The Windup Girl(3)

"It's not personal."

"Just my life's work." He laughed, a dry rattling reminiscent of early onset cibiscosis. The sound would have had Anderson backing out of the room if he didn't know that Yates, like all of AgriGen's personnel, had been inoculated against the new strains.

"I've spent years building this," Yates said, "and you tell me it's not personal." He waved toward the office's observation windows where they overlooked the manufacturing floor. "I've got kink-springs the size of my fist that hold a gigajoule of power. Quadruple the capacity-weight ratio of any other spring on the market. I'm sitting on a revolution in energy storage, and you're throwing it away." He leaned forward. "We haven't had power this portable since gasoline."

"Only if you can produce it."

"We're close," Yates insisted. "Just the algae baths. They're the only sticking point."

Anderson said nothing. Yates seemed to take this as encouragement. "The fundamental concept is sound. Once the baths are producing in sufficient quantities-"

"You should have informed us when you first saw the nightshades in the markets. The Thais have been successfully growing potatoes for at least five seasons. They're obviously sitting on top of a seedbank, and yet we heard nothing from you."

"Not my department. I do energy storage. Not production."

Anderson snorted. "Where are you going to get the calories to wind your fancy kink-springs if a crop fails? Blister rust is mutating every three seasons now. Recreational generippers are hacking into our designs for TotalNutrient Wheat and SoyPRO. Our last strain of HiGro Corn only beat weevil predation by sixty percent, and now we suddenly hear you're sitting on top of a genetic gold mine. People are starving-"

Yates laughed. "Don't talk to me about saving lives. I saw what happened with the seedbank in Finland."

"We weren't the ones who blew the vaults. No one knew the Finns were such fanatics."

"Any fool on the street could have anticipated. Calorie companies do have a certain reputation. "

"It wasn't my operation."

Yates laughed again. "That's always our excuse, isn't it? The company goes in somewhere and we all stand back and wash our hands. Pretend like we weren't the ones responsible. The company pulls SoyPRO from the Burmese market, and we all stand aside, saying intellectual property disputes aren't our department. But people starve just the same." He sucked on his cigarette, blew smoke. "I honestly don't know how someone like you sleeps at night."

"It's easy. I say a little prayer to Noah and Saint Francis, and thank God we're still one step ahead of blister rust."

"That's it then? You'll shut the factory down?"

"No. Of course not. The kink-spring manufacturing will continue."

"Oh?" Yates leaned forward, hopeful.

Anderson shrugged. "It's a useful cover."

* * *

The cigarette's burning tip reaches Anderson's fingers. He lets it fall into traffic. Rubs his singed thumb and index finger as Lao Gu pedals on through the clogged streets. Bangkok, City of Divine Beings, slides past.

Saffron-robed monks stroll along the sidewalks under the shade of black umbrellas. Children run in clusters, shoving and swarming, laughing and calling out to one another on their way to monastery schools. Street vendors extend arms draped with garlands of marigolds for temple offerings and hold up glinting amulets of revered monks to protect against everything from infertility to scabis mold. Food carts smoke and hiss with the scents of frying oil and fermented fish while around the ankles of their customers, the flicker-shimmer shapes of cheshires twine, yowling and hoping for scraps.

Overhead, the towers of Bangkok's old Expansion loom, robed in vines and mold, windows long ago blown out, great bones picked clean. Without air conditioning or elevators to make them habitable, they stand and blister in the sun. The black smoke of illegal dung fires wafts from their pores, marking where Malayan refugees hurriedly scald chapatis and boil kopi before the white shirts can storm the sweltering heights and beat them for their infringements.

In the center of the traffic lanes, northern refugees from the coal war prostrate themselves with hands upstretched, exquisitely polite in postures of need. Cycles and rickshaws and megodont wagons flow past them, parting like a river around boulders. The cauliflower growths of fa' gan fringe scar the beggars' noses and mouths. Betel nut stains blacken their teeth. Anderson reaches into his pocket and tosses cash at their feet, nodding slightly at their wais of thanks as he glides past.

A short while later, the whitewashed walls and alleys of the farang manufacturing district come into view. Warehouses and factories all packed together along with the scent of salt and rotting fish. Vendors scab along the alley lengths with bits of tarping and blankets spread above to protect them from the hammer blast of the sun. Just beyond, the dike and lock system of King Rama XII's seawall looms, holding back the weight of the blue ocean.

It's difficult not to always be aware of those high walls and the pressure of the water beyond. Difficult to think of the City of Divine Beings as anything other than a disaster waiting to happen. But the Thais are stubborn and have fought to keep their revered city of Krung Thep from drowning. With coal-burning pumps and leveed labor and a deep faith in the visionary leadership of their Chakri Dynasty, they have so far kept at bay that thing which has swallowed New York and Rangoon, Mumbai and New Orleans.