Sweat trickles down Kanya’s temples but she refuses to move. Even though she surrendered the Environment Ministry into Akkarat’s hands, still she wishes to present it in the best, most disciplined light, and so she remains at attention, sweating, with Pai in the front rank beside her, his face schooled into careful immobility.
She catches sight of Narong standing a little behind Akkarat, watching the proceedings. He inclines his head to her and it is all she can do not to scream at him, to shriek that all of this destruction is his fault. Wanton and pointless and avoidable. Kanya grits her teeth and sweats and drills her hatred into Narong’s forehead. It’s stupid. The one she hates is herself. She will formally surrender the last of her good men and women to Akkarat and see the white shirts disbanded.
Jaidee stands beside her, watching thoughtfully.
“You have something you want to say?” Kanya mutters.
Jaidee shrugs. “They took the rest of my family. In the fighting.”
Kanya sucks in her breath. “I am sorry.” She wishes she could reach out. Touch him.
Jaidee smiles sadly. “It is war. I always tried to explain that to you.”
She wants to answer but Akkarat beckons for her. Now is the time for her abasement. She hates the man so. How is it that her youthful rage can be so undone? She swore as a child she would destroy the white shirts, and yet now her victory has the reek of the Ministry’s burning grounds. Kanya climbs the steps and performs her khrab. Akkarat allows her to remain prostrate for a long time. Above her, she can hear him speaking.
“It is natural to grieve a man such as General Pracha,” he says to the multitudes. “Though he was not loyal, he was passionate, and for that, if nothing else, we owe him a measure of respect. His last days were not his only days. He labored on behalf of the Kingdom for many years. He worked to preserve our people in times of great uncertainty. I will never speak against his good work, even if, at the end, he went astray.”
He pauses, then says, “We, as a Kingdom, must heal.” He looks down at them all. “In the spirit of good will, I am very happy to announce that the Queen has accepted my request that all the combatants who fought on behalf of General Pracha and his coup attempt are granted amnesty. Unconditionally. For those of you who still wish to work at the Environment Ministry, I hope that you will continue to work there with pride. We face all manner of hardships, and we cannot know what our future holds.”
He motions to Kanya to stand and walks across to her.
“Captain Kanya, though you fought against the Kingdom and the palace, I grant you both a pardon and something more.” He pauses. “We must reconcile. We, as a kingdom and nation, must reconcile. Must reach across to one another.”
Kanya’s stomach tightens, she feels sick with disgust at the whole proceeding. Akkarat says, “As you are the highest ranking member of the Environment Ministry, I now appoint you to its head. Your duty is as it was. Protect the Kingdom and Her Royal Majesty the Queen.”
Kanya stares at Akkarat. Behind him, Narong is smiling slightly. He inclines his head, showing respect. Kanya is speechless. She wais, deeply shocked. Akkarat smiles.
“You may dismiss your men, General. Tomorrow we must once again rebuild.”
Still speechless, she wais again, then turns. Her first attempt at an order comes out as a croak. She swallows and give the order again, her voice cracking. Faces, as surprised and uncertain as her own feels, stare up at her. For a moment, she fears that they know her for a fraud, that they will not obey. Then ranks of white shirts turn as one. They march away, uniforms flashing in the sunlight. Jaidee marches with them. But before he does, he wais to her as if she truly is a general, and this hurts more than anything that has come before.
48
“They’re leaving. It’s done.”
Anderson lets his head fall back on the pillow. “We’ve won then.”
Emiko doesn’t respond; she’s still looking out toward the distant parade grounds.
Morning light burns through the window. He is shivering. Freezing and grateful for the onslaught of sun. Sweat pours off of him. Emiko lays a hand on his forehead and he’s surprised to feel that it is cool.
He looks up at her through his haze of fever and sickness. “Is Hock Seng here yet?”
She shakes her head sadly. “Your people are not loyal.”
Anderson almost laughs at that. He pushes ineffectually at his blankets. Emiko helps him strip them away. “No. They’re not.” He turns his face to the sun again, soaking it up, allowing it to bathe him. “But I knew that.” He would laugh more, if he weren’t so tired. If his body didn’t feel as if it was breaking apart.
“Do you want more water?” she asks.
The thought doesn’t appeal. He’s not thirsty. Last night, he was thirsty. When the doctor came at Akkarat’s order he could have drunk the ocean, but now, he is not.
After examining him, the doctor went away, fear in his eyes, saying that he would send people. That the Environment Ministry would have to be notified. That white shirts would come to work some black containment magic upon him. All that time Emiko hid, and after the doctor went away, she waited with Anderson through the days and nights.
At least, he remembers her in fractured moments. He dreamed. Hallucinated. Yates sat with him for a time on his bed. Laughed at him. Pointed out the futility of his life. Peered into his eyes and asked him if he understood. And Anderson tried to answer but his throat was parched. No words could force their way out. And Yates laughed at that as well, and asked him what he thought of the newly arrived AgriGen Trade Representative coming to take his niche. If Anderson liked being replaced any better than he had. And then Emiko was there with a cool cloth and he was grateful, desperately grateful for any sort of attention, for her human connection … and he had laughed weakly at the irony.
Now he looks at Emiko through bleary vision and thinks about debts he owes, and wonders if he will live long enough to pay them.
“We’re going to get you out,” he whispers.
A new wave of shivering takes him. All through the night, he was hot, and now, abruptly he is cold, shaking with the freezing feel, as if he has returned to the Upper Midwest and freezes in those still cold winters, as if he looks out at snow. Now he is cold, and not thirsty at all, and even a windup girl’s fingers feel icy against his face.
He pushes weakly at her hand. “Is Hock Seng here yet?”
“You’re burning up.” Emiko’s face is full of concern.
“Has he come?” Anderson asks. It is intensely important that the man come. That Hock Seng be here, in the room with him. Though he can barely remember why. It is important.
“I think he will not come,” she says. “He has all the letters he needed from you. The introductions. He is already busy with your people. With the new representative. The Boudry woman.”
A cheshire appears on the balcony. It yowls low and slips inside. Emiko doesn’t seem to notice or care, but then, she and it are siblings. Sympathetic creatures, manufactured by the same flawed gods.
Anderson watches dully as the cat makes its way across his bedroom and molts through the door. If he weren’t so weak, he would throw something at it. He sighs. He’s past that, now. Too tired to complain about a cat. He lets his gaze roll up to the ceiling and the slow whirl of the crank fan.
He wants to still be angry. But even that has gone. At first, when he discovered that he was sick, when Hock Seng and the girl had pulled back, alarmed, he had thought they were crazy. That he hadn’t been exposed to any vectors, but then, looking at them, at their fear and certainty, he had understood.
“The factory?” he’d whispered, repeating the girl Mai’s words, and Hock Seng had nodded, keeping his hand over his face.
“The fining rooms, or the algae baths,” he murmured.
Anderson had wanted to be angry then, but the sickness was already sapping his strength. All he could summon was a dull rage that quickly burned away. “Has anyone survived?”
> “One,” the girl had whispered.
And he had nodded, and they had slunk away. Hock Seng. Always with his secrets. Always with his angles and his planning. Always waiting …
“Is he coming?” He has a hard time forcing the words out.
“He will not come,” Emiko murmurs.
“You’re here.”
She shrugs. “I am New People. Your sicknesses do not frighten me. That one will not come. Not the Carlyle man either.”
“At least they’re leaving you alone. Kept their word, there.”
“Maybe,” she says, but she lacks conviction.
Anderson wonders if she’s right. Wonders if he is wrong about Hock Seng as he was wrong about so many things. Wonders if his every understanding of the place was wrong. He forces away the fear. “He’ll keep faith. He’s a businessman.”
Emiko doesn’t answer. The cheshire jumps onto the bed. She shoos it away, but it jumps up again, seemingly sensing the carrion opportunity he represents.
Anderson tries to raise a hand. “No,” he croaks. “Let it stay.”
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 positive 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 lo
ss,” 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.
50
Elizabeth Boudry’s head jerks back. Blood sprays Hock Seng in fine mist, spattering his skin and newly tailored clothes. The white shirt general turns and Hock Seng immediately drops to his knees, making a khrab of obeisance beside the collapsed body of the foreign devil.
Windup Girl Page 45