In a sudden rush of pity he wraps his arms around her, enfolding her in whatever protection a calorie man can offer a piece of illegal Japanese trash. The Ministry men call out to them, smiling. Anderson smiles back and gives a bob of the head, even as his skin prickles. The white shirts' eyes linger. One of them smiles and says something to the other as he twirls the baton that dangles from his wrist. Emiko shivers uncontrollably beside Anderson, her smile a forced mask. Anderson pulls her closer.

Please don't ask for a bribe. Not this time. Please.

They slide past.

Behind them, the white shirts start laughing, either about the farang and the girl clutched together or about something else completely unrelated and it doesn't matter really because they are disappearing into the distance and he and Emiko are safe again.

She draws away, shaking. "Thank you," she whispers. "I was careless to come out. Stupid." She pushes her hair away from her face and looks back. The Ministry men are quickly receding. Her fists clench. "Stupid girl," she murmurs. "You are not a cheshire who disappears as you please." She shakes her head, angry, driving home her own lesson. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

Anderson watches, transfixed. Emiko is adapted for a different sort of world, not this brutal sweltering place. The city will swallow her eventually. It's obvious.

She becomes aware of his gaze. Shares a small melancholy smile. "Nothing lasts forever, I think."

"No." Anderson's throat is tight.

They stare at one another. Her blouse has fallen open again, showing the line of her throat, the inner curve of her breasts. She doesn't move to hide herself, just looks back at him, solemn. Is it deliberate? Does she mean to encourage him? Or is it simply her nature to entice? Perhaps she cannot help herself at all. A set of instincts as ingrained in her DNA as the cheshire's clever stalking of birds. Anderson leans close, unsure.

Emiko doesn't pull away, moves instead to meet him. Her lips are soft. Anderson runs his hand up her hip, pushes her blouse open and quests inside. She sighs and presses closer, her lips opening to him. Does she wish this? Or only acquiesce? Is she even capable of refusing? Her breasts press against him. Her hands slip down his body. He's shaking. Trembling like a sixteen-year-old boy. Did the geneticists embed her DNA with pheromones? Her body is intoxicating.

Mindless of the street, of Lao Gu, of everything, he pulls her to him, running his hand up to cup her breast, to hold her perfect flesh.

The windup girl's heart speeds like a hummingbird's under his palm.

11

Jaidee has a certain respect for the Chaozhou Chinese. Their factories are large and well-run. They have generations rooted in the Kingdom, and they are intensely loyal to Her Majesty the Child Queen. They are utterly unlike the pathetic Chinese refugees who have flooded in from Malaya, fleeing to his country in hopes of succor after they alienated the natives of their own. If the Malayan Chinese had been half as clever as the Chaozhou, they would have converted to Islam generations ago, and woven themselves fully into the tapestry of that society.

Instead, the Chinese of Malacca and Penang and the Western Coast arrogantly held themselves apart, thinking the rising tide of fundamentalism would not affect them. And now they come begging to the Kingdom, hoping that their Chaozhou cousins will aid them when they were not clever enough to help themselves.

The Chaozhou are smart, where the Malayan Chinese are stupid. They are practically Thai themselves. They speak Thai. They took Thai names. They may have Chinese roots somewhere in their distant past, but they are Thai. And they are loyal. Which, when Jaidee thinks about it, is more than can be said about some of his own race, certainly more than can be said of Akkarat and his brood at the Trade Ministry.

So Jaidee feels a certain sympathy when a Chaozhou businessman in a long white shirt, loose cotton trousers and sandals strides back and forth in front of him on the factory floor, complaining that his factory has been shut down because some coal ration has been exceeded, when he paid every white shirt who came through his door, and that Jaidee has no right-no right-to shut down the entire factory.

Jaidee even has sympathy when the man calls him a turtle's egg-which is certainly an annoying thing to hear, knowing that it is a terrible insult in Chinese. Yet still, he remains tolerant of the emotional explosions on the part of this businessman. It's in the Chinese nature to be a bit hot-hearted. They are given to explosions of emotion that a Thai would never indulge in.

All in all, Jaidee has sympathy for the man.

But he doesn't have sympathy for a man who shoves a finger into his chest repeatedly while he curses, and so Jaidee is sitting atop that man's chest now-with a black baton over his windpipe-explaining the finer points of respect due a white shirt.

"You seem to have mistaken me for another Ministry man," Jaidee observes.

The man gurgles and tries to get free, but the baton crushing his throat prevents him. Jaidee watches him carefully. "You of course understand that we have coal rationing because we are a city underwater. Your carbon allocation was exceeded many months ago."

"Ghghhaha."

Jaidee considers the response. Shakes his head sadly. "No. I think that we cannot allow it to continue. King Rama XII decreed, and Her Royal Majesty the Child Queen now supports that we shall never abandon Krung Thep to the invasions of the rising sea. We will not flee from our City of Divine Beings the way the cowards of Ayutthaya fled from the Burmese. The ocean is not some marching army. Once we accede to the waters, we will never again throw it out." He regards the sweating Chinese man. "And so we must all do our part. We must all fight together, like the villagers of Bang Rajan, to keep this invader from our streets, don't you think?"

"Gghhghghhghhhh…"

"Good." Jaidee smiles. "I'm glad we're making progress."

Someone clears his throat.

Jaidee looks up, stifling his annoyance. "Yes?"

A young private in new whites stands respectfully, waiting. "Khun Jaidee" He wais, lowering his head to his pressed palms. Holds the pose. "I am very sorry for my interruption."

"Yes?"

"Chao Khun General Pracha requests your presence."

"I'm busy," Jaidee says. "Our friend here finally seems willing to communicate with a cool heart and a reasonable demeanor." He smiles kindly down at the businessman.

The boy says, "I was to tell you… I was told to, to…"

"Go ahead."

"To tell you that you should get your, your – so sorry – 'glory-seeking ass' – so sorry – back to the Ministry. Immediately if not before." He winces at the words. "If you have no cycle you were supposed to take mine."

Jaidee grimaces. "Ah. Yes. Well then." He gets up off the businessman. Nods to Kanya. "Lieutenant? Perhaps you can reason with our friend here?"

Kanya makes a face of puzzlement. "Is something wrong?"

"It seems Pracha is finally ready to rant and rave at me."

"Should I come with you?" Kanya glances at the businessman. "This lizard can wait for another day."

Jaidee grins at her concern. "Don't worry about me. Finish here. I'll let you know whether we're being exiled south to guard yellow card internments for the rest of our careers when you get back."

As they head for the door, the businessman musters new bravery. "I'll have your head for this, heeya!"

The sound of Kanya's club connecting and a yelp are the last things Jaidee hears as he exits the factory.

Outside, the sun glares down. He's already sweating from the exertion of working on the businessman, and the sun burns uncomfortably. He stands under the shade of a coconut palm until the messenger can bring the bike around.