the sudden darkness, surprised. The fighting has been desultory for some time, but all across the city it is the same. Krung Thep's gas lamps are winking out, green points of light smothered down the thoroughfares, one by one. A few zones of conflict still flicker yellow and orange with burning WeatherAll, but all the green is gone from the city. A black blanket covers it, almost as complete as that of the ocean beyond the levees.

  "What's happening?" Anderson asks.

  The dim glow of computer monitors is all that still lights the room. Akkarat comes back inside from the balcony. The operations room buzzes with activity. Emergency hand-cranked lantern LEDs come to life, spattering light around the room, illuminating Akkarat's smiling face. "We've taken the methane works," he says. "The country is ours."

  "You're certain?"
r />   "The anchor pads and the docks are secure. The white shirts are surrendering. We've gotten word from their commanding officer. They will be laying down their weapons and surrendering unconditionally. The word is going out over their coded radio now. A few will fight on, but we have the city now."

  Anderson rubs at his broken ribs. "Does that mean we can leave?"

  Akkarat nods. "Of course. I will detail men to escort you back to your homes in just a little while. The streets will still take a bit of time to settle." He smiles. "I think you will be very happy with the new management of our Kingdom."

  A few hours later they're being ushered into an elevator.

  They plunge to street level and find Akkarat's personal limousine waiting. Outside, the sky is just starting to lighten.

  Carlyle stops on the verge of climbing into the car, staring down the thoroughfare to where the yellow edge of dawn is thickening. "Now that's something I wasn't expecting to see."

  "I thought we were dead."

  "You seemed cool enough."

  Anderson shrugs gingerly. "Finland was worse." But as he climbs into the car, he has another coughing fit. It goes on for half a minute, wracking him. He wipes blood off his lips as Carlyle stares

  "Are you all right?" Carlyle asks.

  Anderson nods as he gingerly pulls the door closed. "I think I'm busted up inside. Akkarat used a pistol on my ribs."

  Carlyle studies him. "You sure you haven't caught something?"

  "Are you kidding?" Anderson laughs, which makes his ribs hurt. "I work for AgriGen. I'm inoculated against diseases that haven't even been released yet."

  The car accelerates away from the curb with an escort of kink-spring scooters swarming around the coal-diesel limo. Anderson settles himself more comfortably in his seat, watching as the city slides past beyond the glass.