The Windup Girl

37

The main compounds of Mishimoto & Co. lie on the far side of the water, in Thonburi. The boat makes its way into a khlong, Kanya’s hand careful on the tiller. Even here, outside of Bangkok proper, whisper sheets complain of Pracha and the windup killer.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to come alone?” Jaidee asks.

“I’ve got you. It’s enough company for anyone.”

“I’m not so great at muay thai in this state.”

“Pity.”

The company’s gates and jetties rise over the waves. The late afternoon sun scalds down on them. A water merchant paddles close, but even though Kanya is hungry, she does not dare waste even a moment. Already the sun seems to be crashing out of the sky. Her boat thumps against the pier and she whips its bow rope around a cleat.

“I don’t think they’ll let you in,” Jaidee says. Kanya doesn’t bother answering. It’s odd that he has remained with her all the way across the water. The pattern of his phii was to take interest in her for a short time, and then to drift off to other things and other people. Perhaps he visited his children. Made apologies to Chaya’s mother. But now he is with her all the time.

Jaidee says, “They won’t be impressed with that white uniform, either. They’ve got too much influence with the Trade Ministry and the police.”

Kanya doesn’t answer, but sure enough, a Thonburi detachment of a police patrol guards the main gates of the compound. All around, the sea and khlongs lap. The Japanese are forward-looking, and have built themselves entirely on the water, on floating bamboo rafts that are said to lie nearly fifty feet thick, creating a compound nearly impervious to the floods and tides of the Chao Phraya River.

“I need to speak with Mr. Yashimoto.”

“He is not available.”

“It concerns property of his that was damaged during the unfortunate raids on the airfields. Paperwork for reparations.”

The guard smiles uncertainly. Ducks inside.

Jaidee snickers. “Clever.”

Kanya makes a face at him. “At least you have some use.”

“Even if I’m dead.”

A moment later they are being led into the halls of the compound. It is not a long walk. High walls obscure all evidence of manufacturing activity. The Megodont Union complains that no work could be accomplished without a power source, and yet the Japanese neither import their own megodonts, nor hire the union. It reeks of illegal technology. And yet the Japanese have provided a great deal of technical assistance to the Kingdom. In return for Thai seedstock advances, the Japanese provide the best of their sailing technologies. And so everyone is exquisitely careful not to ask too many questions about how a ship’s hull is built and if the development process is entirely legal.

A door opens. A pretty girl smiles and bows. Kanya nearly draws her spring gun. The creature before her is a windup. The girl doesn’t seem to notice Kanya’s unease, though. Simply motions in her stutter-stop way for her to enter. Inside, the room is carefully decorated with tatami mats and Sumi-e paintings. A man Kanya assumes is Mr. Yashimoto kneels, painting. The windup leads Kanya to a seat.

Jaidee admires the art on the walls. “He painted it all, you know.”

“How would you know?”

“I came to see if they really have ten-hands in their factory. Right after I died.”

“And do they?”

Jaidee shrugs. “Go look for yourself.”

Mr. Yashimoto dips his brush, and in an exquisitely swift motion completes the painting. He rises and bows to Kanya. He begins speaking in Japanese. The windup girl’s own voice follows a second later, with a translation into Thai.

“I am honored by your visit.”

He is silent for a moment and the windup girl falls silent as well. She is very pretty, Kanya supposes. In a strange porcelain way. Her cropped jacket is open at the collar, revealing the hollow of her throat, and her pale skirt molds fetchingly around her hips. She would be beautiful, if she were not so perverse.

“You know why I’m here?”

He nods shortly. “We have heard rumors of an unfortunate incident. And have seen our country discussed in your papers and whisper sheets.” He looks at her significantly. “Many voices are being raised against us. Most unfair and inaccurate observations.”

Kanya nods. “We have questions—”

“I wish to assure you that we are a friend of the Thai. From times long ago when we cooperated in the great war to now, we have always been a friend of the Thai.”

“I want to know how—”

Yashimoto interrupts again. “Tea?” he offers.

Kanya forces herself to remain polite. “You’re very kind.”

Yashimoto motions to the windup girl, and she stands and leaves the room. Unconsciously, Kanya relaxes. The creature is… unsettling. And yet now that she is gone, silence stretches between them as they wait for the translator to return. Kanya feels seconds ticking away, minutes being lost. Time, time, time moving. Storm clouds gathering and here she sits, waiting for tea.

The windup girl returns, kneels beside them at the low table. Kanya forces herself not to speak, not to interrupt the girl’s precise whisking and steeping of the tea, but it is an effort. The windup girl pours, and as Kanya watches the creature’s strange movements, she thinks she sees a little of what the Japanese desired from their engineered servants. The girl is perfect, precise as clockwork, and contextualized by the tea ceremony, all her motions take on a ritual grace.

The windup carefully does not observe Kanya in return. Does not say anything about her being a white shirt. Does not observe that in another context Kanya would happily mulch her. She ignores Kanya’s Environment Ministry uniform entirely. Exquisitely polite.

Yashimoto waits for Kanya to sip her tea, then sips himself. Sets his tea deliberately on the table. “Our countries have been friends always,” he says. “Ever since our Emperor made a gift of tilapia to the Kingdom in the time of your great scientist King Bhumibol’s time. We have always been steadfast.” He looks at her significantly. “I hope that we can help you in this matter, but I wish to emphasize that we are friends of your country.”

“Tell me about windups,” Kanya says.

Yashimoto nods. “What do you wish to know?” He smiles, motions at the girl kneeling beside them. “This one, you can see for yourself.”

Kanya keeps her expression impassive. It is difficult. The creature beside her is beautiful. Her skin is sleek, her movements surprisingly elegant. And she makes Kanya’s skin crawl. “Tell me why you have them.”

Yashimoto shrugs. “We are an old nation; our young are few. Good girls like Hiroko fill the gap. We are not the same as the Thai. We have calories but no one to provide the labor. We need personal assistants. Workers.”

Kanya carefully makes no show of disgust. “Yes. You Japanese are very different. And except for your country, we have never granted this sort of niche—”

“Crime,” Jaidee supplies.

“-exemption,” she finishes. “No one else is allowed to bring in creatures like this one.” She nods unwillingly at the translator, trying to hide the disgust in her voice. “No other country. No other factory.”

“We are aware of the privilege.”

“And yet you abuse it by bringing a military windup—”

Hiroko’s words cut her off, even as Kanya continues to speak. Hiroko instead picks up the vehement response from her owner.

“No! This is impossible. We have no contact with such technology. None!”

Yashimoto’s face is flushed, and Kanya wonders at his sudden anger. What sort of cultural insult has she unwittingly delivered? The windup girl continues her translation, no trace of emotion on her own face as she speaks with her owner’s voice. “We work with New Japanese like Hiroko. She is loyal, thoughtful, and skilled. And a necessary tool. She is as necessary as a hoe for a farmer or a sword for a samurai.”

“Strange that you mention a sword.”

“Hiroko is no military creature. We do not have such technology.”

Kanya reaches into her pocket and slaps down the picture of the windup killer. “And yet one of yours, imported by you, registered to your staff, has now assassinated the Somdet Chaopraya and eight others, and disappeared into thin air, as if she is some raging phii. But you sit before me and tell me that it is impossible for a military windup to be here!” Her voice rises to a shout, and the windup girl’s translation finishes at a similar intensity.

Yashimoto’s face stills. He takes the picture and studies it. “We will have to check our records.”

He nods to Hiroko. She takes the photo and disappears out the door. Kanya watches Yashimoto for traces of anxiety or nervousness, but there are none. Irritation, she sees, but no fear. She regrets that she cannot speak directly with the man. Listening to her words echo into Japanese, Kanya wonders what surprise is lost when the windup girl delivers them. What preparation Hiroko provides for his shock.

They wait. He silently offers more tea. She refuses. He does not drink anymore himself. The tension in the room is so thick that Kanya half expects the man to leap to his feet and cut her down with the ancient sword that adorns the wall behind him.

A few minutes later, Hiroko returns. She hands the picture back to Kanya with a bow. Then speaks to Yashimoto. Neither of them betray any emotion. Hiroko kneels again beside them. Yashimoto nods at the photograph. “You’re sure this was the one?”

Kanya nods. “There is no question.”

“And this assassination explains the increasing rage in the city. There are crowds gathering outside the factory. Boat people. The police have driven them away, but they were coming with torches.”

Kanya stifles her nervousness at the increasing frenzy. Everything is moving too fast. At some point, Akkarat and Pracha will be unable to back off without losing face and then everything will be lost. “The people are very angry,” she says.

“It is misplaced anger. She is not a military windup.” When Kanya tries to challenge him, he looks at her fiercely and she subsides. “Mishimoto knows nothing of military windups. Nothing. Such creatures are kept under strict control. They are used by our Defense Ministry, only. I could never possess one.” He locks eyes with her. “Never.”

“And yet—”

He continues to speak, with Hiroko translating, “I know of the windup you describe. She had fulfilled her duty—”

The windup girl’s voice breaks off even as the old man continues speaking. She straightens and her eyes flick to Yashimoto. He frowns at her break in decorum. Says something to the windup. She ducks her head. “Hai.”

Another pause.

He nods at her to continue. She regains her composure, finishes translating. “She was destroyed according to requirements, rather than repatriated.” The windup’s dark eyes are on Kanya, steady, unblinking now, betraying nothing of the surprise she evinced a moment before.

Kanya watches the girl and the old man, two alien people. “And yet she apparently survived,” she says finally.

“I was not the manager at the time,” Yashimoto says. “I can only speak to what I know from our records.”

“Records lie, apparently.”

“You are correct. For this, there is no excuse. I am ashamed of what others have done, but I have no knowledge of the thing.”

Kanya leans forward. “If you cannot tell me how she survived, then please, tell me how it is that this girl, capable of killing so many men in the space of heartbeats could come into this country. You tell me she is not military, but, to be direct, I’m having difficulty believing that she is not. This is a gross breach of our country’s agreements.”

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.”