Windup Girl

by Bacigalupi, Paolo

  Instead, he encountered grim cordons of white shirts and was whisked by cycle rickshaw directly to the temple steps where he was required to remove his shoes and stand in bare feet under tight supervision before being led inside with all the other witnesses.

  Around the temple, a thicket of rain trees prevents much view of the place at all. AgriGen-arranged “accidental” dirigible overflights have given him more information about the compound than he’s got right now, standing dead in the heart of the thing.

  “I see you got your shoes back.”

  Carlyle, sauntering over, grinning.

  “The way they inspected,” Anderson says, “I thought they were going to lock them in quarantine.”

  “They just don’t like your farang smell.” Carlyle pulls out a cigarette and offers Anderson one as well. Under the close gaze of their white shirt guards, they light up. “Enjoy the ceremony?” Carlyle asks.

  “I thought there might be more pomp and circumstance.”

  “They don’t need it. Everyone knows what this means. General Pracha has lost his face.” Carlyle shakes his head. “For a second I was sure we were going to look up and see their Phra Seub statue crack in half with the shame. You can feel the Kingdom changing. It’s in the air.”

  Anderson thinks of the few buildings he glimpsed as he was escorted to the temple. They were all dilapidated. Water stained and covered with vines. If the Tiger’s fall isn’t proof enough, the fallen trees and unkempt grounds are fine indicators. “You must be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  Carlyle draws on his cigarette and exhales slowly. “Let’s just say it’s a satisfying step.”

  “You’ve impressed them.” Anderson nods toward the Farang Phalanx, who seem to be already drunk on their reparation money. Lucy is trying to convince Otto to sing the Pacific Anthem under the stern gazes of the armed white shirts. The trader catches sight of Carlyle and lurches over. His breath stinks with laolao.

  “Are you drunk?” Carlyle asks.

  “Completely.” Otto smiles dreamily. “I had to finish everything at the gate. Bastards wouldn’t let me bring the celebration bottles inside. Took Lucy’s opium, too.”

  He drapes an arm over Carlyle’s shoulder. “You were right, you bastard. Right as rain. Look at all these damn white shirts’ expressions. They’ve been eating bitter melon all day!” He gropes for Carlyle’s hand, tries to shake it. “God damn it’s good to see them taken down a notch. Them and their thieving ‘gifts of goodwill.’ You’re a good man, Carlyle. Good man.”

  His grins blearily. “I’m going to be rich because of you. Rich!” He laughs and paws for Carlyle’s hand again. “Good man,” he says as he gets a grip. “Good man.”

  Lucy shouts for him to get back in line. “Rickshaw’s here, you drunk bastard!”

  Otto stumbles away and with Lucy’s help tries to crawl into the rickshaw. The white shirts watch coldly. A woman in an officer’s uniform studies them all from the top of the temple steps, her face expressionless.

  Anderson watches her. “What do you think she’s thinking?” he asks, nodding up at the woman officer. “All these drunk farang crawling through her compound? What does she see?”

  Carlyle draws on his cigarette and lets out smoke in a slow stream. “The dawn of a new era.”

  “Back to the future,” Anderson murmurs.

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.” Anderson shakes his head. “Something Yates used to say.

  We’re in the sweet spot, now. The world’s shrinking.”

  Lucy and Otto finally manage to climb into the rickshaw. They roll out with Otto shouting blessings on all the honorable white shirts who have made him so rich with their reparation money. Carlyle quirks an eyebrow at Anderson, the question unspoken. Anderson draws on his cigarette, considering the branches of possibility that underlie Carlyle’s question.

  “I want to talk to Akkarat directly.”

  Carlyle snorts. “Children want all sorts of things.”

  “Children don’t play this game.”

  “You think you can twist him around your finger? Turn him into a good little administrator, like in India?”

  Anderson favors him with a cold eye. “More like Burma.” He smiles at Carlyle’s stricken expression. “Don’t worry. We’re not in the nation-breaking business anymore. All we’re interested in is a free market. I’m sure we can work toward that common goal, at least. But I want the meet.”

  “So cautious.” Carlyle drops his cigarette on the ground, grinds it out with his foot. “I would have thought you’d have a more adventurous spirit.”

  Anderson laughs. “I’m not here for the adventure. That’s for all of those drunks over there …” He trails off, stunned.

  Emiko is in the crowd, standing with the Japanese delegation. He catches a glimpse of her movement in the knot of business people and political officers as they cluster around Akkarat, talking and smiling.

  “My god.” Carlyle sucks in his breath. “Is that a windup? In the compound?”

  Anderson tries to say something, but can’t make his throat work.

  No, he’s wrong. It’s not Emiko. The movement is the same, but the girl is not. This one is richly dressed, with gold glimmering around her throat. A slightly different face. She lifts her hand, stutter-stop motion, tucks black silk hair behind an ear. Similar, but not the same.

  Anderson’s heart starts beating again.

  The windup girl smiles graciously at whatever story Akkarat is telling.

  She turns to make introductions for a man Anderson recognizes from intelligence photos as a general manager of Mishimoto. Her patron says something to her and she ducks her head to him, then hurries away to the rickshaws, odd and graceful.

  She’s so much like Emiko. So stylized, so deliberate. Everything about the windup before him reminds him of that other, so much more desperate girl. He swallows, remembering Emiko in his bed, small and alone. Starving for information about windup villages. What are they like? Who lives within them? Do they really live without patrons? So desperate for hope. So different from this glittering windup that threads gracefully between white shirts and officials.

  “I don’t think she was allowed in the temple,” Anderson finally says. “They couldn’t have gone that far. The white shirts must have made her wait outside.”

  “Still, they must be seething.” Carlyle cocks his head, watching the Japanese delegation. “You know, Raleigh has one of those, too. Uses it for a freak show in the back of his place.”

  Anderson swallows. “Oh? I hadn’t heard.”

  “Sure. It’ll fuck anything. You should see it. Truly bizarre.” Carlyle laughs low. “Look, she’s catching attention. I think the Queen’s Protector is actually smitten.”

  The Somdet Chaopraya is staring at the windup, wide-eyed like a cow struck on the side of the head before slaughter.

  Anderson frowns, shocked despite himself. “He wouldn’t risk his status. Not with a windup.”

  “Who knows? The man doesn’t exactly have a clean reputation. Positively debauched, from what I’ve heard. He was better when the old king was alive. Kept himself under control. But now …” Carlyle trails off. He nods at the windup girl. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Japanese end up making a gift of goodwill in the near future. No one refuses the Somdet Chaopraya.”

  “More bribes.”

  “Always. But the Somdet Chaopraya would be worth it. From everything I’ve heard, he’s taken over most of the palace functions. Accumulated a lot of power. And that would give you a lot of insurance when the next coup happens,” Carlyle observes. “Everyone looks calm, but below the surface things are boiling. Pracha and Akkarat can’t go on like this. They’ve been circling each other ever since the December 12 coup.” He pauses. “With the right pressure, we help decide who comes out on top.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Not to your people. A bit of gold and jade. Some opium.” He lowers his voice. “Might even be cheap, b
y your standards.”

  “Stop selling me. Am I going to meet Akkarat or not?”

  Carlyle claps Anderson on the back and laughs. “God, I love working with farang. At least you’re direct. Don’t worry. It’s already arranged.” And then he’s striding back toward the Japanese delegation and hailing Akkarat. And Akkarat is looking at Anderson with bright appraising eyes. Anderson wais a greeting. Akkarat, as befits his high rank, favors Anderson with the barest nod of acknowledgement.

  Outside the gates of the Environment Ministry, as Anderson hails Lao Gu for a ride back to the factory, a pair of Thais sweep up on either side.

  “This way, Khun.”

  They take Anderson by the elbows and guide him down the street. For a moment, Anderson thinks he’s being grabbed by the white shirts, but then he sees a coal-diesel limo. He fights down paranoia as he’s guided inside.

  If they wanted to kill you, they could wait for any number of better times.

  The door slams closed. Trade Minister Akkarat sits across from him.

  “Khun Anderson.” Akkarat smiles. “Thank you for joining me.”

  Anderson scans the vehicle, wondering if he can break out or if the locks are controlled up front. The worst part of any job is the moment of exposure, when too many people suddenly know too many things. Finland went that way: Peters and Lei, with nooses around their necks and their feet kicking air as they were raised above the crowds.

  “Khun Richard tells me that you have a proposal,” Akkarat prompts.

  Anderson hesitates. “I understand we have mutual interests.”

  “No.” Akkarat shakes his head. “Your people have tried to destroy mine for the last five hundred years. We have nothing in common.”

  Anderson smiles tentatively. “Of course, we see some things differently.”

  The car starts to roll. Akkarat says, “This is not a question of perspective. Ever since your first missionaries landed on our shores, you have always sought to destroy us. During the old Expansion your kind tried to take every part of us. Chopping off the arms and legs of our country. It was only through our Kings’ wisdom and leadership that we avoided your worst. And yet still you weren’t done with us. With the Contraction, your worshipped global economy left us starving and over-specialized.” He looks pointedly at Anderson. “And then your calorie plagues came. You very nearly took rice from us entirely.”

  “I didn’t know the Minister of Trade was a conspiracy theorist.”

  “Which are you?” Akkarat studies him. “AgriGen? PurCal? Total Nutrient Holdings?”

  Anderson spreads his hands. “I understand that you would like help in arranging a more stable government. I have resources to offer, provided that we can come to an agreement.”

  “What is it you want?”

  Anderson looks him in the eye, serious. “Access to your seedbank.”

  Akkarat jerks back. “Impossible.” The car turns and begins to accelerate down Thanon Rama XII. Bangkok streams by in a blur of images as Akkarat’s retinue clears the avenue ahead of them.

  “Not to own.” Anderson puts out a calming hand. “Only to sample from.”

  “The seedbank has kept us independent of your kind. When blister rust and genehack weevil swept the globe, it was only the seedbank that allowed us to stave off the worst of the plagues, and even so, our people died in droves. When India and Burma and Vietnam all fell to you, we stood strong. And now you come asking for our finest weapon.” Akkarat laughs. “I may want to see General Pracha with his hair and eyebrows shaved off, living in a forest monastery and despised by all, but on this, at least, he and I agree. No farang should ever touch the heart of us. You may take an arm or a leg from our country, but not the head, and certainly not the heart.”

  “We need new genetic material,” Anderson says. “We’ve exhausted many of our options and the plagues keep mutating. We don’t have a problem sharing our research results. Profits, even.”

  “I’m sure you offered the same to the Finns.”

  Anderson leans forward. “Finland was a tragedy, and not just for us. If the world is going to keep eating, we need to stay ahead of cibiscosis and blister rust and Nippon genehack weevil. It’s the only way.”

  “You’re saying that you yoked the world to your patented grains and seeds, happily enslaved us all—and now you finally realize that you are dragging us all to hell.”

  “That’s what the Grahamites like to say.” Anderson shrugs. “The reality is that weevils and blister rust don’t wait. And we’re the only ones with the scientific resources to hack our way out of this mess. We’re hoping that somewhere in your seedbank we’ll find a key.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then it won’t really matter who runs the Kingdom; we’ll all be coughing blood from the next mutation of cibiscosis.”

  “It’s impossible. The Environment Ministry controls the seedstock.”

  “I was under the impression that we were discussing a change in administration.”

  Akkarat frowns. “You want samples, this is all? You’re offering weapons, equipment, payoffs, and this is all you want?”

  Anderson nods. “And one other thing. A man. Gibbons.” He watches Akkarat for a reaction.

  “Gibbons?” Akkarat shrugs. “I have never heard of him.”

  “A farang. One of ours. We’d like him back. He’s been infringing on our intellectual property.”

  “And that bothers you a great deal, I’m sure.” Akkarat laughs. “It’s very interesting to actually meet one of your kind. Of course we all talk about the calorie men crouching on Koh Angrit, like demons or phii krasue, plotting to swallow the Kingdom, but you …” He studies Anderson. “I could have you executed by megodont if I chose, ripped apart and left for kites and crows. And no one would raise a finger. In the past, if even a whisper of a calorie man amongst us touched the streets it was enough to trigger protests and riots. And yet here you sit. So confident.”

  “Times have changed.”

  “Not as much as you suggest. Are you brave, or simply foolish?”

  “I could ask the same question,” Anderson says. “Not many people poke the white shirts in the eye and expect to get away with it.”

  Akkarat smiles. “If you had come to me last week with your offers of money and equipment, I would have been very grateful.” He shrugs. “This week, in light of present circumstances and recent successes, I will take your offer under advisement.” He taps on the window for the driver to pull over.

  “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. On another day, I would have seen a calorie man torn into bloody pieces and called it a very good day.” He indicates that Anderson should get out. “I’ll consider your offer.”

  15

  There is a place for New People.

  The hope of it runs through Emiko’s head every day, every minute, every second. The memory of the gaijin Anderson, and his conviction that the place truly exists. His hands on her in the darkness, eyes solemn as he nodded and confirmed.

  So now she stares at Raleigh every night, wondering what the man knows, and if she dares to ask him about what he has seen in the north. About the route to safety. Three times she has approached him and each time her voice has failed her, leaving the question unasked. Each night she returns home, exhausted from the abuse that Kannika metes out, and falls into dreams of a place where New People dwell in safety, without patrons or masters.

  Emiko remembers Mizumi-sensei at the kaizen studio where she taught all the young New People as they knelt in kimono and took their lessons.

  “What are you?”

  “New People.”

  “What is your honor?”

  “It is my honor to serve.”

  “Who do you honor?”

  “I honor my patron.”

  Mizumi-sensei was swift with a switch, 100 years old and terrifying. An early New Person, her skin was nearly unaged. Who knew how many young ones she had shepherded through her studio? Mizumi-sensei, always there, always ad
vising. Brutal in her anger, and yet fair in her punishments. And always the instruction, the faith that if they served their patron well, that they had attained their highest state.

  Mizumi-sensei introduced them all to Mizuko Jizo Bodhisattva, who has compassion even for New People, and who would hide them in his sleeves after their deaths and smuggle them out of the hell world of genetically engineered toys and into the true cycle of life. Their duty was to serve, their honor was to serve, and their reward would come in the next life, when they became fully human. Service would yield the greatest rewards.

  How Emiko had hated Mizumi-sensei when Gendo-sama abandoned her.

  But now her heart beats again at the thought of a new patron: a wise man, a guide into a different world, one who can provide what Gendo-sama would not.

  Another who lies to you? Who will betray you?

  She squashes the thought. It is the other Emiko who thinks this. Not her highest self at all, as if she is nothing but a cheshire, bent on glutting herself, unconcerned with what her niche may be, overrunning everything. Not a thought appropriate to New People at all.

  Mizumi-sensei taught that there are two parts to a New Person’s nature. The evil half, ruled by the animal hungers of their genes, by the many splicings and additions that changed them into what they were. And balanced against this, the civilized self, the side that knows the difference between niche and animal urge. That comprehends its place in the hierarchies of their country and people, and appreciates the gift their patrons provide by giving them life. Dark and light. In-Yo. Two sides of a coin, two sides of the soul. Mizumi-sensei helped them own their souls. Prepared them for the honor of service.