The Windup Girl

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.”

Anderson keeps his expression steady as he looks Akkarat in the eye. “If you hurt us, you’ll pay.”

“AgriGen will punish us.” Akkarat nods. “Yes. That is a problem. But then, AgriGen is always angry with us.”

“Untie me, and we forget all this.”

“Trust you, you mean. I worry that this is not wise.”

“Revolutions are a rough business. I don’t hold a grudge.” Anderson grins, feral, willing the man to believe. “No harm, no foul. We still want the same things. Nothing’s been done that can’t be undone.”

Akkarat cocks his head, thoughtful. Anderson wonders if he’s about to get a knife in the ribs.

Abruptly, Akkarat smiles. “You are a hard man.”

Anderson stifles a flutter of hope. “Just practical. Our interests are still aligned. No one benefits with us dead. This is still a small misunderstanding that we can undo.”

Akkarat considers. Turns to one of the guards and requests a knife. Anderson holds his breath as it comes close, but then the blade is slicing between his wrists, setting him free. His arms flood with tingling blood. He works them slowly. They feel like blocks of wood. Needle pricks follow. “Christ.”

“It will take a little while for your circulation to recover. Be glad we were gentle with you.” Akkarat catches sight of the way Anderson cradles his injured hand. Smiles with embarrassment and apology. Calls for a doctor before going over to Carlyle.

“What is this place?” Anderson asks.

“An emergency command center. When it was determined that the white shirts were involved I moved our operations here, for security.” Akkarat nods at the kink-spring drums. “We have megodont teams in the basement sending up power. And no one should know that we had this center equipped.”

“I didn’t know you had something like this.”

Akkarat smiles. “We are partners, not lovers. I do not share all my secrets with anyone.”

“Have you caught the windup yet?”

“It’s only a matter of time. Her likeness is now posted everywhere. The city will not permit her to live amongst us. It is one thing to bribe a few white shirts. Another to attack the palace.”

Anderson thinks back to Emiko, to her huddled fear. “I still can’t believe that a windup could do something like that.”

Akkarat glances up. “It is confirmed by witnesses, and by the Japanese who constructed her. The windup is a killer. We will find her and execute her in the old way, and we will be done with her. And the Japanese will be made to pay reparations unimaginable for their criminal carelessness.” Abruptly he smiles. “On this at least, the white shirts and I agree.”

Carlyle’s hands come free. Akkarat is called away by an army officer.

Carlyle pulls off his gag. “We friends again?”

Anderson shrugs, watching the activity around them. “As much as anyone in a revolution can be.”

“How you doing?”

Anderson touches his chest gingerly. “Broken ribs.” He nods at his hand where the doctor is splinting his finger. “Busted finger. Think my jaw’s okay.” He shrugs. “You?”

“Better than that. I think my shoulder’s sprained. But I wasn’t the one who introduced the rogue windup.”

Anderson coughs and winces. “Yeah, well, lucky you.”

One of the army people is cranking a radio phone, gears ratcheting. Akkarat takes a call.

“Yes?” He nods, speaks in Thai.

Anderson can only catch a few words, but Carlyle’s eyes widen as he listens. “They’re taking the radio stations,” he whispers.

“What?” Anderson scrambles to his feet, wincing, pushing aside the doctor still working on his hand. Guards lunge in front of him, blocking him from Akkarat. Anderson calls over their shoulders as they shove him back against the wall. “You’re starting? Now?”

Akkarat glances up from his phone, finishes his conversation calmly and hands the receiver back to his communications officer. The winding man settles back on his haunches, waiting for the next call. The flywheel hum slows.

Akkarat says, “The Somdet Chaopraya’s assassination has brought out a great deal of hostility for the white shirts. Protests outside the Environment Ministry. Even the Megodont Union is involved. People were already angry at the Ministry’s crackdowns. I have decided we will capitalize on this.”

“But we don’t have our assets in place,” Anderson protests. “You don’t have all your army units down from the northeast. My strike teams aren’t supposed to be ashore for another week.”

Akkarat shrugs and smiles. “Revolutions are a messy business. It is better to take the opportunities that come before us. Still, I think that you will be pleasantly surprised.” He turns back to his hand-cranked radio phone. The steady whir of the flywheel fills the room as Akkarat talks to people under his command.

Anderson watches Akkarat’s back. The man, once so obsequious in the presence of the Somdet Chaopraya, is now in charge. He issues orders in a steady stream. Every so often the phone buzzes again for attention.

“This is crazy,” Carlyle murmurs. “Are we still in it at all?”

“Hard to say.”

Akkarat glances over at them, seems about to say something, but instead he cocks his head. “Listen,” he says. His voice has become reverent.

A rumble rolls across the city. Through the command post’s open windows, light flares briefly, like lightning in a storm. Akkarat smiles.

“It’s starting.”