The Windup Girl

A rumble comes from the distance, then a crackle like fireworks. She listens. Best not to wait any longer. She scrambles for the lowest balcony. It is cased in iron bars, as is the one above. She pulls herself up the face of the first and second balconies, using the easy handholds of the bars to climb.

She stands at last on the open third balcony, panting with the effort. She feels dizzy with the heat building within her. Below her, the alley cobbles beckon. She looks up at the balcony lip of the fourth floor. She gathers herself and jumps… and is rewarded with a good handhold. She pulls herself up.

On the fourth balcony, she perches on its railing, staring up at the fifth. The heat of her exertion is building. She takes a breath and jumps. Her fingers catch. She dangles in the open air. She looks down and immediately regrets it. The alley is far below, now. She slowly pulls herself up, gasping.

The apartment within is dark. No one stirs. Emiko tests the iron lattice of the security gate, hoping for a lucky entrance, but it is locked. She would give anything to drink water now, to pour it over her face and body. She studies the security gate's construction, but there is no way for her to break in.

One more jump.

She returns to the balcony's edge. Her hands are the only part of her that seem to sweat like a normal creature's, and now they are as slick as oil with her body's moisture. She wipes them again and again, trying to make them dry. The intense flush of too much exertion is swallowing her. She scrambles up onto the balcony's lip, balances. Dizzy. She crouches, steadying herself.

She leaps.

Her fingers scrabble at the balcony rim, then slip. She crashes back, slamming across the lower railing. Her ribs explode with pain as she flips over and smashes into potted jasmine vines. Another blossom of pain flares in her elbow.

She lies whimpering amongst shattered pottery and night jasmine perfume. Blood gleams black on her hands. She can't stop whimpering. Her whole body is shaking. She's burning up with the exertion of climbing and jumping.

She pushes herself up awkwardly, cradling her damaged arm, expecting people to come charging out at her, but the apartment beyond the gate remains dark.

Emiko staggers to her feet and leans against the balcony rail, looking up at her goal.

You foolish girl. Why do you try so hard to survive? Why not just jump and die? It would be so much simpler.

She peers down into the black alley below. She doesn't have an answer. It is something in her genetics, as deeply ingrained as her urge to please. She hauls herself up again onto the railing, balancing awkwardly, cradling her throbbing arm. She looks upward, praying to Mizuko Jizo the windup bodhisattva to give her mercy.

She jumps, reaching one-handed for salvation.

Her fingers catch… then slip away.

Emiko lashes out with her bad hand and catches hold. Her elbow's ligaments tear away. She yelps as the bones separate, then crack wide. Sobbing, breath sawing in and out of her throat, she scrabbles for the railing with her good hand. Seizes a handhold. She lets her broken arm fall and hang limp.

Emiko dangles one-handed, high above the street. Her arm is nothing but flame. She whimpers quietly, preparing to wound herself once again. She lets out a ragged sob and then reaches up once again with her ruined arm. Her hand closes on the railing.

Please. Please. Just a little more.

She lets her weight settle onto the arm. White pain. Emiko's breath saws ragged in her throat. She hauls a leg up, feeling with her foot, scrabbling for a toehold, finally it hooks on the iron. She pulls herself up, teeth gritted, sobbing, refusing to let go.

Only a bit more.

The barrel of a spring gun presses against her forehead.

Emiko opens her eyes. A young girl grips the pistol in trembling hands. She stares at Emiko, terror-stricken. "You were right," she whispers.

An old Chinese man looms behind her, his expression shadowed. They peer over the balcony precipice, watching Emiko as she dangles. Emiko's hands begin to slip. The pain is almost unbearable now.

"Please," Emiko whispers. "Help me."

45

The gas lights in Akkarat's operations center gutter out. Anderson straightens in the sudden darkness, surprised. The fighting has been desultory for some time, but all across the city it is the same. Krung Thep's gas lamps are winking out, green points of light smothered down the thoroughfares, one by one. A few zones of conflict still flicker yellow and orange with burning WeatherAll, but all the green is gone from the city. A black blanket covers it, almost as complete as that of the ocean beyond the levees.

"What's happening?" Anderson asks.

The dim glow of computer monitors is all that still lights the room. Akkarat comes back inside from the balcony. The operations room buzzes with activity. Emergency hand-cranked lantern LEDs come to life, spattering light around the room, illuminating Akkarat's smiling face. "We've taken the methane works," he says. "The country is ours."