The megodonts wheel and charge. People pile up against Hock Seng, trying to get out of the way. Their mass crushes him. He can't breath. He tries to cry out, to clear space for himself, but the crush is too great. He screams. The weight of desperate fleeing people presses down upon him, squeezing out the last of his air. A megodont sweeps into them. It backs and charges again, tearing into the clot of people, swinging its bladed tusks. Students throw bottles of oil up at the megodonts and hurl torches up after, spinning lights and fire—
More razor disks rain down. Hock Seng cowers as the guns sweep toward him, spitting silver. A boy stares into his eyes, yellow headband slipped down over his bleeding face. Hock Seng's leg blossoms with pain. He can't tell if he's shot or if his knee is broken. He screams in frustration and fear. The weight of bodies pushes him to the ground. He's going to die. Crushed under the dead. Despite everything, he failed to understand the capriciousness of warfare. In his arrogance he thought he could prepare. Such a fool. . .
Silence comes suddenly. His ears are ringing, but there's no more weapons fire and no more trumpeting megodonts. Hock Seng takes a shuddering breath beneath the weight of bodies. All around him, he hears only moans and sobbing.
"Ah Chan?" he calls.
No answer.
Hock Seng claws his way out. Others are dragging themselves free of the massacre as well. Helping their wounded. Hock Seng can barely stand. His leg is awash with pain. He's covered with blood. He searches through the bodies, trying to find Laughing Chan, but if the man is in the pile, he is covered in too much blood and there are too many bodies and it is too dark to pick him out.
Hock Seng calls for him again, peering into the mass. Down the street, a methane lamp burns bright, shattered, its neck spurting gas into the sky. Hock Seng supposes it could explode at any moment, ripping through the methane pipes of the city, but he can't muster the energy to care.
He stares around at the bodies. Most of them are students, it seems. Just foolish children. Trying to do battle with megodonts. Fools. He forces down memories of his own children, dead and piled. The massacres of Malaya, writ on Thai pavement. He pries a spring gun from a dead white shirt's hands, checks its load. Only a few disks left, but still. He pumps the spring, adding energy. Shoves it into his pocket. Children playing at war. Children who don't deserve to die, but are too foolish to live.
In the distance, the battle rages still, moved on to other avenues and other victims. Hock Seng limps down the street. Bodies lie everywhere. He reaches an intersection and hobbles across, too tired to care about the risk of being caught in the open. At the far side, a man lies slumped against a wall, his bicycle lying beside him. Blood soaks his lap.
Hock Seng picks up the bicycle.
"That's mine," the man says.
Hock Seng pauses, studying the man. The man can barely keep his eyes open, yet still he clings to normalcy, to the idea that something like a bicycle can be owned. Hock Seng turns and wheels the bicycle down off the sidewalk. The man calls out again, "That's mine." But he doesn't stand and he doesn't do anything to stop Hock Seng as he swings a leg over the frame and sets his feet on the pedals.
If the man complains again, Hock Seng doesn't hear it.
41
"I thought we weren't going to move for another two weeks," Anderson protests. "We don't have everything in place."
"Plans must change. Your weapons and funding are still quite helpful." Akkarat shrugs. "In any case, having farang shock troops in the city would not necessarily smooth the transition. It's possible that this accelerated timetable is best."
Explosions rumble across the city. A methane fire is burning, bright and green, yellowing now as it finds dry bamboo and other materials. Akkarat studies the burn, waves to the man with the radio phone. The private cranks at the power as Akkarat speaks quietly, issuing orders for fire teams to be dispatched to the blaze. He glances at Anderson, explains. "If the fires get out of control, we won't have a city to defend."
Anderson studies the spreading fire, the gleam of palace chedi, the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. "That fire's near the city pillar."
"Khap. We can't allow the pillar to burn. It would be a bad omen for a new regime that is supposed to be strong and forward-looking."
Anderson goes and leans on a balcony railing. His hand, splinted now, still throbs, but with the bone reset by a military doctor, it feels better than it has in hours. A swaddling layer of morphine helps keep the pain at bay.
Another arc of fire crosses the sky, a missile that buries itself in the distance, somewhere in the Environment Ministry compound. It's hard to believe the forces that Akkarat has mustered for his ascension. The man had far more power at his disposal than he let on. Anderson pretends nonchalance as he asks the next question.
"I assume this accelerated schedule won't affect the specifics of our agreement."
"AgriGen remains a favored partner in the new era." At these soothing words, Anderson relaxes, but Akkarat's next sentence yanks him alert. "Of course, the situation has changed somewhat. After all, you were unable to bring certain promised resources to bear."
Anderson looks at him sharply. "We had a timetable. The promised troops are en route, along with more weapons and funding."
Akkarat smiles slightly. "Don't look so concerned. I'm sure we'll work something out."
"We want the seedbank still."
Akkarat shrugs. "I understand your position."
"Don't forget that Carlyle also has the pumps you'll need before the rainy season."
Akkarat glances at Carlyle. "I'm sure separate arrangements can be made."
"No!"
Carlyle grins, glances from one to the other, then holds up his hands as he backs away. "You all work this out. It's not my argument."
"Just so." Akkarat turns back to the arrangements of the battle.
Anderson watches, eyes narrowed. They still have leverage on this man. Guarantees of fertile, latest generation seedstock. Rice that will resist blister rust for at least a dozen plantings. He considers how best to affect Akkarat, to bring him back into alignment, but the morphine and exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours are wearing on him.
Smoke from one of the fires drifts across them, sending everyone into coughing fits before the wind shifts again. More tracer fire and shells arc across the city, followed by the distant rumble of explosions.
Carlyle frowns. "What was that?"
"Probably the Army's Krut Company. Their commander refused our friendship offer. He'll be shelling the anchor pads on behalf of Pracha." Akkarat says. "The white shirts don't want to allow a resupply. They'll also go after the seawalls if we let them."
"But the city would drown."
"And it would be our fault." Akkarat grimaces. "In the December 12 coup, the dikes were barely defended successfully. If Pracha feels he is losing—and by now he must know he is—then the white shirts may try to take the city hostage to force a more favorable surrender." He shrugs. "It's a pity we don't already have your coal pumps delivered."
"As soon as the shooting stops," Carlyle says, "I'll contact Kolkata and ship them out."
"I would have expected no less." Akkarat's teeth gleam.
Anderson fights to keep the scowl off his own face. He doesn't like their friendly banter. It's almost as if their earlier captivity is forgotten, and Carlyle and Akkarat are old friends. He doesn't like the way Akkarat seems to have separated Anderson's own interests from Carlyle's.
Anderson studies the landscape, mulling his options. If he just knew the location of the seedbank, he could order a strike team to move in and take it in the confusion of this urban war. . .
Shouts filter up from below. People milling in the streets, all of them looking toward the havoc, all of them curious what this warfare bodes for them. He follows the gaze of the confused throng. Old Expansion towers stand black amongst the fires, bits of remnant glass windows twinkling merrily with the blazes all around. Beyond the city and the fires, the black ocean r
ipples, a sheet of darkness. From high up, the seawalls seem curiously insubstantial. A ring of gas lights, and then nothing beyond except hungry blackness.
"Can they really breach the dikes?" he asks.
Akkarat shrugs. "There are weak points. We had planned to defend them with additional Navy personnel from the south, but we think we can hold."
"And if you don't?"
"The man who allows the city to drown will never be forgiven," Akkarat says. "It cannot be allowed. We will fight for the dikes as if we are the villagers of Bang Rajan."
Anderson watches the burning fires and the sea beyond. Carlyle leans on the railing beside him. His face glimmers in the light. He has the satisfied smile of a man who cannot lose. Anderson leans over. "Akkarat might have influence here, but AgriGen is everywhere else." He locks eyes with the trader. "Remember that." He's pleased to see Carlyle's smile falter.
More gunfire echoes across the landscape. From high up, the battle lacks visceral power. It's a battle of ants fighting over piles of sand. As if someone has kicked two nests together to test the clash of trivial civilizations. Mortars rumble. Fires twinkle and flare.
In the distance, a shadow descends from the black night overhead. A dirigible, sinking toward the city blazes. It floats low over the fires and suddenly a portion of a blaze winks out as a deluge of seawater pours from its belly.
Akkarat watches, smiling. "Ours," he says.
And then, as though the fire is not snuffed, but actually airborne, the dirigible explodes. Flames roar around it, pieces of its skin blazing and peeling off, fluttering away as the whole great beast sinks toward the city and crashes to pieces on the buildings.
"Christ," Anderson says, "you sure you don't want our reinforcements now?"
Akkarat's face remains impassive. "I didn't think they would have time to deploy missiles."
A massive explosion rocks the city, green gas burning bright, rising at the skyline's edge. A cloud of flame, roiling and expanding. Unimaginable pounds of compressed gas going up in a roaring green mushroom.
"The Environment Ministry's strategic reserve, I think," Akkarat comments.
"Beautiful," Carlyle murmurs. "Fucking beautiful."
42
Hock Seng shelters in an alley as tanks and trucks rumble down Thanon Phosri. He shudders at the thought of the fuel burning. It has to be much of the Kingdom's diesel stock, all of it going up in a single orgy of violence. Coal smoke fills the air as stoked tanks surge past on clanking treads. Hock Seng crouches in garbage. Everything he planned has fallen apart in this moment of crisis. Instead of waiting and moving north as a careful unit, he left his valuables to burn for the sake of one long-shot risk.
Quit complaining, you old fool. You would have roasted, your purple baht and your yellow card friends all together, if you hadn't left when you did.
Still, he wishes he'd had the forethought to bring at least some of that carefully squirrelled insurance. He wonders if his karma is so broken that he cannot ever truly hope to succeed.
He peers into the street again. The SpringLife offices are within view. Best of all, there are no guards present. Hock Seng allows himself a smile at that. The white shirts have their own troubles now. He wheels the bicycle across the street, using it as a crutch to keep him upright.
Inside the compound, it looks as though there was brief fighting. A trio of bodies lie against a wall, seemingly executed. Their yellow armbands have been pulled off and tossed in the dust beside them. More foolish children playing at politics—
Movement behind him.
Hock Seng turns and jams his spring gun into his stalker. Mai gasps as his gun barrel buries itself in her guts. Mewls with fear, eyes wide.
"What are you doing here?" Hock Seng whispers.
Mai stumbles back from his gun. "I came to look for you. The white shirts found our village. People are sick there." She sobs. "And then your house burned."
For the first time he sees the soot and cuts covering her body. "You were in Yaowarat? In the slums?" he asks, shocked.
She nods. "I was lucky." She fights back a sob.
Hock Seng shakes his head. "Why come here?"
"I couldn't think of any other place. . ."
"And more people are sick?"
She nods, fearful. "The white shirts questioned us, I didn't know what to do, I told—"
"Don't worry," Hock Seng sets a soothing hand on her shoulder. "The white shirts won't trouble us anymore. They have their own problems."
"Do you have—" She stops. Finally says, "They burned our village. Everything."
She is a pathetic creature. So small. So vulnerable. He imagines her fleeing her destroyed home, seeking refuge in the only place left to her. And then finding herself in the heart of warfare. A part of him wants to be rid of her burden, but too many have already died around him, and he is obscurely pleased for her company. He shakes his head. "Foolish child." He motions her into the factory. "Come with me."
A furious stink envelopes them as the enter the main hall. They both cover their faces, breathing shallowly.
"The algae baths," Hock Seng murmurs. "The kink-springs have stopped running the fans. Nothing is being vented."
He climbs the steps to the office, shoves open the door. The room is close and hot and reeks as badly as the manufacturing floor from the long days without air flow. He pushes open shutters, letting in night breeze and city burn. Across the roofs, flames flicker, sparking in the night like prayers going up to heaven.
Mai comes to stand beside him, her face illuminated in the irregular glow. A gas lamp is burning freely down on the street, broken. They must be burning all over the city. Hock Seng is somewhat surprised that no one has cut off the gas lines. Someone should have done it already, and yet still this one flares, bright and green, reflecting on Mai's face. She is pretty, he realizes. Slight and beautiful. An innocent trapped amongst warring animals.
He turns from the window and goes to squat before the safe. Studies its dials and heavy locks, its combinations and levers. Expensive to manufacture something with so much steel. When he had his own company, when the Tri-Clipper ruled the South China Sea and the Indian Ocean, he had one like it in his offices, an heirloom, salvaged from an old bank when it lost liquidity, straight from the vault and carried into Three Prosperities Trading Company with the help of two megodonts. This one sits before him, taunting him. He must destroy it at its joints. It will take time. "Come with me," he says.
He leads her back down to the factory floor. Mai hangs back when he wants to go into the fining rooms. He hands her a line-worker's mask. "It should be enough."
"You're sure?"
He shrugs. "Stay, then."
But she follows him anyway, back to where they store the curing acid. They walk gingerly. He uses a rag to push aside the fining room curtains, careful to let nothing touch him. His breath is loud inside the mask, ragged sawing. The manufacturing rooms are disarrayed. White shirts have been here, inspecting. The stink of the rotting algae tanks is intense, even through the mask. Hock Seng breathes shallowly, forcing himself not to gag. Overhead, the drying screens are all black with withered algae. A few streamers dangle down, black emaciated tentacles. Hock Seng fights the urge to duck from them.
"What are you doing?" Mai pants.
"Looking for a future." He spares her small smile before he realizes she can't see his expressions through the mask. He digs gloves out of a supply cabinet and hands her a pair. Gives her an apron as well. "Help me with this." He indicates a sack of powder. "We're working for ourselves, now. No more foreign influences, yes?" He stops her as she reaches for the sack. "Don't get any on your skin," he says. "And don't let your sweat touch it." He guides her back up to the offices.
"What is it?"
"You shall see, child."
"Yes, but—"
"It's magic. Now go get some water from the khlong out back."
When she returns, he takes a knife and carefully slices into the sacking. "Bring me
the water." She pulls the bucket close. He dips into the water with his knife, then runs it through the powder. The powder hisses and begins to boil. When he takes the knife out, it's half gone, melted into nothing, still hissing.
Mai's eyes go wide. A viscous liquid pours off the knife. "What is it?"
"A specialized bacteria. Something the farang have created."
"Not acid, though"
"No. It's alive. In a way."
He takes the knife and begins to scrape it along the face of the safe. The knife disintegrates completely. Hock Seng grimaces. "I need something else, something long, to spread it with."
"Put water on the safe," Mai suggests. "Then pour on the powder."
He laughs. "Clever child."
Soon the safe is soaking. He prepares a paper funnel and lets the powder stream through in a tiny fountain. Wherever it touches the metal face it begins to boil. Hock Seng steps back, horrified at the speed of the stuff. Fights the urge to wipe his hands. "Don't get any on your skin," he mutters. Stares at his gloves. If there is a trace of powder on them and they are wetted. . . His skin crawls. Mai is already backed away to the far side of the office, watching with terrified eyes.
Metal pours off the face, eaten and discarded iron, peeling away in sheaves, layers of it flaking away as if blown by autumn winds. The bright leaves of melting iron land on teak flooring. They hiss and spread. The flakes burn on, creating a lattice of broken seared wood.
"It doesn't stop," Mai says, awed. Hock Seng watches with increasing unease, wondering if the yeastlike stuff will eat away the floor below and send the safe crashing down into the manufacturing lines. He finds his voice. "It is alive. It should lose its ability to digest, soon."
"This is what the farang make." Mai's voice is frightened and awed.
"Our people have made such things as well." Hock Seng shakes his head. "Don't think the farang are so much as all that."
The safe continues to disintegrate. If only he had been brave before. He could have done this when there wasn't a war boiling outside the window. He wishes he could go back in time to his former frightened paranoid self, so worried about deportation, about angering foreign devils, about preserving his good name, and simply whisper in that old man's ear that there was no hope. That he should steal and run, and it could not turn out worse.