The Windup Girl (3 page)

A burst of pale filtering dust kicks into the room as a worker stumbles through the curtains from the fining chamber. His dark face is a sweat-streaked combination of grit and palm-oil spray. The swinging curtains reveal a glimpse of his colleagues encased in pale dust clouds, shadows in a snowstorm as the kink-spring filament is encased in the powder that keeps the springs from locking under intense compression. All that sweat, all those calories, all that carbon allotment—all to present a believable cover for Anderson as he unravels the mystery of nightshades and
ngaw
.

A rational company would shut down the factory. Even Anderson, with his limited understanding of the processes involved in this next-generation kink-spring manufacture would do so. But if his workers and the unions and the white shirts and the many listening ears of the Kingdom are to believe that he is an aspiring entrepreneur, the factory must run, and run hard.

Anderson shakes Banyat's hand and congratulates him on his good work.

It's a pity, really. The potential for success is there. When Anderson sees one of Yates' springs actually work, his breath catches. Yates was a madman, but he wasn't stupid. Anderson has watched joules pour out of tiny kink-spring cases, ticking along contentedly for hours when other springs wouldn't have held a quarter of the energy at twice the weight, or would simply have constricted into a single molecularly bound mass under the enormous pressure of the joules being dumped into them. Sometimes, Anderson is almost seduced by the man's dream.

Anderson takes a deep breath and ducks back through the fining room. He comes out on the other side in a cloud of algae powder and smoke. He sucks air redolent with trampled megodont dung and heads up the stairs to his offices. Behind him one of the megodonts shrieks again, the sound of a mistreated animal. Anderson turns, gazing down on the factory floor, and makes a note of the
mahout
. Number Four spindle. Another problem in the long list that SpringLife presents. He opens the door to the administrative offices.

Inside, the rooms are much as they were when he first encountered them. Still dim, still cavernously empty with desks and treadle computers sitting silent in shadows. Thin blades of sunlight ease between teak window shutters, illuminating smoky offerings to whatever gods failed to save Tan Hock Seng's Chinese clan in Malaya. Sandalwood incense chokes the room, and more silken streamers rise from a shrine in the corner where smiling golden figures squat over dishes of U-Tex rice and sticky fly-covered mangoes.

Hock Seng is already sitting at his computer. His bony leg ratchets steadily at the treadle, powering the microprocessors and the glow of the 12cm screen. In its gray light, Anderson catches the flicker of Hock Seng's eyes, the twitch of a man fearing bloody slaughter every time a door opens. The old man's flinch is as hallucinogenic as a cheshire's fade—one moment there, the next gone and doubted—but Anderson is familiar enough with yellow card refugees to recognize the suppressed terror. He shuts the door, muting the manufacturing roar, and the old man settles.

Anderson coughs and waves at the swirling incense smoke. "I thought I told you to quit burning this stuff."

Hock Seng shrugs, but doesn't stop treadling or typing. "Shall I open the windows?" His whisper is like bamboo scraping over sand.

"Christ, no." Anderson grimaces at the tropic blaze beyond the shutters. "Just burn it at home. I don't want it here. Not any more."

"Yes. Of course."

"I mean it."

Hock Seng's eyes flick up for a moment before returning to his screen. The jut of his cheek bones and the hollows of his eyes show in sharp relief under the glow of the monitor. His spider fingers continue tapping at the keys. "It's for luck," he murmurs. A low wheezing chuckle follows. "Even foreign devils need luck. With all the factory troubles, I think maybe you would appreciate the help of Budai."

"Not here." Anderson dumps his newly acquired
ngaw
on his desk and sprawls in his chair. Wipes his brow. "Burn it at home."

Hock Seng inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. Overhead, the rows of crank fans rotate lazily, bamboo blades panting against the office's swelter. The two of them sit marooned, surrounded by the map of Yates' grand design. Ranks of empty desks and workstations sit silent, the floor plan that should have held sales staff, shipping logistics clerks, HR people, and secretaries.

Anderson sorts through the
ngaw.
Holds up one of his green-haired discoveries for Hock Seng. "Have you ever seen one of these before?"

Hock Seng glances up. "The Thai call them
ngaw
." He returns to his work, treadling through spreadsheets that will never add and red ink that will never be reported.

"I know what the Thai call them." Anderson gets up and crosses to the old man's desk. Hock Seng flinches as Anderson sets the
ngaw
beside his computer, eyeing the fruit as if it is a scorpion. Anderson says, "The farmers in the market could tell me the Thai name. Did you have them down in Malaya, too?"

"I—" Hock Seng starts to speak, then stops. He visibly fights for self-control, his face working through a flicker-flash of emotions. "I—" Again, he breaks off.

Anderson watches fear mold and re-mold Hock Seng's features. Less than one percent of the Malayan Chinese escaped the Incident. By any measure, Hock Seng is a lucky man, but Anderson pities him. A simple question, a piece of fruit, and the old man looks as if he's about to flee the factory.

Hock Seng stares at the
ngaw,
breath rasping. Finally he murmurs, "None in Malaya. Only Thais are clever with such things." And then he is working again, eyes fixed on his little computer screen, memories locked away.

Anderson waits to see if Hock Seng will reveal anything more but the old man doesn't raise his eyes again. The puzzle of the
ngaw
will have to wait.

Anderson returns to his own desk and starts sifting through the mail. Receipts and tax papers that Hock Seng has prepared sit at one corner of his desk, demanding attention. He begins working through the stack, adding his signature to Megodont Union paychecks and the SpringLife chop to waste disposal approvals. He tugs at his shirt, fanning himself against the increasing heat and humidity.

Eventually Hock Seng looks up. "Banyat was looking for you."

Anderson nods, distracted by the forms. "They found rust on the cutting press. The replacement improved reliability by five percent."

"Twenty-five percent, then?"

Anderson shrugs, flips more pages, adds his chop to an Environment Ministry carbon assessment. "That's what he says." He folds the document back into its envelope.

"Still not a profitable statistic. Your springs are all wind and no release. They keep joules the way the Somdet Chaopraya keeps the Child Queen."

Anderson makes a face of irritation but doesn't bother defending the erratic quality.

"Did Banyat also tell you about the nutrient tanks?" Hock Seng asks. "For the algae?"

"No. Just the rust. Why?"

"They have been contaminated. Some of the algae is not producing the. . ." Hock Seng hesitates. "The skim. It is not productive."

"He didn't mention it to me."

Another slight hesitation. Then, "I'm sure he tried."

"Did he say how bad it was?"

Hock Seng shrugs. "Just that the skim does not meet specifications."

Anderson scowls. "I'm firing him. I don't need a QA man who can't actually tell me the bad news."

"Perhaps you were not paying close attention."

Anderson has a number of words for people who try to raise a subject and then somehow fail, but he's interrupted by a scream from the megodont downstairs. The noise is loud enough to make the windows shake. Anderson pauses, listening for a follow-up cry.

"That's the Number Four power spindle," he says. "The
mahout
is incompetent."

Hock Seng doesn't look up from his typing. "They are Thai. They are all incompetent."

Anderson stifles a laugh at the yellow card's assessment. "Well, that one is worse." He goes back to his mail. "I want him replaced. Number Four spindle. Remember that."

Hock Seng's treadle loses its rhythm. "This is a difficult thing, I think. Even the Dung Lord must bow before the Megodont Union. Without the labor of the megodonts, one must resort to the joules of men. Not a powerful bargaining position."

"I don't care. I want that one out. We can't afford a stampede. Find some polite way to get rid of him." Anderson pulls over another stack of paychecks waiting for his signature.

Hock Seng tries again. "
Khun, n
egotiating with the union is a complicated thing."

"That's why I have you. It's called delegating." Anderson continues flipping the papers.

"Yes, of course." Hock Seng regards him drily. "Thank you for your management instruction."

"You keep telling me I don't understand the culture here," Anderson says. "So take care of it. Get rid of that one. I don't care if you're polite or if everyone loses face, but find a way to axe him. It's dangerous to have someone like that in the power train."

Hock Seng's lips purse, but he doesn't protest any more. Anderson decides to assume that he will be obeyed. He flips through the pages of another permit letter from the Environment Ministry, grimacing. Only Thais would spend so much time making a bribe look like a service agreement. They're polite, even when they're shaking you down. Or when there's a problem with the algae tanks. Banyat. . .

Anderson shuffles through the forms on his desk. "Hock Seng?"

The old man doesn't look up. "I will take care of your
mahout
," he says as he keeps typing. "It will be done, even if it costs you when they come to bargain again for bonuses."

"Nice to know, but that's not my question." Anderson taps his desk. "You said Banyat was complaining about the algae skim. Is he having problems with the new tanks? Or the old ones?"

"I. . . He was unclear."

"Didn't you tell me we had replacement equipment coming off the anchor pads last week? New tanks, new nutrient cultures?"

Hock Seng's typing falters for a moment. Anderson pretends puzzlement as he shuffles through his papers again, already knowing that the receipts and quarantine forms aren't present. "I should have a list here somewhere. I'm sure you told me it was arriving." He looks up. "The more I think I about it, the more I think I shouldn't be hearing about any contamination problems. Not if our new equipment actually cleared Customs and got installed."

Hock Seng doesn't answer. Presses on with his typing as though he hasn't heard.

"Hock Seng? Is there something you forgot to tell me?"

Hock Seng's eyes remain fixed on the gray glow of his monitor. Anderson waits. The rhythmic creak of the crank fans and the ratchet of Hock Seng's treadle fills the silence.

"There is no manifest," the old man says, finally. "The shipment is still in Customs."

"It was supposed to clear last week."

"There are delays."

"You told me there wouldn't be any problem," Anderson says. "You were certain. You told me you were expediting the Customs personally. I gave you extra cash to be sure of it."

"The Thai keep time in their own method. Perhaps it will be this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow." Hock Seng makes a face that resembles a grin. "They are not like we Chinese. They are lazy."

"Did you actually pay the bribes? The Trade Ministry was supposed to get a cut, to pass on to their pet white shirt inspector."

"I paid them."

"Enough?"

Hock Seng looks up, eyes narrowed. "I paid."

"You didn't pay half and keep half for yourself?"

Hock Seng laughs nervously. "Of course I paid everything."

Anderson studies the yellow card a moment longer, trying to determine his honesty, then gives up and tosses down the papers. He isn't even sure why he cares, but it galls him that the old man thinks he can be fooled so easily. He glances again at the sack of
ngaw
. Perhaps Hock Seng senses just how secondary the factory is. . . He forces the thought away and presses the old man again. "Tomorrow then?"

Hock Seng inclines his head. "I think this is most likely."

"I'll look forward to it."

Hock Seng doesn't respond to the sarcasm. Anderson wonders if it even translates. The man speaks English with an extraordinary facility, but every so often they reach an impasse of language that seems more rooted in culture than vocabulary.

Anderson returns to the paperwork. Tax forms here. Paychecks there. The workers cost twice as much as they should. Another problem of dealing with the Kingdom. Thai workers for Thai jobs. Yellow card refugees from Malaya are starving in the street, and he can't hire them. By rights, Hock Seng should be out in the job lines starving with all the other survivors of the Incident. Without his specialized skills in language and accountancy and Yates' indulgence, he would be starving.

Anderson pauses on a new envelope. It's posted to him, personally, but true to form the seal is broken. Hock Seng has a hard time respecting the sanctity of other people's mail. They've discussed the problem repeatedly, but still the old man makes "mistakes."

Inside the envelope, Anderson finds a small invitation card. Raleigh, proposing a meeting.

Anderson taps the invitation card against his desk, thoughtful. Raleigh. Flotsam of the old Expansion. An ancient piece of driftwood left at high tide, from the time when petroleum was cheap and men and women crossed the globe in hours instead of weeks.

When the last of the jumbo jets rumbled off the flooded runways of Suvarnabhumi, Raleigh stood knee-deep in rising seawater and watched them flee. He squatted with his girlfriends and then outlived them and then claimed new ones, forging a life of lemongrass and baht and fine opium. If his stories are to be believed, he has survived coups and counter-coups, calorie plagues and starvation. These days, the old man squats like a liver-spotted toad in his Ploenchit "club," smiling in self-satisfaction as he instructs newly arrived foreigners in the lost arts of pre-Contraction debauch.