Now, in the dry season, the saisin looks ragged and the pumps are largely silent. The floating docks and their barges and skiffs bob softly in red sunlight.

Emiko makes her way down into the bustle, watching faces, hoping to spy someone who seems kind. She watches people pass, keeping her body still so that she does not betray her nature. Finally steels herself. She calls out to a passing day laborer, "Kathorh kha. Please, Khun. Can you tell me where I might purchase ferry tickets north?"

The man is covered with the powder and sweat of his work but he smiles, friendly. "How far north?"

She hazards a city name, unsure even if it will be close enough to the place that the gaijin has described. "Phitsanulok?"

He makes a face. "There's nothing going that far, not much past Ayutthaya. The rivers have gotten too low. Some people are using mulies to pull their way north, but that is all. Some kink-spring skiffs. And the war…" He shrugs. "If you need to go north, the roads will be dry for a while yet."

She masks her disappointment and wais carefully. No river then. By road or nothing. If she could go by river, then she would also have a way to cool herself. By road… she imagines the long distance through the tropic blaze of the dry season. Perhaps she should wait for the rainy season. With the monsoon, the temperatures will fall and the rivers rise…

Emiko starts back over the seawall and down through the slums that house dock families and de-quarantined sailors on shore leave. By road then. It was foolish even for her to go looking. If she could get aboard a kink-spring train-but that would require permits. Many, many permits, just to get aboard. But if she could bribe someone, stow away… She grimaces. All roads lead to Raleigh. She will have to speak with him. To beg the old crow for things he has no reason to give.

A man with dragon tattoos on his stomach and a takraw ball tattooed on his shoulder gawks at her as she walks past. "Heechy-keechy," he murmurs.

Emiko doesn't slow, doesn't turn at the words, but her skin prickles.

The man follows her. "Heechy-keechy," he says again.

She glances back. His face is unfriendly. He's missing a hand as well, she's horrified to notice. He reaches out with the stump and prods her shoulder. She jerks away, stutter-stop reaction, betraying her nature. He smiles, and his teeth are black with betel nut.

Emiko turns down a soi, hoping to escape his attention. Again he calls after her. "Heechy-keechy."

Emiko ducks into another winding squeezeway, breaks into a faster walk. Her body warms. Her hands become slick with sweat. She pants rapidly, trying to expel the increasing heat. Still the man follows. He doesn't call out again but she hears his footsteps. She makes another turn. Cheshires scatter before her, shimmers of light flushed like cockroaches. If only she could evaporate as they do, fade against a wall and let this man slide past.

"Where are you going, windup?" the man calls. "I just want to get a look at you."

If she were still with Gendo-sama she would face this man. Would stand confident, protected by import stamps and ownership permits and consulates and the awful threat of her master's retribution. A piece of property, true, but respected nonetheless. She could even go to a white shirt or the police for protection. With stamps and a passport, she was not a transgression against niche and nature, but an exquisite valued object.

The alley opens onto a new street, full of gaijin warehouses and trading fronts, but the man grabs her arm before she can reach it. She's hot. Already flushed with her rising panic. She stares at the street longingly but it is all shacks and dry goods and a few gaijin, who will be no help for her. Grahamites are the last people she wishes to encounter.

The man drags her back into the alley. "Where do you think you're going, windup?"

His eyes are bright and hard. He's chewing something-an amphetamine stick. Yaba. Coolie laborers use them to keep working, to burn calories that they do not have. His eyes sparkle as he grips her wrist. He pulls her deeper into the alley, out of sight. She's too hot to run. There is nowhere to go, even if she did.

"Stand against the wall." he says. "No." He shoves her around. "Don't look at me."

"Please."

A knife appears in his good hand, glinting. "Shut up," he says. "Stay there."

His voice has the power of command, and despite her better instincts she finds herself obeying. "Please. Just let me go," she whispers.

"I fought your kind. In the jungles in the north. Windups everywhere. Heechy-keechy soldiers."

"I am not that kind." She whispers. "Not military."

"Japanese, same as you. I lost a hand because of your kind. And a lot of good friends." He shows her the stump where his hand is missing, pushes it against her cheek. His breath gusts hot on her nape as he wraps his arm around her neck, pressing the knife to her jugular. Indenting the skin.

"Please. Just let me go." She presses back against his crotch. "I'll do anything."

"You think I'd soil myself that way?" He shoves her hard against the wall, making her cry out. "With an animal like you?" A pause, then. "Get down on your knees."

Out on the street, cycle rickshaws clatter over cobbles. People call out, asking about the price of hemp rope and whether anyone knows the time of the Lumphini muay thai fight. The knife hooks around her neck again, finds her pulse with its point. "I saw my friends all die in the forests because of Japanese windups."

She swallows, and repeats softly, "I am not that kind."

He laughs. "Of course not. You're some other creature. Another one of their devils like they keep in their shipyard across the river. Our people are starving, and your kind take their rice."

The blade presses against her throat. He will kill her. She is sure of it. His hatred is great, and she is nothing but trash. He is high and angry and dangerous and she is nothing. Even Gendo-sama couldn't have protected her from this. She swallows, feeling the blade press against her Adam's apple.

Is this how you will die? Is this what you were meant for? To simply be bled out like a pig?

A spark of rage flickers, an antidote to despair.

Will you not even try to survive? Did the scientists make you too stupid even to consider fighting for your own life?

Emiko closes her eyes and prays to Mizuko Jizo Bodhisattva, and then the bakeneko cheshire spirit for good measure. She takes a breath, and then with all her strength she slams her hand against the knife. The blade slices past her neck, a searing line.

"Arai wa?!" the man shouts.

Emiko shoves hard against him and ducks under his flailing knife. Behind her, she hears a grunt and thud as she bolts for the street. She doesn't look back. She plunges into the street, not caring that she shows herself as a windup, not caring that in running she will burn up and die. She runs, determined only to escape the demon behind her. She will burn, but she will not die passive like some pig led to slaughter.

She flies down the street, dodging pyramids of durian and hurdling over coiled hemp ropes. This suicidal flight is pointless, yet she will not stop. She shoves aside a gaijin haggling over burlap sacks of local U-Tex rice. He jerks away, crying out in alarm as she flashes past.

All around, the traffic of the street seems to have slowed to a crawl. Emiko weaves under the bamboo scaffolding of a construction site. Running is strangely easy. People move as if they're suspended in honey. Only she is moving. When she glances behind her, she sees that her pursuer has fallen far behind. He's astonishingly slow. Amazing that she even feared him. She laughs at the absurdity of this suspended world-