Windup Girl

by Bacigalupi, Paolo

  Carlyle’s hands come free. Akkarat is called away by an army officer.

  Carlyle pulls off his gag. “We friends again?”

  Anderson shrugs, watching the activity around them. “As much as anyone in a revolution can be.”

  “How you doing?”

  Anderson touches his chest gingerly. “Broken ribs.” He nods at his hand where the doctor is splinting his finger. “Busted finger. Think my jaw’s okay.” He shrugs. “You?”

  “Better than that. I think my shoulder’s sprained. But I wasn’t the one who introduced the rogue windup.”

  Anderson coughs and winces. “Yeah, well, lucky you.”

  One of the army people is cranking a radio phone, gears ratcheting. Akkarat takes a call.

  “Yes?” He nods, speaks in Thai.

  Anderson can only catch a few words, but Carlyle’s eyes widen as he listens. “They’re taking the radio stations,” he whispers.

  “What?” Anderson scrambles to his feet, wincing, pushing aside the doctor still working on his hand. Guards lunge in front of him, blocking him from Akkarat. Anderson calls over their shoulders as they shove him back against the wall. “You’re starting? Now?”

  Akkarat glances up from his phone, finishes his conversation calmly and hands the receiver back to his communications officer. The winding man settles back on his haunches, waiting for the next call. The flywheel hum slows.

  Akkarat says, “The Somdet Chaopraya’s assassination has brought out a great deal of hostility for the white shirts. Protests outside the Environment Ministry. Even the Megodont Union is involved. People were already angry at the Ministry’s crackdowns. I have decided we will capitalize on this.”

  “But we don’t have our assets in place,” Anderson protests. “You don’t have all your army units down from the northeast. My strike teams aren’t supposed to be ashore for another week.”

  Akkarat shrugs and smiles. “Revolutions are a messy business. It is better to take the opportunities that come before us. Still, I think that you will be pleasantly surprised.” He turns back to his hand-cranked radio phone. The steady whir of the flywheel fills the room as Akkarat talks to people under his command.

  Anderson watches Akkarat’s back. The man, once so obsequious in the presence of the Somdet Chaopraya, is now in charge. He issues orders in a steady stream. Every so often the phone buzzes again for attention.

  “This is crazy,” Carlyle murmurs. “Are we still in it at all?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Akkarat glances over at them, seems about to say something, but instead he cocks his head. “Listen,” he says. His voice has become reverent.

  A rumble rolls across the city. Through the command post’s open windows, light flares briefly, like lightning in a storm. Akkarat smiles.

  “It’s starting.”

  39

  Pai is waiting for Kanya in her office when she comes bursting in. “Where are the men?” she asks, panting.

  “They were formed up in the bachelor’s housing.” He shrugs. “We came back from the village when we heard things were—”

  “Are they still there?”

  “Maybe some of them. I heard Akkarat and Pracha were going to negotiate.”

  “No!” She shakes her head. “Get them, now.” She’s rushing around the room, grabbing extra spring gun clips. “Get them formed up and armed. We don’t have much time.”

  Pai stares at Hiroko. “Is that the windup?”

  “Don’t worry about her. Do you know where General Pracha is?”

  He shrugs. “I heard he inspected our walls and then he was going to speak with the Megodont Union about the protests—”

  She grimaces. “Get the men formed up. We can’t wait anymore.”

  “You’re crazy—”

  An explosion shakes the ground. Outside, trees crackle as they crash to the ground. Pai leaps to his feet, a look of shock on his face. He runs to the window and stares outside. A warning klaxon starts to sound.

  “It’s Trade,” Kanya says. “They’re already here.” She grabs her spring gun. Hiroko is preternaturally still, standing with her head cocked as though she is some sort of dog, listening. And then she turns slightly, her attention leaning forward, anticipatory. Another series of explosions rock the compound. The entire building shudders. Plaster crackles off the ceiling.

  Kanya rushes out of her office. Other white shirts stream out with her, those few who were working evening shifts, or who hadn’t yet been assigned to patrol and containment on the docks and anchor pads. She dashes down the hall, followed closely by Hiroko and Pai, and charges outside.

  The night has the scent of jasmine blossoms, sweet and strong, along with the smell of smoke and the tang of something else, something she has not smelled since military convoys rolled across the ancient friendship bridge, over the Mekong and on toward the insurgents in Vietnam …

  A tank smashes through the outer walls.

  It is a metal monster, taller than two men, jungle-mottled and belching smoke from its furnace. Its main gun fires. The muzzle flashes and the tank heaves back on its treads. Its turret swivels, gears clanking, choosing another target. Masonry and marble shower down over Kanya. She dives for cover.

  Behind the tank, war megodonts rush through the gap. Their tusks glint in the darkness, their riders are all in black. In the dimness, the few white shirts who have come out to defend the compound stand out like pale ghosts, easy targets. The whine of high-capacity springs comes from atop the megodonts and then the chatter of disks slashing all around her. Concrete chips rain down. Kanya’s cheek opens. Suddenly she is lying on the ground, buried under the weight of Hiroko, who has shoved her down as more spring gun disks slash the air and crackle against the walls behind her.

  Another explosion. The noise fills her whole head. She realizes that she is whimpering. Sounds have suddenly become distant. She’s shaking with fear.

  The tank rumbles into the center of the courtyard. Rotates. More megodonts pour through, their feet tangled in a wave of shock troops also rushing the gap. It’s too far away to even make out which general has decided to betray Pracha. Scattered small arms spit from the upper stories of the Ministry buildings. Screams echo, Ministry people dying. Kanya pulls out her spring gun and takes aim. Beside her, a records clerk takes a disk and falls. Kanya holds her pistol carefully, fires a shot. Can’t tell if it hits her man or not. Fires again. Sees him fall. The mass of troops flowing toward her is like a tsunami.

  Jaidee appears at her shoulder. “What about your men?” he asks. “Are you going to sell yourself so easily and neglect those boys who rely on you?”

  Kanya pulls the trigger again. She can barely see. She is crying. Men are spreading across the courtyards, squads leapfrogging under covering fire.

  “Please, Captain Kanya,” Hiroko begs. “We must run.”

  “Go!” Jaidee urges. “It’s too late to fight.”

  Kanya lets her finger off the trigger. Disks chatter around her. She rolls and scrambles for the doorway, lunges back into the relative safety of the building. Scrambles to her feet and runs for the exit at the opposite side of the building. More shells hit. The building shakes. She wonders if it will collapse before she makes the far side.

  Memories from her childhood flood her as she jumps bloody bodies, following Hiroko and Pai. Memories of destruction and horror. Of coal-burning tanks roaring through villages, screaming down the remaining paved roads of the provinces in long columns before plowing out across rice paddies. Tanks running hard and fast for the Mekong, their treads tearing up the earth on their way to defend the Kingdom from the first surprise incursions of the Vietnamese. Black smoke roiling in their wake as they went to hold the border. And now the monsters are here.

  She bursts through the far side of the Ministry and into a firestorm. Trees burning. Some sort of napalm strike. Smoke roils around her. Another tank smashes a distant gate, coming faster than any megodont. It is difficult for her mind to process how qu
ickly they move. They are like tigers, streaking across the grounds. Men fire their spring guns, but they are nothing against the iron shells of the tanks; they are not built for warfare. The chatter of weapons fire rattles along with bright flashes of light. Silvery disks chatter all around, bouncing and slashing. White shirts run for cover, but they have no place to go. Red blossoms on white. Men are disassembled by explosions. More tanks pour through.

  “Who are they?” Pai screams.

  Kanya shakes her head dumbly. The armored division ravages through the burning trees of the Environment Ministry’s grounds. More troops are pouring in. “They have to be from the northeast. Akkarat is making his move. Pracha has been betrayed.”

  She yanks at Pai, points him toward a slight rise and the shadows of unburned trees, pointing toward where the Phra Seub Temple may still be standing. Perhaps they can escape. Pai stares, but doesn’t move. Kanya yanks him again and then they are off and running across the grounds. Palm trees crash down in their path, crackling and flaming. Coconuts rain green around them along with shrapnel bursts. The screams of men and women being torn apart by the well-oiled military machine fill the air.

  “Where now?” Pai yells.

  Kanya doesn’t have an answer. She ducks as wood splinters shower her and dives behind the partial cover of a fallen burning palm.

  Jaidee flops down beside her and grins, not even sweating. He peers over the top of the log, then glances back at Kanya.

  “So. Who will you fight for now, Captain?”

  40

  The tank surprises them all. One moment they are riding a pair of cycle rickshaws down a nearly empty street, the next, a roaring fills the air and a tank bursts into the intersection ahead. It has a loudspeaker that squawks something, perhaps a warning, and then its turret spins in their direction.

  “Hide!” Hock Seng shouts as they all try to scramble off their bikes. The tank’s barrel roars. Hock Seng hits the ground. A building face collapses, showering them with debris. Clouds of gray dust billow over him. Hock Seng coughs and tries to get up and crawl away but a rifle chatters and he throws himself flat again. He can’t see anything in the dust. Answering small arms fire crackles from a nearby building and then the tank is firing again. The smoke clears slightly.

  From an alley, Laughing Chan waves for Hock Seng. His hair is powdered gray and his face is coated with dust. His mouth moves but no sound comes out. Hock Seng tugs at Pak Eng and they scramble for safety. The hatch of the tank pops open and an armored gunner appears, firing with a spring rifle. Pak Eng goes down, his chest blossoming red. Peter Kuok ducks into an alley and Hock Seng glimpses him running. Hock Seng dives flat again and worms himself into the rubble. The tank fires again, rocking back on its treads. More small arms fire chatters from somewhere down the street. The man in the turret flops forward, dead. His rifle slides down the tank’s armor. The tank engages and spins on its treads, clanking. Garbage and leaflets swirl around it. It lurches toward Hock Seng and accelerates. Hock Seng lunges aside as the tank crashes past, showering him with more debris.

  Laughing Chan stares after the retreating vehicle. He says something but Hock Seng’s ears are still ringing. He waves for Hock Seng to join him again. Hock Seng staggers upright and stumbles into the soi’s relative safety. Laughing Chan cups his hands around Hock Seng’s ear. His shout is a whisper.

  “It’s fast! Faster than a megodont!”

  Hock Seng nods. He’s shaking. It appeared so suddenly. So much faster than anything he has ever seen. Old Expansion technology. And the men driving it seemed mad. Hock Seng looks around at the rubble. “I don’t even know what they were doing here. There’s nothing to secure,” he says.

  Laughing Chan suddenly begins to laugh. His distant words tunnel past the ringing in Hock Seng’s ears. “Maybe they’re lost!”

  And then they are both laughing, and Hock Seng is almost hysterical with relief. They sit in the alley, resting and trying to catch their breath and giggling. Slowly, Hock Seng’s hearing returns.

  “It’s worse than the Green Headbands,” Laughing Chan says, looking out at the street wreckage. “At least with them, it was personal.” He makes a face. “You could fight them. These ones are too fast. And too crazy. Fengle, all of them.”

  Hock Seng is inclined to agree. “Still, dead is dead. I would rather not face either.”

  “We’ll have to be more careful,” Laughing Chan says. He nods at Pak Eng’s body. “What should we do about him?”

  “Do you want to carry him back to the towers?” Hock Seng asks pointedly.

  Chan shakes his head, grimacing. Another explosion rumbles. From the sound of it, it’s no more than a few blocks away.

  Hock Seng looks up. “The tank again?”

  “Let’s not wait to find out.”

  They set off down the street, keeping to doorways. A few others are out in the open, looking toward the rumbling explosions. Trying to see where the noises are coming from, to see what is happening. Hock Seng remembers standing on a similar street only a few years before, the scent of the sea and the promise of the monsoon bright in the air the day the Green Headbands started their cleansing. And on that day, too, people had looked up like pigeons, heads swiveling toward the sound of slaughter, suddenly aware that they were in danger.

  Ahead, unmistakable, the chatter of spring guns. Hock Seng motions to Laughing Chan and they turn into a new alley. He’s too old for this foolishness. He should be reclining on a couch, smoking a bowl of opium while a pretty fifth wife massages his ankles. Behind them, the rest of the people on the street are still standing out in the open, still staring toward the sounds of battle. The Thais don’t know what to do. Not yet. They have no experience with true slaughter. Their reflexes are wrong. Hock Seng turns into an abandoned building.

  “Where are you going?” Laughing Chan asks.

  “I want to see. I need to know what’s happening.”

  He climbs. One stairwell, two stairwells, three, four. He’s panting. Five. Six. Then out into a hall. Broken doors, stifling close heat, the smell of excrement. Another explosion rumbles distant.

  Through an open window, tracers of fire arc across the darkening sky and boom in the distance. Small arms snap and chatter in the streets like Spring Festival fireworks. Smoke pillars rise from a dozen points in the city. Nagas coiling, black against the setting sun. The anchor pads, the sea locks, the manufacturing district … the Environment Ministry….

  Laughing Chan grabs Hock Seng’s shoulder and points.

  Hock Seng sucks in his breath. The Yaowarat slum blazes, WeatherAll shanties exploding in a spreading curtain of flame. “Wode tian,” Laughing Chan murmurs. “We won’t be going back there.”

  Hock Seng stares at the burning slum that had been his home, watching with horror as all his cash and gems turn to ash. Fate is fickle. He laughs wearily. “And you thought I wasn’t lucky. We’d be roasted like pigs by now, if we had stayed.”

  Laughing Chan makes a mock wai at him. “I will follow the lord of the Three Prosperities into the nine hells.” He pauses. “But what do we do now?”

  Hock Seng points. “We follow Thanon Rama XII, and then—”

  He doesn’t see the missile strike. It’s too fast for any human being’s eyes. Perhaps a military windup would have time to prepare, but he and Laughing Chan are thrown off their feet by the shockwave. A building collapses across the street.

  “Never mind!” Laughing Chan grabs Hock Seng and drags him back toward the safety of the stairwells. “We’ll work it out. I don’t want to lose my head for the sake of your view.”

  Newly cautious, they slip through the darkening streets, working their way toward the manufacturing district. The streets are becoming more deserted as the Thais finally learn there is no safety in the open.

  “What’s that?” Laughing Chan whispers.

  Hock Seng squints into the gloom. A trio of men crouch around a hand-cranked radio. One of them has an antenna in his hands that he holds over his
head, trying to get reception. Hock Seng slows to walk, then urges Laughing Chan across the street to them.

  “What news?” Hock Seng puffs.

  “Did you see that missile hit?” one of them asks. He looks up. “Yellow cards,” he murmurs. His companions exchange glances as they catch sight of Laughing Chan’s machete, then smile nervously and start to shy away.

  Hock Seng sketches a clumsy wai. “We just want the news.”

  One of them spits betel nut, still watching suspiciously, but he says, “It’s Akkarat, on the air.” He gestures for them to listen. His friend lifts the antenna again, pulling in static.

  “—stay indoors. Do not go outside. General Pracha and his white shirts have attempted to topple Her Royal Majesty the Queen herself. It is our duty to defend the realm—” The voice crackles out of reception and the man begins fiddling with the knobs on the wireless again.

  One of them shakes his head. “It’s all lies.”

  The one doing the tuning murmurs a disagreement, “But the Somdet Chaopraya—”

  “Akkarat would kill Rama himself if he saw a benefit.”

  Their friend lowers the antenna. The radio hisses static and the transmission is lost entirely as he speaks. “I had a white shirt in my shop the other day, and he wanted to take my daughter home with him. A ‘gift of goodwill,’ he called it. They’re all monitor lizards. A little corruption is one thing but these heeya will—”

  Another explosion shakes the ground. Everyone turns, Thais and yellow cards together, trying to fix on the location.

  We’re like little monkeys, trying to understand a huge jungle.

  The thought frightens Hock Seng. They’re piecing together clues, but they have nothing to provide context. No matter how much they learn, it can never be enough. They can only react to events as they unfold, and hope for luck.