Hock Seng tugs Laughing Chan’s arm. “Let’s go.” The Thais are already hurriedly gathering the radio and ducking back into their shop. When Hock Seng looks back again, the street corner is entirely empty, as if the moment of political discussion hadn’t existed at all.
The fighting worsens as they near the manufacturing district. The Environment Ministry and the Army seem to be everywhere, warring. And for every professional unit on the street, there are others, the volunteers and student associations and civilians and loyalists, mobilized by political factions. Hock Seng pauses in a doorway, panting, as explosions and rifle fire echo.
“I can’t tell any of them apart,” Laughing Chan mutters as a group of university students carrying short machetes and wearing yellow armbands runs past, headed for a tank that’s busy shelling an old Expansion tower. “They’re all wearing yellow.”
“Everyone wants to claim loyalty to the Queen.”
“Does she even exist?”
Hock Seng shrugs. A student’s spring gun blades bounce off the tank’s armor. The thing is huge. Hock Seng can’t help being impressed that the Army has successfully loaded so many tanks into the capital. He supposes the Navy and its admirals provided assistance. Which means General Pracha and his white shirts have no allies left. “They’re all crazy,” Hock Seng mutters. “It doesn’t make any difference who is who.” He studies the street. His knee is hurting, his old injury making him slow. “I wish we could find some bicycles. My leg …” He grimaces.
“If you were on a bike, shooting you would be as easy as shooting a grandmother on a stoop.”
Hock Seng rubs his knee. “Still, I’m too old for this.”
Rubble showers them from another explosion. Laughing Chan brushes debris out of his hair. “I hope this is worth the trip.”
“You could be back in the slums, roasting alive.”
“That’s true.” Laughing Chan nods. “But let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep testing our luck.”
More dark intersections. More violence. Rumors flying on the streets. Executions in Parliament. The Trade Ministry in flames. Thammasat University students rallying on behalf of the Queen. And then another radio broadcast. A new frequency, everyone says, as they all huddle around the tinny speaker. The announcer sounds shaken. Hock Seng wonders if there is a spring gun at her head. Khun Supawadi. She was always so popular. Always introduced such interesting radio plays. And now her voice trembles as she begs her countrymen to stay calm while tanks rush through the streets, securing everything from the anchor pads to the docks. The radio’s speaker crackles with the sound of shelling and explosions. A few seconds later, explosions rumble in the distance like muffled thunder, a perfect echo of the ones on the radio.
“She’s closer to the fighting than we are,” Laughing Chan says.
“Is that a good sign, or a bad one?” Hock Seng wonders.
Laughing Chan starts to answer but a megodont’s screams of rage interrupt, followed by the whine of spring guns unleashing. Everyone looks down the street. “That sounds bad.”
“Hide,” Hock Seng says.
“Too late.”
A wave of people pours around the corner, running and screaming. A trio of carbon-armored megodonts thunders behind them. The massive heads sweep low, slashing from side to side, their tusks slash through the fleeing people with attached scythe blades. Bodies split like oranges and fly like leaves.
From atop the megodonts, machine gun cages open fire. Flickering silver streams of bladed disks pour into the packed crowd. Hock Seng and Laughing Chan crouch in a doorway as people flee past. The white shirts in their midst fire their own spring guns and single-shot rifles as they run, but the disks are entirely ineffective against the armored megodonts. The Environment Ministry isn’t equipped for this sort of warfare. Ricocheting ammunition flurries around them as the machine guns chatter. People collapse in bloody writhing piles, howling agony as the megodonts trample over them. Dust and smoke and musk choke the street. A man is flung aside by a megodont and slams into Hock Seng. Blood gouts from his mouth, but he is already dead.
Hock Seng crawls out from under the corpse. More people are forming up and firing at the megodonts. Students, Hock Seng thinks, perhaps from Thammasat, but it’s impossible to tell who they are loyal to, and Hock Seng wonders if even they know who they are fighting.
The megodonts wheel and charge. People pile up against Hock Seng, trying to get out of the way. Their mass crushes him. He can’t breathe. He tries to cry out, to clear space for himself, but the crush is too great. He screams. The weight of desperate fleeing people presses down upon him, squeezing out the last of his air. A megodont sweeps into them. It backs and charges again, tearing into the clot of people, swinging its bladed tusks. Students throw bottles of oil up at the megodonts and hurl torches up after, spinning lights and fire—
More razor disks rain down. Hock Seng cowers as the guns sweep toward him, spitting silver. A boy stares into his eyes, yellow headband slipped down over his bleeding face. Hock Seng’s leg blossoms with pain. He can’t tell if he’s shot or if his knee is broken. He screams in frustration and fear. The weight of bodies pushes him to the ground. He’s going to die. Crushed under the dead. Despite everything, he failed to understand the capriciousness of warfare. In his arrogance he thought he could prepare. Such a fool …
Silence comes suddenly. His ears are ringing, but there’s no more weapons fire and no more trumpeting megodonts. Hock Seng takes a shuddering breath beneath the weight of bodies. All around him, he hears only moans and sobbing.
“Ah Chan?” he calls.
No answer.
Hock Seng claws his way out. Others are dragging themselves free of the massacre as well. Helping their wounded. Hock Seng can barely stand. His leg is awash with pain. He’s covered with blood. He searches through the bodies, trying to find Laughing Chan, but if the man is in the pile, he is covered in too much blood and there are too many bodies and it is too dark to pick him out.
Hock Seng calls for him again, peering into the mass. Down the street, a methane lamp burns bright, shattered, its neck spurting gas into the sky. Hock Seng supposes it could explode at any moment, ripping through the methane pipes of the city, but he can’t muster the energy to care.
He stares around at the bodies. Most of them are students, it seems. Just foolish children. Trying to do battle with megodonts. Fools. He forces down memories of his own children, dead and piled. The massacres of Malaya, writ on Thai pavement. He pries a spring gun from a dead white shirt’s hands, checks its load. Only a few disks left, but still. He pumps the spring, adding energy. Shoves it into his pocket. Children playing at war. Children who don’t deserve to die, but are too foolish to live.
In the distance, the battle rages still, moved on to other avenues and other victims. Hock Seng limps down the street. Bodies lie everywhere. He reaches an intersection and hobbles across, too tired to care about the risk of being caught in the open. At the far side, a man lies slumped against a wall, his bicycle lying beside him. Blood soaks his lap.
Hock Seng picks up the bicycle.
“That’s mine,” the man says.
Hock Seng pauses, studying the man. The man can barely keep his eyes open, yet still he clings to normalcy, to the idea that something like a bicycle can be owned. Hock Seng turns and wheels the bicycle down off the sidewalk. The man calls out again, “That’s mine.” But he doesn’t stand and he doesn’t do anything to stop Hock Seng as he swings a leg over the frame and sets his feet on the pedals.
If the man complains again, Hock Seng doesn’t hear it.
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.”
42
Hock Seng shelters in an alley as tanks and trucks rumble down Thanon Phosri. He shudders at the thought of the fuel burning. It has to be much of the Kingdom’s diesel stock, all of it going up in a single orgy of violence. Coal smoke fills the air as stoked tanks surge past on clanking treads. Hock Seng crouches in garbage. Everything he planned has fallen apart in this moment of crisis. Instead of waiting and moving north as a careful unit, he left his valuables to burn for the sake of one long-shot risk.
Quit complaining, you old fool. You would have roasted, your purple baht and your yellow card friends all together, if you hadn’t left when you did.
Still, he wishes he’d had the forethought to bring at least some of that carefully squirrelled insurance. He wonders if his karma is so broken that he cannot ever truly hope to succeed.
He peers into the street again. The SpringLife offices are within view. Best of all, there are no guards present. Hock Seng allows himself a smile at that. The white shirts have their own troubles now. He wheels the bicycle across the street, using it as a crutch to keep him upright.
Inside the compound, it looks as though there was brief fighting. A trio of bodies lie agains
t a wall, seemingly executed. Their yellow armbands have been pulled off and tossed in the dust beside them. More foolish children playing at politics—
Movement behind him.
Hock Seng turns and jams his spring gun into his stalker. Mai gasps as his gun barrel buries itself in her guts. Mewls with fear, eyes wide.
“What are you doing here?” Hock Seng whispers.
Mai stumbles back from his gun. “I came to look for you. The white shirts found our village. People are sick there.” She sobs. “And then your house burned.”
For the first time he sees the soot and cuts covering her body. “You were in Yaowarat? In the slums?” he asks, shocked.
She nods. “I was lucky.” She fights back a sob.
Hock Seng shakes his head. “Why come here?”
“I couldn’t think of any other place …”
“And more people are sick?”
She nods, fearful. “The white shirts questioned us, I didn’t know what to do, I told—”
“Don’t worry.” Hock Seng sets a soothing hand on her shoulder.” The white shirts won’t trouble us anymore. They have their own problems.”
“Do you have—” She stops. Finally says, “They burned our village. Everything.”
She is a pathetic creature. So small. So vulnerable. He imagines her fleeing her destroyed home, seeking refuge in the only place left to her. And then finding herself in the heart of warfare. A part of him wants to be rid of her burden, but too many have already died around him, and he is obscurely pleased for her company. He shakes his head. “Foolish child.” He motions her into the factory. “Come with me.”
A furious stink envelopes them as the enter the main hall. They both cover their faces, breathing shallowly.
“The algae baths,” Hock Seng murmurs. “The kink-springs have stopped running the fans. Nothing is being vented.”
He climbs the steps to the office, shoves open the door. The room is close and hot and reeks as badly as the manufacturing floor from the long days without air flow. He pushes open shutters, letting in night breeze and city burn. Across the roofs, flames flicker, sparking in the night like prayers going up to heaven.
Windup Girl Page 42