The Windup Girl

"You can't pre-judge my work just because the Ocean Bounty project was a failure. Properly cured, the algae provides exponential improvements in torque absorption. Forget its calorie potential. Focus on the industrial applications. I can deliver the entire energy storage market to you, if you'll just give me a little more time. Try one of my demo springs at least, before you make a decision…"

The roar of manufacturing envelopes Anderson as he enters the factory, drowning out the last despairing howl of Yates' optimism.

Megodonts groan against spindle cranks, their enormous heads hanging low, prehensile trunks scraping the ground as they tread slow circles around power spindles. The genehacked animals comprise the living heart of the factory's drive system, providing energy for conveyor lines and venting fans and manufacturing machinery. Their harnesses clank rhythmically as they strain forward. Union handlers in red and gold walk beside their charges, calling out to the beasts, switching them occasionally, encouraging the elephant-derived animals to greater labor.

On the opposite side of the factory, the production line excretes newly packaged kink-springs, sending them past Quality Assurance and on to Packaging where the springs are palletized in preparation for some theoretical time when they will be ready for export. At Anderson's arrival on the floor, workers pause in their labors and wai, pressing their palms together and raising them to their foreheads in a wave of respect that cascades down the line.

Banyat, his head of QA, hurries over smiling. He wais.

Anderson gives a perfunctory wai in return. "How's quality?"

Banyat smiles. "Dee khap. Good. Better. Come, look." He signals up the line and Num, the day foreman, rings the warning bell that announces full line stop. Banyat motions Anderson to follow. "Something interesting. You will be pleased."

Anderson smiles tightly, doubting that anything Banyat says will be truly pleasing. He pulls a ngaw out of the bag and offers it to the QA man. "Progress? Really?"

Banyat nods as he takes the fruit. He gives it a cursory glance and peels it. Pops the semi-translucent heart into his mouth. He shows no surprise. No special reaction. Just eats the damn thing without a second thought. Anderson grimaces. Farang are always the last to know about changes in the country, a fact that Hock Seng likes to point out when his paranoid mind begins to suspect that Anderson intends to fire him. Hock Seng probably already knows about this fruit as well, or will pretend when he asks.

Banyat tosses the fruit's pit into a bin of feed for the megodonts and leads Anderson down the line. "We fixed a problem with the cutting press," he says.

Num rings his warning bell again and workers step back from their stations. On the third sounding of the bell, the union mahout tap their charges with bamboo switches and the megodonts shamble to a halt. The production line slows. At the far end of the factory, industrial kink-spring drums tick and squeal as the factory's flywheels shed power into them, the juice that will restart the line when Anderson is done inspecting.

Banyat leads Anderson down the now silent line, past more wai-ing workers in their green and white livery, and pushes aside the palm oil polymer curtains that mark the entrance to the fining room. Here, Yates' industrial discovery is sprayed with glorious abandon, coating the kink-springs with the residue of genetic serendipity. Women and children wearing triple-filter masks look up and tear away their breathing protection to wai deeply to the man who feeds them. Their faces are streaked with sweat and pale powder. Only the skin around their mouths and noses remains dark where the filters have protected them.

He and Banyat pass through the far side and into the swelter of the cutting rooms. Temper lamps blaze with energy and the tide pool reek of breeding algae clogs the air. Overhead, tiered racks of drying screens reach the ceiling, smeared with streamers of generipped algae, dripping and withering and blackening into paste in the heat. The sweating line techs are stripped to nearly nothing-just shorts and tanks and protective head gear. It is a furnace, despite the rush of crank fans and generous venting systems. Sweat rolls down Anderson's neck. His shirt is instantly soaked.

Banyat points. "Here. See." He runs his finger along a disassembled cutting bar that lies beside the main line. Anderson kneels to inspect the surface. "Rust," Banyat murmurs.

"I thought we inspected for that."

"Saltwater." Banyat smiles uncomfortably. "The ocean is close."

Anderson grimaces at the dripping algae racks overhead. "The algae tanks and drying racks don't help. Whoever thought we could just use waste heat to cure the stuff was a fool. Energy efficient my ass."

Banyat gives another embarrassed smile, but says nothing.

"So you've replaced the cutting tools?"

"Twenty-five percent reliability now."