The Windup Girl (51 page)

Unexpectedly, the man's eyes crinkle with a smile. He picks up his tea and sips, considering the question, but the mirth does not leave his eyes, even as he finishes his tea. "This I can answer."

Without warning, he flings his cup at Hiroko's face. Kanya starts to cry out. The windup girl's hand blurs. The teacup smacks into her palm. The girl gapes at the cup in her hand, as surprised apparently, as Kanya.

The Japanese man gathers the folds of his kimono around himself. "All New Japanese are fast. You have mistaken the question to ask. How they use their innate qualities is a question of their training, not of their physical capabilities. Hiroko has been trained from birth to pace herself appropriately, with decorum."

He nods at her skin. "She is manufactured to have a porcelain skin and reduced pores, but it means she is subject to overheating. A military windup will not overheat, it is built to expend considerable energy without impact. Poor Hiroko here would die if she exerted herself like that over any significant amount of time. But all windups are potentially fast, it is in their genes." His tone becomes serious. "It is surprising though, that one has shaken off her training. Unwelcome news. New People serve us. It should not have happened."

"So your Hiroko here could do the same thing? Kill eight men? Armed ones?"

Hiroko jerks and looks at Yashimoto, dark eyes widening. He nods. Says something. His tone is gentle.

"
Hai
." She forgets to translate, then finds her words. "Yes. It is possible. Unlikely, but possible." She continues, "But it would take an extraordinary stimulus to do so. New People value discipline. Order. Obedience. We have a saying in Japan, 'New People are more Japanese than the Japanese.'"

Yashimoto places a hand on Hiroko's shoulder. "Circumstances would have to be extraordinary to make Hiroko into a killer." He smiles confidently. "This one you seek has fallen far from her proper place. You should destroy her before she can cause any more damage. We can provide assistance." He pauses. "Hiroko here can help you."

Kanya tries not to recoil, but her face gives her away.

* * *

"Captain Kanya, I do believe you're smiling."

Jaidee's
phii
is still with her, perched on the prow of the skiff as it cuts across the Chao Phraya's wide mouth on a stiff breeze. Spray blows through his form, leaving him unaffected, even though Kanya expects him to be drenched each time. She favors him with a smile, allowing her sense of well-being to reach out to him.

"Today, I did something good."

Jaidee grins. "I listened to both ends of the conversation. Akkarat and Narong were very impressed with you."

Kanya pauses. "You were with them as well?"

He shrugs. "I can go almost anywhere, it seems."

"Except on to your next life."

He shrugs again and smiles. "I still have work here."

"Harassing me, you mean." But her words have no venom. Under the warm light of the setting sun, with the city opening before her and waves splashing against her boat's hull as they cut across the water, Kanya can only be grateful that the conversation went so well. Even as she was talking to Narong, they were issuing orders to their people to pull back. She heard the radio announcement go out. They would meet with the December 12 loyalists. The beginning of a stand-down. If the Japanese had not been so willing to take the blame for their rogue windup, it might have been different. But reparations were already being offered and Pracha was exonerated by the copious documentation the Japanese offered, and for once, all things were turning out well.

Kanya can't help but feel a measure of pride. Wearing the yoke of two patrons has finally paid off. She wonders if it is
kamma
that places her so that she can bridge the gap between General Pracha and Minister Akkarat for the good of Krung Thep. Certainly, no one else could have pierced the barriers of face and pride that the two men and their factions had erected.

Jaidee is still grinning at her. "Imagine the things our country could accomplish if we were not always fighting one another."

In a burst of optimism, Kanya says, "Maybe anything is possible."

Jaidee laughs. "You still have a windup to catch."

Involuntarily, Kanya's eyes go to her own windup girl. Hiroko has folded her legs under her and gazes out at the city that is rapidly approaching, watching with curious eyes as they thread between clipper ships and sailing skiffs and kink-spring patrol boats. As if sensing Kanya's gaze, she turns. Their eyes lock. Kanya refuses to drop her gaze.

"Why do you hate New People?" the windup asks.

Jaidee laughs. "Can you lecture her about niche and nature?"

Kanya looks away, glances behind her to the floating factories and drowned Thonburi. The
prang
of Wat Arun stand tall against the blood red sky.

Again the question comes. "Why do you hate my kind?"

Kanya eyes the woman. "Will you be mulched when Yashimoto-sama returns to Japan?"

Hiroko lowers her gaze. Kanya feels obscurely embarrassed that she seems to have hurt the windup's feelings, then shakes off the guilt. It's just a windup. It apes the motions of humanity, but it is only a dangerous experiment that has been allowed to proceed too far. A windup. Stutter-stop motion and the telltale jerk of a genetically engineered beast. A smart one. And dangerous if pushed, apparently. Kanya watches the water as she guides her craft across the waves, but still she watches the windup out of the corner of her eye, viscerally aware that this windup contains the same wild speed of the other one. That all these windups have the potential to become lethal.

Hiroko speaks again. "We are not all like this one you hunt."

Kanya turns her gaze back on the windup. "You are all unnatural. You are all grown in test tubes. You all go against niche. You all have no souls and have no
kamma
. And now one of you has—" she breaks off, overwhelmed at the enormity, "—destroyed our Queen's protector. You are more than similar enough for me."

Hiroko's eyes harden. "Then send me back to Mishimoto."

Kanya shakes her head. "No. You have your uses. You are good proof, if nothing else, that all windups are dangerous. And that the one we hunt is not a military creature. For that, you will be useful."

"We are not all dangerous," she insists again.

Kanya shrugs. "Mr. Yashimoto says you will be of some help in finding our killer. If that's true, then I have a use for you. If not, I would just as soon compost you with the rest of the daily dung collection. Your master insists that you will be useful, though I can't think how."

Hiroko looks away, across the water to her factories on the far side.

"I think you hurt her feelings," Jaidee murmurs.

"Are their feelings any more real than their souls?" Kanya leans against the tiller, angling the little skiff toward the docks. There is still so much to be done.

Abruptly, Hiroko says. "She will seek a new patron."

Kanya turns, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"She has lost her Japanese owner. She has now lost this man who ran the bar she worked for."

"She killed him."

Hiroko shrugs. "It is the same. She has lost her master. She must find a new one."

"How do you know?"

Hiroko looks at her coldly. "It is in our genes. We seek to obey. To have others direct us. It is a necessity. As important as water for a fish. It is the water we swim in. Yashimoto-sama speaks correctly. We are more Japanese than even the Japanese. We must serve within a hierarchy. She must find a master."

"What if this one is different? If this one doesn't?"

"She will. She has no choice."

"Just like you."

Hiroko's dark eyes sweep back to her. "Just so."

Is there a flicker of rage and despair in those eyes? Or does Kanya simply imagine it? Is it something Kanya assumes must be lurking deep within, an anthropomorphizing of a thing that is not and never will be human? A pretty puzzle. Kanya returns her attention to the water and their imminent arrival, checks the surrounding waves for other craft she will have to jostle with for slip space. She frowns. "I don't know those barges."

Hiroko looks up. "You keep such close watch on the waters?"

Kanya shakes her head. "I used to work the docks, when I was first inducted. Spot raids, checking imports. Good money." She studies the barges. "Those are built for heavy loads. More than just rice. I haven't seen. . ."

She trails off, her heart starting to pound as she watches the machines wallow forward, great dark beasts, implacable.

"What is it?" Hiroko asks.

"They aren't spring-driven."

"Yes?"

Kanya pulls at her sail, letting the breezes of the river delta yank at the small boat, cutting away from the oncoming craft.

"It's military. They're all military."

38

Anderson can barely breathe under the hood. The blackness is total, hot with his own breath and suppressed fear. No one explained why he was being hooded and marched out of the flat. Carlyle was awake by then, but when he tried to protest their treatment, one of the Panthers clipped his ear with a rifle butt, letting blood, and they'd both fallen silent and allowed the hoods to be drawn over their heads. An hour later, they were kicked to their feet and herded down to some kind of transport that rumbled with exhaust fumes. Army, Anderson guessed, as he was shoved aboard.

His broken finger hangs limply behind his back. If he flexes his hand the pain becomes extreme. He practices a careful breathing under the hood, controlling his fears and speculations. The close dusty fabric makes him cough, and when he coughs, his ribs send spikes of pain deep into his core. He breathes shallowly.

Will they execute him as some kind of example?

He hasn't heard Akkarat's voice in some time. Hasn't heard anything. He wants to whisper to Carlyle, to see if they are being kept in the same room, but doesn't feel like being clubbed again if it turns out there's a guard in the room with him.

When they were let down from the vehicle and dragged into a new building, he had been unsure if Carlyle was even there. And then they were in an elevator. He thinks they descended into some sort of bunker, but it is ghastly hot in the place where they kicked him down. The place is stifling hot. The hood's fabric itches. Of all the things he wishes, he wishes he could scratch his nose where sweat trickles and then damps the fabric, leaving it itching. He tries to move his face, tries to get the fabric away from his mouth and nose. If he could just get a breath of clean air—

A door clicks. Footsteps. Anderson freezes. Muffled voices above him. Suddenly hands grab him and yank him to his feet. He gasps as they jostle his broken ribs. The hands drag him along, guiding him through a series of turns and stops. A breeze kisses his arms, cooler, fresher air, some kind of air vents. He gets a whiff of the sea. Thai voices mutter around him. Footsteps. People moving. He has the sense that he is being led down a corridor. The steady arrival and recession of Thai voices. When he stumbles, his captors jerk him upright again and shove him onward.

At last, they stop. The air is fresher here. He feels the wind of circulation systems, hears the ratchet of treadles and the high whine of flywheels. Some kind of processing center. His captors push him to stand straight. He wonders if this is how they will execute him. If he will die without seeing daylight again.

The windup girl. The goddamn windup girl. He remembers the way she flew from the balcony, plunging into darkness. It wasn't the look of a suicide. The more he thinks about it, the more he is convinced that the look on her face was one of supreme confidence. Did she really kill the Queen's protector? But if she were the killer, how could she have been so afraid? It doesn't make sense. And now everything is wrecked. Christ, his nose itches. He sneezes, sucks dusty hood air, and starts coughing again.

He doubles over, coughing, ribs screaming.

The hood is ripped off his face.

Anderson blinks as light spears his eyes. He sucks gratefully at the luxury of fresh air. Slowly straightens. A large room, full of men and women in army uniform. Treadle computers. Kink-spring drums sitting in the room with them. Even an LED wall screen with views of the city as if they are in one of AgriGen's own processing centers.

And a view. He was wrong, he didn't go down. He went up. High above the city. Anderson reorients his confused perceptions. They're in a tower somewhere, an old Expansion tower. Through the open windows he can see across the city. The setting sun glazes the air and buildings a dull red.

Carlyle is there, too, looking dazed.

"My goodness, you both smell terrible."

Akkarat, standing nearby. Smiling with a certain sly humor. The Thais are said to have thirteen kinds of smile. Anderson wonders what sort he is looking at now. Akkarat says, "We'll have to get you a shower."

Anderson starts to speak, but another fit of coughing overwhelms him. He sucks air, trying to get his lungs under control, but keeps coughing. The cuffs dig into his wrists as he convulses. His ribs are a mass of pain. Carlyle doesn't say anything at all. He has blood on his forehead. Anderson can't tell if he fought his captors or if he's been tortured.

"Get him a glass of water," Akkarat says.

Anderson's guards push him against a wall, shove him down until he's seated. This time he narrowly avoids jostling his broken finger. Water arrives. A guard holds the cup to Anderson's lips, letting him drink. Cool water. Anderson swallows, absurdly grateful. His coughing subsides. He makes himself look up at Akkarat. "Thanks."

"Yes. Well. It seems we have a problem," Akkarat says. "Your story checked out. Your windup is a rogue, after all."

He squats down beside Anderson. "We have all been victims of bad luck. They say in the military that a good battle plan can last as long as five minutes in real fighting. After that, it comes down to if the general is favored by fate and the spirits. Bad luck, this. We must all adjust. And now, of course, I have many new problems that I must adjust to as well." He nods at Carlyle. "You both, of course, are angry at your treatment." He grimaces. "I could offer my apologies, but I'm not sure that it would be enough."