“126 …127 …128…129 …”
Jaidee leans over Lieutenant Kanya Chirathivat’s shoulder and watches as she counts bribe money. A pair of Customs inspectors stand stiffly aside, waiting for their authority to be returned to them.
“130 …140 …150…” Kanya’s voice is a steady chant. A paean to wealth, to greasing the skids, to new business in an ancient country. Her voice is clear and meticulous. With her, the count will always be correct.
Jaidee smiles. Nothing wrong with a little gift of goodwill.
At the next anchor pad, 200 meters away, megodonts scream as they drag cargo out of a dirigible’s belly and pile the shipment for sorting and Customs approval. Turbofans gust and surge, stabilizing the vast airship anchored overhead. The balloon lists and spins. Gritty winds and megodont dung scour across Jaidee’s arrayed white shirts. Kanya places a hand over the baht she is counting. The rest of Jaidee’s men wait, impassive, their hands on machetes as the winds whip against them.
The turbofan gusts subside. Kanya continues her chant. “160 …170 …180 …”
The Customs men are sweating. Even in the hot season, there’s no reason to sweat so. Jaidee isn’t sweating. But then, he’s not the one who has been forced to pay twice for protection that was probably expensive the first time.
Jaidee almost pities them. The poor men don’t know what lines of authority may have changed: if payments have been rerouted; if Jaidee represents a new power, or a rival one; don’t know where he ranks in the layers of bureaucracy and influence that run through the Environment Ministry. And so they pay. He’s surprised that they managed to find the cash at all, on such short notice. Almost as surprised as they must have been when his white shirts smashed the doors of the Customs Office and secured the field.
“Two hundred thousand.” Kanya looks up at him. “It’s all here.”
Jaidee grins. “I told you they’d pay.”
Kanya doesn’t return the smile, but Jaidee doesn’t let it damp his glee. It’s a good hot night and they’ve made a lot of money and as a bonus they’ve watched the Customs Service sweat. Kanya always has difficulty accepting good fortune when it comes her way. Somewhere during her young life she lost track of how to take pleasure. Starvation in the Northeast. The loss of her parents and siblings. Hard travels to Krung Thep. Somewhere she lost her capacity for joy. She has no appreciation for sanuk, for fun, even such intense fun, such sanuk mak as successfully shaking down the Trade Ministry or the celebration of Songkran. And so when Kanya takes 200,000 baht from the Trade Ministry and doesn’t bat an eye except to wipe away the scouring dust of the anchor pads, and certainly doesn’t smile, Jaidee doesn’t let it hurt his feelings. Kanya has no taste for fun, that is her kamma.
Still, Jaidee pities her. Even the poorest people smile sometimes. Kanya, almost never. It’s quite unnatural. She doesn’t smile when she is embarrassed, when she is irritated, when she is angry or when she has joy. It makes others uncomfortable, her complete lack of social grace, and it is why she landed at last in Jaidee’s unit. No one else can stand her. The two of them make a strange pair. Jaidee who always finds something to smile at, and Kanya, whose face is so cold it might as well be carved from jade. Jaidee grins again, sending goodwill to his lieutenant. “Let’s pack it up, then.”
“You’ve overstepped your authority,” one of the Customs men mutters.
Jaidee shrugs complacently. “The Environment Ministry’s jurisdiction extends to every place where the Thai Kingdom is threatened. It is the will of Her Royal Majesty the Queen.”
The man’s eyes are cold, even though he forces himself to smile pleasantly. “You know what I mean.”
Jaidee grins, shrugging off the other’s ill will. “Don’t look so forlorn. I could have taken twice this much, and you still would have paid.”
Kanya begins packaging up the money as Jaidee sifts through the wreckage of a crate with the tip of his machete. “Look at all this important cargo that must be protected!” He flips over a bundle of kimonos. Probably shipped to a Japanese manager’s wife. He stirs through lingerie worth more than his month’s salary. “We wouldn’t want some grubby official rifling through all of this, would we?” He grins and glances at Kanya. “Do you want any of this? It’s made of real silk. The Japanese still have silk worms, you know.”
Kanya doesn’t look up from her work with the money. “It’s not my size. Those Japanese manager wives are all fat on genehack calories from their deals with AgriGen.”
“You would steal, too?” The Customs official’s face is a mask of controlled rage behind a polite, gritted smile.
“Apparently not.” Jaidee shrugs. “My lieutenant seems to have better taste than the Japanese. Anyway, your profits will return, I’m sure. This will be but a minor inconvenience.”
“And what about the damage? How will that be explained?” The other Customs man waves at a folding screen in the Sony style that lies half-torn.
Jaidee studies the artifact. It shows what he supposes must be the equivalent of a samurai family for the late twenty-second century: A Mishimoto Fluid Dynamics manager overseeing some kind of windup workers in a field and … Are those ten hands on each worker that he sees? Jaidee shudders at the bizarre blasphemy. The small natural family pictured at the edge of the field doesn’t seem perturbed, but then, they are Japanese: they even let their children be entertained by a windup monkey.
Jaidee makes a face. “I’m sure you’ll find some excuse. Perhaps the freight megodonts stampeded.” He claps the Customs men on their backs. “Don’t look so glum! Use your imagination! You should think of this as building merit.”
Kanya finishes packing up the money. She secures the woven satchel and slings it over her shoulder.
“We’re done,” she says.
Down field, a new dirigible is slowly descending, its massive kink-spring fans using up the last of their joules to maneuver the beast over its anchors. Cables snake down from its belly, dragged by lead weights. Anchor pad workers wait with upraised hands to secure the floating monster to their megodont teams, as though praying to some massive god. Jaidee watches with interest. “In any case, the Benevolent Association of Retired Royal Environment Ministry Officers appreciates this. You’ve built merit with them, regardless.” He hefts his machete and turns to his men.
“Khun officers!” He shouts over the drone of the dirigible fans and the scream of freight megodonts. “I have a challenge for you!” He points to the descending dirigible with his machete. “I have two hundred thousand baht for the first man who searches a crate from that new vessel over there! Come on! That one! Now!”
The Customs men stare, dumbstruck. They start to speak, but their voices are drowned out by the roar of dirigible fans. They mouth protestations: “Mai tum! Mai tum! Mai tawng tum! No no nonono!” as they wave their arms and object, but Jaidee is already dashing across the airfield, brandishing his machete and howling after this new prey.
Behind him, his white shirts follow in a wave. They dodge crates and laborers, leap over anchor cables, duck under megodont bellies. His men. His loyal children. His sons. The foolish followers of ideals and the Queen, joining his call, the ones who cannot be bribed, the ones who hold all of the honor of the Environment Ministry in their hearts.
“That one! That one!”
They speed like pale tigers across the landing field, leaving the carcasses of Japanese freight containers littered behind them like so much debris after a typhoon. The Customs men’s voices fade. Jaidee is already far distant from them, feeling the joy of his legs pumping under him, the pleasure of clean and honorable pursuit, running faster ever faster, his men following, covering the distance with the adrenaline sprint of pure warrior purpose, raising their machetes and axes to the giant machine as it comes down from the sky, looming over them like the demon king Tosacan ten thousand feet tall, settling over them. The megodont of all megodonts, and on its side, in farang lettering, the words: CARLYLE & SONS.
Jaidee is una
ware that a shriek of joy has escaped his lips. Carlyle & Sons. The irritating farang who speaks so casually about changing pollution credit systems, of removing quarantine inspections, of streamlining everything that has kept the Kingdom alive as other countries have collapsed, the foreigner who curries so much favor with Trade Minister Akkarat and the Somdet Chaopraya, the Crown Protector. This is a true prize. Jaidee is all pursuit. He stretches for the landing cables as his men surge past, younger and faster and fanatically dedicated, all of them reaching out to secure their quarry.
But this dirigible is smarter than the last.
At the sight of the white shirts swarming under its landing position, the pilot reorients his turbofans. The wash gushes over Jaidee. The fans scream and rev as the pilot wastes gigajoules in an attempt to push away from the ground. The dirigible’s landing cables whip inward, winding on spindle cranks like an octopus yanking in its limbs. The turbofans shove Jaidee to the ground as they spin to full power.
The dirigible rises.
Jaidee pushes himself up, squinting into the hot winds as the dirigible shrinks into night blackness. He wonders if the disappearing monster was warned by the control towers or the Customs Service or if the pilot was simply clever enough to realize that a white shirt inspection was of no benefit to his masters.
Jaidee grimaces. Richard Carlyle. Too clever by half, that one. Always in meetings with Akkarat, always at public benefits for cibiscosis victims, tossing money about, always talking about the positives of free trade. He is just one of dozens of farang who have returned to the shores like jellyfish after a bitter water epidemic, but Carlyle is the loudest. The one whose smiling face annoys Jaidee most.
Jaidee pushes himself fully upright and brushes off the white hemp weave of his uniform. It doesn’t matter; the dirigible will return. Like the ocean rushing onto the beach, it is impossible to keep the farang away. Land and sea must intersect. These men with profits in their beating hearts have no choice, they must rush in no matter the consequence, and he must always meet them.
Kamma.
Jaidee slowly returns to the cracked contents of the inspected shipping crates, wiping his face of sweat, breathing from the exertion of his run. He waves at his men to continue their labor. “There! Break those open over there! I don’t want a single crate uninspected.”
The Customs men are waiting for him. He pokes through a new crate’s wreckage with the point of his machete as the two men approach. They’re like dogs. Impossible to be rid of unless you feed them. One of them tries to prevent Jaidee from swinging his machete into another crate.
“We paid! We will be filing protests. There will be investigations. This is international soil!”
Jaidee makes a face. “Why are you still here?”
“We paid you a fair price for protection!”
“More than fair.” Jaidee shoulders past the men. “But I am not here to debate these things. It is your damma to protest. It is mine to protect our borders, and if that means I must invade your ‘international soil’ to save our country, so be it.” He swings his machete and another crate crackles open. WeatherAll wood bursts wide.
“You’ve overstepped yourself!”
“Probably. But you will have to send someone from the Ministry of Trade to tell me himself. Someone more much powerful than you.” He spins his machete thoughtfully. “Unless you wish to debate me now, with my men?”
The two flinch. Jaidee thinks he catches a flicker of a smile on Kanya’s lips. He glances over, surprised, but already his lieutenant is again the face of blank professionalism. It is pleasant to see her smile. Jaidee briefly wonders if there is something more he can do to encourage a second flash of teeth from his dour subordinate.
Sadly, the Customs men seem to be reconsidering their position; they are backing away from his machete.
“Do not think that you can insult us in this way, without consequence.”
“Of course not.” Jaidee chops at the shipping crate again, shattering it fully. “But I appreciate your monetary donation, even so.” He looks up at them. “When you complain, make sure you tell them it was me, Jaidee Rojjanasukchai who did this work.” He grins again. “And make sure you tell them that you actually tried to bribe the Tiger of Bangkok.”
Around him, his men all laugh at the joke. The Customs men step back, surprised at this new revelation, the dawning comprehension of their opponent.
Jaidee surveys the destruction around him. Splinters of the balsa crate material lie everywhere. The crates are engineered for strength and weightlessness and their lattice works well enough to hold goods—as long as no one applies a machete.
The work goes quickly. Materials are pulled from crates and laid out in careful rows. The Customs men hover, taking the names of his white shirts until his men finally raise their machetes and give chase. The officers retreat, then stop and observe from a safer distance. The scene reminds Jaidee of animals fighting over a carcass. His men feeding on the offal of foreign lands while the scavengers probe and test, the ravens and cheshires and dogs all waiting their own chance to converge on the carrion. The thought depresses him a little.
The Customs men hang back, watching.
Jaidee inspects the line of sorted contents. Kanya follows close behind. Jaidee asks, “What do we have, Lieutenant?”
“Agar solutions. Nutrient cultures. Some kind of breeding tanks. Pur-Cal cinnamon. A papaya seedstock we don’t recognize. A new iteration of U-Tex that probably sterilizes any rice varietal it meets.” She shrugs. “About what we expected.”
Jaidee flips open a shipping container’s lid and peers inside. Checks the address. A company in the farang manufacturing district. He tries sounding out the foreign letters, then gives up. He tries to remember if he’s seen the logo before, but doesn’t think so. He fingers through the materials inside, sacks of some sort of protein powder. “Nothing of wonderful interest, then. No new version of blister rust leaping out of a box from AgriGen or PurCal.”
“No.”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t catch that last dirigible. They ran quite quickly. I would have liked to search the cargo of Khun Carlyle.”
Kanya shrugs. “They will return.”
“They always do.”
“Like dogs to a carcass,” she says.
Jaidee follows Kanya’s gaze to the Customs men, watching from their safe distance. He is saddened that they see the world so similarly. Does he influence Kanya? Or does she influence him? He used to have much more fun at this work. But then, work used to be so much more clear-cut. He’s not accustomed to stalking the gray landscapes that Kanya walks. But at least he has more fun.
His reverie is broken by the arrival of one of his men. Somchai, sauntering over, his machete swinging casually. He’s a fast one, as old as Jaidee but hard-edged from losses when blister rust swept the North for the third time in a single growing season. A good man, and loyal. And clever.
“There’s a man watching us,” Somchai mumbles as he draws close to the two of them.
“Where?”
Somchai jerks his head subtly. Jaidee lets his eyes roam the bustle of the landing fields. Beside him, Kanya stiffens.
Somchai nods. “You see him, then?”
“Kha.” She nods affirmative.
Jaidee finally catches sight of the man, standing a good distance away, watching both the white shirts and the Customs men. He has on a simple orange sarong and purple linen shirt, as if he might be a laborer, and yet he carries nothing. He does nothing. And he seems well-fed. Not showing ribs and hollow cheeks the way most laborers do. He watches, casually leaning against an anchor hook. “Trade?” Jaidee asks.
“Army?” Kanya guesses. “He’s a confident one.”
As though he senses Jaidee’s eyes, the man turns. His eyes lock with Jaidee for moment.
“Shit.” Somchai frowns. “He’s seen us.” He and Kanya join Jaidee in an open study of the man. The man is unperturbed. He spits a stream of red betel and turns and saunter
s away, disappearing into the bustle of freight movements.
Somchai asks, “Should I go after him? Question him?”
Jaidee cranes his neck, trying to catch another glimpse of the man where he has been swallowed by the bustle. “What do you think, Kanya?”
She hesitates. “Haven’t we prodded enough cobras for one night?”
Jaidee smiles slightly. “The voice of wisdom and restraint speaks.” Somchai nods agreement. “Trade will be furious as it is.”
“One hopes so.” Jaidee motions to Somchai to return to his inspections. As they watch him go, Kanya says, “We may have overstepped this time.”
“You mean I may have overstepped.” Jaidee grins. “You’re losing your nerve?”
“Not my nerve.” Her gaze travels back to where their observer disappeared. “There are bigger fish than us, Khun Jaidee. The anchor pads …” Kanya trails off. Finally, after visibly working to choose her words, she says, “It’s an aggressive move.”
“You’re sure you’re not afraid?” he teases her.
“No!” She stops short, swallows her outburst, masters her composure.
Privately, Jaidee admires her ability to speak with a cool heart. He was never so careful with his words, or his actions. He was always the sort to charge in like a megodont and try to right the trampled rice shoots after. Jai rawn, rather than jai yen. A hot heart, rather than a cool one. Kanya, though …
Finally she says, “This may not have been the best place to strike.”
“Don’t be a pessimist. The anchor pads are the best of all possible places. Those two weevils over there coughed up 200,000 baht, no trouble at all. Too much money to be involved in anything honest.” Jaidee grins. “I should have come here a long time ago and taught these heeya a lesson. Better than wandering the river with a kink-spring skiff, arresting children for generip smuggling. At least this is honest work.”
“But it will get Trade involved for certain. By law, it’s their turf.”
Windup Girl Page 8
