Windup Girl

by Bacigalupi, Paolo

  “Who signed the disposal papers?”

  She fights her frustration. “I can’t read the signature. I need more time to cross-reference who was on duty around that time.”

  “And by the time you do, they will inevitably be dead.”

  “Then why did Pracha set me to the task of finding this information? It doesn’t make sense! I talked to the officers who took the bribes at that bar. They were nothing but silly boys, making a little extra money.”

  “He’s clever then. He’s covered his tracks.”

  “Why do you hate Pracha so much?”

  “Why do you love him? Did he not order your village razed?”

  “Not from malice.”

  “No? Did he not sell the fish farming permits to another village the next season? Sell them and line his pockets with the profits?”

  She falls silent. Narong moderates his tone. “I’m sorry, Kanya. There’s nothing we can do. We are certain of his crime. We have authorization from the palace to resolve this.”

  “With riots?” She shoves the whisper sheets off her desk. “With a burning of the city? Please. I can stop this. It’s not necessary. I can find the proof that we need. I can prove that the windup is not Pracha’s. I can prove it.”

  “You’re too close to this. Your loyalties are divided.”

  “I’m loyal to our Queen. Just give me a chance to stop this madness.”

  Another pause. “I can give you three hours. If you have nothing by sunset, I can do nothing more.”

  “But you’ll wait until then?”

  She can almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. “I will.” And then the line is closed. And she is alone in her office.

  Jaidee settles himself on her desk. “I’m curious. How will you prove Pracha’s innocence? It’s obvious that he’s the one who placed her.”

  “Why can’t you leave me alone?” Kanya asks.

  Jaidee smiles. “Because it’s sanuk. Very fun to watch you flail around and try to run for two masters.” He pauses, studying her. “Why do you care what happens to General Pracha? He’s not your real patron.”

  Kanya looks at him with hatred. She waves at the whisper sheets strewn about her office. “It’s just like it was five years ago.”

  “With Pracha and Prime Minister Surawong. With the December 12 gatherings.” Jaidee studies the whisper sheets. “Akkarat moving against us, this time, though. So it’s not entirely the same.”

  Outside the window of her office, a megodont bellows. Jaidee smiles. “You hear that? We’re arming. There’s no way you can keep these two old bulls from clashing. I don’t know why you would even try. Pracha and Akkarat have been bellowing and snorting at each other for years. It’s time we had a good fight.”

  “This isn’t muay thai, Jaidee.”

  “No. You’re right about that.” For a moment his smile turns sad.

  Kanya stares at the whisper sheets, the collected paperwork on the windup’s import. The windup is missing. But still, it came from the Japanese. Kanya studies the notes: she was brought across on a dirigible flight from Japan. An executive assistant—

  “And a killer,” Jaidee interjects.

  “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  A Japanese windup. An abandoned bit of the island nation. Kanya stands abruptly, grabs her spring gun and shoves it into her holster as she gathers papers.

  “Where are you going?” Jaidee asks.

  She favors him with a thin smile. “If I told you, that would take away the sanuk.”

  Jaidee’s phii grins. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”

  36

  The crowd around Emiko grows. People jostle her. There’s nowhere to run. She’s in the open, waiting to be discovered.

  Her first urge is to slash her way free, to fight for survival, even though there is no hope of escaping the crowd before she overheats. I will not die like an animal. I will fight them. They will bleed.

  She forces down that increasing panic. Tries to think. More people squeeze around her, trying to get close to the posted sheet. She is trapped among them, but no one has noticed her yet. As long as she doesn’t move …

  The press of the crowd is almost an advantage. She can barely shake, let alone display the stutter-stop motions that would betray her.

  Slowly. Carefully.

  Emiko allows herself to lean against the people, to push slowly through them, head down, pretending to be a woman sobbing, shaking with grief at a blow against the palace. She stares at her feet, finding her way through the crowd, pressing carefully through until she reaches the outer edge. People huddle in groups, crying, sitting on the ground, staring around the street, stunned. Emiko feels a certain pity for them. Remembers watching Gendo-sama board his dirigible after he told her that he had done her a kindness, even as he abandoned her to the streets of Krung Thep.

  Focus, she tells herself angrily. She needs to get away. Needs to reach the alley where people will not notice her. Wait for darkness.

  Your description is everywhere: on methane posts, on the street, being trampled by the crowds. You have nowhere to go. She stifles the thought. The alley is enough. The alley, first. Then a new plan. She keeps her eyes on the ground. Clutches herself and mimes at sobbing. Shuffles for the alley. Slowly. Slowly.

  “You! Get over here!”

  Emiko freezes. Forces herself to look up slowly. A man beckons her, angry. She starts to speak, to protest, but someone behind her speaks instead.

  “You have something to say to me, heeya?”

  A young man pushes past her, wearing a yellow headband and carrying a fistful of leaflets.

  “What’s that you’ve got there, boy?”

  Others begin to drift over to watch the argument. The two start shouting at one another, posturing as they each try to establish dominance. Others start to take sides. To shout encouragement. Emboldened, the older slaps the younger and tries to tear off his yellow headband. “You’re not for the Queen. You’re a traitor!” He strips the flyers from the young man’s hand and throws them onto the ground. Stamps on them. “Get out of here! Take heeya Pracha’s lies with you.” As leaflets blow through the crowd, Emiko catches a glimpse of Akkarat’s face, drawn in caricature, smiling as he tries to eat the Grand Palace.

  The younger one scrambles after his leaflets. “They’re not lies! Akkarat seeks to tear down the Queen. It’s obvious!”

  People in the crowd jeer at him. But others shout encouragement. The boy turns away from the man, speaks to the crowd. “Akkarat is hungry for power. He always wants—”

  The man kicks him in the ass. The boy whirls, enraged, and attacks. Emiko sucks in her breath. The boy is a fighter. Muay thai for certain. His elbow smashes into the man’s head. The man collapses. The boy stands over him, screaming epithets, but his voice is drowned out by the crowd shouting and then others surge forward, enveloping him in a clot of fists. His screams fill the street.

  Emiko turns and slips through the growing fight, no longer careful of her movements. People jostle her, rushing to aid or defend, and she shoves through as quickly as she can. In this moment, she is nothing to any of these people. She stumbles out of the riot and into the alley’s shadows.

  The fight is spreading down the street. Emiko hunts for garbage to cover herself. Behind her, glass shatters. Someone is screaming. She huddles beside a shattered WeatherAll crate, pulling refuse around her, durian rinds, the ripped hemp of a basket, discarded banana leaves, anything to give her cover. She freezes and hunkers low as rioters pelt down the alley, shouting. Everywhere she looks, she sees faces twisted with rage.

  37

  The main compounds of Mishimoto & Co. lie on the far side of the water, in Thonburi. The boat makes its way into a khlong, Kanya’s hand careful on the tiller. Even here, outside of Bangkok proper, whisper sheets complain of Pracha and the windup killer.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to come alone?” Jaidee asks.

  “I’ve got you. It’s enou
gh company for anyone.”

  “I’m not so great at muay thai in this state.”

  “Pity.”

  The company’s gates and jetties rise over the waves. The late afternoon sun scalds down on them. A water merchant paddles close, but even though Kanya is hungry, she does not dare waste even a moment. Already the sun seems to be crashing out of the sky. Her boat thumps against the pier and she whips its bow rope around a cleat.

  “I don’t think they’ll let you in,” Jaidee says. Kanya doesn’t bother answering. It’s odd that he has remained with her all the way across the water. The pattern of his phii was to take interest in her for a short time, and then to drift off to other things and other people. Perhaps he visited his children. Made apologies to Chaya’s mother. But now he is with her all the time.

  Jaidee says, “They won’t be impressed with that white uniform, either. They’ve got too much influence with the Trade Ministry and the police.”

  Kanya doesn’t answer, but sure enough, a Thonburi detachment of a police patrol guards the main gates of the compound. All around, the sea and khlongs lap. The Japanese are forward-looking, and have built themselves entirely on the water, on floating bamboo rafts that are said to lie nearly fifty feet thick, creating a compound nearly impervious to the floods and tides of the Chao Phraya River.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Yashimoto.”

  “He is not available.”

  “It concerns property of his that was damaged during the unfortunate raids on the airfields. Paperwork for reparations.”

  The guard smiles uncertainly. Ducks inside.

  Jaidee snickers. “Clever.”

  Kanya makes a face at him. “At least you have some use.”

  “Even if I’m dead.”

  A moment later they are being led into the halls of the compound. It is not a long walk. High walls obscure all evidence of manufacturing activity. The Megodont Union complains that no work could be accomplished without a power source, and yet the Japanese neither import their own megodonts, nor hire the union. It reeks of illegal technology. And yet the Japanese have provided a great deal of technical assistance to the Kingdom. In return for Thai seedstock advances, the Japanese provide the best of their sailing technologies. And so everyone is exquisitely careful not to ask too many questions about how a ship’s hull is built and if the development process is entirely legal.

  A door opens. A pretty girl smiles and bows. Kanya nearly draws her spring gun. The creature before her is a windup. The girl doesn’t seem to notice Kanya’s unease, though. Simply motions in her stutter-stop way for her to enter. Inside, the room is carefully decorated with tatami mats and Sumi-e paintings. A man Kanya assumes is Mr. Yashimoto kneels, painting. The windup leads Kanya to a seat.

  Jaidee admires the art on the walls. “He painted it all, you know.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I came to see if they really have ten-hands in their factory. Right after I died.”

  “And do they?”

  Jaidee shrugs. “Go look for yourself.”

  Mr. Yashimoto dips his brush, and in an exquisitely swift motion completes the painting. He rises and bows to Kanya. He begins speaking in Japanese. The windup girl’s own voice follows a second later, with a translation into Thai.

  “I am honored by your visit.”

  He is silent for a moment and the windup girl falls silent as well. She is very pretty, Kanya supposes. In a strange porcelain way. Her cropped jacket is open at the collar, revealing the hollow of her throat, and her pale skirt molds fetchingly around her hips. She would be beautiful, if she were not so perverse.

  “You know why I’m here?”

  He nods shortly. “We have heard rumors of an unfortunate incident. And have seen our country discussed in your papers and whisper sheets.” He looks at her significantly. “Many voices are being raised against us. Most unfair and inaccurate observations.”

  Kanya nods. “We have questions—”

  “I wish to assure you that we are a friend of the Thai. From times long ago when we cooperated in the great war to now, we have always been a friend of the Thai.”

  “I want to know how—”

  Yashimoto interrupts again. “Tea?” he offers.

  Kanya forces herself to remain polite. “You’re very kind.”

  Yashimoto motions to the windup girl, and she stands and leaves the room. Unconsciously, Kanya relaxes. The creature is … unsettling. And yet now that she is gone, silence stretches between them as they wait for the translator to return. Kanya feels seconds ticking away, minutes being lost. Time, time, time moving. Storm clouds gathering and here she sits, waiting for tea.

  The windup girl returns, kneels beside them at the low table. Kanya forces herself not to speak, not to interrupt the girl’s precise whisking and steeping of the tea, but it is an effort. The windup girl pours, and as Kanya watches the creature’s strange movements, she thinks she sees a little of what the Japanese desired from their engineered servants. The girl is perfect, precise as clockwork, and contextualized by the tea ceremony, all her motions take on a ritual grace.

  The windup carefully does not observe Kanya in return. Does not say anything about her being a white shirt. Does not observe that in another context Kanya would happily mulch her. She ignores Kanya’s Environment Ministry uniform entirely. Exquisitely polite.

  Yashimoto waits for Kanya to sip her tea, then sips himself. Sets his tea deliberately on the table. “Our countries have been friends always,” he says. “Ever since our Emperor made a gift of tilapia to the Kingdom in the time of your great scientist King Bhumibol’s time. We have always been steadfast.” He looks at her significantly. “I hope that we can help you in this matter, but I wish to emphasize that we are friends of your country.”

  “Tell me about windups,” Kanya says.

  Yashimoto nods. “What do you wish to know?” He smiles, motions at the girl kneeling beside them. “This one, you can see for yourself.”

  Kanya keeps her expression impassive. It is difficult. The creature beside her is beautiful. Her skin is sleek, her movements surprisingly elegant. And she makes Kanya’s skin crawl. “Tell me why you have them.”

  Yashimoto shrugs. “We are an old nation; our young are few. Good girls like Hiroko fill the gap. We are not the same as the Thai. We have calories but no one to provide the labor. We need personal assistants. Workers.”

  Kanya carefully makes no show of disgust. “Yes. You Japanese are very different. And except for your country, we have never granted this sort of niche—”

  “Crime,” Jaidee supplies.

  “—exemption,” she finishes. “No one else is allowed to bring in creatures like this one.” She nods unwillingly at the translator, trying to hide the disgust in her voice. “No other country. No other factory.”

  “We are aware of the privilege.”

  “And yet you abuse it by bringing a military windup—”

  Hiroko’s words cut her off, even as Kanya continues to speak. Hiroko instead picks up the vehement response from her owner.

  “No! This is impossible. We have no contact with such technology. None!”

  Yashimoto’s face is flushed, and Kanya wonders at his sudden anger. What sort of cultural insult has she unwittingly delivered? The windup girl continues her translation, no trace of emotion on her own face as she speaks with her owner’s voice. “We work with New Japanese like Hiroko. She is loyal, thoughtful, and skilled. And a necessary tool. She is as necessary as a hoe for a farmer or a sword for a samurai.”

  “Strange that you mention a sword.”

  “Hiroko is no military creature. We do not have such technology.”

  Kanya reaches into her pocket and slaps down the picture of the windup killer. “And yet one of yours, imported by you, registered to your staff, has now assassinated the Somdet Chaopraya and eight others, and disappeared into thin air, as if she is some raging phii. But you sit before me and tell me that it is impossible for a milit
ary windup to be here!” Her voice rises to a shout, and the windup girl’s translation finishes at a similar intensity.

  Yashimoto’s face stills. He takes the picture and studies it. “We will have to check our records.”

  He nods to Hiroko. She takes the photo and disappears out the door. Kanya watches Yashimoto for traces of anxiety or nervousness, but there are none. Irritation, she sees, but no fear. She regrets that she cannot speak directly with the man. Listening to her words echo into Japanese, Kanya wonders what surprise is lost when the windup girl delivers them. What preparation Hiroko provides for his shock.

  They wait. He silently offers more tea. She refuses. He does not drink anymore himself. The tension in the room is so thick that Kanya half expects the man to leap to his feet and cut her down with the ancient sword that adorns the wall behind him.

  A few minutes later, Hiroko returns. She hands the picture back to Kanya with a bow. Then speaks to Yashimoto. Neither of them betray any emotion. Hiroko kneels again beside them. Yashimoto nods at the photograph. “You’re sure this was the one?”

  Kanya nods. “There is no question.”

  “And this assassination explains the increasing rage in the city. There are crowds gathering outside the factory. Boat people. The police have driven them away, but they were coming with torches.”

  Kanya stifles her nervousness at the increasing frenzy. Everything is moving too fast. At some point, Akkarat and Pracha will be unable to back off without losing face and then everything will be lost. “The people are very angry,” she says.

  “It is misplaced anger. She is not a military windup.” When Kanya tries to challenge him, he looks at her fiercely and she subsides. “Mishimoto knows nothing of military windups. Nothing. Such creatures are kept under strict control. They are used by our Defense Ministry, only. I could never possess one.” He locks eyes with her. “Never.”