The Windup Girl

He shoves the attacker away as the cycle lurches forward. The Thai man hacks clumsily at Anderson, then goes after the windup girl again, slashing. She does nothing to escape. Blood spatters. Anderson yanks a spring pistol from beneath his shirt and shoves it into the man's face. The man's eyes widen.

He drops off the rickshaw, running for cover. Anderson follows him with the barrel, trying to decide if he should put a disk in the man's head or let him escape, but the man ducks behind a megodont wagon, robbing him of the decision.

"Goddamnit." Anderson peers through the traffic, making sure the man is truly gone, then shoves his pistol back under his shirt. He turns to the slumped girl. "You're safe now."

The windup lies inert, clothes slashed and disarrayed, eyes closed, panting rapidly. When he presses his palm to her flushed forehead, she flinches and her eyelids flutter. Her skin is scalding. Listless black eyes stare up at him. "Please," she murmurs.

The heat in her skin is overwhelming. She's dying. Anderson yanks her jacket open, trying to vent her. She's burning up, overheated by her flight and poor genetic design. Absurd that anyone would do this to a creature, hobble it so.

He shouts over his shoulder, "Lao Gu! Go to the levees!" Lao Gu glances back, uncomprehending. "Shui! Water! Nam! The ocean, damn it!" Anderson motions toward the dike walls. "Quickly! Kuai, kuai kuai!"

Lao Gu nods sharply. He stands on his pedals and accelerates again, forcing the bike through the clotted traffic, calling out warnings and curses at obstructing pedestrians and draft animals. Anderson fans the windup girl with his hat.

At the levee walls, Anderson throws the windup girl over his shoulder and hauls her up uneven stairs. Guardian naga flank the stairs, their long undulating snake bodies guiding him upward. Their faces watch impassive as he staggers higher. Sweat drips in his eyes. The windup is a furnace against his skin.

He tops the levee. Red sun burns against his face, silhouetting drowned Thonburi across the waters. The sun is almost as hot as the body draped over his shoulder. He stumbles down the other side of the embankment and heaves the girl into the sea. The splash soaks him with saltwater.

She sinks like a stone. Anderson gasps and lunges after her sinking form. You fool. You stupid fool. He catches a limp arm and drags her body up from the depths. Holds her so that her face floats above the waves, bracing himself to keep her from sinking again. Her skin burns. He half expects the sea to boil around her. Her black hair fans out like a net in the lapping waves. She dangles in his grasp. Lao Gu jostles down beside him. Anderson waves him over. "Here. Hold her."

Lao Gu hesitates.

"Hold her, damn it. Zhua ta."

Reluctantly, Lao Gu slides his hands under her arms. Anderson touches her neck, feeling for a pulse. Is her brain already cooked? He could be trying to revive a vegetable.

The windup's pulse whirs like a hummingbird's, faster than any creature her size should run. Anderson leans down to listen to her breathing.

Her eyes snap open. He jerks away. She thrashes and Lao Gu loses his grip. She disappears under water.

"No!" Anderson lunges after her.

She surfaces again, thrashing and coughing and reaching for him. Her hand locks on his and he pulls her to the bank. Her clothes swirl about her like tangled seaweed and her black hair glistens like silk. She stares up at Anderson with dark eyes. Her skin is suddenly blessedly cool.

* * *

"Why did you help me?"

Methane lamps flicker on the streets, turning the city ethereal shades of green. Darkness has fallen and the lampposts hiss against the blackness. Humidity reflects on cobbles and concrete, gleams on people's skin as they lean close around candles in the night markets.

The windup girl asks again. "Why?"

Anderson shrugs, glad the darkness hides his expression. He doesn't have a good answer himself. If her attacker complains of a farang and a windup girl, it will trigger questions and attract white shirts to him. A foolish risk, considering how exposed he already finds himself. He's far too easy to describe, and it's not far from where he found the girl to Sir Francis', and from there to more uncomfortable questions.

He forces down his paranoia. He's as bad as Hock Seng. The nak leng was obviously high on yaba. He won't go to the white shirts. He'll slink away and lick his wounds.

Still, it was foolish.

When she fainted in the rickshaw he was sure that she was about to die, and a part of him had been glad. Relieved that he could take back that moment when he recognized her, and against all his training, tied his fate to hers.

He glances over at her. Her skin has lost its terrifying flush and furnace heat. She holds the remnants of slashed clothes around her, keeping her modesty. It's pitiable, really, that a creature so utterly owned clings to modesty.

"Why?" she asks again.

He shrugs again. "You needed help."