The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  “You brought your own tea? From China?”

  “Your Western tea is …” Rushi seems to struggle for the right word. “Weak.”

  I laugh out loud, earning me a glare from the Brazilian fighter, who has been locked in a serious conversation with her boyfriend on the phone. Envoy Yu, however, looks horrified at Rushi’s choice of adjective. Under her breath, she says something to Rushi in Mandarin, making Rushi cast her eyes downward.

  “My apologies,” Rushi says to me. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “You weren’t wrong exactly,” I say, considering that the only tea that I ever drink is the iced variety, but she looks too chastened to reply.

  Envoy Yu peppers me with polite questions until the telephone opens up, and the two of them put in a call to Beijing. When it’s finally my turn, I dial the number for the shop, but the other end rings and rings and eventually I give up. And now I’m worried. Did Peter not hear me calling or is something more serious going on, like the phone company disconnecting our line because we’re late on the bill?

  I really need Malcolm to come through with an endorsement.

  With a sigh, I head back to bed, and right before I fall asleep, it hits me that my room is right next to Rushi’s and Envoy Yu’s. A thought prickles at the back of my mind. What if my mom’s family had never left China nearly a century ago? Would Peter and I have grown up singing Mao’s praises like Envoy Yu? I blink away the questions. Me, a Communist? I’d as soon kiss Premier Khrushchev on the lips.

  * * *

  The next morning, I set out early for the training center, but when I reach Team USA’s section, I find it already full. Sam’s stretching inside one of the fighting pits, but he isn’t the only one there. I recognize the others from the luncheon yesterday—Albie and Fitz-Lloyd from Team UK along with Giselle and her partner from Team France, a wiry boy named Auguste. Their coaches stand nearby as well, and I can feel their eyes on me when I walk in, assessing the new kid on the block. I might be allied with their fighters in the arena, but after that, we’re back to fighting for ourselves.

  Malcolm calls out when he sees me. “Nice of you to join us.” I want to retort that I’m actually early when he adds, “We’re training for Purgatory today. Get warmed up.”

  Adrenaline pumps through me. It’ll be a real culling in Round 1, starting off with fifty fighters and whittling it down to sixteen. Peter and I always look forward to watching Purgatory at the Games because it’s action-packed and unpredictable, but it’ll be quite another thing to be fighting in it. My stomach churns at the thought, and I’m not sure if it’s excitement or nerves. Probably both.

  “You have fought in the arena before, yes?” Giselle asks me as we’re jogging around the pits, her ponytail of blond hair bouncing as we go. Her tone is light, like she’s trying to make small talk, but I think she’s trying to figure out my fighting background. Gathering intel for her coaches.

  “Sure, I have. How many have you fought in?” I say, deflecting the attention back on her. She doesn’t need to know that Saturday will mark only my third Purgatory. I’ve done it twice before at the tristate tournament where I faced off against Sam, and I survived both by taking Dad’s advice and staying out of the fray, letting my opponents go to town knocking one another to a pulp while I waited them out. That strategy worked for me at the local level, but here in the big leagues, I doubt I’ll be able to skitter around the cage like a spider.

  “Internationally? Over twenty. I adore them.” Giselle gets a gleam in her eye. “I get to beat the boys.”

  That might sound prideful if she was exaggerating, but she isn’t. I’ve seen her fight and she’s whip-fast. Her father was a 100-meter sprinter for the French Olympic team, and she’s inherited that speed and applied it in the pit, outrunning her opponents and laying them flat after she has gone circles around them. I count it as a very good thing that we’re allies in Purgatory.

  “Is there any boy in particular that you’re referring to?” I ask, figuring that I can pick up intel too.

  “Not really. Perhaps Gunter.”

  Gunter? Oh yes. The Ogler of West Germany. “But he’s our ally.”

  “For now.” Her smile is back again before she kicks up her trademark speed. “Don’t you want to hit him after how he acted at lunch?”

  I chuckle at what she said, but she’s already a meter ahead of me, leaving me in the dust to watch her ponytail swish back and forth. I realize I might not trust her, but I do have to admire the girl.

  After we’ve stretched and cooled down, Malcolm gathers us around him. “We’re going to run through our drills again like we did during Tuesday’s session, but we’ve made several adjustments now that Rochester is out and Linden is here to replace him. Otherwise our main strategy stays the same. The Communists tend to favor speed and mobility—and they like to attack in pairs or trios. There’s a good chance that they’re going to try to separate you from one another from the get-go, so it’s imperative that you remain in formation and listen to the orders from your captains.” Malcolm nods at Giselle and Sam, who must be our “captains.” The teacher’s pets. “Strength in numbers.”

  It’s technically against regulation to forge alliances inside the arena, but hardly anyone follows that stipulation, especially at the international level, where politics often rears its big old head. Since the 1947 Games, the fighters have usually split into three main groups in Purgatory—NATO countries, Warsaw Pact countries, and then the rest of the competitors, who try to stay out of the way and squeak into the next round of play.

  For this year’s NATO lineup, we’ll also be allying with Australia, Canada, West Germany, and a few others in the arena, but for now, we’ve split up into smaller groups for this morning’s training session. There’ll be another one with everyone else following lunch.

  “We’ve got two days until the Games begin, so we better make these hours count,” Malcolm says after we’ve suited up.

  We’ll practice a defensive drill first, and Malcolm gives a rundown of what will happen. It’ll be Sam and me against the others. Two against four. The odds might not sound fair, but there’s nothing fair about this sport, especially in Purgatory. For all we know, we may find ourselves isolated from our allies with a troop of Warsaw Pact fighters at our necks. It could be four-to-one odds or five-to-one. Or maybe even more.

  Sam and I stand back to back, adopting a traditional stance so we can protect ourselves on most sides. It’s a simple formation, but sometimes simple is the way to go when absolute chaos surrounds you.

  Malcolm goes over a few strategies outlined in our folders and tells us our objective—survive for ten minutes—before he exits. While he counts down to zero, I size up the other fighters. It’s my first time seeing all their mechas. The Brits are wearing the classic Condor design, which looks similar to the American Goliath except they’re taller and with longer limbs, like they’ve taken a Goliath and stretched it out a hair. Giselle and her teammate Auguste—whom I’ve nicknamed Napoleon in my head since he’s short and slight—are tucked inside the slim and sleek French Colosse, both painted a crisp white. No doubt they’ll be easy to spot inside the arena, which proves helpful when you’re searching for your allies but not as much if you’re trying to dodge the Commies.

  “And go!” Malcolm calls out.

  We might be doing a training exercise, but everyone inside the pit goes full throttle fast. Albie takes on Sam, while the other three gang up on me, probably thinking that I’m easy pickings.

  Talk about a warm welcome.

  I block the first dozen or so blows, but there are way too many of them, and before I know it I’m lying on my stomach, unable to budge while they’ve got me pinned.

  A whistle blows. Malcolm comes over and doles out some advice. Get low and try a leg sweep. I nod. It’s a decent tip, and I’m glad that it’s a pretty standard move because I want to save some of my karate techniques for later if possible, after Purgatory is over. No need to reveal all my cards
yet.

  We go at it again, but it’s the same as before, I’m up against three fighters while Sam is playing pat-a-cake for all I know. I don’t even have time to glance over my shoulder to see what he’s up to because I’m busy dodging and deflecting the attack. But Malcolm’s advice does prove useful. With a swift kick, I manage to knock out Napoleon before I toss Fitzy to the other side of the pit, leaving me to contend with Giselle.

  Finally I’m down to a one-against-one ratio, but Giselle keeps my hands full. She comes at me with a side kick, but as soon as I dodge it, she wraps me in a headlock. Her movements are fast and fluid, and it’s obvious why she’s ranked number seven worldwide, but I’ve gotten out of my share of headlocks before. Wriggling an arm free, I reach up to grab her mecha’s head, crush my fingers around it, and yank backward. That’s something that my father taught me—how our bodies have to follow our heads. This knocks Giselle off balance, and she loosens her grip, giving me the opportunity to shove her away and finally gain the upper hand. But as luck would have it, little Napoleon leaps on top of me out of nowhere and I’m KO’d yet again.

  “Come on, guys,” Sam says to the others after the fourth time I’ve been eliminated. “Take it easy on the new kid, eh?”

  “I’m fine,” I say crossly because I don’t need Sam coming to my rescue. I know that my inexperience is showing, but having them coddle me won’t do me any favors either. Will the Reds take it easy on me in Purgatory? No way.

  Malcolm tells us to go for another round, and as I take my place, I glance at the other coaches. Judging by the pinched looks on their faces, I don’t think that I’ve impressed them much. They clearly view me as the weak link on Team NATO, and I’m thinking they may want to invite Ted to return, one armed or not. I bite down on my mouth guard in frustration because I want to prove them wrong, but how?

  I imagine my dad lecturing me and he’s saying, When you get stuck, change things up.

  It’s clear that I can’t take on three fighters at a time and remain in my defensive stance.

  I have to get creative.

  This time when the others launch themselves at me, I switch tactics. I rocket into the air, soaring in my mecha’s light frame, so high that I can grab on to the bars overhead, which I do. I hang there, letting my legs dangle, and I figure if I wait around long enough, the others will come a-calling.

  I hope this works.

  Napoleon and Giselle leap up to drag me down while Fitzy waits below, ready to pin me as soon as the others have knocked me off. But before Team France can reach the top rung, I release my grip and zero in on Fitzy’s location. I land on top of him before he can escape, and I KO him before the others can get to him.

  The whistle blows again.

  Aw, I was only getting started.

  The French coach runs over, gesturing at Giselle and Napoleon to have a word, and the Brits do the same. I wait for Malcolm to approach Sam and me, but instead he tells us to climb out of our mechas.

  “Take a water break,” he says, tossing a bottle that Sam catches with ease. To me he says, “Shall we chat?”

  I’m not sure what he wants to discuss, but it must be about that move I pulled off in the pit. I really wish that Malcolm hadn’t blown the whistle so soon. I had managed to eliminate one fighter, and I could’ve taken on the others. I can’t wait to tell Peter about it in detail, and that’s when I see the look in Malcolm’s eyes.

  “Fancy moves. Senator Appleby was right. You do have talent,” he says, except there’s no bounce in his voice. Only stark seriousness. “But when you do something like that in Purgatory, you’re leaving your teammate high and dry. In case you didn’t notice, Albie KO’d Sam while you went off book in there.”

  Whoops. But Sam only had one fighter to fend off, which should’ve been easy pickings for him. Why isn’t Malcolm chewing him out?

  “We’re going to run this again, and this time I want you to stick next to Sam no matter what. Back to back,” Malcolm continues.

  I almost laugh. “He’s a little old to need a babysitter.”

  “He’s your teammate. You need to protect him.”

  That’s a strange choice of words. “Like a shield?” I say this offhand because I don’t think he really means it, but Malcolm doesn’t correct me and I feel the blood drain out of my face. “Wait, are you asking me to be Sam’s shield in the arena?”

  Shielding is a tactic that’s sometimes used in Purgatory. Since a team can field two fighters at the Games, one of them may get tasked to protect the other, basically turning into a shield to absorb any incoming blows and, if necessary, take the ax. This typically happens when one teammate is much higher ranked than the other, so the coaches want to maximize their chances to get at least one fighter on to the next round.

  It can make sense strategically, but I’m already shaking my head at Malcolm. I’ve never in my life shielded another fighter before, and I have no plans to start.

  “I’m dead in the water if I shield Sam,” I say. No doubt the Warsaw Pact will try to knock him out quickly since he’s their biggest threat, and they’d happily cut through me to get to him. This is a hard pass from me.

  A nerve on Malcolm’s face twitches. “What I need to hear from you is, ‘Yes, Coach, I understand.’ ”

  The anger starts simmering in my gut, but I manage to keep it in check. “I don’t play to lose. I’m not built like that.”

  “This isn’t a discussion.” A sudden fire lights in his eyes, but his tone stays surprisingly cool. “My entire staff has spent four years creating a strategy that will get us onto that final podium. We’re going to win that title, and Sam is how we’re going to do it. Ted understood his role in this.”

  His words grip me by the throat, and now I can see his entire playbook laid out in front of me. He has all his eggs in one basket, and that basket goes by the name of Sam Kealey—American hero, our country’s one big hope. My head starts spinning. Senator Appleby didn’t mention a word to me about shielding anyone. Did she know about Malcolm’s plans and conveniently not tell me?

  “The senator said—” I start.

  “As I’ve already stated, June Appleby isn’t the coach here.”

  My jaw sets, and I spit out, “You never would’ve agreed to be someone else’s shield.”

  “You’re right, but I was ranked number six in the world when I was fourteen and number three a year later. Why would I get asked to shield anyone?” he says matter-of-factly not arrogantly, but the barb strikes the same. “Look, you’ve got pluck and creativity, but I’ve already tried reasoning with Appleby about this—you’ve never fought in an international match before, much less the Games. You’re completely unproven.”

  Unproven? “I got an almost-perfect record last season in one of the toughest divisions in the country. If I’d been born a Joseph instead of Josephine, you can bet that I’d be ranked and I’d be ranked high.”

  Malcolm isn’t swayed. “Sam still beat you. Twice.”

  I swear I could sock him in the stomach for that.

  But I can’t call him a liar.

  Malcolm must regret speaking so boldly because his features soften, yet he doesn’t take back what he said. “You’ve made your mark in your district. Take pride in that. And you’ll get your moment in the spotlight here in Washington. How many fighters can say that?”

  Not many at all, but it sure feels like a consolation prize. I’ve dreamed my whole life about coming to the Games, about suiting up in a spanking-new Goliath and entering the pit with my head held high, the audience roaring and stomping.

  Little did I realize that I was being brought to Washington to help Sam take the title instead.

  “Are we on the same page? It’s time to get back to training.” Malcolm juts his chin at the pit where the others await us. Sam is staring at me in particular, a smile on his lips, tapping a finger on his watch to tell me to wrap things up already.

  I snap my head away from him. So that’s why he’s been so friendly since I arr
ived, acting like we’re old pals. He must be happy to have another sacrificial lamb in the arena to help him win.

  I taste bitterness on my tongue, and I can’t hold back what I want to say next. “I won’t be Sam’s shield. If I have to go it alone in Purgatory, so be it.”

  For a moment, Malcolm and I simply stare at each other, him out of shock and me out of a rising panic. Could I really survive by myself in the arena? Sure, I’ve done it twice before, but not at the Games, which is on another level completely. But what’s my alternative? At least this way I can fight on my own terms.

  Malcolm looks like a volcano about to erupt. “Do you want me to sign off on a sponsorship or not?”

  My mouth slides open. He wouldn’t hold that over me … would he?

  “Is that a threat?” I ask.

  “Call it coaching. You want to go it alone? Fine, but there’ll be consequences.”

  I’m this close to marching off and taking on those consequences, like it or not. But my feet don’t budge. I can’t let them.

  Because I’m thinking about my brother and about the shop.

  I have to get a sponsorship; I can’t leave Washington empty-handed.

  All I have to do is sell my pride for it.

  A dark feeling slides into my stomach and settles there at the bottom. It isn’t anger. It’s resignation. Eight years I’ve given to this sport and this is what I get for my hard work and sacrifice—shielding a boy on what should be the biggest day of my life.

  This is for Peter though, I remind myself.

  This is to stave off the eviction notices and the past-due bills. This is to keep my family and our home and our livelihood.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” I say to Malcolm, forcing out each syllable.

  He nods. “Smart girl. Keep in mind too that for the rest of your life you’ll get to say that you were on Team USA at the 1963 Games. That’s a real honor. Now go on.”

  I hold the tatters of my ego by my fingertips and walk toward the pit, his sentiment ringing in my ears and haunting me.