Yashimoto shrugs. “We are an old nation; our young are few. Good girls like Hiroko fill the gap. We are not the same as the Thai. We have calories but no one to provide the labor. We need personal assistants. Workers.”
Kanya carefully makes no show of disgust. “Yes. You Japanese are very different. And except for your country, we have never granted this sort of niche—”
“Crime,” Jaidee supplies.
“-exemption,” she finishes. “No one else is allowed to bring in creatures like this one.” She nods unwillingly at the translator, trying to hide the disgust in her voice. “No other country. No other factory.”
“We are aware of the privilege.”
“And yet you abuse it by bringing a military windup—”
Hiroko’s words cut her off, even as Kanya continues to speak. Hiroko instead picks up the vehement response from her owner.
“No! This is impossible. We have no contact with such technology. None!”
Yashimoto’s face is flushed, and Kanya wonders at his sudden anger. What sort of cultural insult has she unwittingly delivered? The windup girl continues her translation, no trace of emotion on her own face as she speaks with her owner’s voice. “We work with New Japanese like Hiroko. She is loyal, thoughtful, and skilled. And a necessary tool. She is as necessary as a hoe for a farmer or a sword for a samurai.”
“Strange that you mention a sword.”
“Hiroko is no military creature. We do not have such technology.”
Kanya reaches into her pocket and slaps down the picture of the windup killer. “And yet one of yours, imported by you, registered to your staff, has now assassinated the Somdet Chaopraya and eight others, and disappeared into thin air, as if she is some raging phii. But you sit before me and tell me that it is impossible for a military windup to be here!” Her voice rises to a shout, and the windup girl’s translation finishes at a similar intensity.
Yashimoto’s face stills. He takes the picture and studies it. “We will have to check our records.”
He nods to Hiroko. She takes the photo and disappears out the door. Kanya watches Yashimoto for traces of anxiety or nervousness, but there are none. Irritation, she sees, but no fear. She regrets that she cannot speak directly with the man. Listening to her words echo into Japanese, Kanya wonders what surprise is lost when the windup girl delivers them. What preparation Hiroko provides for his shock.
They wait. He silently offers more tea. She refuses. He does not drink anymore himself. The tension in the room is so thick that Kanya half expects the man to leap to his feet and cut her down with the ancient sword that adorns the wall behind him.
A few minutes later, Hiroko returns. She hands the picture back to Kanya with a bow. Then speaks to Yashimoto. Neither of them betray any emotion. Hiroko kneels again beside them. Yashimoto nods at the photograph. “You’re sure this was the one?”
Kanya nods. “There is no question.”
“And this assassination explains the increasing rage in the city. There are crowds gathering outside the factory. Boat people. The police have driven them away, but they were coming with torches.”
Kanya stifles her nervousness at the increasing frenzy. Everything is moving too fast. At some point, Akkarat and Pracha will be unable to back off without losing face and then everything will be lost. “The people are very angry,” she says.
“It is misplaced anger. She is not a military windup.” When Kanya tries to challenge him, he looks at her fiercely and she subsides. “Mishimoto knows nothing of military windups. Nothing. Such creatures are kept under strict control. They are used by our Defense Ministry, only. I could never possess one.” He locks eyes with her. “Never.”
“And yet—”
He continues to speak, with Hiroko translating, “I know of the windup you describe. She had fulfilled her duty—”
The windup girl’s voice breaks off even as the old man continues speaking. She straightens and her eyes flick to Yashimoto. He frowns at her break in decorum. Says something to the windup. She ducks her head. “Hai.”
Another pause.
He nods at her to continue. She regains her composure, finishes translating. “She was destroyed according to requirements, rather than repatriated.” The windup’s dark eyes are on Kanya, steady, unblinking now, betraying nothing of the surprise she evinced a moment before.
Kanya watches the girl and the old man, two alien people. “And yet she apparently survived,” she says finally.
“I was not the manager at the time,” Yashimoto says. “I can only speak to what I know from our records.”
“Records lie, apparently.”
“You are correct. For this, there is no excuse. I am ashamed of what others have done, but I have no knowledge of the thing.”
Kanya leans forward. “If you cannot tell me how she survived, then please, tell me how it is that this girl, capable of killing so many men in the space of heartbeats could come into this country. You tell me she is not military, but, to be direct, I’m having difficulty believing that she is not. This is a gross breach of our country’s agreements.”
Unexpectedly, the man’s eyes crinkle with a smile. He picks up his tea and sips, considering the question, but the mirth does not leave his eyes, even as he finishes his tea. “This I can answer.”
Without warning, he flings his cup at Hiroko’s face. Kanya starts to cry out. The windup girl’s hand blurs. The teacup smacks into her palm. The girl gapes at the cup in her hand, as surprised apparently, as Kanya.
The Japanese man gathers the folds of his kimono around himself. “All New Japanese are fast. You have mistaken the question to ask. How they use their innate qualities is a question of their training, not of their physical capabilities. Hiroko has been trained from birth to pace herself appropriately, with decorum.”
He nods at her skin. “She is manufactured to have a porcelain skin and reduced pores, but it means she is subject to overheating. A military windup will not overheat, it is built to expend considerable energy without impact. Poor Hiroko here would die if she exerted herself like that over any significant amount of time. But all windups are potentially fast, it is in their genes.” His tone becomes serious. “It is surprising though, that one has shaken off her training. Unwelcome news. New People serve us. It should not have happened.”
“So your Hiroko here could do the same thing? Kill eight men? Armed ones?”
Hiroko jerks and looks at Yashimoto, dark eyes widening. He nods. Says something. His tone is gentle.
“Hai.” She forgets to translate, then finds her words. “Yes. It is possible. Unlikely, but possible.” She continues, “But it would take an extraordinary stimulus to do so. New People value discipline. Order. Obedience. We have a saying in Japan, ‘New People are more Japanese than the Japanese.’”
Yashimoto places a hand on Hiroko’s shoulder. “Circumstances would have to be extraordinary to make Hiroko into a killer.” He smiles confidently. “This one you seek has fallen far from her proper place. You should destroy her before she can cause any more damage. We can provide assistance.” He pauses. “Hiroko here can help you.”
Kanya tries not to recoil, but her face gives her away.
“Captain Kanya, I do believe you’re smiling.”
Jaidee’s phii is still with her, perched on the prow of the skiff as it cuts across the Chao Phraya’s wide mouth on a stiff breeze. Spray blows through his form, leaving him unaffected, even though Kanya expects him to be drenched each time. She favors him with a smile, allowing her sense of well-being to reach out to him.