The Windup Girl (18 page)

"I'm not the one who lost a dirigible."

"Cost of doing business."

"I'd think losing a fifth of your fleet would be more than just a cost."

Carlyle makes a face. He leans close and lowers his voice. "Come on, Anderson. This tiff with the white shirts isn't what it seems. Some people have been waiting for them to go too far." He pauses, making sure his words are understood. "Some of us have been working toward it, even. I've just come from speaking with Akkarat himself, and I can assure you the news is about to turn in our favor."

Anderson almost laughs, but Carlyle wags an admonishing finger. "Go ahead, shake your head now, but before I'm done you'll be kissing my ass and thanking me for the new tariff structures, and we'll all have reparations in our bank accounts."

"The white shirts never pay reparations. Not when they burn a farm, not when they confiscate a cargo. Never."

Carlyle shrugs. He looks out toward the hot light of the veranda and observes, "The monsoons are coming."

"Not likely." Anderson gives the blazing day a sour look. "They're already late by two months."

"Oh, they're coming all right. Maybe not this month. Maybe not next, but they're coming."

"And?"

"The Environment Ministry is expecting replacement equipment for the city's levee pumps. Critical equipment. For seven pumps." He pauses. "Now, where do you think that equipment is sitting?"

"Enlighten me."

"All the way across the Indian Ocean." Carlyle flashes a sudden shark-like smile. "In a certain Kolkata hanger that I happen to own."

The air seems to have left the bar. Anderson glances around, making sure no one is close. "Christ, you silly bastard. Are you serious?"

It all makes sense, now. Carlyle's bragging, his certainty. The man has always had a freebooter's willingness to take risks. But it's difficult to distinguish bluster from sincerity with Carlyle. If he says he has Akkarat's ear, perhaps he only speaks with secretaries. It's all talk. But this. . . .

Anderson starts to speak but sees Sir Francis approaching and turns away instead, grimacing. Carlyle's eyes sparkle with mischief. Sir Francis sets a new whiskey beside his hand, but Anderson doesn't care about drinks anymore. As soon as Sir Francis retreats, he leans forward.

"You're holding the city hostage?"

"The white shirts seem to have forgotten they need outsiders. We're in the middle of a new Expansion and every string is connected to every other string, and yet they're still thinking like a Contraction ministry. They don't understand how dependent they've already become on
farang
." He shrugs. "At this point, they're just pawns on a chess board. They have no idea who moves them, and couldn't stop us even if they tried."

He tosses back another shot of whiskey, grimaces and slaps it down on the bar. "We should all send flowers to that Jaidee white shirt bastard. He's done his job perfectly. With half the city's coal pumps offline. . ." He shrugs. "The nice thing about dealing with the Thais is that they're really a very sensitive people. I won't even have to make a threat. They'll figure it out all on their own, and make things right."

"Quite a gamble."

"Isn't everything?" Carlyle favors Anderson with a cynical smile. "Maybe we're all dead tomorrow from a blister rust rewrite. Or maybe we're the richest men in the Kingdom. It's all a gamble. The Thais play for keeps. So should we."

"I'd just put a spring gun to your head and trade your brains for the pumps."

"That's the spirit!" Carlyle laughs. "Now you're thinking like a Thai. But I've got myself covered there, too."

"What? With the Trade Ministry?" Anderson makes a face. "Akkarat doesn't have the muscle to protect you."

"Better than that. He's got generals."

"You're drunk. General Pracha's friends run every part of the military. The only reason the white shirts don't run the entire country already is because the old King stepped in before Pracha could squash Akkarat the last time."

"Times change. Pracha's white shirts and his payoffs have made a lot of people angry. People want a change."

"You're talking revolution, now?"

"Is it revolution if the palace asks for it?" Carlyle reaches nonchalantly across the bar for the bottle of whiskey and pours. He upends it and gets less than half a shot from the bottle. He raises an eyebrow to Anderson. "Ah. Now you're paying attention." He points to Anderson's tumbler. "Are you going to drink that?"

"How far does this go?"

"You want in on the deal?"

"Why would you offer?"

"You have to ask?" Carlyle shrugs. "When Yates set up your factory, he tripled the Megodont Union's fees for joules. Threw money everywhere. Hard not to notice that kind of funding."

He nods at the other expatriates, now playing a listless game of poker and waiting for the heat of the day to abate so that they can go on with their work or their whoring or their passive wait for the next day. "Everyone else, they're children. Little kids wearing adult clothes. You're different."

"You think we're rich?"

"Oh stop the theatrics. My dirigibles haul your cargo." Carlyle regards him. "I've seen where your supply shipments originate from," he looks at Anderson significantly, "before they arrive in Kolkata."

Anderson pretends nonchalance. "So?"

"An awful lot of material coming from Des Moines."

"You think I'm worth talking to because I've got Midwestern investors? Doesn't everyone get their investors where the money is? So what if a rich widow wants to experiment with kink-springs. You read too much into small things."

"Do I?" Carlyle looks around the bar and leans close. "People are talking about you."

"How so?"

"They say you're quite interested in seeds." He looks significantly at the rind of the
ngaw
between them. "We're all genespotters, these days. But you're the only one who pays for your intelligence. The only one who asks about white shirts and generippers. "

Anderson smiles coldly. "You've been talking to Raleigh."

Carlyle inclines his head. "If it's any consolation, it wasn't easy. He didn't want to talk about you. Not at all."

"He should have thought a little harder."

"He can't get his aging treatments without me." Carlyle shrugs. "We have shipping representatives in Japan. You weren't offering him another decade of easy living."

Anderson forces a laugh. "Of course." He smiles, but inside he is seething. He'll have to deal with Raleigh. And now perhaps Carlyle as well. He's been sloppy. He eyes the
ngaw
with disgust. He's been waving his latest interest in front of everyone. Grahamites, even, and now this. It's too easy to get comfortable. To forget all the lines of exposure. And then one day in a bar, someone slaps you in the face.

Carlyle is saying, "If I could just speak with certain people. Discuss certain propositions. . ." he trails off, brown eyes hunting for a sign of agreement in Anderson's expression. "I don't care which company you're working for. If I understand your interests correctly, then we might find our goals lie in similar directions."

Anderson drums his fingers on the bar, thoughtful. If Carlyle were to disappear, would it rouse any interest at all? He might even be able to blame it on overzealous white shirts. . .

"You think you've got a chance?" Anderson asks.

"It wouldn't be the first time the Thais have reformed their government with force. The Victory Hotel wouldn't exist if Prime Minister Surawong hadn't lost his head and his mansion in the December 12 coup. Thai history is littered with changes in administration."

"I'm a little concerned that if you're talking to me, you're talking to others. Maybe too many others."

"Who else would I talk to?" Carlyle jerks his head toward the rest of the
Farang
Phalanx. "They're nothing. Wouldn't consider them for a second. Your people though. . ." Carlyle trails off, considering his words, then leans forward.

"Look, Akkarat has some experience with these matters. The white shirts have created a number of enemies. And not just
farang
. All our project requires is a bit of help gathering momentum." He takes a sip of his whiskey, considers the taste for a moment before setting the glass down. "The consequences would be quite favorable for us if it succeeds." He locks eyes with Anderson. "Quite favorable for you. For your friends in the Midwest."

"What do you get out of it?"

"Trade, of course." Carlyle grins. "If the Thais face outward instead of living in this absurd defensive crouch of theirs, my company expands. It's just good business. I can't imagine that your people enjoy cooling their heels on Koh Angrit, begging to be allowed to sell a few tons of U-Tex or SoyPRO to the Kingdom when there's a crop failure. You could have free trade, instead of sitting out on that quarantine island. I'd think that would be attractive to you. It certainly would benefit me."

Anderson studies Carlyle, trying to decide how much to trust the man. For two years they have drunk together, have whored occasionally, have closed shipping contracts on a handshake, but Anderson knows only a little about him. The home office has a portfolio, but it's thin. Anderson mulls. The seedbank is out there, waiting. With a pliable government. . .

"Which generals are backing you?"

Carlyle laughs. "If I told you that, you'd just think I was foolish and unable to keep secrets."

The man is all talk, Anderson decides. He'll have to make sure Carlyle disappears, soon, quietly, before his cover gets blown. "It sounds interesting. Maybe we should meet to talk a little more about our mutual goals."

Carlyle opens his mouth to respond then pauses, studying Anderson. He smiles and shakes his head. "Oh no. You don't believe me." He shrugs. "Fair enough. Just wait then. In two days time, I think you'll be more impressed. We'll talk then." He looks significantly at Anderson. "And we'll talk at a place of my choosing." He finishes his drink.

"Why wait? What's going to change between now and then?"

Carlyle settles his hat on his head and smiles. "Everything, my dear
farang
. Everything."

9

Emiko wakes to afternoon swelter. She stretches, breathing shallowly in the oven bake of her five-by.

There is a place for windups. The knowledge tingles within her. A reason to live.

She presses a hand up against the WeatherAll planks that divide her sleeping slot from the one above. Touching the knots. Thinking of the last time she felt so content. Remembering Japan and the luxuries that Gendo-sama bequeathed: her own flat; climate control that blew cool through humid summer days;
dangan
fish that glowed and changed colors like chameleons, iridescent and changeable dependent on their speed: blue slow fish, red fast ones. She used to tap the glass of their tank and watch them streak red through dark waters, their windup nature in brightest bloom.

She, too, used to glow brightly. She was built well. Trained well. Knew the ways of pillow companion, secretary, translator and observer, services for her master that she performed so admirably that he honored her like a dove, and released her into the bright blue arc of the sky. She had been so honored.

The WeatherAll knots stare down at her, the only decoration on the divider that separates her sleeping slot from the one above and keeps the garbage of her neighbors from raining down. Linseed reek billows off the wood, nauseating in the five-by's hot confines. In Japan there were rules about using such wood for human habitation. Here in the tower slums, no one cares.

Emiko's lungs burn. She breathes shallowly, listening to the grunt and snore of the other bodies. No sound filters down from the slot above. Puenthai must not be back. Otherwise, she would have suffered already, would have been kicked or fucked by now. It's not often that she survives a whole day without abuse. Puenthai is not yet home. Perhaps he is dead. The
fa' gan
fringe on his neck was certainly thick enough the last time she saw him.

She squirms out of her slot and straightens in the narrow gap between the five-by and the door. Stretches again, then reaches in and fumbles for her plastic bottle, yellowed and thinned with age. Drinks blood-warm water. She swallows convulsively, wishing she had ice.

Two flights up, a splintered door gives way and she spills out onto the roof. Sunlight and heat envelop her. Even with the sun hammering down, it is cooler than her five-by.

All around her, clotheslines draped with rustling
pha sin
and trousers rustle in the sea breeze. The sun is sinking, glistening from the tips of
wats
and
chedi
. The water of the
khlongs
and the Chao Phraya glistens. Kink-spring skiffs and trimaran clipper ships glide across red mirrors.

To the north, the distance is lost in the orange haze of dung burn and humidity, but somewhere out there, if the pale scarred
farang
is to be believed, windups dwell. Somewhere beyond the armies that war for shares of coal and jade and opium, her own lost tribe awaits her. She was never Japanese; she was only ever a windup. And now her true clan awaits her, if only she can find a way.

She stares north a moment longer, hungering, then goes to the bucket she stowed the night before. There is no water on the upper levels, no pressure to reach so high, and she cannot risk bathing at the public pumps—so every night she struggles up the stairs with her water bucket, and leaves it here in anticipation of the day.

In the privacy of the open air and the setting sun, she bathes. It is a ritual process, a careful cleansing. The bucket of water, a fingerling of soap. She squats beside the bucket and ladles the warm water over herself. It is a precise thing, a scripted act as deliberate as
Jo No Mai
, each move choreographed, a worship of scarcity.

She pours a ladleful over her head. Water courses down her face, runs over breasts and ribs and thighs, trickles onto hot concrete. Another ladleful, soaking her black hair, coursing down her spine and curling around her buttocks. Again a ladle of water, sheeting over her skin like mercury. And then the soap, rubbing it into her hair and then her skin, scouring herself of the previous night's insults until she wears a pale sheen of suds. And again the bucket and ladle, rinsing herself as carefully as with the first wetting.