The Windup Girl

49

AgriGen people march off the docks. Kanya and her men stand at attention, an honor guard for demons. The farang all stand and squint at the tropic sun, taking in the land they have never before seen. They point rudely at young girls walking down the street, talk and laugh loudly. They are an uncouth race. So confident.

“They’re very self-satisfied,” Pai mutters.

Kanya startles at hearing her own thoughts voiced aloud, but doesn’t respond. Simply waits while Akkarat meets these new creatures. A blond, scowling woman called Elizabeth Boudry is at their head, an AgriGen creature through and through.

She has a long sweeping black cloak as do others of the AgriGen people, all of them with their red wheat crest logos shining in the sun. The only satisfying thing about seeing these people in their hated uniforms is that the tropic heat must be awful for them. Their faces shine with sweat.

Akkarat says to Kanya. “These are the ones who will be going to the seedbank.”

“Are you sure about this?” she asks.

He shrugs. “They only want samples. Genetic diversity for their generipping. The Kingdom will benefit as well.”

Kanya studies the people who used to be called calorie demons and who now walk so brazenly in Krung Thep, the City of Divine Beings. Crates of grain are coming off the ship and being stacked on megodont wagons, the AgriGen logo prominent on every one.

Seeming to sense her thoughts, Akkarat says, “We’ve passed the time when we can hide behind our walls and hope to survive. We must engage with this outside world.”

“But the seedbank,” Kanya protests quietly. “King Rama’s legacy.”

Akkarat nods shortly. “They will only be taking samples. Do not concern yourself.” He turns to another farang and shakes hands with him in the foreign style. Speaks with him using the Angrit language and sends him on his way.

“Richard Carlyle,” Akkarat comments as he returns to Kanya’s side. “We’ll have our pumps, finally. He’s sending out a dirigible this afternoon. With luck we’ll beat the rainy season.” He looks at her significantly. “You understand all this? You understand what I’m doing here? It is better to lose a little of the Kingdom than everything. There are times to fight and times to negotiate. We cannot survive if we are entirely isolated. History tells us we must engage with the outside world.”

Kanya nods stiffly.

Jaidee leans over her shoulder. “At least they never got Gi Bu Sen.”

“I would rather give them Gi Bu Sen than the seedbank,” Kanya mutters.

“Yes, but I think that losing the man was even more irritating to them.” He nods at the Boudry woman. “She was quite enraged. Shouted, even. Lost all her face. Paced back and forth waving her arms.” He demonstrates.

Kanya grimaces. “Akkarat was angry, too. He was after me all day, demanding to know how we could have allowed the old man to escape.”

“A clever man, that one.”

Kanya laughs. “Akkarat?”

“The generipper.”

Before Kanya can plumb more of Jaidee’s thoughts, the Boudry woman and her seed scientists approach. An ancient yellow card Chinese man approaches with her. He stands ramrod straight, nods to Kanya. “I will be translating for Khun Elizabeth Boudry.”

Kanya makes herself smile politely as she studies the people before her. This is what it comes to. Yellow cards and farang.

“Everything is change.” Jaidee sighs. “It would be good for you to remember it. Clinging to the past, worrying about the future…” He shrugs. “It’s all suffering.”

The farang are waiting for her. Impatient. She guides them down into the war-damaged streets. Somewhere in the distance, off near the anchor pads, a tank booms. Perhaps a cell of holdout students, people not under her control. People beholden to different sorts of honor than she. She waves to two of her new underlings, Malivalaya and Yuthakon, if she remembers correctly.

“General,” one of them starts, but Kanya scowls at him.

“I told you, no more generals. No more of that nonsense. I am a captain. If captain was good enough for Jaidee, then I won’t name myself higher.”

Malivalaya wais apology. Kanya orders the farang into the comfort of the coal-diesel car, and then they are whispering through the streets. It is a luxury that she has never experienced, but she forces herself not to exclaim at Akkarat’s suddenly exposed wealth. The car slides through the empty streets, making its way toward the City Pillar Shrine.

Fifteen minutes later, they emerge from the car into burning sun. Monks lower their heads in courtesy to her, acknowledging her authority. She nods back, feeling sick. In this, King Rama XII placed the Environment Ministry above even monks.

The monks throw open gates and lead her and the rest of the entourage down below, down into the cool deeps. Airtight doors swing up, filtered air under negative pressure wafts out. Perfectly humid air, chilly. She forces herself not to clutch her arms to her as the cool increases. More vault doors open, revealing interior corridors, powered by coal-burning systems, triple fail-safed.

Monks in saffron wait politely, stepping away from her to ensure that she doesn’t come in contact with them. She turns to the Boudry woman. “Don’t touch the monks. They have taken vows not to touch women.”

The yellow card translates into the farang’s squawking language. Kanya hears a snort of laughter behind her but forces herself not to react. The Boudry woman and her generipper scientists all chatter excitedly as they work their way deeper into the seedbank. The yellow card translator doesn’t bother to explain their weird exclamations, but Kanya can guess most of it from the delighted expressions.

She leads them deeper into the vaults, to the cataloging rooms, all the time thinking on the nature of loyalty. Better to give up a limb than to give up the head. The Kingdom survives when other countries fall because of Thai practicality.

Kanya glances back at the farang. Their greedy pale eyes scan the shelves, the vacuum-sealed containers of thousands of seeds, each one a potential line of defense against their kind. The true treasure of a kingdom, laid out before them. The spoils of war.

When the Burmese toppled Ayutthaya, the city fell without a fight. And now, again, it is the same. In the end, after all the blood and sweat and deaths and toil, after the struggles of seed saints and martyrs like Phra Seub, after the sale of girls like Kip to Gi Bu Sen and all the rest, it comes down to this. Farang standing triumphant at the heart of a kingdom betrayed once again by ministers uncaring for the crown.

“Don’t take it so badly.” Jaidee touches her on her shoulder. “We all must come to terms with our failures, Kanya.”

“I am sorry. For everything.”

“I forgave you a long time ago. We all have our patrons and our loyalties. It was kamma that brought you to Akkarat before you came to me.”

“I never thought it would come to this.”

“It is a great loss.” Jaidee agrees. Then he shrugs. “But even now, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

Kanya glances over at the farang. One of the scientists catches her eye, says something to the woman. Kanya can’t tell if it is mocking or thoughtful. Their wheat crest logos gleam in the flicker of electric lighting.

Jaidee raises an eyebrow. “There is always Her Majesty the Queen, yes?”

“And what can that accomplish?”

“Would you not prefer to be remembered as a villager of Bang Rajan who fought when all was lost, and held the Burmese at bay for a little while, than as one of the cowardly courtiers of Ayutthaya who sacrificed a kingdom?”

“It’s all ego,” Kanya mutters.

“Maybe.” Jaidee shrugs. “But I’ll tell you true: Ayutthaya was nothing in our history. Did the Thai not survive the sack of it? Have we not survived the Burmese? The Khmers? The French? The Japanese? The Americans? The Chinese? The calorie companies? Have we not held them all at bay when others fell? It is our people who carry the lifeblood of this country, not this city. Our people carry the names that the Chakri gave us, and it is our people who are everything. And it is this seedbank that sustains us.”

“But His Majesty declared that we would always defend—”

“King Rama did not care an ounce for Krung Thep; he cared for us, and so he made a symbol for us to protect. But it is not the city, it is the people that matter. What good is a city if the people are enslaved?”

Kanya’s breathing has become rapid. Icy air saws in and out of her lungs. The Boudry woman says something. The generippers yawp in their awful tongue. Kanya turns to Pai.

“Follow my lead.”

She draws her spring gun and fires it point blank into the farang woman’s head.