The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  A real honor.

  As if that’s supposed to make me feel all gooey and grateful inside. As if that’s supposed to keep a roof over my family’s heads. What a true honor that’ll be.

  I pause midstride because a thought hits me like a jolt.

  Malcolm wants me to shield Sam in the arena, but he didn’t put any further stipulations on that command—just help Sam get to Round 2.

  He never said that I couldn’t make it through too.

  The next day and a half pass by like a sped-up record. We have two more group training sessions, followed by hours of watching film reels to dissect the Federovas and Lukas Sauer and other major threats to Sam’s safety.

  “There’s a decent likelihood that the Federovas will let Lukas lead the Communist attack out of the gate,” Malcolm says as we rewatch last year’s Purgatory round at the World Championships. He eyes me in particular, and it’s clear what he’s telling me: Look out for Lukas and shield Sam as necessary.

  I nod back, saying, Yes, Coach, as he expects me to do, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve been racking my brain on how to survive the arena. So far, the only solution I’ve come up with is to fight like a maniac, somehow fending off the Reds while shielding Sam and getting both of us on to the next round. It’ll be a gas of a time.

  If it were up to me, I’d spend the lead-up to Purgatory in the training center to hone my strategy, but it appears that every single minute of my day has been planned out by Malcolm or the IC.

  It’s time for the Parade of Nations.

  Just before noon, I wobble out of my dorm room and down to the grassy quad in a pair of royal-blue heels that pinch my toes. A heat wave has baked the city like a bubbling casserole. I’m already sweating in my short-sleeved white sweater and my red circle skirt that’s so bright that you can spot it from outer space. With my blue shoes to complete the look, I’m basically a walking advertisement for the Fourth of July, but at least the other fighters are wearing similarly garish getups. Team Egypt, for instance, has been dressed to look like the ancient pharaohs, both of them in tunics and golden headdresses. The Brits have taken a more subtle approach, but they also look like they’re melting in their plaid three-piece suits. Albie has peeled off his blazer, but Fitzy seems intent on wearing his to the bitter end, making me wonder if he’ll dehydrate before our eyes.

  “Team Czechoslovakia! Please report to your float,” one of the Games’ staff members calls out over a loudspeaker that echoes over the Pavilion.

  To one-up the Olympics, the IC started the Parade back in 1947. The basic premise is that every country designs a float that will wind slowly across the streets of the host city. The idea started off simple, but over the years, the floats have gotten more and more elaborate. For instance, during the ’59 Games in Montreal, the West German float looked like a giant pretzel, with light bulbs acting as the flakes of salt and with their fighters sitting inside the bread loops, tossing out goody bags filled with—what else?—miniature pretzels, to the delight of the crowd.

  For this year’s parade, the fighters will board their floats here at the Pavilion before making their way toward the Tidal Basin and the Lincoln Memorial, then swinging north past the White House, and finally rolling down the length of Constitution Avenue to our last stop, in front of the Capitol Building. A stage has been built there, where special musical numbers will play and President Kennedy himself will give remarks.

  If I don’t spontaneously combust before then in this heat.

  Since Team USA is the host nation, we’ll go last in the lineup, meaning I’ve got a lot of time to kill. Most of the fighters have crowded around a buffet spread on the lawn, snacking on tea sandwiches cut into geometric shapes, while we wait to get called to our floats. Until then I’m supposed to play the part of the smiling hostess, but I put that off to watch the parade on a projector screen set up on the grass. Australia gets the honor of going first, and their float has a yellow-and-green color scheme, with a twenty-foot-tall kangaroo bot that blinks its eyes. Next up is Austria and then Brazil, but before I can catch a glimpse of their floats, Malcolm finds me in the throng.

  “It’s almost time for your turn with the reporters,” he says, reminding me that I need to talk to the press who have descended upon the Pavilion too.

  “Oh joy,” I mumble. The last thing I want to do is talk to a bunch of journalists, but I tell myself that it’ll be good for my visibility. If I smile enough and talk sweetly enough, maybe I can land an endorsement today.

  We enter the dining hall, which has been transformed into a makeshift press conference area. Each fighter will answer questions at a wooden podium in front of the three dozen reporters in attendance, who are currently busy interviewing Lidiya.

  I inch closer to hear what she has to say. She’s dressed simply compared to the other fighters I’ve seen, wearing a basic shift dress in a Soviet red color. But the way she carries herself really does set her apart. With both of her hands gripping the sides of the podium, she looks like a general giving orders, ignoring the moderator and choosing reporters to her liking.

  “Miss Federova, you’ve gained a reputation for your unconventional choices inside the pit,” says a reporter from a British daily. “For example, when you faced Adolfo Agostino at the Junior Worlds a few years ago, you continued to strike him after he’d injured his back and had signaled to the referees to fetch the medics. What was the reasoning behind that?”

  “My reasoning was to win,” Lidiya answers through her translator.

  The reporter frowns. “Some have called that unsportsmanlike conduct.”

  “What rule did I break? Show me in the handbook.” She looks irritated by the accusation and tries to move on to the next journalist.

  But the British reporter is insistent. “Just six weeks ago, you faced Duncan MacArthur at the Euro Cup, where you dragged him by the arm across the ground even though you had already dislocated his shoulder. There were calls for your suspension due to reckless endangerment. How do you respond?”

  Peter and I had listened to that particular match on the radio. Even the announcer had sounded shocked when Lidiya pulled that move because it seemed so cold-blooded.

  “MacArthur was known to fake injuries in the pit,” she says, exasperated before her voice turns icy. “If I were male, you would have called me a master strategist. Next question.”

  I can’t quite believe it, but I find myself agreeing with Lidiya Federova a bit. If Sam had done something like that, I bet everyone in this room would’ve called him brilliant. Ruthless too, but brilliant. Not that I agree with Lidiya’s tactics exactly, but she does have a point at how female fighters are treated.

  After Lidiya wraps up, Malcolm leans toward me and whispers, “Keep your answers short. No politics. And smile like you’ve just won the Games.” Then he walks me over to the podium to take my place. I expect him to find an empty seat somewhere, but he stands a couple paces to the right of me. Looks like I’ve got a nanny, like Rushi.

  Ignoring him, I try on my best smile and take the first few questions about the parade before the reporters get to what they really want to ask.

  “What would you say to your naysayers that you’ve taken a male fighter’s slot on Team USA?” says a reporter from the Detroit Sun.

  My smile threatens to slip, but I keep it upright. If I could tell him the truth, I’d say that my naysayers can go eat rocks for all I care, but that won’t endear me to any sponsors. Unless they want me to sell rocks, I guess.

  “I’d tell them to give me a chance to prove them wrong,” I reply, hoping that I sound sincere enough.

  Another reporter goes next. “Miss Linden, you’re the first unranked fighter since ’47 to make it onto Team USA, which has puzzled many analysts and the public at large. Why do you think you were selected?”

  “My record for one thing,” I say with a good deal of pride, but before anyone can call me arrogant I add, “19–1 isn’t too shabby, right? And for another thing, you shoul
d probably ask my coach that question.” I glance at Malcolm, and I can’t resist getting in a dig. “He may have mentioned that I’ve got a lot of natural talent.”

  What I don’t reveal is how he ordered me to be Sam’s shield right after he said that.

  Malcolm looks a little surprised at the sudden attention, but he recovers fast, a skill I’m sure he has picked up after being in the spotlight over the years. “Linden here has talent in spades, as does her teammate Sam Kealey,” he says, tossing his own dig my way. “They’ll make an excellent pair in the arena.”

  Oh, I’ll certainly show him how excellent I can be.

  “Female fighters remain relatively rare in the sport,” yet another reporter chimes in. “What drew you to fighting in the first place? Is it because you lacked a feminine presence at home after your mother died?”

  I cough and glance at Malcolm, thinking, What kind of ridiculous question is that? But his eyes go wide, and he flicks his hand at me as if to say, Just answer it, Linden, but don’t bring up you-know-what.

  The reporters are awaiting a reply, so I tell them the truth.

  “My dad was a mecha soldier in Korea, so you could say I’m just following in his footsteps. Like father, like daughter.” I add what I hope is a charming smile.

  After I’ve finished, Malcolm escorts me outside and toward the road where the floats await the fighters. He isn’t actively frowning at me, so he must be somewhat satisfied with my performance.

  “You did fine, especially on that last question,” he says, which I’ll take as a positive. “Although next time feel free to leave me out of it.”

  “Aw, I was trying to spread out the fun, Coach.”

  His face remains stony. “The real test is tomorrow.”

  As if I could forget.

  Malcolm deposits me on the sidewalk and goes off to find Sam, leaving me to wait for Team USA’s float that’s slowly making its way toward the Pavilion. There are only three countries left in the queue, and I’ve arrived just in time to watch the Yugoslavian team hoist themselves onto their float that has been decorated to celebrate their president Josip Broz Tito, who was recently named “president for life.” My gaze is already wandering elsewhere though.

  I let my eyes roam over the Soviet’s float. Since the USSR won the last Games, they get the honor of rolling out just before the host nation. Lidiya and Zoya have changed into matching golden dresses, and they now await the okay to climb on board. Standing alongside them, I notice a couple older men in suits, and I do a double take when I realize who they are—they’re former victors of the Games. There’s Vladimir Tereshkov, who won in ’51, and Feodor Leonov, who won in ’59. There’s no rule restricting the number of people on a country’s float—at the last Games, the Romanian head of state and his whole family crammed onto the ride along with their fighters—and it looks like the Soviets want to rub it in how they’ve come to dominate the sport. But there’s a smear on that record. They also won in ’55 with Mikhail Krikalev, but he defected to Canada a few years ago, which made Khrushchev none too happy. How is he supposed to keep up the pretense that all is well in the USSR when his athletes try to escape it?

  The Soviet float finally arrives, and all four fighters, both current and previous, scale up the side. The Federovas stand on the top tier while the two men gather below them, right before their engineers turn on the lights to the float. I’m immediately blinded by the glow. Their float is decked out in what must be tens of thousands of tiny sparkling lights, so bright that it makes my eyes hurt, but I keep looking because it’s that dazzling. The Association reps around me seem to think so too. They’re oohing and aahing. Even a few diplomats, like Sweden’s ambassador and Envoy Yu, venture forward to get a closer look and snap photos.

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I join them because I wonder how the float is getting powered and I’m sure Peter will want to discuss this later. Could it be esterium? I crouch down to see if I can get a glimpse of the batteries—I bet I’ll find that familiar glow of blue—but someone starts shouting at me from above.

  “What are you doing?” Lidiya says accusingly.

  I frown because I hadn’t even touched the float. “It isn’t a crime to look.”

  She starts talking to me in Russian until a Pavilion staff member tells me that they’re ready for me on Team USA’s float, and Lidiya watches me the entire walk to the US float.

  Soon I forget all about Lidiya and her narrowed eyes because of what I behold in front of me. I’m not sure if I can call it a float exactly—more like a moving island. It’s that humongous and equally impressive. With a theme of America the Beautiful, it’s essentially our country in miniature and built in tiers. The lower level represents the Atlantic Ocean, complete with a floating Mayflower. One level up, there’s a field of wheat and a mechanical thresher bot that moves back and forth. Above that, I see the tier where I’ll be seated, which represents our national landmarks, from the Statue of Liberty to the Hoover Dam and even the Golden Gate Bridge, a little piece of home.

  It’s impressive, all right, but I can’t help but sigh after I’ve gotten a second look at it. This is the pretty version of America, the one that has been carefully sanitized. I’m no history buff, but I know enough to notice what they’ve left out. Slavery. The Trail of Tears. The Chinese Exclusion Act. Internment camps. There’s certainly no hint of what’s happening in Birmingham and other civil rights protests.

  Sam is already waiting for me on the highest tier and extends a hand to help me up. I ignore his offer and get seated on my stool, frowning at the model of Mount Rushmore right next to me. Peter wrote a history report on the monument and told me the real story: how the US stole the Black Hills from the Lakota Sioux and carved them up. His teacher gave him a C- on it because she thought he was being disrespectful. It’s a plum spot, and I’m grateful that the stool has been bolted into the float so it’s extra sturdy. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but standing up this high, I do get a nervous flutter in my stomach, especially when we start moving. At least there’s a handrail in front of us that should save us from falling to our untimely deaths in case we hit a hump.

  Down below, two boys jump up and down and wave at Sam frantically, calling out his name. They look a lot like him too—the same open faces, the same floppy hair except blond instead of brown—and I realize that I’ve seen them before at our most recent tristate tournament. They’re his little brothers.

  “Don’t forget to record it!” one of them calls out.

  Sam starts fishing in his trouser pockets and pulls out a handheld video recorder. At the press of a button, a lens juts out of one side and a light pulses from inside the device, a rich and deep blue.

  Holding the thing above our heads, Sam sidles up next to me. “Say hi, Linden.”

  “Is that a video camera that runs on esterium?” I can’t even imagine the cost of something like that, and I’ve never seen one so small.

  “It’s my brother’s. He asked me to make a little video while I’m up here,” Sam explains. “You remember them, don’t you? That’s Sterling wearing the blue shirt and there’s Stanford right next to him in the white.”

  Yikes, Sterling and Stanford? It sounds like the two of them were born at an exclusive country club, ready for an iced tea and a game of tennis. Behind them, I also notice Sam’s mom. I’d seen her at the last tournament as well—she’s very pretty and I can tell where Sam got his looks from—but I don’t recognize the older man standing beside her, the one with a chrome dome and a pricey-looking blue suit.

  “That must be your dad, huh?” I say. ”I don’t think I got a chance to meet him at the tristate tournament.”

  Sam doesn’t look at me. He keeps panning the camera over the skyline, and when he finally gets around to answering my question, there’s a newfound chilliness in his usually warm tone. “That’s because he wasn’t there. He only attends my international matches.” He pauses and adds quietly, “He’s my stepfather actually.”


  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  He shrugs and keeps filming, leaving me to stare at his back. For the first time since I’ve met him, I feel a little sorry for Sam. The tristate tournament is nothing to thumb your nose at. My dad made sure to be there, even though he had to put off paying our water bill to buy the bus tickets for him and Peter. But any sympathy I’ve mustered up for Sam dries up when I remember what he expects me to do in Purgatory tomorrow.

  Sam twists around to get a shot of what’s behind us, and his eyes open up wide. “Would you look at that? How much esterium do you think those monsters run on?”

  When I crane my neck to get a glimpse of what he’s looking at, I think my jaw actually drops an inch. We’re staring at three Goliaths bringing up the rear of the parade, except these aren’t ordinary mechas. They’re enormous, like they’ve taken steroids. A lot of steroids. Squinting my eyes, I see that there are three pilots in the roomy cockpit, one of them controlling the legs, another the arms, and the third operating a switchboard that causes an array of fireworks to shoot out of the mecha’s shoulders, much to the crowd’s roaring approval.

  “What are those things?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at the future, young lady,” Sam says in an announcer’s voice before I sigh at him. I don’t know what it’s like to have an annoying younger brother since Peter is mostly a saint, but I imagine he would act a lot like Sam. “What? It’s true. Multi-piloted mechas are supposed to be the next big thing on the battlefield. I heard they were supposed to get rolled out in Vietnam before the treaty talks ramped up.”

  But now with the war coming to a close, they’re walking in the parade instead. And judging by the response from the crowd, they’re a huge hit. The Soviets might have trotted out their previous victors, but we’ve one-upped them with these brand-new Goliaths. Makes me wonder what Khrushchev has to say about that. He and Kennedy might be shaking hands and posing for the cameras, but that hasn’t quashed the rivalry between our two countries. The war in Vietnam might be ending, but not the Cold one. Where will the next hot spot pop up? Brazil? The Dominican Republic? We might’ve avoided one conflict, but another could be around the corner.