The Windup Girl (27 page)

"Sounds expensive."

"Not to your people. A bit of gold and jade. Some opium." He lowers his voice. "Might even be cheap, by 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 seed stock."

"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 blood 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 advising. 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.

To be honest, it is only Gendo-sama's poor treatment of her that makes Emiko think so badly of him. He was a weak man. Or, perhaps, if she is honest, she was not all she could have been. She did not serve to her utmost. That is the sad truth. A bit of shame that she must accept, even as she strives to live without the loving hand of a patron. But perhaps this strange
gaijin
. . . perhaps. . . She will not let the cynical animal into her mind tonight; she will let herself dream.

Emiko spills out of her tower slum into Bangkok's cooling evening. A carnival feel informs the green-tinged streets, woks burning their nighttime noodles, offering simple dishes to the farmers of the market before they return to distant fields for the night. Emiko wanders through the night market, one eye out for white shirts, one on dinner.

She finds a vendor of grilled squid and takes one dipped in chile sauce. In the candlelight and shadows, she has cover of sorts. Her
pha sin
hides the movement of her legs. It is only her arms she must concern herself with, and if she is slow, careful, and keeps them close to her side, her movements can be mistaken for daintiness.

From a woman and her daughter, Emiko buys a folded banana leaf plate, cupping a nest of fried U-Tex
padh seeu.
The woman fries the noodles over blue methane, illegal, but not impossible to obtain. Emiko sits at a makeshift counter to shovel them in, her mouth burning at the spice. Others look at her strangely, a few make faces of distaste, but they do nothing. Some of them are even familiar with her. The rest have enough troubles without tangling themselves in the business of windups and white shirts. It is a strange advantage, she supposes. The white shirts are so despised that people don't draw their attention unless absolutely necessary. She shovels the noodles into her mouth and again thinks of the
gaijin's
words.

There is a place for New People.

She tries to imagine it. A village full of people with stuttering telltale motions and smooth smooth skin. She craves it.

But there is an opposing feeling, also. Not fear. Something she never expected.

Revulsion?

No, too strong a word. More a shiver of distaste that so many of her kind have shamefully fled their duties. All of them living among one another, and not a single one as fine as Gendo-sama. A whole village of New People who have no one to serve.

Emiko shakes her head forcefully. And what has service gotten her? People like Raleigh. And Kannika.

And yet. . . a whole tribe of New People, huddled in the jungle? What would it be like to hold an eight-foot laborer in her arms? Would that be her lover? Or one of the tentacle monsters of Gendo-sama's factories, ten arms like a Hindu god and a drooling mouth that demands nothing but food and a place to put its hands? How can such a creature make its way north? Why are they there, in the jungle?

She forces back her revulsion. It is surely no worse than Kannika. She has been enslaved to think against New People, even when she herself is one of them. If she thinks logically, she knows that no New Person can be any worse than the client last night, who fucked her and then spat on her before he left. Surely, to lie with a smooth-skinned New Person could not be worse.

But what kind of life could it be in the village? Eating cockroaches and ants and whatever leaves haven't succumbed to ivory beetle?

Raleigh is a survivor. Are you?

She stirs her noodles with her four-inch RedStar bamboo chopsticks. What would it be like, to serve no one? Would she dare? It makes her dizzy, almost giddy to think of it. What would she do without a patron? Would she then become a farmer? Perhaps grow opium in the hills? Smoke a silver pipe and blacken her teeth as she has heard some of those strange hilltribe ladies do? She laughs to herself. Can she imagine it?

Lost in her thoughts, she nearly misses it. Only luck—the chance movement of a man at the table across from her, his startled glance and then the duck of his head as he buries his attention in his food—saves her. She freezes.