“I remember when we were respected,” Kanya murmurs.
Pracha glances at her. “Do you? I thought that had ended by the time you came to us.” He sighs. “Don’t worry. This will not be a cover-up. Atonements will be made. I will ensure it personally. Do not doubt my commitment to the Kingdom or Her Royal Majesty the Queen. The guilty will be punished.”
Kanya studies the Protector’s body and the dingy room where he met his end. A windup. A whore and a windup. She tries to contain her sickness at the thought. A windup. That someone would try to… she shakes his head. An ugly affair. A destabilizing move. And now some young men will have to pay for it. Whoever took the bribes in Ploenchit, perhaps others.
On the street, Kanya flags down a cycle rickshaw. From the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of palace Panthers, formed in ranks at the door. A crowd is gathering, watching with interest. In a few more hours rumors and news will be all over the city.
“The Environment Ministry, as quickly as you can.”
She waves Akkarat’s bribe money at the rickshaw man, encouraging greater effort, but even as she does, she wonders on whose behalf she waves it.
33
At noon, an army truck arrives. It’s a huge thing, gouting exhaust, astonishingly loud, like something out of the old Expansion. She can hear it coming from a block away, but even with so much warning, she almost cries out when she sees the thing. So fast. So awfully loud. Once in Japan, Emiko saw a similar vehicle. Gendo-sama explained that it was powered by liquefied coal. Astonishingly dirty and terrible for carbon limits, but almost magically powerful. As if a dozen megodonts were chained within. Perfect for military applications, even if civilians could not justify either the power or the taxation.
Exhaust clouds swirl blue around it as it comes to a halt. A small fleet of kink-spring scooters sweep up behind, ridden by men wearing the black of the palace’s Panthers and the green of the Army. Men begin to pour from the truck and charge for Anderson-sama’s tower entrance.
Emiko crouches lower in her alley hiding place. At first she thought to flee, but before she had gone a block she realized there was no place left to run. Anderson-sama was her only raft left in the raging ocean.
And so she remains close by, watching the hive of ants that is Anderson-sama’s tower. Trying to understand. She’s still astounded that the people who came crashing through the door were not in fact white shirts. They should have been. In Kyoto, the police would have already hunted her down with sniffer dogs, and she would have already been compassionately put down. She has never heard of a New Person so completely failing to show obedience. Certainly not anything like her own ugly bloodletting and flight. She burns with shame and hatred at the same time. She cannot stay, and yet it is more than apparent that the gaijin’s apartment, invaded though it is, is her last place of safety. The city around her is no friend.
More men pour from the military truck. Emiko slips deeper into the alley as they approach, expecting them to widen their search, preparing herself for a burst of heat and motion to escape. If she runs she can reach the khlong, and cool herself before fleeing again.
But they only post themselves along the major thoroughfares and do not seem to care to search for her.
Another flurry of motion. Panthers dragging out a pair of burlap-hooded men with pale hands. Gaijin for certain. One of them is Anderson-sama, she thinks. The clothes are his. They shove him forward, making him stumble. He slams into the back of the truck.
Cursing, two of the Panthers drag him aboard. They cuff him beside the other gaijin. More troops swarm inside, surrounding them.
A limousine sweeps up to the curb, purring with its own coal-diesel engine. It’s strange and silent in comparison to the roar of the troop carrier, but the exhaust is the same. A rich man’s vehicle. Almost unimaginable that someone could be so wealthy-
Emiko gasps. It’s Trade Minister Akkarat, being hustled by bodyguards into the car. Onlookers pause and stare. Emiko gawks with them. Then the limousine is moving and the troop carrier as well, its massive engine roaring. The two vehicles tear down the street trailing clouds of smoke and disappear around the corner.
Silence rushes into the void, almost physical after the rumble of the truck engine. She hears people murmuring, “Political… Akkarat… farang?… General Pracha…”
But even with her excellent hearing, it makes no sense. She stares after the truck. With determination, she might follow… She gives up the idea. It is impossible. Wherever Anderson-sama has gone, she cannot involve herself. Whatever political problem he has become entangled in will end with the ugliness of all such conflicts.
Emiko wonders if she can simply slip back inside the apartment now that everyone is gone. Near the building’s entrance, a pair of men have begun handing out fliers to everyone they can reach. Another pair coast past on a cargo bike, its bin stacked with more fliers. One man jumps down and sticks a flier to a lamp post before hopping back up on the slowly moving bike.
Emiko starts toward the bike to collect a flier herself, but a prickle of paranoia stops her. Instead, she lets them rattle past, then cautiously approaches the light pole to read what they have posted. She moves carefully, all her energy focused on making her movement appear natural, trying not to draw undue attention. She pushes gently into a gathering crowd, bumping against them, craning for a view over the sea of black hair and straining bodies.
An angry murmur rises. Someone sobs. A man turns away, his eyes wide with grief and terror. He shoves past her. Emiko slips forward into the gap. The murmur grows. Emiko eases closer, careful, careful, slow, slow… Her breath catches.
The Somdet Chaopraya. The Protector of Her Majesty the Queen. And words… she forces her brain to work, to translate from Thai to Japanese and as she does, she becomes aware of the people all around her, the people who press in on every side, all of them reading about a windup girl who walks amongst them, a windup who slaughters the Queen’s own protector, an agent of the Environment Ministry, a creature of deadly power.
People jostle around her as they try to read, shoving closer, squeezing past, all of them thinking she is one of them. All of them allowing her to live only because they do not yet see.
34
“Will you sit down? Your pacing makes me nervous.”
Hock Seng pauses in the perambulation of his hovel to glare at Laughing Chan. “I pay for your calories, not the other way around.”
Laughing Chan shrugs and goes back to playing cards. They’ve all been huddled in the room for the last several days. Laughing Chan is a congenial companion along with Pak Eng and Peter Kuok. But even the most congenial company…
Hock Seng shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. The storm is coming. Bloodshed and mayhem on the horizon. It’s the same feeling he had before the Incident, before his sons were beheaded and his daughters raped senseless. And he sat in the middle of that brewing storm, willfully ignorant, telling anyone who would listen that the men in K.L. would never let what had happened down in Jakarta happen to the good Chinese here. After all, were they not loyal? Did they not contribute? Did he not have friends at every level of government who assured him that the Green Headbands were but a bit of political posturing?
The storm was surging all around him, and he had refused to accept it… but not this time. This time, he is prepared. The air is electric with what is about to occur. Ever since the white shirts closed down the factories it was apparent. And now it is about to break. And this time, he is ready. Hock Seng smiles to himself, examines his little bunker with its stores of money and gems and food.