The Windup Girl

41

“I thought we weren’t going to move for another two weeks,” Anderson protests. “We don’t have everything in place.”

“Plans must change. Your weapons and funding are still quite helpful.” Akkarat shrugs. “In any case, having farang shock troops in the city would not necessarily smooth the transition. It’s possible that this accelerated timetable is best.”

Explosions rumble across the city. A methane fire is burning, bright and green, yellowing now as it finds dry bamboo and other materials. Akkarat studies the burn, waves to the man with the radio phone. The private cranks at the power as Akkarat speaks quietly, issuing orders for fire teams to be dispatched to the blaze. He glances at Anderson, explains. “If the fires get out of control, we won’t have a city to defend.”

Anderson studies the spreading fire, the gleam of palace chedi, the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. “That fire’s near the city pillar.”

“Khap. We can’t allow the pillar to burn. It would be a bad omen for a new regime that is supposed to be strong and forward-looking.”

Anderson goes and leans on a balcony railing. His hand, splinted now, still throbs, but with the bone reset by a military doctor, it feels better than it has in hours. A swaddling layer of morphine helps keep the pain at bay.

Another arc of fire crosses the sky, a missile that buries itself in the distance, somewhere in the Environment Ministry compound. It’s hard to believe the forces that Akkarat has mustered for his ascension. The man had far more power at his disposal than he let on. Anderson pretends nonchalance as he asks the next question.

“I assume this accelerated schedule won’t affect the specifics of our agreement.”

“AgriGen remains a favored partner in the new era.” At these soothing words, Anderson relaxes, but Akkarat’s next sentence yanks him alert. “Of course, the situation has changed somewhat. After all, you were unable to bring certain promised resources to bear.”

Anderson looks at him sharply. “We had a timetable. The promised troops are en route, along with more weapons and funding.”

Akkarat smiles slightly. “Don’t look so concerned. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

“We want the seedbank still.”

Akkarat shrugs. “I understand your position.”

“Don’t forget that Carlyle also has the pumps you’ll need before the rainy season.”

Akkarat glances at Carlyle. “I’m sure separate arrangements can be made.”

“No!”

Carlyle grins, glances from one to the other, then holds up his hands as he backs away. “You all work this out. It’s not my argument.”

“Just so.” Akkarat turns back to the arrangements of the battle.

Anderson watches, eyes narrowed. They still have leverage on this man. Guarantees of fertile, latest generation seedstock. Rice that will resist blister rust for at least a dozen plantings. He considers how best to affect Akkarat, to bring him back into alignment, but the morphine and exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours are wearing on him.

Smoke from one of the fires drifts across them, sending everyone into coughing fits before the wind shifts again. More tracer fire and shells arc across the city, followed by the distant rumble of explosions.

Carlyle frowns. “What was that?”

“Probably the Army’s Krut Company. Their commander refused our friendship offer. He’ll be shelling the anchor pads on behalf of Pracha.” Akkarat says. “The white shirts don’t want to allow a resupply. They’ll also go after the seawalls if we let them.”

“But the city would drown.”

“And it would be our fault.” Akkarat grimaces. “In the December 12 coup, the dikes were barely defended successfully. If Pracha feels he is losing-and by now he must know he is-then the white shirts may try to take the city hostage to force a more favorable surrender.” He shrugs. “It’s a pity we don’t already have your coal pumps delivered.”

“As soon as the shooting stops,” Carlyle says, “I’ll contact Kolkata and ship them out.”

“I would have expected no less.” Akkarat’s teeth gleam.

Anderson fights to keep the scowl off his own face. He doesn’t like their friendly banter. It’s almost as if their earlier captivity is forgotten, and Carlyle and Akkarat are old friends. He doesn’t like the way Akkarat seems to have separated Anderson’s own interests from Carlyle’s.

Anderson studies the landscape, mulling his options. If he just knew the location of the seedbank, he could order a strike team to move in and take it in the confusion of this urban war…

Shouts filter up from below. People milling in the streets, all of them looking toward the havoc, all of them curious what this warfare bodes for them. He follows the gaze of the confused throng. Old Expansion towers stand black amongst the fires, bits of remnant glass windows twinkling merrily with the blazes all around. Beyond the city and the fires, the black ocean ripples, a sheet of darkness. From high up, the seawalls seem curiously insubstantial. A ring of gas lights, and then nothing beyond except hungry blackness.

“Can they really breach the dikes?” he asks.

Akkarat shrugs. “There are weak points. We had planned to defend them with additional Navy personnel from the south, but we think we can hold.”

“And if you don’t?”

“The man who allows the city to drown will never be forgiven,” Akkarat says. “It cannot be allowed. We will fight for the dikes as if we are the villagers of Bang Rajan.”

Anderson watches the burning fires and the sea beyond. Carlyle leans on the railing beside him. His face glimmers in the light. He has the satisfied smile of a man who cannot lose. Anderson leans over. “Akkarat might have influence here, but AgriGen is everywhere else.” He locks eyes with the trader. “Remember that.” He’s pleased to see Carlyle’s smile falter.

More gunfire echoes across the landscape. From high up, the battle lacks visceral power. It’s a battle of ants fighting over piles of sand. As if someone has kicked two nests together to test the clash of trivial civilizations. Mortars rumble. Fires twinkle and flare.

In the distance, a shadow descends from the black night overhead. A dirigible, sinking toward the city blazes. It floats low over the fires and suddenly a portion of a blaze winks out as a deluge of seawater pours from its belly.

Akkarat watches, smiling. “Ours,” he says.

And then, as though the fire is not snuffed, but actually airborne, the dirigible explodes. Flames roar around it, pieces of its skin blazing and peeling off, fluttering away as the whole great beast sinks toward the city and crashes to pieces on the buildings.

“Christ,” Anderson says, “you sure you don’t want our reinforcements now?”

Akkarat’s face remains impassive. “I didn’t think they would have time to deploy missiles.”

A massive explosion rocks the city, green gas burning bright, rising at the skyline’s edge. A cloud of flame, roiling and expanding. Unimaginable pounds of compressed gas going up in a roaring green mushroom.

“The Environment Ministry’s strategic reserve, I think,” Akkarat comments.

“Beautiful,” Carlyle murmurs. “Fucking beautiful.”