The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  I hear some noise on the line. It sounds like Peter is talking to a customer, so I tell him I better let him go.

  “Nah, that wasn’t a customer. It was a reporter, but I told him to call Dad later. That’s the eighth one we’ve had at the shop! They’re all doing stories about you.”

  My eyes shoot open. “What have they been asking?”

  “They want to see your baby pictures and hear a couple of anecdotes. That sort of thing.”

  “Have they asked about Mom?”

  “One of them did but—”

  “What did they say?” I may have been tired a few seconds ago, but now I’m wide-awake, like I’ve downed a carafe of black coffee. “What did you and Dad say back?”

  Peter sounds a little taken aback by my intensity. “They asked run-of-the-mill stuff, like how she died and how old we were when she passed.”

  “Did they ask though about her … you know …” I glance over both shoulders in case anyone can hear me, but the room is a tombstone.

  “Her what?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He goes quiet. “I don’t think you should be embarrassed by that.”

  “I’m not embarrassed! But the reporters can’t find out,” I say, flustered, and hating how I even have to ask this of him.

  “Why though?”

  “Can you trust me on this? It’s important.” Because we’ll probably get evicted if the news spills, but I can’t tell him that. “Please, Peter?”

  I hear him sigh, but ultimately he gives in. “All right, although I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. I’m not a baby, you know.”

  “I know,” I say, even though I don’t quite mean it because he’ll always be my baby brother and I’ll always want to protect him. “I better go and get some beauty sleep. Wish me luck?”

  “Good luck, but you won’t need it. I know you can beat all of them.”

  I crack a smile, relieved that he isn’t too upset.

  If only he could be my coach.

  * * *

  The next morning, I get changed and eat breakfast and take a chauffeured car to the stadium by ten o’clock. The stadium is located near the southernmost tip of the city in a neighborhood called the Southwest Waterfront, and the building itself is an enormous structure that resembles a gigantic bowl of concrete. Once inside, everything smells clean and new—from the ammonia on the floors to the drying paint on the walls to the buttery popcorn that you can buy for twenty cents a carton at the concession stand. I follow the signs down an elevator to the basement floor, where the prep areas are located.

  It’s hours before the match begins, but there’s plenty to tick off before then. First up, I get in line to sign in for the Games, my badge and ID in hand. The IC implemented the measure a few years ago, when the Soviets tried to pull off a switcheroo at the annual Euro Cup, registering one fighter ahead of schedule but swapping her out for Lidiya last minute since she was only thirteen and not old enough for senior-level competition.

  There are two lines for the registrar, and I slot myself into the shorter one. While I wait, I consider what I’ll do if the Federovas decide to gang up on me, and that’s when I feel someone get behind me in line, standing so close that I can feel their breath in my hair.

  “You won’t get away with what you did,” Lukas Sauer practically growls into my ear.

  I whip around to face him, my eyes narrowed. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then again a lot of male mecha fighters can be real dipsticks. “You know, I can smell what you had for breakfast. What did you eat, huh? Onions and garlic?” It’s a line I’ve used before that always gets under people’s skin.

  Lukas only smirks. Maybe he has a tougher shell than my usual competition. “You don’t even deny it?”

  “Deny what? That you don’t brush your teeth after a meal?”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He leans forward until our noses are inches apart. He might be dim enough to actually take a swing at me in front of everyone. I’d welcome it if we were in the pit and properly suited in our mechas, but he has nearly a foot on me in height and over fifty pounds in weight, meaning I would have to get creative.

  I’m considering if I should go in for a groin kick or a nihon ken—a two-fingered strike—to his left eye, but then Rushi of all people clears her throat behind us.

  “You can go next, Lukas,” she says, tilting her head toward the registrar, who is waiting for another fighter to step up to the desk. Rushi also hands him his water bottle, the fancy one gifted to us from the IC with our individual names printed down the side that he must’ve dropped on his way in.

  Lukas grabs the bottle without muttering a thanks and takes a swig of it, staring me down the whole time, probably trying to intimidate me, but I pretend to look bored until he stalks away.

  I can’t resist getting in one last dig though. “Remember to brush those teeth!” I call after him. I still don’t know what his gripe is against me, but it looks like I better be on my toes from the get-go in the pit.

  “Thanks for that. You saved me from bruising up my knuckles,” I tell Rushi. I’m not saying that I couldn’t have taken Lukas on, but I don’t like taking stupid chances, and he had the physical advantage by far. “Granted, it would’ve felt good to take him down a notch.”

  That draws out a little smile from her, but it vanishes quickly. Her face looks a little pale, and she keeps fidgeting as her eyes flit toward Lukas. I have a hunch what she might be thinking, how in a couple hours we’ll be facing him and his Commie pals in the arena.

  “Nervous?” I ask.

  She shakes her head no, but I notice that she forces her hands behind her back.

  “Where’s Envoy Yu?”

  “In the restroom.” She sounds relieved to have a minute or two off leash.

  “Well, good luck today,” I say when it’s my turn at the registrar. The official odds of her making it out of this first round aren’t high, but mine aren’t fantastic either.

  After checking in, I head to the prep area to warm up and get suited. It’s a huge expanse of a space, with every country crammed inside it, separated by steel barricades and not much else. It’s a madhouse. Fighters are doing jumping jacks and push-ups in their sections to get their blood pumping while the staff finishes last-minute checks on their mechas. When I locate Team USA, the Jays have already run their standard fifteen-point diagnostic on my Goliath and just in time for the IC’s inspectors to arrive to ensure that every mecha used in the Games meets compliance. I’ve finished my stretches and am about to move into lunges when Malcolm comes barreling toward us, a folder in hand, and he gathers the Jays around him. They’re speaking in hushed voices, and I can see a vein pulsing on Malcolm’s forehead. Whatever this is, it can’t be good.

  “Everything swell, Coach?” I call out.

  His eyes narrow at me. “Come here, Linden. Now.”

  “What’s this all about?” I ask warily. Does he want me to shield Sam and Team UK? Toss in the rest of NATO while we’re at it? Perplexed, I walk over to meet him. “I hope you just want to wish me luck.”

  “More like watch your back.” Malcolm gestures at a folder of paperwork that he has clutched in his hand. “Lidiya Federova has filed a report with the IC that she saw you acting suspiciously beside the Soviet float yesterday.”

  “She what?” That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. “I didn’t even touch the thing!”

  “Well, there seems to be a difference of opinion. Lidiya is alleging that she spotted you lurking around the back of their float before they entered the parade. You can see how this sounds considering that the IC has yet to determine the cause of the fire.”

  I swear I could punch Lidiya in the throat. “I thought the fire was an accident.”

  “It’s looking inconclusive at this point since the parts in question have been charred to a crisp. It could’ve been an accident—or maybe not.”

  “Whatever it was, I had nothing to do with
it! Ask Sam. Ask anyone who was there.” Suddenly a wave of anxiety jolts through my body. Can the IC bar me from fighting today?

  “You’re in luck. The IC plans on dismissing the case since they they’ve spoken to multiple witnesses who were there yesterday. They also recognize that Lidiya can be … dramatic at times.”

  Dramatic? I’ve got better suggestions for what to call her. No wonder Lukas was giving me a hard time earlier in line. Lidiya had already fed him some story about how I tried to turn her into barbecue at the parade, and now her boyfriend is out for blood.

  “You know, you could’ve told me that to start,” I say. I eye the folder in Malcolm’s hand, wondering why he’s so steamed if the IC isn’t going to pursue the case. “You want me to look over that paperwork?”

  “No, but because of this mess, I’ve heard from more than one source that the Warsaw Pact fighters will be coming for you in the arena.”

  “Great,” I mutter, but it isn’t too surprising. “But they were going to do that anyway.”

  “This is entirely different!” he says, jamming his fingers through his hair. “We’d assumed that the Communists would attack in pairs or trios, but if they focus their whole attention on you, then we’ve got a problem.”

  It takes me a few blinks to follow.

  He isn’t worried about me.

  He’s worried that I’ll be positioned next to Sam as his trusty human shield. But what good is a shield when your enemies flock toward it? Neither of us will last long in that scenario.

  Malcolm talks rapidly to the Jays and spits out possibilities. While they’re yammering, a million little thoughts go zipping through my head. I think about what I’ve done in the arena in the past, how I used a jump-and-evade strategy to stay alive. Granted, I didn’t have the Federovas and the rest of the Warsaw Pact chasing after me, but I’ve survived Purgatory before. And I’m fast.

  “I’ll draw the Reds away from Sam,” I say.

  Malcolm lifts his head toward me. “What?”

  “When the match starts, I’ll give the Federovas and Lukas Sauer and whoever else the run around. I’ll steer them clear from Sam.”

  Malcolm is already nodding. “Yes, of course. I should’ve come up with that from the get-go. We’ll do that.”

  He isn’t smiling, but he does look relieved. He probably doesn’t think I’ll last a minute in the slaughterhouse, but at least it’ll give his precious Sam some breathing room.

  Well, it’ll be fun to show Malcolm how much he’s underestimated me. What was it that Senator Appleby said about why she picked me? I’m a question mark. Unpredictable. The Reds haven’t had months to study the footage of my international matches because there isn’t any. They probably think I’ll be easy pickings too. Many of my prior opponents have done the same thing, so this is familiar territory for me. Realizing that, my mood brightens considerably.

  “Stick to this new plan, and our deal stands,” Malcolm says. “The PR team at Goody has expressed some interest in you selling their hair curlers.”

  Hair curlers? I’ve never worn those in my life, but I guess I could start.

  Malcolm peels off to update Sam, leaving me to the Jays to get suited up. I’m already wearing my official gear to the Games. It’s a stretchy white unitard that zips up in the front, with red and blue stripes racing down the sleeves and the sides of the pants. The Goliath is already powered up, so I nod at the Jays and climb into the cockpit, my fingers tingling as I strap myself into place. I should be extra giddy about a possible sponsorship, but I’m feeling a different sort of excitement. With this shift in tactics, I’ll have some autonomy in the arena, which is more than I had hoped for. My chances for squeaking through to Round 2 are a lot more promising than they were ten minutes ago.

  Now it’s up to me to get the job done.

  After the final diagnostic, the team and coaching staff wait for our turn to step onto the massive utility elevator that’s wide enough and strong enough to hold all of us and our mechas.

  As we move upward to the stadium level, I stand shoulder to shoulder with Sam while Malcolm goes over a few items with the Jays.

  Sam turns his mecha to look at me. “So I heard about the change in plans.”

  “It shouldn’t affect you and the others too much,” I reply with a shrug. I was never a pivotal part of their strategizing anyway since my job was to cling to Sam like a barnacle.

  “They’ll be fine. Listen, if Lukas chases you right out of the gate—”

  I finally meet his gaze. “He won’t catch me. Not unless it’s on my terms.”

  Sam stares right back, looking skeptical, and I realize he thinks that I’m dead in the water like Malcolm does. “Just keep moving out there, kiddo.”

  The elevator rumbles upward, and I start to hear the crowd. They’re chanting the names of their favorite fighters; they’re singing their national anthems; and when they see us step onto the floor, they go wild. No wonder Malcolm gave his last thoughts down below—I can barely hear myself think up here.

  I gape at the enormity of the stadium. Tens of thousands of people have filled the space. And there in front of me, taking up most of the floor, I see a cage. A gigantic one, the length of a football field. It’s shaped like an enormous box, built with thick titanium bars that are placed just wide enough that onlookers can see what’s going on inside.

  The arena.

  One o’clock comes and goes, but the match doesn’t start yet. We have to get through all the fanfare first. A band plays the official song of the Games, “To the Glory of the Cup,” before the Chiffons join them to belt out “The Star Spangled Banner.” Then the announcer calls out every fighter’s name and the country they represent, starting off alphabetically. It takes a while to get through the list, so I gaze around the stadium. There in the VIP section I spot Vice President Johnson seated next to Premier Khrushchev, both of them with their arms crossed as they murmur to each other, who knows about what. The Washington-Moscow Accord? Bets on who will win? A row behind them I also spot Senator Appleby, who meets my gaze with a warm smile, and I notice that she’s seated beside the South Vietnamese diplomat again. Minister Tran, I think. The senator must be gunning hard for a plum trade deal with his country; those box seats can’t come cheap.

  The fighters form a line at the mouth of the cage, where the official escorts show us on a map where we’ve been randomly positioned to start the game. One by one we file inside and take our marks. I end up in the southwest corner of the arena, which is pure luck because I want to stick to the outskirts if I can. While I wait for the others to find their places, a group of fifty referees position themselves around the outside perimeter of the cage, each one assigned to a particular fighter.

  Because of the general anarchy of Purgatory, the referees are tasked with keeping a razor-sharp eye on their fighter as they run, punch, kick, and retreat inside the arena. As soon as their fighter gets eliminated—the five-second rule applies here as well—they press a button on a handheld console that powers down the fighter’s mecha. Otherwise we’d have to rely on an honor system for eliminated fighters to stay down, and how many of them would actually do that? Not many. Especially not Lidiya. In any case, this is also why there were so many diagnostic checks ahead of this match; the IC had to make sure each console and mecha were in sync so that there aren’t any mishaps once the game begins.

  As soon as the fighters and the refs look ready, the announcer begins the countdown and the entire stadium joins in. I breathe in slowly, hold it briefly, and then release, like my dad taught me to do before a match. He might be three thousand miles away, and how I wish that he were here in the stadium, but I know that he’s watching, glued to Mrs. Watters’s television set. Peter will be crammed next to him, jockeying to get closer to the screen.

  Now the countdown has reached ten.

  Across the way, I glance at Giselle and Albie. They’re both quality fighters and it’s a bit of a shame I won’t get to team up with them.

  T
he announcer reaches five. Then three.

  My gaze lands on Lidiya Federova, standing in the northeast corner in her red-and-yellow Valkyrie. Sure enough, her eyes are on me. My pulse starts slamming in my throat, but I stare right back. I won’t let her cow me. Not if it’s the last thing I do. I slap my hands together as the buzzer sounds.

  And now the Games really begin.

  All fifty fighters move at once. Machines soar into the air, scraping against the bars of the ceiling. Others clash and tumble onto the ground. It’s absolute chaos, and in thirty seconds flat, I already count three mechas powerless on the floor, meaning the refs have already been pressing those buttons.

  “Right out of the gate, we have our first eliminations!” the announcer cries, listing their names, but it’s hard for me to make them out. “That’s a fighter each from Egypt, Colombia, and China.”

  China? I wonder if it’s Rushi, but I don’t have time to check. I’m a little busy at the moment.

  Just as Malcolm predicted, the Reds have set their sights on me. Three of their fighters zero in on my location, with Lukas leading the pack and the Tilov twins of Bulgaria flanking him. Panic turns my heart into a hummingbird, and I have to remind myself not to lose my cool because nothing good ever comes out of that.

  Run, move, leave them in the dust, I think, forcing myself to focus on these steps.

  I leap out of their way, just beyond the reach of their metal fingertips. Jeez, they’re fast. The Purgatories I’ve fought in at the tristate level are no picnic, but the speed and athleticism of these fighters are on a completely different level. Malcolm’s probably counting down the seconds until I become the next casualty, but I refuse to prove him right and push my Goliath to move faster and jump higher.

  I keep waiting for more of the Warsaw Pact fighters to join the hunt, but a glance to my left shows that the Federovas and the remaining Reds are tousling with a coalition of Swiss, Swedish, and Danish fighters who’ve teamed up to take on the big fish. Lidiya has already downed one of them, and it looks like she’s just getting started.