Jaidee is still grinning at her. "Imagine the things our country could accomplish if we were not always fighting one another."

In a burst of optimism, Kanya says, "Maybe anything is possible."

Jaidee laughs. "You still have a windup to catch."

Involuntarily, Kanya's eyes go to her own windup girl. Hiroko has folded her legs under her and gazes out at the city that is rapidly approaching, watching with curious eyes as they thread between clipper ships and sailing skiffs and kink-spring patrol boats. As if sensing Kanya's gaze, she turns. Their eyes lock. Kanya refuses to drop her gaze.

"Why do you hate New People?" the windup asks.

Jaidee laughs. "Can you lecture her about niche and nature?"

Kanya looks away, glances behind her to the floating factories and drowned Thonburi. The prang of Wat Arun stand tall against the blood red sky.

Again the question comes. "Why do you hate my kind?"

Kanya eyes the woman. "Will you be mulched when Yashimoto-sama returns to Japan?"

Hiroko lowers her gaze. Kanya feels obscurely embarrassed that she seems to have hurt the windup's feelings, then shakes off the guilt. It's just a windup. It apes the motions of humanity, but it is only a dangerous experiment that has been allowed to proceed too far. A windup. Stutter-stop motion and the telltale jerk of a genetically engineered beast. A smart one. And dangerous if pushed, apparently. Kanya watches the water as she guides her craft across the waves, but still she watches the windup out of the corner of her eye, viscerally aware that this windup contains the same wild speed of the other one. That all these windups have the potential to become lethal.

Hiroko speaks again. "We are not all like this one you hunt."

Kanya turns her gaze back on the windup. "You are all unnatural. You are all grown in test tubes. You all go against niche. You all have no souls and have no kamma. And now one of you has-" she breaks off, overwhelmed at the enormity, "-destroyed our Queen's protector. You are more than similar enough for me."

Hiroko's eyes harden. "Then send me back to Mishimoto."

Kanya shakes her head. "No. You have your uses. You are good proof, if nothing else, that all windups are dangerous. And that the one we hunt is not a military creature. For that, you will be useful."

"We are not all dangerous," she insists again.

Kanya shrugs. "Mr. Yashimoto says you will be of some help in finding our killer. If that's true, then I have a use for you. If not, I would just as soon compost you with the rest of the daily dung collection. Your master insists that you will be useful, though I can't think how."

Hiroko looks away, across the water to her factories on the far side.

"I think you hurt her feelings," Jaidee murmurs.

"Are their feelings any more real than their souls?" Kanya leans against the tiller, angling the little skiff toward the docks. There is still so much to be done.

Abruptly, Hiroko says. "She will seek a new patron."

Kanya turns, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"She has lost her Japanese owner. She has now lost this man who ran the bar she worked for."

"She killed him."

Hiroko shrugs. "It is the same. She has lost her master. She must find a new one."

"How do you know?"

Hiroko looks at her coldly. "It is in our genes. We seek to obey. To have others direct us. It is a necessity. As important as water for a fish. It is the water we swim in. Yashimoto-sama speaks correctly. We are more Japanese than even the Japanese. We must serve within a hierarchy. She must find a master."

"What if this one is different? If this one doesn't?"

"She will. She has no choice."

"Just like you."

Hiroko's dark eyes sweep back to her. "Just so."

Is there a flicker of rage and despair in those eyes? Or does Kanya simply imagine it? Is it something Kanya assumes must be lurking deep within, an anthropomorphizing of a thing that is not and never will be human? A pretty puzzle. Kanya returns her attention to the water and their imminent arrival, checks the surrounding waves for other craft she will have to jostle with for slip space. She frowns. "I don't know those barges."

Hiroko looks up. "You keep such close watch on the waters?"

Kanya shakes her head. "I used to work the docks, when I was first inducted. Spot raids, checking imports. Good money." She studies the barges. "Those are built for heavy loads. More than just rice. I haven't seen…"

She trails off, her heart starting to pound as she watches the machines wallow forward, great dark beasts, implacable.

"What is it?" Hiroko asks.

"They aren't spring-driven."

"Yes?"

Kanya pulls at her sail, letting the breezes of the river delta yank at the small boat, cutting away from the oncoming craft.

"It's military. They're all military."

38

Anderson can barely breathe under the hood. The blackness is total, hot with his own breath and suppressed fear. No one explained why he was being hooded and marched out of the flat. Carlyle was awake by then, but when he tried to protest their treatment, one of the Panthers clipped his ear with a rifle butt, letting blood, and they'd both fallen silent and allowed the hoods to be drawn over their heads. An hour later, they were kicked to their feet and herded down to some kind of transport that rumbled with exhaust fumes. Army, Anderson guessed, as he was shoved aboard.

His broken finger hangs limply behind his back. If he flexes his hand the pain becomes extreme. He practices a careful breathing under the hood, controlling his fears and speculations. The close dusty fabric makes him cough, and when he coughs, his ribs send spikes of pain deep into his core. He breathes shallowly.

Will they execute him as some kind of example?

He hasn't heard Akkarat's voice in some time. Hasn't heard anything. He wants to whisper to Carlyle, to see if they are being kept in the same room, but doesn't feel like being clubbed again if it turns out there's a guard in the room with him.

When they were let down from the vehicle and dragged into a new building, he had been unsure if Carlyle was even there. And then they were in an elevator. He thinks they descended into some sort of bunker, but it is ghastly hot in the place where they kicked him down. The place is stifling hot. The hood's fabric itches. Of all the things he wishes, he wishes he could scratch his nose where sweat trickles and then damps the fabric, leaving it itching. He tries to move his face, tries to get the fabric away from his mouth and nose. If he could just get a breath of clean air-

A door clicks. Footsteps. Anderson freezes. Muffled voices above him. Suddenly hands grab him and yank him to his feet. He gasps as they jostle his broken ribs. The hands drag him along, guiding him through a series of turns and stops. A breeze kisses his arms, cooler, fresher air, some kind of air vents. He gets a whiff of the sea. Thai voices mutter around him. Footsteps. People moving. He has the sense that he is being led down a corridor. The steady arrival and recession of Thai voices. When he stumbles, his captors jerk him upright again and shove him onward.

At last, they stop. The air is fresher here. He feels the wind of circulation systems, hears the ratchet of treadles and the high whine of flywheels. Some kind of processing center. His captors push him to stand straight. He wonders if this is how they will execute him. If he will die without seeing daylight again.

The windup girl. The goddamn windup girl. He remembers the way she flew from the balcony, plunging into darkness. It wasn't the look of a suicide. The more he thinks about it, the more he is convinced that the look on her face was one of supreme confidence. Did she really kill the Queen's protector? But if she were the killer, how could she have been so afraid? It doesn't make sense. And now everything is wrecked. Christ, his nose itches. He sneezes, sucks dusty hood air, and starts coughing again.